Pilcrow (12 page)

The way my mother had been brought up by Granny could just as accurately be described as a keeping down. When Mum was little, Granny hired domestic help, at a time she could hardly afford it. There was a curious patch of no-money in the family history. Mum had coincided with it. Some nights Granny would crawl upstairs to bed on her hands and knees, not just because the house was old and the stairs were steep, but because she had starved herself to feed
everyone
else, and she was too dizzy to stand up. Only much later did Mum realise there was something perverse about Granny’s domestic arrangements, and when she did it really wounded her. Bad enough to be raised by a father who barely seemed able to see her, having eyes only for her younger brother. It was worse that her mother paid
someone
to come in and look after the children, freeing Granny herself to concentrate on the more important business of cleaning the house. Mum grew up in a household where there might just as well have been a motto in cross-stitch over the fireplace, reading
HOUSEWORK IS A SERIOUS ENTERPRISE
, and a companion piece on the opposite wall declaring
ANY FOOL CAN MIND A CHILD
.

Dad must have been away at the time of ‘word-bits’, but when he came back he told me the word I was looking for was ‘syllable’. It was great to have it confirmed that words had bits, and the bits had names. Proper names. And ‘syllable’ itself had three syllables, which was an extra pleasure for some reason.

Dad and Granny had a strange sort of relationship, a pact of mutual invisibility. For the most part they just walked past each other. They didn’t approve of each other, but they couldn’t seem to be bothered, either of them, to hide the fact or else to spell it out.

Granny cast a strange spell over the household, magnetising assent without lowering herself to ask for it. She didn’t hold with drinks at mealtimes. By drinks I mean ‘fluids’, she wasn’t talking specifically about alcohol. Sherry before a meal was permitted, as long as it was dry and not sweet. Granny’s was a theory about digestion: don’t dilute the gastric juices. Let them do their work. So when she came to stay everyone meekly went without.

Granny rarely cooked, but when she did it was a bit of a
performance
. I remember one evening when she made scrambled egg. There was a definite overtone of masterclass, despite the humbleness of the dish, and spectators seemed to be welcome.

I imagine Granny made sure that her visits coincided with the times that Dad wasn’t there, but this was one occasion when they overlapped. I have no idea how the sleeping arrangements were worked out, in that small house. Only one possibility seems
thinkable
, either practically or in psychological terms, and that would have been for Mum and Dad to hang by their heels from the rafters like roosting bats, while Granny took possession of the marital bed.

I know Dad and Granny were both there because I was allowed to witness the ceremony (almost the sacrament) of scrambling, and my expedition to the kitchen took a lot of planning. First Dad moved the armchair from my room to a spot in the kitchen with a suitable view. Then Mum carried me. It wasn’t a long trip, but had its hazards even so. Dad was much the stronger, of course, but he hadn’t had much practice and he lacked the necessary sense of my vulnerability. I was so immobile that I had become a little statue of myself, though I was as sensitised to pain as a violin strung with stretched filaments of nerve instead of catgut. It wasn’t just that banging my feet against the doorframe would have me jangling with agony. Even the fear of an impact would set off the same detonation in my joints. I trusted Mum to make the transfer, and she didn’t let me down.

Mum’s carrying was reliable but her lap wasn’t a suitable place for me to sit. It was too bony. Not that I really sat – my posture was closer to leaning, but even with the padding of a cushion Mum’s lap offered no comfort. That was where Dad excelled. Of course I was magnetised to his lap in any case, but I think this really was a medical necessity rather than a preference. Mum padded Dad’s lap with a single
strategic
cushion and then I could lean there perfectly happy while Granny got to work.

Officially Peter had recently grown out of his high chair, but on this special occasion he was wedged back into it, so that he had a sort of tennis umpire’s vantage-point.

I wouldn’t have thought there was a special implement needed for scrambling eggs, but apparently there was. ‘Don’t you have a spirtle, Laura?’ asked Granny. She made it sound like something absolutely basic, like a cooker or a bath. A spirtle turned out to be a spoon
without
a blade – no more than a rounded stick – used in Scotland for the proper agitation of porridge. Granny made do with a wooden spoon held upside down, so that what entered the egg mixture was indeed nothing more than a round stick, a cooking dowel.

Granny had laid the table before she started (no drinking glasses of course, our internal juices must be at their keenest), which gave us the impression that eating was imminent, but there has never been
anything
less like fast food than that pan of scrambled eggs. She set the flame on the stove at its lowest, and stirred indefatigably. Nothing seemed to happen, and it kept on not happening for a very long time. No curds were forming at all, as far as I could see from my perch, in the glossy suspension she stirred so constantly. Her activity seemed designed in fact to protect the contents of the pan from any changes that might be brought about by cooking. Yet the long-delayed
transformation
of the texture must have happened all at once, spreading in a yellow instant from a million specks of ovonucleation. Suddenly the eggs were scrambled, and yet
scrambled
seemed too casual a word. Granny took the pan off the heat, and ground pepper onto a saucer, then tipped it into the pan. I was relieved that we had a pepper-mill if not a spirtle, since she regarded that as essential – almost as if there was no point cooking eggs without it. Dad himself was a pepper mill fiend who ground thick specks densely over everything. His plate at mealtimes had the look of something unearthed at Pompeii.

I realise now just how rare an item was the table-top totem of a pepper-mill in a ’fifties kitchen or dining room. Mum behaved as if ours was a loaded weapon, never so much as touching it if she had the choice. Granny treated ours with grudging respect – no doubt hers was an heirloom that lived in a monogrammed case on a bed of velvet, like the pistol which it must have resembled in Mum’s mind.

It can’t have been easy for Dad and Granny to ignore this node of affinity in the matter of their shared addiction to the dried berries of
Piper nigrum
, but they rose to the challenge.

I was puzzled that the pepper had to be ground onto a saucer and only then scattered on food. When I asked Granny why this was, she explained that over time the steam rising from hot food would corrode the mechanism, as if it was something everyone should know from an early age. It was high time I learned.

The moistly solid savoury cream she now spooned reverently onto plates was barely palpable to the tongue. It melted there. It was barely particulate. We ate it in wondering silence. Part of Granny’s success was to have made us wait so long that she led us to a
contemplative
state on the far side of hunger. It was as if we’d been starved to death and then brought back from the grave for a light meal.

For once Dad ate what was put in front of him without taking his own turn with the pepper grinder. It occurs to me now that he didn’t like spicy foods or strong flavours. He liked roast meat – the ritual joint that needed a family to justify it – accompanied by potatoes and runner beans, the only green vegetable whose claims to edibility he accepted, and served with redcurrant jelly, a condiment he honoured with its own acronym (‘pass the RCJ, will you, m’dear?’). Really what Dad liked was bland food that he could grind pepper over until it almost disappeared. His pepper habit wasn’t to do with taste, it was to do with showing the food (and the cook) who was boss. Granny’s scrambled eggs, though, he ate without insisting on the usual black top-dressing.

In the kitchen Dad was essentially helpless. According to Mum, he couldn’t even boil an egg. The only time he had tried it he boiled it in milk, thinking that was how you would make it turn white inside. I wonder, though, if he wasn’t just making a point. He had more than enough scientific knowledge to avoid such a mistake, but there were other factors involved. It was almost a matter of principle in those days for men to be as incompetent in the kitchen as they were
supposed
to be competent everywhere else. And perhaps Mum was
making
the same sort of general statement about men and women, and their proper spheres of competence, when she so consistently fumbled the shaking-out of her match flame – she who, with her nurse’s
training
, could flick the recalcitrant mercury back to the bottom of a
thermometer
with two brisk movements of her wrist.

I suppose Mum’s ultimate priority, if she had been able to formulate it, would have been to set me against Granny. Granny meant money, though she also meant somehow being above money, and Mum had conflicting feelings on these important topics. Her ideal solution would be to set me against Granny at a mathematically precise angle: just enough to send the message that we couldn’t be bought, but not enough for us actually to be written out of The Will. There was some vengeful family trigonometry Mum would have liked to get exactly right, but she wasn’t quite confident enough to make the shot.

In the meantime she was short of allies, and the best one would
certainly
have been Dad – if she hadn’t been running her own campaign against him. She kept on asking me which of them I loved more. I didn’t know the word ‘comparison’, and hadn’t yet picked up the skill of refusing to answer a question. The best I could do was to say, an orange is a norange (I loved ‘noranges’, the word more than the fruit) and an apple is a napple. The rules that govern ‘a’ and ‘an’ were easy to learn – I picked them up from Granny. Oranges used to be
noranges
, apples used to be napples, until the ‘n’ popped across the gap and never came back.

Oranges were oranges and apples were apples, and how could you say which was better? Better didn’t come into it. I loved Mummy with all my heart and I loved Daddy with all my heart, and when I said ‘Mum’ or ‘Mummy’ I always inwardly intoned, ‘The best Mummy in the world.’ Wasn’t that enough for her?

It was not. She wanted a definite answer, one way or the other. Day after day she worked on me. I was to take sides. There must be schism. She said I should think it over, and not forget all the things she had done, the things she was still doing for me. Dad was away most of the time – I should remember that when I gave my answer. Then she would leave my bedroom with her head held high, leaving me to
sadness
and guilt. I was not to be allowed to love in peace.

Later Mum would make an entrance and come over to ‘hug’ me, being careful to let me feel mostly her aura rather than her body. She would have put on fresh scent while she was out of the room. I loved
Intimate
, which Dad had been trained to buy her for birthdays, not anticipating that it would be used as an instrument of brain-washing against him. I would reel from the beauty of the smell. Then while she had me spellbound she would drip the words ‘Who do you really love most, me or Daddy?’ into my ears and I’d rouse myself out of my trance to say, ‘The same!’

For a while she would go easy on me, till it almost seemed that I had got away with my crime of being equally attached to both
parents
. Then she went back onto the attack. Finally one day, when she came over to hug me, I caved in. I did what she wanted. I whispered into her ear that I loved her more than Daddy. She was my darling. At the same time I sent off a prayer, begging forgiveness for telling what I was almost positive was a lie.

Perhaps it was as a reward for my knuckling under that Mum came up with a new sort of treat. To be fair, she and Dr Duckett were always putting their heads together to come up with some form of
entertainment
that would somehow fall within the proper bounds, warming the brain without heating the heart. Being in charge of a telephonic grocery order was no longer the privilege it had been.

‘I Spy’ had lost its charm, and our games were becoming more sophisticated. The family re-jigged Grandmother’s Footsteps to suit me – I would hold a hand-mirror up, a little one from Mum’s
handbag
, instead of physically turning round. I always had to be Grandmother, of course, there was no taking of turns. In the family version, it wasn’t at all easy for anyone to get within reach of the bed (to give me the lightest possible tap), even after Gipsy had been sent out of the room. She had to go, otherwise she would bark. There was something about the heightened atmosphere of the game which set her off.

The only way for me to lose was by consent. I would relax my
vigilance
just long enough to be tagged, otherwise I was invulnerable. That may have been the whole virtue of the game, that it humoured me by giving me some experience of humouring others, while Gipsy softly scrabbled at the door to be brought in from the long seconds of exile.

A more exciting game, with a definite element of transgression, involved one of Dad’s treasured accessories, the Brummell Tie Press. It could only be played while he was away and Mum out of the room. Peter would fetch the Brummell Tie Press from Dad’s dressing table. It was a box of dark-toned Bakelite resembling a small radio, except that it had an opening on the sloping front panel and a single large knob on one side. You turned (or rather Peter turned) the knob and carefully fed a tie into the interior, where it was wound round a
central
drum and kept free of creases. When you wanted to retrieve the tie, you pressed a lever on the front which released the spring. The tie was projected out of the opening with great force and a loud whirring. Properly aimed, it could cross the room.

I wasn’t able to do the winding, but Peter scrupulously gave me turns at the exciting part, the dramatic discharge of Dad’s formal neckwear. Illness hadn’t deprived me of seniority, only the means of enforcing it. Peter never challenged my status. He would aim the loaded Brummell, and all I had to do was release the catch. If we aimed the tie towards Gipsy, she would bark madly at the noise and the fright of being pelted with woven snakes, and then the game acquired a hectic second phase. Peter must dash out of the room with the tie press, and return it to its place on the dressing table before Mum came to investigate.