Various Pets Alive and Dead (30 page)

The papers slither out of his hands on to the ground, where a gust of wind catches them and scatters them over the garden. Clara gathers them up and hands them over, thinking, why does he have that pathetic little beard?

‘Hi, I’m Clara. I’m Oolie’s sister. Do you two know each other?’

‘It’s Mr Clemmins. Him what said I gotter ’ave me own flat and watch filums.’

‘Mike Clements.’ He stretches out his hand for Clara to shake. It’s firm, hot and sweaty. When she doesn’t say anything, he adds, ‘I think I might have got on the wrong side of your mother.’

Clara and Oolie exchange glances.

Clara says, ‘That can happen.’

Then the door opens again and Doro sticks her head out.

‘What’s going on? Oolie? Clara? What are you doing?’ She turns on the young man. ‘You still here? Why don’t you clear off? And take your bloody tick-boxes with you!’

Oolie whispers to Clara, in a voice loud enough for everybody to hear, ‘Mum don’t like him. She says he’s umpy fashional.’

‘That’s enough, Oolie,’ says Doro.

‘Let’s just say I’ve been tested to my limits,’ says Mr Clements, stuffing the flyaway papers into his briefcase and legging it down the drive.

Shame about the beard, thinks Clara.

On the last Saturday in October, Serge strolls around the cloister of his old college, trying to summon up waves of nostalgia, but all he feels is an intense anxiety kettling him in. He’s holding a carrier bag of letters he picked up from the Porters’ Lodge a minute ago. They’re mostly from his bank. They’re mostly addressed to Dr Black, Queens’ College Cluedo Society. The only one he’s opened so far asks him to contact his branch immediately. He doesn’t bother to open the others, and tries to push the thought of their contents to the back of his mind for the moment.

Just before one o’clock, he positions himself in front of the Queens’ College gatehouse and looks out down Silver Street. Here they come, ambling along hand in hand, Doro smiling and giving a running commentary on the buildings and people they pass, Oolie doing a little skip on every third step. What the fuck is Doro wearing? He can’t believe it. Dayglo pink circa 1990. With pointed lapels. Jeezus. Oolie’s not much better, in a white Puffa jacket that makes her look like a Michelin lady, but at least she probably has the excuse that Doro chose it.

As soon as she spots him, she lets go of Doro’s hand, and runs up to hug him.

‘Hiya, Sausage.’

‘Hi, Oolie. Hi, Mum.’

Hugs all round. Simple happy hugs. Tears prick his eyes. If only he could dump his burdensome secret. If only he didn’t have the letters in the carrier bag, which he’s doomed to lug around like a ball and chain on his heart. If only he could be a part of their simple happy world.

‘Shall we go and get a punt?’

‘Aren’t you going to take us up to your room, Serge? Oolie’s longing to see your room.’

‘No, not at the moment. It’s not very convenient. You see –’ he lowers his voice to a whisper, he’s prepared this ‘– a friend of mine, she’s in an all-women’s college, and she’s met the love of her life, at least, she thinks he’s the love of her life, but she can’t take him back to her room because men aren’t allowed. So I said she could use my room. Seeing as I’ll be out all afternoon. You know,’ he smiles disarmingly, ‘the course of true love …’

Doro smiles sympathetically. ‘You’d have thought they’d have got rid of those archaic paternalistic rules by now.’

‘Are they shagging?’ asks Oolie.

Scudamore’s punt hire is just around the corner. He gets into the punt first, stows his carrier bag under the seat, and helps Oolie in. She jumps heavily, making the boat rock.

Doro shrieks.

The young man from Scudamore’s says, ‘Don’t worry. They’re very stable. Seldom capsize.’

Serge stands at one end wielding the pole. It’s ages since he did this, but once you get into the rhythm it’s not that difficult. It helps to be tall and to have a torso that ripples under a tight T-shirt but, despite having neither of these, the two women in his punt are looking at him adoringly. He pushes off – swoosh!

It’s one of those perfect October days, sunny and clear, with golden leaves floating along the black water and late tourists clustering on the bridges like birds preparing for their winter migration. The air is crisp and cold, but he’s already worked up a sweat as he manoeuvres their way under the Mathematical Bridge. His spirits lift as he gives the usual spiel about tangents and radial trusses.

‘Actually, it’s the main reason I came to Queens’ College.’

‘I can’t see any tangerines,’ says Oolie.

‘You’re so clever, darling,’ says Doro.

So far, everything is going swimmingly.

There are still plenty of punts on the river. Between King’s College Bridge and Clare Bridge they glide along The Backs, serene lawns stretching down to the river, willows drooping weepily. At last, that tingle of nostalgia.

Oolie trails her hand in the water, which she flicks at Doro from time to time.

‘Stop that, Oolie,’ says Doro. ‘Sit properly, else you’ll make the boat tip over. Such a pretty place. What a pity it’s the preserve of the privileged few. I wish my students from Doncaster Tech had something like this. I’ve always believed beauty is good for the soul. No, put it back in the river, Oolie. It’s dead.’

Serge is only half listening. He’s concentrating on following the route of the underwater towpath, and keeping his eyes out for rogue punts.

They pass Trinity and approach the Bridge of Sighs, where there’s the usual logjam of punts waiting to go through one at a time. Some of these punters are really useless, especially the women, spinning and bumping into each other with little girly shrieks. He stows his pole, and lets the punt drift slowly towards them. Then he spots her, sitting with her back to them, up ahead in the logjam of punts. Bright-yellow jacket and long dark hair. Maroushka! What the fuck’s she doing here? And how can he avoid having to introduce her to Doro and Oolie, who would without a shadow of a doubt ruin his chances for ever?

She hasn’t seen him yet. He’s still got time to turn.

He raises the pole and jabs it hard into the water. The punt stops, jerks and spins sharply to the left, clunking another punt that is just pulling in alongside them. A wave of water pours in, drenching his coat, which he tucked under the seat with the carrier bag. Doro and Oolie are shrieking, clutching on to the sides of the punt, which is still rocking, letting in big splashes on each side that slosh around their feet. He tries to push off, keeping his head down, but all the other occupants of the punts are looking now, laughing. These kinds of collisions are part of the fun of the river. He misjudges, pushes too hard, and they rebound with a judder against the opposite bank, almost tipping into the water. A low-hanging willow sweeps over the prow. There’s a sudden splash.

A scream. Another scream.

‘Serge! Oolie! She can’t swim!’

Doro is pulling off her dayglo pink jacket. In the moment it takes him to work out what’s happened, there’s another splash at the side of their punt, a dark head pops up, looks around and disappears under the water again. Serge dives in too and swims over to where Oolie is flailing, trying to grab at the willow tree, burbling as she spits out a mouthful of leaves. By the time he reaches her, the other man already has his arm under her, lifting her head out of the water. Oolie’s hands are around his neck, pushing him back under as she thrashes about.

‘Stop fighting, miss! We’ve got you!’

Oolie gazes into the deep African eyes of her saviour and goes limp. Between them, with Doro pulling at her legs, they heave her back into the punt. The young man swims back and retrieves their pole.

‘D’you want to come in our boat?’ asks Oolie, squinting flirtily with her eyes.

He shakes his head, laughing, flicking silver droplets off his tight wet curls, and clambers back into his own punt.

‘Is everybody all right?’ asks the young Asian woman in the yellow jacket.

Fifteen minutes later, they are disembarking at Scudamore’s pontoon, Oolie squeezing the water out of her Puffa, Serge dripping and shivering, Doro trying to wrap her dayglo pink jacket around him.

‘Let’s go back to your room and have a nice cup of tea and warm up.’

‘The thing is, Mum –’

‘Don’t tell me they’re still at it! We’ve been gone nearly two hours.’

‘I know, but you see –’

‘’E were reyt gorgeous, that nigger. I wouldn’t mind shaggin’ ’im,’ says Oolie.

‘Oolie, will you please stop using that word!’

‘I thought we could drop in on Otto,’ says Serge, improvising desperately. ‘He’s got a flat near here. I told him you were coming to Cambridge. He’ll be thrilled.’

He tries to remember where Otto said their flat was. Mill Road somewhere. It must be one of those flats above the shops.

‘Are you sure, darling? We’ll ruin his carpet.’

‘Put it this way, Mum, he’d be really upset if he knew you were in Cambridge and didn’t go and see him.’

‘Really?’

‘Otto! Otto! I want to see Otto!’ Oolie chants, clapping her hands.

‘His girlfriend’s pregnant. They’ll be having a baby soon.’

‘Babbie! I want to see t’ babbie!’

‘It’s not been born yet. At least, I don’t think so.’

When did Otto say it was due?

As they talk, he’s already leading them away from Queens’, up Silver Street, past Emmanuel, through Parker’s Piece, slimy with trodden leaves, and on to busy Mill Road. Did Otto say their flat was above a café or a travel agent? Mill Road is much longer than he remembers it. It’s almost five o’clock by now; the sky is clear and cold, the pavements are bustling and the street beginning to snarl up with traffic puffing out exhaust fumes that vaporise in the chilled air. There’s something missing, though. He had a carrier bag before. Shit, he must have left it under the seat of the punt. Hopefully it’ll still be there later.

What time do Scudamore’s close? Or should he turn back now?

‘Are we nearly there?’ Oolie’s teeth are chattering.

‘Nearly.’

They stop in front of the parade of shops near the turning to the cemetery. There’s no travel agent, but several cafés. Serge pulls his mobile phone out of his jeans pocket, but it’s wet through and won’t even switch on.

At that moment, a minicab draws up a little way ahead, and toots its horn.

Serge goes over to the driver and taps on the window. ‘Excuse me, mate …’

The cab driver ignores him, and gets out on the other side, to open the door for a couple who have just appeared on the pavement. The woman is heavily pregnant, clutching her belly. The man is Otto.

‘Hi, Otto!’ In an instant Doro has her arms around him. ‘How lovely to see you after all these years. You’re looking so well. So tall! What are you up to these days?’

‘Er …’ Otto’s eyes swivel.

Oolie has her arms around Molly, whom she’s never met before. ‘Can I see your babbie?’

Serge catches Otto’s eye. ‘I can explain. If we could just come up to your flat for a minute …?’

Otto looks like he’s on the edge of a serious panic.

‘Yeah, man, like we have to go to hospital right now?’

‘I thought you said six weeks …’

‘Yeah, but Molly’s waters have broken?’

‘I were in’t water!’ Oolie cries. ‘It were brilliant. I were saved by this ’unk!’

‘You’d better get going! How exciting for you!’ cries Doro as Otto and Molly extricate themselves and clamber into the taxi. ‘Good luck! Good luck!’ She blows kisses with two hands as the taxi pulls away and joins the crawl of rush-hour traffic.

‘We’ll come back very soon to see the baby!’

On Sunday night, Clara phones Doro and tries to wheedle out the truth behind Oolie’s tale of sex on the allotment. But Doro at once hijacks the conversation with a rambling account of a visit to Cambridge, and it’s only after ten minutes that Clara realises something weird is going on: how could Doro visit Serge in Cambridge if, as Babs said, he was living in London?

‘Cambridge? You were in Cambridge?’

‘That’s what I said. Haven’t you been listening, Clara?’

‘So you visited Serge’s room?’

‘Not exactly. He said someone was using it, a girl. We called on Otto, but …’

‘Mhm,’ says Clara, thinking she must drop Babs another line, and see whether she has an address or phone number for Otto. ‘So did he say anything about getting a new job?’

‘For goodness’ sake, Clara. What is this? The Inquisition? He’s still trying to finish his PhD, darling. I know it’s been going on for ages, but I think he’s almost there.’

‘Mhm.’

Why has her mother been so grumpy recently? Surely she must be well past the menopause by now.

She could so easily, now, let slip casually into the conversation what Babs told her about Serge. But she holds back. It would be mean and snitchy, and against the spirit of Solidarity Hall. She doesn’t want to be that kind of person. And although Serge’s refusal to accept responsibility is annoying, he’s still her little brother, and she realises that in some weird way she still feels protective towards him.

A flash of memory brings back an image from long ago: they’re all standing in the garden, Serge in his pyjama bottoms, Otto wrapped in his crocheted blanket and baby Star in her saggy nappy, all whimpering and sobbing as they survey the bloodied and mangled corpses of their twenty-six rabbits.

‘It’s only a fox,’ she says, trying to sound calm and grown-up, trying to keep down the scream that is building up in her own throat. ‘C’mon. We mustn’t be late for school.’

Recalling the night of the rabbit massacre makes her shudder even after all these years – the dreadful feeling of responsibility compounded with helplessness still haunts her in moments of stress. She didn’t hear the commotion that night – she was sleeping in the front attic – but she came down first in the morning and saw the remains of the carnage all over the garden.

And buried in the back of her mind is another of the unresolved mysteries of her childhood, something Serge told her that day that stuck in her mind.