Inchworm (15 page)

Claire hugs me gently. ‘You look wonderful, Gussie, what a change! You look so well, I can’t believe it.’ It’s funny how if someone tells you you look awful, you immediately feel bad, and if they tell you you look
good,
well, you suddenly feel good. It must be psychological.

‘It’s lovely to meet you, Claire,’ says Daddy. ‘Will you go and see Lara this evening or are you too tired from the journey?’

‘No, I’m not in the least bit tired. Oh thanks, that’s plenty.’ Daddy has poured wine for them both.

‘I have a bit of catching up to do, so if you take Gussie…’

‘Of course. Is that all right? Can you walk that far, Gussie?’

‘Yes, it’s only a couple of hundred yards down the road. I’m fine.’

Claire has brought me presents: a jigsaw from my little cousin Gabriel, that he made himself. He’s painted a picture of his puppy, Zennor, pasted it onto thin wood and then sliced it up into little pieces with a special tool in his father’s workshop.

‘It’s lovely. He’s very clever.’

‘Yes, he’s a chip off the old block.’ We laugh.

She’s brought Cornish clotted cream and fudge – much better than the supermarket ones. Best of all, there are photographs of my cats – Charlie in Gabriel’s tree house, Flo looking cross at a chicken; Rambo cringing from a rabbit.

I offer Claire another glass of wine but she says she’d rather have a cup of tea and she’s brought her own herbal teabags.

‘Show me the kitchen, I’ll do it.’

After lots of news of my cats and my cousins, she suddenly remembers another present from my great-aunt Fay: it’s a hand-made, bright pink and orange felt bag, with a shoulder strap. Very girlie. I can’t imagine ever wearing it. I’d have preferred a camouflage or khaki Army surplus rucksack. But it was a kind thought. Maybe I’ll hang it in my room with socks in.

Claire holds my arm and we walk slowly through the dark, down the road to the village, past the gate to the allotments and the railway line, across the road and past the pharmacy and the shops still open, then up Pond Street to the hospital.

I haven’t seen Mum smile so much since Alistair was here. They gossip and I talk to the person in the next bed, who hasn’t got any visitors. She’s had a similar operation to Mum except that hers wasn’t an emergency. Her three children and husband are at a school concert tonight.

School concerts! I wonder if St Ives School has concerts? I don’t even know if I can act. I can’t play any instrument. Or at least, I’ve never tried. I suppose if Mum or Daddy had been musical they would have encouraged me, bought a piano or a violin, but they aren’t and they didn’t. Perhaps Phaedra would let me try her drum kit? The Jesus Loves You woman has left or died and the bare-bottomed old man is nowehere to be seen, thank goodness. I wish I was a boy. I don’t think males have as much trouble with their insides as females do.

For supper Daddy makes us cheese omelette with a green salad and we sit around the table together. At home we’d sit on the floor at the low table and watch telly while we ate.

‘So, I hear Gussie and Lara knew you before Gussie discovered that you were related to me?’

‘That’s right. She’s a clever girl, researching and all that sort of thing. Moss’s mother Fay is your late father’s sister. It’s a shame you lost touch with your family.’

‘Yes, well, Gussie’s trying to reform me. Make me more family-conscious.’

‘Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with families. Anyway, I’ll stay as long as I’m needed,’ Claire says, tucking into her dinner.

‘I’ll be off then,’ says Daddy. He has a black leather holdall on his shoulder.

‘I’m sorry I’m turning you out of your own home. I didn’t think,’ says Claire.

‘No it’s fine, that’s okay. No problemo. I can sleep at the office.’

‘I thought you were staying with Boadicea?’ I say.

‘Annika! Yes, well, when she’s calmed down, maybe.’

‘She’s a bit Bette Davis,’ I say to him, picking out the anchovies and putting them on the side of my plate. I wonder if Beelzebub would like them?

‘Yeah, well, she is a bit.’ He smiles smugly as if being a drama queen is a good thing.

‘Sorry there’s no proper bed, Claire, but we’ve had a few accidents lately. The sofa’s pretty comfortable.’

‘Why don’t you phone Boadicea?’

‘Annika.’

‘Annika, and see if she’s forgiven you?’

‘Too soon. She might be Scandinavian, but she has a Mediterranean temperament. I’ll give her a day or two.’ He kisses me goodnight, and gives Claire a peck on the cheek.

So, maybe his girlfriend is not the
Snow Queen
– more of a
Tank Girl
or
Red Sonia
? Terrifying, anyway.

Daddy safely out of the way and the dishes stacked in the dishwasher, I fetch the kitten. I tell Claire how I found him and that Daddy doesn’t know anything about him, and mustn’t be told.

‘What a sweet kitty. Why mustn’t he know?’

‘He’s given up cats and children. He says he prefers furniture.’

Beelzebub is nocturnal, as most cats are, and races about chasing his toys and invisible mice and having fun until he suddenly falls asleep inside the felt bag.

‘Thanks for coming to rescue us, Claire.’ I kiss her goodnight.

‘My pleasure. It’s lovely to see you looking so well. We’ve all been worried about you.’

Mum comes home today. I’ve cooked a chocolate cake. She’s always showing me how to cook things, and now it’s come in useful. Daddy fetches her, while I kill fleas. They are difficult to see on Beelzebub’s black fur, but he has loads. Luckily they are mostly of the pale brown variety. I enjoy the satisfying pop when I squash one between thumb and fingernails – difficult, though, as I have bitten my fingernails to the quick. Why is it called the quick?

What am I to do about Beelzebub? He is getting naughtier and naughtier – leaping from the curtain rail onto the bed and attacking me is his latest trick. I have made several small toys from string and twisted paper, which he enjoys chasing and killing. He climbs onto the bed when I am in it and sleeps curled up on my pillow. At least he hasn’t torn the muslin curtains – yet. His tiny turds are easy to dispose of. I pluck them from the dirt with Mum’s tweezers and put them down the lavatory.

Claire is making chicken pie.

‘Mum!’ We hug carefully.

‘Claire, thank you so much. You’re a star, you know that, don’t you?’

Mum looks frail still and moves slowly, slower than me! She is going very grey. Daddy doesn’t hang around.

‘But aren’t you staying for supper. Chicken pie?’

‘Smells wonderful, but I have a date, sorry. Got everything you need? Then I’ll be off.
Ciao
ladies.’

He kisses me and waves airily at Claire and Mum. He never was good with ill people. We girls eat an early supper – the yummy pie followed by my chocolate cake and we cuddle up on the remaining sofa.

‘What’s that?’ Mum pinches something on her ankle. ‘Oh my God, it’s a cat flea. Gussie?’

‘Yes, Mum, I know.’

‘But how? We didn’t import them from Cornwall, did we?’

‘No, it’s a
NW3
cat flea.’

‘Explain!’

I fetch Beelzebub, who for once is sleepy and gentle with me.

‘Oh Gussie, where did it come from? Does your father know?’

I explain how the robin metamorphosed into a black cat.

‘Oh, yeah, of course it did. You can’t keep it, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Oh but why not?’ I whine pitifully, hoping her maternal instincts will kick in to protect me from hurt and sorrow. No such luck.

‘It’s out of the question. Your father won’t tolerate it. It’s black, for goodness sake! Cream suede upholstery? You’ll have to find it a new home.’

‘It goes beautifully with his décor. Classic – black and white. Like photographs and old movies. He
ought
to have a black cat.’ I admit to her that it was the kitten that ruined the sofabed and she hoots with laughter.

Mum has the kitten on her lap where it turns its full moon eyes on her. ‘Oh, you’re so beautiful! The kitten touches his nose to Mum’s and turns round, tail up, so his bottom is facing her.

‘Do you know why they do that?’

‘No, why do they do that?’

‘They expect you to sniff their bottoms, ‘ I tell her.

‘Well, I think I’ll forgo that pleasure,’ she says, ‘fragrant though it is, I’m sure. Is there any chicken left, Claire? I’m sure kitty would like some.’

We giggle together. It’s so lovely to have Mum back. She examines the kitten’s ears to see if he has mites, and is delighted to see I have managed to keep fleas to a minimum by daily grooming but says we will have to get some flea powder for the flat at the earliest opportunity. She says I’m not allowed to clean the litter tray any more in case of infection – cats carry a disease called toxoplasmosis, so she will do it until Beelzebub learns to go outside. A visit to the vet is planned, to make sure he is healthy and for anti-flea and anti-flu injections etc. I can’t remember how old Charlie was when she had her anti-flu injections.

Mummy and I are sharing my bed: luckily it’s king size. The kitten joins us, trying to catch our toes from the outside of the duvet, then curling up by Mum’s head.

‘He likes you.’

‘She, he’s a she,’ Mum says.

‘Oh, really? Well, she’s called Beelzebub.’

‘Good name,’ says Mum. ‘It’s pronounced Be-elzebub. Seen my clock?’

‘What clock?’

‘Alarm clock, folds up, you know, red leather case.’

‘Er...’

‘I know I brought it with me. I seem to have mislaid my cream cashmere scarf too.’

‘Night, Mum. It’s so lovely to have you home.’

‘Lovely to be out of that hard bed. God I hate hospitals. I didn’t sleep a wink all the time I was there. And my own lavatory – bliss! Having to share with strangers is awful. And there Wasn’t a Bidet.’

DECEASED—DEAD; LATELY DEAD

ONOMATOPOEIA—THE FORMATION OF A WORD IN IMITATION OF THE SOUND OF THE THING MEANT; A WORD SO FORMED; THE USE OF WORDS WHOSE SOUNDS HELP TO SUGGEST THE MEANING

CLAIRE IS GREAT
, she’s so organised. Makes our beds, opens and closes stiff windows, does the washing and ironing and hoovering. Mops the kitchen floor. Cleans the two lavatories, the bath, shower and washbasins, the bidet; cleans the kitchen sink, tidies the flat ’til it looks nearly as immaculate as it did when we arrived, apart from all our clothes and books and girlie stuff: knickers and their tights and bras hanging up in the bathroom and shower room. She shops for food and everything and does it all without any fuss. She’s very good at looking after people. It must be her physiotherapy training and the fact that she has three children.

‘How’s Gabriel? Won’t he be missing you?’

‘He’s okay. Back at school and busy with animals and his tree house. It’s Phaedra I’m worried about. She doesn’t know what she wants to do. She says she’s going to study “Stuff”. Get a degree in “Stuff”.’

‘I thought she wanted to be a dancer.’

‘Sure she does, but my god, every child in St Ives is all singing and dancing. It seems the youth theatre has a lot to answer for. The market will be flooded.’

‘How’s her drumming?’

‘Don’t know, she’s banished to the shed at the other end of the garden.’ Claire is making chicken soup and apple crumble, using Willy’s apples.

Mum is oblivious to most things apart from her bowels. She’s obsessed. Has to have pears in the morning or her bowels don’t work. ‘Haven’t worked since the hysterectomy.’ Her physio at the hospital told her to eat three pears a day, and she doesn’t really like pears.

Linda, one of her London friends, comes round with a bag full of natural remedies, like arnica and vitamins and food supplements of zinc and silenium for Mum and a magazine for me, and while Claire takes time off to go shopping in Hampstead they spend the afternoon discussing their insides. They are laughing over a cartoon in the
Oldie
magazine: two middle-aged women drinking.
‘Do you remember the days we used to sit around talking about what arseholes our husbands were? Now we just talk about our arseholes.’
I can’t see what’s funny about that.

The teen magazine is shocking, all about boys and snogging. I tried reading the stories that are supposed to be true ones, but they seem totally alien to my own life. Normal lives with normal problems like friendships that go wrong, girls with bitchy friends, girls who have period pains or pimples or girls who want to be pop stars. One story about a Russian girl whose brother made her pregnant. Ohmygod! Mum would not approve. I feel like hiding the magazine under the bed so she can’t find it.

We are a couple of old crocks, sitting together in the evening after supper, comparing our aches and pains. The bathroom cabinet is our pharmacy, full of our combined medicines. Claire is very understanding and nods at Mum’s complaining, and gently massages her back.