Undercurrent (15 page)

Privileged? Of course it was, if I had thought about it at the time. I loved those battlements; I loved
hoisting the flag and I loved standing level with the sea. We didn't repel invaders; we invited them in,
especially Maggie, but we locked the doors once they had gone. We ruled the world, my father said,
and he was absolutely right. He didn't mean the English ruled the world; he meant we, ourselves. The
psychiatrist who saw me in the early stages asked if that gave me a certain attitude to life. (He was
very keen on the isolation of environment and class.)

I'm becoming wordy. I must stop.

It made me thrifty, capable, good at cooking, washing, sewing and careless about appearances,
because we did everything and owned nothing. We were caretakers for the next generation. I told him
there were times it made me want to live in a treehouse inside someone else's garden.

I inherited an outrageous sense of duty, but I did not tell the psychiatrist that: nor did I tell him
that, above all, it made me extraordinarily humble. As well as arrogant and talented in manipulation.

With a craving for status in the wider community, couldn't stand the failures of ordinary life and
parenthood. A tendency to take over and give orders. Raised around cannons and the veneration of
war; therefore capable of violence and aggression.

I'm glad I remembered that part. He found it entirely convincing.

FMC.

CHAPTER SIX.

In the late afternoon, just as it began to rain, Angela Hulme drove to see Uncle Joe. He lived in a senior citizens' home, appropriately situated next to the golf course where he had spent as much of his life as possible. When giving her the task of visiting this stranger, Francesca had assured Angela that she would know exactly which one he was. The idlest survivor of three brothers, the only one left of that generation and their wives. A reprobate, and after all those years golfing and drinking gin, the one with the face like red sandpaper.

Angela had promised Francesca and although she now owned Francesca's car, it was a promise she often resented, because it was another obligation.
My father's surviving brother is the
only thing I have left of my father; please do this, Angela
. It was Francesca who should have been the lawyer, the way she could persuade without it sounding quite like an order, although perhaps being a teacher had the same effect.

The suggestion was that she should take Tanya with her, but Angela reneged on that part.

They had tried it; Tanya liked Uncle Joe but she talked too much, exhausted him. It was Francesca's opinion that it was good for the very young to have contact with the very old, but Tanya did not belong with these relics, although they loved to see a child. Angela did not agree with the need to mingle with the older generation: they had a general tendency to carp and criticize although this hardly applied to Uncle Joe.

He was all sweetness and light, another reason for leaving Tanya behind with Neil, because Angela secretly enjoyed seeing him privately. There was a dearth of adult company in her life, there was nothing he did not understand and he was completely uncensorious.

She drove in the Ramsgate direction, past another town and into the flat hinterland. The road took her through the vast Fergusons plant. She could have a job here; everyone else did. The area of the operation was vast, spreading over the fields like a rash, and even on a Sunday the carpark was full of bright, new motors. It must take thousands of sick people to make and distribute drugs; so much everyone knew.

Maggie had told her in the castle that Henry Evans, the tourist, was going to work there; no wonder she hadn't liked him, even before he started making eyes at her beautiful child. What kind of idiot thought Tanya could be bribed with chocolate? An idiot like that. She might just tell Uncle Joe all about it.

Maybe Henry Evans knew of a drug which could make her daughter forget everything unpleasant that had ever happened to her, and remember only the good things, such as being born at all. Make her completely dissociate herself from the child whose drug-sodden parents had burned the inside of her thighs with a cigarette, left her with a rash on her face from lying in vomit.

They should find a cure for that, these fucking scientists, instead of finding drugs to make men worse than they already were.

She passed the featureless buildings and began to relax a little. She did not, in all honesty, have any doubts about leaving Tanya with Neil. Although he was an unpredictable man with the sexual ability of a slug, he was a good enough part-time father to a beautiful girl child who needed unbiased attention with the minimum of attachment. At least Neil suspended his irritation and was alert enough to notice danger.

Although Angela thought that Tanya could have done without the swearing and the ghost stories, that was fine too, because she didn't believe a word of them, which made for a good combination, really, what with her trusting Neil, and yet all the time thinking he was a bit silly. That way, he undermined nothing, which probably suited them all.

She pulled up on the Ramsgate cliff, a desolate place in winter, fit for nothing but sheep and this house, which was as grand as a sea bitten house in need of maintenance could be: frayed at the edges and cancerous round the windows at this time of year, the white paint a shade grey and flaky and the whole thing less than ancestral. The new golf clubhouse stood a few acres distant over rolling greens saturated with rain. This house, which she approached from the carpark at a running crouch through the rain, had once been the golfers' bar. No wonder Uncle Joe loved it. Reaching the entrance, sheltered from the wet in the age it took anyone to answer, she remembered her resentment, standing here with her arms crossed, obeying orders a year ago.

What business had she, coming to see Francesca's uncle on another rainy day, only to get that bovine nurse from an agency who said. Mister Who? I'm sorry, I don't know the names. Oh yes there he was, the one sitting over there, with the red face and the fine white hair. The one in his favourite armchair, reading a paper, just as Francesca described. The accuracy of the description and the awkwardness of the introduction started off the little game they still played now.

'Are you Uncle Joe?' she greeted him, shedding her coat.

'Who wants him?' he replied, just like the first time.

He sat alone in the close warmth of the foyer, looking out through the double-glazed doors whenever the paper dropped into his lap. She liked the fact that he simply presented his papery cheek for a peck from her lips. She gave him Maggie's snowdrops this time, aware that he might have preferred sherry or chocolate, but that was what she had and he always protested about the gifts.

'My dear, you shouldn't have ... But how lovely to see you. Pretty as a picture. I do like the new hair.'

Uncle Joe always observed things, looked at her with such keen approval it made her preen a little. She found herself wearing a skirt for Uncle Joe, putting on earrings or a bracelet to see if he would notice, and he never failed. 'I love that, where did you get it?' It was part of a regular if not invariable Sunday ritual, this slight dressing up for him, the way other people might do for church.

If she missed a week, he never reproached her, something else she appreciated.

He said he quite understood what life was like with children. Overall, it was one of those social tasks she did not relish, but all the same enjoyed.

Because he wanted to listen. He preferred that to talking, relishing stories from the outside world, delivered for his mild commentary, especially if the anecdotes featured Tanya. Francesca was never mentioned after the first time, when Angela had explained how she had come as a replacement because Fran was otherwise engaged. He had accepted the substitution with alacrity as well as grace - 'How lucky I am to have you instead ...' - and if he had read about his homicidal niece in the local newspaper, he did not say, but then Uncle Joe despised the local paper and only went for quality broadsheets.

When she ventured to explain what had happened, he had merely shaken his head sadly, as if nothing in the world surprised him any more. 'How awful for you,' was his primary comment, 'but never mind. Very sad, but probably all for the best'; and while Angela knew this laconic response was hardly appropriate, she secretly and guiltily agreed.

In numerous ways, life without Francesca's assiduous and generous assistance was harder, but infinitely easier in other respects. At least she was no longer there, with her tireless energy, swallowing Tanya's affection and attention, influencing her the way she did, and in a while, perhaps Tanya would stop talking about her. Forget about her, as she was managing to forget so much else.

They were left to themselves in the foyer, although if she timed it right, one of the agency staff who took over at weekends wandered along with a tray of tea and a plate of the sort of tasteless dry biscuits Tanya would have rejected. Angela wondered if the biscuits were the choice of the staff or of the patients, who might have been raised to regard rich tea or ginger nuts as a treat.

'Why do you sit out here, by yourself, instead of in the living room with the nice fire?'

'I like it here. Get away from the others.' Today he twinkled at her.

'So cold out there. Splendidly kind of you to come out in this. So lucky.' He settled himself.

He had tremor in the hands and virtually no use of his legs, but he could dress himself. The clothes were endearingly old and good and he was pinkly clean. 'How is the gorgeous child?'

'Well, she's acting up, but what's new? I dyed myhair to please her and she has the nerve to say she doesn't like it...'

'Tut, tut,' delivered indulgently, smiling.

'And she still talks about Francesca. At school, I gather. At home, even to strangers. She was doing that this morning .. .'

'Give it time, give it time, my dear.'

'. . . to an American, I ask you, up at the castle. A tourist Maggie brought in. I think Tanya was flirting with him a bit, but more to the point, he was certainly flirting with her ...'

'Really!'

'I don't want to get it wrong. I want her to be easy with strangers, but I don't want her being familiar. You never know with people, do you?'

'No. You never know.'

'Anyway, she's safe with Neil. I'll try and bring her again, one of these days.'

'Oh yes, one of these days.' Not you should or you must.

'Well, I don't know. She might be doing somersaults in the rain. She hates sitting still. Neil manages to make her, sometimes. Me, I have to make her run and jump until she's worn out, but I don't always like to do that, because she gets so fractious when she's tired. We set up a series of hurdles on the beach the other day, after school. She needed wearing out. She can run along the shingle, like it was a running track. Amazing. Sometimes I feel as if I'm exercising a great big dog.'

'A dog!'

'Yes. Just like exercising a dog. Relentless. Needs taking out twice a day and then feeding.

She'd like to have a dog, she says, but never mind the money they cost, I'm not sure. To be honest,'

she lowered her voice confidentially, even though there was no one to overhear, 'I'm not sure she has the patience. Not sure

I would, either. What do you think?'

'Dogs, yes ... dogs are good.'

'Yes, but think - if I let her out with a dog by herself, everyone would stop and talk to her.

Unless I got a horrid dog that nobody liked. One that snapped at everyone else but us . ..'

'Yes!'

'That would keep people away, wouldn't it? Sort of guard dog, yes it's quite a good idea when I think of it. But not that bloody dog Neil wanted us to have.

Do you know, this morning he was so cheerful? He's not usually like that. He's usually tense and miserable, he always was. He annoyed me, though. I told him about the American making eyes at Tanya and he just shrugged. I said there was something creepy about him . . .'

'Creepy American?'

'Yes. Creepy. Men like that want locking up.'

Uncle Joe adjusted himself in his chair and smiled widely at the nurse who brought tea. She smiled back. The progress of the cup towards his mouth was tortuous. It clattered back into the saucer. He leaned towards Angela and tapped his nose, wisely.

'This American ... You should lock him up. With a dog!' He laughed loudly and Angela joined in. He always made her feel better; they often ended up giggling like kids. She could tell him anything. He wasn't really a chore, after all. He pushed the snowdrops to the side of the tray, not really caring for them either and knowing she wouldn't mind, because, really, they thought the same way about irrelevant things.

She did not come here because Maggie would ask if she was fulfilling the promise; she came because he liked her and agreed with her when it seemed nobody else did. It was lonely out there, being watched all the time, to see if you got it wrong.

'We are better without Francesca and Harry, aren't we?' she asked anxiously, taking two of the biscuits.

Lunch had been scanty.

'Better? Much better.'

'I'm not a bad person, am I, Uncle Joe? I'm a good mother, aren't I?' He patted her hand and gazed at her fondly.

'No. You're very good. Like dogs.'

He always said what she wanted to hear and remembered nothing.

The rain came down in sheets, altering the landscape; again to a leaden grey before the black of evening and the violence outside provided Henry with a comfortable excuse for lying still, listening to music and doing nothing. Then, with the rain beating out a steady, unrhythmic lullaby, he slept the sleep of the dead. Woke once to a sound and the red glow of the dying fire, saw the shawl where he had laid it on the bed, and then slept again, He would get Maggie to give Francesca the shawl. That would be the end of it.

The morning sky made him consider the pleasures of living in a house like this where he would never need to draw the shades and could stretch, naked, in front of a window. Henry felt the small ridge of fat which was forming round his middle, pinched it ruefully and thought, to hell with it. Better be fat than believe in ghosts; better be a porker than a nut.