Green Grass (3 page)

Irritatingly for Laura, they both shut up for an instant, but then explode into giggles.

‘It's egg, Dad. Mum's covered in egg.' Fred sighs a last snigger and gulps milk from the carton. Inigo deliberately averts his face and props three spoons together to form a wigwam on the kitchen table. Fred looks at him, measuring up his mood. He decides to risk it. ‘If we had a dog, it would have licked her foot clean by now,' he says, edging away towards the hall and his coat and bag as he speaks.

Inigo doesn't hear, he reaches into the fridge and emerges with three eggs. He rolls one out of his palm and on to the knuckles of his right hand while throwing another to Dolly. ‘What did you say, Fred? Here, Doll, catch this. I liked your egg pyramid; shame Mum got to it.' He shakes his head sorrowfully in the direction of Laura's slime-smeared trainer and reaches out to pull her towards him by her waist. ‘I'm
starving after eating that pile of organic horse shit last night. Who else wants scrambled egg?'

‘We've got to go.' Laura glares at Fred over Inigo's shoulder, not wanting the dog row to break out this morning. ‘We mustn't be late, they've got a maths test.'

Fred assumes an innocent and angelic expression and waves to his father. ‘Bye, Dad, see you later.'

Inigo turns from the stove, a flowery apron tied neatly yet absurdly around his waist. ‘See you tonight, Fred. Hope the test is OK.'

Dolly, twirling her school coat like a matador with his cloak, wraps her arms around her father, her bright hair sweeping his black-clad shoulder, ignoring the wooden spoon dripping butter onto the floor. Inigo kisses the top of her head, gesturing to Laura to take the wooden spoon. She does so, but drops it as Dolly begins her own personal dog attack on her father.

‘Dad, come on, it's time we talked about this. We all really want a dog and—'

‘Not now, Dolly, we've got to go,' Laura cuts in, grabbing her daughter's arm, trying to pull her out of the door.

Inigo narrows his eyes, crosses his arms and assumes an evil and inaccessible expression. ‘Well, I don't want a sodding dog, so you can all go to hell.'

Dolly huffs and glares, tossing her hair crossly. ‘You don't have to be quite so rude, Dad,' she says icily, and inwardly Laura applauds, although, with the childcare manual foremost in her mind, she knows better than to side with her daughter against her co-parent. Dolly flaps her coat insouciantly and turns on her heel, shouting back, ‘Me and Fred think you only mind because you don't want to share Mum,' and Fred cannot resist calling from the doorway as he passes through it, adding his mite, ‘You're daft to think you and a dog could compete, Dad. The dog would win hands down. I mean paws …'

Laura closes the front door behind them, hastily escaping the tirade she knows will follow, and herds the twins towards the car, pausing to check for forgotten bags and books, inspecting Dolly from a safe distance for signs of anti-father tantrum, smiling at Fred in case he is nervous about the maths test, chivvying and worrying like a veteran sheep dog.

In the car Laura turns the music up very loudly; it is the only way she can be sure that the children will not speak to her and that she will therefore have peace, if not quiet, in which to think for a moment. The tape is a compilation of her favourite Country and Western songs. John Prine's inimitable croak cuts into her thoughts, soothing immediately. ‘There's flies in the kitchen …'

‘Oh no, it's slit your wrist time,' groans Dolly in the back. ‘Mum, can we listen to our music instead?'

‘Yes, in a minute, just be patient.'

Manoeuvring out of the quiet side street where they live and into the blaring, shunting London rush-hour traffic, Laura begins to relax. Time spent in the car is time off. Of course, it is better time off if the children are not in the car too, but even when they are, Laura is soothed by the fact that there is nothing they can do about forgotten homework, and even better, there is no need for her to nag them. She joins in with gusto, ‘Make me an angel to fly from Montgomery, Make me a picture of an old Rodeo,' and flushed with pleasure at the music, and with her own faultless rendition, she glances in the rearview mirror to smile at her darling children, noticing as she does that there is a bus close behind, filling the back window of the car with its mud-stained redness.

The darlings loll vacantly, listless now the dog row has passed. Dolly is fiddling with her hair and gazing out of the window, Fred mouths the words of the song, not because he likes it, but because he knows it so well that he doesn't even know he's doing it. They are side by side, their school bags bundled between them, but each twin inhabits a separate world.

‘You've got twins. How lovely, they must be so close,' people say to her when they meet her, avidly
watching Dolly and Fred for signs of twinnishness. What these signs might be is not clear. They don't even look alike. Fred's freckles, his pale blue eyes, his determined chin and his hair the colour of wet sand come from Laura's mother's family, while Dolly has Inigo's narrow face and long elegant fingers, his curving mouth and dark grey eyes. Only her copper bright hair, and her skin as smooth and pale as cream are like Laura's. Or rather like they used to be, Laura thinks wryly.

Dolly catches her mother's eye in the mirror and scowls for no reason except she finds it quicker and easier than smiling. Laura sighs, trying to remember when life with Dolly was not like living with a temperamental opera diva. Fred has always been easy, but not Dolly. Dolly is difficult, and Laura finds Dolly especially hard work. With Inigo she is usually a more persuadable child, and has been since the moment she was placed in his arms, a crumpled infant bellowing her first breaths with flailing fists and a cross little face beneath a shock of hair. On that day, in the delivery room of the vast, dying West London Hospital, Inigo looked at his newborn daughter and began to laugh, wrapping her closer in her blanket, surprised by the rush of love this tiny creature prompted in him, amazed by her instant vigour and energy.

‘She looks like a troll,' he said, and kissed her forehead. Fortunately, no one heard this pronouncement, as the twin about to be known as Fred was proving difficult to lure from the warmth of his mother's womb into this world, and every nurse in the room was occupied with watching the doctor as he snapped his forceps together and strode towards Laura on the bed. The sight of the masked doctor poised with his giant tongs was the catalyst needed, and Fred earned his mother's lifelong gratitude by appearing just in time, a calm baby with surprisingly elegant eyebrows.

Laura cranes round to see if Fred's eyebrows are still notable; he peers back at her crossly. ‘What?'

‘Oh, nothing. Just looking.' The thought of these thirteen-year-olds ever being tiny babies seems impossible; it was long ago, it feels almost as if it were in another life.

‘Come on lady, get a move on.' Laura is brought abruptly back to the present by a jeering voice.

The bus has edged next to her so the driver can shout at Laura; with a hiss of air brakes and automatic doors it revs away into the traffic, leaving Laura dawdling at a green light. It takes her a few moments to realise where she is and what she should do next. The school run is something she executes automatically; any attempt at concentrating on it
results in bewilderment. In fact the whole school operation is frequently bewildering, and because of the children being twins, Laura never has a chance to get it right next time. On the other hand, as Inigo is quick to point out when attending plays or singing competitions, at least they only have to go through all of this stuff once. There is more beeping behind her. She kangaroo hops forwards in the wrong gear and Fred groans loudly.

‘Mum, please don't drive like this when we get near school. And please can we turn your music off now and listen to something decent?'

‘Mum can't help driving like this.' Dolly has taken one shoe off and is sitting in full lotus position examining the sole of her foot. ‘Mum, can we stop and get some nail scissors? I think my toenail is growing into my foot, or maybe through it. It really hurts.'

‘Not if you want to get there on time. Put your shoe on, Doll, please – you're taking up the whole seat sitting like that. Fred, find another tape, but please don't let's have Radio One, it makes me want to kill myself.'

School is reached with no further reference to dogs or pierced feet from Dolly, and just one hopeful request from Fred to stop for a gutting knife.

‘You can't have a gutting knife. You're a child, not
a mass murderer. What do you want it for anyway?' Laura parks on the zig zag of yellow lines outside his school gates, telling herself that it doesn't matter as they are too late for any other children to be still arriving. She climbs out, chauffeur-style, to open the door for her offspring.

‘Oh, it doesn't matter. I'll tell you later.' Fred reaches up to kiss her then turns in through the gates and becomes the last of the seething horde of boys ebbing towards the school doors as the bell rings. Dolly is still in the car, scrabbling for her shoe.

‘I'm afraid we're going to be late,' Laura says, edging out into the traffic to drive the short distance to Dolly's side of the school. They arrive, Dolly still half shoeless, searching beneath the back seat. Laura gets out of the car, bites her tongue hard to stop herself saying, ‘Why didn't you keep your shoe on?' and bends to retrieve the spilled papers and books which cascade from her daughter's open school bag. A few girls run across the road and in through the gates. Dolly at last finds her shoe and shoves it on.

‘Bye, Mummy, see you later. Will you get my swimming hat today? And I need a new pen, I think.'

Laura simply nods, watching as Dolly, suddenly alert and smiling, runs off, returns to kiss her mother, then lopes across the empty tarmac to the school entrance.

As Dolly vanishes Laura turns to her car. She loves the moment of getting back into it after the children have gone; there is a luxurious quality to the silence, and the day stretches before her, lit with possibilities. Contemplating these possibilities today, however, sinks her spirits; she could go to the studio she works in with Inigo, where she will arrive in time to take a self-satisfied call from Jack about his session with Manfred and the television crew. Maybe she could nip out at lunchtime to buy some dye. Laura is determined to have glamour in her underwear drawer, and has decided that the most satisfactory way to do this is to dye all her knickers. Peacock blue is the colour she has chosen to kick off with, and today will be a perfect day to start. Following the vital shopping, there will be an hour to tear up small pieces of paper, an ongoing project as Inigo plans to amass five tons of tiny torn scraps of paper and tip them out in Hyde Park at dawn on the spring equinox. This installation is to be called
Fall Back
and was inspired by Laura's inability to remember which way the clocks go when they change in autumn and spring.

‘It's easy, Mum,' Fred had told her patiently when the family were discussing it over supper. ‘You have to remember “spring forward and fall back”. I remember it because of leaves falling.'

This installation has caused consternation among
the officers of the Royal Parks Committee, and Laura had to ask the Arts Council to use their influence in making sure the necessary permissions were granted in time. With less than a month to go until the equinox, she finally summoned the courage to ring them yesterday.

‘Oh yes, Inigo Miller. I daresay we can persuade Royal Parks to relax restrictions for him – think of the publicity it will generate.' Laura was secretly irritated that it should be so easy for Inigo. He is on a roll at the moment, and is hotly tipped to win the Artist of the Year award next month. This accolade takes the form of a large purple sash and a small cheque, and is only given very occasionally. The last time was seven years ago, when it was awarded to Glynn Flynn, the artist famous for growing grass seed and mould over everyday items.

Inigo has been a favourite of not only the Arts Council, but more unusually, the public, ever since his signature Möbius strip was used as the central motif in the Regent Street Christmas lights two years ago. The lights that year were turned on by a beautiful, aging opera diva who, holding hands with Inigo, sang ‘White Christmas' over microphones placed all the way up Regent Street. Inigo, who adores opera, and also soppy musicals, wept with the emotion of it all, and Laura had to bite her cheek very hard not
to get overpowering giggles. Anyway, the exercise ensured that he became a household name, and the art establishment, fearful that he might defect to America, are still anxious to please him. Laura can afford to skive for a bit longer.

A beam of sunlight dazzles through the windscreen, and instead of following the hill down through South End Green towards the studio and its array of possibilities for her day, Laura parks the car on a street of redbrick terraced houses, curved so they seem articulated like a child's toy train, and walks between stout black bollards and on to Hampstead Heath. Another world. Here birds chirp as they flit from tree to shrub and the grass is vivid green and sparkling wet where the sun has transformed early morning frost crystals to winter dew. Laura closes her eyes and breathes in deeply. Increasingly and now without even trying to find an excuse, she is drawn to the Heath and the blast of outdoor life it offers. Today she strides towards the Men's pond where even though it is February, the sound of jocose bathing is brash above the birdsong. She pauses when the pond comes into view, enjoying the spectacle of a young man with a soft white body, poised on the jetty, one toe in the shallows like a classical statue.

‘Come on in, Paul, you wimp,' yells his heartier friend, crossing the water with a few flashy strokes
of front crawl then emerging, streaked mud grey across pink red flesh. Watching from a distance great enough, she hopes, to escape classification as a filthy pervert, Laura cranes to hear the conversation, as the Greek statue and the hearty swimmer argue cheerfully.