Simply Heaven (38 page)

‘Seriously?’

‘Please don’t blub,’ says Rufus. ‘I know it’s not the nicest place in the village, but you can always sell it and—’

‘Excuse me?’ says Mary.

‘Yuh?’ says Rufus.

‘Sell it?’

‘If she wants to. If that’s what she wants. It’s up to her.’

‘But it’s part of the estate,’ says Edmund.

‘I know. But it’s going into Tilly’s name.’

‘You can’t just …
chuck
bits of the estate around,’ says Beatrice.

‘Please let’s not make a scene,’ he says. ‘I’m trying to do something nice? For my sister? And my nephew or niece? Who haven’t anywhere to live when we’ve got nearly sixty houses to choose from?’

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ says Beatrice. ‘No-one’s breaking up the estate in
my
lifetime.’

Tilly isn’t saying a word. All our eyes bounce from speaker to speaker like we’re on the centre court at Wimbledon.

‘It’s not breaking up the estate. It’s giving Tilly a house. Tilly.’ He turns to Edmund. ‘Your daughter?’

‘She doesn’t need one,’ says Beatrice.

‘Well, I think she does.’

There’s still not a peep from Tilly’s corner. Why does she take this sort of treatment? I want to reach out and shake her, only I’d probably make the baby fall out right here at the dinner table.

‘She has a perfectly good room at the house.’

‘She’s an adult. With a child. It’s absolutely unacceptable to expect her to live off charity in some sort of scullery-maid accommodation.’

‘It’s all right, Rufus,’ says Tilly, ‘you don’t need to—’

‘No, shut up,’ he says. ‘Sorry, but just shut up and take it. I’m sick to death of you being walked all over so I’m going to bully you myself. Here’s your bloody house, and if there’s one more word about it …’

He pushes the keys further in her direction and looks seriously pissed off. I guess having your ball-tearer of a surprise present treated like a disaster can do that to a guy.

‘Well, you can’t do it, anyway,’ says Beatrice, triumphantly.

‘I said
not another word
,’ he snarls, picking up his champagne glass. ‘I’m not having a row about it. Not here, not now, not in front of our visitors. Not in front of all these people. Just shut up, Granny, and be nice.’

She ploughs on regardless. ‘You can’t just hand out bits of the estate without our say-so. You know the rules. The trust has to agree. Not you.’

The glass slams down on the table. There’s a crack, and the stem breaks off in his hand. ‘Well, here’s the way it is! OK? I said I didn’t want a scene, but if you want one you’ve got one. I’m sick to death of you all being so bloody selfish. I’m sick of you treating me like an unpaid estate manager. I’m sick of you behaving like my sister is some sort of leprous charity case who only survives on the milk of your kindness and I’m sick of you behaving like my wife – my
wife
, get it through your head, Granny – is some interloper you’re all keen to see the back of. So here you go. Here’s your ultimatum. If I get one whine –
one objection
– out of the trustees about this, you can stick the whole lot. I’ll wash my hands of it all and walk away. Right now. OK? Do you understand?’

‘Rufus!’ cries Mary.

‘Yuh, Mummy. That means you too.’

I catch the look on her face and it’s tragic. Mary is the mistress of self-control, but just for a second, she looks so lost, so ripped apart that I almost feel sorry for her. Because whatever else I feel about her, I know that she loves her son. Truly, wildly. He’s the whole focus of her existence. Always has been: raising him, teaching him manners, getting him ready to take on the mantle of the Wattestones. He’s more than a child: he’s a whole career. And on top of that, when I see the way she looks at him sometimes, I know, also, that, in the end, what he is is her baby boy.

She catches herself. Catches me catching her. ‘Well, we’ll talk about it later,’ she says. ‘Though I just want to say what a thoughtful, generous brother you are.’

No-one quite knows where to look. Apart from Yaya, who’s having the time of her life. Other people’s family discord is like manna to her. Her eyes are glittering, she’s enjoying herself so much. Everyone else looks down at their plate. I take a bit of caviar on the tip of the tiny spoon that comes with it. Pop it on to my tongue, close my eyes to feel the eggs pop-pop-pop against the roof of my mouth. Salty seawater heaven. It makes you shiver, caviar.

Dad clears his throat. ‘Well, I don’t know if I can beat that,’ he says. ‘But tell you what, Mel, there’s something in here for my girl.’

He throws me a small gift-wrapped box from his end of the table. Oh God: the present Costa was going on about. I’m not sure if I want to open it.

I do. Inside, nestled on a bed of shredded tissue paper, is a key. A car key.

I look up at him. He’s chewing furiously on his cigar, looking like he’s just swallowed a turkey whole.

‘Is this what I think it is?’

‘No, it’s a pumpkin.’

‘Dad … I …’

‘Well, don’t get excited or anything.’

‘Oh my God. Oh my
God
!’

‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘And it’s all insured and ready for you to drive,’ he adds, pointedly.

I’m out of my seat. ‘Where is it? Where
is
it?’

With a flourish, two of Santa’s little helpers pull back the curtain that has been hiding the window behind our table.

Parked on the drive, gleaming and gorgeous in a giant silver ribbon, stands a Mercedes coupé. No: not a Mercedes coupé: an SL 600. A convertible SL 600 in black with alloy wheels and – I can see it from here –
cherry-red leather interior
.

‘Oh my God,’ I say. There’s a hundred grand’s worth of sports car standing on the drive, and it’s
mine
.

‘She likes it,’ says Mum. ‘I told you she’d like it.’

‘Like it?’ I say. ‘I friggin’ love it. I’ve got a fucken hard-on for that car.’

And then I remember the company I’m in and shut up. Walk round the table and give my dad the biggest hug of his life. ‘I love yer, you old sod,’ I tell him. ‘You’re a little belter!’

‘Steady,’ says the old man.

‘I could sit on your knee and call you big boy! I couldn’t be more chuffed!’

‘Oh, I think you could be,’ says Mum.

‘I couldn’t. I’m as stoked as it’s possible to be!’

‘Oh, get on with it, Don,’ says Yaya. ‘You’re confusing the girl.’

‘OK,’ says Dad, and gets to his feet. Oh God: he’s going to make a speech. Right here in front of the whole dining room. Attracting attention. I can see the whites of Mary’s eyes.

Dad takes his cigar out of his mouth and taps on his glass with his knife. That does it. Anyone who wasn’t rapt at our little display before is surely aware of us now. The muttering in the dining room dies to silence as he stands there and digs in his pocket. Clears his throat.

‘H’OK,’ he says. ‘Well, here we are.’

I’m not used to my Dad making speeches. Nor is he, of course. He’s always been of the low-profile persuasion that way.

He shows us why by not saying anything at all for a full minute because he’s come over all gulpy. Grabs a napkin and dabs furiously at his eyes. There’s not a sound in the room: not a tinkle of crockery, not a whisper, not a footfall. I find myself blushing on his behalf.

He speaks. ‘Melody’s my daughter,’ he says, ‘my princess. We call her Princess back home, you know. We call her that because that’s what she is. A princess. Our – little – I would do anything for her.
Anything
.’

Dad is overcome by sentimentality. He stumbles to a halt, going all watery about the eyes, and blows his nose, loudly and at length, on the white damask clutched in his hand. It’s funny, isn’t it, how these men, the ones who are capable of extreme ruthlessness in their outside life, are also capable of such extremes of sentimentality when it comes to family? I’ve seen it all my life among Dad’s business associates. Stabbing people in the back with one hand while they hold handkerchiefs to their eyes with the other.

On the edge of my field of vision, Mary sits stock still, one palm on the table.

He recovers, continues: ‘Anyway. Since she was a nipper, there’s been one day I’ve looked forward to with all my heart, and that was the day I gave her away. And – well – I guess I’ve been robbed – no, not robbed – it just wasn’t to be …’

He drinks half a glass of champagne in a single gulp. Champagne is a dangerous drink. It loosens tongues. Rufus looks uncomfortable. Mum looks down at the tablecloth. ‘… but at least we’re all together now, eh? The families. And maybe we can give them a toast now, like we didn’t get to make on the day.’

Dad is, bless him, oblivious to many things he doesn’t want to see. He beams waterily around the table and recharges his glass. ‘So if everyone,’ he says, ‘would like to raise their glasses, here’s to the bride and groom.’

It’s one of those moments. Rufus takes my hand and squeezes it while Mum, Dad, Yaya, Edmund, Tilly and Roly bellow ‘The bride and groooooom!’ with an enthusiasm that almost drowns out the half-hearted mumbles that come from Hilary and Mary’s end of the table and the ‘stuff and nonsense’ that comes from Beatrice. The toasters slug enthusiastically from their glasses. Mary and Hilary sip the tiniest drops from theirs, lips pursed, like hamsters at a water bottle. Beatrice just glares.

He puts his glass down. Starts digging in his breast pocket.

‘Anyways. I’ve been thinking about what to get you, and it wasn’t easy. I’d wanted to maybe sort you out with a house or something, but when I got over here, I realised that you’re not really short of houses.’

You can feel the tension. Well, I can. Dad, evidently, can’t. ‘So, well, I thought maybe what you
really
need is a bit of help with the houses you’ve got. I couldn’t help but notice,’ he says to Edmund, who has stopped grinning and started looking for the exits, ‘that you’ve got a bit of a hole in the roof, there.’

Ever a one for understatement.

‘So I thought –’ he finally locates the piece of paper he’s been looking for, brandishes it triumphantly. It’s a cheque. I can see the ANZ logo from the KebabCab cheque book. Crikey. He must have been putting some serious wedge through that account – ‘maybe the best thing would be just to give you a little … help.’

So this year’s Embarrassing Dad award goes to Adonis Katsouris of Brisbane. And, like all Embarrassing Dads, he hasn’t even realised.

That state of affairs doesn’t last long, though.

Edmund, hand trembling, takes the cheque and looks at it like he’s never seen one before. To do him credit, I think the tremor is more to do with alcohol – he’s a nice old stick, Edmund, even if he can’t get through an hour without a top-up – but when I catch sight of the sum the cheque’s made out for, I wonder if emotion isn’t also a factor. But he’s not the sort who would get in a strop or anything, whatever you did to him.

Not the case with his mother.

‘Good
God
,’ she says in a voice that’s calculated to bring anyone in the room who might have lost interest right back on to the radar. ‘Do you think you can
buy
us?’

Rufus isn’t saying anything. I think he’s in shock, especially as the digits on the cheque have swung into his sight at the moment they swung into mine. The amounts of money that have swapped hands in the past half-hour would even shut Elton John up for a few seconds.

‘Ay?’ says Dad. This is not the sort of reaction he’d been expecting, I’d wager.

Beatrice pushes her glass away from her like it’s poisoned. ‘We can
not
be bought,’ she says.

‘Now hold on a minute,’ says Mum. ‘Who said anything about buying anybody?’

Bea’s off and running. ‘Your sort of people,’ she says, ‘think money is the answer to everything.’

‘Well, it’s the answer to quite a lot,’ says Mum wryly. ‘I don’t think it’s exactly bypassed your own life.’

‘I suppose,’ says Beatrice, ignoring her, ‘that in exchange you’ll be wanting introductions. And invitations.’ She addresses the room. ‘I’ve seen it all before, of course.
Arrivistes
thinking they can buy their way into—’

Rufus finally moves. ‘Shut
up
, Granny,’ he hisses.

‘Christ,’ says Dad, ‘it was just an offer.’

‘Wattestones don’t parade their problems like dirty laundry,’ says Beatrice, ‘and we don’t like other people doing it for us.’

‘Well,
that
wasn’t the idea,’ he says.

‘I suppose you thought we’d be impressed by –’ she waves a hand over the table, at the caviar and the champagne and the gold-rimmed chargers – ‘all this. Rented finery. Gewgaws. And cheques.’

‘We’re no show ponies,’ says Ma. ‘Got it all for real back home.’

I will her to shut up.
Shut up, Mum. It’s not helping
.

Edmund tries to cut in. ‘Mummy – enough.’ He turns to Dad and says: ‘Don, I appreciate this gesture. It’s immensely generous. But I can’t take it.’

‘Nonsense,’ says Dad. ‘You’ve already got it. And it’s family, ain’t it? I’ve been putting it aside against Melody’s wedding anyway, so it’s no skin off my nose.’

‘It used to be the Americans, of course,’ says Beatrice. ‘Coming over here and thinking they could
buy
a bit of class. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the Australians—’

Rufus glares at her. ‘Be
quiet
, Granny.’

‘What’s the problem here?’ asks Mum. ‘Our money not good enough for you?’

‘No,’ says Beatrice.

‘Shut up,
both
of you!’ I say. ‘Not another
word
!’

The people in this dining room must be having their most entertaining Christmas ever. I can imagine the pleasure they must be getting from having the traditional family row without having to participate themselves.

‘Please,’ says Edmund, ‘take it back.’

‘No,’ says Dad. I think he’s under the impression that this is some British politeness ritual. That if he refuses a couple more times, they will accept it and all will be well. No-one says no to my dad. He’s not used to it.

‘No, really,’ says Edmund.

‘Aah, take it,’ says Dad.

‘No. Thank you, but no,’ says Edmund.