Authors: Marika Cobbold
Eliza
The newspaper article appeared with my picture beneath the open-to-misinterpretation headline of ‘Old is the New New’.
My mother, having got hold of a copy somehow, phoned to say that she thought the new haircut was flattering but that she did not quite see why I had felt the need to dye it black. As I had not had a haircut nor had my hair coloured I was as much at a loss as she was.
Uncle Ian was happy. He Skyped, having read it online. As I listened to him talk all about the way my life seemed to be taking off I felt happy; Frankenstein could not have been more proud of his monster than Uncle Ian was of me. He finished the conversation by saying that Rose was as pleased as he was. That unsettled me all over again. I couldn’t make sense of it, the way he seemed completely rational in every way but for this insistence that he spoke to Rose. I had asked Katarina about it. She said that in her view there were more things between heaven and earth. I had felt she could have tried to come up with something a little more helpful and anyway she’d got the quote wrong. Because I was annoyed I told her. ‘I think it’s “in”, actually. As in “there are more things
in
heaven and earth.” ’ Then, feeling bad for being rude, I had added that it did seem odd. I mean who says ‘in earth’? None of this, of course, had got me any closer to the truth about Uncle Ian and Rose.
Ruth phoned to tell me she was so sorry about the photographs.
Archie, lying in wait in his usual spot, felt compelled to tell me that I was not the first celebrity they had had in the area. Not by a long shot. I had assured him that I a) knew that and b) never imagined that an appearance in a Sunday supplement made me a celebrity. Archie had countered with the warning that I might nevertheless be stalked and murdered on my doorstep especially as I lived on my own and had some ‘unfortunate acquaintances’. I told him my stepsister really wasn’t that bad, which had made him choke and splutter and apologise.
My five minutes of fame also brought a small, dark-haired child to my doorstep. I found her there when I returned from work, a girl of about eight or nine, all knees, teeth and eyes, seated on my doorstep with a plastic crate in her lap. As I approached she struggled to her feet, the box in her arms.
Her name was Annie Bauer, she told me, and she lived in Number 12. ‘Sometimes,’ she added. She had read about me in the newspaper and she wondered if I could mend her jug, or rather her father’s jug.
I stifled a sigh. On the bus ride home I had been thinking of nothing else but a glass of wine, a bowl of salted almonds and sitting with my feet up in front of the television.
‘I’m a bit busy right now but I’m working from home tomorrow so why don’t you come back then?’ I unlocked the door and was about to step inside when I realised that the child had not moved away. I gave her house across the square a meaningful look. She looked at me.
‘I can’t. Daddy is home tomorrow too and I want it to be a surprise.’ She sighed theatrically. ‘I can’t go anywhere when he is around, without him knowing.’
‘So why don’t I take it in with me and then we can talk about it once I’ve had a chance to examine it. Tomorrow.’
But the child Annie somehow managed to sneak past me into the hall. She was quick, you had to give her that. ‘I don’t think I should leave it with you just like that,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean to be rude or anything but it’s a nice jug and I don’t even know you.’
I sighed again. ‘All right. We’ll take it to the studio and have a look.’ I paused. ‘Actually, you should not get into the habit of going into strangers’ houses.’
‘You’re not a stranger. You’re the woman who moved into Number 2 and we hope hasn’t tarted it up beyond all recognition.’
I gave her a long look. ‘I am, am I. Still, as you said yourself, we don’t
know
, know each other so you should really have an adult’s permission.’
‘I do,’ she said. ‘You’re an adult and you’ve given me permission.’ She stepped further into the hall.
Good try, I thought. ‘I mean a proper adult. Of course I am a proper adult. What I mean is an adult belonging to you.’ Warming to the subject, I went on, ‘In fact I think that according to the latest regulations you need a permit in order to entertain strange children on your premises.’
‘I’m not a strange child,’ Annie said. She looked offended. ‘And I’m not asking to be entertained.’
I sighed again. ‘When I said “strange” I meant simply a child unknown to me,
previously
unknown to me.’ I corrected myself before the child did. ‘And when I said entertain, I didn’t mean as in juggling or telling jokes, I meant hosting.’
‘Hm.’
‘I don’t think we’re really getting anywhere,’ I said.
It was the child’s turn to sigh. ‘I’ll get Sheila,’ she said. ‘She’ll sort this out.’ She was still holding the crate. She gave me a look as if to tell me she was on to me, put the crate down and walked out. I closed the door and thought of bolting it. I didn’t think a simple string of garlic would work with that child. Then again if I didn’t let her back in she would probably call the police to say I had stolen her broken pot.
A few minutes later the child reappeared, this time with a blonde woman in tow, a different blonde woman from the one who had walked off with the suitcase. This one was older. How much older was difficult to say as she belonged to the old-fashioned school of middle age, the one that still favoured elasticated waistbands over a work-out and who believed sun was good for the skin.
Her name, she said, was Sheila Wilkinson and she was Mr Bauer’s housekeeper. The fact that she was anyone’s housekeeper, she managed to imply, was one of life’s little ironies.
‘It’s so lovely to finally meet you,’ she added. ‘I would have had you over but my little quarters don’t really lend themselves to entertaining. Although Mr Bauer has of course said that I must treat the place as my own. He’s . . .’
‘He only said that,’ the child interrupted. ‘But I don’t think he really meant it. It’s because he works with Dr Wilkinson that he feels he should.’
Sheila Wilkinson’s cheeks coloured. ‘Well, that’s just silly. Whom my ex-husband works with should have nothing to do with it. I shall have to have a word with your father.’
I felt for her. She wasn’t someone I instinctively warmed to, but I had to sympathise with anyone who had to spend her days battling the child Annie. I glared at the girl. I might have imagined it but I thought she looked a little ashamed.
‘Well, all I can say is that you don’t know how lucky you are to have your own place until it’s gone.’ Sheila made sweeping movements with her arm, taking in my little house and the pretty garden.
‘I am lucky, I know.’
Sheila peered at me. ‘There’s no need to look so upset about it,’ she said.
‘Would you like to come in for a moment?’ I asked her.
As we walked though the hall to the kitchen I apologised for the bag slung on the floor and the letters still on the mat, explaining that I had just got back from work and hoping she might take pity on me and remove the child without too much delay. Sheila said she was used to untidy houses, going on to tell me all about the mess created by Annie’s father. ‘It makes you wonder,’ she said, ‘it really does. How he can be so organised in his work, I mean.’
I opened a bottle of white wine and poured two glasses. I offered the child a glass of apple juice. She said that she would rather have coffee. I turned to Sheila, who said that Annie would love some apple juice.
I never could understand people who yearned for their childhoods. It was a time of powerlessness, a time when you couldn’t even pick your own drink. I shot the child an apologetic glance.
‘Yes, people who meet Mr Bauer at the hospital would be amazed if they saw him at home. It’s like two completely different people.’
‘Really,’ I smiled.
‘Oh, absolutely. All those little nurses and his female patients who think he’s some kind of god. “Yes, Mr Bauer, No, Mr Bauer, three bags full, Mr Bauer.” ’ She must have realised how sour she sounded because she rearranged her disappointed features into a smile. As smiles went it wasn’t very successful. I thought I would tell Uncle Ian about her. ‘She’s just like Grandmother Eva’s sister,’ I would tell him. ‘Your Aunt Berit. The one who never forgave the world.’ I realised that I had no idea for what Berit could not forgive the world. Maybe Grandmother Eva had never got around to telling us.
‘Yes, they should see him at home,’ she was saying, ‘creating chaos, slopping round in those awful old jogging bottoms.’
It was odd, I thought, this need some women appeared to have to infantilise the men around them by sharing quasi-embarrassing little facts around. Maybe it was a way of claiming ownership? ‘Daddy says he knows where everything is unless some interfering busybody has moved it all around.’
Sheila coloured, starting from the neck. Then she proceeded to talk about the weather. It was un-seasonally seasonal, we both agreed. She drank up her wine. I didn’t offer her another glass. I reckoned it was best to take this good neighbour thing one step at the time.
Turning to Annie, Sheila said, ‘You’re not to be late.’
‘Annie’s not going with you?’ I realised I was speaking rather loudly and they both looked at me, surprised.
The child said, ‘I want to show you my jug.’
‘She wants to show you her jug,’ Sheila said.
I closed the front door behind her and picked up the box. ‘All right then,’ I said to the child. ‘Let’s do this.’
Once inside the workshop I put the box on the table in my reception area and picked out the largest piece. Having inspected it I looked at Annie with renewed respect. ‘That’s some jug,’ I said. ‘Or bits of jug. How did it get broken? Did you drop it?’
Annie shook her head. ‘Daddy did.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘He threw it at the wall.’
‘Oh
dear
.’
She looked up at me with huge dark eyes. ‘Andrea gave it to him. I think he is sorry he broke it. Please can you mend it?’
‘It’s an expensive business, a proper restoration.’
‘Andrea gave it to him,’ she said again. Tears welled up in the brown eyes.
I stifled a sigh. Then I thought, why not? Thanks to Uncle Ian I could afford to do a bit of
pro bono
restoration. ‘All right. I’ll see what I can do. But it will take time. It’s not simply gluing a few bits together.’
The tears dried so quickly she might have used a blow dryer. ‘Thanks.’ She beamed a smile at me.
‘No worries,’ I said. ‘And tell your father that if he’s going to throw china around to throw something a bit less like eighteenth-century Spode.’
The child told me that he had not thrown it ‘around’ but straight at the wall. ‘He’s a very good fast bowler.’
‘I suppose you should be running along back to your place,’ I said, thinking of supper. And television.
The child had made herself comfortable, cross-legged on the chair. ‘It’s all right. Daddy won’t be back for ages yet. I might as well stay here.’
I was used to guests taking a hint. Then again I was used to adults.
‘Sheila doesn’t like girls, she only likes boys.’
‘Well, then, she’s very unfair. And she’s missing out.’
‘Actually, she really only likes Daddy. She says all he needs is the love of a good woman. I think she means herself. She says he needs to be mothered because Granny was in the jungle.’
‘What was your granny doing in the jungle?’
The child shrugged her scrawny shoulders. ‘I don’t remember. I think she’s still there, though.’
‘Really?’
Annie shrugged again. ‘We think so. I’ve certainly never seen her. Anyway, all the women tell me that Daddy needs to be mothered.’
‘All the women?’
‘Andrea and before that it was the French lady, Yvonne, and even Mummy. Well, she used to say he needed mothering but she doesn’t say it any more because she’s got two babies to look after now so she hasn’t any time for a big one. She barely has time to look after me, actually.’
I gave the child a quick glance. She sounded relaxed enough but that didn’t mean she felt that way. But she had her face turned away so I couldn’t tell for sure.
‘I liked Andrea.’ She sounded wistful.
I had felt a niggle of concern as we spoke and now I felt I had to voice it, but casually. Or as casually as one could when dealing with such a potentially serious issue. ‘Your daddy doesn’t throw things at you, does he?’
The child looked at me, surprised, then she burst into peals of laughter. ‘Daddy? Of course not.’ She turned serious again. ‘I’m sorry Andrea moved out and I think Daddy is too although he won’t admit it. It had taken me ages to get used to her.’
‘So where’s your mummy now?’
‘She’s on a divorce cruise with Auntie Megan.’
‘A divorce cruise?’
‘Yes,’ Annie nodded. ‘Auntie Megan got divorced from Uncle Tony and Mummy got divorced from Dan.’
The child’s eyes misted up. ‘I didn’t really like Dan to start with because he wasn’t Daddy and I didn’t like his boy Will either, or the new babies, but Mummy told me I had to love them because we were a family. So I did and then Mummy and Dan got divorced and now she says I shouldn’t mind because Dan isn’t even my Daddy. I don’t even see Will any more.’