The Daughter (7 page)

 

Chapter 9

DORSET, 2010

ONE YEAR LATER

T
he old lady stares at me, confusion in her eyes, and then frowns as she looks around the room. “I was weeding the step . . .”

I slip my hand from under hers. I've been careful to avoid tangling with other lives, but it's beginning to feel too late: I can't leave her yet.

“I think you fainted.” Her eyes turn to me as I continue. “I live opposite—­I've seen you . . .”

She nods and smiles. She's seen me too, of course; she must have noticed that I've kept myself apart in the village. She probably knows about Naomi too. “I'm Mary,” she says.

“I'm Jenny. Can I phone anyone?” I glance at the photos. “Your family?”

“I'll be right as rain in two minutes.” She looks unhappily around her kitchen. “It's so untidy.” To me it seems vibrant with life.

“Sorry I've caused you this trouble.” She continues, “I'd offer you a cup of tea . . .” Her voice is uncertain.

“I'll make it.”

The metal kettle sits neatly on the stove. In the fridge there are bowls covered in plastic wrap, bagged lettuce leaves, brown eggs in an enamel dish. A china milk jug with a yellow cow painted on the front. On the shelf next to the sugar is a stack of cardboard boxes: furosemide and perindopril. Medication to lower her blood pressure may have lowered it so much she fainted. I find a little brown teapot on the shelf above the tablets and two china mugs.

Drawing a stool near the sofa for the mugs, I pick up a cushion from the chair and slide it under her neck. Her skin is cool.

“Can I get you a blanket?”

She sips her tea and color edges into her pale cheeks. She nods toward a door.

“Through there, if you can be bothered, dear.”

As I go through into her bedroom, I am invading deeper into her territory. She has held on to it; luckier than my mother, who had to relinquish hers. Her hovering dementia took hold after Naomi disappeared and she died without knowing who I was, though she had been all right when she gave me the cottage. Everything had still been all right then.

BRISTOL, 2009

SIX DAYS BEFORE

It was dark early morning when I drove into the front entrance court of my mother's housing complex. Little globes of light picked out identical pathways that spread like fingers to shining front doors. A lifetime that had been spent marking out and burnishing her territory had shrunk to a path and a door that were the same as everyone else's.

Her fragility surprised me each time. The blotched skin of her hands stretched thinly over deep blue veins, crêpey lids drooped over her pale eyes. Moving slowly with her walker, she led the way into the soulless little sitting room. As I massaged her lumpy feet, her talk turned quickly to the Dorset cottage. She wanted me to have it. I thought of the early family holidays there with our children, the salty swimsuits flung to dry over the stone garden walls, the sound of seagulls, the sloping bedroom walls, the ammonites my father had built into the outside walls. It was tempting, but I hesitated.

“Please, Jenny. Take it. Have it now. Kate doesn't want it. One less worry for me. I've seen my lawyer.”

One more worry for me though. The children had long grown out of the cottage. They liked windsurfing in Lefkada and the little cafés in Corfu. Ted loved fishing in Wales with his friends.

WHEN I ARRIVED
home, Naomi was on her way out. “Got to go now, Mum.” Her face was flushed; she pushed past me in a hurry. Her dress beneath the open coat was red, low cut with glinting mother-­of-­pearl buttons on the bodice. It looked silky, unfamiliar.

“What's that you're wearing? Isn't it a bit low? What about food?”

“Nikita lent it to me. I'm trying it out for the play.” She turned to look at me accusingly: “The fridge is empty. I'll grab something backstage.” Then she was at the door, pulling it open.

“There must be something in the freezer,” I said quickly. “I'll heat it up.”

“Why did you go to Gran's, then, Mum?” Theo called out loudly. He was sitting at the table leafing through his portfolio and didn't look up.

“Wait a moment. Naomi, when—­”

The door closed behind her.

“Cut her some slack, Ma,” said Theo in a bored voice. “Dress rehearsal tonight, play in a ­couple of days—­she's all over the place.”

I put my bag down on the floor and switched the kettle on. “All over the place?”

“Yeah.” He looked thoughtful. “Cross, then singing, then grumpy again. Just nerves.”

Of course he was right. I made tea for both of us, then dug around in the freezer under loaves of bread and spilling packets of peas until I found some plaice fillets I'd bought months ago and a half-­full bag of fried potatoes.

“So, Mum,” persisted Theo. “Gran. Is she okay?”

I put the fillets on a plate and into the microwave to defrost. “She wants to give us the cottage.”

“Wicked!” His face lit with pleasure; he slid off the kitchen stool. “I'll tell Ed.”

“He's back?”

“Asleep. I'll get him.”

The last time we had gone to the cottage, just over a year ago, they had mostly lounged inside. They went to Bridport for a film. I couldn't remember if they had even gone into the garden, and certainly not as far as the beach.

Ed came down to the kitchen, clothes rumpled, rubbing his eyes, Theo smiling beside him.

“I thought you'd outgrown the cottage,” I said, puzzled.

“If it's ours we can have parties down there.” Ed's voice sounded different, happier. “It would be cool. After finals—­”

“Ed, it's for the family, not parties.”

“I bet Gran wouldn't mind.”

“I would.” They were pushing too far. “It would get into a mess.”

“Don't do that.” Ed frowned.

“What?”

“Pretend to give something and take it away a moment later. I'm going upstairs. I've eaten already.” He walked out of the room.

Theo shrugged. “Yeah, we had some pizza. Got homework.”

“IT'S NORMAL THEY
should want to take a few friends,” Ted said much later, as we sat over supper. “Let them go. It wouldn't kill anyone to let them borrow the cottage.”

At that moment Naomi walked in slowly, her eyes black with tiredness. As she passed me to stand near Ted, I smelled alcohol.

“Darling, have you been drinking?” I asked, surprised. She had never liked the taste when she'd tried it at Christmas and family parties.

She was leaning against the table, taking fried potatoes from Ted's plate, and she stared at me for a moment.

“Makeup remover. Stinks of alcohol, doesn't it?” she said, smiling, her mouth full. Her face was rounder than normal. Thank God she wasn't dieting like her friends, but I didn't like the thought that she might have been drinking, even less that she might be lying. She was shutting me out again. I didn't believe the story about makeup remover. A glass of alcohol didn't matter, but secrets might. I looked at her. She'd changed back into her uniform, her face was clean and shining; she looked like a schoolgirl again. Schoolgirl secrets were harmless. I'd had lots; I couldn't even remember them now.

“What happened to that dress Nikita lent you?” I smiled at her. She needed to know she could share her secrets if she wanted to. I was on her side.

“Mrs. Mears didn't think it was right for Maria.” She shrugged. “She's in charge. What's that about the cottage?”

I explained and she straightened up quickly.

“That's so what we wanted. Unbelievable.”

“Who wanted?”

“We've got the weekend off before the play begins. We could go to the cottage. Just for a day. Tomorrow. Please, Mum.”

“We?”

“The lot from the play, James and everyone.” She paused; she was watching for my reaction. “And Nikita, of course.”

“How would you get there?”

“James drives. If he borrowed his dad's car, we could all fit in.”

“James?”

“He's repeating the year, one above me. He plays Chino.”

“James,” I repeated. I vaguely remembered a redheaded boy who had helped when Naomi was struggling with math a year ago. “Didn't he come round to help you with homework a while back?”

“He helped Nikita too.” She frowned and began to bite her nails.

This was the moment. Her guard was down, and she might be ready to tell me what had been on her mind.

“You all right, darling? Any worries I can help with?” Keep it light.

Her eyes looked strained. “A break would be great. Please, Mum.” She sounded close to tears.

She'd been doing too much. I knew it. Emotional; a little down. Of course she could have the cottage. It would cheer her up. They wouldn't damage anything in a day.

 

Chapter 10

DORSET, 2010

ONE YEAR LATER

T
he colors in Mary's bedroom are warm: terra-­cotta walls, pink circles on the carpet, and a bright blue mohair blanket neatly folded at the bottom of her bed. I pick it up and hold it against my face. A tabby kitten is sleeping on the quilt in a small patch of sun; its delicately patterned sides rise and fall minutely. Through the window there are two dug vegetable patches and brown hens are pecking the ground in a chicken-­wire enclosure. As I look, the sun vanishes. A gray cloud has pulled itself across the sky and the edge hiding the sun is thickly outlined with glowing orange. The blanket feels very soft. As I stand there for a moment, the peace in this room is so palpable that I want to lie on the bed next to the kitten and close my eyes. I haven't sensed peace like this for as long as I can remember. Way back last year maybe, one Saturday in Bristol. Probably the last time Ted and I were together and happy.

BRISTOL, 2009

FIVE DAYS BEFORE

Saturday felt like a holiday. Ted was home. I phoned the hospital in the morning. Jade was stable following her first episode of chemotherapy. I said I would visit after the weekend. I didn't know what I would do or say, but it was a start. Ted and I went to the City Art Gallery, then we had lunch in a pub, reading newspapers side by side. We hadn't done anything like that for a long time; even simple things got edited out by Ted's work. He often, more often lately, spent Saturdays catching up at the hospital. But he seemed absorbed by the pictures in the gallery and though the hospital called him a ­couple of times, and though we were in the midst of jostling crowds, it felt as if we had escaped.

The house was quiet when we came home. On a whim, I borrowed a 3B pencil of Theo's and some of his paper. I began to sketch a picture of Ted as he sat reading through an article that he was writing for the
British Journal of Neurosurgery
. He had his finger to his right eyebrow and was stroking it back and forth as he read. I drew that too. The pencil ran over the white grainy paper, the gravelly friction leaving a thick trail of gray. He looked at me from time to time and smiled. A deep sense of peace unfolded around us. It occurred to me then that this was how it could be one day, when we had done with work and the children had their own lives.

When the door opened quietly, I thought it was the wind and I got up slowly to shut it, unwilling to break the spell. I was surprised to see Naomi was just inside, standing completely still. There was a look on her face that was new. She was intensely preoccupied, looking downward, and her lips were moving. I couldn't tell if she was smiling; I thought for a moment she was counting or perhaps trying to remember something.

“Naomi! You gave me a fright, sweetheart. You're home early.”

“James had to get the car back.”

She didn't look at me, but took her coat off and hung it up.

“How was it?”

“Great.”

“So what did it look like?”

“You know, just the cottage.”

She sounded tired.

“What about the garden?”

“The garden?”

“Was it covered in weeds?”

I hated to think how neglected the garden must look. When she was little, Naomi had loved digging and planting, then discovering what had happened while she had been away between holidays. We hadn't tended to it properly for years now.

“Didn't notice.” She shrugged.

I felt a flash of disappointment. “Did it smell okay in the kitchen?”

“Smell? How is it supposed to smell?” She looked blank.

As a child, she used to run in first and inhale deeply. She said that even the cupboards smelled of the cottage: a grassy, salty smell mixed with the faint scent of polish. “What about upstairs?”

She looked over my head, to where Ted had come to stand behind me.

“Hello, lovely girl. Hungry?” He looked at her, smiling fondly.

She shook her head. “I'm meeting Nikita. I'll go and—­”

“She didn't go with you, then?” I felt confused.

“Yes, she did,” Naomi said quickly. “We didn't get much chance to talk, though . . .” She began to bite her nails.

Ted gave her a hug. “You had a good time and your friends enjoyed it, right?”

She nodded and pulled away quickly. “I need a shower.”

Her voice shook. She was tired, so tired as to be tearful, and I moved toward her. She turned abruptly and as she leaned to pat Bertie, who was pushing against her legs, the light caught a gleam of silver on the index finger of her right hand. I tried again.

“New ring?”

“James gave it to me. It's a friendship ring,” she replied swiftly.

“Pretty. So does that mean . . . ?” I reached to touch the ring.

She snatched her hand away. “He gave one to all the girls in the play; he found them in a box with the costumes.”

“Aha. He stole them, then?”

I had meant it as a joke, but she rolled her eyes impatiently. Before she could answer, the door banged open. The boys almost fell in. They were out of breath, their faces red and sweaty. They were wearing shorts and muddy running shoes, which they kicked off at the door.

“God, you're filthy.” Ted sounded amused.

Theo looked triumphant. His fringe was sticking to his forehead; there were beads of sweat on his cheeks and a smear of mud across his chin. “I won.”

Ed was white-­faced. He bent over, struggling for breath. “You cheated,” he gasped.

Naomi ran for the stairs. “I'm having a shower before you both use all the hot water.”

“What's the matter with her?” Theo asked. “She looks perfectly clean.”

“Compared to you.” Ted looked at Ed's legs, streaked with separate lines of dried mud.

“Hey, not bad.” Theo was bending over the table where I had left the sketch of Ted.

“Get off. You're dropping muddy sweat all over it.” I pushed him away.

Ted put his arm around Ed, oblivious of the mud.

“The nurses on the neurosurgical ward asked me yesterday when you were coming back for more work experience. Think they liked you. I wondered . . .”

Ed looked away. “Thanks, but my university application form is in now.”

The boys went upstairs slowly, not talking.

“What's happened to Ed? He's very grumpy and he usually comes in first by a long way,” Ted said.

“God, Ted.” It struck me with force that if he left work earlier sometimes he might understand how busy the boys' lives were. “Science exams. Coursework. Rowing. He's exhausted.”

“Naomi sounded pretty fed up as well.” He nodded toward the stairs where she had disappeared.

“She's tired too,” I said lightly. Ted always told me I was too neurotic about Naomi. “A bit emotional, maybe. The play's taking it out of her. Plus she's growing up, so naturally she's more”—­I searched for the word that would encompass the little changes I'd noticed—­“ ‘preoccupied.' ” I picked up the unfinished sketch, smiling to show I wasn't worried. “Hormones kicking in. Exams in sight. Underneath, she's the same as she always was.”

Ted laughed. “That's lucky, because for a moment there I thought she minded all the questions.”

I stared at him. “What do you mean, all the questions? I'm interested in what she's been doing. How else am I supposed to find out?”

Ted put his arm around me. “Face it. You're a control freak, sweetheart.” He gave me a kiss and continued: “Perhaps if you were around more—­”

“Don't be patronizing. She would hate it if I was around more.” I pulled away and looked at him, my voice sounding loud in the quiet kitchen. “How can you possibly criticize me? Since when have you been around to find out how anyone was? I'm going upstairs to finish the painting of Naomi. Don't let anyone disturb me.”

As I walked up the last, narrow flight of stairs, I could hear Ed calling out a question. Ted could deal with it. How dare he suggest I should be here more often, he who was never at home? My heart was thumping with fury. In the attic my easel with the unfinished portrait of Naomi stood in the middle of the little whitewashed room. As I stared at it my heart slowed, the irritation of the last hour began to fade away. Her blue eyes seemed to glitter with life; I found my brush and began to tone them down.

BRISTOL, 2009

THREE DAYS BEFORE

On Monday, the long rush of the day drew itself down to the evening. We had tickets to see
West Side Story
that night, the first performance, and again for Friday, the last night. The house was clean and tidy when I got back after work. Anya had laid the table for supper before she left, putting napkins by each plate with a little flower. Shan and Nikita were coming as well as my sister. I started to cook the meal for later. The chopping and stirring were soothing after the busy office; I watched the white onions deepening to brown, the stiff curry paste loosening in the heat, becoming orange. The blending colors reminded me of painting, mixing pigments on a palette, and I wished I had time to slip upstairs and carry on with the portrait of Naomi.

Kate arrived early, wearing a simply cut tweed dress with ankle boots. She set the champagne glasses out on a tray. My sister's hands around the long-­stemmed glasses were smooth, the nails shining red and perfectly oval. Her streaked bob swung and shone.

“How's life?” I asked carefully; she had been divorced for only a few months.

“Since Jack left, you mean? Totally wonderful.” Kate shot me a glance. “I get up when I want. No disgusting socks to pick up. No cooking, ever. Best of all, I don't have to wait up, wondering who he's screwing.”

“Kate—­”

“Don't be sorry for me. Divorce is great. Try it sometime. You look exhausted.” She smiled mischievously. “Is your husband still coming in at all hours of the night?”

I glanced at her for a second. “I'd have a hard time if I didn't trust Ted completely. He's always worked ridiculous hours. I just go to sleep when he's on call.” I didn't mention the argument we'd had recently; after all, it wasn't really his fault that he wasn't home much.

“So why are you so tired? Is it Naomi?” she persisted. I shook my head, but she continued: “Don't you remember what we got up to at her age? Mum didn't have a clue.”

“That was different. We were different. Mum never noticed anything anyway.” I was irritated now. “Naomi works really hard; she doesn't have time to get up to anything.”

Kate lifted an eyebrow. “Ah, the perfect daughter. What about the boys?”

I poured some white wine into a glass and gave it to her. “It's not the kids. I've been trying to get Naomi's portrait finished.”

“Don't you ever stop?” Kate took a sip. “I think you're on a treadmill and you're frightened of what could happen if you stop.”

The curry bubbled on the stove and I tasted it, adding a fraction more coconut. I didn't reply, and Kate gave a little shrug. She always tried to provoke me, but this time I let it go. Opalescent stones glowed at her ears and her makeup was perfect. I had changed from my work suit into a dark skirt with a black sweater; my tangled hair had been quickly twisted into a claw grip, and I'd found some eye shadow that I put on with a finger. These days I often cut my nails with the kitchen scissors before leaving for work. She wouldn't believe me if I told her I kept going because I wanted to. I wanted everything, despite the tiredness and the shortcuts.

As we left to walk to the theater, I saw Harold Moore watching from the window opposite. I wondered if his mother ever took him to see a play. I'd never seen him outside; perhaps she didn't want ­people staring. I waved to him and he moved out of sight. Kate turned to me as we waited for Ted in the foyer. “Don't take any notice of me. We get what we choose,” she said. “You chose a lot more than me. It's just that it seems too much sometimes.”

Later, in the theater, we sat together in one long line, Ted and me, Kate, Ed and Theo. I noticed how the light from the stage gilded all their profiles. The moment felt perfect. I was reassured. I hadn't chosen too much; it worked. Just. I felt lucky again.

As the curtain went up, my heart started to thud so loudly I thought everyone would hear. I wasn't prepared to feel so terrified for Naomi. But when she came on stage I stopped being frightened. I could hardly recognize her. Her Maria wasn't an innocent girl, she was a young seductress; there was something cruel as well as sensual about her in the scenes with Tony as she wielded her power. The audience was mesmerized. She made it seem so natural. She'd worked really hard to be this person—­rehearsals had been relentless, night after night she'd come back late with dark rings under her eyes—­but she had succeeded: she was Maria. Her own inspired version of Maria. No wonder she was exhausted.

At the intermission we were surrounded.

“Where did that come from?”

“What a star.”

“Lovely voice.”

The boys looked surprised. They fended off congratulations sheepishly. Ed was drinking wine quickly. Theo looked stunned. Ted was smiling with pride.

At the end of the second half, Naomi's Maria was lit with anger and determination. No weeping Juliet, no victim walking with bent head. To me she seemed set on vengeance.

EVERYONE APPLAUDED AS
she walked into the crowded kitchen later, and she let me hug her. As I laid my cheek against hers, an unmistakable aromatic scent rose from her hot skin. Alcohol. She'd been drinking again.

I pulled back and stared at her, but her eyes were already searching the room and didn't meet mine. Just then, Theo pushed forward and gave her a hug, swinging her off the ground. Her mouth trembled, but Nikita wrapped a long silky orange scarf around her, and whispered something that made her laugh. Kate would tell me we drank like fish as teenagers. It was normal for teenagers to experiment, I told myself. But, a voice whispered in my mind, that's something else to add to the tiredness, the distance, the silences, and the scent of tobacco. As I watched her hug Nikita, I resolved that I would speak to her properly, soon, at a time when she was less tired. Meanwhile this was her night. I had to loosen up.