The Godmother (22 page)

“And how's Mummy?” I asked her.

“Cross with Christoph.” Cora had always called her father Christoph, despite being coached by Billy to do otherwise. Billy feared it would put Christoph off on the few times he deigned to grace them with his presence. As if Cora could put anyone off, ever. I think it reflected the innate wisdom that Cora was born with. Christoph wasn't worthy of that most precious of words, “Daddy.” My goddaughter may look like a five-year-old but she is seven going on seventy. Sometimes she says the most extraordinary things that leave me gaping at her in wonder; I want to write them down and tuck them away into fortune cookies because they seem so worldly-wise.
Cora, says
…Maybe I'm just biased. Other times she gets very grown-up words mixed up and comes out with something I'd be more tempted to put in a cracker. It came from listening in on a predominantly adult world with only a seven-year-old brain to decipher it with.

Cora pointed to the local supermarket as we walked to the car. “We had to give all our shopping back to the lady in the shop, even though I'd helped pack it and everything, but she gave us our baked beans and bread, so it was all right. It's Christoph's fault, he's a liar, liar, pants on fire.”

Poor Billy. I could easily lend her money. She was too proud.

“The shop lady gave me a lollipop, but told me not to tell anyone.”

“Why are you telling me then?” I said, ruffling her hair.

“Because you're not a real grown-up.”

I took out an imaginary pen, scrawled an imaginary note, rolled it into an imaginary scroll and inserted it into an imaginary cookie. Cora, says…You're not a real grown-up.

We arrived at Nick and Francesca's house. Katie and Poppy loved having Cora over to play as much as she loved going. Cora was the jam to their sandwich.
Katie and Poppy were the siblings she missed. She was a perfect middle child, actually. She deferred to Katie and encouraged Poppy and since she spent a huge amount of time amusing herself, she didn't need to compete for attention. As a result, the girls gravitated towards Cora's calmness, a gap was bridged and three perfectly happy little girls disappeared into a world that neither I, Francesca nor Billy could follow.

Full of sausages and mash, they went off to play, leaving Francesca and me to make another vat of tea and settle down to a proper chat. One without constant interruptions. I was pretty used to having conversations peppered with, “Hang on a second, I just have to…get down a toy, fill up the water, turn on the telly, break up a fight, get a plaster, wipe a bottom, find a Barbie” followed by the “Where were we?” which was inevitably followed by “Hang on a second, I just have to…” But the three of them were at the bottom of the garden and apart from a curious request for wooden spoons and gravy granules, we were largely ignored.

“So how is the boy wonder today?” I asked.

“Bit better, actually. He made breakfast this morning.”

“Oh, good.” That was the answer I was hoping to hear.

“You talked to him again, didn't you?”

“Briefly,” I replied. Caspar had finally called me back that evening, by which time I had decided to go for the approach that worked best with children: blackmail. I'd gently reminded him about the police record, the speed, and nearly drowning in his own vomit and then, before he had a chance to get surly on me, I'd told him any more antics like nicking someone else's beer, and I was going to reclaim the iPod. I was glad he'd taken my threats seriously.

Francesca poured more tea into our mugs. “I think not being allowed out had its effect. I think you were right, maybe we have been taking him for granted a little bit.” I'd said that before he nicked the beer, though. “So we've agreed to start paying him for the jobs he does, rather than just assuming he doesn't mind babysitting or trimming the hedge or whatever. He says he thought he'd been told by Rachel, our neighbor, to help himself to drinks. It's a bit implausible, but he's been pretty contrite since talking to you, so thank you.”

A bit implausible?

“You know, he wants to save up for driving lessons. It's a lot of money, but he has a year.”

“That's good. That's positive.”

“I think so.”

“Whatever he saves by next birthday, I'll match it,” I offered.

“I wasn't saying it for that reason. It might take him two years.”

“But I'd like to. That's what Mum and Dad always did with me when I wanted something that cost more than 50p.”

“Well, there was only one of you; it's a bit harder to do that with three kids. We'd be forking out money all the time. We do fork out money all the time. I swear it disappears. Anyway, it wouldn't be fair to the girls. Talking of which, I'd better go and see what they're up to.”

I heard the front door close, a bag drop, and something heavy thump up the stairs. Fran was outside negotiating with the children over how long they had until bath-time. I pushed myself off my chair and went into the hallway and shouted up the stairwell. “Hey, Caspar, aren't you going to come and say hello?”

“Who's that?” came a surly voice.

“Tessa.”

“Oh, hi, Tessa,” said Caspar, from behind his door. “I didn't know you were here.”

“Come down and say hello.”

“Will do, give me a sec.”

My handbag was slung over the end banister. I lifted the flap and looked at my wallet for a moment wondering whether to count its contents. I let the flap fall back, dismissing my thoughts. Trust is everything. If Caspar said he was done with drugs, then he was done with drugs.

Francesca returned, having agreed to a ten-minute ruling.

“Caspar is back,” I said, finishing the last of the dishes. “I think he might be hiding from me.”

“He's probably still a bit embarrassed. He idolizes you, so being sick out of a taxi window the night you rescued him is probably eating him alive.”

I had, of course, spoken to Francesca about that fateful Saturday night and although I'd given her a much watered-down version of events, I didn't think I'd said that. What had I said? It was nearly a month ago now. That was the trouble with lies; they were much harder to remember than the truth. I had
left Caspar the job of deciding how much he wanted to tell his parents. And while I hadn't expected him to tell them everything, I hadn't thought he'd lie. I wanted to know what I had rescued Caspar from, but realized it wouldn't look good asking Fran.

“Everyone has to drink themselves stupid, it's a rite of passage. One I'm still going through,” I said, fishing.

“Yes, but it was wrong of Zac to lace his drinks like that.”

Ah, so that was his little story. All Zac's fault. No mention of the dope, the speed, the stolen money or the brush with the law, then. Implausible wasn't the word.

“I'm just so grateful he had the good sense to call you,” said Fran. Quite a feat, when you're unconscious. Ratbag. Then I remembered his forlorn expression, his solemn promise that the drugs would stop, his insistence that they had. I didn't want to be too hard on him—getting very drunk and puking up was a rite of passage. So was getting horribly stoned and paranoid. And it wouldn't be the first time that a teenager nicked booze from someone's house. OK, the speed might not have been quite so pedestrian, but I bet it wasn't that unusual either. I never told my parents about the time that Ben had to stick his fingers down my throat because I'd drunk too much rum, and I was even younger than Caspar.

I was telling Fran the story of how we'd raided Ben's mother's drinks cabinet when Caspar finally materialized. He was all washed and scrubbed, his wet hair gelled, his clothes obviously fresh. It made me immediately suspicious. Then I smelt the toothpaste mingled with some rather strong aftershave, and my suspicions intensified. I looked closely into Caspar's eyes, but they didn't seem bloodshot and he wasn't slurring his words. Perhaps I should mind my own business. Then again, what if he hadn't stopped smoking, what if it was getting worse?

“Hey, Caspar, I know you're all squeaky-clean, but I believe you owe me a car wash.” I glanced at my watch. The girls' ten minutes were up. We had about an hour for bath and general messing about before I took Cora home.

“When do you want me to do it?” he asked.

“How about now?”

“What about homework?” asked Fran.

“I'll do it later. Dad's got all the stuff under the stairs.” Caspar left the room.

“Definitely some improvement.” Fran didn't even ask me why her son owed me a car wash, so I didn't tell her. Instead, I told her I would go and get the bath ready. I picked up Cora's pajamas and went upstairs. I turned the taps on a fraction and let the bath begin to slowly fill. I reckoned I had a good ten minutes before Fran got the girls inside and upstairs.

I heard Caspar go out on to the street and then stealthily climb the stairs to his bedroom. I looked under the beanbag. Behind the bookshelves. I found a porn mag rolled up behind the bedhead, but no tin of incriminating drugs. I got down on my hands and knees and looked under the bed.

“What are you doing, Tessa?”

“Fran—wow, you were quick.”

Three little girls stared accusingly at my bottom. “It's bath-time,” said Katie.

“The ten-minute rule really works, heh?” I said, pushing myself off the floor.

“What were you looking for?”

I held up my bare wrist. “Silly, really. I lost one of the bracelets I bought in India, I thought there was a slim chance it might be in here.” Liar, screamed a voice in my head.

I followed the troupe of little heads back down to the bathroom where a half-filled cold bath awaited them. They weren't impressed. I got back down on my knees to rectify the situation.

“Bubbles?”

“Yes,” said Poppy.

“No,” said Katie.

I turned to Cora. “Half,” she said, which I thought was a daft answer until I watched them spend the next twenty minutes very happily damming the bubbles down Poppy's end of the bath to much squeals of delight as the disobedient bubbles escaped in fronds beyond the demarcation zone. Finally we had them well scrubbed, towelled off, teeth cleaned and ready for bed. I don't know if there is anything more delightful in this world than three little girls messing about in a bath together. Except, perhaps, three little girls in
clean pajamas, curled and draped over every limb, listening intently while I read
Cat and Fish
. Personally, I thought the story was a bit trippy, but the girls seemed to like it.

It was a magical forty minutes and I breathed in their collective smell and committed to memory the feel of little hands absently caressing my skin. Then Poppy let off an enormous fart and everyone fell apart giggling. I decided it was time to take Cora home before we crossed the invisible line between angels and demons. You never knew quite where it was but by the time you'd crossed it, you realized you'd seen it coming. I kissed the girls goodnight and picked up Cora. She was still very easy to carry. Sometimes I worried she had hollow bones. Caspar came up the stairs. I kissed my godson as I passed, thanked him for cleaning the car and promised to take him out to lunch soon.

Francesca appeared from Katie's room as I was halfway down the stairs with my human parcel.

“I'll see you on Saturday night,” she said. “Did you ask Caspar about your bracelet?”

“It doesn't matter,” I said.

Fran was too organized to let that put her off. She liked to find missing puzzle pieces even if it took all day and she had to search the entire toy collection. “What does it look like?”

I was trapped. “Beads. Coral beads. Red.”

“Tessa thinks she may have lost a bracelet in your room…” Fran turned back to me. “Where did you look?”

Damn it. “Just around the beanbag and under the bed. The clasp wasn't very good.” I was as bad as Caspar and he knew it. The look on his face said it all. Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Have you found anything like that?” his mother asked him.

He shook his head slowly, still looking at me in a really uncomfortable way. “I don't think you were wearing a red bracelet, Tessa,” he said. “If you remember, you were all in white that day.”

“What an extraordinary memory you have, Caspar,” said Fran, kissing her son on his head. “You smell nice,” she said, oblivious to the alarming look that Caspar was giving me.

“Smile, Caspar,” said Cora. As I said, nothing gets past this kid. Cora climbed down and followed Francesca down the stairs. I stood and looked at Caspar.

“Caspar, I'm sorry—”

“You went sneaking through my stuff. Not even Mum and Dad would do that.”

“I'm worried about you.”

“I'm not a fucking kid any more.”

“Yes, you are.”

I knew as soon as I'd said it, it was the wrong thing to say.

“Christ, Tessa, just mind your own business, would you?”

“You rang me, remember?” Now who was being the child? “I mean, I thought you needed some support here.”

“Your idea of support is rummaging through my room?”

He turned and walked away from me.

“Caspar?”

He didn't respond.

“Caspar?”

“Forget it, Tessa. I don't need you butting in all the time.”

He shut the door.

On the drive back to Billy's I only half listened to Cora. My mind was on Caspar. Cora was unimpressed when I failed to give the right answer to a couple of her questions. For example, when she asked, “What makes hair curl?” I replied, “Nearly there.” The second time I got it wrong, she got quite cross and told me I wasn't listening to her. She was right. However good my intentions, even Cora's constant babbling was hard to stay tuned to all the time.

I pulled up outside their narrow red-brick ground-floor flat in Kensal Rise. Billy opened the door before we'd made it all the way up the heavily weeded garden path. She looked like a dancer, Billy. She had the same long dark hair that her daughter inherited off her, although it was now streaked with grey, the same sinewy limbs and large brown eyes. Her look hadn't changed since I'd met her in the corridor between our rented bedrooms: Slavic gypsy, which was what she was, I suppose. There was always enough material in her skirts to wrap her up ten times over and her tops always clung to her muscular, narrow torso. It was a distinct look that has come and fallen from fashion approximately four times in the time we've known each other. Only during
her time with Christoph did her appearance change. He preferred short skirts and heels, which made her look like an underaged gymnast from behind the Iron Curtain dressing up like a “sexetary” to please a corrupt judge. Her jewelry was a socioeconomic reflection of herself—ethnic and minimal—which meant she got away with it. Billy smiled at her daughter. “You are without doubt the best thing that ever happened to me,” she exclaimed and hugged her child.