Winterton Blue (12 page)

The party hadn't begun, but Anna's mother told her that she had to go to bed. Anna was set to reason with her: it wasn't bedtime. It was far too early. It wasn't even
dark.
None of these logical arguments had any effect on her mother. She was wearing heavy perfume, a tight black dress and high heels; she was wearing her rings. Anna took her mother's hand as she was led upstairs, imagining the weight of those jewels on her own fingers.

It must be a very special party, said Anna, rolling her thumb over the surface of the rings, Is it Christmas?

No, said her mother, It's dad's work. His
colleagues,
she said, with a derisive catch in her voice, And yes, it's quite special for grown-ups—turning Anna at the bedroom door—But boring for little ones. Sleep is much more exciting.

Her mother wrinkled her nose as she said it. Anna knew the lie for what it was. She would have to strike a deal.

I'm sure I'll sleep better, she said, eyeing her mother from the pillow, If I could be
Modom.

This made her mother smile. She sat at the side of the bed.

Okay. But only for a bit. I've got the drinks to do, she said, splaying her hands flat so that the rings glittered against the pale eiderdown.

Anna pondered the gemstones: her mother wore an assortment of large dress rings on her hands, two square ones on the left and an oblong and oval on the right. The oval looked pure and brilliant against her mother's olive skin, but Anna already knew it wasn't a real diamond, and discarded it. She didn't care for the square-cut rings, either, which were spoilt, in her eyes, by the fussiness of the settings.

I think I'll try . . . that one, she said, pointing at the one she always chose.

Ah, said her mother, The tourmaline. What a surprise.

Remembering her role in this game, she removed the large oblong from her finger and presented it to Anna.

An excellent choice. Would Modom care to try it for size?

Anna loved the whiteness of the metal, thick and flat as a belt, but she loved the stone more. The tourmaline was heavy, blue-green, and so clear, she could see her skin through it. She squeezed her fingers together to hold the ring in place.

I'd like to think about it, she said, in her madam voice, Leave it with me.

Her mother gave her a look; no messing around, it said, but just as she put her palm out to demand it back, the sound of the doorbell stopped her.

I'll be up in a minute. You can wear it 'til then.

But her mother didn't come up in a minute. Anna put the tourmaline to her eye and looked at how green the world was. She held it to her cheek and felt the cold stone grow warm. She pressed the imprint of a square into the back of her wrist. She licked it, tasting perfume, and ice, and what she imagined was the sea.

When she woke, hours later, the ring had slipped off her finger and down into the folds of the bedsheets. She had forgotten all about it by then: there was another thing, strange sounds—voices—that made her get out of bed and go onto the landing. It was dark and cold, but it would be alright: she could see her mother and father in the hall below. Framed in the leaded lights of the front door, they looked like figures in a stained-glass window. They chinked glasses softly, they kissed. Anna held her breath; she would like a drink too. She wanted to call out, but watching made her throat feel tight. At a sound from the dining-room, they pulled apart, her father's head jerking sideways so she could see his profile in a square of emerald-shine. As they bent towards each other again, her mother began to laugh. But it
wasn't
her mother's
laugh; it was low, and jittery, and the woman, in a long floating dress, didn't look like her mother; she was the wrong shape, she had the wrong hair. As if she had broken a spell, Anna found her voice, and called out, once: Mum. Her father jumped forward just as Anna pitched into the air, catching her as she tumbled down the final flight of stairs. She heard a smash as he dropped his glass, and her own small scream of shock. He carried her back up to her room, pulled the blankets over her. He put his fingers to his lips, laid them on her head.

In the morning, there was no sign of the broken glass, even though Anna remembered to look for it: just her mother on her knees in the hallway, polishing the wooden floor, polishing and whistling a tuneless air.

Anna pauses outside her mother's room, feeling again the taste of tourmaline on her tongue. She can't recall how old she was, or if that was the first time she'd seen her father do such a thing. All the doors on this floor look the same, the woodwork painted in old cream, brass fittings in need of a polish. Only the china name-plates are different, which her mother had made up in deference to her favourite actresses: the Grable Suite, the de Havilland Room, and her mother's own room—her little joke—the Hayworth. On the second floor, the names are of actors; Anna's room is Bogart, and across the hall, Vernon inhabits the Cagney Suite. She finds this allocation strangely appropriate. There are two more rooms up a final flight of stairs; a twin-bedded room, and the tiny one she slept in on her first night. Both are vacant and unnamed, their doors wide open to the world.

Anna can hear noises inside her mother's room, sounds of a certain cadence, an electrical flatness, which tells her it's a television left on. She knocks on the door and tries the handle immediately. She has not been inside since her mother first moved to Yarmouth, nearly ten years ago. Anna remembers
the wallpaper, although it wasn't on the wall, then. Her mother had got a catalogue from Laura Ashley and had been advised that Antique French was the style to go for: she loved things that sounded foreign and looked expensive, especially if they were half-price. This particular pattern, cod–Louis Quinze in prickly flock, was remnant stock.

Anna angles past the bed and turns the television off. There's hardly any space to move, the room's so crammed with furniture. Much of it she remembers: in the corner, there's a battered leather recliner which her father used to stretch out on after his day at work, stained on the arm-rest with pale, repeated circles. Anna traces them with her finger, feels a breathless pain at the proximity of him. She bends close to the head-rest, to find his smell, close enough to see the thin layer of dust. It's all in here, as if her mother couldn't bear to share it with anyone else: pictures and plates crowding the walls, china figures carrying a pitcher, or cuddling a dog. There's the heavy wardrobe with the ornate keys still in the locks; she's even kept the matted sheepskin rug which used to lie in front of the hearth. Now she's inside, Anna can't resist the temptation to pry. She would like to see her mother's rings again. Blocking the light from the window is the dressing-table, a mess of toiletries scattered around a mirrored box. This too she remembers from childhood. Everyone thought it was a great joke that when you lifted the lid, it played the tune from
The Godfather.
Anna's mother kept cigarettes in it, long thin sticks in rainbow colours, which she'd put in a holder and angle away from her body, blowing white plumes up to the ceiling. This is how Rita wanted to be seen, as the Hollywood actress she might have been.

Standing at the window with her fingers on the lid of the box, Anna looks down on to the street, and catches sight, now, of her mother. She is sitting in a wheelchair, with Vernon at her back; they're waiting to cross the road. She's
wearing a beige overcoat and a Burberry scarf, a green tartan blanket over her legs, and brown lace-up bootees. Her hair is blowing straight up from her head. She and Vernon are squinting up at the house.

While Vernon stows the wheelchair under the stairs, Anna helps her mother into an armchair near the fire.

Are you cold, mum? she asks, Shall I light this fire?

Don't worry, Cabbage'll do it in a minute. Got myself some new glasses, says her mother, Look! We went to the mall. Eighteen pounds. What a bargain.

Did you get your eyes tested? asks Anna, trying to adjust the cushions, ignoring the way her mother jerks like a child away from her, Only you can't be too careful . . .

At my age.
I'm only seventy, you know. No, we got them off the counter in Boots. They're only for seeing with. Will you stop fussing there? I'm quite comfortable.

Seventy-six, mother, says Anna, And you have to take more care of yourself. Get your doctor to give you a check-up.

Vernon stands in front of the mantelpiece and rubs his hands together, as if in anticipation of some delight. He's grinning at the pair of them. His waistcoat is yellow today, with a maroon fleur-de-lys motif running through it.

Shall I spark it up? he says, bending over the fire and pressing an ignition switch.

Oh, says Anna, I did wonder.

Just like the real thing, says her mother,

But without the mess, finishes Vernon.

He takes his place in a chair on the other side of the hearth, then jumps up immediately.

Ah! I nearly forgot, Marta's afternoon off. Shall I make some tea, or would you like something more . . . invigorating?

Anna's mother gives him a delighted smile.

Go on, Cabbage, she says, Invigorate me.

Anna takes the opportunity of Vernon's absence to sit in the vacated seat.

That's Vernon's chair, you know, says her mother, sensing a confrontation, He'll be back in a minute.

Anna's spirits had lifted after the walk on the beach, but now, with their performance about to begin again—Vernon hanging on every word, and her mother being so winsome—she can feel frustration blooming inside her.

Why am I here, mum? she says, sounding like an interrogator, What am I doing here?

Ah, the eternal questions, mocks her mother, Who am I? Why am I here?

No, I'm being serious, says Anna, Why do you want me here?

Her mother puts her head to one side, and looks at Anna through her new glasses. They are large ovals of transparent plastic, tinged with pink. Her eyes behind them are huge. Anna is reminded of Mr Magoo. After a few seconds of reflection, she wafts a hand in Anna's direction.

You're too serious, that's your trouble. You need to perk yourself up a bit. And I may be old and forgetful, but I seem to recall that you
wanted
to be here. Unless you're tired of us already?

Anna stares at her mother, unwilling to acknowledge the truth of this.

I do want to be with you, she says, But Yarmouth. It's so . . .
empty
.

Snatching her glasses off her face, her mother gives her an affronted look.

What do you mean, empty? Empty of what? What should it be full of?

Anna shrugs.

People? Things to do?

And you call yourself an
artist.
Have you seen that view? says her mother, pointing at the window, And there are plenty of things to do if you're bored with the scenery. You could
go to the cinema, or, or the theatre—stop laughing, my girl, I'm serious!

Anna covers her mouth with her hand, but she still can't hide the smirk.

What's on at the theatre, then, mum? Ibsen? Chekhov? Is the RSC on tour? Or maybe something with a bit more
razzle dazzle
?