Games People Play (8 page)

‘Well then. Shame about tonight, but how about we go back into your front room and have a little dance there instead? I haven’t finished my drink yet.’

Ted never made it to the party that night. When my parents returned, they were too drunk themselves to notice the excessive number of cigarette stubs in the ashtray, the two empty glasses left on the floor next to the settee, or the fact that the settee cushions were flattened in the middle in an unmistakable hollow caused by two people, one on top of the other. But the next morning, they noticed how bright-eyed I looked, how willingly I played with Ivan, whistling ‘Tonight’ from
West Side Story
, and even offering to go to the shop when we ran out of tea.

Me and Ted had been married for nearly three years when, in 1968, Sandie wed the dashing young dress designer, Jeff Banks, and the pair were the most hip young couple of the Swinging Sixties.

‘I could have had him,’ I lamented to myself as I looked at Ted and sighed. I loved him, but there was no way he’d ever get in a pair of those groovy tight striped trousers like the ones Jeff Banks wore. Ted thought men with facial hair were all damn Commie hippies. But at least he was rich, and I would never have to work in a factory again.

And I really did love him.

Rachel

I wake up, again, on the morning of my twenty-third birthday. This time there is a wintry daylight outside – I’ve really slept in – and there are tears running down my cheeks.

I dreamed I was on Centre Court at Wimbledon, racket in hand, but I couldn’t seem to move. Instead of an opponent, tennis balls were firing at me out of the ball machine, flying straight at my head, bang, bang, bang, right between the eyes, pummelling me into the ground until I began to slowly collapse beneath the barrage. Dad was yelling at me from the stands, something about
‘
footwork
!
’, fury etched between his eyebrows; but it was no good, I couldn’t get any of those balls back, or stop them from hammering me. The capacity crowd jeered and slow hand-clapped.

Gordana and Mum were sitting in the front row, on the opposite side of the stadium to Ivan. For reasons which I was unable to fathom, they wore matching designer wedding dresses. They looked disappointed in me. Then, to add to the dream’s humiliation, I wet myself on court; just like I did in my first ever umpired short tennis match, seventeen years ago, as a red-faced six-year-old too embarrassed to ask for the toilet in case Dad shouted at me.

Even though I was awake most of the night, it still takes me a few seconds to remember what happened at the club with Elsie and Gordana, but as soon as it does, I can’t stop the worry settling back on my shoulders again like dandruff.

I climb wearily out of bed and put on a tracksuit, but even though the sleep clears from my eyes and my brain slowly unfogs, I still can’t shake off the impression of being under attack from those balls. They smacked into my forehead, but the sound it made was the sound of balls hitting a wire fence.

We had some hail yesterday, but today it’s downgraded to rain, which is hurling itself at the window, rattling the glass, and I think sourly how it always seems to rain on my birthday. The trouble with being born in October.

I open my bedroom door, noticing that Anthea hasn’t touched the snack I left out for her. The milk has gained a textured patina of dust on its surface, and the edges of the sandwich have curled into a dry sneer.

At that moment, I hear the sound of footsteps in the gravel of the front path and – even in the current crisis – I automatically do some nimble crossovers sideways along the landing and down the staircase to see if it’s the postman. My right hand is holding an imaginary racket high above my head, as if I’ve just been lobbed from the top of the stairs. (After a recent, particularly galling defeat at a challenge in Miami, Dad and José went into a lengthy confab, the result of which was that they decided it was my on-court movement which was to blame. As a result, they encourage me to execute crossover steps practically everywhere I go.)

I get to the bottom and wait expectantly by the letterbox, realizing that I’m not old enough to be completely blasé about birthdays just yet. For a moment I wonder if perhaps this was the reason for my sleepless night, rather than pre-tournament nerves, or worrying about Dad, but then I decide surely not. I’d be announcing that I still believed in Father Christmas next. But I could remember it well: that breathless anticipation of gifts and attention, candles and cards.

I wonder what Mark will give me?

A few envelopes thud on to the tiled floor, but right away I can see that they are mostly circulars and bills. I pounce on a plain white envelope, and a square yellow one, and leave the rest of the post on the hall table. Nothing from Mum – she is usually late with my present. The yellow envelope contains a card from my friend Kerry, and the white, one from Gordana and Ted – I recognize Gordana’s neat writing. When I rip it open a voucher flutters out: fifty pounds, for the big art shop in the local shopping centre! I am delighted.

Gordana knows how much I love to draw, and she’s always encouraging me, although I always say that I never have time for it. This is not strictly true: there are endless hours of spare time at tournaments, waiting around for matches, or, if I’ve been knocked out, for the rest of the squad to finish so we can fly home again. I keep meaning to take a sketchpad and pencils in my hand luggage, so I can use the time constructively, but the truth is I’d feel embarrassed suddenly to whip out a pad and crayons. It would seem...pretentious, I suppose.

I realize this is daft, and vow to be braver. Drawing is the thing I enjoy most (after playing tennis), so why not? I hear Gordana’s voice in my head: ‘Who cares what anyone else thinks?’ and I know she’s right. Although the thought of my fellow players squinting critically over my shoulder makes me cringe…

I put the voucher into my purse just as Dad appears on the landing in his dressing gown; his hair is sticking up, and his big yellow toenails loom down at me over the lip of the top stair. He looks grey and shattered, closer to sixty than his forty-four years. He comes slowly downstairs, ruffling my hair wordlessly as he passes, and I notice that he smells strange: of sickness perhaps, although it feels more like fear and fatigue; anxiety trapped like stale sweat.

‘Is your migraine better, Daddy?’ I ask, following him into the kitchen. I haven’t called him Daddy for years.

‘Mmmm,’ he says, more like a grunt, and fills the kettle.

‘We missed you at the party last night. Gordana was really worried.’

‘Mmmm.’

‘You know Elsie – well, you know what a nosy old bag she is? She – er – thinks she saw some people turn up here early yesterday morning. I mean, maybe she was mistaken and it was next door, but—’

‘Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ he says, his back to me. His dressing gown is frayed and striped in black and red.

He’s had it as long as I can remember, although the black stripes have got lighter and the red ones darker, as if they’re trying to swap places.

‘You let Jehovah’s Witnesses in? Elsie said they were here for a couple of hours!’ I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. Gordana is quite a staunch Catholic, and it has always been a source of sorrow to her that her son is the biggest atheist this side of Hades. Whenever any Jehovah’s Witnesses have had the temerity to mount our doorstep in the past, the whole street has heard the sound of Dad banging the front door in their faces.

‘Decided I might as well hear what they had to say,’ he says sheepishly, with a weary shrug.

I stare at him, speechless. ‘No wonder you had a migraine by the afternoon.’

‘Yeah. Tea?’ He reaches down three mugs, and throws in teabags.

‘Yes please. But Elsie said that you got in their car?’

He tuts furiously. ‘That bloody woman needs to get a life.’

‘
Did
you get in their car? What, have you been converted or something? Is that what all this is about?’

He turns to face me, eyes bulging, dressing gown open to the waist to reveal his scrubby black-haired chest. I know he’s my dad and everything, so obviously I’m not looking at him in
that
way, but I really can’t see why women fall over themselves to get to him. Mum, OK, maybe that’s understandable – it was twenty-four years ago, and he was young and successful and had all his hair then. But it’s a mystery to me why they still go for him. And right now he’s looking as rough as I’ve ever seen him.

‘Rachel! Will you please stop interrogating me! Turns out I went to school with one of them – we used to be quite friendly actually. That’s the only reason I let them in. Then when I said I had to go to work, they offered me a lift. I knew I’d be drinking at the party later, so I accepted the lift, rather than taking the car to work and having to leave it there. Then I felt ill in the afternoon, so Anthea came and picked me up again. It’s really no big deal. I can’t understand why everyone is making such a fuss.’

I wonder who ‘everyone’ is. ‘I didn’t see you at the club yesterday,’ I say in a small voice.

‘
Rachel!
’ he snaps again, in the tone he used when I was a kid and kept using an incorrect grip for my backhand volleys. ‘I really don’t see why I have to explain myself to you, or anyone else. I was there yesterday, I just had a lot of paperwork to catch up on, so I was in the office most of the time, until my head got too bad to continue. Now, if you could just shut up long enough for me to have my breakfast in peace, I’d really be most grateful.’

He hands me a mug of terracotta-coloured tea. He always makes it too strong, and I always have to add more milk.

I add more milk. ‘It’s my birthday today,’ I say, trying to sound just huffy enough.

He has the grace to pause. ‘Oh, Rach, sorry, of course. I did remember, just what with the… migraine and everything, it slipped my mind. Sorry, darling. Happy birthday.’

He enfolds me in a reluctant hug, and I have to hold my breath as my head gets pressed into his shoulder.

‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say in a muffled voice. ‘Gordana and Pops gave me a voucher for the art shop.’

‘That’s nice,’ he replies, away in his own world again. We pour and eat cereal.

‘Are you well enough to come to Zurich today, or should we cancel your flight?’ I venture after a few minutes.

‘No, I’ll come. As long as Anthea doesn’t mind. And I’ll have to get some sleep today, I’m shattered.’

This was odd, too. I’ve never once heard Dad even ask Anthea’s opinion on anything, let alone seek her approval for any of his actions. My heart sinks slightly at the thought of him and his black mood travelling with me; but it’s a relief, too. If he’d said he wasn’t coming, then I’d really know something was wrong.

He doesn’t say a word to me for the rest of the morning, remaining closeted with Anthea in their bedroom. Making love, probably, I conclude with a shudder, since the only time they do appear downstairs, he practically has to unpeel her from around his hairy neck.

I look up from the sofa, where I’ve been alternately dozing and aimlessly gazing at Eurosport, having blown out the training session. I’m too tired after my sleepless night.

‘Go on then, love, get the present,’ Dad instructs Anthea under his breath. Then he calls out, ‘Come into the kitchen, Rachel, we’ve got something for you.’

About time too, I think, uncurling myself and obediently following him into the kitchen, as Anthea retrieves a Boots carrier bag from the understairs cupboard. She hands it to Dad, before wrapping herself back around him.

‘Happy birthday, Rachel; it’s from both of us,’ Dad says, passing the bag over and pecking me on the cheek. Then he looks at his watch. ‘I’ve just got to pop out for a bit, to see Gordana. Our flight’s not till seven, is it, so if you book a cab for four-thirty, I’ll be back by then.’

I glance up, but when I see how stricken Anthea’s face is, I hastily look away, and peer instead inside the Boots bag. It contains a box with a picture of something resembling a very small handheld trouser press.

On closer inspection, it turns out to be a hair straightening device. What the hell is the point of that?

My hair is so curly that it would take hours to iron – when it’s tied up in a ponytail, I can barely stuff it through the gap at the back of my baseball cap. I can’t even be bothered to blow dry it, let alone straighten it.

I have to say it’s a source of huge annoyance to me, the way Anthea only ever gives me presents intended to alter my appearance in some way, as if publicly acknowledging that she doesn’t think I’m good enough the way I am. Last Christmas she gave me a book about how to apply make-up properly; the birthday before was a Swiss ball – the same as the one I use every single day in the gym already. Anthea even put a note on it: ‘
These things are great for bums!
’ as if I didn’t know. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my backside, anyway, it’s just a bit wider than Anthea’s baggy narrow behind. Although I soon realized, however, that Anthea had actually bought that Swiss ball for herself. Less than a fortnight after my birthday, it disappeared into the spare room, where it has resided, next to the exercise bike, ever since.

‘Thanks for my present,’ I say to Anthea, since Dad has already left the room. Couldn’t you even be bothered to wrap it? I feel like adding.

‘You’re welcome. Those things are a godsend for someone like you. Once you’ve used them a couple of times you’ll never want to go back to that messy look. Make sure you let them heat up for at least twenty minutes first though.’

Whatever
. I know that those tongs will never leave their packaging. Life is too short.

‘Want some soup?’

Anthea shook her head. ‘I couldn’t. After the night I’ve just had, I feel sick even thinking about food.’

Nothing new there then, I think. We sit at the kitchen table in silence, both staring at a vase full of fake flowers which Anthea insists on using as a table decoration: lurid and unrealistic blue fabric blooms which obscure the view of the person opposite. The petals, like most of the surfaces in our house, are covered with dust. The kitchen seems too big and empty without Dad’s huge presence in it. In addition to being enormous, he’s never still, constantly jiggling from foot to foot or fidgeting like a five-year-old needing the toilet. Mum used to say he made her feel seasick.