Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman

Chapter Fifteen

The Rose in the mirror had undergone a metamorphosis worked by Mazarine’s intervention. Breast, waist and leg were cradled by lace, wire, linen and silk: no longer was I the neutral, unremarked shadow I imagined I had become – the shadow who slipped through streets alongside hundreds of other neutral, unremarked women, whose hearts beat, as mine did, with rage that they had arrived at this point. More than that, I had stepped over fear and habit and kicked them away. That’s why I looked different.

‘Hallo, Rose,’ I said softly.

The figure in the mirror moved, and the delicate, expensive materials cradled curves, accentuated the swoop of bone under the flesh. No, certainly not a ghost. Certainly not insubstantial. Mazarine gave me a little pat and I was filled with gratitude to the friend who countered whatever life threw at her with elegant theories and shopping. ‘Hurry up,’ she said, ‘we’ll be late for the salon de beauté.’

Two hours later, smarting from the toughest depilation I had ever endured and glowing after a mud pack culled from a prehistoric spring, I sat down in a pink silk chair and presented my hands and feet for the final lap.

A girl sat on a stool in front of me and a pair of thin white hands kidnapped mine. The rest of her was thin, too, and she went to work abstractedly in a way that suggested that, if her body was present, her mind ranged elsewhere. Eventually she spoke. ‘Madame has not been taking care of her nails.’

This was indisputable.

She examined my right hand. ‘If you cultivate the habit, you can train them.’

The grit in the oyster, I sat in the luxurious room while layers of cream, powder and varnish were applied to turn me into a pearl. The girl proceeded to tackle a cuticle, which certainly had not acquired the habit, and the discomfort was such that I decided to defend myself. ‘But I will be acquiring the habit,’ I said. ‘Definitely.’

As a philosophy it had limitations, but it would do.

Because I was curious, Mazarine took me to see the house in the fashionable sixteenth and, in an area that grew beautiful houses like mushrooms, it was beautiful. Built of dazzling white stone, many-windowed, it exuded poise, certainty and memories of a civilized history.

‘About 1730,’ Mazarine whispered, as we peered, like children, through the wrought-iron gates into the courtyard.

‘Why are we whispering?’

‘I don’t know’ Mazarine adjusted her voice to normal. ‘It belonged at one time to the Duc de Sully. We won’t go in but it’s kept in immaculate order. Not a thing out of place. White muslin, bleached wood, that sort of thing. Huge beds. The housekeeper is a fiend at her job and lectured me on how get to rid of silverfish.’

A couple of the windows had been opened, and there was a flutter of white muslin. ‘Not a home, then,’ I said. No shelter for a sobbing child, exhausted adolescent, or hurt adult, even. Just a place where desire was kept artificially in a state of permanent expectation.

‘Let’s go. I hate it.’ Mazarine was stiff with tension.

A girl went through the gate as we were leaving, tap-tapping on high, spindle heels. She was slender, dark and expensive-looking. She paused to adjust the gold chain that anchored her handbag to her shoulder, caught my gaze and sent me a small, hard smile.

A flower-seller was positioned by the entrance to the Metro, with a mass of starved-looking lilies and roses in buckets. The lily petals had retracted like claws and the roses looked bruised. Beside them was another bucket, stuffed with harsh orange gerberas. Ugly but alive. On an impulse I bought a bunch.

Back in her apartment, Mazarine arranged the gerberas in a vase. The corners of her lips were turned down. ‘Xavier should have told me.’ The mouth became more tragic.

I arrived back at Lakey Street on a warm Sunday afternoon and the post was splattered all over the floor. I picked it up and sorted it into piles. Bills, circulars, a postcard from Poppy, another from Sam. Both informed me that they were well and happy, and I was not to worry.

Warmed by my children, I moved round the house opening windows, letting in fresh air, and phoned Ianthe, who was coming over for supper. Next I checked up on Mr Sears.

‘Didn’t notice you’d gone,’ he said, as I placed in his lap the box of chocolates I had brought for him.

‘Glad you’ve missed me.’

‘I’ve been counting my blessings. It takes me all day.’

I laughed. ‘Actually, I’ve been counting mine.’

Back home, I made a macaroni cheese and laid the table in the kitchen. My mother had never lost her taste for good, heavy, plain food.

On the dot, Ianthe arrived looking her usual neat self in a soft blue cardigan and flowered cotton dress with a full skirt, but a little pale. She noted the laid table. ‘Can’t we have supper in the garden? It’s a shame to be inside.’

I did not attempt to explain my neglect of the garden. I pulled out a tray and piled on to it the cutlery and china.

Ianthe watched me. ‘Any new developments?’

‘Not as far as I’m aware.’

She sighed, the blocked, irritable sound of a parent pinned against a brick wall. ‘I don’t know what your father would have thought.’

‘Dad was very practical, Mum. I’m sure he would have understood. I feel… well, it’s gone too far for retrieval. I have to face the fact that Nathan has decided to go. I can’t undo that. I know he wouldn’t have done anything so final unless he meant it, and it’s not as simple as saying forgive and forget.’

‘Yes, it is, if you decide it is.’

‘Mum, believe me…’ Ianthe’s stricken expression forced me to change tack. ‘Since we’re on the subject, you’ve never really explained why you didn’t get married again.’

‘I didn’t find the right person.’

It was my turn to sigh. ‘Nonsense. There was Jimmy Beestwick. He hung around for years. Or the nice Neil… so why? You would have been much more comfortable. Less lonely. All that.’ Ianthe’s gaze fell away. ‘Go on, tell me.’

The admission was slow in coming. ‘Your dad was everything. I wasn’t sure I could do it twice. Have the luck, I mean.’

‘So it’s not that simple. It’s magic, witchery and good timing.’

Ianthe picked up the tray. ‘Sometimes, Rose, I think you’re being deliberately stupid. It’s common sense and being unselfish. But I’m not sure anyone sees it like that any more.’

‘You’re contradicting yourself, Mum. Admit.’

Defeated, she shrugged. ‘I can’t explain.’

This year I had not exhumed the chairs from the garden shed, so I fetched a couple from the kitchen. Ianthe sat down heavily in hers.

Macaroni cheese is comforting, and we ate in silence. Afterwards, Ianthe said, ‘Your father was a wonderfully secure person to live with, and he made people around him feel secure. That’s why I could never get over the will business. It was so unlike him.’

To my horror, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, Mum, don’t. Please don’t.’

Ianthe extracted a neatly ironed handkerchief from her cardigan sleeve and pressed it to her eyes. ‘It’s nothing… I’m all right… Actually, there is something. It’s just that I have to have some tests and I haven’t been sleeping that well.’ Her pause was more alarming than anything she said. ‘Nothing serious, you know’

I pulled my chair closer to hers. ‘No, I don’t know, Mum. You’d better tell me.’

Ianthe gave the irritating laugh she reserved for social occasions when she felt out of depth. ‘Just a lump. The doctor says it’s more likely than not to be a cyst.’ She tapped her chest.

I thought rapidly. ‘When are the tests and where?’

‘That’s just it. There’s a bit of a wait.’

I started up. ‘I’ll ring Nathan. You’re on his insurance.’

Minty’s phone number was still stored on the phone’s menu in the sitting room and, with the flick of a button, I was talking to Nathan. ‘Nathan, Ianthe has to have some urgent tests. I wanted to check it’s OK to go ahead and use the insurance.’

Nathan cleared his throat. Always a bad sign. ‘I’ve been meaning to get in touch about this. I’ve had to take both your names off.’

‘I see.’ Pause. ‘Or, rather, I don’t.’ But I did. ‘Is this because you had to put Minty on instead?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Couldn’t you have told me?’

‘I should have done, but it slipped my mind. I’ll explain why one day, but it was necessary. Don’t worry, I haven’t made any other alterations.’

‘Let me get this straight. Ianthe can’t use the insurance for urgent tests, but we can summon the gasman to mend the boiler. We can die safely in a heated house.’ I struggled to keep calm. After all, what else should I expect? I said, more to myself than to Nathan, ‘What am I going to do about Ianthe?’

‘I…’ I heard Minty make a comment in the background and Nathan covered the receiver with his hand. There was a muffled and, judging by Minty’s tone, rather heated exchange. ‘Rose,’ Nathan came back on the line, ‘if you want some help…’

‘It’s fine, Nathan, don’t bother.’

I put down the phone and looked at my feet. Ianthe always said that she could not go on for ever but I expected her to. The room grew chilly, and I with it. I shook a little, whether from anger or fear I wasn’t sure. One thing was certain, however: I was on my own.

I lied, and told Ianthe that everything was arranged, and she was to have the bill sent to Lakey Street so that I could check it out before forwarding it to Nathan.

She seemed reassured and insisted in her quiet way that she wished to look at the garden and led me down the path, stopping frequently to assess a plant. I followed reluctantly. ‘You’ve been neglecting it,’ she scolded. ‘What a shame.’

‘I haven’t been out in it much.’

‘You should.’ She bent down to examine a clematis and her flowered dress made a graceful waterfall. ‘This has got wilt, Rose. If you cut it right back, you might save it.’ She looked at me severely, questioningly. ‘You’ve been letting things go. Whatever has happened, you must not give up. Others depend on you, and you must set an example to the children, and to me. We all depend on you.’ Lecture delivered, she pinched an olive leaf between her fingers. ‘I never thought you’d grow,’ she told it.

Smarting as I was, I laughed all the same. ‘I never thought I’d see you talking to it. Give it a few more years and you won’t recognize it.’

Ianthe turned away. I could almost taste her fear and anxiety and I could have bitten out my tongue. Maybe I don’t have any more years hung unspoken between us.

‘Mum…’ I thought rapidly. ‘Mum, I was going to ask you to help with the fountain. I need an extra hand.’

At once her face cleared. ‘Of course.’

I fetched the trug, the trowel and the bucket, and began to clear the debris that had accumulated. Even in water, leaves do not rot very quickly and those I extracted from it retained their shapes. We worked together, not saying much. Ianthe peeled back the wire covering the motor and held it, while I inserted my finger into the mechanism and scooped out the body of a dead tadpole and clods of mud. ‘OK, Mum,’ and she eased the wire back into place. I switched on the mechanism and the water dribbled, then flowed down into the cleansed pool. I made a few extra adjustments to the larger stones Poppy, Sam and I had collected years ago at Hastings, and stood back to admire our handiwork.

Ianthe brushed down the front of her dress, which was spattered by stagnant water. ‘I’m glad we did that.’

When Nathan’s mother died he said he wanted to remember her as she had once been, before the illness took a grip, and that I should too. It was a good, helpful thought, and typical of Nathan. There 0and then, I resolved that that was how I would think of him when I went back over the memories. The man who took trouble with his mother-in-law and spent time helping her with tax and pensions. Not, perhaps, how he wished to occupy his spare time, but he did it. The man who had told me privately that some people were damn ignorant about how the world functioned, but did his utmost to help all the same.

The following evening the doorbell went unexpectedly. It was Vee, flushed and panting. ‘Transport’s terrible round here,’ she said.

‘Always was,’ I said.

I kissed her, and took her into the sitting room. ‘I’ve just come to check I haven’t a suicide on my hands.’ Vee plumped down in the blue chair, and I knew she must have been talking to Mazarine. The knowledge that they were watching over me made me feel better.

‘Children OK?’

‘Sam comes up a lot and Poppy writes me postcards telling me not to worry.’

Vee smiled. ‘They’re the best.’

Hearing my children praised never failed. Vee leant back in the chair and closed her eyes. ‘I am absolutely exhausted. Completely, utterly drained. Why did I do it?’

I handed her a glass of white wine. I did not need to ask what she meant. ‘Drink this.’

‘All I dream about is being alone, completely alone. And sleeping.’ As she spoke, her features slackened, her skin paled, and Vee fell asleep, just like that. Sipping my wine, I sat and looked peacefully out of the window. After ten minutes or so, she woke. ‘Oh, God, Rose. Why did you let me do that? It’s dreadful. I do it all over the place. I’m terrified I’ll fall asleep in a meeting.’

As long as you’re not speaking, no one will notice.’

‘Beast.’

We laughed comfortably. She poked at her bag, her book bag. ‘Apart from the pleasure of seeing you, I want to use you. One of my reviewers has become temperamental so I sacked him yesterday, which leaves me without my round-up of travel books for the summer.’ Vee’s eyes opened wide. ‘Knowing your histoire, knowing you had plenty of time, I thought of you. You haven’t been gagged by the heavies? It’s not full-time employment. I’ll pay top whack… The thing is, you have only two days.’ She swallowed. ‘And one of the books is…’

I said it for her. ‘By Hal.’

‘Yup.’

Tears suddenly rained down my cheeks, an unstoppable release of emotion, and I was helpless. Vee leapt up and dabbed at my face with a tissue. ‘Stupid,’

My long-term habits are, so to speak, ingrained in my blood and bone and I have to dig deep to break them. A Thousand Olive Trees wasted an hour or two of valuable time lying on the kitchen table before I stretched out my hand and, for a second time, picked it up.

It described the journey he had made on foot through Italy. A ‘journey,’ he wrote in the preface, ‘marked by a succession of painful blisters, a common affliction, which has more effect on history and war than might be supposed.’

He began in the Veneto and picked his way south, along an ancient route taken by the merchants. ‘Those who embark on these old paths are normally looking for secular rewards, the benefit of exercise, the charm of unfamiliar surroundings, a sense of achievement – but are often taken by surprise when they experience a feeling that might be called spiritual.’

Hal’s language was as unfamiliar to me as Nathan’s had become and, if I was not mistaken, he was less goldentongued, and that made me smile. But I could picture his walk, an impatient quick-march that used to leave me gasping. I, too, hefted my rucksack and placed my feet in his footprints and slithered down the stony scree, up the winding path into the hills, through a maquis of wild herbs, so bruised in passing that their aroma scented the hot air.

Blisters forced him to a halt in the village of Santa Maria, which fitted into a curve of the hillside among the olive groves in Umbria. And there he had discovered an olive farm that required an owner. The second half of the book was his account of buying it and settling down to learning about olive-tree cultivation.

I wrote the review, paying A Thousand Olive Trees no more and no less attention than I gave to the others in the round-up. I said that it was a book for dreamers.