What Was She Thinking? (11 page)
Richard brought me my drink. “There you go, my dear,” he said, in a jocular imitation of a north country accent.
“Is there somewhere I can put this?” I asked, holding the plaster wrapping and the tissue in my fist.
“Give it here,” Sheba said, taking the little bloodied bundle from me. “I’m just going to check on dinner.”
Just then, there was the noise of someone running very heavily down the stairs, and a chubby, fair-haired boy burst into the room.
“Hoola! Hoola!” Richard shouted, crouching down and opening his arms wide. “Ben’s here! Hoola Hoola!” The child rushed at him, giggling. Richard grasped him and held him upside down. “What’s it like down there, Benno?” he asked playfully.
Sheba stood smiling at the tomfoolery. Polly, who was sipping at the vodka that her father had given her, did not look up.
“Hmm, have you got any pocket money for me, Benno?” Richard said, swinging the upside-down child from side to side.
Ben squealed with excitement as coins fell from his pockets.
“Okay,” Sheba said. “Let’s not get too manic right before dinner.”
Richard put the child down. “Okay, Benno McBenjaboo, time to behave now. This lady here is called Barbara. She’s come for dinner with us.”
“Hallo,” Ben said, stepping forward and shaking my hand. “My name is Ben.” I had been dreading this moment in case I said something silly, or failed to understand what he was saying. But it went off okay. He had that slightly strangled, adenoidal voice of the handicapped, but he was perfectly comprehensible. “Did you know I have a girlfriend already?” he went on. “I’m only eleven.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said.
“Her name is Sarah. She’s going to come to tea next week.”
“Goodness,” I said.
“Sarah is a friend from Ben’s school,” Sheba explained.
“Not just a friend, Mum,” Ben objected. “She’s my girlfriend. We’re going to do slow dancing together.”
“Well, we’ll see about that.” Sheba raised her eyebrows at me. “Hormones seem to be kicking in earlier and earlier these days.”
Ben watched her carefully as she spoke. “What do you mean, Mum?” he said. “What are hormones, Mum?”
We ate dinner all together at a round table in the large ground-floor kitchen. Sheba had made shepherd’s pie and salad. Richard opened a bottle of Rioja. “Bash is the chef in this house,” he said as he poured wine for me, “and I am the sommelier.”
The dinner conversation was lively. Ben talked about a recent visit he had made with his school to the London Zoo, and we all marvelled at his renderings of various animal noises. Sheba got me to describe for Richard the recent St. Albans
debacle, and Richard roared with laughter. He raised his eyebrows when I described Pabblem as a North London version of Turgenev’s Matthew Ilich.
debacle, and Richard roared with laughter. He raised his eyebrows when I described Pabblem as a North London version of Turgenev’s Matthew Ilich.
“Turgenev, eh? Very good, very good,” he said, as if he were putting a little tick in the margin of my essay. Then, by way of rewarding me for not being a completely ignorant person, he went on to talk for quite a long while about the book he was writing. It seemed to be about right-wing bias in the media but, when I suggested as much, he yelped and said that he hoped it was “slightly more subtle” than that. He spent ages trying to get me to understand this one particular point about the insidious way in which newsreaders use verbs. It sounded pretty silly to me. But, for the sake of harmony, I feigned credulity.
There was only one sticky moment during dinner, and that had nothing to do with me. It arose when Sheba tried to get Polly to eat a little more and Polly shrieked at her mother to leave her alone.
“Polly, your manners are appalling. I will not have you speak to me that way,” Sheba said, quietly.
“Well then, don’t go on at me about what I eat,” Polly replied in a defiantly loud voice.
“I was not going on at you,” Sheba objected. “I was trying to make sure you don’t starve yourself.”
“Oh, please leave it, Bash,” Richard said.
There was a tense silence for a moment or so, which was broken by Richard saying, “It’s difficult isn’t it, Barbara? One pretends that manners are the formalisation of basic kindness and consideration, but a great deal of the time they’re simply aesthetics dressed up as moral principles, aren’t they?”
“Oh, Richard … ,” Sheba said.
“No, I’m serious. I mean, it’s clear that politeness to one’s
elders can’t always be justified on the basis of the elder’s superior wisdom. It’s just that it’s not
attractive
to see a young person answering an older person back. Isn’t that it? What do you think, Barbara?”
elders can’t always be justified on the basis of the elder’s superior wisdom. It’s just that it’s not
attractive
to see a young person answering an older person back. Isn’t that it? What do you think, Barbara?”
I rather thought that he was a pretentious fool, but I kept that to myself. “Well, I’m not sure … ,” I began, but Richard’s attention had wandered already. “Pudding time!” he shouted now, in his jokey baritone. “Come on, Bash, what’s for pud?”
Pudding was vanilla ice cream and shop-bought chocolate cake. “We’re immediate gratification people, I’m afraid, Barbara,” Richard said, sounding not at all afraid, as he cut wedges of cake for the table. I resented his constant explications of family culture. In the guise of welcoming me in, they seemed only to push me further out.
You couldn’t be expected to understand our colourful, posh ways.
You couldn’t be expected to understand our colourful, posh ways.
After pudding, Sheba took me to see her pottery studio in the basement. “Richard’s terribly impressed with you,” she said, as she led me down the stairs. “He never talks to anyone about his book.” I struggled to look honoured.
We were standing now in a large, slightly damp-smelling room. It was painted primrose yellow and outfitted with a kiln and a pottery wheel. Along one wall there were shelves displaying Sheba’s work. I had never seen anything that she had produced before. For some reason, whenever she had mentioned her work to me, I had always envisaged earthenware—those clumpy, grey-beige objects that they sell in gift shops. But the pieces on the shelves were not like that at all. They were delicate, romantic things—bowls with lacy, latticework rims; urns with handles in the shape of animals and birds. Rows and rows of rainbow-coloured plates.
“My goodness, Sheba, your work is so … sweet,” I said.
“Oh dear.”
“No, not sweet. These things are
lovely
. I mean, when I think of pottery, I think of … not lovely things like these.” I pointed to a large bowl trimmed with a winding trail of yellow roses and plump, blue sparrows.
“Look
at this. I do envy you being able to make things. May I?”
lovely
. I mean, when I think of pottery, I think of … not lovely things like these.” I pointed to a large bowl trimmed with a winding trail of yellow roses and plump, blue sparrows.
“Look
at this. I do envy you being able to make things. May I?”
She nodded. “Go ahead.”
I picked it up carefully. “How did you
do
it? These colours … so clever. I
love
these birds.”
do
it? These colours … so clever. I
love
these birds.”
“Have it,” she said.
I put the bowl down. “Oh, God, absolutely not. Please, Sheba, I wasn’t fishing, I promise …”
“No, I know. I’d just like you to have it.”
“Oh, but I …”
“Barbara, don’t be tiresome about this,” she said, smiling. “Take the bloody bowl.”
It is always difficult, the transition from noisy refusal to humble acceptance. “Are you sure?” I said.
“Absolutely.”
“Well, thank you,” I said. “I’m terribly touched. I haven’t received such a lovely gift in a very long time. It’s beautiful.” I paused, aware that I was being a bore. “Polly’s a very pretty girl,” I added, to change the subject.
“Yes,” Sheba murmured. She unfolded two chairs that were stacked against the wall and gestured at me to sit down on one of them.
I thought that was all she was going to say about Polly, so I opened my mouth looking for other topics. But just as I opened my mouth to remark on how peaceful it was in the basement, she started speaking again. “No one ever expected Polly to turn
out so nicely,” she said. “She became beautiful quite suddenly, at the age of eight. Before that, she was an ugly little thing. A little rat of a girl. People were always telling me tactfully that she was very
robust.
I never cared. Her ugliness made me love her more. For the first two years of her life, I could hardly put her down. I carried her everywhere, as if I were bearing the infant Boudicca on her triumphal litter.” She paused. “It’s probably a good thing that your kids turn into difficult adolescents,” she said. “The feelings you have for them as infants are much too intense, too enervating, to sustain.”
out so nicely,” she said. “She became beautiful quite suddenly, at the age of eight. Before that, she was an ugly little thing. A little rat of a girl. People were always telling me tactfully that she was very
robust.
I never cared. Her ugliness made me love her more. For the first two years of her life, I could hardly put her down. I carried her everywhere, as if I were bearing the infant Boudicca on her triumphal litter.” She paused. “It’s probably a good thing that your kids turn into difficult adolescents,” she said. “The feelings you have for them as infants are much too intense, too enervating, to sustain.”
“Polly’s a bit difficult, is she, then?” I said.
Sheba looked at me wryly. “You needn’t pretend, Barbara. Yes, Polly is an absolute pain in the arse. She’s got a lot of ‘positions’ on things. Vegetarianism. Feminism. All that. And she doesn’t like it at all if you happen not to share them with her.”
I smiled.
“She’s always rejecting boys on the basis that they’re not political enough, or that they’re ‘sexist,’” Sheba went on. “Don’t you think there’s something a bit hard, or just a bit
unimaginative
about a young woman who can turn down a suitor on those grounds? I mean, surely at seventeen, you’re allowed to just fancy people?”
unimaginative
about a young woman who can turn down a suitor on those grounds? I mean, surely at seventeen, you’re allowed to just fancy people?”
I shrugged. “Each to her own.”
“I was a lot sillier and more innocent at her age, I know,” Sheba said. “And infinitely more woundable. But I had more fun, I think. I was so excited by things. So looking forward to becoming an adult! I used to practise rolling around in bed at night with my future boyfriends. I had a whole collection of fantasy lovers. The cowboy, the doctor, the Arab sheik. I was the proud, rebellious one in the sheik’s harem. The one with
‘spirit’ …” She laughed. “When I think back to all that, I feel almost sorry for Polly. You know? I mean, what men does she dream of? The district leaders of Animal Rights Now?” She stopped abruptly, as if embarrassed at how passionate she had allowed herself to become on this subject.
‘spirit’ …” She laughed. “When I think back to all that, I feel almost sorry for Polly. You know? I mean, what men does she dream of? The district leaders of Animal Rights Now?” She stopped abruptly, as if embarrassed at how passionate she had allowed herself to become on this subject.
“Well, anyway,” she said, after a moment, “that’s it. Teenagers are hard work. You know that.”
I nodded. “Where did you learn to do this?” I asked, gesturing at her work. “Did you study art somewhere?”
She smiled a little wanly. “Not really. I took a foundation course at St. Martin’s. But then I met Richard—he was one of my lecturers—and we got married.”
“Oh! You must have been so young!”
“Yes, twenty. And I wasn’t even pregnant. He asked me, and it seemed like something to do.” She laughed. “I was always a bit of a scaredy-cat about the big wide world. I told myself that it was subversive of me to be doing something so conventional.”
“What did your parents say?”
“Oh, they were appalled—Daddy especially. He said he hadn’t raised me to be a ninny housewife. After we were married he was always on at me to get a job. I did try various things to please him. I took a typing course and temped for a bit. I got a job with one of his friends, working at a charity for the homeless, but I got sacked for not being efficient enough. After that, I did a teacher training course. And then I got pregnant. My starting salary in teaching wouldn’t have covered the cost of the nanny, so that was that. I always said I’d go to work when Polly was five. But, just after her fifth birthday, I found out I was pregnant again. And then Ben turned out to be … Ben. It was only last year, when we finally got him settled into a good day centre, that the question of work came up again.” She stuck out
her chin. “There. Now you know how I find myself so hopelessly without achievement.”
her chin. “There. Now you know how I find myself so hopelessly without achievement.”
“How can you say such a thing?” I protested. “You have two beautiful children. Ben is so marvellous. You can’t possibly regret devoting your energies to him. To have brought up two children—one with handicaps—I mean, that’s huge, a huge achievement. Certainly bigger than anything you could have done by having a career.”
Sheba nodded impatiently. “Oh, yes, I know. I know all that. And, believe me, I allow myself plenty of private gloating about my selfless parenting. But raising kids is not the same as what I’m … It can’t possibly offer the same satisfactions as doing things out in the world. I don’t care what you say, it’s a terrible bore to have never made or done anything noteworthy, to have laboured in such absolute obscurity.”
I was just stuttering a protest when she interrupted. “Barbara—sorry, I don’t mean to impose on you—but could I ask your advice about something? I need very badly to talk to someone at the moment. I’ve got a little problem. At school.”
I nodded earnestly, trying to look worthy of her confidence. “What is the—”
“Well.” She patted nervously at her hair. “It’s about one of the pupils. Actually, it’s that boy, you know, the one you helped me deal with last term.”
“Which boy?”
“The very blond one? Steven Connolly?”
“Ah, yes.”
She went on to give me a heavily bowdlerised account of their relationship. They were friends, she said. He had an interest in art, and he often came to see her out of school hours, to discuss his drawings. She had been teaching him about pottery.
But, lately, she had sensed that he was developing some sort of crush on her, and she was concerned about how to proceed. When I asked her what cause she had to suspect a crush, she hesitated, as if embarrassed. Then she explained that the previous week, as she was leaving school, Connolly had approached her on the street and tried to kiss her.
But, lately, she had sensed that he was developing some sort of crush on her, and she was concerned about how to proceed. When I asked her what cause she had to suspect a crush, she hesitated, as if embarrassed. Then she explained that the previous week, as she was leaving school, Connolly had approached her on the street and tried to kiss her.
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