Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman

Chapter Twenty-four

I thought a lot about the house I would lose. The shell and what was in it. ‘Simple. Buy another one, start again. The house is not the most important thing,’ argued Hal, when I told him of my feeling for number seven. But he would.

I thought of the hours, the years, I had spent on it, happily and inventively, its spaces, its corners, the places where the sun spilled into the interiors and over its objects. My hands bore a reminder of hours of polishing and brushing, my back the burden of carrying my children up and down its stairs, the king-size double bed the two dents where Nathan and I had slept for so long.

I thought of my garden, of the tiny pointed buds of spring and the mass cull of autumn, the cycle of growth and death. In the past, I had struggled to put house and garden into order, to render clean and fresh my family’s dwelling place. I had struggled to put myself into order. Perhaps there is nothing quite so strong as sublimated passion, the one forced underground, which pulses with secret life.

Richard and Poppy planned to remain at Lakey Street until the New Year and ended up staying well beyond that. Apparently the Kensington flat required repairs and it was easier if they were with me while these were done. Richard had started his job; he left the house early and returned late, the deal being that the still jobless Poppy would supervise the move, and repaint the kitchen and bathroom in their flat.

Christmas came and went, a subdued, different but peaceful Christmas, and nothing had been achieved in the packing department, still less in the job-hunting one. ‘I’m not cut out for DIY,’ protested Poppy, when I tackled her. ‘Anyway, paint gets over my glasses and I can’t do it in the lenses.’

Both she and I knew that these were excuses. The radiant vision that had burst on me from Thailand had vanished. Its replacement trailed around the house, stuffing objects into plastic bags in a vague, unfocused manner, and spent a lot of time on the phone to Jilly. Jilly who, I pointed out, had got herself a job. How irritating of her, Poppy flashed back. She would.

I consulted Sam about Poppy’s state of mind. Sam, who was sounding a great deal more relaxed, happy, even, these days, laughed and said it was pre-wedding nerves. Only, Poppy being Poppy, she had got the timing wrong.

By mid January, however, Richard had developed the habit of shutting the front door behind him with a bang when he left in the morning and I considered it was time to take action.

I chivvied Poppy upstairs to the spare room and made her begin to pack up the presents. Sniffing a little, she drifted around, picking up clothes and throwing them down. The once immaculate room looked as if a storm had burst through the door and out through the window.

‘Can you remember when you moved to Lakey Street?’ Poppy abandoned any attempt at packing.

‘I do. After living in a flat Dad and I were so pleased to have stairs that we raced up and down them.’

‘Being an adult… it’s tricky’ Poppy hunched on the bed. ‘Isn’t it? Adults are so wicked and destructive.’

‘You always said you couldn’t wait to grow up.’

Poppy pleated the hem of her cardigan. ‘I wasn’t to know adulthood takes a running jump and hangs on your back for the rest of your life.’

I took this to mean that Poppy wished she was still in Thailand. You could never be quite sure what Poppy was driving at, but the lateral approach tended to be more productive. ‘Don’t you like your flat?’

‘I didn’t choose it. But that doesn’t matter.’ She twisted the flesh of her wedding finger so hard that I reached over and stopped her. She looked up at me. ‘Last night I dreamt I was a little girl again. In the silly bed, you know, the one with the sides that let down. In the dream, I tried to make sure that my room remained the same, but someone kept changing it round.’

So Sam had been correct about the pre-wedding nerves. I moved over to the chest and wrapped up a wineglass. ‘Where’s the girl who had so many plans?’

Poppy stood up. ‘Where is that bed, Mum?’

‘In the attic’

She brightened. ‘Can I take it with me?’ She surveyed the stack of salt and pepper mills, tablecloths, decanters, and a toast rack in the shape of the Millennium Dome. ‘Do you want any of this? I don’t think I can cope with it all.’

‘As an act of charity, I’ll take the Dome.’

Poppy shoved it in my direction. ‘It’s obscene being showered with all this stuff. I should never have allowed it. What will I do with it?’

‘The usual.’

‘That’s it. I’ll have to use it and put it away tidily. Polish things. Clean them. Take control.’

‘You’re lucky, Poppy,’ I interposed, gently.

‘I know I’m lucky, so don’t start up about refugees and all that.’

I tugged at a strand of her hair. ‘Stage-fright, darling?’

Seizing a modern cut-glass decanter from the clutter, Poppy held it out to me. Reflected in its curve were two distorted faces, preternaturally round and smooth. ‘You take this.’

‘No.’ I was sharper than I intended. ‘Mazarine sent it over from Paris.’ My lips twitched. Apparently, it’s a modern classic’

Poppy peered at it. ‘That’s what it is.’

There was a pause. ‘If you weren’t sure about Richard, why did you marry him?’

Both irritated and amused, she snapped back, ‘You sound just like Granny.’

‘So I do. And a mother’s place is always in the wrong’

‘So sad, Mum.’ She rolled the decanter stopper restlessly between her fingers. ‘It isn’t Richard. It’s the set-up.’

I reached for another glass. ‘You’re right about one thing. Richard’s full of surprises.’

Immediately Poppy went all dreamy. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘That’s the main thing,’ I said. ‘The rest can fall in behind it.’

There was another long silence, but not a good one. Eventually, Poppy burst out, ‘I hope you haven’t been too nice to Dad. Have you? Richard says it’s only sensible he gets the house, but I can’t see it like that.’

‘I wasn’t pushed into it, if that’s what you mean.’ I passed Poppy some tissue paper. ‘Could you wrap the decanter?’

She muttered, ‘What about your pride, Mum?’

Aha. That was the crux of the matter, and I had to tiptoe across crushed glass. ‘The textbook doesn’t always apply’

‘Rubbish. That’s an excuse.’

I abandoned the third wineglass and seized Poppy by the shoulders. ‘It’s true. You can wait years in the queue, patiently shuffling towards the top, then someone overtakes you and administers a hefty kick on the way. You’re happily married, and then you’re not, and you imagine you’re going to die from humiliation and pain.’ Under my fingers, Poppy’s shoulders felt defenceless. ‘But you don’t, not in the obvious way. What’s more, you can get your own back – but not in the obvious way. You get your own back by believing that, yes, despite everything you can live as well, perhaps better. Differently, anyway.’

Poppy shrugged me off. ‘Oh, yes?’

Here the seven-year brain-cycle theory would have come in handy, but Poppy was in no mood for evolutionary science. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that pride is too heavy to carry around. And destructive,’ I said – lightly, but I meant it. Poppy’s mouth tightened. ‘Poppy darling, are you blaming me for what’s happened?’

At that she turned on me, a goaded, troubled Fury. ‘You didn’t fight hard enough to keep Dad. Why didn’t you? Why can’t you make him see what a fool he’s making of himself? It’s as if I’d gone off with a man of his age. Think about that. That Dad should do such a thing and you should let him.’

She glowed with outrage and I caught a glimpse of the Rose of twenty-five years ago, who had searched for order and security amongst the mess and muddle. Conventional wisdom said that youth was adventurous. I wonder. In no way had I been that adventurous. Or, rather, I had tried to be, then scuttled away when it went wrong. In her way, Poppy was telling me more or less the same thing.

With one of her more dramatic gestures – and she possessed an excellent repertoire – Poppy slipped to her knees. ‘Mum, please try again. Please try to bring Dad back.’

I leant over and cupped her wet face in my hands. My own was wet with tears, too, but I was laughing at her fierceness and indignation, which was unfair. Her skin felt as smooth as that of the tiny baby I had once held so closely. ‘Shush,’ I said. ‘Shush, Poppy.’

As promised Kim Boyle contacted me. ‘Right, my girl, this is the best I can do. Not a full-time job but part-time, to do serial. Will the finances permit? Can I have you next week?’

At six thirty on 21 January, the alarm shrilled. I got dressed in a black felt skirt, a red jumper and a pair of heels as high as I could manage, given that I was going to wear them all day. For breakfast I ate raw porridge oats with a banana, and drank two cups of strong black coffee.

With a lightish heart, I retrieved my book bag from its peg and left the house. The overgrown bay tree brushed wet fingers across my back as I passed, and I was in the office by nine twenty.

Kim arrived at half past ten. His assistant, Deirdre, had already installed me at a desk and issued me with security and canteen cards. These slotted back with no trouble into the worn niche in my wallet.

‘Good.’ Kim ran an eye over the bright-eyed bushy-tailed me. ‘We’ll do nicely. I believe in sauce for the feminist goose and her gander, and since I want to see the children in the mornings, you will come in early and I will stay late.’

The office was smaller and less architecturally evolved than that of the Vistemax Group, which meant it was nicer to work in. Its smaller size was, however, indicative of the Daily Dispatch’s rank in the ratings war. Not a bad thing, for there was a buzz in the office and the distinct sound of warriors buckling on armour.

‘Here…’ Kim tossed me a volume on Handel and a top-secret ghost-written biography of a female pop-star. ‘See what you make of them.’

Proust may have had his madeleine, whose taste and scent goaded him into writing his masterpiece of past loves and hates, despairs and longing. My madeleine was more prosaic, less delicately sensuous, but, as surely, as powerfully, the fonts, spines and promise of books pulled me back.

Handel was an interesting man, but the apparent lack of women in his life shocked his biographer. Even so, the female characters in his operas were invariably arresting for he gave them great buffeting passions and the gift of emotional authenticity. Not that the paper would be in the least interested in that. However, the story of the female pop star…

‘Hmm,’ said Kim, at the end of the day ‘Not sure about Handel.’

‘I didn’t think you would be, so I’ve concentrated on the other.’

‘You’ve got the idea quickly’ I resisted the temptation to say, ‘Of course I’ve got the idea.’ He leafed through my suggestions and jabbed his pen here and there on the pages – the role I used to have. But I didn’t mind. ‘How does it feel to be back in an office?’

‘Bit like pulling on an old but favourite jumper.’

Kim shoved the work back at me. ‘A bit of tinkering’s needed, nothing major, and we’ll go for it. I’ll let you know the budget.’ He gathered up his agenda and headed off to a meeting.

I settled down in the office. By the end of the second week Deirdre and I were well on the way to being friends. I had ascertained that she wore a lot of scent, and kept two pairs of shiny high heels in different colours in her desk. She also had a nose for what would work.

‘What about this?’ I explained that a diet had come in which argued that individuals should eat according to their blood type. You were allowed either proteins or carbohydrates, and only the lucky AB groups ended up with anything approaching normal meals.

‘Do you mean to say that the fact that my hips are two sizes too big has nothing to do with the million chocolate bars I’ve eaten but is down to my blood group?’ She leant over my desk. ‘Dynamite, Rose. If my blood group’s to blame it leaves me free to stuff myself with chocolate. Run it.’

Poppy and I finally managed to pack boxes, lock cases and stuff clothes into bags, and a van took them all away. One day Poppy and Richard had filled the house, the next they had gone, leaving behind a snowfall of tissues, discarded labels and dust.

The following day I telephoned estate agents, all of whom promised to send details of the ‘opportunities’ currently on their lists. Sam came up to London and insisted on going through them with me. It took him two minutes to spot the sensible ‘opportunity’ in Clapham. ‘That one,’ he said.

We went to view it on Poppy’s birthday and were discussing its pros and cons as we arrived at the Kensington flat for a celebration supper. Looking exceptionally smart in a tailored grey suit and gold jewellery, Alice joined us. She offered Sam a cheek to kiss and kept a hand possessively on his arm as she turned to me. ‘Rose, you’re looking better.’

Poppy was in one of her floaty muslin numbers, to which she had added a mass of beads. I kissed her but she was preoccupied and, as soon we had settled in the sitting room, disappeared into the kitchen.

Sam and I batted flat talk between each other. ‘I don’t trust you to be sensible,’ he was saying, as Richard, who had been giving Alice a guided tour of the flat, ushered her back into the room.

‘I don’t believe Rose is ever not sensible,’ Richard said, but his expression suggested that he believed exactly the opposite. He was dressed in corduroy trousers, which strained a little too tightly across the buttocks, and Sam and I exchanged undercover grins. The new Richard still required getting used to.

‘Does Poppy need any help?’

Richard looked a trifle grim. ‘Poppy and cooking are combustible. I’d better go and check.’

Sam inspected the large, elegant room, which housed a pair of American colonial gilt chairs, a French provincial mirror with the original glass, and an exquisitely inlaid half-moon side-table. ‘Hell,’ he muttered. ‘I thought they were into grass skirts, flowers in the hair and that sort of stuff.’

‘It’s lovely’ Alice fiddled with her bracelet, a heavy gold chain. Her eyes grazed the room hungrily. ‘Richard’s parents must have been very generous.’

‘None of your business.’ Sam was uncharacteristically sharp. I was startled and, if I was not mistaken, so was Alice.

The doorbell rang and Richard went to answer it. ‘Nathan,’ we heard him say. ‘Were we expecting you?’

‘I thought I’d just drop this in…’ In his office suit, Nathan appeared in the doorway carrying a large, beribboned parcel. He stopped. ‘I didn’t realize you were having a family party,’ he said, in a cold, hurt way.

I got up and kissed him, for I, of all people, knew how often Nathan had planned surprises for Sam and Poppy, and how much he would mind being sidelined.

‘Dad.’ Sam hugged him.

In a man-to-man gesture that showed a great deal of pride in his son, Nathan rested his hand on Sam’s shoulder and ran a fatherly eye over him. ‘Why are you in town?’

Sam explained that he had come up to help me look for flats and Nathan’s smile switched off. ‘Nice of you, Sam,’ he said woodenly

Without warning, the old pain nagged away, and I felt unutterably weary with the process of disconnection from Nathan which, however we handled it, would be prolonged and pitted with obstacles.

Poppy materialized, wild-haired and frantic. She started visibly when she saw her father. ‘Bit of a crisis in the kitchen. Hallo, Dad. How nice. Ooh, a present. Can you stay for supper? I need two pairs of strong hands.’

Sam and Richard obliged, leaving me with Alice and Nathan. Alice hauled out her mobile phone. ‘Do you mind? I’ve forgotten something urgent.’ She proceeded to conduct a conversation to do with deal-tunnels, brokerage, leverage and breakfast.

‘I didn’t know you’d be here,’ said Nathan.

‘Everything all right at work?’ I asked.

‘Sure, sure,’ he said, too heartily ‘Figures are up. Everyone’s behaving. Couldn’t be better.’ He dug his hands into his pockets. ‘Couldn’t be better.’

‘I’m doing some work for Kim at the Daily Dispatch.’

‘Oh.’ He looked startled. ‘Well, that’s good.’

We lapsed into silence.

‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘Everything’s absolutely fine.’

Poppy did her best to make him stay but Minty was waiting at home and Nathan would not be persuaded. I turned to Alice, who had finished her conversation. ‘It was nice of you to make the effort for Poppy.’

She slid her phone into her bag. ‘No trouble. I had a meeting and I crave London from time to time.’ She looked straight past me to Richard. ‘How’s the new job?’

He looked smug. ‘Not all number-crunching, I’m happy to say. Strategy, no mercy and lots of money’

I found myself staring at Richard, wondering if his cynicism was real or feigned and, if the former, could Poppy be inoculated against it. Or was he conducting a prolonged tease with his parents-in-law? ‘Tell me more,’ begged Alice, and I knew then that Bath was never going to be big enough to contain her. ‘Which are your sectors?’

Richard purred. ‘Manufacturing bases, specifically textile firms in the Midlands, small family enterprises that have lost crucial contracts. We advise them on cutting the workforce and contracting out East.’

‘I thought you didn’t approve of capitalism,’ I interjected.

Richard leant over towards me. ‘Rose,’ he said kindly, ‘these are the realities.’

At this point, I caught Nathan’s eye and we exchanged a tentative private smile.

He tossed down the last of his wine. ‘I must go.’ He kissed Poppy and Alice then, after a hesitation, kissed me too.

The front door closed behind him, and the assembled company relaxed.

‘Poor Dad.’ Poppy had drunk too much wine in the kitchen. She hustled me into a corner and hissed, ‘He’s having a terrible time with Minty’s fertility treatment. He’s told me all about it. Horrible.’

Various factors now fell into place. The medical insurance for one. ‘That’s Dad’s business. Not for discussion, Poppy.’

Poppy ignored me. ‘They’ve been at it for months. Dad hates what it involves – imagine, at his age – and Minty is pretty sour at the non-strike rate. Bet they’re sniggering at the paper.’

‘Shush,’ I said sharply, because I could not bear to hear any more. I raised my glass. ‘Happy birthday’

‘Thanks, Mum.’ She rubbed her hand over her face. ‘With one thing and another, I feel a hundred and ten.’

Later that night, I undressed in my solitary bedroom. No one else was running a bath or listening to the radio. There was no Parsley, of course, on the bed. Even the water pipes were silent.

Naked, I stood in front of the mirror. A woman’s reflection met me. But which woman? I pinched and patted a fold of flesh on my stomach and flexed my leg in the way Minty did.

Was it possible to find recompense, meaning, connection with others amidst the mess and muddle? I had tried to persuade Poppy that it was, but had I been truthful?

In the past, in a crisis, men and women bound up their feet in leather and linen, and set out on a pilgrimage to the tomb of a saint. There they prayed, for health, children or to grab their neighbour’s land. They observed the milk of the Virgin, a fragment of the True Cross shimmering with righteousness, a saint’s bones, and gave thanks for being vouchsafed such a miracle. Those who survived came home, immeasurably comforted and enriched.

At this point, I began to shiver with cold and felt more than a little ridiculous. I slipped on my nightdress and went to bed.

Before I fell asleep I told myself, Of course you understand who you are and where you are. Of course you do.

Hang on. There isn’t a mistake. You are the woman in the mirror, whose name is Rose, who looks fine. Just fine.