Relative Strangers Read online

  ‘If Geldof could see me now,’ Jude had grumbled.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody precious. I’m sure he’s been here; he has children,’ Heather had snapped. Even Heather’s calming sea-shore and bird-song meditation CD had proved ineffectual. Mantras and soothing incantations had only enraged the child more. For a while her attention had been caught by a string of healing crystals and Heather had handed them over, pushing anxieties about possible choking hazards to the back of her mind. But the beads had soon been thrown aside. The only thing which seemed to placate her was being allowed to drive the car, seated on Mitch’s lap behind the steering wheel, stabbing at the controls which operated the window washers and screen wash and especially the horn. Being removed from this activity sent her into paroxysms of rage. Finally, after weary hours, Starlight had finally exhausted herself and fallen asleep.

  Heather slumped back into her seat and closed her eyes. She felt close to tears. No one had warned her that motherhood would be so difficult. Her sisters had never seemed to have any of these difficulties and nor had her friends. The child in the seat next to her was so precious, a gift long desired and there was nothing at all that Heather was not prepared to do for her safety and happiness. Indeed she had already gone to enormous lengths - into the shadowlands of the underworld - to retrieve this child from a dreadful fate. She was sure there would be, in the future, more treacherous ground to be covered. But nothing was more important to her now than presenting his baby to her family as a crowning glory and presenting herself to them at last in the self-actualisation of motherhood.

  But bonding with the baby was proving so difficult and it was becoming more of a relief than she liked to admit to be able to hand the responsibility of the child over to Mitch or to Mrs Palfrey the housekeeper or to Jude, all of whom seemed instinctively to be able to decode Starlight’s sub-text, to be able to identify and supply the need; food, drink, toy, song, rest.

  She sighed and settled her head more comfortably on the leather headrest. Starlight’s arrival had completely altered Heather’s attitude to the week with her family. From being something of a drag it was now a golden opportunity for the child to engage. It would socialise her. It was an opportunity for Heather, too. She would be acknowledged at last as a grown-up - a woman, a mother - no longer the baby of the family to be indulged and allowed for. They would see her at last as an equal. And Oh God! How she needed a rest and some time out. There were so few people she could trust around Starlight but surely her family would take some of the load? They were grounded and real, normal and uncomplicated in ways that Jude’s celebrity acquaintances didn’t always appear to be. How she yearned for the simple joys of family life.

  She realised that she had started to cry. It was growing dark outside. They seemed to be travelling through a wilderness of empty countryside. She felt Jude’s hand on hers.

  ‘What’s the matter, Angel?’ he asked, gently.

  ‘I think...’ she stuttered, beginning to cry in earnest. ‘I think that maybe I’m not a very good mother,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Shhh,’ Jude soothed her, casting an anxious glance at the child. ‘Of course you are, Baby.’

  Mitch said nothing but drove them, safely, through the dusk.

  ✽✽✽

  The house was breathing, stirring like a mystical beast which had slumbered for its allotted span of enchantment. Warmth and voices and the scents of cooking floated in the air. The orange glow of logs in the fire grates (too many fires – it was becoming a full time job for James to keep them all tended) and the light from the chandeliers and lamps created shimmering reflections in mirrors and windows. They refracted off silver and gilt and awoke the patina of years’ of polishing in wooden panels and boards. The McKays were taking tentative possession.

  Ruth, halfway down her third gin and tonic, held June prisoner with a lecture on the current secondary education system, - its successes and failures - thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to quash every half-baked objection or suggestion that was raised, citing her own work in the Special Needs Unit as proof of both the hopelessly inadequate funding and the Herculean strides forward that were being made. June, skating as she was on extremely thin ice, satisfied herself with the odd placatory remark like, ‘I see what you mean,’ and, ‘Yes, when you explain it like that, of course it’s clear,’ and wondered crossly when on earth Les would come and rescue her.

  On the first floor Belinda escorted her mother from room to room, enumerating, like a dirge, now, the towel and toilet paper distribution, throwing open bedroom doors, explaining her rationale. ‘Oh the whole I thought she’d prefer it,’ she said, at the door of the room she had chosen for Heather. Mary’s occasional but wholly satisfactory, ‘How lovely!’ and ‘Very wise, dear,’ and ‘Just the thing, I’m sure,’ punctuated the diatribe. Finally, Belinda showed her mother into the blue room where, she was pleased to see, somebody had already put their cases and closed the curtains. She had chosen it quite deliberately as the best in the house. It had an enormous bed draped with a heavy and richly embroidered bedspread worked with azure, turquoise and sky blue threads on a cloud-white background. There was a separate dressing area with a practical and tightly made up single bed, a private bathroom with bath and shower and windows looking out north and east. She had placed small gifts on their pillows - Mary’s favourite Blue Fern soap and talc, the strong mints her father enjoyed. Mary exclaimed over everything, especially the little pillow gifts, and Belinda hugged herself and her mother. They sat together, briefly, on the end of the bed.

  ‘Do you like it, really, Mum?’ Belinda asked, removing a stray grey hair from Mary’s shoulder.

  ‘We can all be together, that’s the best thing,’ Mary replied.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Belinda said, quietly. ‘I’m worried about Ruth and Miriam, and the men,’ she went on. She was beginning to feel, especially with the arrival of June and Les, that she may well have started something that could explode in her face.

  ‘Ruth will have a chance to get to know Miriam. We all will,’ Mary said. ‘And as long as we keep the men busy I’m sure they’ll be fine. That was always the thing, anyway, with your father.’ Mary got up and reached for one of the cases. ‘I think I’ll put my slippers on,’ she said.

  ‘Poor April,’ Belinda murmured half to herself, ‘and poor Dad.’

  ‘Your dad’s alright,’ Mary replied, quite sharply.

  ‘And you, Mum, are you alright?’ Belinda got up and faced her mother. It seemed very important, suddenly, to keep a tight grip on the reason she had started this whole thing off.

  Mary pondered the responses she might make to this enquiry. In some ways Robert’s stroke had made things easier, putting her in the driving seat, but there were times when he was more awkward than ever. She was worried that things about him - unpleasant things - might emerge and there would be nothing she could do to stop them. But it wasn’t a subject she could possibly introduce, even to Belinda, and she skipped over it onto surer ground. ‘Very happy, Belinda, and ready for my dinner!’ she said at last, with a smile, slipping her feet into her slippers.

  ✽✽✽

  Elliot, placated temporarily by a very large whisky and soda, was playing a war game on the computer, closely watched and intermittently criticised by his son. The roar of machine guns and the scream of injured men and the barking of orders by GIs made an alarming contradiction amongst the leather-bound volumes on the shelves of the English country gentleman’s study. He was only half concentrating on the game. It had been, in the end, such a pain bringing the computer, what with the traffic and the disassembling of it and then putting the thing back together again that he wanted to punish Rob for putting him through it. On the screen platoons of soldiers under his command took enemy fortifications, a disembodied voice barked ‘Target located!’ and ‘Target eliminated!’ or ‘Casualties sustained,’ depending upon how he was getting on. Behind him Rob prowled the carpet and muttered to himself irritably.

  Elli
ot thought that on the whole the house seemed rather good; he would enjoy playing the role of host. However he would be sure to complain to Belinda when he got her on her own for a moment. No one had seemed particularly pleased to see him or made much of an effort to help. He hadn’t been shown around and had even had to send Jim off to find him a drink. All in all he felt that he wasn’t getting anything like the attention he deserved and was resolved to rattle a few nerves before the night was out.

  Suddenly his division came under massive fire from an enemy emplacement. A blood-curdling cacophony of screams emanated from his decimated troops. ‘Game Over’ the screen declared. His glass was empty and, annoyingly, no one had been through to offer to refill it. Abruptly, Elliot got up from the chair and, snatching up his glass, stalked out of the room. Immediately, Rob took his place in front of screen.

  ‘Loser!’ he muttered, ‘blown up on level one!’

  James and Ben had opened the glass-fronted cabinet in the drawing room and were examining the model cannons together. Robert slept in the armchair. Les remained perched on a hard-backed chair and fiddled with his empty beer glass.

  ‘Heard today that the City chairman’s going to resign,’ he said eventually, to no one in particular.

  ‘Really?’ said James, who had no interest in football.

  Elliot put his head around the door. He took in at a glance that Robert was asleep, ignored Les and addressed himself to James. ‘This is a nice room, too small for all of us, though. Won’t be able to use it after tonight. Seen Belinda?’

  ‘Upstairs with Mary, I believe, Elliot. Enjoy your drink?’

  ‘I’d love another, thanks.’ He placed his glass on the cabinet and left the room without another word. James stared after him. Les coughed.

  ‘What little balls,’ said Ben, holding out his hand to show them.

  ‘Yes, son,’ said James.

  Elliot passed Ellie and Rachel on the stairs.

  ‘Your mother up here?’ he asked brusquely, not stopping for a reply. Ellie, who had not forgiven him for his crabbiness in the car, shrugged.

  Rachel, who thought all fathers were benevolent gods, said, ‘Hello, Uncle Elliot. I think I heard her voice at the end of the landing.’

  Elliot dashed on past them both, grunting something that might, charitably, have been translated as, ‘Thanks.’

  He encountered Belinda and Mary on the landing.

  ‘There you are,’ he said quite sharply. ‘Been looking for you. Where are our things?’ Then, as an after-thought, ‘Hello, Mary. Alright?’ He kissed his mother-in-law on the cheek.

  She endured it stiffly, as one would an injection. ‘Very well, thank you,’ she replied.

  ‘We’re just here, on the right, first door from the top of the stairs,’ Belinda waved her arm in the general direction and made as though to pass Elliot on her way down stairs.

  ‘Could you show me?’ There was something in his voice that made even the prospect of overcooked vegetables pale. Nevertheless, she decided that she must, in front of her mother, put up a token resistance.

  ‘It’s just here, but I need to get back to the kitchen. The vegetables will be cooked. I don’t want them to spoil.’

  Elliot glared at her and said nothing, holding his ground.

  Mary said, ‘I’ll go down and see to the food, Belinda. Ruth will give me a hand I’m sure. You haven’t seen Elliot all day.’

  Reluctantly Belinda followed Elliot into their room. Quickly she lit the bedside lamps and drew the curtains. ‘I’ve unpacked your things,’ she said, dully, ‘unless you’ve brought more.’ She really didn’t see why he needed her to show the room personally. Couldn’t he see how busy she was? Didn’t he realise that Mary doing anything this week was exactly what she hadn’t wanted? Belinda’s anger and resentment began to rise up in her like a spring, fuelled by the two gin and tonics she had, unusually for her, consumed. But the upwards flow met a controlling dam. Of course he would not approve of the room she had chosen for them, there would be reshufflings and hurried alterations to be made as Elliot branded his organisational stamp on things. He would strut about like a diminutive general, shouting orders and making people uncomfortable until he had whipped them all into line, apparently unaware that everybody thought him ridiculous.

  ‘Why did you choose this room?’ Elliot asked, surveying the heavy furniture and restricted proportions.

  She had chosen it with care, not at all wanting the best but very conscious that, for Elliot’s sake, she must not choose the worst. ‘It’s the only one with a desk, so that you can work, if you need to,’ Belinda began, defensively, ‘and it’s close to the stairs, so I can get to the kitchen quickly, and it has the best shower, which I thought you’d particularly like.’ Elliot clicked on the bathroom light and poked his head round the door. The double shower unit, gleaming white, with chrome body-jets and wide showerhead certainly was impressive, but he said nothing about it. Instead he strode past his wife and back out into the corridor, throwing bedroom doors open as he went, left and right, clicking on the lights. He made a thorough inspection of the rest of the available accommodation, sourly noting the post-it notes she had stuck onto the others’ rooms. Belinda stood miserably on the landing, absent-mindedly twirling a large-stoned ring around her finger. Half of her, more than half, wanted to scurry behind the long velvet curtain which concealed the alcove where she had sat with such pleasure earlier, and to hide until his rage should be over. When Elliot finally joined her again outside their room his face gave nothing away. She remained silent. She was waiting. Her hand, winding the ring round and round her finger was the only movement in the stillness. Elliot fixed his eyes on it, savouring his moment.

  Certainly he could insist on changing rooms and if that meant others having to move out to let him have his way they would be too polite, outwardly, to demur. They would leap into action and pack their clothes and do his bidding. But privately he knew they would mutter and pass each other knowing looks and roll their eyes. They would give Belinda sympathetic glances and furtive hugs, in spite of which she would still manage to appear at breakfast with red-rimmed eyes. Belinda must never be allowed to get too far ahead, or away from him - like a runaway horse, given her head she could wreak untold damage.

  They faced each other on the wide landing, locked now into a stalemate familiar to each whose consequences were almost inevitable. With a weary sigh of resignation he slowly reached out and took her restless hand in his. His ambiguous intention kept them both guessing. Her hand, in his, was small and vulnerable, the large-stoned ring weighty between them. Her eyes widened and searched his, trying to discern his purpose and she made a sharp inhalation of breath as a precursor to speech but before she could say anything he dropped her hand.

  ‘Right. Well, I suppose it will have to do,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to show me the rest of the house later. I suppose I’ll get the guided tour with the other late arrivals. You’d better get back to the kitchen.’

  ‘Are you coming down?’ Belinda swallowed.

  ‘I think I’ll just wash my face and hands,’ Elliot said, disappearing into their room and closing the door.

  ✽✽✽

  Rob closed the CD drawer in the computer and clicked on ‘play’. Immediately the room reverberated with the sound of musical instruments under torture and people so eaten up with anger and pain that they had become inarticulate. Rob edged the volume up just a little more and immersed himself in the sound like a diseased bather into the healing waters of a spa. His music was a wall, obdurate and impregnable from without, soft and comforting from within, and when Rob was at the centre of it he was unassailable.

  He checked his watch and his mobile phone before returning to his game. He was already on level three. He had surrounded the city and bombarded its defences from the air. Now he would make his assault on the enemy command centre. It was a castellated fortress with a swathe of land around it, probably mined, then sheer walls. The building was more real to him at that m
oment than the one he actually occupied.

  Apart from the hall and the toilet he had seen nothing of the rest of the house. From the outside, as they had arrived on the drive, it had seemed huge and old-fashioned and boring. Certainly it was miles from anywhere. There would be nowhere good to go, and no other people. By other people Rob meant people of his own age: his aunts and uncles and grandparents did not qualify, his cousins did not signify, his parents and sister he discounted altogether. He had whined and reasoned and finally begged to be allowed to duck out of what he considered to be a sickly-sweet and sentimental week of happy-families, contrived relational posing and uncool outdoor activities, but to no avail. ‘Who do they think we are?’ he had asked himself, ‘the pissing Waltons?’ Finally he had decided to play no part in it, that’s why he had insisted the computer to be brought along with them. He had lied and told them that he had coursework to finish. In reality he intended to turn his back on them all and inhabit his own safe and satisfactorily violent world. He would shock, he would offend, he would appal and insult; they would not force him to come on anything like this again.

  His opening gambit - to snatch Ellie’s phone and to send abusive messages to her friends - had yielded a response which had stopped him in his tracks; he had unexpectedly unearthed a rich lode. Caro had either wilfully or actually misinterpreted his message. Ellie’s shocked and defensive response had interested him. If he could bring his sister to tears by the end of the day perhaps his parents would be dropping him off at the nearest railway station by morning.