The Various (45 page)

‘It had better hurry up,’ he said.

Eventually they stood up and pulled the plank back from the lagoon. The far end was messy, and so they dragged it through the weeds and thistles for a while until it was relatively clean again. This took a bit of time, and when they returned to the edge of the lagoon the sack was three-quarters gone.

‘I’m bored with this,’ said Katie. ‘Think I’ll go back now.’

But George and Midge stayed to witness the passing of Tojo, hugging their knees in sombre silence until the dark hessian sack finally disappeared altogether beneath the surface of the lagoon. The last little corner looked disconcertingly like an ear, the tip of a cat’s ear, pricked up, listening – though there was nothing to hear but the song of the flies, a humming choir, a final serenade to accompany Tojo into the underworld.

Chapter Twenty-eight

KATIE WENT UPSTAIRS
to have another shower (‘I can
still
smell old cabbage leaves on me – ughh!’) and Midge and George wandered into the sitting room. George put the TV on and flicked disinterestedly around the channels, whilst Midge leaned over the back of the battered sofa and looked out of the window.

‘Fancy a game of Cluedo, or something?’ said George, but Midge shook her head. ‘Not really.’

‘Think I might go and muck about in the tree house then.’

‘ ’Kay. I might come over later.’

George wandered off and Midge was left alone in the quiet room, hearing the distant rumble of the shower upstairs, and the faint dull thud of Katie’s CD system. She leaned further over the sofa and opened a window, letting in the summer sounds of the birds and insects. It struck her again how very different it was here, compared to the flat in Streatham, and how – if only things weren’t such a mess – she could love it. But things
were
a mess. The business at the lagoon had been just horrible. What would make things right, she
wondered
? How could any of this ever come right? She smiled, remembering what Katie had said about fairies at the bottom of the garden. They weren’t at the bottom of the garden though. And they weren’t fairies. They were people. People. That was another funny word, like lagoon.

Lagoonlagoonlagoonlagoooonla. Goonla. Goon.

People. Peepull. Pee. Pullpee. Pullpeepullpeepull.

The sound of the car coming up the lane took her by surprise, she had been so lost in her thoughts. Now, suddenly, she felt nervous about seeing her mum. Really nervous. What would she be like? She imagined her mum in dark glasses and a headscarf. Her mum never wore a headscarf. Nobody did. Except the Queen.

She got off the creaky sofa, intending to go to the front door, but then remained where she was, standing, watching through the open window. The nose of the red estate appeared in the gateway, dipping over the bumps, and the car swung round, pulling noisily into the yard. The engine cut out, and again she could hear the bass thump of Katie’s CD system from upstairs. The car doors didn’t open straight away.

Uncle Brian wound down the car window, and looked out, pointing up at the roof of the house – craning his neck in order to see something – then withdrew and turned towards the shadowy figure in the passenger seat. He suddenly slumped forwards, and his head touched the steering wheel. The horn gave a little toot. Midge could hear him laughing. The
passenger
door opened and she saw her mum’s head appear over the top of the car. She too was laughing, shading her eyes against the sun, and squinting up at the roof of the house. She wasn’t wearing dark glasses or a headscarf.

Midge ran out of the room and into the hallway to open the heavy front door. The Deputation from Rhode Island scattered, as she leapt over the threshold and bounded down the flagstone path, narrowly avoiding the wellington boot. ‘Mum!’

‘Hey! Look at
you
, Miss Suntan!’

Her mum smelled of all the things she had missed – and she clung on tight,
tight
, burying her head against the clean soft linen, feeling the buttons pressing into her cheek, the cool fingers upon her neck. She squeezed hard and saw the golden glint, blurry through the tears, of the tiny buckles on her mum’s unsuitable shoes.

‘Are you OK?’ she whispered. ‘Are you OK, Mum?’

‘I’m OK.’ The calm hands stroked the top of her head. ‘These crack-ups aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.’

It was a line – and one that had been rehearsed – but Midge could tell that her mum was still her mum. She hadn’t gone anywhere.

‘Missed you,’ she said, and meant it so much that she said it again, ‘Missed you, Mummy.’

The click and clack of her mother’s heels sounded strange on the red brick floor of the farmhouse kitchen, and her perfume seemed oddly exotic in the
atmosphere
of cooking smells and wood ash that came from the old Rayburn. She walked around with the sleeves of her smart navy-blue jacket pushed up slightly, her arms half-folded, shaking her head in wonderment.

‘How long has it been, Brian?’ she said. ‘I just can’t believe how nothing –
nothing
– has changed. In twelve years. Nothing. Even that old alarm clock – I remember that.’

Uncle Brian made a pot of tea. Slow and comfortable he seemed, unhurried in his movements, slightly clumsy – banging the kettle noisily against the tap, struggling a little to get the lid back on. How unalike they were, thought Midge. Brother and sister – you wouldn’t have guessed it.

‘I’ve never seen you drink tea before,’ her mum said, as Midge picked up her mug and took a sip.

‘I know. I’ve sort of got used to it.’

‘Do you know where George is?’ said Uncle Brian, ‘And Katie?’

‘Um, Katie’s in the shower, I think, and George said he was going over to the tree house.’

‘Excuse me for a minute, then, whilst I round them up.’

When Uncle Brian had left the kitchen, her mum said, ‘Listen, darling, now might be a good moment to explain what’s been going on with me.’ She pulled her chair a little closer to the table, and hunched forward slightly, tapping a neat fingernail against the handle of her cup. Her mum didn’t look like other people’s mums – she was prettier. She still looked young, alive.
Her
hair was always nice. ‘It helps,’ she had sometimes said, ‘with the job, I’m afraid – not having a face like the back of a bus. It sounds terrible, I know, and it shouldn’t matter, but presentation is part of everything nowadays. Even stuffy old orchestral music.’ And it was true. Midge had seen the Philharmonic on TV a few times – and had noticed how the camera seemed to come back to her mum’s face more often than to any of the other players. She could see why it would.

‘About eighteen months ago – actually it must be more like two years – this weird thing happened to me. I was playing in Berlin. Strauss. And I was up on the stand, not nervous, particularly – it wasn’t our first night, or anything, and I’d played the piece tons of times. We were just about to start, and I looked at the dots – the music – and suddenly none of it
meant
anything. I knew what the notes were – it’s difficult to explain – but it was just a pattern on the page. I’d lost the sense of it, somehow. All my concentration went. I saw the dots, but they were all just . . .’

‘Like when you keep saying the same word? Over and over – like “lagoon”.’

‘Sorry?’

‘If you keep saying “lagoon”, then after a while it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a funny sound. Lagoonlagoonlagoon.’

Her mum looked at her. ‘Actually, that’s very good. It
was
a bit like that. Yes, just patterns that didn’t mean anything. Anyway, it didn’t last long, and once we’d started I was all right. But it frightened the
life
out of me – and of course I was worried that it would happen
again
. Which it did –
and
it got worse. I was fine by myself, practising, and in rehearsals, but as soon as there was the pressure of actual performances, I’d get this weird thing. And you just can’t
be
that way. Not if you want to hold down a chair in a top-flight orchestra, you can’t. So this last couple of years hasn’t been easy. It’s affected me, and so it affects us – you and me – because I’m on edge all the time, and now, two weeks into this tour, I’ve suddenly had enough. I’m just not going to do it any more. And it’s not such an uncommon thing. I’ve talked to other players – had to in the end, because you can’t easily disguise the fact that there’s something wrong, not at that level – and everyone knows of someone that it’s happened
to
. They take tablets, beta blockers, whatever, get counselling. But not me. I’m simply going to stop. Pack it all in, for the time being anyway. It’s shaken me up, and I’m sad to walk away from it all – but so relieved at the same time.’

She reached out and held Midge’s hand. ‘And I’m so glad to be here,’ she said, smiling, ‘and with you. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. And I’m also
very
excited about something else – I have some news, but it can wait for a moment till Brian gets back. You look
fantastic
, by the way. Really healthy and well. Have you been OK? What’s been happening with you?’

Here was the first test. She wanted to tell. She didn’t like having secrets, she was discovering – and she really didn’t like having secrets from her mum. Through all their ups and downs, the happy times and the angry times, she had always been able to
unburden
herself, to tell her mum what was on her mind. Secrets were like lies, weren’t they? She didn’t like telling lies, and she didn’t like having to cover things up – but now she was going to have to.

‘Oh, well,’ she began, ‘actually, it’s been great here. Much more . . . interesting . . . than I thought it would be. Really, I just love it. Honestly, I do. George has got a tree house. And a wind-up gramophone. We’ve been sleeping in it – the tree house, I mean, not the . . .’

But then George wandered in, flicking his hair back and being George. Uncle Brian’s voice was saying, ‘Here we are, then. Come on, Katie.’ And suddenly the kitchen was full of chatter.

‘Hallo,
George
! Looking handsomer than ever, I see. Come and give your mad auntie a kiss!’ George submitted to this indignity, blushing a little. ‘And Katie! Wow! Just
look
at you! I bet she’s breaking a few hearts around here, Brian.’

‘Breaks mine, on a more or less daily basis,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘Kidding – just kidding!’ he added, as Katie scowled at him from beneath her towel-turban.

‘Hallo, Auntie Christine,’ said Katie. ‘How are you, er . . . feeling?’

‘I’m absolutely fine, darling. Really. I’ve just been telling Midge about it. All that’s happened is I’ve decided to stop playing for a while. It just got to be too much pressure. Tell you what – shall we drop the “Auntie” bit? I’ve never like being called “Auntie”. It makes me feel so old – especially now that you’re all getting to be so grown-up. I much prefer Christine, or Chris.’

‘I quite like being called “Uncle”,’ said Uncle Brian.

‘Well, you
look
like an uncle,’ said Christine. ‘But then you always did.’

‘Thanks!’ laughed Uncle Brian. There was a pause, a slightly uncomfortable silence, and so Christine took a deep breath and said, ‘Shall we tell them? Straight away? I mean there’s no point in delaying it, is there?’

‘OK. You do it. You’re better than me, at talking.’

‘Don’t know whether that’s a compliment or not, but OK – here goes. Well, I had an idea – the beginnings of an idea, anyway – some little while ago. Just a daydream, really. I think maybe I was looking for ways of giving up the playing before all this happened – jumping before I was pushed, so to speak – and that I was already imagining how life might be without it. Anyway, I told Brian about it, coming down on the train, and we’ve been talking non-stop all the way. Now, it’s just an
idea
, and by tomorrow it might seem like a very
bad
idea. Also, it depends – a lot – on what you three make of it all. So, nothing is
fixed
yet – OK? Don’t imagine that this is what’s
going
to happen. But it’s what
could
happen if we all agree.’

Christine put her hands to her cheeks for a moment, then pushed her hair back behind her ears, as she stopped to think. Midge knew that something big was coming – and that it had already as good as happened, whatever it was. Her mum was not one to dither about. Once she’d made up her mind, that was it. It was to do with Mill Farm. Her mum was going to take over the sale – they were going to sell up and move to Cardiff, they were going to plough up the
forest
and grow carnations, they were going into the logging business, they were going to start a bicycle hire company in Norway . . . It was another of Uncle Brian’s mad schemes, and now her mum was going that way too and everything was about to change . . .

There was a child’s drawing in ballpoint pen, faint indentations in the chipped cream paintwork of the kitchen table top. It looked like it was supposed to be a cat. The ink had faded, but the marks remained. Underneath the drawing there were three letters – K, A, and T. Was that supposed to be ‘cat’ or ‘Katie’, Midge wondered? She let her middle finger trace the outline of the drawing, feeling the slight grooves and ridges in the discoloured paintwork. She suddenly felt sad, and exhausted. It had been such a long day. Some horrible things had happened, and now she was sure that there was worse to come.