Second Chance (5 page)

I felt that someone was scoring my back with the tip of a knife. ‘Go on,' I said.

‘Selena was small as a kitten when she was born, less than two pounds in weight, and though Annabel was quite a lot bigger, we had to leave both of them in the hospital for six weeks. It was a harrowing time. I don't think Francesca ever quite got over it.'

He sighed and didn't seem to want to say any more. But I couldn't stop thinking about the two little girls and looking at their photographs.

The first thing that went wrong was the timing of their first visit. Francesca phoned Paul to say she couldn't have them for Easter as she'd intended, because she had to fly to Mexico for her work. She was sure he'd be able to collect them from school and take care of them until she came back in ten days' time.

‘Didn't you tell her how inconvenient it would be?' I asked him. There were still workmen in the house, not one room was ready; the kitchen had nothing in it but a kettle and a toaster, the bathroom had no floorboards, there was a downstairs cloakroom with lavatory and washbasin, but the shower didn't work: we were virtually camping in the house. How could we have anyone to stay? It was impossible. I thought Paul would accept that.

But he looked stricken. He was thrilled at the prospect of seeing the girls when he'd thought they'd be flying out to Crete with Francesca and the young poet she was currently living with. And though I could have argued, I didn't. I can't bear to be responsible for anyone's unhappiness. My childhood has had that effect on me. I'll put up with almost anything, rather than cause conflict.

So they came to us. And from the beginning I was tense and tired, unable to relax properly because of the chaos in the house. And they seemed to take advantage of my unease; demanding all Paul's attention, wanting all their usual holiday treats – skating rinks, shopping trips and gigs – not prepared to make any allowances. They were volatile, temperamental and merciless. I couldn't find any resemblance between them and Paul, who was kind and down-to-earth. They were thistledown. When they moved they gave the impression of floating. They were as decorative as the high-born children in paintings by Laurence or Sargent, Titania's fairies by Schiele. When they talked and giggled together it sounded like goldfinches or a fall of windbells.

But I eventually became convinced that all their childish patter was carefully rehearsed for the maximum shock value. They played the part of innocent children, but they weren't children and they certainly weren't innocent.

As soon as they arrived I felt older and more staid. I'd always considered myself smart and sophisticated, not exactly beautiful, but the next best thing; stylish and attractive. But at their arrival I was suddenly ‘mumsie'. They considered me middle-aged and took pleasure in letting me know it.

‘We've worried and worried about Daddy. You've no idea what a trial it is to have a father who knows nothing about the ways of the world. We used to introduce him to all the beautiful girls, didn't we Selena? Do you remember the Constantines' Swedish au pair – I can't remember her name, probably Frida – but he didn't try anything on with her, did he? When Mummy slipped away somewhere with one of her conquests, all Daddy would ever do was mope and sigh. Of course, we never thought of anyone old, I mean older, I mean mature. We only thought of beautiful young girls.'

They were so pretty, so innocent-seeming and tender, their hair as soft and fair as a baby's, their hand-span waists, their little pink tongues like cats' tongues poking out between their lips as they waited their turn to speak.

‘Men are always nice to us, aren't they, Selena? They give us masses of things – well, money and presents – and take us out in their yachts. This is in Crete, Kate. Did you used to go to Crete on holiday when you were young, Kate? Don't look like that, Daddy, we never let any men touch us, do we, Selena? We wouldn't like it at all; their skin is far too rough. But we sometimes let them take photographs of us; they're always wanting to do that. We'll probably be famous models in a year or two. Identical twins are particularly sought after, aren't they, Selena? We're longing to leave school.'

‘Sometimes we paint our bodies with henna, don't we Annabel? Snakes around our waists and sun-burst patterns on our chests. Are you shocked, Daddy? You and Mummy used to do things in the garden in Crete which shocked us. We used to stand on the veranda and watch you when you thought we were in bed. Now I suppose you do them with Kate. Or is Kate too old for flying? We call it flying, don't we, Annabel, because we think the other word is too gross. Oh, don't look like that, Daddy. You're an old frump. Mummy doesn't mind what we say. She says we're Nature's children, doesn't she, Annabel? Mummy's a free spirit and she wants us to be the same, but she warned us that you'd want us to be well-behaved. I expect Kate is very well-behaved like you are. Were you brought up to be a well-behaved young lady, Kate?'

‘I can't remember. It was so long ago.'

Paul smiled at me, but they accepted my answer with perfect gravity. And disdain.

I was out of work for several weeks at the time and with all the hassle in the house, workmen not turning up or turning up with fittings of the wrong size or colour, carpets we hadn't ordered, the self-confidence I'd managed to build up since my twenties almost deserted me. I began to feel only a substitute for the dazzling Francesca.

‘Do you still love Francesca?' I asked Paul one night when we were on our own. It was the last thing I'd intended to say.

‘I love
you
, Kate. Are those girls getting to you?' (Did he understand?) ‘All that silly jabbering. They've always done it. I've never taken any notice of them and neither must you. They read too much and watch too much TV. They invent stories. Their lives are all make-believe. They don't do any of the outrageous things they talk about. Surely you realise that? They're really very shy, backward little girls who live in their imagination. Their headmistress would tell you that. They're desperate for the sort of adventures they think grown-ups have, so they invent them. They're longing to grow up, that's all.'

I was pleased that Paul was able to treat their bizarre conversation so lightly, but I couldn't. To my mind there was definitely something sinister about it. The way they lowered their voices when they came to certain of the more preposterous details, hurrying over them as though they hardly wanted them heard, seemed to indicate fact not fiction, possibly events they weren't entirely happy about. ‘We let the gardener's boy sit on the wall and watch us, don't we, Selena? And once we let him... decorate us with flowers, but that was about all... That was almost all, anyway – all we want to think about.' Perhaps they wanted to be questioned, even reproved. Perhaps I should have stepped in and tried to suggest what was acceptable behaviour, what unacceptable. But I was too much of a coward. Already feeling despised, I didn't want to be totally rejected. I'd decided on my role – as onlooker – and was determined not to change it.

Paul must have realised that I wasn't completely convinced by his defence of the girls. ‘Though I suppose they've been damaged to some extent, by Francesca leaving me,' he added. With too much sadness in his voice.

‘You still love her, don't you?'

‘I haven't completely got her out of my system, but I don't love her. I love you, Kate.'

It was at the end of this traumatic week that Paul got his first call for help from Francesca. The deal she'd made with some well-established American artist working in Mexico had somehow fallen through and left her heavily in debt. As far as I could understand, she'd already been living off the huge sums of money she was expecting to make from some paintings and drawings this ‘almost famous' artist was letting her have at sacrificial prices, and since the poet she was living with was penniless – though undoubtedly a genius – it meant that she'd no longer be able to hang on to the house her father had given her in Holland Park when she'd got married, so that she and the children would be homeless.

In those early days I was trying hard to be sympathetic, so I didn't like to suggest that she sell the large Holland Park house and buy a smaller house or even a flat in some less desirable area. No, I agreed with Paul that he could do nothing else but pay off her debts, even though it meant that he could contribute little or nothing – it turned out to be nothing – to the full-scale alterations we were having done in our very modest house.

That was the first time I was thwarted by Francesca. Eventually I got used to it and didn't feel so bruised.

‘She'll come tomorrow,' I said.

It was only as my mother was crying that I realised she no longer cried as she used to; she was getting better. I looked at her with pride. ‘I'll go down the village and get some more bread and some cheese. I'll tell them Auntie Jane will pay tomorrow.'

Auntie Jane didn't arrive the next day either, but in the evening Uncle Ted arrived with our groceries. Usually we only saw him on Christmas Day when he came to fetch us for our annual visit to the farm, I hardly recognised him in his working clothes. He brought bad news: Auntie Jane was in hospital and having an operation the next day. ‘A hysterectomy,' he said, in such grave tones that I've never been able to hear the word since without quailing. She would be three weeks in hospital and wouldn't be able to do any work on the farm for three months.

‘Poor Jane,' my mother said, ‘and oh Ted, whatever shall we do up here on our own?'

He studied her for a long time. ‘I'll have to take Jane's place, I suppose,' he said at last. ‘Though God knows how I'm going to find the time.'

I unpacked the cardboard box of groceries he'd brought. Auntie Jane, in hospital and awaiting her operation, had remembered to make Uncle Ted a list; four large sliced loaves, margarine, tea, sugar, cheese, baked beans, eggs and bananas, all as usual except for the large home-made fruit cake. She must have been too ill for baking, I thought, tears filling my eyes; both for her and for the loss of the cake. I made a pot of tea.

Uncle Ted sat down and watched me setting out three cups and saucers. ‘You're looking very well, Miriam,' he told my mother. ‘My dear, you don't look a day over twenty-one. You should start going around a bit to get yourself another husband. A farmer this time, somebody solid.'

‘Oh Ted,' my mother said, smiling weakly. ‘My heart is broken, you know that.'

‘They mend,' he said. ‘Hearts do mend. “A time to mourn and a time to give up mourning.” That's from the Bible, Katie, and a good piece of advice for your mother.'

He looked at her again. ‘Time now to find a little job, Miriam. Time now to try to do without poor Jane's help.' He drank his tea noisily and got to his feet.

He patted my hair before he left and said I was a good girl. I wanted to bite his hand. Auntie Jane always said he was a mean bugger so he had no right to pretend to be nice. He put some money on the table. ‘Here's what was left from your pension, Miriam. Jane says you need to keep that to pay the milk and Katie's school dinners.'

‘Thank you, Ted,' my mother said meekly. But I could see it was much less than Auntie Jane left us.

‘This isn't enough,' I said when he'd left.

‘Jane lets us have some of her housekeeping,' my mother said. ‘We'd never manage on my pension. And she buys all your clothes as well. She never lets you go short of anything, does she?'

I'd always loved Auntie Jane but had never realised quite how much we owed her.

Up until then, not wanting to be too much of a burden on the Lord Jesus, my prayers had been only for my mother's recovery; from that evening, I added Auntie Jane, with a postscript that Uncle Ted should bring us our groceries until her complete recovery, but please, please, let it be soon.

Uncle Ted, big, loud and handsome came the following week as well, but not until seven o'clock. He'd already been to see Auntie Jane in the hospital. He was annoyed that she was taking tea round to the other patients instead of resting.

‘Jane is always kind,' my mother said, tears in her eyes.

‘Jane is always a fool,' he retorted. ‘She must learn to put first things first. And the first things are her husband and the farm.' He glared at my mother and me so that we realised what a burden we were.

I unpacked the groceries, refusing to meet his eyes. But when I'd finished putting everything away, I was astonished to see that he was holding my mother's hand and smiling at her. ‘You get off to bed,' he told me, ‘I've brought along a pack of cards to teach your mother to play whist. It'll do her good to have some company, won't it?' His voice was sickly sweet.