Thick and Fast

or was he inevitably bound to edit, to rediscover, to elaborate? He often felt that the present cast a shadow over the past, making it difficult to discern its contours in detail. So torches and floodlights were called in, only to create the same distorting effect.

  Yet there was something about Harvey’s manner, about the way he had pored over those plans and prepared everything with so much detail and care, that made Joe Stein feel wary. Harvey was not usually so intent on Ambrose carrying out a specific task, did not normally confide in him. That was not how things worked. The most natural way was to first let Stein know what had to be done, then wait for results. He had stopped talking directly to Ambrose some time back now, when he had decided that the letter from the lawyer was enough. So why had he called both of them into his study when one, Joe himself, would have served the same purpose? And why this sudden change in attitude, not only towards Ambrose, but towards the whole lot of them, little Sydney included? Because it was as clear as day that Harvey hated the kid, couldn’t bring himself to so much as hug him, let alone spend time with him, play with him. Now he would even seek him out, for Pete’s sake. Well maybe there had been a change of heart, maybe there was no real mystery at all, maybe Harvey was just mellowing and settling in to his new life. Perhaps if nothing had ever happened Joe would have accepted this swing in attitude as something relatively common, nothing out of the ordinary. But in context...

  Back outside Harvey’s study cum office he simply felt slightly surprised at the curious interview, not worried or perplexed in any way, but aware that from somewhere in his head a voice advised caution. He should have paid more attention to that at the time.

  Joe Stein had to hand it to Harvey – he was an excellent organiser. All the ground work had been done, and all Stein had to do now was act as overseer. Harvey had studied the quotes, choosing the firms not only by cost but also on their ability to get the job done on time. They would start with the pool. It would be completely gutted and retiled before anything else. Once that had been done, the surrounding area would be totally redesigned, the electrical wiring put down, and the plumbing for the showers laid out, so that the final installation would be the wooden decking. Harvey had worked out the schedule to the day. Mr. Paulson would be in charge of the payments, too, which was a relief, as that part often turned ugly, especially if the workmanship was shoddy and the final result not what the customer had imagined.

  Two weeks later a team of workers arrived at the break of dawn and began stripping out the old pool. Ambrose was dragged in to help out with the less popular chores. They brought winches and planks and pneumatic drills, wheelbarrows and skips, pick axes, chisels and huge shovels. Vans and lorries came and went at all hours, and clouds of semi invisible dust headed straight for the house, creeping in under doors and through minute cracks, covering everything in a fine layer of earthy talc. Luz and Pet did their best and cursed the day that Harvey had decided to bring in the builders, while Andrea stayed on her side of the house, luckily far from the noise and dirt of the site itself.

  Where today she was enjoying one those rare occasions when life suddenly makes sense, when time is suspended and you are rewarded for an immortal moment with what you consider to be heaven on earth. Still in her pyjamas, her face unwashed, her hair hanging loose over her shoulders, she was half sitting, half lying on the sofa, her feet tucked up, one arm on the rest, cradling her son. Sydney lay still in her arms, breathing gently, almost imperceptibly, his face turned up towards her, his eyes closed. The fingers of his tiny hand stroked her forearm every so often, casually, caressingly. The only sound was that of the birds singing in the garden, and of a distant vacuum cleaner which seemed to rock them with its rhythmical movements. It was Saturday, and there would be no noisy workers today. The light that fell in through the huge windows behind them was elegant and perfectly suited to the scene. The room was still, mother and child fused as one in peace and human warmth. She would have to try and catch it while it lasted, before Sydney started to fidget, before his gentle stroking turned into sticky, annoying scratching, before he began to kick at her and demand some other type of attention. Because these cameos were very rare indeed, Sydney hardly ever sitting still for more than a few minutes at a time. He didn’t require much physical contact, getting along just fine with a short hug, a couple of hasty kisses, so the fact that he should be lying so quietly in her lap, so docile and snug, was something she had to make the most of. She would do her best to soak it all up, to drain every last drop, to burn the moment into her memory cells, hoping that by so doing she could make it last forever. Like a mental photograph to be added to her album. Or maybe video clip would be a better description, as most of her memories lasted at least a few seconds. She had quite a few by now. Riding on the back of her father’s motorbike in the snow, hugging his ice cold leather jacket, feeling the tyres slip and slide under her as she gripped with all the young strength of her thighs. Mother at work, the table strewn with papers and artwork in an orderly mess only she could understand. The look on Aylissa’s face when she had surprised her by kissing her on the mouth. That had been daredevil, purposefully provocative, but it had gone no further than that, and now they never mentioned it in words, although it was permanently present between them. And Sydney of course. So many of him, some kind, some funny. Caring for his mother when she was down with ‘flu, or fooling around in a hotel room with the towels. But there were a number of crueller snapshots, too. One of them particularly terrible; the look of fear and disappointment when she had told him she was pregnant. It had flitted across his features so fast that he even tried to bluff his way out of it. ‘That’s fantastic, Andrea!’ But she had spotted it, his initial reaction, and it hurt. And it hurt even more when he turned on the smile and the flashing teeth. So cynical. So false.

  She looked down at their son. The same slightly narrow eyes, the same fair hair, the generous lips and cleft chin. He would grow up to be a handsome young charmer just like his father, she thought. A door slammed and Sydney groaned. This would not last much longer now, the precious moments in life being always so brief.

  Life is a bully, she concluded. Things are fine when he’s looking the other way, but the instant he decides to pick on you again, there is nothing you can do. He knocks your father out with one blow, then sends your mother off with a lunatic intent on visiting every damned corner of the globe. Then, magnanimous, he introduces you to Sydney Haute, the most eligible bachelor of them all. Come, he says, try this glass of champagne. Only to punch you in the stomach at your first sip so that you spill the drink and throw up on the spot. She had been bullied into widowhood, bullied into single parenthood, bullied into being the heiress of a fortune that she had neither sought nor desired. Now here she was, remarried to the ambiguous Harvey, sitting on a sofa in her pyjamas and cuddling her fatherless son, surrounded by wealth and luxury, hoping to immortalise a few seconds of peace and tranquillity.

  ‘Scratch me. Here, on my shoulder.’

  Sydney was shaking off his lethargy. Andrea did as she was told.

  ‘Higher. To the left. The left! No, not there, lower down. Harder! You’re not doing it right! Scratch me!’

  She pushed him away. It was over. He would soon start demanding and negotiating, forever raising the stakes until she snapped at him or capitulated. Or both, probably.

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  He said it as an accusation, as if his mother had neglected him.

  ‘You’ve just had your breakfast. You’ll have to wait a little bit, not long, just until Pet comes round.’

  ‘I’m hungry now. I don’t want to have to wait, not for her. She hates me!’

  That was untrue, as both of them knew, and said only to jolt Andrea into action or reaction. As always she rose to the bait.

  ‘Don’t say that about Auntie Pet, it’s not true and it’s not fair. She loves you, we all love you, nobody hates you.’

  ‘She does.’

  ‘She does not, it’s nonsense.’
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  She passed the back of her hand over her brow wearily. This was tiresome, but she had no idea how to put a stop to it. She knew others, Pet and Luz among them, but also friends and relatives, that never suffered these tirades, always knew exactly what to say or do to cut the little bastards short. But Andrea had not been brought up to mother children. She had been brought up to be pampered, just like her son, and she hadn’t the slightest notion of how to handle the situation. Andrea had become pregnant as the logical consequence of getting married. It was something she had looked forward to as a milestone in her life, like losing her virginity. She was quite prepared to give birth; it was part of her role as a woman. Becoming a competent mother was a different story.

  What she wanted was for Sydney to grow up, preferably quickly, so that she could reason with him and ask him if he felt it was right to criticise those who cared for him and loved him. She could ask him if he didn’t feel he was being just a tad unreasonable. Because in reality he wasn’t even hungry. And he thought the world of Pet. So did he behave that way as some kind of form of punishment towards her? Blaming her for his father’s death, perhaps?