Close Relations (23 page)

Louise sighed. ‘I know the feeling.'

‘Don't say that!' he said abruptly.

Louise smiled at him and went to the door. ‘Want a lift
home, Immy?'

Imogen shook her head. ‘I'll walk.'

Louise left. Imogen waited until her mother had driven away. Then she selected the least embarrassing Christmas card – a robin surrounded by holly – and took it to the counter. ‘Can I borrow a pen?'

A few moments later she emerged into the dark. It was six o'clock; behind her, Tim turned the sign to
SORRY, WE'RE CLOSED
.

Karl's van was still parked outside the pub. Imogen looked around. There was nobody in sight; just parked cars, already matt with dew beneath the Christmas lights.

She hurried up to his van, slotted the card beneath one of the windscreen wipers and hurried away.

Gordon parked his car in the garage. Its headlamps illuminated the stacked lumber of family life – the old dart-board, the pairs of skates. On the dashboard, the clock displayed 6.34. He switched off the headlights and sat there.

After a while he got out of the car. He let himself into the house. The lounge was in darkness.

Dorothy had found out. She had left him. She had left no note, nothing; he would never see her again. He felt such airy gratefulness that he suddenly loved her again.

He sat down in the gloom, took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. Upstairs, he heard her moving about. He inhaled deeply.

‘Gordon, is that you?'

He stubbed out his cigarette and climbed to his feet. He went upstairs.

‘Gordon? Come in here!'

He opened the bedroom door. The room blazed with light. Dorothy had been packing; her suitcase lay on the bed. She stood in the middle of the room. She wore a flowery dress, big red roses. It was too short for her.

‘Do you like it? I got it at Fowler's.' She pirouetted around.
‘You don't think it's too young for me, do you?' She grabbed a piece of cloth and held it against herself. ‘Look at this! It's a sort of sarong thing. The girl said everybody's wearing them now.' She wrapped it around her waist. ‘When you come from the beach you just do this . . . what do you think?' She turned around. ‘Does my bottom look too big?'

She turned back to face him. She stared.

Gordon was crying.

It was Christmas Eve, a clear, starry night. All over Britain the mad scramble to buy had ceased. The supermarkets had emptied; peace had descended on earth. In Wingham Wallace the curtains were drawn, the fireplaces blazed, the Range Rovers were locked away in their garages. Its inhabitants hunkered down for an orgy of consumption. The lanes were silent. In the fields, lone trees raised their arms to heaven. The church interior was lit, illuminating the Burne-Jones stained-glass window.

The windows of the Old Vicarage, too, blazed with light; a Christmas tree glittered in the living-room window. Robert and Louise opened the door and greeted the arrivals – Erin, Maddy and Allegra . . . Prudence and Stephen. Their glamour bathed their guests like the light flooding from the hallway. It blessed those less fortunate than themselves.

The living room was festooned with cards – what a large number of friends they had, and possessed of such taste! Upstairs, in the two spare bedrooms, fresh sheets awaited the visiting pairs of lovers – heterosexual or homosexual, both were welcome.

In the stable Imogen and Allegra threaded tinsel into Skylark's mane.

‘Do you believe in Father Christmas?' Imogen asked.

Allegra shook her head. ‘Mum says he's a patriarchal child-abuser.'

This struck Imogen as sad. ‘What happens when you want to make a wish?'

‘I do it anyway.'

‘What do you want for Christmas?'

‘I want my dad.'

‘Don't you see him?'

‘Not really. Mum just used him for his sperm.'

Imogen laughed. ‘Very romantic.'

‘Mum doesn't like men.'

‘No, I gathered that.' Imogen leaned against Skylark's neck; she breathed in her scent. ‘Well,
I
like men. Nice and big and strong, with lovely strong hands, and we'll gallop off into the sunset –'

‘
Imogen!
' Her mother's voice called from the house. ‘Come and lay the table!'

In the living room Robert was teaching Allegra how to make champagne cocktails. The fire crackled and spat. The guests' faces were rosy in the leaping light.

‘Lump of sugar . . .' He popped it into a glass. ‘Bit of brandy, slosh of Bolly . . . When you grow into a gorgeous young woman, Allegra, and chaps ask you out, insist on Bollinger.'

‘Dad, you're so un-p.c.,' said Imogen. ‘Women buy their own drinks now.'

‘Not if they've got any sense.' Ignoring Erin's glance he passed around the glasses. ‘You're in Buckinghamshire now, not the People's Republic of Hackney. The only p.c. we know stands for the Pony Club.' He raised his glass. ‘Welcome to the Old Vicarage, let the festive season begin. Here's to us.'

Louise turned to Prudence and Stephen. She raised her glass. ‘Here's to you two. It's lovely to have you here.' She turned to Erin and Maddy. ‘And here's to you.' She smiled at Allegra. ‘And you.'

‘I like this house,' said Allegra.

Louise turned to Erin. ‘And here's to your book. Prudence
lent it to me. I loved it.'

‘Thank you,' said Erin.

Robert looked at his wife. ‘You don't read books. Not unless they're heavily disguised as a copy of
Options
.'

‘Shut up,' said Louise. ‘I read hers.'

Prudence raised her glass. ‘And here's to Mum and Dad. At this very moment, thirty thousand feet above Newfoundland . . .'

‘Trying to open their packet of dry roasted peanuts,' said Robert.

‘Listening to the distant rattle of the drinks trolley,' Stephen added. ‘Will it ever arrive?'

‘Maybe they're toasting us at this very moment,' said Prudence. ‘They said they would.'

‘Here's to Mum and Dad, and their second honeymoon.' Louise raised her glass.

The doorbell rang. They looked at each other.

‘Who could that be?' asked Louise.

Robert grinned at Allegra. ‘It's Father Christmas.'

Imogen was about to say that she didn't believe in him. She stopped. They heard footsteps in the hallway. Jamie came back into the room. He was accompanied by Dorothy. Her face was ashen. She carried a suitcase.

‘Mum!' said Louise.

‘What's happened?' asked Prudence.

Dorothy said: ‘He's left me.'

IT WAS FRIDAY,
the middle of the dead week between Christmas and the New Year. London lay under a spell. Its streets were empty, its offices silent except for the chatter of answerphones. Even Brixton seemed half-asleep. Dorothy, accompanied by two of her daughters, stood outside Betterspecs. The video shop next door was doing a brisk trade for it was a cold, sullen afternoon. A large Rastafarian came out, carrying a pile of videos, and grinned at them.

There were two bells. Maddy pressed the top one. They waited, looking up at the windows. On the top floor the curtains were closed. They all pictured the same thing – Gordon and this April woman were in bed. They had been in bed since Christmas.

There was no reply. Maddy pressed the lower bell. The curtains on this floor, the floor above the shop, were open. After a moment they heard footsteps descending stairs. The door opened and Gordon stood there. He wore an unfamiliar blue sweater. He stared at them.

‘Hello, Gordon,' said Dorothy. She indicated her two daughters. ‘They wouldn't let me come alone.'

Gordon gestured at the street. ‘It's perfectly safe.'

‘She doesn't mean that,' said Prudence.

There was a pause. Dorothy asked: ‘She at work?'

He shook his head. ‘No, but she's out.'

He let them in. Narrow hallway, woodchip wallpaper. They climbed the stairs behind him. He opened the door and they followed him into April's flat, into a large living room –
yellow walls, potted plants. The only sign of Gordon's residence was a pair of his shoes on the floor. The three women went into the middle of the room and stood there. For a moment nobody knew what to do.

‘Can I make anyone a cup of tea?' he asked.

Nobody replied. Maddy sat down. The others remained standing.

‘Mum's had a pretty awful Christmas,' said Prudence. ‘As you might expect.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I didn't mean it to happen like this.'

‘How did you mean it to happen?' asked Prudence.

‘I didn't,' he said. ‘I'm sorry, Dot.'

‘Come home,' said Dorothy. ‘We've got the car.'

Gordon reached in his pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes. Dorothy opened her mouth, but said nothing. He lit one.

‘Dad, please . . .' said Prudence. ‘You know this is completely mad.'

‘Come home and we'll sort it out,' said Dorothy. ‘We must talk.'

‘She's half your age,' said Prudence. ‘You've got nothing in common.'

‘How do you know?' he asked.

‘You're so – well, different.'

‘Why?'

‘Maybe she's after your money,' said Prudence. ‘Have you thought about that?'

‘Come on!' he said.

She gazed around the room. ‘What do you
do
all day?'

There was a silence. They could all guess.

‘Please, love,' said Dorothy. ‘Pack up and come home.'

‘This is my home,' he replied. He stood there, his stubborn lower lip thrust out.

Dorothy looked around. ‘You've done it up,' she suddenly said.

‘What?' he asked.

‘You've done up this room, haven't you?' She looked at
him. ‘You bastard!'

They all stared at her. ‘Mum –' said Maddy.

‘All these years and you've never even finished my kitchen.'

‘Look, she'll be back any minute,' said Gordon. ‘Can we talk about this another time?'

Maddy got up and looked out of the window. ‘You, living here. I can't get over it.'

‘Why don't you leave this to me and your mother,' he snapped.

‘I didn't think you had it in you.' Maddy's voice was full of admiration. They looked at her in surprise. ‘You've always been so conventional.'

Dorothy said: ‘Whose side are you on?'

‘I just think – it's amazing, that's all. I didn't know you had it in you.'

‘That's a great help,' said Dorothy. ‘Thank you, Maddy.'

Maddy said: ‘Why don't
I
make us some tea.'

Gordon moved towards the kitchen. ‘I'll help you.'

‘Coward!' said Dorothy. She turned to Maddy. ‘Traitor! For God's sake, what's the matter with everybody?'

‘It's all right, Mum,' said Prudence.

‘It'd be better if I spoke to her alone,' said Gordon.

‘She wanted us to come,' said Prudence. She looked around at the room. ‘Anyway, I was curious.'

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. The door opened. April came in and stopped dead. She put her shopping bags on the floor.

‘Hi,' she said.

‘I think you've met my daughters.'

April nodded. ‘At the hospital.'

‘Would you like some tea?' asked Maddy.

‘Do shut up about tea!' Dorothy turned to April. ‘We want him to come home.' She turned to Gordon. ‘Come on, love.'

Prudence said to April: ‘You don't really want him, do you?'

Gordon glanced at his daughter. He stubbed out his cigarette.

April sat down. ‘Mrs Hammond, I'm ever so sorry. I tried
to stop him, I didn't mean him to do this, not like this, not so quickly.' She wore a puffy anorak and jeans. She was a big girl; healthy, sporty-looking. ‘I don't want to break up a family, I've seen enough of what it can do. But he said his marriage was over, it had been over for years –'

‘You said that?' Dorothy swung round and glared at her husband.

‘Actually,' said Prudence, ‘we thought they were perfectly happy.'

‘Maybe they were,' said April. ‘I don't know, it's not my business –'

‘It is your business,' said Prudence.

‘Maybe they were happy when they were with you.' April turned to Prudence. ‘But you don't see that much of them anyway, do you? I'm not accusing you or anything, but you're all grown up, you've got your own lives.'

‘Look, we don't want to blame you,' said Prudence. ‘We just think he should come back to the house and talk things over, talk with Mum. He's always been a bit impulsive.'

Dorothy looked at April. ‘I thought you were so nice. Looking after him. I said, “What a nice girl.”' She started to cry. ‘When I came to hospital, he seemed so . . . well. I thought, what a good recovery he's making. I bought you a box of truffles, remember?' She pulled a Kleenex out of her bag and wiped her nose. She said, her voice oddly formal: ‘I'd just like you to know one thing. The physical side . . . we've always been perfectly happy with that . . . whatever he's implied. I just want you to know. Though it's none of your business.'

They gazed at her, blushing for her. Suddenly she caught her breath. Her face looked startled, as if she had been stabbed in the back. She bent double and, with a small whimpering sound, crumpled onto the floor.

They stared at her. For a moment they thought she was pretending; it looked so artificial. April bent down, lifted her wrist and felt her pulse. She looked up. ‘Call an ambulance.'

Gordon grabbed the phone. April laid Dorothy on the
carpet. She unbuttoned Dorothy's blouse at the neck. She leaned over and put her mouth over Dorothy's.

The two daughters gazed at the young black woman giving their mother the kiss of life. It was a disturbing, strangely erotic sight. They watched, transfixed.