Relative Strangers Page 13

  ‘Oh dear, really, I’m so...’

  ‘Sorry. Yeah.’

  Toby felt the uncomfortable prickle of tears behind his eyes. Tansy gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Perhaps it’s a bad idea to have the lights off,’ she suggested. ‘Never mind. Come to the kitchen. We’ve found cake and biscuits and everything.’ Rob sighed. He had tried being objectionable to the point of downright rudeness. It seemed that everyone was determined to ignore his attempts to offend them. Their politeness was a whitewash designed to obliterate every disagreeable thing. Family feeling must, he thought, with a passing queasiness, be stronger than ordinary good manners if it could overcome such offensiveness. In truth, he hadn’t wanted to make Toby cry, and in the face of this and Tansy’s sweet reasonableness it was hard to maintain his anger and even his eagerness to cause trouble. She was so like his aunty April, whom he had liked so much. To be truthful, for the past half hour he had been playing the game without enjoying it, but had been unable to think of any way of finishing the game without offering Toby a go, and he had wished to avoid at all costs any gesture which might be misinterpreted as an attempt to establish friendly relations. Obviously he was going to have to find a way to penetrate this veneer of kindred unity before he could blow the whole thing sky high.

  ‘Oh come on,’ he said, at last. ‘Let’s go and see what they’ve found.’

  Out in the hall, Ellie was fussing with her hair in front of a mirror.

  ‘Hello Rob,’ she said over her shoulder as he and the others passed by.

  Rob grunted and turned to Tansy. ‘Did you say cake?’

  ‘Cake!’ Ben and Todd, at the top of the stairs, tousled from play, took up the cry. They rushed pell-mell down the stairs in a blur of eager appetite.

  ‘Oooh yes,’ Tansy gushed, ‘chocolate. I think Aunty Belinda brought it.’

  ‘It’ll be homemade then,’ Ben enthused. ‘Mum never bakes and I don’t suppose Miriam will have done.’

  ‘Very unlikely. Aren’t you supposed to be in bed boys?’ Tansy held the door open while they all trooped through.

  ‘Nah!’ Todd was dismissive.

  ‘It might be Grandma’s cake,’ said Toby. ‘Listen Rob, I am sorry about the game.’

  ‘Yeah yeah.’

  Their voices faded as the baize door closed behind them. Ellie lifted the receiver of the telephone and dialled the familiar number.

  ✽✽✽

  In the sitting room Elliot was holding forth expansively on the subject of McKay’s Haulage. Simon continued to nod and smile but in fact his attention had long since drifted away from the subject. Elliot was rather drunk; his words were slurred and he kept repeating himself, and asking convoluted rhetorical questions. His eyes had lost their focus and Simon knew that he could safely pursue his own train of thought. In any case, he had heard enough about haulage to last a whole lifetime. He looked down at Miriam, snuggled into his side. She had gone to sleep. She was immaculate, her elfin face without line or blemish. She was as utterly unlike April as it was possible to imagine; worldly, sophisticated, tough-skinned, ambitious, resilient. It was this last quality which Simon loved most about her. April had been so delicate; it had seemed miraculous that she could bear even one, let alone three children. And she’d been good; nobody would choose such an adjective to describe Miriam, who was ruthlessly bad in a determined childish way, completely selfish and as sharp as glass, she would defend herself to the death. Consequently, he could trust her not to be taken from him, not to be diminished in front of his eyes, not to shrink and withdraw and to finally vanish. Miriam would not leave him on his own.

  Across the room, Heather and Belinda maintained a desultory conversation, but Belinda looked exhausted and must soon make her excuses and take herself off to bed. Elliot continued to ramble on and on; schedules and fuel tariffs and weighting and palletage. June, who had reappeared freshly made up after being escorted to bed by her husband, gushed and laughed and agreed with every imperfectly articulated remark.

  In her absence, they had discussed briefly her unexpected presence here on their holiday. Belinda had been both irritated and offended by June’s insistent self-inclusion. Miriam had suggested with that wicked and provocative humour which both amused and nettled Simon that they simply throw June and Les out, bag and baggage, first thing in the morning. Heather, typically, had advocated a graceful if reluctant acceptance of the immutable forces of ‘what must be’. Elliot had scowled at them all and retorted haughtily that he believed, as host, it was his privilege to extend invitations to whomsoever he pleased, and since it had pleased him to invite June and Les he would appreciate it if they could be courteously included in all arrangements. Then he had noticed that James had taken away the brandy bottle and sent Belinda off in search of a replacement.

  ‘I expect James took the brandy outside to Jude and Mitch,’ Simon had said, regretting that he had not had the idea himself; it would have made an ideal excuse to escape.

  ‘Bloody cheek!’ Elliot had blustered. ‘If you want to talk about interlopers, what about him?’

  ‘You don’t mean James, surely?’

  ‘No, not Jim. Mitch. Who the hell is he?’

  ‘He goes everywhere with us,’ Heather had said, witheringly, ‘you should know that.’

  Elliot had taken a deep breath. He didn’t like being put down, especially by Heather, who was as pathetic and nonsensical as it was possible for a person to be without being weak in the head, but the appearance of Belinda at that moment with a bottle of VSOP and the return just afterwards of June, had cheered him.

  ‘….and so we’ll be finding a Montessori trained Nanny for her as soon as we get back.’ Heather finished.

  ‘Montessori? Really?’ Belinda struggled to maintain her attention.

  ‘Yes. It’s all very much about self-awareness, learning through discovery, a multi-sensory approach to everything.’

  ‘How interesting. D’ you know, Heather, I think I might go to bed. It feels very late.’ Belinda unfolded her legs from where they were tucked up underneath her. One knee cracked and she winced. ‘Oooh. That joint’s stiff.’

  ‘You should see an osteopath. Or take up Pilates.’

  ‘I expect you’re right, but it’s so difficult to find time for things like that. I’ll take these cups through to the kitchen and then go up, I think.’ Belinda looked across the room at her husband and gave a little sigh. His head had drooped to one side and he was almost asleep. Only the narrowest line of whiteness between his upper and lower eyelids suggested that a fragment of consciousness remained, and she knew him too well to believe him beyond awareness. By marching everyone around the house and monopolising the conversation and drinking too much brandy, he had soured the evening for her. His behaviour had been outrageous and it was not surprising that so many of the family had escaped somewhere. She disliked it intensely when he drank too much; alcohol unmanned him and although there were times, many times, when a gentler, more sensitive side to him would have been welcome, drunkenness did not summon it up. Also, she thought it a very bad example to Rob who had arrived home on more than one occasion recently the worse for drink. She noticed that June, who had been speaking brightly to Elliot for a few moments, had realised that she had lost his attention. Her speech faltered as she came to the realisation that nobody at all was listening to her and she brought her sentence to a close with her customary laugh. ‘Ha ha ha! Oh dear! I’ve bored Elliot to sleep!’ she said, good-naturedly, in the circumstances. ‘Did you say you were going through to the kitchen, Belinda? I’ll give you a hand, if you like.’

  The two women began to gather up the cups and glasses. Miriam stirred in her sleep and then stretched, like a cat. Simon took the opportunity afforded by her movement to slip his arm underneath her knees. He lifted her easily up into his arms. Heather opened the door for him. Passing through, he kissed her lightly on the forehead.

  ‘Night night, Heather. Night night, Belinda,’ he said, in their old-fashioned family way, b
efore disappearing down the passageway towards the hall. June and Belinda followed, bearing trays.

  ‘What shall we do with Elliot?’ Heather called after them, her hand on the light switch.

  ‘Just leave him,’ Belinda said, over her shoulder.

  ‘I’m not asleep,’ said Elliot.

  ‘Of course not,’ Heather replied, closing the door softly.

  The kitchen was in chaos. Belinda could have wept at the state of it. There were two pans in the sink, showing grim evidence of badly burned milk. No one had thought even to fill them with warm water. The breakfast table, which she had carefully set earlier, was devastated. Spoons and knives and plates had been pushed around. Some of the plates had been used for cake and not washed or even put in the sink. The cake tin containing the chocolate cake she thought she had hidden was open on the table. Almost half the cake had been eaten and the remainder was looking dry and crusty instead of moist and fresh. Two packets of biscuits had also been opened. Crumbs were everywhere. The worktop was awash with milk and dusted with hot chocolate. A fresh 2 litre bottle of milk had been left out of the fridge without its top on. Toast had been made; the bread packet was also open to the air as well as jar of peanut butter and another of marmite. Buttery knives had been abandoned by the toaster.

  ‘Oh dear,’ laughed June. ‘What a mess.’

  ‘It wasn’t a mess an hour ago,’ Belinda snapped, defensively. ‘I’d never leave a kitchen in this state.’

  ‘No? Well, I suppose it must have been the children, then.’

  ‘I suppose so. Little monkeys.’

  ‘This cake looks quite nice. When did you cut it? I wasn’t offered any.’

  ‘Actually it was for Ellie’s birthday on Sunday. I was saving it. But never mind. Do have a piece now, if you’d like one.’

  ‘Thank you, I will. But I’ll take it up with me. I’m dead on my feet.’

  ‘Yes,’ Belinda said, through gritted teeth. ‘You must have had a very tiring day. You go on up, June. Goodnight.’

  Belinda filled the sink with hot soapy water and began to scrub at the pans. Her legs ached and there was a heaviness which had descended on her heart. She was tired beyond everything and longed for bed, but strict conditioning and a sense of personal responsibility forbade her from leaving the kitchen anything but spotlessly clean. Somewhere beyond the fog of fatigue she heard the men coming in from outside; they were comically inebriated, shushing each other like actors in a farce, bumping into each other and falling over things. The stumbling sounds of their progress up the stairs faded. Very distantly she heard the rush of water as toilets were flushed, then silence. Their good humour lifted her spirits momentarily, but the thought of Elliot dead drunk in the drawing room and the mess here in her particular domain dampened them almost at once. Here at last she had the family under one roof, after months of planning, everything had fallen into place. And yet in a way she just could not comprehend something was out of step. The presence of Miriam instead of April was a little unsettling. Simon had been a closed book to them since April’s death and must be accusing himself of inconstancy even while defying any of them to reproach him with it. Ruth wasn’t herself; she hadn’t forgiven Miriam for last Christmas and the weight of her resentment was making itself felt. The absence of the dad they all remembered also required adjusting to. Of course all the children were older; they hadn’t met up for a while and would need time to become comfortable with one another again. Starlight was very new and Heather and Jude as parents would inevitably be different too. Perhaps she was just expecting too much too soon. James was the only one she felt she could rely on. In his inimitable way he had already smoothed over a hundred little things; keeping the fires going, carrying luggage.

  She turned from the sink and began to wipe the worktops. Her head was throbbing with a pain which bored into her skull through a point just above her right eyebrow and, seeking relief, she switched off the main lights, leaving only the glow from the light under the extractor hood to illuminate her work. Her whole body felt leaden but she reset the table, put away the milk and bread, and replaced the jars in the cupboards. Then she emptied the bin. Last of all she would have to go through the downstairs rooms, checking that all the lights had been switched off, that the fires were safe and the front door locked. No one else would have thought to do it, she knew. But before she could summon up the last ounce of energy for this task she lowered herself for a moment’s respite into a comfortable armchair near the Aga. Its warmth was very soothing. In a moment, she was asleep. And in a moment more, she was dreaming. She was walking through the house to do the last few chores but somebody had got there just before her. In the lounge the cushions were plumped and straightened, the hearth swept. The curtains had been opened ready to admit the morning sun. The toys in the games room had been tidied away and the rug removed from the snooker table and replaced on the floor. Belinda walked slowly, in wonderment. She became aware of a presence which preceded her from room to room, anticipating her actions, performing them, just as she would have done them herself, with care and thoroughness. It was as though this was an ‘other’ self, inherently related to her, intimately connected. She could hear him, the soft fall of his feet across the rugs in the corridor, the gentle clink of glasses or cups which he had collected from tables, as they were clasped together in his hand, the rattle of the poker in the grate, spreading out the embers, the iron rasp of the bolts shot home across the front door. The faster she tried to move, the slower her limbs responded. Her own languor began to frustrate, and then to distress her. It seemed that he would always be unreachable, this soul-mate. Suddenly she realised that close, human connection was what she had craved from this week away all along; she was desperate for intimate relationship, hungry for it. Through the rooms, along the corridors, she pursued him, she could hear him just ahead of her; he was whistling.

  Belinda woke up with a start. The kitchen was in quasi darkness. Across the room, at last, she could see him. He had his back to her, standing at the sink rinsing glasses with a studied quietness, so as not to wake her, whistling absent mindedly through his teeth. Before she could rationalise her actions, or differentiate between dream and reality, Belinda was out of her chair and across the room.

  ‘At last!’

  She put her hand on his arm and turned him towards her. He didn’t speak but took in her distress and exhaustion in a glance. Suddenly she was crying. Carefully, he wiped his sudsy hands on the tea towel before taking her gently in his arms.

  ✽✽✽

  After all of the others had gone to bed, Rob smoked one of the cigarettes he had stolen from the packet he had found in the pocket of Jude’s denim jacket. He didn’t often smoke tobacco; he didn’t like it much. The effect wasn’t anywhere near as good as weed; it was hardly worth the bother. But the anger and resentment which lodged in his guts had to be released somehow. He had to do something bad, as a sign, even if token, of his resistance. Tomorrow, he thought, he would start on his campaign proper. He would sabotage the house, upset the family, infuriate his parents, distress his sister. The veiled hints from Caro that there was something shocking to be known about Ellie, plus the reaction of Ellie herself when he had implied that he had spoken to Caro, intrigued him. But the stupid bitch hadn’t turned up in the chat room, and he had no signal on his mobile. A flash of inspiration caused him to switch user on the computer and enter Ellie’s password. The quickest of searches in My Contacts revealed Caro’s email address and Rob had soon sent her a message which he hoped would flatter her into telling all.

  Rob was running a lucrative little business selling illegally copied music CDs which he downloaded from the internet and copied onto disks. He produced authentic-looking CD covers. He was busy persuading his father to buy a rewritable DVD drive on the pretext that he would need it to complete his media coursework, but it was really so that he could move into the movie market. Rob had a few orders to fill over half term and so he set the printer going on a number of CD cov
ers. With Uncle Jude in the house this had to be done clandestinely; as proud as he was of his enterprise, he was not such a fool as to think that he should broadcast it. As a genuine music producer, Jude was one of the unwitting victims of Rob’s little scam. While the covers were printing Rob toured the downstairs rooms of the house. He spent some time observing his father, lying on the settee in a foetal position with his hand thrust down his underpants. Rob despised him. He despised his mother for being with him; the idea of them in bed together was revolting. And yet he had happy memories of his childhood when his mother had been the very centre of his universe, and the contradiction confused him.

  When the covers were printed, he hid them in the back of his coursework folder and made his way up to bed. He could hear the boys in their bedroom and the girls in theirs and wondered briefly about joining them but decided against it and went into the room with his name on it, slamming the door behind him.

  ✽✽✽

  Muriel McKay lived in a small terraced house in an inner suburb of the same town where she had been born and grown up. When she had bought it the area had been enjoying a renaissance of popularity; the houses were mostly in the throes of modernisation of some kind or another; skips and builders’ vans furnished the pavements at regular intervals. Muriel’s house remained immune from such intrusions but was neat and clean and bright and warm. The street itself was situated adjacent to a rear entrance of the hospital where Muriel had spent her entire working life tending to the medical records of the patients, a job she had started as a girl of fifteen.

  She had worked for forty-five years doing the same job in the same office. For thirty three of those years she had lived alone with and latterly cared for her mother, an arrangement which had pleased neither of them especially. She had enjoyed a close relationship with her sister-in-law, Mary, at first, and had tried hard to be a favourite aunty to the four children, relishing the invitations, when they came, for the occasional meal or christening or birthday celebration, and even, once, (because Robert was away and one of the children was recovering from a tonsillectomy) a weekend stay. But as the business had flourished, Mary and Robert had spent more of their leisure time with June, which meant that Muriel could not be included. In any case, Robert’s rage, witnessed once, had frightened her. Invitations had become few and far between and she had lost any standing, real or imagined, in the hearts of the children. Her hopes of meeting a kind solid man and marrying him had faded. She had never known a grand passion or the painful bliss of childbirth; she had not travelled beyond Britain’s shores. She was naive in the ways of the world, inexperienced, gauche and a little under-confident. Her life had been entirely divided between the hospital and the dark little house of her birth. Spring, summer, autumn and winter, the bus carried her backwards and forwards, only the clothes she wore changed, dictated by the changing weather outside and, just a little, by the altering fashions of the times. Externally she grew stout, her hair turned grey, her skin lost its tautness and rested in wrinkles around her eyes, internally her lively spirit shrivelled a little, but never aged, her girlish heart remained intact.