Paradise Lodge (14 page)

‘How is Mike's grandfather?' I asked, breaking the spell.

‘Ugh,' she said, ‘I don't know, but poor Mike's always having to cart him about.'

I didn't know what to say to that and we walked in silence until Miranda said, ‘Mike's wonderful, though—he doesn't mind about me and Big Smig.'

‘Mind what?' I asked.

‘That I let Big Smig park his car in my garage,' she said. ‘You know, when we were going out.'

‘I thought Big Smig had a motorbike,' I said.

Miranda laughed then.

And I said, ‘Oh, I see.' Because it was a metaphor.

Being at work didn't do much to occupy my mind. I managed to convince myself my mother was fine and would soon get fed up with Carrie's cramped conditions and poor taste in music and she'd come home. But other worries started crowding in. Firstly, Mike Yu. I felt sad, thinking of him not understanding Miranda's ‘car and garage' metaphor—which he wouldn't, any more than I had—and probably thought the relationship between Miranda and Big Smig had involved the Longladys' car port. Not that it even mattered but I felt horrible knowing about it. And then, there was the whole ‘O' Level thing and wondering if I should have been so combative with Pitt.

Lady Briggs said I looked pensive and asked me for my secrets. I didn't want to talk to Lady Briggs about my thoughts or secrets—she seemed too mad to understand any of it, or in fact to enjoy it—but I was sorry for her, having only me to talk to.

‘I have nothing very interesting to tell you,' I said, ‘except that I'm only fifteen and shouldn't really be doing this job and that my mother has left my stepdad because she's let herself down.'

‘And will she come back?' asked Lady Briggs.

‘Yes, I expect she's back already, she can't stand being away from home,' I said.

And Lady Briggs pointed to her secret telephone and asked if I'd like to give my mother a ring to see if she was home. I said no thank you. I knew I'd cry if she didn't answer or Jack answered it and then I'd have let myself down.

‘She'll be back in no time. I'm not worried,' I said.

‘So, why are you so sad?'

‘I feel melancholy for some reason,' I said, and Lady Briggs held my elbow and stared into my eyes until her tagged eyelids twitched.

‘I'm sad about Emma Mills,' I said and wished I hadn't said it.

‘Emma Mills?' said Lady Briggs. ‘What are you sad about her for?'

‘I dropped her,' I said, ‘remember, and she died.'

‘Oh, yes, but I don't think worrying about that is a good idea, and neither do I think your mother's romantic entanglement should be uppermost in your mind. I'd guess that you are on the brink of falling in love, right now,' she said, clicking and spooky. ‘And that's why you're melancholy.'

‘I don't think so,' I said.

‘Yes, yes, I'm certain of it. I'd say you are in love already,' she said, ‘you just haven't realized.'

‘Gosh,' I said, (we weren't allowed to say ‘God', or ‘shit', in front of the patients). ‘You sound like a witch.'

And she laughed. She was mad and spooky, and I vowed to stop talking to her as though she were normal.

The next day we had coffee break in the kitchen and Sister Saleem told us the Asian boy was outside in his car, either asleep or very sad. Miranda dashed out and appeared back in the kitchen with Mike Yu in tow. Mike had obviously been upset and was reluctant to come into the kitchen but there was no way Miranda was going to miss the opportunity to show him off in this romantic state—especially after the egg fu yung success—and she literally dragged him in and said, ‘Erm, everyone, Mike's granddad has died and he's really upset.'

Sister Saleem offered her sincere condolences and a cup of tea. Mike dabbed his eyes with a proper hanky and Miranda answered for him, saying, ‘Black, three sugars.'

I felt extremely sad. Too sad really.

‘No milk?' Sister checked.

You could see how proud Miranda was of him not taking milk. It seemed so sophisticated and mature.

‘He doesn't take milk,' she said, ‘he has it black.'

The table was intrigued and Matron was irritated.

‘The only milk he ever had was his mother's, wasn't it, hun?' said Miranda.

‘I had some Angel Delight by accident once,' Mike said, being 100 per cent honest, as usual. And the table was delighted to hear such a charming thing.

He was holding it together and sipping his tea (black, three sugars) when the owner jangled in and said, ‘Aha, hello, young sir.'

And Miranda said, ‘This is my fiancé, Mike Yu. His granddad's just died.'

And the owner said, ‘Condolences, condolences—he was a good Roman, I'm sure.'

And Mike broke down again and kept squeezing his eyes and saying, ‘I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'

Miranda must have wished she'd persevered with learning the Chinese language and that she could say comforting Chinese things like, ‘There, there, darling,' in Chinese, because all eyes were on her and Mike and it would have been impressive. But she couldn't and just said, ‘It was a release, Mike, he'd had a good innings,' in English—and told us that the old man had been ill for some time.

The owner asked which nursing home he'd been in and how the fee tariff worked, and Mike said that his granddad had been at home with them all the time and that they'd taken turns to care for him. Miranda made a ‘yuck' face behind Mike Yu's back and everyone felt extra sorry for him—knowing his life had been affected in this way.

‘Jesus,' said Carla B, ‘he was there, in your house, dying? Yuck.'

‘Yeah, I know, and Mike had to feed him mushed-up noodles,' said Miranda.

I kept waiting for a part of this to be a joke (or even a bizarre dream) but it wasn't. It was like something from J. B. Priestley—all these awful people, saying thoughtless things to this innocent boy in such grief and despair.

Mike Yu looked at me through his beautiful tears. It was as though he was thinking the same thing (that it was like something from J. B. Priestley) and I couldn't stop looking back.

‘What was your grandfather's zodiac sign?' I asked, not that I was interested, but wanting to distance myself from the shallow madness of the others.

‘He was born in the Year of the Rabbit,' said Mike, ‘he was hospitable, graceful and sensitive.'

‘And you know, Lizzie, down by the canal. Remember, the kingfisher? That was…' he said, but couldn't finish what he was saying.

Miranda jolted to attention. ‘When were you down by the canal?' she asked.

‘Grandpapa and I met Lizzie, and she'd seen a kingfisher,' said Mike, and then to clarify for Sister who looked puzzled, ‘a rare bird with some significance.'

‘Did your grandpapa see this bird?' asked Sister Saleem.

‘No, but he knew Lizzie had seen it,' said Mike, ‘and that she had come to tell him he would soon be at peace.'

I had to get away. I mumbled something about hearing a bell, stubbed out my half-finished fag and dashed upstairs to Lady Briggs' room.

I was in love with Mike Yu.

My mother was still not home and I was missing her. And though I'd been feeling very mature in my new position in life (and in love) I'd sill really, really hated her being away—probably sad and frightened and possibly having unwanted sex, though probably not (seeing as she was at Carrie Frost's).

I made a list of things to tell her about—including Matron's new straw-coloured hair, Sister Saleem's euphemism ban and the garden plan. I knew she'd wholeheartedly approve of everything and fall even more in love with Sister Saleem, whom she already loved for a variety of reasons.

I went to the phone box and rang Carrie Frost's number. Carrie Frost answered, which was inevitable but nevertheless irritating. She said our mother had that very minute left and was on her way home. Carrie was glad I'd rung because she wanted to give me some pointers about our mother's state of mind.

‘Give her some acknowledgement,' said Carrie, ‘she's just coming out of her post-natal slump.'

I had literally no idea what she was talking about—not knowing the term ‘post-natal'—but I said, ‘
OK
.' And drifted off while Carrie continued with some gibberish, which might have been useful except I couldn't concentrate, Carrie Frost was that kind of well-meaning idiot. I remembered an incident, years ago, when Carrie had been our au pair and Little Jack had wanted her to lift him up and had said, ‘Carry!' and she'd said, ‘Yes?' and he'd said, ‘Carry!' again and I'd seen that there was a misunderstanding but hadn't the energy to explain. This was how my life felt at that moment. And then the pips went and Carrie called out, ‘Be nice to her!'

By the time I got home, my mother was there, acting cool, and Danny was playing with a cloth octopus Carrie had run up for him with fabric scraps.

She apologized for having gone off but explained how easy it was for a woman to lose credibility and now she wanted the slate wiped clean and to make a fresh start with her credibility intact. And to read and discuss more contemporary writers and bake her own malt loaf to put in our packed lunches and not have to buy Soreen.

My sister told her that we loved her and didn't need her reviews of contemporary fiction or the malt loaf and I told her it had been utterly miserable while she was away, which was true.

‘Did you have an
OK
time at Carrie's?' I asked.

‘Of course not,' she said, ‘but she did teach me how to draw people.'

And our mother demonstrated this new skill by sketching a quick person via a series of circular shapes. It was a fundamental tool of figurative drawing, she explained, promoted by all the great art schools and even the least arty people could get a decent result. I did notice that my mother's person had a very short neck but didn't say anything—remembering what Carrie had said on the phone—and I made a huge fuss of the sketch and so did my sister.

‘Wow, that's brilliant,' I said.

‘Thanks,' said our mother, proving how easy it is to please someone.

The feeling that she'd lost all credibility with Mr Holt was still uppermost in her mind. She knew as well as we did that this newly acquired drawing skill wouldn't count for much with Mr Holt, but for some reason she kept drawing people.

Credibility seemed a strange and intangible thing for her to dwell on. Ironically, none of us could be honest with her about it and had to tell her she'd not (lost all credibility) even though she most definitely had now lost the tiny shred she'd previously possessed. The thing we all knew—but which was difficult to say—was that she'd had barely any credibility to start with and none of us had ever minded. And that
realizing
she had none was actually a very promising thing—a sign of the beginnings of normality—after all her drugs and drink and terminated pregnancies etc. Though no one had the heart to put it quite like that.

My sister cleverly reminded her that credibility was ten-a-penny and that the village policeman had it in spades and what good did it do him? She had other things that most people could only dream of. Things you can only have (or be) if you're an extraordinary person. I said, ‘You have art and music running through you like veins pumping blood to your heart.'

The mention of blood and veins gave me pangs momentarily about my biology lessons. Our new teacher had really brought it to life with beautiful illustrations on the board in pale pink chalk and said ‘capillaries, oxygen and heart' as if they were poetry, not the workings of any old person. And I briefly regretted not being a dedicated scholar.

‘You're an artist,' said my sister.

My mother responded by reciting William Shakespeare.

Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there,

And made myself a motley to the view,

Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,

Made old offences of affections new.

Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth

Askance and strangely: but, by all above,

These blenches gave my heart another youth,

And worse essays proved thee my best of love.

Now all is done, have what shall have no end!

Mine appetite, I never more will grind

On newer proof, to try an older friend,

A god in love, to whom I am confin'd.

Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,

Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

‘See,' said Jack, ‘you've memorized that whole poem.'

‘Sonnet,' said my mother.

‘Yes, not many people could just trot that out,' said my sister, ‘or want to.'

Mr Holt came in then and it was time for dinner. We let our mother cook and, even though we could see she was all over the place, none of us dared help.

Afterwards the credibility thing came up again, this time in front of Mr Holt, and you could see he was a bit puzzled by it all. We tried to tell her how extraordinary she was, that she had a beautiful imagination and a conscience that kept her up at night when she should be sleeping. She had humour. She could see how funny a thing was when no one else could see it and when everyone else was frowning or tutting or scared to death, there she'd be giggling and gasping in a most imaginative way.

But she wouldn't hear it—the qualities we listed counted for nothing in her eyes.

She wanted to
change
; she wanted us to be a normal, happy family and her a normal mother making malt loaf and hand-washing jumpers in Stergene. We said we worried she'd throw away her true self just to be like dynamic Mrs Goodchild over the road.

Mrs Goodchild was nice and admirable with her baby and job and home-made food and curtains but had the habit of talking behind her hand. One time she'd said to my mother (behind her hand) that I was looking pale. I knew what she'd said because I heard her, and even if I hadn't I'd have known because my mother responded, ‘It's just her colouring, she tends to wanness.' Anyway, she and my mother had slightly fallen out when Mrs Goodchild took our washing in off the line one day—because the sky had clouded over and looked like rain—and took it into her house. But far from thanking Mrs Goodchild, my mother had told her, ‘I'd rather you didn't do that again.' And then she'd seen my mother weeing in the kitchen sink, and told her she had, and it had become a much-mentioned thing in our house.

‘I want to be like her,' our mother said, ‘of course I do.'

‘Why?' we asked.

‘She talks behind her hand and has a miserable life,' I said.

We reminded her she could drive like a racer, turn on a sixpence and park in a shoebox (our mother, not Mrs Goodchild, who'd taken four driving tests but not passed yet). That she'd had simple, natural births and tanned easily, was a fabulous swimmer, a perfect diver and never felt the cold. She was green-fingered and good with animals. She had the voice of a nightingale and could sight-read and play the piano more beautifully than Bobby Crush. And she was brave. Brave like only the very alone can be.

My sister grew weary. ‘Mother,' she said, ‘none of us likes malt loaf.'

‘But, I–' my mother began.

‘No, listen, Mum. You're worried because you're with Mr Holt and you've got Danny now and however happy the relationship is, the responsibility of being half of a couple is a big thing.'

‘Yes, that's it,' she said, ‘it's weakened me.'

‘No, being with Mr Holt has
strengthened
you, but you have to stop acting as if you're on your own, stop misbehaving. Stop lying to him,' said my sister.

Mr Holt coughed to remind us he was there, behind his paper. And then made the very sensible decision to propose marriage.

‘Elizabeth,' he said, letting his paper drop down so that he could look at her while he spoke, ‘shall we just get married?'

And she said she was sorry to cry but being in a couple with such a straightforward machine of a man had really fucked her up, but yes, she would marry him.

And actually him wanting to marry her changed everything.

‘I can finally get rid of the name Vogel,' she said.

My sister and Jack and I must have looked offended because she apologized. She'd been stuck with it since marrying our father. Her solicitor had suggested she go back to Benson but the thought horrified her and she'd rather be Mrs Vogel than Miss Benson. Now she was going to be Mrs Holt and saying it made us all laugh. Mrs Elizabeth Holt. That was when I first realized how utterly terrible marriage was. That only in being asked by someone could you truly value yourself and then it was all making gravy and curtains. I think I'd known it before but wasn't mature enough to put it like that. I vowed to marry only if I did the asking and if my sister could come, and no one else.

Mike Yu's college was still on its summer break. He had been helping at Paradise Lodge since he had a bit more time. Miranda must have found out that I'd been officially chucked off the ‘O' Level course at school and brought it up in the kitchen in front of Mike.

‘Lizzie's been chucked off the “O” Level group, she's going to have to do the
CSE
s next summer,' said Miranda. Feigning nonchalance and doing one of her little yawns.

‘Well, I'm not doing the
CSE
s,' I said.

‘There's nothing wrong with the
CSE
s, they're legitimate qualifications,' said Miranda, ‘for the less academic pupil.'

‘Yeah, well I'm not the “less academic” pupil, so I shan't be doing them,' I said.

Mike was aghast and said I must insist on being reinstated to the ‘O' Level group as soon as possible. ‘You must sort this out before next term begins,' he said, ‘you must continue with your education at the highest level, Lizzie.'

‘I don't know–' I began.

‘You're far, far too bright not to. You could do anything with your life,' he said. He was animated and passionate. ‘If you drop out now, you'll be regretful and probably unhappy for the rest of your life,' he said.

Miranda butted in, jealously. ‘She can go to Charles Keene College of Further Education and do a hairdressing diploma if she gets sick of being a nursing auxiliary,' she said.

‘Hairdressing's a wonderful profession, but–' said Mike,

‘Yes,' Miranda interrupted him, ‘imagine being able to cut and style someone's hair and change their life at the drop of a hat, literally.'

‘But hairdressing's not for someone like Lizzie,' said Mike, ‘Lizzie's an intellectual, she wouldn't be able to cut people's hair.'

Miranda reminded Mike that she was also under threat due to having already lost the best part of an academic year because of the glandular fever she'd had on and off throughout 1975.

‘Lizzie's an intellectual,' Mike repeated.

‘And I'm not?' said Miranda, hurt.

Mike said he was worried about both of us—but you could tell he really meant me and thought it would be fine for Miranda to drop out.

Later, Mike was still there, preparing a stew for the next day's lunch. The meat being such good value, the stew was going to have to be in the bottom Aga overnight.

‘How come you're here so often?' I asked.

‘I've been asked to lend a hand with the Aga and the cooking,' he said. ‘It's not official,' he put a finger to his lips, ‘but it's mutually beneficial.'

‘You mean you like being here?'

‘It's peaceful after the chaos of Good Luck House. The kitchen and the customers—who I respect—can be quite disruptive. With their noise and demands,' said Mike.

‘I know what you mean,' I said, ‘I like the quiet and being able to have a long hot bath on a split shift.'

‘I like being here, especially I like the people,' he said.

‘Especially Miranda,' I said.

‘There's an energy here,' he said, ‘a gentle energy and some love.'

‘Yes,' I said, ‘there is.'

‘I think we have a lot in common,' he said, ‘and that's another very nice thing.'

I got myself a glass of water.

‘I meant what I said about school, Lizzie, you must put your education first.'

‘I know,' I said.

‘You might want to travel. And you don't want your husband to outflank you, do you?' he said, laughing playfully.

‘How many “O” Levels do you have?' I asked.

‘I have ten, and eight of them As,' he said.

I left him to finish chopping the meat and was walking on air. I bumped into Matron who made a rude comment about him being there again.

‘He's a sly one,' she said, ‘surely he's needed at home. Bloody skiver.'

‘No, he's not—he likes it here, the peace and quiet. It's mutually beneficial,' I said and marched off, blushing.

Everyone in my life felt strongly that I should straighten myself out, school-wise. My sister, my mother, my form tutor and Sister Saleem had all spoken to me on the subject, as had Miss Pitt and Mrs Hargraves the truant officer.