She turned back to face him. She stared.
Gordon was crying.
It was Christmas Eve, a clear, starry night. All over Britain the mad scramble to buy had ceased. The supermarkets had emptied; peace had descended on earth. In Wingham Wallace the curtains were drawn, the fireplaces blazed, the Range Rovers were locked away in their garages. Its inhabitants hunkered down for an orgy of consumption. The lanes were silent. In the fields, lone trees raised their arms to heaven. The church interior was lit, illuminating the Burne-Jones stained-glass window.
The windows of the Old Vicarage, too, blazed with light; a Christmas tree glittered in the living-room window. Robert and Louise opened the door and greeted the arrivals – Erin, Maddy and Allegra . . . Prudence and Stephen. Their glamour bathed their guests like the light flooding from the hallway. It blessed those less fortunate than themselves.
The living room was festooned with cards – what a large number of friends they had, and possessed of such taste! Upstairs, in the two spare bedrooms, fresh sheets awaited the visiting pairs of lovers – heterosexual or homosexual, both were welcome.
In the stable Imogen and Allegra threaded tinsel into Skylark’s mane.
‘Do you believe in Father Christmas?’ Imogen asked.
Allegra shook her head. ‘Mum says he’s a patriarchal child-abuser.’
This struck Imogen as sad. ‘What happens when you want to make a wish?’
‘I do it anyway.’
‘What do you want for Christmas?’
‘I want my dad.’
‘Don’t you see him?’
‘Not really. Mum just used him for his sperm.’
Imogen laughed. ‘Very romantic.’
‘Mum doesn’t like men.’
‘No, I gathered that.’ Imogen leaned against Skylark’s neck; she breathed in her scent. ‘Well, I like men. Nice and big and strong, with lovely strong hands, and we’ll gallop off into the sunset –’
‘Imogen!’ Her mother’s voice called from the house. ‘Come and lay the table!’
In the living room Robert was teaching Allegra how to make champagne cocktails. The fire crackled and spat. The guests’ faces were rosy in the leaping light.
‘Lump of sugar . . .’ He popped it into a glass. ‘Bit of brandy, slosh of Bolly . . . When you grow into a gorgeous young woman, Allegra, and chaps ask you out, insist on Bollinger.’
‘Dad, you’re so un-p.c.,’ said Imogen. ‘Women buy their own drinks now.’
‘Not if they’ve got any sense.’ Ignoring Erin’s glance he passed around the glasses. ‘You’re in Buckinghamshire now, not the People’s Republic of Hackney. The only p.c. we know stands for the Pony Club.’ He raised his glass. ‘Welcome to the Old Vicarage, let the festive season begin. Here’s to us.’
Louise turned to Prudence and Stephen. She raised her glass. ‘Here’s to you two. It’s lovely to have you here.’ She turned to Erin and Maddy. ‘And here’s to you.’ She smiled at Allegra. ‘And you.’
‘I like this house,’ said Allegra.
Louise turned to Erin. ‘And here’s to your book. Prudence lent it to me. I loved it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Erin.
Robert looked at his wife. ‘You don’t read books. Not unless they’re heavily disguised as a copy of Options.’
‘Shut up,’ said Louise. ‘I read hers.’
Prudence raised her glass. ‘And here’s to Mum and Dad. At this very moment, thirty thousand feet above Newfoundland . . .’
‘Trying to open their packet of dry roasted peanuts,’ said Robert.
‘Listening to the distant rattle of the drinks trolley,’ Stephen added. ‘Will it ever arrive?’
‘Maybe they’re toasting us at this very moment,’ said Prudence. ‘They said they would.’
‘Here’s to Mum and Dad, and their second honeymoon.’ Louise raised her glass.
The doorbell rang. They looked at each other.
‘Who could that be?’ asked Louise.
Robert grinned at Allegra. ‘It’s Father Christmas.’
Imogen was about to say that she didn’t believe in him. She stopped. They heard footsteps in the hallway. Jamie came back into the room. He was accompanied by Dorothy. Her face was ashen. She carried a suitcase.
‘Mum!’ said Louise.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Prudence.
Dorothy said: ‘He’s left me.’
PART THREE
One
IT WAS FRIDAY, the middle of the dead week between Christmas and the New Year. London lay under a spell. Its streets were empty, its offices silent except for the chatter of answerphones. Even Brixton seemed half-asleep. Dorothy, accompanied by two of her daughters, stood outside Betterspecs. The video shop next door was doing a brisk trade for it was a cold, sullen afternoon. A large Rastafarian came out, carrying a pile of videos, and grinned at them.
There were two bells. Maddy pressed the top one. They waited, looking up at the windows. On the top floor the curtains were closed. They all pictured the same thing – Gordon and this April woman were in bed. They had been in bed since Christmas.
There was no reply. Maddy pressed the lower bell. The curtains on this floor, the floor above the shop, were open. After a moment they heard footsteps descending stairs. The door opened and Gordon stood there. He wore an unfamiliar blue sweater. He stared at them.
‘Hello, Gordon,’ said Dorothy. She indicated her two daughters. ‘They wouldn’t let me come alone.’
Gordon gestured at the street. ‘It’s perfectly safe.’
‘She doesn’t mean that,’ said Prudence.
There was a pause. Dorothy asked: ‘She at work?’
He shook his head. ‘No, but she’s out.’
He let them in. Narrow hallway, woodchip wallpaper. They climbed the stairs behind him. He opened the door and they followed him into April’s flat, into a large living room – yellow walls, potted plants. The only sign of Gordon’s residence was a pair of his shoes on the floor. The three women went into the middle of the room and stood there. For a moment nobody knew what to do.
‘Can I make anyone a cup of tea?’ he asked.
Nobody replied. Maddy sat down. The others remained standing.
‘Mum’s had a pretty awful Christmas,’ said Prudence. ‘As you might expect.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it to happen like this.’
‘How did you mean it to happen?’ asked Prudence.
‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Dot.’
‘Come home,’ said Dorothy. ‘We’ve got the car.’
Gordon reached in his pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes. Dorothy opened her mouth, but said nothing. He lit one.
‘Dad, please . . .’ said Prudence. ‘You know this is completely mad.’
‘Come home and we’ll sort it out,’ said Dorothy. ‘We must talk.’
‘She’s half your age,’ said Prudence. ‘You’ve got nothing in common.’
‘How do you know?’ he asked.
‘You’re so – well, different.’
‘Why?’
‘Maybe she’s after your money,’ said Prudence. ‘Have you thought about that?’
‘Come on!’ he said.
She gazed around the room. ‘What do you do all day?’
There was a silence. They could all guess.
‘Please, love,’ said Dorothy. ‘Pack up and come home.’
‘This is my home,’ he replied. He stood there, his stubborn lower lip thrust out.
Dorothy looked around. ‘You’ve done it up,’ she suddenly said.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You’ve done up this room, haven’t you?’ She looked at him. ‘You bastard!’
They all stared at her. ‘Mum –’ said Maddy.
‘All these years and you’ve never even finished my kitchen.’
‘Look, she’ll be back any minute,’ said Gordon. ‘Can we talk about this another time?’
Maddy
got up and looked out of the window. ‘You, living here. I can’t get over it.’
‘Why don’t you leave this to me and your mother,’ he snapped.
‘I didn’t think you had it in you.’ Maddy’s voice was full of admiration. They looked at her in surprise. ‘You’ve always been so conventional.’
Dorothy said: ‘Whose side are you on?’
‘I just think – it’s amazing, that’s all. I didn’t know you had it in you.’
‘That’s a great help,’ said Dorothy. ‘Thank you, Maddy.’
Maddy said: ‘Why don’t I make us some tea.’
Gordon moved towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll help you.’
‘Coward!’ said Dorothy. She turned to Maddy. ‘Traitor! For God’s sake, what’s the matter with everybody?’
‘It’s all right, Mum,’ said Prudence.
‘It’d be better if I spoke to her alone,’ said Gordon.
‘She wanted us to come,’ said Prudence. She looked around at the room. ‘Anyway, I was curious.’
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. The door opened. April came in and stopped dead. She put her shopping bags on the floor.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘I think you’ve met my daughters.’
April nodded. ‘At the hospital.’
‘Would you like some tea?’ asked Maddy.
‘Do shut up about tea!’ Dorothy turned to April. ‘We want him to come home.’ She turned to Gordon. ‘Come on, love.’
Prudence said to April: ‘You don’t really want him, do you?’
Gordon glanced at his daughter. He stubbed out his cigarette.
April sat down. ‘Mrs Hammond, I’m ever so sorry. I tried to stop him, I didn’t mean him to do this, not like this, not so quickly.’ She wore a puffy anorak and jeans. She was a big girl; healthy, sporty-looking. ‘I don’t want to break up a family, I’ve seen enough of what it can do. But he said his marriage was over, it had been over for years –’
‘You said that?’ Dorothy swung round and glared at her husband.
‘Actually,’ said Prudence, ‘we thought they were perfectly happy.’
‘Maybe they were,’ said April. ‘I don’t know, it’s not my business –’
‘It is your business,’ said Prudence.
‘Maybe they were happy when they were with you.’ April turned to Prudence. ‘But you don’t see that much of them anyway, do you? I’m not accusing you or anything, but you’re all grown up, you’ve got your own lives.’
‘Look, we don’t want to blame you,’ said Prudence. ‘We just think he should come back to the house and talk things over, talk with Mum. He’s always been a bit impulsive.’
Dorothy looked at April. ‘I thought you were so nice. Looking after him. I said, “What a nice girl.”’ She started to cry. ‘When I came to hospital, he seemed so . . . well. I thought, what a good recovery he’s making. I bought you a box of truffles, remember?’ She pulled a Kleenex out of her bag and wiped her nose. She said, her voice oddly formal: ‘I’d just like you to know one thing. The physical side . . . we’ve always been perfectly happy with that . . . whatever he’s implied. I just want you to know. Though it’s none of your business.’
They gazed at her, blushing for her. Suddenly she caught her breath. Her face looked startled, as if she had been stabbed in the back. She bent double and, with a small whimpering sound, crumpled onto the floor.
They stared at her. For a moment they thought she was pretending; it looked so artificial. April bent down, lifted her wrist and felt her pulse. She looked up. ‘Call an ambulance.’
Gordon grabbed the phone. April laid Dorothy on the carpet. She unbuttoned Dorothy’s blouse at the neck. She leaned over and put her mouth over Dorothy’s.
The two daughters gazed at the young black woman giving their mother the kiss of life. It was a disturbing, strangely erotic sight. They watched, transfixed.
A small crowd had gathered in the street. An ambulance waited, its light flashing. Paramedics carried out Dorothy on a stretcher. April – professional, efficient – said something to them. She jumped into the back of the ambulance. Gordon followed her. The two daughters watched as the ambulance sped off down the street.
It was called a transient ischaemic attack; a sort of spasm, apparently. They were only keeping Dorothy in for a couple of days, for tests. Thank God she was all right. Thank God, too, that she had been taken to a different hospital from the one which had treated their father. The image of April nursing their mother back to health, even working in the same building, was too bizarre to contemplate.
On the other hand, April had saved their mother’s life. Maybe not saved – who knows? – but she had sprung up and helped her in a way that neither of her daughters could have managed. How confusing to be grateful to their father’s mistress!
‘I feel so awful because I upset Mum, too,’ said Maddy. ‘You see, for the first time in my life I sort of admired him.’ It was midday on Sunday; Erin lay beside her in bed. ‘It’s as if he had sort of joined me. Us. Joined the club of people who’ve done something nobody had expected them to.’
‘He can change too, I guess,’ said Erin.
‘It was the funniest feeling. All my life I’ve been the odd one out, he’s been disappointed in me. And now, maybe, he’ll understand. Oh, I don’t know. It’s such a mess. Because I should be feeling sorry for Mum. I do feel sorry for her. He’s been such a shit.’
She wanted Erin to rescue her with certainties. Erin was so strong. Many of Erin’s friends regarded men with contempt, even hatred. Erin’s attitude towards men was subtler and somehow more damning. She pitied them. She pitied their aggression, the way it sprang from fear. She pitied the linear way that, imprisoned by testosterone and centuries of conditioning, they pushed their way blindly through life. She pitied their pride in the thing between their legs, as if it were a lovingly polished trophy won in some boring and irrelevant tournament. Didn’t they know what they had been missing?
She damned them by their irrelevance. Only women could feel the powerful pulls and eddies of nature. Only women, with other women, could truly be free – stirred by the same tides, by the beat of their blood. She washed Maddy’s feet in glycerine and scented water; she murmured to her strange and wonderful words . . . nectar . . . honey-basket . . . finger-frolics . . . In the past, such words would have bemused Maddy. Embarrassed her, even. But now she was enraptured.
Maddy removed the tea mugs and buried her face in Erin’s shoulder. Forgetting her parents, she kissed the sweet dip in Erin’s throat. The doorbell rang.
‘Don’t go,’ she whispered.
Erin opened the door. Aziz stood there. He was a delicate Indian man – small, with finely drawn features. Erin raised her eyebrows. Tall and tousled, wearing her satin bathrobe, she looked like a Valkyrie.
‘Is Allegra ready?’ he asked.
Erin shook her head. ‘She’s gone to a birthday party.’
‘But it’s Sunday,’ he said. ‘You knew I’d be coming.’
‘Didn’t I tell you?’
‘Erin, I have one Sunday a fortnight to see my daughter. The past two times she’s been out.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Erin. ‘She’s been looking forward to it all week.’
‘Well, I’d been looking forward to taking her roller-skating.’
Erin gazed at him – not coldly, that would have been bearable to him. She gazed at him with detachment, as if he were a milkman and had come to the wrong house. ‘I’m sorry. Come back next week, I’ll make sure she’s here.’
‘I’ve got to go to Glasgow on Thursday! You know that –’
She shrugged. ‘Well, if your work’s so important . . .’
‘Erin! That’s not fair! I need her.’
‘I think that’s nearer the point.’
He turned on his heel and left.
Dorothy sat in her dressing-gown. The watery sun shone through the hospital window. It shone onto the mismatched chairs and the milky cataract
of the TV screen. Gordon sat opposite her.
‘Strange to be kissed by your own husband’s girlfriend,’ she said. ‘And to cap it all, I had to be grateful.’
Gordon nodded. ‘She brought me back to life too.’
Dorothy raised her eyebrows. ‘You’ve made many tactless remarks, Gordon, but that has to take the biscuit.’
‘I’m sorry, love.’ He gazed around the TV room, as if it might help. The empty chairs faced him. ‘I’ve been home and paid the bills. Sorted out some paperwork. I’ve not taken anything, bar my clothes.’
‘How nice of you.’
Down the corridor a Tannoy called, ‘Doctor Mulbarek.’ The name sounded familiar. Wasn’t he the President of Egypt?
‘Our life here on earth, it only comes the once,’ he said.
‘I know that, Gordon.’
‘When I had that heart attack – episode – can you understand, love? I’d been working myself to the bone, head down, year after year. I’d not started to live.’
‘I’d been telling you that,’ said Dorothy. ‘I told you for years and you never listened. That’s what really gets me. You never listened to me. I felt that too. I told you we should give up the business, retire, have some fun. I told you that and you didn’t take a blind bit of notice. Oh, but the moment she said it you listened.’
‘She didn’t say it. I did.’
‘Oh, wipe that dopey look off your face, for God’s sake.’
A nurse came into the room. She was black. Dorothy’s heart jolted.
‘Just want to take your blood pressure,’ said the nurse.
Dorothy got to her feet and left the room.
Erin lounged on her sofa, her leg flung over the armrest. Today she wore a shirt, jeans and boots like a farmgirl. She was being interviewed by a journalist – one of the eager, young, female kind.
‘My novel’s about courage,’ said Erin. ‘It takes courage to fall in love, don’t you think? Oh, people say they do, all the time, they say the words because everybody else says them. But very few people know how to truly love another person without the need to possess them. It takes enormous courage to give another person freedom.’