Close Relations (26 page)

‘Which bloody plant pot?'

Stephen jumped. Phil, gazing at. the row of pots in the porch, was muttering to himself.

Stephen pointed. ‘Try that one.'

Phil lifted the pot. He picked up the keys and raised his eyebrows at Stephen.

Phil unlocked the door – the Chubb lock was stiff, it needed a special jerk, but Stephen didn't come to his rescue. They went in. Stephen stood in his hallway.

He hadn't stepped inside his home for a month. The boys' bikes were propped against the wall. The pegboard was pinned with the cards for Dyno-Rod and minicabs that he and Kaatya had never used. Everything was the same. It was as if he had just popped out, five minutes ago, to get the paper. Maureen, the cat, came out of the living room and rubbed herself against his shin. Stephen felt a squeezed sensation within his chest.

It was stifling. Kaatya had a fine disregard for economies and had probably had the boiler on ‘Continuous' since he had left in December. He was thinking this, and trying to work up the old irritation, when the phone rang.

He jumped, as if he had been stung.

‘You coming?' Phil had come down the stairs. He pointed to the bag of tools. ‘Want a hand with that?'

The phone went on ringing. Stephen picked up the bag and trudged upstairs. Down in the hallway the phone finally stopped. He passed the bedroom. The door was open. The bed was unmade; Kaatya's Chinese dragon dressing-gown lay in a heap on the floor. It was surrounded by scattered
sections of the
Sunday Times
. It was the only paper she read; it took her a week to get through it. He stepped in. The room smelt of sandalwood and stale smoke. Kaatya hand-rolled her cigarettes from Samson tobacco.

Stephen turned away and climbed the stairs to the top floor. The skylight was open. He heard Phil tramping around on the roof. He looked into Pieter's room. There was a stain on the ceiling – larger than before. They had always had trouble with the roof; occasionally he had tried to fix it. Pieter's room was a pigsty, as usual. Today, however, the mess no longer seemed the normal adolescent chaos; it looked like the bedroom of a boy who had been traumatised.

The ladder creaked as Phil came down. He came into the bedroom. Stephen was looking at a new poster on the wall – that model girl, whatever her name was, pouting and thrusting her thumbs down the front of her jeans.

‘Somebody's done a right wally job up there,' said Phil, indicating the roof. ‘Tried to patch it up, hadn't a clue. Just made it worse because the rain-water's penetrated behind the flashings.'

Stephen didn't reply.

Phil looked into the bedroom. ‘Blimey. Some people. Live in a nice house like this . . . Would you believe it? My kid, I'd stop his pocket money for a month –'

The doorbell rang. Stephen stood rooted to the spot. Phil went downstairs and returned with Frank.

Frank dumped the pot of bitumen on the landing. Phil said to him: ‘It's a major job, Frank. These people know that? Half the flashings've gone, there's damp in the roof joists, cracked tiles, at least two dozen got to be replaced.'

‘The lady of the house'll be back soon.' Frank looked at his watch. ‘Said she'd be back by ten.'

Stephen moved to the top of the stairs. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I've got to go.'

‘What?' said Frank.

‘Toilet's down there,' said Phil.

‘I've got to go,' said Stephen. ‘I'm sorry. Give me the sack
if you like –'

‘Hey, mate,' said Frank, ‘you can't do this –'

‘I'm not really cut out for it anyway, am I?'

‘I need two men up there.' Frank's face reddened. ‘If you're going to leave, you leave at the end of the week.'

‘I'm sorry.' Stephen ran downstairs.

Frank thudded after him. ‘You listen to me!' he yelled.

‘I can't stay!'

Stephen reached the hallway. Frank grabbed his shoulder and tried to turn him round. Stephen grabbed the doorhandle, turned it and wrenched the door open.

He turned to face Frank. ‘You don't understand,' he said. ‘It's my house.'

Maddy was working at a Housing Association project, laying turfs. She liked this job. There was something magical about rolling out sections of carpet and effecting such an instant transformation. She was worried, however, that she hadn't raked the earth flat enough beforehand; the lawn looked bumpy. Compared to Erin, she was clumsy and amateurish. She wanted to please her. Erin seemed happy with her work but Maddy still felt intimidated, as if Erin were some charismatic schoolteacher, the sort girls had crushes on, and Maddy had to try harder than anyone to gain her favour.

A voice called out: ‘Hoi, love. Green side up, remember!'

Maddy looked up. Two decorators were putting the finishing touches to the windows. Maddy picked up another roll. Though she had been brought up amongst builders she had never liked the badinage; she hadn't known how to respond. Since meeting Erin men had seemed coarser and more pitiful – builders, not suprisingly, even more so. She still felt inadequate, however. For a fleeting moment she wondered how Stephen was managing; he seemed far more unsuited to a labouring job than she was.

The van arrived. Erin climbed out. She was dressed up – velvet hunter's jacket, long skirt. She opened the back of the
van and pointed to a sack of peat.

‘Darling, could you take this?'

Maddy, wiping her hands on her jeans, walked over. Erin saw her expression and looked abashed – a rare sight.

‘Sorry, sweetie. Got to meet the marketing people. Some do in an awful hotel. I'd much rather be here with you.'

‘Would you?' asked Maddy.

‘Of course.'

Erin kissed her lightly on the mouth. The workmen whistled. Ignoring them, Erin climbed into the van and drove off.

Dorothy was sitting in the office. In front of her the computer hummed unheeded.

‘. . . it turns out his wife and kids live there,' said Frank.

She stared. ‘What?'

‘He was useless anyway.' Frank stubbed out his cigarette in her tea saucer. ‘I only took him on as a favour to you. The bloke was a liability.'

‘He's got a wife? And children?'

‘Does everybody lie to me nowadays?' wailed Dorothy.

‘I didn't lie,' said Prudence. ‘I just didn't tell you.'

‘I've been living here for a week. Two weeks, nearly. Why didn't you?'

Prudence stirred the sauce. ‘There never was the right moment. I didn't want to put you against him. Or me.'

‘Oh, I don't know anyone any more.' Dorothy glared at the saucepan, as if it were responsible.

Stephen came in. She didn't turn round.

‘Look – this is what happened,' said Prudence. ‘Stephen and I, well, we'd been seeing each other for a year –'

‘A year? I thought it was two months!'

‘One month ago, in December, he left his wife and came to live here, with me. The whole thing is awful, don't make it more difficult. God,
you
know what it's like.'

Dorothy swung round and spoke to Stephen. ‘How could you do it?'

‘Mum!' said Prudence.

‘What about your children?'

‘Look, it wasn't like Dad,' said Prudence. ‘Stephen agonised about it for months and months.'

Dorothy walked to the door. ‘Oh, why can't you men just keep it in your trousers?'

‘Mum!'

‘I'm fed up with the lot of you,' she said.

Stephen followed her into the living room. Prudence turned off the gas and went after them.

‘You're right,' he said to Dorothy. ‘All I've caused is harm. When I went to the house today – my son had this poster pinned up, that model girl . . . he's growing up without me. You really think I don't feel guilty? It's as if I don't exist any more.'

‘Rubbish,' said Prudence. ‘Every day you're on the phone to them. That's how they knew you were working for Dad. That's probably why she called them to come and fix the roof. So she could get her claws into you again.'

Stephen sat down. ‘She doesn't want me. How could she?' He looked up at Dorothy. ‘I'm a cheat and a failure –'

‘Oh do shut up,' said Prudence.

‘Can't even hold down a bloody labourer's job –'

‘Nothing wrong with labourers!' said Prudence.

‘I don't deserve your daughter,' he said. ‘All she's got is a human wreck –'

‘Do stop snivelling, Stephen!' Prudence glared at him. ‘If you're so miserable, why don't you go back to her? I'm fed up with being so bloody understanding all the time, listening to you droning on about your marriage – when have you ever listened to me?' Her voice rose. ‘You never ask
me
about any of the men
I've
known, you're not the slightest bit interested in what
I've
been through –'

‘Look, I've brought some wine,' said Dorothy. ‘Why don't I open it –'

‘No, thanks, Dorothy.' Stephen got up. ‘I'm going out.'

He stormed out of the room. They heard the pause as he grabbed his overcoat. Then the front door slammed.

‘Oh shit,' said Prudence.

FIONA'S GRAVE WAS
in Potters Bar, where Tim and Margot had been living at the time. Over the past six years new graves had been dug nearby – yellow clay, horribly fresh, heaped with flowers. Sometimes when Margot visited there was a new arrival. She wondered who these people were, lying so near her daughter. It was a relief when headstones were erected; she didn't like her daughter being alone amongst the nameless. The older headstones were familiar to her – polished granite slabs with names cut into them:
William James, Beloved Father, Died aged 63 years
lay next to Fiona's rectangle of marble chippings. It struck Margot, today, that her daughter had spent longer in the company of someone else's father than her own.

Margot arranged the daffodils in the vase. She looked at the grave. For six years, inconceivably, life had gone on without Fiona. It still struck her with surprise. People had shopped and gone to work and driven their cars. They had grown older too, as if there was nothing to it.

Above, the wind blew the rooks around as if they were paper. They seemed to have no will of their own. Margot climbed to her feet. Fiona would be ten now. Putting daffodils into a vase would be one of the skills she would have mastered a long time ago. What would she think of the place in which she had spent so long? Creepy, probably: lots of dead people. A good place for hide-and-seek.

Margot stood there. Her daughter – tall and slender now – darted behind a gravestone. ‘
Come and find me!
' she called.

Margot picked up her bag. The wind blew across the graveyard, carrying the noise of traffic on the main road.

Tim was slotting magazines into the rack when Louise came in. She wore jeans and her blue fluffy jumper. She looked fragrant. Tim thought about his wife; he thought how depression makes a person smell. It's not just that they cannot be bothered to wash; they give off the odour of despair. He hated himself for thinking this.

Under her arm Louise carried something, rolled up. ‘I'm not going to let you go,' she said.

He blushed. Though naturally a charming woman, and used to flirting with men, she had only the vaguest idea of the effect she had on him.

‘What do you mean?' he asked.

‘Now term's started I've got Mrs Monson to rally the kids. You can put it in your window.' She unfurled the banner. Embellished with childish paintings, it said
SUPPORT OUR VILLAGE SHOP
.

‘That's very kind.'

‘It's not kind,' she replied. ‘I want you to stay. I'm sure we can get the local paper on the case. And Robert knows somebody on the
Financial Times
.'

He walked behind the counter. He felt less exposed there. ‘You really want to do all this?'

‘You and me, we'll make a great team.' She dumped the banner on the counter. ‘Are you game? I've done some research already, stuff in the papers about post offices closing, statistics and things. Robert thinks I'm an airhead –'

‘That's not true!'

‘Well, we'll show him. He's hardly here anyway, he doesn't know anything about village life –'

‘Too busy jet-setting about the country, I suppose,' he said.

She nodded. ‘He only comes home to sleep.'

Tim took a breath. ‘Maybe, after I close up one day, well, you and I could –'

He stopped. The bell tinkled and Margot came in. She had
been up in London, in Potters Bar. He looked at her face and he thought: what sort of man am I?

‘Hello, Margot,' said Louise. ‘Things are hotting up.'

‘She means the campaign, dear,' he said.

‘Oh. Good.' Margot, bundled up in her coat, opened the door to the flat. ‘Just going to lie down.'

She closed the door. They heard the stairs creak. Tim fingered the banner. ‘Today's a bad day,' he said. ‘It's the anniversary.'

‘Oh. I'm so sorry' Louise knew about his daughter. He had told her years ago, when he had felt a sudden need to blurt it out. Louise had looked sympathetic; she had children of her own. He presumed the whole village knew, though it had never been mentioned.

‘Can I do anything –' Louise stopped. Jamie came in. His bike lay outside, flung on the grass, its wheels spinning.

‘Hi Ma!' he said. ‘What a day! Battle of the Killer Trolleys!'

‘Jamie . . .' She frowned at his tactlessness – either in butting in so cheerfully or mentioning that Tesco was crammed.

‘Going up to London tomorrow,' said Jamie. ‘Going clubbing with Trevor.'

‘Who's Trevor?' she asked.

‘Bloke I work with at Tesco. He's a nutter. Just telling you, so you can give us a lift to the station.'