Cuckoo (41 page)

‘What's a Sunday frock?' asked Philip, who was bashing nails into a block of wood. Frances and the table jumped every time another nail went in.

‘Oh, it's all sort of prickly, with a white collar, and the name of your patron saint embroidered on the bodice.' Bunty removed Rupert from the golden syrup tin. ‘Magda's saint is Mary Magdalen. That's twelve whole letters and she can't even embroider. It took her hours to do it, but then Mother Annunciata snipped the whole thing out again with a pair of scissors, and said it was an insult to any patron saint.'

‘Weird,' muttered Philip, missing the nail and knocking in his thumb instead. Midge screeched in sympathy.

‘Hush!' shouted Viv, above them all. ‘Look, kids, Frances and I can hardly hear ourselves speak. Why don't you go out into the garden?'

Frances almost prayed they wouldn't. The last thing she felt like was a morning-after playgroup, but even that was better than a heart-to-heart with Viv, on the subject of Magda's future. That future was all too entangled with her own. If Magda returned to Richmond, then she herself would have to stay and play mother. She didn't want to be a mother, not even to her own child. What was the point of proving that, if all she did was settle back again with someone else's offspring? Nothing would be changed, nothing learned or gained, if she and Magda both slunk back to Richmond, and the whole tragic farce restarted.

She hadn't even seen her yet. From the moment that Bunty had burst in with the news, Viv had taken over, giving orders, acting the part of Magda's nurse and mother, pushing her into a sick-bay on the sidelines. ‘You stay here. I'll cope. You look far too rough to do anything but rest.'

She'd tried to remonstrate, but she knew Viv didn't want her. One part of her was secretly relieved. Easier to take the role of invalid and play nursemaid to herself. While Viv dashed back to Magda, rushing around with blankets and beef tea, she had stayed behind in the ruins of her drawing-room, breakfasting on Alka Seltzer and bandaging her wounded house.

Viv had found Magda barricaded in the garden shed, filthy, exhausted. The child had been up all night, trekking the hundred miles from Westborough, hitching lifts in lorries where she could. Viv had bathed and changed her like a baby, then put her to bed with two aspirin and warm milk. She was still asleep. Thank God, thought Frances, who had arrived at Viv's an hour ago, and been talking Magda, Magda, ever since. So much had happened in the last few frantic days, she could hardly cope with it, let alone this new crisis.

Charles had phoned from the airport, before she left for Viv's, so suave and courteous, she'd been thrown off guard. She had been expecting retribution, but all he said was ‘Hello, darling, I'm afraid I'll be late for lunch. The Oppenheimers' plane has been delayed.' Surely the name of Oppenheimer should strike her down like Voodoo, but Charles pronounced it calmly, almost nonchalantly, as if last night had never been. He had rubbed out the party, and her assumed pregnancy, like a misspelt paragraph in an otherwise impeccable life report, and then filed it away and started on a clean page. She heard herself responding in the same careful, treacherous fashion.

‘It's quite all right, darling, don't worry about lunch. We'll eat this evening, shall we, then you won't have to rush?'

Eat, when her stomach was a battleground; prepare his dinner, when she wasn't even sure whether she was married any more; finish up the party wines, when his daughter had just run away from school? She hadn't dared to tell him that. It didn't seem to fit with the quiet return to order and good sense he'd so carefully prepared. That was the stumbling block. Too much order, white-washing all the mess and questioning inside, blotting out drunken wives and rebellious daughters. Drunkenness was disgusting and rebellion terrifying, so safer to pretend they never happened. But some part of her kept shouting out that she had been drunk, would be drunk again, and not only drunk, but wild, unfaithful, and impulsive.

But if she could rebel, then why not Magda, too? If Magdas went wild, they were bundled off to boarding school, or worse. The trouble was, Magda did things too precipitately. It had taken her fifteen weary years to bend the rules, and here was Magda, stamping them to bits after only six short weeks. She felt a twinge of jealousy, wished she too could run away from things she didn't like, from having to play mother. Even now, she was being forced to shovel spinach into Rupert, sit down to a hectic, unhinged lunch, with five gabbling children and assorted dogs and cats, instead of nursing her headache in a darkened room. And all because of Magda. Midge was dumping chewed lumps of gristle on her plate, Philip had poured Pepsi in her wine. She pushed the glass away. She couldn't eat or drink, in any case. Her head was a rifle-range and her stomach a roller-coaster. The noise, the chaos, the constant battlefire of kids …

Bunty leapt up, suddenly, spraying her with gravy.

‘Hey!' she yelled. ‘Magda's awake. I can hear her on the stairs. She must be coming down.'

Frances jammed a cold potato in her mouth. She shut her eyes and slowly forced it down. When she opened them, Magda was standing in the doorway, tousled and embarrassed in a pair of striped pyjamas, one bare foot jabbing against the floor.

Frances dropped her fork. ‘Magda,' she gasped. ‘Your
hair
!'

Viv had warned her, prepared her, but how could anyone prepare you for such massacre? The long, luxurious tresses were cropped short like a jail-bird's, sticking up around her head, jagged and uneven. The hair had been hacked and mangled off, longer in some parts than in others, butchered at the back into a lopsided shingle. All Magda's beauty had been shorn away. Without her crowning glory, her face looked pinched and thinner, her body bulkier. Frances wanted to storm and weep for such barbarous destruction, to hug that mutilated head on its slouched, unsmiling body. She kicked her chair back, jumped up to her feet. Magda stiffened. Even now, she couldn't touch the child. She longed to take her in her arms and turn pity and horror into some loving, caring, flesh-and-blood gesture. But Magda was recoiling, backing away from her, locking up her face.

‘Excuse me,' Frances muttered, blundering to the door. She couldn't bear to see those cold, accusing eyes. She escaped into the kitchen, mumbling something fatuous about a headache.

Yes, of course she had a headache, but what was that, compared to Magda's scalping? She'd been so concerned with her own paltry little pains, she'd hardly even listened when Viv had explained about the hair. It was the nuns, apparently, who'd first pressured Magda to have it cut. They told her it was injurious to her health to wear her hair so long. It was the health of her soul they were more concerned about. A well-developed girl with such a wild and sensual mane was a temptation to men, and thus a danger to herself and an attraction to the devil – though Magda had shown no interest yet in either men or Satan. She vowed she'd never marry, and refused to let the Brides of Christ lay a finger on her hair. When she swore at them for trying, they locked her in the dormitory. Two hours later, they brought her a glass of water and St Ignatius' Prayer for Obedience and Humility. She was crouched in a corner, staring at the wall, surrounded by dark, limp swathes. She had cut her hair herself – hacked it off with the nail scissors, exorcized her beauty and the devil, with the same self-destructive strokes.

And there was Frances, Lord Justice Frances Parry Jones, planning to treat her like a convict, to lock her up again, and refuse to take her in, for no more reason than to wallow in her own selfish freedom, spread her own wings. And even that was sheer hypocrisy. She'd made no plans to fly away. Ned was right. He'd called her a homing pigeon, ringed and tagged by Charles. In whichever direction she was pointed, she speeded back to the safety of the nest. Just an hour or so ago, she had laid the table in the dining-room, ready for Charles' return, decanted the port, left the steaks to marinate in wine. Wasn't it safer to observe the rules? Magda had only lost her strength like Samson, by refusing to conform, and what had she herself gained by her petty little outrages? – a thick head, a wrecked house, and a bellyful of remorse. She couldn't even deceive herself that she'd been striking a blow for feminist freedom. She didn't want freedom – only goose-feather cushioning and jam in her sandwich. By betraying Charles and insulting Oppenheimer, she'd been biting the hands that fed her. It was all too easy to twist things into slogans. Ned would say she'd challenged Oppenheimer as a filthy-rich fascist grinding the faces of the poor. But that was far too pat. Heinrich was a self-made man, who had attended the Frankfurt equivalent of Brent Edge Comprehensive. He also happened to be a model employer and generous patron of the arts, his cheque book ever at the ready for any deserving cause or charity. She herself had basked in the warmth of his largesse. And, even if she left Charles, Oppenheimer's wealth would still follow her and coddle her – alimony, maintenance, a separate bijou residence, the best divorce lawyers money could buy.

But it wouldn't come to that – she wouldn't leave Charles. She knew it, just by looking at his daughter. Magda was a victim now, with no other home than theirs. She would take her to that home and start again. And if Charles was wary, she could always talk him round. He was far less perverse and prickly now he knew she wasn't pregnant, had overlooked her outrage at the party, shown himself ready to be merciful. Well, Magda must be included in that mercy. They must work at being a family again. It needn't be as disastrous as before. Things were different now – Ned had changed her, taught her more than simple slogans. She'd been only a diversion in his life, the froth on his small beer, but all the same, he had leavened and unstoppered her. She could still winkle out the gems from his dustbin and bring them back like souvenirs from Brighton. Ned would survive, with his clowning and his cats, and she would survive on his precious, threadbare legacy. She could always swell it out with Charles' more solid one.

‘Frances? What are you doing out here? You haven't had your pudding!'

She jumped. Viv had burst into the kitchen, with Rupert burping in her arms and Midge trailing behind her, clutching at her skirts.

‘What's wrong, love? Why did you rush off like that? Magda's quite upset. She thought you …'

Frances struggled to her feet. She'd been sitting at the table snapping spent matches into tiny fragments. The table was littered with black heads and broken limbs. ‘Listen, Viv, I want to take her back with me, this evening. For dinner.' There were still three steaks, three nectarines – exactly right. One each, not for Charles and the Oppenheimers, but for Charles and his wife and daughter. It was fitting somehow, meant. ‘Charles will be back any minute, and he'll want to see her.'

‘Will he?' Viv griped. She had picked up the custard saucepan and was scraping out the dregs.

‘He is her father, Viv.'

‘Yes. Funny, I keep forgetting.'

So, even Viv could be sarcastic. Frances marched back to the dining-room and collected up her things. She wanted to escape. If she were going to be Magda's mother, then why wait for dinner to make a start on it?

‘Look, if you don't mind, Frances, I'll just pop over this evening, to see how she is.'

‘There's no need, Viv. You sound like some social worker checking up on baby batterers. I know I've been a bit … well … unreliable, but that's over, finished. I …'

‘Look, all I want to hear is what you've decided – you know, school and things. We haven't discussed it yet.'

‘Charles and I will discuss it, Viv. This evening.'

‘Fine. And I'll pop round to hear the verdict. Any objections?'

When Viv knocked, after dark, they had only reached the nectarines. Charles had opened a bottle of sparkling wine to wash them down. Not champagne. They weren't exactly celebrating.

‘Thanks,' said Viv, accepting a glass and subsiding on the sofa. ‘Where's Magda?'

‘Upstairs.'

‘Doesn't she eat with you?'

Frances fiddled with her fruit knife. ‘Well, yes, of course, but …' How could she admit that Magda had banged out and marched up to her room the minute she'd made her ‘announcement'? That's all she had returned for, not fillet steak and a prime-cut, medium-rare family reunion.

‘She's tired,' Charles shrugged, finishing off his nectarine and starting on the nuts.

‘She slept all morning, didn't she?'

‘Look, Viv, don't be scratchy. Charles only meant …'

Viv drained her glass in one gulp. ‘OK, cut the cackle. All I want to know is what you've decided about her education. I mean, if it's all right with you, I'll take her down to Highfield first thing in the morning, and make an appointment to see the headmistress. Then, with any luck …'

Charles cracked a walnut so hard, the shell splintered and flew across the table. ‘No, it's not all right with me.'

Frances stood up. ‘Ssshh, Charles, let me explain. Look, Viv. Charles and I haven't decided anything – honestly, we haven't. It's Magda herself. She wants to …'

‘You're not trying to tell me she wants to go back to that atrocious boarding school? I'm sorry, Frances, I simply don't believe it. And if you send her back, I'll …'

‘We're not.'

‘Well, where are you sending her?'

‘Nowhere.' Frances was wringing out her napkin, as if it were soaking wet.

‘What do you mean, nowhere? She's got to go to school.'

‘Viv, for heaven's sake …' Charles exploded the silence with another walnut, then sat there, picking morsels from the wreckage of the shell. ‘She's going to Budapest.'

‘Budapest? How could she? The schools are completely different over there. She doesn't even speak the language properly. How will she ever … ?'