An Enormous Yes (6 page)

‘You should be saying sorry to the lady, not complaining.’ The mother shook her head in exasperation. ‘I’m afraid she never looks where she’s going.’

‘Sorry,’ the recreant muttered, clinging on to her scooter as if she feared it might be confiscated.

‘
I’m
cold, too,’ the older girl interjected, giving a histrionic shiver.

‘OK, hot chocolate for all of us, once we’ve dealt with this poor lady’s cut. I’m Kate, by the way. And this is Clara.’ She indicated the coltish older child. ‘Polly you’ve already met – although hardly in ideal circumstances! I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’

‘Don’t give it another thought. These things happen, don’t they? I’m Maria and, thanks, I will pop in.’ Having enjoyed the class so much, she had
no desire to return to an empty, silent house and wait an age till Amy got back –
if
she got back at all, rather than going straight from work to some networking engagement. She could hardly believe what punishing hours her daughter and her son-in-law both worked. Hugo’s present role as project manager of a major Olympic structure meant he was required to be on-site by 7.30 each morning, and the drive to Stratford East was invariably long and stressful. As for Amy, she rarely finished work before seven in the evening and, if she was negotiating an offer, or involved in a client
presentation
, it could easily be nine or ten when she finally left the office.

‘Right,’ Kate was saying, ‘we just cross this road, turn left and our house is a few yards along.’

It proved to be very similar to Amy’s – the same four floors, elegant sash windows, white exterior and black iron railings. Inside, however, the place looked both more cluttered and more comfortable, with evidence of
children
on all sides. Kate took her coat, ushered her through to the kitchen and sat her on a chair.

‘Does it hurt?’ asked Polly, the prettier of the sisters, with blonde curls and peachy skin. The darker, more sallow Clara had disappeared upstairs. ‘I always cry when I’m hurt. Mummy says I’m a cry-baby.’

‘We’re all cry-babies sometimes,’ Maria told her, remembering how she had cried for Hanna, yet again, last night. She still missed not just her mother but the cottage and her friends, although now, it seemed, there was a good chance of making new ones.

‘I’m six and a half,’ Polly declared, abruptly changing the subject. ‘How old are you?’

‘Well, I had a birthday on 26 January, so I’m sixty-six-and-three-weeks.’

‘That’s
old
.’

‘Polly, I hope you’re not being a pain?’ Kate said, returning with the
first-aid
box.

‘No. I’m looking after Maria.’

‘Well, that’s very kind of you, but I’d prefer it if you changed out of your school uniform and left us grown-ups in peace. Right, Maria, I’ll just boil up some water and, if you wouldn’t mind slipping off your tights, I can give the wound a proper wash.’

‘What’s a wound?’

‘Polly, what did I just say?’

‘Change out of my uniform. Can we have cream on our hot chocolate and those little sprinkly things?’

‘Yes, but only if you do as you’re told.’

Once Polly had gone stomping off, Maria removed her tights and let
Kate bathe her leg. Although embarrassed by this fuss over a mere
superficial
cut, she also felt a curious pleasure at being looked after for a change. She sat back in her chair, gradually thawing in the cosy heat of the kitchen: a cheery room, with yellow walls, pine cupboards and an old-fashioned rustic dresser.

‘Good – that looks better.’ Having applied ointment, gauze and plaster to the cut, Kate went to fetch some replacement tights.

‘Take your pick – thick or thin, dark or pale. They’re all new, by the way. The damn things ladder so easily, I always keep some spares.’

Maria chose thick, dark ones – suitable for the frosty weather – and eased them up and on, while Kate washed her hands at the sink.

‘Do you have children?’ she enquired, pulling up a chair and joining Maria at the table.

‘Yes, one daughter. But she’s hardly a child. She’s thirty-eight and expecting her first baby.’

‘Oh, she left it late, like me,’ Kate laughed. ‘I had Clara at forty-one and Polly at forty-five – which is really truly ancient! No doubt you were more sensible and got down to things at an earlier stage.’

‘Well, actually, I was twenty-seven, which was considered very old in those days.’ As a Catholic – and pious Hanna’s daughter – the concept of keeping her virginity until her wedding night had seemed crucially
important
. Sex and children were both impossible in the absence of a husband, and she had remained steadfast to that view even through her years at art school. Only Silas had finally worn her down, replacing her once-firm Catholic faith with a faith in
him
, as demi-god.

‘But, reverting to this age thing, I don’t think it matters a toss, do you? I mean, I’m getting on for fifty-two, and if sixty is the new forty, as everybody says, then I’m looking forward to it! Frankly, I don’t intend to get old. If it takes a few nips and tucks, that’s fine by me, and I hope that when the girls are in their twenties, I’ll be wearing the same type of clothes as them.’

Maria glanced at Kate’s present attire: skin-tight denim jeans,
leopard-print
top and skittishly high-heeled boots, which made her own outfit look distinctly matronly. Yet the idea of refusing to age struck her as a futile form of denial. Surely it was better to embrace one’s increasing maturity and feel comfortable in one’s (admittedly) slackening skin. Of course, for Clara and Polly time stretched ahead – endlessly and infinitely – whereas in thirty years or less, she herself would no longer be here at all. As for Amy and Hugo, they were so busy juggling work and social life, and multi-tasking generally, they rarely spared a thought for time in the abstract.

‘Well, I’d better get our tea,’ Kate said, fetching a loaf from the breadbin. ‘It’s only sandwiches, at this stage, because later we’re having dinner as a family. The girls barely see their father just at present. He’s a management consultant and involved in a project in Frankfurt at the moment. He’s here tonight, but off again tomorrow, which means he’ll miss their Valentine’s party. They’re having it this Sunday, the 13th rather than the14th, because weekends are so much easier if you’re planning a big bash. Hey, why don’t you come, Maria? I’d love to see you again.’

‘Won’t the girls mind, if it’s their thing?’

‘’Course not. Polly’s taken a shine to you and it’s her we have to blame for the idea. She said it wasn’t fair that only grown-ups got to celebrate St Valentine’s, so she’s invited all her school friends and wants a red-heart cake, and red balloons all over the place!’

‘Well, it’ll be a first for me. I’ve never been to a Valentine’s party.’

‘And I’ve never given one.’

‘Look, if you’d like me to make the cake, I have lots of free time at the moment.’

‘Oh, no, it’s already ordered. I use this marvellous firm of caterers and they’re laying on the food, all themed to red and pink.’

Did anyone in London cook, Maria wondered, as she watched Kate make the sandwiches with a carton of Sainsbury’s egg mayonnaise.
She
would have boiled a couple of eggs, but then she was clearly something of a dinosaur in this modern convenience world.

‘Actually, I plan to send both Clara and Polly a gorgeous Valentine’s card – anonymously, of course. I don’t want them feeling left out or rejected if their friends receive cards and they don’t.’

Maria was lost for words. Valentine’s cards for the under-twelves seemed a step too far.

‘There’s so much competition at their school, even over things like cards. And parties themselves have become a definite form of one-upmanship. All the parents try to outdo each other – you know, a Harry Potter theme trumped by Pirates of the Caribbean, or whatever the latest craze is. And the party-bags are a nightmare! The last party Clara went to, each child’s bag contained a piece of really ostentatious jewellery, hand-made by some local artist. How the hell do I rival that?’

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Maria dared to say. ‘Give them a penny-chew and let them be grateful!’

‘You don’t know modern kids. Their parents would probably sue.’

They both laughed conspiratorially.

‘Right – sandwiches done. Now all we need is—’

‘Mummy,’ Polly interrupted, reappearing in a pair of tartan trews, teamed, oddly, with a sequinned lilac top. ‘Can I show Maria my dolls’ house?’

‘Maria might prefer to rest her leg.’

‘No, I’d love to see it, Polly.’ She followed the child downstairs to the basement, which had been turned into a gigantic playroom, complete with two computer stations, one for each girl, and every type of game and toy. Amy and Hugo had deliberately chosen a house without a basement, because even one storey fewer reduced the price considerably. (It had been sold off, years ago, to a French businessman, who used it as a pied-à-terre, although, in fact, was seldom there.) But Kate and her husband,
presumably
, had no such financial concerns.

‘This is Mrs Brown,’ Polly explained, indicating a superbly dressed
lady-doll
, primping in front of her dressing-table mirror. ‘And that’s Mr Brown downstairs.’

‘
My
name’s Brown,’ Maria informed her.

Polly gave a delighted giggle. ‘That means it’s your house, then.’

Unlikely, Maria thought, noting the sheer luxury of this mansion-
in-miniature
.

‘Girls are better than boys,’ Polly announced, changing the subject in her usual sudden fashion.

‘Better in what way?’

‘Every way, of course.’

Maria only realized at that moment that she desperately wanted her grandchild to be a girl. Not because girls were ‘better’, but because the women in her family were invariably the ones who survived.

Clara swivelled round from her computer. ‘Do you have a dog?’

‘Not now. I used to have one called Heidi.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She died, I’m afraid, but she was very old and she’d had a lovely life.’

‘The most wonderful thing in the world,’ Polly declared, hands on hips, ‘is to have a dog.’

‘No,’ countered Clara, ‘the most wonderful thing in the world is to be so rich you can buy whole countries like Greece and Malta and America and Italy. I’ve been to all those four and I really, really loved them.’

Maria declined to admit that her own travels had been confined to London and the Lake District – Hanna’s influence, again. Having been a ‘foreigner’ in England, her mother had no desire to repeat the experience in any other country, nor any wish to visit her native land. It wasn’t just Theresia who had endured a wretched childhood there, but many of her ancestors had also lived unhappy lives in Austria.

‘I’d like to be so rich,’ Polly trumped her sister, ‘that I could buy the whole world and all the planets, too.’

Was it any wonder, Maria thought, that these girls’ aspirations should reach so far, when, judging by the contents of this playroom, they already owned such a wealth of consumer goods? She resolved to bring up her own grandchild with a different set of values. In fact, she had decided not to sell the cottage, but keep it as her refuge in older age and a holiday retreat for any grandchildren she might have. She would probably have to let it in the meantime, but she wanted Amy’s children to get to know their ancestral home, however modest it might be.

Polly had already lost interest in the dolls’ house and was now raiding the dressing-up box. ‘Here, wear this!’ she ordered, plonking a glittery gold crown on Maria’s head.

Maria eyed the contents of the box, most of which were spread out on the floor. The Queen herself would surely have been impressed by these sumptuous gowns, magicians’ robes, pirate costumes, fairy wings and dresses, and by the versatile range of wands, masks, hats, veils and
flower-wreaths
. When
she
had dressed up as a child, it would have been in some old tablecloth or tea towel, or she’d have clumped around in her mother’s gingham overall and oversized brown lace-ups. But then she had probably been every bit as happy as Polly would in a jewelled tiara and beribboned princess-frock.

‘Tea’s ready!’ Kate called from the top of the basement stairs.

Maria was soon seated between the two girls and, whilst munching
sandwiches
and scooping the froth off hot chocolate, they chatted to her about their likes and dislikes, hobbies, homework and future ambitions – Polly’s to be an angel, so she could fly without an engine. Maria let her mind take flight, as well, imagining two very similar granddaughters, but sitting in her cottage, enjoying simple country pleasures: baking scones, grooming dogs, washing the feathers off newly laid brown eggs – and doing lots of drawing, of course. And, by
that
time, she resolved, her own pictures would be so accomplished they would surpass those of every member of the life class.

‘H
I
! I
DON’T
think we’ve met. I’m Tim.’

‘And I’m Maria. Great to meet you, Tim.’

The wiry, tow-haired man was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a baby in the crook of his arm, whom he was feeding with its bottle. She edged her chair towards him, glad to make conversation, since she was feeling rather out of things, being the oldest person present. Grandmas seemed an unknown quantity, at least in this milieu. She had offered to help a dozen times, but Kate required no help. As well as professional caterers, she had professional entertainers: a magician and a clown, who’d been holding the children in a state of enthralled attention since the party first began.

‘And which of the little girls is yours?’ Tim asked.

‘Oh, I’m just a neighbour, not a parent,’ Maria answered, embarrassed by the question. Unless she had gone in for surrogacy, she could hardly be the mother of a six-year-old – or even of an eleven-year-old. ‘How old’s your baby?’ she asked, keen to shift attention from herself.

‘Six months.’ Hoisting the infant over his shoulder, he brought up its wind with surprising expertise. ‘And our other child’s in the same class as Polly. My wife’s gone back to work, so now it’s my turn to look after them. I actually work in PR, but they’ve given me paternity leave and I’m learning how to cook and iron, as well as basic baby-care.’

The contrast with Silas was searing. The very thought of babies had been totally abhorrent to him: their messiness and insatiable demands; their galling lack of reason. Although even Hugo, she imagined, was unlikely to rival Tim’s domestic skills. As the only child of doting parents, he had probably never cooked or ironed in his life. But at least he was
there
, to provide the child with a father – something she and Hanna had been forced to do without.

‘And, of course, I accompanied my wife to all the antenatal courses, including a special class to prepare us for the psychological pressures of being parents.’

Maria forbore to mention that the psychological pressures of bringing up an illegitimate child in a gossipy, finger-pointing village were probably somewhat greater than any Tim might encounter.

‘Daddy, I’m hungry.’ Tim’s daughter had come looking for her father.

‘Tea won’t be long, I’m sure. This is Clementine,’ he said, introducing Maria to the child, who was dressed in floor-length frills and a sparkly
gold-and
-silver crown.

‘Hi, Clementine.’ These parents certainly favoured fancy names. So far, she’d met an Amber, a Viola, an Orlando and a Zebedee.

‘Tea’s ready, everyone!’ Kate announced, as the clown and the magician made their final bows. ‘So if you’d like to move into the dining-room …’

That room proved as spacious as the sitting-room and was equally awash in hearts: red-heart balloons, red-heart bunting, red-heart bows on the table-legs, and the red-heart cake in pride of place on the red-
heart-printed
tablecloth.

Once everyone was seated, Kate explained which of the food was gluten-, nut-or dairy-free. Half the children had allergies, apparently – or so their parents claimed (although Kate had told her earlier that it was another form of one-upmanship to have produced a child so sensitive it could eat no normal food). Maria eyed the table with interest. The sandwiches were
heart-shaped
, with additional heart-shaped slices of ham, beef and smoked salmon placed on top, to show off the reds and pinks. Nor had vegetarians – or even vegans – been forgotten. As well as bowls of radishes and cherry tomatoes, there were roasted-red-pepper wraps, bagels topped with pink-tinged cream cheese, and dishes of every conceivable fruit in the red/pink spectrum:
strawberries
, cherries, raspberries, redcurrants, cranberries, watermelon. Elaborate red jellies were studded with yet more scarlet fruits; a profusion of cupcakes had been iced in red and pink and decorated with pink sugar hearts, and the Valentine’s Day cake itself was a triumph of the confectioner’s art.

Although more than ready to eat, Maria deliberately held back, since no one else appeared to be showing much interest. Some of the mothers looked semi-anorexic and were toying with a single prawn or radish, but none was doing justice to the spread. And Kate herself was busy filling glasses with a strawberry-coloured smoothie, and thus had no chance to eat.

‘I want pizza,’ Clementine wailed, pushing away the sandwich Tim had given her.

Another child was clamouring for crisps, while two small boys were fighting over the same cheese bagel, despite the fact there were dozens more. Clara, ignoring the savouries, was making serious inroads into a dish of foil-wrapped chocolate hearts.

‘They all have a message, printed on the inside of the wrapper,’ she explained to her friend, Fenella, smoothing out the foil, to read it. ‘Yuk! Listen to this: “With you by my side, every second of every day is deeply precious.” Doesn’t that make you want to puke?’

Intrigued, Maria took a heart herself and, having unwrapped the foil, read the message on its underside: ‘Love is never impossible.’

That she doubted. Silas had been the one great love of her life – or so she’d thought at the time. She had often wondered, since, if he had ever really loved her, or was merely attracted by her innocence, naiveté and subservience. And what about her own love for him – a love so
overwhelming
and immoderate, it had marked her ever since – had that also been a delusion, the substitution of one unobtainable God for another, human one? All she really knew was that love brought punishment – a deeply depressing thought. She reached out for a couple more hearts, hoping for a message that might strike a chord.

The words on the first declared: ‘The only truth is love beyond reason.’ Again, she strongly disagreed, but maybe third time lucky.

‘Love is the sweetest poison,’ she read. Yes, dead right, this time.

‘It sounds to me, Maria, as if your needs have never been met.’

Maria flushed. Although the concept of ‘needs’ was foreign to her (apart from the aberration in her twenties), she had certainly been indulging herself in the last few days, what with the life class and the Valentine’s party and now this post-party tête-a-tête.

‘You’re entitled to some pleasure, you know, especially after martyring yourself, tending to your mother all that time.’

Maria’s flush intensified. She barely knew Kate as yet, so should never have confided the details of her private life. ‘Please don’t use that word.’ Martyrdom involved being burnt at the stake, or tortured on a rack, not a few years of paltry service to a much-loved parent. ‘I
wanted
to do it, Kate.’

‘That’s not the point …’

‘Let’s change the subject, OK?’

‘OK, but at least let me give you a top-up.’ Kate leaned across to grab the half-empty wine bottle.

‘No, actually, I ought to go.’ Firmly, she stood up, ignoring Kate’s pleas to stay. She already regretted the third glass of wine, since it had made her relax her guard.

‘Well, huge thanks for all you’ve done. I’d never have got the house to rights without your help.’

‘Don’t worry – I enjoyed it.’ If nothing else, the party had been an
eye-opener
. After tea, the children had played pass-the-parcel – a rather different version from that current in her childhood. Instead of one small,
inexpensive
present, wrapped in layer upon layer of old newspaper, each and every layer had contained a lavish gift. (Apparently, it was wrong for any child to have to suffer disappointment.) Luxurious metallic gift-wrap – red-
heart-emblazoned
, of course – had replaced unhygienic newspaper, and the scratchy borrowed gramophone been superseded by a state-of-the-art sound system.

‘Well, I suppose we didn’t do too badly,’ Kate commented, getting up to fetch Maria’s coat. ‘A few tears and squabbles, maybe, but no out-and-out fisticuffs, or hissy fits from the parents. The only thing I really misjudged was the food. I ordered loads too much and, in fact, you’d be doing me a favour, Maria, if you could take the bulk of it home. My fridge is
overflowing
as it is.’

‘But surely Clara and Polly will eat it?’

‘Oh, no! They’ll turn up their noses at having the same thing twice. And Paul’s away till next Friday and
I’m
on a diet.’

If slender Kate was on a diet, then
she
should embark on a total fast. But she was seriously tempted to accept this banquet-to-go, if only to save it being disposed of in the waste-bin.

While Kate stacked the food into Tupperware boxes, Maria went
downstairs
to the playroom to say goodbye to the girls. Clara was on her mobile and Polly playing some game on her laptop, while simultaneously listening to her i-Pod. The scene reminded her of Amy and Hugo, at weekends and in the evenings: shut off in their private worlds, texting, tweeting, Googling, FaceBooking. Even when physically present, they remained emotionally absent. Was it right to assume that every technological advance was an undisputed advantage; one of the so-called blessings of contemporary life? When it came to her own grandchild, she would aim to wean it off all its digital dummies, at least during their spells in the country. Or was that a mere pastoral idyll?

‘’Bye,’ she mouthed to Clara, while Polly removed her earphones and came to see her off.

‘Is your cut still bleeding?’ she asked, eyeing the Elastoplast on Maria’s leg.

‘No, it’s healing nicely, thanks.’

Next, the child observed the Tupperware cartons Kate was stowing in Maria’s bag.

‘Is all that food for
your
children?’

Maria laughed. ‘Well, yes, my daughter, Amy, might like some.’ Except Amy and Hugo were out till late tonight, and she couldn’t see them scoffing jelly on a busy Monday morning.

Nonetheless, once she got home, she put the fruits and jellies in the fridge and the cupcakes in a tin, hoping they might be eaten by someone besides herself. The sandwiches wouldn’t keep, though, so she laid them on the kitchen table and, safe from disapproval, started tucking in to cream-cheese bagels, roasted-pepper wraps, salmon sandwiches and roast-beef hearts, in glorious succession.

After all, hadn’t Kate just told her she was entitled to some pleasure?