Not Quite Nice (2 page)

And now what were her prospects? Years of babysitting, no income – even her state pension wouldn’t come through for another five years – and nothing else to do. The thought of this blank wall ahead of her, lasting for the rest of her life, couldn’t be more appalling. Theresa was a get-up-and-go kind of person.

She dreaded days when she might wake up and have no reason to get out of bed. The income thing was a problem too. Just because no money was coming in didn’t mean none would be going out. She had the last throes of the mortgage to get rid of, and there were all the usual bills. She had spent most of her savings buying things for the family – a car, school uniforms, expensive presents like computers, trainers and music gadgets, iPods and iPads – which her daughter Imogen told her they
needed
.

If money was going to be a problem the answer was simple: she’d sell the house. Sell the house, pay off the mortgage, buy something smaller and cheaper and leave herself a decent lump sum. She didn’t need a huge place. A one-bed flat would be fine. Maybe she would give private tuition, a little reading and writing, helping kids swat up for exams, teach cookery even. She had always enjoyed cooking.

‘Granny’s reading a boring book, a boring book, a boring book . . .’ This to the tune of ‘Nuts in May’. ‘Granny’s reading a boring book and . . .’

Before they could finish, Theresa slammed the book shut and stood up. Momentarily she saw the girls flinch, expecting her to lash out at them. Instead she walked to the ‘kitchen area’ – as they called it these days. No one had a kitchen any more, just a huge carpet-free space which merged into one echoing kitchen-dining-living room which took up the whole ground floor of the Victorian house.

‘Granny’s going to teach you to cook some sweets,’ said Theresa, tying on a flowery pastel-coloured apron which dangled from a hook but which had clearly never before been used. ‘And when Granny’s finished, if you don’t want to join her, she’s going to sit down on her own and eat them and make her arse even fatter. OK, girls?’

She shook her bangles further up her arm, and raised her chubby hands like a surgeon about to operate.

Like mice, the three sisters stood where they were, quivering slightly, eyeing Theresa keenly as she pulled open drawers and plonked pans on to the vast gas range.

‘Come on, you lot, if you want to share the feast, you have to help make it.’

The girls edged a half-step forward, unsure.

‘Granny’s got a great big . . .’ piped up Cressida, the baby at six years old.

She was neatly silenced by a jab in the ribs from her oldest sister, Chloe, nine. Theresa dropped a slab of butter into a pan, ladled in some sugar, syrup and cocoa, and slowly stirred while the warm aroma wrapped around the three siblings. Silent now, they crept imperceptibly nearer to her till they hovered a few inches from her elbow.

Theresa peered up at the row of cereals lined up on top of the fridge. ‘Rice pops, cornflakes, biscuits or muesli?’ she asked. She didn’t mention the bran and other worthy-looking packets beside them.

‘It smells of chocolate,’ said Cressida quietly.

‘It’ll taste of chocolate too,’ said Theresa, wiping some of the brown liquid from the edge of the wooden spoon and tasting it. ‘Mmm. If we used biscuits we’d call it Tiffin. But Mummy doesn’t allow biscuits, does she?’ Theresa licked her little ‘cook’s’ finger. ‘Delicious. Here!’

She held the spoon out. Tentatively each child wiped away a small blob of the chocolate fudge and tasted it.

‘Let’s go mad, shall we?’ said Theresa, tipping cereal into the mix. ‘We’ll have a bit of all three.’

‘Please, Granny, can we have some more?’ asked Lola, the middle one, holding out a finger.

‘Wait a min, my little darlings, who wants to butter the dish?’ Theresa pulled out a tin tray.

In unison they put up their arms, as though they were in a classroom, trying to get teacher’s attention.

‘Wipe this all round the tray,’ Theresa handed Lola a piece of greaseproof paper dabbed with butter. ‘Then in a few minutes you’ll have something even nicer.’

The three girls started fighting over the paper, tearing it so that they could join in with the job.

‘OK, OK,’ said Theresa, as she ladled out the warm mixture into the roughly buttered tray. She handed Chloe the spatula. ‘Smooth it over, then we’ll all take a slice.’

Theresa marked out the dish into neat squares and cut deep, handing each child a flaky chocolate-flavoured slab.

The children ate.

Silence reigned.

Theresa turned back and wiped the tops of the counters, stacking the dirty pans into the dishwasher.

‘How’s school going then?’ Theresa asked. ‘Have you decided what you’re all going to be when you grow up?’

The children opened up, gabbling with delight about teachers and ballet and art class. As they sat round the kitchen table, digging into the home-made confectionery, Theresa realised that she had finally found a way to connect with them. After all these years she had found a way to get through.

After about fifteen minutes of congenial chat, the children’s focus changed with a united tilt of their heads. They jumped up from their seats and stood erect, listening. Theresa thought they looked like meerkats.

From the street, Theresa heard the slam of a car door, and feet clipping up the path.

In unison the girls’ heads turned. They took a few steps towards the front door.

‘Granny smells,’ said Cressida, sotto voce.

A key went into the lock.

Knowing what would come next, Theresa braced herself, and moved briskly back to the sofa, slipped her book into her open handbag, before standing, arms folded, ready for the onslaught.

The key turned and as one, the three girls flung themselves to the floor, beating it with their fists, screaming, real tears oozing from popping eyeballs.

‘Mama,’ sobbed Cressida.

‘We missed you so much,’ wailed Lola.

‘Why do you leave us with
her
?’ Chloe cried, then quickly sucked the last drop of fudge from her finger.

Imogen dropped her bags in the hall and came into the living room. She shook her head and tutted.

‘I do wish, Mother, that you would learn how to control them while I’m out. It’s not much to ask.’ Imogen bent low to hug her sobbing children and spoke in a strange cooing voice, as though addressing three little poodles. ‘Did you miss me, my darlings? I know, I know. You poor babies. It’s all right. I’m back now. Mummy’s back with you.’

Theresa wondered why Imogen felt she had to collude with them in this way, why she treated them like helpless babies when they were in fact quite feisty children.

Suddenly, in a change to the usual pattern, Imogen took her arms away from her children. She stood up, held out her face and sniffed the air. ‘What’s that smell?’

‘I showed them how to cook chocolate crunchies.’ Theresa held out a piece for her daughter.

Ignoring the sweet, Imogen swept past the wailing children and hissed into Theresa’s ear. ‘I will
not
have my children eating this rubbish.’ She grabbed Theresa by the elbow and dragged her into the kitchen space. ‘They have allergies. You can’t shovel this muck down their throats. Sugar, butter, biscuits? If this is what you live on, it certainly explains why you’re so overweight yourself, Mummy.’

Theresa tried to defend herself but her daughter didn’t draw breath. ‘Never, ever, will you throw a stunt like this again. Do you understand?’

As she watched her daughter, advancing on her like a furious schoolteacher, Theresa wondered for a moment who was the parent and who the child.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, feeling stupid for apologising to her own daughter. ‘I had to do something to entertain them. They’re not the easiest children, Imogen.’

‘What did you say? I don’t know how you have the nerve . . .’ Imogen wiped the perfectly clean kitchen top with a damp cloth. ‘So, you’ll be wanting to get off now, Mummy. It’s a long way from Wimbledon to Highgate. Same time Wednesday?’

‘No.’ Theresa winced. Why did she feel so bad about claiming her own life? ‘I can’t do Wednesday, I’m afraid.’

‘Do you notice, Mother,’ Imogen flung the cloth into the sink, ‘how selfish you’re becoming?’

Theresa felt herself stammering her reply. ‘I’m meeting up with some friends.’

‘Friends?’ Imogen scoffed. ‘Can’t you meet them another night? You know Wednesday is my Pilates class.’

Theresa braced herself and said ‘I can’t really change it. It’s a one-off. Schoolfriends, you know.’

Imogen wore a cold smile. ‘Schoolfriends? You’re fifty-nine years old. Why? How?’

Theresa felt her heart thudding, just like when she herself had been brought before the headmistress for disobedience. She said quietly: ‘They found me on Facebook.’

‘Facebook?’ Imogen threw her head back and laughed. ‘Facebook! Listen to yourself, Mummy. You’re going on sixty, not sixteen.’ She went back to rinsing the already sparkling sink. ‘You don’t think I have time to play about on computers and the Internet, do you?’

‘I’m on the Internet all day at work, other things come through now and then,’ said Theresa, wondering how it had come to this, what had happened that she felt it necessary to explain herself to her daughter.

‘Oh really!’ Imogen turned off the tap and pushed up her sleeves. Theresa could see that she was really spoiling for a fight. ‘Perhaps I should phone Mr Josephs and tell him what you get up to on his time?’

‘Jacobs,’ Theresa corrected, under her breath. ‘Please, Imogen, I’m not in the mood.’ Theresa pulled away and went to the sofa to pick up her coat and bag. She noticed that the three girls were now sprawled out on the floor, happily playing with paper and crayons. How come it was never like this during her sessions with them?

‘Anyway, Imogen,’ she said, putting on her coat, ‘for your information, Mr Jacobs has let me go.’

‘He sacked you?’ Imogen tutted. ‘I’m not at all surprised.’ She paused her kitchen cleaning, then perked up. ‘You mean you don’t have a job any more? You won’t be going to work? Oh God, Mummy, how marvellous. If you’re not working, you’ll be able to come here more often and do days now as well.’

Theresa knew that she was cornered.

But why did she have to think of coming here as something bad? This was family, after all. The people who really had first claim on her time. She felt awful for resenting them. Was it she herself who was the problem? She steeled herself and resolved to work harder at being the perfect grandmother.

‘Of course I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘But you know, Imogen, I can’t bear the thought of that endless tube journey up and down from Highgate all the time. Perhaps I’ll sell up the house. It’s way too big for me on my own anyhow. I could buy a flat somewhere round here.’

Imogen’s smile froze on her prim, perfect face. ‘Why? Why here?’ She took a deep breath and looked Theresa in the eye. ‘Look, Mummy, I hope you don’t think that if you move to Wimbledon we’re all going to look after you in your old age.’

The shock Theresa felt stunned her to silence. She had only suggested the move to save time, to make things easier, so that perhaps sometimes she could have the children to her home.

A small commotion took place as Michael, Imogen’s husband, came in, and, with a cursory nod at Theresa, went straight upstairs.

‘Better to keep a bit of distance, eh, Mummy?’ Imogen laughed, steering her mother towards the front door. ‘After all we don’t want you spying on us.’

Spying?

Theresa had to turn away so that her daughter would not see the flush of embarrassment on her face, nor see the tears gathering in her eyes.

The front door clunked shut.

CHOCOLATE FUDGE TIFFIN

Ingredients

1 tablespoon golden syrup

1 tablespoon soft light brown sugar

1 tablespoon butter

1 tablespoon cocoa powder

A few drops vanilla essence

Pinch of salt

Crushed biscuits/cornflakes/muesli/rice crispies etc.

Raisins

Method

Put equal amounts (e.g., one tablespoon) of golden syrup, sugar, butter and cocoa powder into a heavy saucepan.

Add a few drops of vanilla essence and pinch of salt.

Stir over heat till it melts and bubbles.

Remove from heat and fold in a cereal of your choice: cornflakes, rice crispies, muesli or crushed biscuits and raisins.

Put into a buttered tin or dish and place in fridge to chill.

When cool cut into squares.

Eat.

2

The Wednesday after that fateful night of babysitting, Theresa had met up, as arranged, in a hotel bar in Covent Garden with five of her old schoolfriends. She hadn’t seen any of them in about forty years. They all exchanged memories and news of their old classmates and the nuns, laughed and drank a lot of wine.

‘Another bottle?’ asked Theresa, as she wiped away tears of laughter after another of Ann’s tales of marital life. Ann had always been the class clown, the girl who, when reprimanded by a nun, always talked back.