Authors: Serena Mackesy
‘Stuffed – how you call it? – armadillo.’
‘A what?’
I hear him shift his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘I know. That’s what I said. She go out to buy sunglass, and when she come back, she got an armadillo. All dusty, like, in a glass box. I said, Colleen, what we need one-a them for? And you know what she said?’
‘I dread to think.’
He raises his voice in imitation of my mother. ‘Oh, but, Adonis, I saw him in the shop window and he looked so lonely.’
Yes, that’s right. My father’s name is Adonis, all five foot six of his hairy-backed self. Most people call him Don, though. I don’t suppose more than a fifth of them know what it’s short for.
‘Well, maybe she can put him with the spiny anteater in the hall.’
He sighs. ‘Don’t even joke about it.’
I realise that I am stalling. I may have given Rufus a hard time about not coming clean to his family, but now it comes down to brass tacks, I’m as much of a coward as he is. I think maybe I’ll start with Mum. Mothers are always easiest when it comes to breaking surprise news. It’s because they live their whole lives expecting the police to come round and tell them your school’s collapsed. And besides, she’s right there, now, wrestling with Dad over control of the handset. ‘Give it,’ she says. ‘Go on. Give it. I want to talk to her. Give-it-to-me-Don. Now.’
I can see the dance in my mind’s eye, the ritual they perform hourly over the telephone; Mum hopping about around the outside while my dad forms the hunch-shouldered, free-hand-waving totem around which the world circles.
‘Ho-ho-hold on,’ he says to me, then: ‘I am talking to my daughter right now, if you don’t mind.’
‘She’s my daughter too!’ protests my mum.
‘Yes, and you can speak to her when I’m finished.’
‘Hello!’ I bellow from the other side of the world. ‘Would you mind saving it for when I’m not paying a million dollars a minute calling you from the airport? Just – just one of you get on the line, would you?’
The credit card reader informs me that I have already spent over £8 sterling, and I haven’t even started on my confession.
A brief interlude, then Mum’s voice breaks through.
‘Hello, lovey! How
are
you? We’d just about given you up for dead!’
‘I’m great, Ma. I’m really great.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Gatwick Airport.’
‘Hellfire, Melody,’ she says, ‘what are you doing there? Last I heard you were going round the Med.’
‘I know. I …’ I’ve got to tell her. I gather my courage. ‘Yeah, well, something’s sort of come up …’
‘Never mind,’ she says. My mum’s always been good at blocking things that make her uncomfortable. ‘As long as you’re enjoying yourself. Hey, Mel, did your father tell you Costa’s bought a new car?’
‘No. But he told me about the armadillo.’
‘Oh, that,’ she says. ‘Way he goes on you’d have thought it was a diamond collar for the dog or summink.’
‘Look, Ma!’ I say. ‘Shaddap a second. I’ve got something to tell you.’
Suddenly, she’s all concern. ‘What is it, lovey? Are you OK? Do you need some money?’
‘No,’ I say. I do wish they didn’t always think everything can be sorted by throwing cash at it. ‘No, I’m fine.’
‘What is it, then? You’re not – oh God – you’re not …’
Another struggle at the end of the line, and Dad is back on, wheezing and chomping in equal measure.
‘Melody!’ he shouts. ‘What did we teach you? Didn’t we bring you up proper?’
‘Oh Jeez, Dad—’ I begin.
‘No!’ he cries. ‘You don’t make it better with profanities! How this happen? Who is it? How you coulda been so blood’ stupid? Tell me his name, and I’ll …’
Yeah, yeah. Keel him.
Rufus, standing next to me, picks up the buzz of threat and imprecation over the bustle of the concourse, turns and raises his eyebrows at me. I shake my head.
‘I’m not telling you anything till you calm down.’
Dad tries another tack. ‘Baby,’ he says in the Understanding Father voice that always used to put the wind up Costa and me when we were kids, ‘don’t worry. We’ll stand by you, whatever you decide. You know you’ve always got your family—’
I try to stop him. ‘Dad!’
‘… least your mother and me still got our strength, eh? You’ll see, Baby. It won’t be the end of the—’
I take a deep breath and bellow into the mouthpiece. ‘DAD! I AM NOT BLOODY PREGNANT, OK? I GOT MARRIED!’
A clatter, then, sounding startled, my mum. ‘Your father just burned a hole in the rug. Did you say what I think you just said?’
‘If you think I just said I’d got married, then yuh-huh.’
She sounds dazed. ‘But, Melody, you’ve not even been gone three months.’
‘I know. It was just … that was all it took. I met Rufus and I just
knew
…’
‘In England? You got married in England?’
‘No, in Malta. But he’s English, and I …’
To my shock, she bursts, loudly, into tears.
Dad comes back on the line. I’m appalled to hear him close to tears as well. I’d thought – you know – that there would be the odd gurgle and then a great gush of jubilation. But suddenly, my dad sounds old and confused. ‘Why you no tell us, Melody?’ he asks, and his voice catches in his throat.
‘I …’ I realise that I don’t have the right vocabulary for this sort of situation. ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I say humbly. ‘It’s just – we did it so fast that there wasn’t time.’
‘No time? Your mother and father? Your own
family
? There is
always
time!’ This last comes as a wail, and I find myself gulping in response. You’re not supposed to cry. Not
cry
. I’ve got
married
.
Mum, back on the line and slightly more composed: ‘Your father can’t talk for a minute, sweetie. He’s a bit upset right now. I know he’s pleased for you really. It’s just he’s—’
I’m crying myself now. Partly surprise, partly because I’ve been saving up to go through this, and now it’s here I’m liking it even less than I had expected. Rufus has his hand on my shoulder and looks confused. ‘But why?’ My words come out in a croak. ‘Why’s he upset?’
‘Oh, Melody. Give us some credit. You spring something like this on us, you can’t expect us not to react. You must know why he’s upset. It’s one of the biggest things he’s ever looked forward to, giving you away. You know how he’s always gone on about it. He’s been waiting for it ever since you were born! We both – I can’t believe I wasn’t
there
!’ A sob slips out.
I feel like I’ve just been laid out on a slab and gutted. No wonder I got the reaction I did from Mary if this is the way my own parents feel. Have we really been that selfish?
‘Oh, Mum!’ I’m all tears and snot myself, now, because it has suddenly become very clear to me that I’ve screwed up, that I’ll never have another wedding day and my most precious people were cut out of the loop. I wish they’d been there and there’s nothing I can do to make it so. One unrepeatable moment, and I threw it away like it was a birthday party or something.
My dad’s back on the line, nobly trying his best to speak clearly. ‘Baby,’ he snuffles, ‘we’re not angry. Really. We are happy. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t want to cry on your wedding day. Tell me who this man is? Who is your husband?’
‘He’s called Rufus,’ I tell him, ‘and, Daddy, he’s the best!’
‘I don’t want nothin’ else for my daughter,’ he growls. ‘Though I don’t know what sort of man marries a woman without her family. So tell me – he looking after you OK?’
‘Yeah. He’s – oh, Daddy, I know you’ll love him. I so want you to meet him!’
‘H’OK,’ says my dad, and blows his nose. Mum must have got some paper towels from the kitchen. ‘So what he like? Is English, yes?’
‘Yes. Daddy, he’s right here beside me. Do you want to speak to him?’
Rufus looks faintly aghast. Dad sounds fairly much as aghast himself. This passing-the-phone-over thing isn’t really part of the male canon. ‘Oh. H’OK,’ says Dad doubtfully. I hold the phone out to Rufus, point at it. He steps back, waves opened palms across themselves, eyes like soup plates.
I throw him a glare of pure venom. There’s no way he’s getting away with this. Not after he made me talk to his mother without even getting to put a dress on. He drops his protest, meekly, steps forward and puts the earpiece to his ear. My word. I would have made an excellent teacher.
‘Hello, Mr Katsouris?’ The look of rabbit-like terror softens to your normal pommy twitchiness.
‘Thanks. Thank you. Yes, that’s right. Wattestone. But I don’t think she’s taking it.’
He barks with sycophantic laughter. ‘You’re right there.’
Rufus is conducting a frenzied palpitation of his scalp as he speaks. ‘I know. Yes, I know. And I’m so sorry. I just, Mr Katsouris – Don – I’m so in love with your daughter and I couldn’t …’
Good man. The right thing to say. Daddies always need to know that their daughters are still theirs, even when those daughters
would
be grandmothers in the Yemen.
‘Yes, I will. I swear I will. I know that. I think so too. She’s – well, she’s amazing. I really do appreciate that. I swear. I’ll cherish her and love her for the rest of my life, I promise you that.’
A pause, then a smile. ‘Yes, you can,’ he says, ‘but it will never happen.’
Ah. The threats have come out, then. He’s nothing if not predictable, my dad.
‘Yes. Soon. Yes, in England. In the Cotswolds, you know where that is? Well, yes, not so far from there. Nearer to Cheltenham, I suppose, but not that near there, even. Halfway between there and Oxford. It’s sort of quite in the middle of the country. Well, not by Australian standards, of course …’ another gust of slightly nervous laughter, ‘… Yes. Don’t worry. I give you my word. Sorry? Yes, yes please. I’d love to. OK. Yes, absolutely. Yes, it’s been lovely to talk to you too. Goodbye.’
Another pause. My mother has obviously been scrabbling for the handset.
I look away at the concourse as he launches into another round of pleasantries, try to get some hook on my new world. I can’t say it looks much different from anywhere else yet, except that the people are, generally, paler, and they’re making themselves sick gorging on sausage rolls rather than Chicky Sticks or rice birds or chicken-fried steak.
I turn back. Rufus is assuring my mother that he values me above rubies or something, and promising that we will all meet soon. I can picture her, already in her curlers – because if it’s two o’clock here, that must make it midnight back home – standing next to her stuffed animals with my dad strutting about beside her, and I’m assailed by a wave of homesickness so strong I have for a moment to lean against the booth for support. God, I miss them. I may have run away from it all, but I really, really miss my mum. I even miss my stinky brother. There’s another prick of tears behind my eyes. By the time Rufus hands me back, I’m totally bunged up.
‘Oh, darling,’ says my mum, ‘he sounds lovely.’
‘He is, Mum. He is,’ I assure her, and start blubbing despite myself.
‘Well, don’t
cry
about it,’ she says sensibly, then starts doing it herself. ‘Look, I’m going to hang up now. You take care of yourself, all right?’
‘I will, Mum, and you too.’
‘We miss you,’ she says.
‘And I miss you.’
‘And we’ll see you soon.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll let me know where you are, won’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I tell her.
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘I love you, Melody,’ says my mum, ‘and your dad does too. Very much.’
‘I love you too,’ I wail.
‘Bye, lovey.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
I put the phone back in its cradle, and take a few seconds to scrub at my face before I turn out to look at my husband.
‘That wasn’t
so
bad.’ I try to sound cheerful.
‘That was bloody awful,’ he responds, with far more gusto than I could manage. ‘But it’s done now. You OK?’
I do a huge snort, nod. ‘Yeah, I’m OK.’
‘Come on, then, Mrs W. Let’s go home.’
I grab the strap of my bag and follow him into my new life.
They like their anoraks. They are everywhere I look. Every third person is wearing one, even though, despite a sky that looks like it’s been cast from lead, I can’t see any real signs of rain. I think that this is your actual sartorial choice.
Rufus has bought a copy of a broadsheet paper, the
Daily Telegraph
, and sits with his legs extended, heels to the floor, holding it open as he leafs through it. The main headline on the front page says something like ‘New Labour further undermines business with childcare deal for single mothers. World to end’. The downpage headlines read: ‘Russians “untrustworthy” says report’ and ‘Elizabeth Hurley attends society dentist’. We’ve been lucky to get a seat. Two minutes later, and we would have been lucky to get through the doors, especially as the stations don’t seem to be equipped with professional pushers on the platforms like in Tokyo. There’s obviously been some sort of screw-up, as there are only two cars making up this train, and a good four hundred people trying to ride it.
‘Christ,’ I say to Rufus, ‘there will be heads rolling for this.’
He lowers his newspaper. ‘What?’
‘Well, either something’s gone wrong with the rolling stock or someone’s ordered up the wrong train.’
He looks blank. ‘Huh?’
I jerk my chin at the red-faced hordes who cling grimly to handles and seat backs, muttering ‘surr-eh’ over and over in that open-vowelled British fashion as another jerk of carriage on points flings them into the solar plexuses of their neighbours. ‘They’ve only got two cars to get this lot to Hereford.’
He looks vaguely about him, as if taking in for the first time that he is not alone. ‘Mmm, yes …’ he says. ‘I suppose it
is
a bit crowded.’
A bit crowded? Well, yes, in a similar way to how the Black Death was a bit contagious. Or Norman Bates was a tad oedipal. All we need is a couple of uniformed guards with guns, and we’ve got a Spielberg movie.
‘Is it always like this?’
The elbow in my face shifts a bit, and its owner says: ‘Yes.’