The Hive (24 page)

And then the door opened. “Here's Georgie, in here.” Of course. Heather. Was she never to be left alone? Bloody cheek. Just carrying on with their stupid coffee morning, while some people were trying to have a snooze…She kept her eyes closed and her pose recumbent, remained on standby, left her screensaver firmly up.

“Conked out already?” She could hear concern in Rachel's voice. “A bit early in the day, even for her.”

“Oh, look.” Heather was behind her now, playing with the curtains, looking out of the window, knocking into the sofa with a willful disregard for those slumbering upon it. “Isn't that Bea out there, just driving up and down? That's a bit weird, isn't it? There are plenty of spaces. Why isn't she parking and coming in, do you suppose?”

“Hiya! Is this where we're all hiding?”
Et voilà,
they had reached it: the actual giddy limit. Georgie groped for a needlepoint scatter cushion and plonked it over her own head.

“Hi, Bubba. How are you?”

“Well at least I'm conscious. Actually pretty revved up after my spinning class. Such an intense cardio burn. I'm literally on fire. Here, do you think she's all right?”

“Georgie? Well. I'm not sure…”

Uh-oh. Rachel was sounding thoughtful, and shaking her awake. Please, let her keep it to herself and not blurt it out right here. “Psst. Georgie?”

“Leave me alone.”

“George?” There, she had it. “You're not…You can't be.” The penny had dropped. “Oh my God. You bloody are.” Rachel slapped her own thighs. “Aren't you?” She was falling about laughing. “You are! You are bloody up the bloody duff! Yet a-bloody-gain!”

Georgie opened one eye. “P'raps. Well, yeah.” She took the cushion off her head. “Might be. S'pose. Whatever.”

“Oh
no.
” Bubba had her hands to her face in horror. Which Georgie felt frankly was a bit rich seeing as how this baby was actually all her fault, dating as it did from the night of that stupid ball. After which, for reasons inexplicable, they did not seem to have the requisite amount of time to get to the bathroom cabinet. In fact—Georgie smiled to herself—they hadn't even made it up the stairs…

“Bloo-dy hell.” Rachel was still laughing. “You guys! Are you never going to stop? What's the plan? How big is the Martin family going to be, exactly? Ballpark. I mean, will we be able to see it from space, for example? Great Wall of China, that sort of scale…?”

That cheered Georgie up. What a lovely image: the Great Wall of China. Like the Ming, she was leaving her mark upon the planet; like their wall, her family could stretch and flow and rise and fall and live as long as the earth beneath it. She sat up and laughed back and looked around her happily.

And then she saw it, spelled out for her—the reason she had been keeping quiet was right there, all over Heather's face. The envy and the hunger and the misery—the same envy, hunger and misery that Heather had suffered so openly with every one of Georgie's babies—writ large upon it. And a whole new layer of weariness overcame her. A weariness at the thought of the months ahead of witnessing Heather's pain, tiptoeing around it, making all those fine judgments that needed to be made about how much she must share, how much she should contain. And before she had even acknowledged to herself that she could not face the emotional fight, that this time she just did not have it in her to cope with that one extra, tricky, niggling thing, she was on her feet.

“Anyway. Had enough of this.”

She rooted around in her jacket pocket.

“None of anyone's business.”

Time for a spectacular. She made for the door, turned and, with calculated precision, lobbed in a bombshell:

“I'm off for a cigarette.”

As Rachel moved through the room, everyone stopped and smiled at her. Aw, she thought, how lovely. She smiled and waved back. It must be the early-summer sun this morning—warming all womankind. The crowd around the cake stall parted to let her through. So charming. Sharon and Jasmine seemed to be manning things for Melissa, who was just hovering at the back, in a purely executive role. Rachel took a scone and a dollop of jam and waited her turn to pay.

“Oh, after you.” Clover moved to one side, beaming, friendly. Hang on—that was weird. “And when you've got a mo, I'd love to hear Tom's views on the New Phonics.”

Huh?

“That'll be seventy-five p, Rachel,” cut in Sharon. “How is Mr. Orchard, btw? Did that stuff work on his nasty cold?”

How did she know…? Rachel mumbled something into her neck and backed away. Yes, she had made a mercy dash to Boots for him, and yes the stuff had worked. But…

“Word of advice.” Who on earth was this? Rachel had never even clapped eyes on her before. “If he really wants to change things round here, he should get rid of that awful old bag in the office.”

She looked around the room nervously. Surely, she said to herself, surely nobody thought that they…

“Destiny does love Mr. Orchard's funny jokes. She was telling me that before he came to us he was a stand-up comedian…”

She was clearly the center of attention. It was completely absurd. Utterly ridiculous. She wanted to shout at them: No. Stop. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, going on between us. We are just working on this library thing, that's all. Nothing, absolutely nothing else…But she could see that not only was it all anyone was talking about, it was all anyone wanted to talk about.

Only Colette, tucked away in the corner with the widower dad of the Year 3 twins and a hefty slab of Victoria sponge, seemed to have other things on her mind.

Bubba stood in the middle of the room with Heather, and had a sneaking suspicion that together they looked faintly ridiculous. She was so much taller and—well, how to say it?—
narrower
than the squat little figure beside her. There was a worrying possibility that, silhouetted by the bright sunshine pouring in through the garden window, they might just be mistaken for some ghastly, unfunny comedy duo out of the
Jurassic Park
era. Random names came crowding into her mind: Laurel, Hardy, Morecambe, Wise—she didn't seem able to shoo them away—Cannon, Ball—she really needed to attach herself elsewhere before, no, too late, there it was—Schwarzenegger, DeVito. Damn. Bubba had never liked comedy. She just didn't
get
most of it.

She looked down on the head of—hang on, would Heather be the clown or the straight guy? She could never tell the difference, mostly because she never got the jokes; anyway, the point was, she looked down on Heather's head and could not help but notice that her roots had grown out something shocking. And then she saw that, although Heather had—
sweet
—had a stab at splashing on some mascara, her eyelashes needed tinting. And her eyebrows needed shaping. And her upper lip was a little…And: Aha, Bubba thought to herself. Because not much got past Bubba. She was a people person, after all. So she could see that all the things that Colette had done to Heather had now grown out, and they
had not been redone.
Poor love, she thought as they smiled at each other: they dropped you weeks ago.

“Hey, you two, I'm so pleased to catch you.” Jasmine was before them, holding a plate and a mug. “I just wanted to say, you know, sorry. About tonight.”

“That's OK,” said Bubba. She was just grateful for the presence of a person of average height, to be honest. It didn't really matter what she was actually banging on about.

“What about tonight?” said Heather.

“Well, you know, Izzy's party. In a way, I'm not happy that she invited the whole year and only left out Milo, Maisie and Poppy. But the thing is, Scarlett did warn them…”

“Warn them? Of what?” Heather had turned quite white.

“Well, you know, that if they told the headmaster about the oranges then no one would have anything to do with them.”

Rachel rushed into the playground, head down, staring at the concrete as she crossed over to the main door. She had to see Tom before the children came out. While there weren't many parents hanging about with nothing to do but stand, stare and then add two plus two and make exactly a googolplex. She had simply no idea that they had been the subject of so much scrutiny. She must make things clear. No more discussions about the sketches. No more meetings on the subject. No more coming round to watch a DVD when the kids weren't about. Even though all of it was completely innocent as can be—Christ, they just liked the same movies, that was all—she would tell him: no more. And she could also find out what that busybody Pamela was up to at the same time.

She scuttled, furtively, Secret Squirrel, down the corridor, round the corner, braced to brave old Boot-face one more time. But even before getting to the office, she could sense something wrong. She stopped and wrinkled her nose. She could actually smell it: danger. Danger, with a hint of Floris. The first thing she registered was that the grumpy secretary was already looking up, ready for her. Waiting, it seemed, and smiling. She was actually smiling. “Sorry,” she chirped in a merry singsong. “Very sorry, Mrs. Mason. But I'm afraid Mr. Orchard is busy.”

“Yes, Rachel.” And then she turned and saw Pamela, her broad form in front of Tom's closed door. Her plump fingers, viciously bisected by rings that had been given to her younger, more attractive self, had possession of his door handle. “Mr. Orchard is
very
busy. When he is on school premises. Very busy indeed. Did you need to see him? Urgently? With a matter relating
specifically to the educational well-being of your own particular child?
If so, do,
please,
feel free to make a formal appointment with Mrs. Black here.”

Mrs. Black waved a pen in one hand and a large diary in the other, exuding the radiant demeanor of a woman who was at last enjoying one day of happiness in an arid, joyless life. “We'll see,” she sang, “if we can fit you in.”

Rachel's head swam in torment. Filled with a vision of Tom, writhing at his desk, tied to his swivel chair, chewing at the gag on his mouth. Able to hear her. Unable to get to her…

Chrissakes, woman, pull yourself together. “Um. Don't worry.” She backed out of the door. “Non-urgent, I think. Few worries.” She turned. “But I'm sure they can wait.”

She fell back through the corridors, out into the sun, and picked a spot against the prefab wall where she could stand alone and think. The past half-term looked so different now, refracted as it was through the light of the knowledge that everyone had been spying on her every minute of every day. She revisited her actions, and saw how they would all have appeared to the St. Ambrose Special Branch lined up watching her behind their two-way mirrors. The way she went tripping into the office every day, like she owned the place. The bonding—blimey, the exotic mating ritual it must have looked like—at the Gourmet Gamble. Last Sunday, after the fun run, when they walked off into town for a coffee; just them. And, she had to concede, Special Branch didn't even need to bother with the two-way mirrors. Rachel had, most helpfully, paraded herself around as if nobody was watching.

What a spectacle she must have made. Her cheeks were hot. Her mouth was dry. She needed to get Poppy, get home. Change her name. Grow a beard. Emigrate.

“Rachel. I need to talk to you.” Heather was shaking and clearly furious.

“Look, there is Nothing. Going—”

“I just think it's perfectly ridiculous that Georgie's even having another baby. So irresponsible. The planet…” She gave her head a short shake of disgust. “But the smoking. It's simply appalling. I can't get it out of my head. The thought of that poor fetus…It is technically actual child abuse, you know that. We have to do something. We must act. We should…”

Rachel felt something snap.

“Heather, stop it. Right now. That's enough. Keep it to yourself. For once. Try and think it, without saying it. I don't approve of it either, but I also think it is nothing to do with me. Georgie is a responsible adult who has managed to produce a wonderful family without any help from anybody up to now. So, please, can you and every other busybody round here just…Mind. Your. Own. Bloody. Business.”

“OK.” Heather jutted out her chin and looked her straight in the eye. “I will. And this is my business: when were you going to tell me that my daughter—MY DAUGHTER—was not invited to a party tonight? A PARTY! AN ACTUAL PARTY! When,” her voice was thin and taut, her lips and hands were trembling, “were you planning to break that?”

“Well, first can we just remind ourselves what we are talking about here: exactly that, a party. A children's party. Not a place at Oxford. Not a cure for cancer. Not the last seat on a lifeboat. A fucking children's fucking party. And I might have brought it up if they actually cared about it one way or another. But they do not actually happen to give a damn.”

And there were the girls. Looking like they were full of something. Oh, Christ, thought Rachel: please, girls, please don't come out suddenly giving a damn…And Maisie was saying, “Go on…” And Poppy was saying, “Shall I…?” And Maisie was nodding like her head could fall off. And Poppy took a deep breath and said to Rachel: “Is it true you're marrying Mr. Orchard?”

“What? Oh, darling. No. No. Look, let's talk about this at home. I'm so sorry…”

“Only Destiny says she wants to come 'cause Kylie's flying in specially for it.”

R
achel stood by the window of her front room, eating toast and watching the road. She wasn’t quite sure what was going on here, but could sense that the Mason family routine and order were coming apart at the seams. The deal was, and always had been, that on the nights Chris had the kids, he had the kids all the way up to dropping them off in the morning. Rachel didn’t like it—every single morning that she woke up in that empty house she presumed, from the silence, she had died in the night—but it worked. It worked using school as a buffer between the two parents, and the two houses. And it also kept the meetings between her and Chris to a healthy minimum.

In fairness to Chris, he obeyed the rules and regulations of their system as he would a sell-by date: religiously. But then last night, she got a text saying he was bringing them back early. Then she got one saying he wasn’t. And at seven o’clock Josh had called to say they were on their way. Rachel longed to see them, but she couldn’t help but notice there was some swirling chaos going on here. And, with her St. Francis of Assisi hat on—or was he more of a hood kind of guy?—she knew that was not a good thing.

The car drew up, the children and their myriad possessions spilled out; but by the time Rachel was through the door and on the pavement, the car had sped off again. Josh pecked her on the cheek as he headed for the house.

“Oh,” said Rachel, kissing Poppy. “Daddy in a rush?”

Poppy stood watching the lingering exhaust fumes. “Mmm. I think he might be late for the Grumpy Olympics.”

“Ah.” They went through the front door, where Josh was constructing a bag mountain.

“You’re not kidding,” he said, as he balanced his boot bag on the top. “And I know why as well.” He headed for the stairs, and turned. “It’s ’cause she’s dumped him.” And he clattered up to his room.

Wowser, thought Rachel proudly, watching him go. That was by far the longest speech Joshua Mason had made in the entire academic year.

Heather turned out of Beechfield Close on to the hill and strode into the morning sun. This was always her favorite term: white ankle socks, gingham frocks, grass, rounders…She took a deep breath of gleeful anticipation. Ah. She just couldn’t wait. Maisie had to run at her heels to keep up. “What about Poppy? Mum? Don’t we walk in with them anymore?”

“I don’t think so, love. Mummy’s in a hurry this morning. And think of all your other lovely friends you’re on your way to now. You’re going to see Scarlett and Kate and—”

“But—” Here we go again. Maisie at her most difficult.

“No buts. You have seen Poppy every single day of the holidays and you will see her again in five whole minutes. And this term you’re going to have lots of different friends, not just—Oh.” Rachel was at her side, but Heather didn’t break her step. She carried on marching while the girls lagged behind. “Hi,” she said, still facing forward. “How are you?”

“Um, I’m not really sure, to be honest. I wasn’t supposed to be dropping off this morning, which was good, you know, because I haven’t actually spoken to Tom since—well, you know. But now here I am. And it’s all ’cause of Chris. So now I might have to see Tom. And there is nothing, you know that, don’t you? You do know that there is nothing whatsoever…”

Quite honestly, Heather couldn’t follow half of it, and also thought it might be quite nice if Rachel didn’t just mumble on about herself endlessly. Just for a change? “Well, I’m good, thank you very much. Yes, jolly good. Trying to get to school a bit earlier this term.” Melissa always dropped off early. Heather would too, from now on. It was clearly so much better in every way. “How were your holidays?” She kept her voice deliberately cool.

“Um. Let me think…Didn’t see anyone. Didn’t do anything. Sat at my desk drawing daft pictures no one’s ever going to look at of the school through the ages while the kids disappeared off doing their own thing…Yeah. Pretty crap.”

Well, that’s where shouting at everyone about minding their own business gets you, Rachel Mason: on your own, with no one to talk to. And walking into school on a perfect summer’s day under your very own black cloud.

“But this morning—”

“Well mine were great, thanks.” Heather just thought she would get that in. Not that anybody was polite enough to ask. “Really fun.” She hadn’t noticed before how slowly Rachel walked. Was she always such a zombie? “How’s Josh?”

“Josh?” Rachel dragged her heels some more. “Um. Well. Sort of…”

“Oh dear…” Here we go again. That was the thing with people like this: they always dragged you down.

“Well. No. Not oh dear. I don’t think. You see, he just—”

And the thing with Melissa was, she was always so up. About everything. And whenever you were around her you went up too. And that was where Heather was determined to be this term: up. Way up.

“Hey ho,” she said briskly as she bent to kiss Maisie. “It will all get better soon, I’m sure. See you later.”

There was Melissa, standing over in the direction of the big beech tree. Heather swung away from Rachel and headed towards her fast. Very, very fast. Even though her legs were just longing to run.

“Morning!” Melissa was beaming. She looked like a summer’s day herself: a summer’s day in human form. “You don’t have time to grab a quick coffee, do you?”

“Wowser! Yes. Please. That’d be great.” Heather beamed back. “I love your dress.” She was, she could feel it, standing on the threshold of a whole new world.

“Georgie!” Melissa sang across the tarmac. “Fancy a quick coffee?”

“Nah. Can’t. Sorry.” Georgie didn’t even turn around, which was a relief. She and Heather hadn’t spoken since, well, since…Heather did not want her lurking about on her new threshold. With a horrid cigarette.

“Are you sure?” Melissa persisted. “Jo’s coming…”

Georgie stopped. “Jo? My Jo?” She walked over to where Heather stood. “Jo whose boys I just brought into school and who didn’t mention it?”

“Yes, isn’t it great? She’s decided to try and get back into her old routine this term, which I think is a brilliant idea. But she wants everybody to be as normal as possible. No in-deepest-sympathy, no grief counseling at table, OK? Oh, and by the way, from tomorrow, she’ll be bringing the boys in herself.”

Milo Green passed by, being pulled by Martha. “Have a good day, darlings,” Bubba called after them. Her voice was cheerful, but her face was all screwed up with worry. Golly, she’s aged since she came here, thought Heather. She looks about ninety.

“Come for a coffee, Bubba,” said Melissa kindly.

This was turning into a bit of a free-for-all, thought Heather crossly. It was getting a bit crowded here, on the threshold of her whole new world. She could do with a broom, give it a good old sweep. The only person not lurking about was Rachel Selfish-Knickers Mason, and thank heavens for small mercies.

Heather looked around. Where had Rachel got to anyway? Ah, on her own, over there, away from the beech tree—just standing, stock-still, staring at Mr. Orchard. And there was Mr. Orchard, on the steps of the school, with his hands in his pockets, staring back. The funny thing was, neither of them seemed to be about to move, either to speak to each other or to stop the staring—which would have been polite, really, because it is, as everyone knows, very rude to stare.

And then Melissa called over: “Rachel, we’re off for a coffee.” And with that, the spell was broken and Rachel was suddenly at her elbow.

“Goody. Do you mind, I mean, would it be OK…” Heather thought how needy Rachel sounded now and how, quite frankly, it had started to get on her nerves “…if I joined you?”

Georgie was last to arrive at the Copper Kettle, after dropping off Hamish at playgroup. He was up to two mornings a week this term and a plurality of child-free hours stretched before her for the first time in a decade. Thank God she had another baby on the way to put a stop to any more of that for a bit.

The bell gave its melancholy tinkle as she closed the door on the morning sunshine and turned into the gloom. There were the others, at a large oblong table over by the coffee shop’s only window. Georgie weaved between the customers—some St. Ambrose mothers hurriedly catching up after the holidays, other older women with a more relaxed, all-the-time-in-the-world sort of air—and made her way over to her friends. Jo—thin, pale, brave—was on Melissa’s left; Heather—too close, almost hugging her—was on her right. Rachel sat alone facing the three of them from the other side, like a candidate at an interview. Bubba was on the end. Georgie leaned over to give Jo a quick kiss and a squeeze—“You all right, love?”—then sat down. Rachel pushed a teapot towards her: “Got you a lesbian.”

The conversation was sporadic, a little awkward. While she waited for the ice to break, Georgie poured herself a chamomile and eavesdropped on the table next door. Four women—late fifties? sprightly early sixties?—were catching up. Somebody’s A levels were imminent, not a child of theirs, perhaps a neighbor or great-niece or a godchild’s godchild, but even at that genetic and emotional distance they all cared desperately. Of course, she had hit the stage of pregnancy when she could weep at frankly anything, from footage on the news to an advert for Clearasil—but still, Georgie wanted to weep.

She cherished the growing of things, always had: marking the children’s heights on the kitchen wall, tucking the tomato vines up another wire in the greenhouse…There was always a profound personal satisfaction to be had from helping something, anything, get a little bit longer without breaking, or snapping off a shoot. That, for Georgie, was life-affirming. And friendships were no exception. The longer they got, the more she cherished them. Why else would she put up with a yawning eternity of Heather Brainiac Carpenter, for Christ’s sake?

“Anyway.” Rachel made an attempt at conversation. “Anyone read the new McEwan?”

“Nah.” Jo put on her bored, cross face. “McEwan’s an arse.”

And those women there had obviously known each other for an even longer eternity, but here they still were: just like Georgie, Rachel, Jo and Heather, but fifteen or twenty years on. That’s just what we’ll be like, she thought. Still talking, and caring, about not just each other’s children but a whole new generation as well. Because how, after going through these years together, could they ever stop? Maisie had been an extension of Georgie’s family since infancy. Heather had held all of the Martin children from the minute they were born. Since Steve died, she had seen Jo’s boys every single day. This year alone, they’d traveled together through one suicide and one divorce and who knew what else life was going to throw at them? She could never back out of this now. That would be like chucking in a brilliant book when you’d only read to chapter four.

“Do you ever wonder,” Rachel tried again, “when you see all these old biddies like this, where all the men are? What they are off doing that’s so much better?”

“Nope.” Melissa shrugged and smiled. The sun was coming through the window now, and her hair was lit from behind. “I don’t. I mean, I neither wonder where they are, nor do I presume that what they are off doing is somehow better.”

And Georgie suddenly saw it all in another dimension: that here she had something more than a collection of separate, long, individual friendships. Something else, other, had grown out of that. There was now a group—a tight, taut network of people who cared about her and her children and who would never stop. Who, she knew, would always be hungry for any news or developments, who would take them in, consider them, pass them on with care. And she also knew, very deeply, that the more people who cared about your A-level results, or your anything really, the better they would be. That caring was the sticky stuff, the adhesive, that kept it all together. And between them, by this interlocking, this latticework of their friendships, they had built this: a strong support beneath their offspring that would keep them safe, a firm frame on which they could grow.

She wiped a tear from her eye, turned back to the table and collected herself.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Heather mused, looking over into the corner. “That table there was where Bea and her gang always used to sit. Every morning. Till she got her job…”

Georgie looked over. “Hmm. The Algonquin without Dorothy Parker…”

“It isn’t really, you know,” said Jo.

“Yeah. I do know. That was sort of by way of a joke…”

“No. I meant it isn’t really a job.” Jo still sounded quite bored and cross. “What Bea’s doing. Not what I call a job, anyway. She met this chef bloke, just starting out, and sort of took him over. Announced she’d be his manager and do his PR and all that. He never asked her…”

“Hang on.” Georgie could hardly believe what she was hearing. There was a buzz in her head. A lump in her throat. “Whoa there. Not so fast. This is important. Facts. Please. Jo. Think. What are you actually alleging here?”

“Well, he’s not paying her, for a start, not a penny, and I think—”

“What?” Georgie interrupted, electrified. “No actual way. I knew it.” She grabbed Rachel. “Rachel Mason, are you hearing what I’m hearing?”

“Well bugger me.” Rachel thumped the table. “If it isn’t an MUJ.”

“An MUJ!” repeated Georgie. “She’s got an MUJ! Christ, I should have known.” She slumped into her chair, slapped her own forehead.

“How on earth,” Rachel was shrieking now, “did we not spot this earlier?”

Georgie took Jo’s hands across the table. “God, I’ve missed you. A bloody MUJ. You have made my day.”

“
What,
” asked Melissa, “is an MUJ?”

“A made-up job,” they chanted in unison. “It’s a made-up job.”

“And this,” explained Georgie, “is a textbook case. Look. There are women in this world—like Jo here, Rachel, and of course you, Melissa—earning money doing proper stuff that needs doing and people want done. There are women like me and Heather, who have made the choice to stay at home and raise our families and can’t be arsed pretending otherwise…”

Heather nodded.

“And I’m in HR?” Bubba reminded the table. “This is just a career break?”