Various Pets Alive and Dead (23 page)

The radio is on in the background as she prepares the spaghetti in the kitchen – something about an American bank being seized. Serve them bloody well right. No doubt Marcus will have a thing or two to say over dinner. But just as the pasta reaches the critical al dente moment, the telephone rings. Oh, heck! She juggles with the phone in one hand and the saucepan in the other, straining the pasta water into the sink – no hand left for the pan lid.

‘Hello? Doro Marchmont.’

‘Malcolm Loxley. Returning your call.’

The voice is deep, smooth, confident. A powerful voice, with a hard Yorkshire clip in the vowels.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘I was calling on behalf of the Greenhills Allotment Gardeners Association. We’ve learned that there’s a proposal from property developers in collusion with backward elements within the Council to redevelop the allotments, and we’re asking you to support our campaign [she can feel herself acquiring momentum as she goes along] to throw out these despicable profiteers and secure for the workers … I mean, secure for the allotment gardeners the full … oh, heck! …’

Unchecked, the mass of steaming pasta slides from the saucepan and slurps into the sink, twining itself in and around the unwashed washing-up like pale consumptive worms.

‘… the full fruits of their veggies.’

‘I see.’

‘So …?’

‘Can I ring you back on this?’

‘Can I ring you back on this?’ Serge’s broker says.

And Serge says, ‘Of course,’ because he can’t explain that he’s actually sitting in the disabled loo making this call, and in fact his phone will be switched off for most of the day.

After last week’s scare, he’s decided to bow out of Kenporter1601, and to trade from now on only as Dr Black. The surprising thing is how long it took Chicken to catch on. Using his calculator, he works out that he’s in the clear. Not only has he repaid the original money he borrowed from the 1601 account to place his trades but, according to his arithmetic, he’s actually overpaid by £1,343.20. But unless Chicken has done the same calculation, he won’t realise this, will he? And the trouble is, Serge will never know for sure whether Chicken has decided to let it pass, or whether he’s just waiting for the right moment to pounce.

The tension of not knowing makes him feel uneasy and queasy. At lunchtime he decides to bypass the FATCA cafeteria scrum and take a sandwich down to St Paul’s Walk, where he can use his phone unhindered. The sky is low and almost the same colour as the river, whose futile slapping against the stones brings on melancholy thoughts about eternity, the meaning of life and the contents of his sandwich, which has turned out to be crayfish again.

He calls his broker back, and is pleasantly surprised to learn that Dr Black is worth £599,087. He decides not to repay the mortgage just yet. Instead, he calls Otto to check out how things are with him and Molly, and to make sure that his blabby tendencies are still in check.

‘Yeah, you’re a real mate, Soz. I’ll pay you off as soon as we’re in the clear.’

‘No blabbing. Our secret, right?’

‘Sure thing.’

‘How’s Molly? When’s the new Free baby going to join us?’

‘Six weeks to go. We’ve kitted out the flat with cool baby gear in non-gender-specific pastel shades. Thanks to you, Soz.’

‘No worries. Have you seen Babs lately, by the way?’

‘I’ve not talked to her, but I saw she’s come out on Facebook. Heh heh.’

‘No way!’

Babs a lezzie! He finds the thought vaguely sexy. Maybe he should look her up.

The thought is so distracting that he forgets to turn his phone off immediately, and a moment later it rings in his pocket. He answers without checking the caller. If he had, he might not have answered. It’s Doro.

‘Oh, darling! I’ve got hold of you at last! I’ve been so worried! I thought you’d disappeared from the face of the earth.’

‘No need to worry, Mum. Everything’s hunky-dory.’

‘Because I’ve been reading about the terrible scandals in Cambridge. Amazing what these academics get up to.’

‘Oh. Yes. Awful.’

‘But your department’s not involved?’

‘Er … not a lot.’

‘Apparently it was particularly bad in maths.’

‘Oh, that’s computational. Not my kind of maths.’

‘Oh. Computational. Sounds dreadful.’

‘Mm. It can be a bit fuzzy.’

‘And how’s the PhD?’

‘Not bad. Getting there. Mum –’

‘Serge, I’ve had an idea – why don’t you come back to Doncaster for a few weeks to finish it off? You could stay in your old room, and get your head down without all the distractions of student life.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘But seriously. How about next week?’

‘Mm … but I need access to –’

‘Can’t you get everything online these days?’

‘Not everything. But thanks, I’ll definitely think about it, Mum.’

He throws the remains of his sandwich into the river, and immediately a flock of seagulls swoop and get into a fight. The biggest, most aggressive one carries off the crust, the smaller ones get a few crumbs, and there’s a scrawny one with a crooked wing that doesn’t get anything. He shakes a few scraps out of his bag, but the bird just flaps around in circles hopelessly. No doubt if Doro was there, she would go and buy another sandwich for it.

When he gets back to the office, people are already at their desks, but nothing much is happening. It’s so quiet that he thinks at first there’s been some kind of technical breakdown. Some traders drift up to the cafeteria for a caffeine fix, but the quants are mostly there on the floor. The Hamburger is trying to interest the Frenchies in his baby pictures. Lucie and Tootie are staring at Bloomberg TV on the overhead screen. The dateline says Monday 29th September 2008, and the Money Honey is interviewing some fast-talking American guy in an expensive bad-taste suit.

‘What’s going on?’ Serge asks.

‘Fuck knows,’ says Lucie.

‘George Bush pleading with the House of Representatives,’ says Tootie.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Seems they’re not keen to bail out the big banks.’ His acne scars dimple. ‘They don’t yet realise they have no choice.’

The door swings open, and in comes Maroushka: red lipstick, yellow jacket, slingback heels. A few guys turn and stare. She pauses in the doorway, then slinks along to her desk. Still they stare. What the fuck do they think they’re looking at? Then he realises they aren’t staring at her at all. Following their gaze, he sees a trio of men standing in the doorway who must have come in just after her: the Chief and two guys in suits – not the same class of suits as the MOTUs from Head Office were wearing last week, but average off-the-peg gear, limp polyester-mix shirts, shiny pants – sporting cheap haircuts, and looking bleary-eyed but watchful. They’re the sort of guys who work in back-office compliance, or the Inland Revenue, or the Financial Services Authority – not sharp enough to earn big money, and hungry for revenge on those who do.

Serge’s heart kicks up in his chest – boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

They stand still and scan the trading floor with their bleary-but-watchful eyes. One of them leans over and whispers to Chief Ken. They’re looking towards the Securitisation area. Then they start to walk.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! His heart thuds as they walk past the junk bond traders, past the Frenchies, past Toby and Lucian, who look up and mutter something Serge doesn’t catch. They’re coming in his direction.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! His heart thuds against his ribs. He cringes and bends over his keyboard, eyes shut, waiting for the hand on the shoulder. When he opens his eyes and looks up, they are already walking past the Hamburger.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! He feels the faint movement of air on his neck. Then nothing. They’ve walked by.

At the end of the row, there’s only Timo Jääskeläinen and the glass-walled office where Maroushka is fumbling in her handbag, apparently unaware of what’s going on. She takes out a lipstick and a small mirror and goes to work on her mouth, puckering her lips to blot them on a tissue when she’s finished. Then she looks up. One of the limp-shirt guys is staring at her through the glass wall, in that openly gobsmacked way that men do. The other is leaning over and whispering something to Timo.

Timo stands up, knocking over his chair. His cheeks are very pale. He follows Chicken towards the door, the two guys walking behind. There’s that whiff of aftershave as he passes – aniseed and benzene – but the look on his face this time is unmistakeably a grimace.

Clara’s heart skips a beat. That woman’s there again, waiting at the school gate. She looks a bit younger than Doro. Mint-green collarless jacket with gold buttons. Short black hair, sharply cut, fiercely dyed. Scarlet lipstick. Gold charm bracelet. The sort of woman you’d describe as Doncaster-flash.

Through her car window, Clara studies her unobserved. Why does she look familiar?

A moment later, Jason runs out and gives her a hug. They walk off together in the direction of the Hawthorns, and Clara drives over to Hardwick Avenue for a cup of tea on her way home.

Doro and Oolie are in the kitchen, up to their elbows in bread dough. Doro’s dough is plumped and rounded into rolls arranged on a tray. Oolie’s dough is squashed from too much kneading and greyish from her unwashed hands, peppered with small specks of unknown matter – possibly bogeys.

‘Lovely, lovely,’ Doro is encouraging her. ‘Here, roll it into little balls and put them on here.’

Watching, Clara remembers the time before Oolie was born, when she and Doro used to make bread together. Hers were just as grey and flat.

While Doro is sliding the trays into the oven and setting the timer, Oolie asks Clara in a loud whisper, ‘Did you tell her?’

‘Tell her what?’

‘About having my own flat. About watching filums.’

‘Let’s all talk about it together,’ says Clara as Doro rejoins them at the table.

Then Marcus comes in with several dead teacups and deposits them in the kitchen sink.

‘Hello, Clara. Lovely to see you.’

‘Hi, Dad.’

She yields to the uncomplicated pleasure of his hug, the rough wool of his jumper, the smell of Pears soap and tobacco. Doro puts the kettle on and sets mugs and a jug of milk on the table. One of the mugs, with a picture of a hamster and a small chip on the rim, was a Mother’s Day present from Clara, some twenty years ago.

‘So how’s the allotment going?’ she asks.

‘It’s going to be a good year for apples. And plums.’

‘Mm. Lovely.’

‘The teachers at your school,’ says Doro, changing the subject rather obviously. ‘Do you get on with them?’

‘Maybe.’ Clara answers cautiously, wondering where this is going.

‘Is there anyone …
special
?’

‘Mother, for goodness’ sake!’

Oolie is getting impatient with the conversation. ‘Tell her! Tell her about the filums!’

‘What films?’ Marcus asks.

‘Oolie wants to live in a place of her own, so she can watch films.’ Clara catches her parents’ exchange of glances. ‘Apparently it’s something the social worker suggested.’

‘Did you tell her what films you want to watch, Oolie?’ says Doro.

‘I told her.
Girls at Play
.
Unin’abited
.’

‘Not “uninhabited”, Oolie. “Uninhibited”.’

‘So?’ Oolie sulks, picking the shreds of dough off her fingers and rolling them into a thin sausage.

Doro turns towards Clara and mouths silently, ‘P-O-R-N.’

Clara shrugs. Marcus raises his eyebrows, takes off his glasses and wipes them very slowly and thoroughly on his handkerchief.

‘I think …’ Clara begins.

Oolie pushes the sausage of dough up her nose.

‘Stop that!’ Doro snaps.

Oolie extracts the sausage of dough from her nostril and starts to eat it.

Doro leans across and slaps Oolie’s wrist. Marcus lays a restraining hand on Doro’s arm. Doro flicks it away. Oolie smirks.

The smell of baking bread begins to waft into the kitchen. Closing her eyes, Clara lets the smell carry her back to the kitchen at Solidarity Hall, everyone sitting around the yellow table and cheering as Doro, pink-cheeked and laughing, took a cake out of the oven. Clara was thirteen years and seven months old, and they were having a party to celebrate her menarche. Everyone was congratulating her on achieving womanhood.

It was quite confusing. She felt happy, because she was the centre of attention, and because celebrations are supposed to be happy. But what was so special about being a woman? There were millions of women out there. And this menstruation thing didn’t seem so great.

Besides, she didn’t want the whole world to know – and especially not her younger brother, who started to make snide remarks about bloodstains, and nudged her whenever a jar of jam appeared on the table.

‘Have you heard from Serge, Mum?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither. He’s not answering his phone.’

‘I expect he’s still busy with the Imperial College in London.’

‘Not Imperial College, Mum, University College.’ Her poor mother is obviously losing her marbles.

‘He’s probably working with them both, darling. No wonder he doesn’t have time to answer his phone messages.’

‘I bet he’s got some new woman in his life.
That’s
why he’s lying low.’

‘What happened to Babs? I rather liked her.’

‘I dunno. Why do you always make excuses for him, Mother? Why don’t you ever take an interest in what
I’m
doing?’

‘So is there someone new in your life, Clara?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mother!’ Do other people’s parents go on like that all the time? ‘Anyway, whatever happened to
your
wedding plans? That’s all gone very quiet.’

‘What wedding? You never told me about no wedding!’ Oolie shrieks.

Oops!

‘Er … how would you like it, if Doro and I got married, Oolie?’ asks Marcus.

Doro rolls her eyes and goes to check on the bread.

Clara drinks her tea quickly, but she doesn’t hang around to listen to Marcus and Doro’s heart to heart with Oolie. She finds it vaguely disturbing to be around this trio – rapidly ageing Doro and Marcus, and Oolie not ageing at all, but frozen in perpetual childhood.