To Have and to Hold (21 page)

A man passes; he is about sixty. He turns away from her to look at the meat – chops, sliced across the bone. Red and moist. Somewhere, there is a man of perhaps sixty who is her father. She feels she is walking on a moving floor; it is sliding beneath her feet like those rubber walkways at airports, and she wants to get off. How clen the sawing is – through the bone, the nerves and the flesh. Someone felt the pain; but on the other hand, who can tell?

She feels weightless, and bereft, and very, very tired. She also feels queasy, as if the bulk of her internal organs have been surgically removed. But she finishes her shopping, because she must remember that she is workable still.

‘Can I help you?' asked the stylist.

‘Is Irene Smith here?' asked Ann.

The young man looked in the book. ‘Have you got an appointment?'

Ann shook her head.

‘She's got a space at three o'clock,' he said.

‘She's my mother.'

He laughed. ‘Sorry, I'm new.'

‘But I'll take the three o'clock space,' said Ann.

Ann sat at the mirror. She wore a wrap; she felt like a patient about to undergo an operation. She hadn't been to the salon for a year; the place had been redecorated with palms and wickerwork. Frank and her mother stood behind her.

‘So he popped the question in Venice,' said her mother. ‘He said, can we be VAT-registered together?'

‘What?' asked Ann, looking at her mother in the mirror.

She pointed to Frank. ‘He's made me his business partner. Aren't you proud of your mum?'

Ann didn't reply. Her mother pursed her mouth – such crimson lipstick – and touched Ann's hair.

‘So what's it to be?'

‘Just do something,' said Ann.

‘What?' She raised her eyebrows.

‘Cut it all off. Do anything.'

Irene smiled. ‘At last she says so. You leave it to Mum.'

‘I want it bleached in streaks.'

‘Smashing.'

‘And permed.'

‘Can't do both,' said her mother. ‘Bad for the hair.'

‘To hell with my hair.'

‘Annie!'

Frank said: ‘So it's carte blanche, is it?'

Irene lifted strands of Ann's hair and let them fall. ‘She's always had stubborn hair,' she said. ‘When she was small we had such fights about her plaits. All those rubber bands you had then. One day I couldn't stand it any more and I cut them off with the kitchen scissors, snip snip. Remember, Annie?'

Frank laughed. ‘And you still trust her?' he asked Ann. ‘A mother who's been so cruel?'

‘I hated them,' said Ann.

‘What?' he asked.

‘My plaits.'

She felt her mother's hands on her head, tilting it first one way, then the other. ‘I'd say all this off,' said Irene, ‘and here, and layered for lift.'

‘She's got a nice bone structure, hasn't she?' said Frank. ‘Takes after her mum.'

‘No I don't,' said Ann.

‘You do,' he said. ‘You just can't see it.'

Her mother spoke. ‘Like I've always said, Annie, you've got the potential, always have. Just got to make the best of yourself.'

Frank touched Ann's head. ‘A light perm here, in my humble opinion, just for body.'

‘Do what you like,' said Ann.

Frank turned to Irene. ‘Wish they were all so amenable,' he said.

‘Must go,' said Ollie, twisting his hand so he could look at his watch. This was tricky, as Daisy had his hand splayed out on a piece of paper. She was tracing around his fingers.

‘You're always going out,' she said.

Viv shot a look at Ollie; she did shoot it, like a dart. She too was trapped by their offspring. Rosie was tracing around her hand.

Daisy went on: ‘You're always shouting.'

‘What?' said Ollie.

‘You and Mum.' Rosie went on tracing. ‘You've got dirty fingernails.'

‘Sorry,' said Ollie. ‘What's all this for, anyway?'

‘Our collection.'

‘Well,' he said ‘get a move on.'

‘Where
are
you going?' Viv asked.

Rosie interrupted: ‘You make Mummy sick too.'

‘What?' asked Ollie.

‘We've heard her.'

Both girls started making retching noises. Daisy, who had learnt to belch on demand, did that too.

‘Shut up!' shouted Viv.

Ann's hair hung wet around her face. Her mother started snipping.

Ann said: ‘I saw Vera last week.'

‘Oh yes?'

‘We had a talk.'

Her mother said: ‘Never thought he'd go for somebody like that.'

‘Why?'

‘Always said he didn't like mousy women.' She tilted Ann's head. ‘That's better.' She went on cutting, snip, snip. ‘Still, you know your father.'

‘No I don't.'

‘Contrary old git. Once he gets an idea –'

‘He's not my father,' said Ann.

Her mother's hand stopped. She looked at Ann in the mirror. ‘What did you say?'

‘Dad's not my father.'

Her mother didn't reply. She stood there, the scissors hanging in her hand.

‘How could you not tell me?' said Ann. ‘All these years?'

Irene cleared her throat. Her lower lip trembled; Ann had never seen that expression on her face before. Her round blue eyes stared at Ann in the mirror. She said: ‘Your father and I – I mean Douglas and I – we decided to let bygones be bygones.' She looked around. ‘Can't talk here.'

‘So you were pregnant with me when you got married.'

Her mother nodded. ‘He was ever so decent, Dougie. He said: who was to know? He said, we'll bring it up just like – I mean you – just like you was his.'

‘He didn't, did he?'

‘What?'

‘Bring me up like I was his.' Ann looked at the reflection of her mother. ‘He never did.'

The children had run outside. Ollie stood in the hall, holding his briefcase.

Viv asked: ‘Shall we tell them it's your child?'

‘And let them think I'd give away my own baby?'

‘Well
I
am,' she answered.

‘They'll start having nighmares about packing cases.'

‘What does it matter who the father is?' she said. ‘You or Ken.'

‘One day it'll have to know. Let's hope it takes it better than Ann.'

He moved towards the door.

She said: ‘You off?'

He nodded. ‘Just got to look up some things at the office.'

‘I see.'

‘Back in –' he began.

She finished for him: ‘– a couple of hours.'

They looked at each other. He opened the door, and left.

Viv went back into the kitchen. She stood at the table, looking at the drawings of their two ghostly hands.

Ann looked at herself in the mirror. She was transformed; there was no other word for it. Her hair was short and streaked and feathery. She looked new; she was a whole new person with whom Ann must become acquainted. She looked a great deal prettier.

She got up and went to the desk. There were only two customers left. She had already written a cheque; she gave it to her mother, and with it three pound notes.

‘Annie!' said her mother.

‘It looks very nice.'

Irene pushed the money back at her. ‘You ninny.'

Ann left the money on the desk and turned to go. Irene grabbed her sleeve.

‘Don't go,' she said. ‘Look, we're closing in a moment. Stay and we can talk.'

Ann shook her head. Then she realized she was still wearing the wrap. She pulled it off, grabbed her coat and left the salon.

Ann stood at the bus stop. A chill wind blew. Mothers, laden with Saturday shopping, waited in the queue. In front of Ann stood a small boy, eating chips from a Kentucky box. He gazed up at Ann, and then offered her a chip from his carton. She smiled, hesitated and took a chip. The boy's mother saw and slapped his hand.

The sky was darkening; soon it would rain. Ann's exposed neck was cold. Beside her was a showroom of brass beds, bathed in spotlight; on the glass were pasted signs saying
FINAL REDUCTIONS
. She waited. She looked at the head of the little boy in front of her. He had been given a crew-cut; the fuzz barely blurred the shape of his young skull.

She waited, as everyone else waited, to go home to their own lit rooms. But when her bus came she stepped aside and, after a moment's pause, walked back towards the salon.

‘Oh, he was a laugh,' said her mother. Her voice had softened. ‘Above the Gaumont they served teas, and you could dance. I'd go with my friends from the depot and he'd give them all a whirl but he always came back to me.' She touched her own cheek. ‘He called me Petal because of my skin.'

The salon lights were off. People passed in the street, unaware of the two women sitting on the styling chairs. They were drinking, out of salon mugs, some liqueur that Irene had brought back from Venice.

‘What did he look like?' asked Ann, her voice still cool.

‘Lovely hair. Springy. Lots of it.'

‘What colour?'

‘Stubborn though, like yours. Chestnut.' She lifted up the bottle to pour some more. ‘Sambucca, only you're supposed to put in a coffee bean and light it. It's an Italian custom.' She sighed. ‘It does take me back.'

‘Did you love him?'

Irene looked at her daughter. ‘Oh pet,' she said. ‘Think I didn't?'

Ann paused. ‘What was his job?'

‘Toys. He was a representative for what's-its-name, you know.'

‘I don't know,' said Ann. Her mother tried to offer her more drink, but she shook her head. ‘I don't know anything.'

‘Anyway. Something or other. He used to wind up these silly little ducks and make them walk across the floor.' With her fingers she demonstrated on the shelf. Her pointed red nails walked past the laid-out combs.

‘Did he know about me?' Ann asked.

Irene shook her head. ‘He changed his job, Archie did, and went up north.'

‘Where?'

‘Stockport.'

‘What was the firm?'

‘Something.' Irene frowned, trying to remember.

‘What?'

‘Cobbs. That's right. Cobbs Brothers. I thought of going with him but he'd never said anything, and the morning he left, he brought me round this silly rubber monkey and I knew it was no good.'

‘Why?'

‘Wouldn't have worked. He was like a child, Annie.'

‘So he doesn't know I exist? And you don't know if he does?'

‘Thirty-five years, pet,' said her mother. ‘He might be dead.'

‘No.'

‘Probably got grandchildren now.'

There was a silence. The street noises seemed muted, as if they came from far away. Ann ran her hand along the chrome rim of the styling trolley. Finally she looked up: ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘It was Doug's idea. See, he knew I was in the club when he proposed, but he was so good about it. I mean, in those days it was different. It would've been a scandal. But he said he'd take you on.'

‘He didn't really,' said Ann.

‘Didn't what?'

‘Take me on.' She turned back to the chrome and rubbed it with her finger. ‘He hated me and I never knew why. And you never told me.'

All week Viv tried to speak to Ann, but her sister had retreated. Yes, she said, she had talked to their mother but she didn't want to go over it all again. No, it would be better if Viv didn't come round. Not just now.

Ever since childhood Ann had been capable of doing this – curling up in a corner and pulling down the blinds, all the while staying extra polite. Viv had tried all her ploys, from teasing to shock treatment, and experience now told her that none of them would work, they would only upset Ann all the more, and there was nothing to do but wait.

Besides, she had problems of her own. It's unnerving how small London can be once things are going wrong, as if an unseen hand, against all your wishes, moves you in the direction you least want to take. Summer term had started and on the Thursday, after school, she drove into Covent Garden to pick up some posters from the printer's. Surely it was just chance that she happened to park in one particular street, some distance from Ollie's office.

One can recognize lovers by the way they sit. When they are side by side it's easy. But when they sit opposite each other it is unmistakable too – not just by the way they hold their gaze but by their mirrored gestures. Ollie and the blonde girl both sat with their heads resting on one hand, while their other hands rested on the table. If she were closer she could have seen that their fingers did not quite touch. It was a sunny afternoon, and they were having tea and cakes.

Her second reaction followed swiftly on the shock: she was thankful that the children were not there. They didn't have to see their father. Nor would she have to keep chatting to them brightly as they went up the street, as if she was perfectly all right.

It took Ann days to dare phone Directory Enquiries. Finally she did it from work. For some reason the bright normality of the office made it marginally easier.

It was no good. There was no such firm as Cobbs Brothers in Stockport. If there had been, it no longer existed. The reedy voice of the British Telecom girl tried to be helpful – ‘Cobbetts
Limited?' she said. ‘Electronics Engineers? Or there's a Cobbs, Hawkins and Colefax, Solicitors?' Thirty-five years ago; no wonder.

Ann thanked her and put down the phone. She knew now why she had not dared before.

‘Have I told you,' asked Derek, ‘how much I like the hair?'

‘Thanks,' said Ann. They were sitting in his inner sanctum. He was looking greyer than ever nowadays. In the mornings his hands trembled; when he passed sheaves of papers to the girls, they exchanged grimaces.

‘Don't know what I'd do without you, Annie,' he said. ‘You're not like the others. You're reliable.'