Man at the Helm (14 page)

Our mother offered Mrs Bates an Embassy. Mrs Bates took one and our mother flicked her lighter towards her. As Mrs Bates tilted her head for the little flame, our mother said, ‘Charlie and I want to live together. He wants to leave you.’

Mrs Bates didn’t seem surprised.

So our mother told how she’d accidentally married a homosexual, and that while she had absolute respect for people of all types, including homosexuals, she couldn’t have remained married to him when he was in love with a Vogel’s engineer from Ashby-de-la-Zouch. Mrs Bates frowned at the thought and Honey, who seemed to be struggling with the fig roll, swallowed.

Our mother went on that being alone with three children had plunged her into such a pit of loneliness and driven her to drink such excessive amounts of Bell’s etc. and take so many pills that she never knew what day it was. Then she’d met and fallen in love with Charlie. And life had changed for the better and she didn’t feel the need for drink so much.

‘And the pills?’ asked the canny Mrs Bates.

‘I’m weaning myself off them day by day,’ said our mother,
glancing at me. I knew this was true because I’d been to Dr Kaufmann’s surgery with her and overheard the conversations therein.

‘I don’t want to hurt you. Charlie doesn’t want to hurt you – it’s the last thing in the world we want – but we are genuinely and fully in love,’ our mother said in her nice voice.

The doorbell rang and Mrs Bates got up out of her chair to answer it.

‘What do you think?’ our mother hissed at me. But Mrs Bates was back before I could reassure our mother with ‘Yeah, good.’ Which was what I would’ve said.

‘So, yes, you were saying?’ said Mrs Bates, flopping back into a chair and patting her knees for Honey.

Our mother picked up the threads of her campaign. ‘Charlie has explained the state of the kitchen and has told me he feels obliged to make it right before he can leave,’ our mother began.

‘Well, he ripped it all out years ago and never put it back properly like he said he would,’ said Mrs Bates, pointing towards the mismatched Western-style swinging doors.

‘Yes, well, I expect you know that I am in a position to be able to help with the cost of putting it right and, to that end, I’ve brought a builder along,’ said our mother, sounding like one of her own plays. ‘Mr Lomax is outside now listening to Radio 2 in his van – he’s happy to come in and assess the work needed to give you a brand-new kitchen.’

Our mother waited there to see how the land lay. I thought she might be over-egging it.

‘You mean, to pay me off,’ said Mrs Bates, twirling Honey’s topknot in her index finger.

‘Look, Mrs Bates – Lilian – be realistic, please. You know Charlie is going to leave at some point; if not now with me, it’ll be someone else. Play ball now and you get your kitchen fixed.’

I hated that she said ‘play ball’ – it seemed so wrong. But she was doing her best and hadn’t been through any training for this kind of thing.

‘And make you feel better about taking him,’ said Mrs Bates, smoothing Honey.

‘It’s life, Lilian. You win some, you lose some, and you just take some,’ said our mother, ‘so let’s bring this builder in and you’ll actually get something out of it – for crying out loud.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Mrs Bates, and I was sent out to beckon Mr Lomax in.

Mr Lomax came in, greeted Mrs Bates and began measuring up in the kitchen. I played solitaire with green marbles on a smooth wooden board while he worked and our mother sat anxiously and kept picking up the
Leicester Mercury
and putting it down again. Mrs Bates just sat there rhythmically stroking Honey, who’d fallen asleep with her teeth bared. Soon Mr Lomax reappeared and the atmosphere changed. He had Mrs Bates leafing through chunky files, picking pine-style finishes and handles. He said he’d construct the new units in his workshop and fit them along with a whole array of modern features the following Wednesday. The following Wednesday! Mrs Bates seemed quite pleased at that. And, all being well, he’d have it done in a day.

Mrs Bates showed flashes of real pleasure at some of Mr Lomax’s further descriptions – the pan carousel, for instance, that could accommodate more than double the pans of a normal cupboard, the A–Z spice rack and the cascade effect on a glass door panel – and kept putting her hand up to her face to hide her smile. You could see it in her eyes, though.

Mr Lomax said he’d love us and leave us and went, and Mrs Bates was quickly back to her expressionless self.

‘So we’ll be off too,’ our mother said. ‘Are you happy with everything?’

‘Yes, fine,’ said Mrs Bates, not looking at us. She cuddled Honey, kissed her on the nose and then held her out to our mother.

‘Why don’t you keep her?’ she asked.

‘The puppy?’ exclaimed Mrs Bates. ‘But she’s yours, and won’t the children miss her?’

‘They’ve got Debbie,’ said our mother, ‘and I can tell Honey just adores you.’

We drove home via the Red Rickshaw takeaway.

‘You know what gets me?’ our mother said.

‘What?’ I said.

‘She’s bloody ancient,’ she said.

And then, thinking that happy thought, she smiled and tapped the steering wheel to the beat of imaginary music. Her idea to face up to Mrs Bates had been a good one and it was very nice to see her happy after the loss of Bluebell. The whole project had been clear-headed and purposeful. And she was the happiest I had seen her since the pregnancy.

‘All’s well that ends well,’ said our mother, meaning sorting Mrs Bates’s kitchen and dumping Honey.

‘Well done, Mum,’ I said, ‘you’re a genius.’

‘Thank you, Lizzie.’

‘Is Dad a homosexual?’ I asked, as we waited for our order in the Red Rickshaw.

‘They all are, if you’re not careful,’ said our mother. ‘That’s the challenge.’

The others were overly pleased to see us when we got home. It wasn’t even late but they were both at the door with Debbie. And I saw how disheartening it must be to get home to desperate-looking children in the porch. It made me hate them and I vowed not to do that again.

It was Thursday, the day after the Wednesday when Mr Lomax the builder/Liberal candidate had been and fitted the kitchen units and fripperies in Mrs Bates’s bungalow. And we were waiting for the next thing to happen, which was supposedly that Charlie Bates would be released from the marriage and would arrive at our house and start a live-in relationship with us.

Our mother and my sister were bags of nerves and couldn’t settle. Our mother unusually optimistic, and my sister worryful as ever.

There were a few doubts on the horizon but I think we all truly believed that, once the kitchen was all done and dusted, Charlie Bates was contractually obliged to arrive in Whisper the Saab with a load of suitcases and a stuffed wolf (or something manly and unusual) and maybe a few presents for us. And we’d celebrate with Seven Stars Around the Moon – the Chinese feast for four people from the Red Rickshaw, but ask them to substitute the pork balls with a plain chicken drumstick (Charlie being funny with foreign food and the pork balls being pure blobs of fat in batter). Our mother looked in the lane for signs of Whisper’s arrival, longing for a pat on the back from Charlie for her decisive and trouble-shooting action, followed by some ‘So I said, then she said …’

However, by about ten o’clock that Thursday my doubts became grave and I found it difficult to go along with the supposition any longer. As a rule our mother sat in her own sitting room with its special atmosphere, blazing logs and music, but
on that day and for the next two she hung around in our ‘playroom’, chattering nervously and making little nonsensical plans. My sister and I watched telly and read comics and did our utmost to steer her off or ignore her, but it was difficult – she kept having thoughts and ideas.

‘As soon as Charlie has moved in, we’ll get a new fence around the paddock and make it like racecourse railings and we’ll put duck eggs under the broody hens and have ducklings.’

My sister and I – working steadfastly at our origami at that point – nodded and changed the subject and then I accidentally made a paper duck.

‘Look – a duck!’ shrieked our mother. ‘And just as I was talking about hatching ducklings. It’s an omen.’

She didn’t mean it – she was cleverer than that, but was befuddled by the mix of hope and fear and probably hunger.

‘It’s a cocked hat,’ I said, bringing her back down to earth.

Mrs Bates’s kitchen had been fitted, that much we knew. Our mother had driven past twice during the working day and sent me on my Raleigh Rustler towards the end of the afternoon. Mr Lomax’s van had been there on all three occasions and you could hear drilling noises. After 5 p.m., our mother had telephoned Mr Lomax, who’d said the work was complete save a couple of hinge caps for the new swing doors. And though she’d paid in full in advance, there was a few quid outstanding due to price increases and that he’d drop the bill in.

So Thursday slipped by, then Friday and Saturday, and we heard nothing from Charlie Bates. I won’t even write about it, except to say our mother sat in her wardrobe for a while, in the space she’d made for Charlie’s suits etc.

Then, on Sunday morning, I heard the front door’s alarming buzz in a pause in the monstrous clanging of church bells. When
I opened the door I saw Honey, our mother’s ex-poodle, standing there by the ornamental barrel on three legs, the fourth at an angle – her hip out of joint.

I picked her up and clicked her leg back and dodged her licky face. She smelled of Mrs Bates’s Tweed by Lenthéric.

‘What does it mean, Lizzie?’ our mother said, and before I could respond she repeated, ‘What does it mean?’

She took Honey from me and inspected her, turning her over and around and asking repeatedly, ‘What does it mean?’

My sister appeared. ‘Oh my God, Honey’s back, what does that mean?’ Which wasn’t helpful.

‘Maybe Mrs Bates doesn’t like poodles,’ said my sister.

‘Of course she likes poodles, they’re her favourite dog – she’s always dreamed of getting an apricot poodle,’ said our mother, beginning to sound distressed. ‘That’s the only reason I got her.’

‘Do you mean to say you got Honey to trade for Charlie?’ my sister asked, a little sadness in her voice.

‘Why else would I buy a fucking poodle?’ our mother snapped.

We three all sat on the settee in front of our newest mural (cigarette adverts: Rothman’s, Silk Cut and Gauloises).

My sister said, ‘So it looks as though Charlie has returned Honey.’

‘But why,’ I said, ‘when Mrs Bates clearly liked her so much?’

Our mother just watched and listened to our inane and skirting discussion.

‘Why do you think?’ said my sister, meaning ‘Don’t put the ball in my court.’

When I could stand the waiting no more I said, ‘It’s a sign – a sign that he doesn’t want to go along with the plan.’

Our mother screwed up her eyes and you could see her throat moving in her neck.

‘He’s saying, “Have your poodle back, it’s over.” That’s how I see it,’ I said.

‘Do you think he’s saying that?’ said our mother, and Honey jumped up on to the settee and our mother batted her off.

‘Yes, honestly, I do,’ I heard myself say. I’d never been an outspoken person before then, but it felt good being honest and direct.

‘Ring him,’ our mother said. ‘Would one of you please ring him.’

My sister rang, which was very good of her. But she was the eldest and it was the least she could do, seeing as I’d done everything else re Charlie Bates up to that point. All the cycling and spying and speaking.

‘I’m ringing to find out why you brought Honey back,’ my sister said into the phone.

‘Yes, it does that … yes, but not very often … I don’t
know
, perhaps it’s a weakness in the breed.’ My sister went on like that and our mother and I were puzzled and kept looking at each other and frowning.

Then she said, ‘I see, all right … All right, I’ll tell her.’

My sister got off the phone and told us that Charlie had brought Honey back because of the defective hip joint. Honey jumped up on to our mother again and this time our mother petted her.

‘And he’s unhappy about the Liberal candidate going in and tarting the kitchen up without his say-so, and –’ she said, with a pause ‘– and it sounds like he has ended the relationship.’

Our mother didn’t cry, but gazed into the middle distance and did some elaborate blinking and swallowing.

I’m ashamed to say I did cry, just a few tears, not for us or our mother, but for the kitchen that had been installed and the pan carousel and the whole clear-headed venture going unrewarded
– it being all for nothing. And for Honey being dumped back with us, and our mother not even liking poodles, actually thinking they were ridiculous, but getting one as part of the campaign. And for Mrs Bates, who had always dreamed of getting one.

‘It’s clear now,’ said our mother, ‘with hindsight I shouldn’t have sent Mr Lomax in to do the kitchen. It was stupid, stupid, – but it seemed right at the time.’ She lit a cigarette and exhaled through her nostrils and said, still gazing at a place on the wall (where a hairline crack made the shape of a honking goose), ‘I’ll know next time.’

My clever sister said some of her wisest words. ‘Mum, I’m glad you got Mr Lomax to finish the kitchen. Now you know the score.’

And whatever the score was, she had lost. Anyway, she didn’t cry or moan, the way she did over Mr Dodd or our homosexual father or losing Bluebell. She drank quite a lot and spilt a glass of Scotch and ginger on my painting (still life with dog bowl) and she reminisced about how great Charlie was and that he never sat down to urinate like other men did (against popular assumption) and that only well-endowed men can actually stand up, like the coalman, and produce a decent flow. And telling us this she began a historical play.

King (Jack): My daughter will choose her prince.

Prince (mother): No prince can urinate without a seat.

Princess (me): Pray elucidate.

Prince: He will spray and splash his silken stockings.

Princess: I want a prince who can urinate standing but without spraying his garments.

Prince: There is not in this land such a prince.

King: Nor in any kingdom beyond.

Princess: Then I do not want a prince.

Little Jack’s new teacher, Miss Benedict (the replacement for Mr Dodd, who’d left due to nerves), rang for a chat to discuss Little Jack’s demeanour (that’s what she said). Our mother was too busy to speak to her at that moment in time, so the new teacher called round in person on her way home. They sat at the kitchen table and my sister and I listened under the window.

‘Jack has been very anxious recently and I wanted to put you in the picture,’ said Miss Benedict.

Our mother hated it when people said things like ‘put you in the picture’.

‘What picture?’ asked our mother.

‘About the donkey,’ said Miss.

‘The donkey?’ said our mother.

‘Bluebell,’ said Miss.

‘Oh, Bluebell the baby donkey,’ said our mother, wistfully.

‘Yes,’ said Miss, ‘Jack has been quite preoccupied about Bluebell’s imminent arrival.’

‘We’re not getting Bluebell after all,’ said our mother.

‘Oh, I see,’ said Miss, jolting her head (in a dramatic and sarcastic manner). ‘And is Jack aware of this change of plan?’

‘I’d assumed so, but I’ll speak to him and make sure he’s fully in the picture,’ said our mother, and her voice gave way slightly.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Vogel?’ asked Miss.

‘Yes, I’m sorry, I’m just –’ voice cracking again ‘– just a bit sad about it.’

‘About not having the donkey?’ said Miss.

‘I know, it sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?’

‘No, not at all, I think I’d be disappointed too,’ said Miss, suddenly sympathetic.

‘That’s kind of you to say.’

‘Perhaps Jack has picked up on your feelings,’ said Miss.

‘Perhaps,’ said our mother.

Miss Benedict said that our mother should feel free to drop into school and let her know of anything she thought might affect Little Jack. Any domestic disruption (such as nearly having a baby donkey but then not having one, for instance).

Our mother thought for a few seconds and told Miss Benedict a true thing about her mother, our grandmother (whom we hardly ever saw due to the fact that they disliked each other intensely and when we did it wasn’t very nice except for the cakes). The thing was that our grandmother had splashed out on a pair of red boxing gloves for Little Jack, hung a punchbag in the garage and egged him on, in the hope that it would ward off any homosexual tendencies. Miss Benedict seemed deeply uncomfortable with that. She paused, then said, ‘Well, do come into school any time to talk.’

‘Thank you for calling in,’ said our mother, nicely.

We crouched down and watched Miss Benedict drive away slowly in a brown Vauxhall Viva. Then popped up again to see Jack come out of the larder.

‘Jack,’ said our mother, ‘you
do
know Bluebell isn’t coming, don’t you?’

Little Jack nodded.

Our mother stroked Little Jack’s hair then, and he leant his head on her arm for a moment.

It was a bit embarrassing, but Jack seemed to like it.