DEAN STREET
by
Anny de Foosaf
What�s done is done. There�s no point in going back and trying to capture something that obviously wasn�t there in the first instance. If the woman had cared, then she wouldn�t have left us in a damp bed-sit, starving, infested with lice and with no one to take care of us. We were babies. Forget about sob stories and the rest of it, the fact remains that she wasn�t interested. I�ve told Clare this until my mouth has dried up, just to forget, but she�s having none of it. And now Clare has contacted her.
Have you had a look at the case notes? I asked Clare. Have you forgotten that she walked out and simply left us? This Mother!
But Clare�s on a mission and common sense has completely gone.
Our parents are putting on a show of supported unity even thought it�s shaking their foundations. They won�t say anything, that�s the way they are. I told Clare to calm it down in front of them but she�s got the blinkers on and can�t understand that these two people - who brought us up - who nursed us, fed us and have always been there through every school play, every thick-lip and grazed knee, every nightmare, are worried. I can tell that mum is obviously and rightly anxious; and dad, who sees shooting stars and hears symphonies each time Clare walks in the room, is beside himself. But they smile and ask questions and generally worship the ground she walks on, as they�ve always done with us both.
They don�t deserve this.
And I�ve done without the woman for twenty years and I can do without her for the remainder. We all can.
I quit thinking about it when one of the trainees knocks on the door and waits to be called in. I wish they wouldn�t show such deference, the Asian ones especially. Some of them are twice my age and yet treat me as a hero. Nazrul comes in with a file in hand and half bows half falls, offering his apologies for disturbing me and then nearly falls again over the rumpled carpet. That�s one of the worst things about working for a charity that advises society�s poor � there is never any bloody money for repairing anything. I tell Nazrul that he�s not disturbing me and am extra attentive to prove it. At fifty-five Nazrul is old enough to be my father. I go through the welfare benefit calculation with him and explain that he�s missed off a premium and if the client isn�t claiming it already then she should do so immediately. Satisfied and probably only having taken in a fifth of what I�ve just said, he thanks me profusely - �You�re welcome� � thanks me again � �You�re welcome� � and again ��You�re welcome� - before backing out of the room, taking his permeating aroma of spices and dried sweat with him. I make a note in my diary to check the client�s file on Monday. But for now I can forget about the poverty-stricken and concentrate on the weekend that is before me.
6pm on a Friday afternoon is the antithesis of 7am on a Monday morning. I like to make full use of it. Grabbing my briefcase and keys I glide through the wishes of have a nice weekend and head for the Tube, via the cash machine and through the increasing number of beggars sat outside the station in their expensive trainers.
Even with the vents open, the rampant accumulated body smells engulf; the train is only at two-thirds capacity � usual Friday afternoon, people having left earlier for their long weekend � which helps with the limited circulating air. It�s still stifling though, women having abandoned modesty and showing some bra; men with ties and jackets removed, puffing away, sharing their paunches with the world at large. I spot what looks like an East European making his way down the train. It�s becoming more usual for begging to take place on the Underground, no one really giving a damn except the commuters who have to field them. If this one is indeed begging he�s certainly not doing himself any service by displaying gold around his neck and an overpriced mobile telephone clipped to his equally expensive looking belt. In what is typical Tube etiquette, people look away as he approaches or look straight through him, some deciding to get off a stop earlier.
�Have you finished with your ticket?� he asks the attractive brunette sat opposite me. There isn�t a hint of an accent from him, only his Romany looks and pallor skin belie his true heritage.
�It�s a season ticket,� she tells him, obviously used to such requests. She flashes him a killer smile and the intended recipient isn�t the only one to notice how engaging it is. I think about explaining to him that while being entrepreneurial is commendable, it�s unlikely to be fruitful as commuters need the ticket to operate the barrier at their destination. No doubt his compatriots will explain it to him at some point. Maybe not. The brunette and I share a brief smile before she gets up and gets off.
At Tottenham Court Road I�m instantly accosted. First by a woman with a small child and a piece of card that explains they�re starving. This might be an effective tactic if the woman wasn�t obese and almost drowning under the subsequent perspiration. Second, by a gang of male, non-specific ethnic minorities who have obviously carved up the exits between them and are buzzing round as numerous as mosquitoes, trying to sell yesterday�s Evening Standard. I give one my daily travel card as I always get a taxi back on a Friday. I don�t use the Tube otherwise.
After the confinement of the train, it�s a thorough relief to be back in the open. The roads are full of the usual congestion of red buses and black taxis; the pavements choked with people. I adore the background static of others� lives, it whizzes around as a million whispers. I manage to get across the road without being killed and head for the pub. For some reason I�ve noticed this pub doesn�t fill-up as quickly as the surrounding ones. Getting my drink I opt for one of the small round tables by the window. I�ve got an hour to kill. I don�t mind the wait. It gives me time to relax from the day, from other people and their problems. Over the months it has become part of the routine: a drink or two in here and then a leisurely stroll down Dean Street, to Joy. A rather apt name for her, too.
I�d come to town for a funding meeting when I first met her. I was most impressed when I saw her: she looked better than the photograph on her card, it having being lodged in-between the seats of the cab, obviously forgotten. We sparked immediately. If I hadn�t felt it, then I would not have continued to use her services. She addressed the role-play with true professionalism.
A group of women bang on the window as they trundle past in their assortment of fairy costumes and �L� plates, blowing kisses as they head on out for the evening. I think I recognise one of them from university but they�re out of sight before I can place her, though their shrieks of joviality can still be heard. Silently I wish them well, still unable to pigeon-hole the familiar face.
Finishing the last of my drink I go for a replacement. Checking my watch I realise there isn�t sufficient time to finish another pint so ask that he change it to a half. I�ve noticed that most bar staff in London are of Antipodean descent. This one must have been here a while as there is definitely a hint of the cockney creeping into his vowels. I accept my change and start to head back to my table. The place is filling up and a couple of overweight suits have taken the table. I spend the next fifteen minutes or so sipping my drink against the bar before leaving for Dean Street.
I make my way through the perpetual Soho crowd and buzz Joy�s intercom, twice, wait for several seconds and then repeat the process. This is the code. The door clicks open by itself and I close it gently behind me, already beginning to get into character, which causes the usual stir in my groin. I help myself to a drink � included in the price � take off my clothes and dress in the crisp military uniform hanging by the doorway. The creases down the legs are perfect, the shoes buffed until they can be buffed no more. I especially like this about Joy: her attention to my instructions. Buttoning up the glowing red tunic, I check myself in the mirror and, taking an inventory of our usual bag of toys, climb the stairs to the waiting Joy.
Forty-five minutes later and we�re exhausted. I stroke her beautiful skin as it shimmers under the glistening sweat and don�t mind that she believes I�ve accepted the age on her business card. The tell-tale marks on her body confirm her lie. The skin of an older woman is imbibed with experience and therefore much more receptive to a touch. I stroke it some more. The burnt cinnamon colouring of my own tones blends perfectly against the deep blackness of hers, white sheets framing us like a non-colour photograph. Gently I uncouple from her and shower; the water refreshing against the suffocating heat. I dry and paddle naked down the stairs to dress into my day clothes.
We don�t speak.
I leave the fee and the usual large gratuity before exiting. I�m already looking forward to next week.
Soho is claustrophobic in the amount of people who seem to have crammed themselves into an area the size of a few streets. There is no point in attempting to flag a black cab to Hertfordshire, so walk down the street into Shaftesbury Avenue. It�s the predictable guy at the cab office who gives me the predictable �Ten minutes, mate�. It�ll be more like twenty but I play along as I�m not meeting John until half past nine, which gives me the best part of an hour. I sit in the dingy office watching the comings and goings of assorted people, wondering how such a small taxi firm can possibly afford the inflated rent inevitably attached to such an area. The controller distracts me from my ponderings as she shouts into her head piece. The drivers must be trying to wind her up but from my vantage point I would say that she is giving back ten-fold. The door pings open and something fat waddles in. �This is you, love� she shouts over at me, and then to the driver: �Oi, where you been? I�ve been calling you for the last fifteen minutes.� I follow him out with her calling �And keep out of at that Burger King. You�ll bleedin� explode.�
Once he has expertly squashed his vastness into a tiny nothingness behind the steering wheel we�re soon out of the greyness of the capital and out towards the verdant green space of Hertfordshire. I enjoy the vibrancy of London and its anonymity and also its amenities but it isn�t a place where I would choose to live. I pity those without such an option. The brassy controller�s voice shoots loud from the radio as she tracks down another elusive driver. I smile inwardly as the driver mumbles something and reaches across to snap off the radio. He wasn�t in Burger King after all. We pull up outside the Harlington. I pay, thank, and give him a tip. He doesn�t even say goodbye.
The place is as full as it�s going to get for somewhere located eight miles away from the nearest bus route. I go to the bar and order a couple of drinks, chatting to a few neighbours who are also regulars. It�s a little more expensive in here but any cheaper and the jeans and tee-shirt posse would soon follow. I make my way � struggling with two pints and my briefcase � into the beer garden, thanking the woman for holding the door. The faint whiff of manure is ever present from the surrounding arable farmland. During the zapping heat of July and August, it becomes a no-go zone for out-of-towners who happen upon us from their Sunday drives. It�s surprising how a smell can become so familiar that you hardly notice it, even such a dire smell as cow-shit. Growing up around it, it is part of my childhood, part of me.
John�s early as usual and already claimed a table. I put the drinks down aside the ones he has already purchased. Families sit at surrounding tables discussing school league tables and the like while their children lose themselves in adventures under the cascading canopy of willow trees, seemingly oblivious to the humidity. John fills me in on his day at the bank, furious about the corporate ruling of his higher-ups to centralise and thus take most of his decision-making liberties away. �I may as well become a clerk for all the use I�ll be. What am I supposed to manage � holiday currency?� We continue swapping work woes for the next hour or so: he regarding the militancy and stupidity of banking; me the wastage of taxpayers� money abused in the voluntary sector.
�Have you had any more thoughts?� John asks.
�I�ve had many but not of the kind to which you refer.�
�You know what is best for you, I suppose. I just hope that you are making the right decision.�
His eyes give him away as he peers deep into his glass. I wonder again how he became the youngest branch manager in his company what with his inability to lie convincingly. I�ve known this man for as long as memory serves me; we�ve explored each other when younger, studied together, even lived together for a brief time while his parents dramatised their divorce, attended the same university, had our first drink together, have secrets only we share, and that�s how I know his words have been scripted for him.
�What did she say?�
�Who say?� he asks plaintively, a little showmanship playing in his eyes as the alcohol continues to enliven him. My look tells him he�s been rumbled � again.
�This is not the way to win favour with Clare,� I tell him, instantly regretting the cheap attack. I apologise.
�It�s not just Clare,� he admits. �I�m also thinking about you. Aren�t you even just a tad curious?�
�I am not.�
�I know I would be,� he says. �I�d be desperate to know.�
�Then you meet her. I have no interest in the matter.�
The rest of the evening passes pleasantly enough, once the oncoming cloud of Sunday and the woman�s visit is no longer spoken about. To make up for my rebuttal earlier, I allow him to drone on endlessly about Clare and her perfection. It is obvious to me and anyone else who has ever witnessed them in the same room that they are destined. Their attempts before at a serious relationship were thwarted by Clare�s commitment to her education. I think John took this as an excuse for her to be rid of him. It wasn�t. She must concentrate on her PHd dissertation for the next couple of months. Once completed, then no doubt the intimacy which John craves will once again be on offer. It is only two months to her presentation. Patience.
Personally I don�t understand why people put themselves through such tribulations. It is much simpler and organised to be by oneself. Relationships are so involving and restrictive, not to mention answerable. The very notion of placing myself in such a situation again is tantamount to mummification. No, not for me. I prefer my closeness to be metered and where I am the one holding the timer. Fridays are perfectly sufficient.
When I get home the house is in darkness. Clare is in bed and my parents must still be at their dinner party. I line my stomach against the alcohol with a glass of warm milk and a beef sandwich, disregard night-time television, the radio, a DVD, and go to bed.
* * *
I�m quite surprised at the time. It�s unusual for me to languish in bed, especially on what smells like such a beautiful day. I can hear my father tending to his vegetable garden underneath my window. No doubt he is making last minute preparations for the horticultural show tomorrow, checking for invading aphids or whitefly that have dared make his prize-winning vegetables their home. Without looking I can see the strained and absolute concentration on his face as he inspects for signs of damage. He�s probably on his hands and knees peering above gold-framed half-moons intent on obliterating whatever shouldn�t be there. Some think him stoic and autocratic, but he isn�t. I rather think it is an image cultivated over many years while having to deal with his ambitious and egotistical colleagues in the architectural department he manages. He�s a lovely man.
I shower and prepare myself for the day. I have the staff appraisals to be ready for Monday morning. I think I�ll prepare them this afternoon in the gazebo and away from the glaring humidity of the morning sun.
Clare is sat at the breakfast bar consuming some toast lathered in honey when I reach the kitchen, and as she reaches down to reclaim the knife that has clattered to the floor I notice, not for the first time, that her behind is enlarging. �Good morning,� I offer and hope she does not begin yet another tirade about that woman.
�Morning, there�s fresh coffee,� she mumbles and makes a hand gesture towards the prepared toast and various condiments lined up ready for use. I decline as always never having being a breakfast person, and pour the coffees, taking the seat opposite her with its side view into the manicured gardens via the conservatory.
�Did you meet Jonathan yesterday?�
�In the evening, yes. We had a drink in the Harlington. You should have come along. John sends his love.�
This latter information is really why she asked if I met John, already knowing that I did and do every Friday evening. It�s quite sweet really seeing a twenty-four year old being so coy. Sweet, or pathetic, I�m not always sure which.
�Aren�t you hot in that?� I ask, bemused why she is wearing her white full-length towelling gown with collar in late July. It does suit her though and perfectly showcases her beautiful skin and long dark hair. She wouldn�t look out of place basking on a Mediterranean balcony or appearing on a television advert for some tropical getaway, though the image is currently tainted somewhat by the crumbs collected in the folds of material and around her chin.
�Yes!�
I wait for something more, something which says she is about to rectify her over-heating but she opts for another round of brown bread and the matter falls by the wayside. This is just one of her many endearing foibles. How such a sharp mind, one which has total recall over the minutiae of all things amphibian, can leave for a day of lecturing with odd shoes on � and not care when pointed out - is beyond anything I can explain. It�s just the way she is.
While I flick through the Independent and peruse the latest political scandals I catch Clare watching me from time to time trying to gauge whether this is an opportune time to broach the subject yet again.
I could understand her need to meet our biological mother if there was a need for a kidney or a liver or something akin to the same � even then only at a push - but reconnection is not a sufficient motive. And I really don�t understand why she has become so adamant over recent months. I�ve asked about this but she can�t or won�t provide an answer. �I just have to. I can�t explain it. I don�t know why� which is no explanation at all. My suggestion, that if the woman was interested in knowing us, then why hadn�t she tried to contact us was met with a fabrication of possible scenarios, each more preposterous than the one before. I see no good coming of this, no good at all.
Clare begins to open her mouth and I take this as my cue to vacate the kitchen. Pouring myself another coffee and one for dad I make my way around the house to greet him. He�s in the greenhouse lovingly tending something green. I�m only surprised that he hasn�t started to chat with them as yet. I joke about having him incarcerated if he ever starts talking to anything without a face. He chuckles in his usual happy way and continues pottering. In a second he�ll ask me how work has been this week and will then commiserate with me over the sheer incompetence of others. A buzzing something lands in his eyes and he wipes at it with his gloved hand, soil from the fingers making things worse and resulting in him removing his glasses to extricate whatever it is or was. I watch him as he rubs away, smiling at the white circles where his glasses have just been, the rest of his face a mass of heated red from the ongoing summer sun.
�I thought you might like a drink,� I say, plonking the mug down on his working surface. He instantly transplants it to the shelf above, for safety.
�Thank you. Is your mother back yet?�
I tell him she isn�t.
�I do wish she wouldn�t work on a Saturday,� he more tells the plants than me. �She spends too much time at that hospital as it is. Thankfully it will be all over soon. How�s work?�
�The same.�
He nods his head in understanding and continues what he�s doing to the plant, offering me its Latin name, its genus and other unsolicited information. I make the requisite noises and feign interest, both knowing that I am to plants what truth is to politics. I used to watch him in his greenhouses for hours when I was younger, transfixed by his patience and commitment, something I admire about him still, perhaps more so. It was in this glass house that I asked him why my skin was different to his and he replied, without hesitation: your skin in unique, just as you, there is no one else like you in the world. It shows everyone just how really special you are. A thousand mushy movies may have diluted the sentiment for most but when your father - the man who nurtured and protected you - looks you straight in the eyes and passes his love into you, it becomes a memory which underpins everything you are and will ever be, so that when the other children want to know why you are a different colour to your parents, you can turn around and say it�s because I�m unique and special, my father said so!
I watch his back as he flits about making small talk purposefully avoiding mention of the issues surrounding tomorrow�s visitor. I can feel his tension though, and anger again flashes inside me that Clare can be so selfish. Dad isn�t one to dwell on things too much and after saying his peace about it being our respective choices, making it clear to Clare and me that he, along with Mum, will support each of us fully, he hasn�t once flinched from Clare�s enthusiasm or my disinterest; happily chatting with Clare about it whenever she wants, ignoring the situation when he is alone with me, as he�s doing now.
More to get out of the furnace under this glass, I ask if he wants me to mow the lawns. �If you wouldn�t mind. A great help,� he lies, knowing that I�ll probably suck up most of the flowers in his immaculate borders along with the grass.
�Do I need to alter the height of the lawn mower?�
�All done,� he says and I take my leave and head for the shed and the noisy petrol mower, waving to mum as she pulls into the drive, the gravel underfoot � or under car in this case � shooting everywhere. I make a mental note to flatten it with the roller after lunch.
* * *
And lunch turned out to be a rather peculiar affair, with Clare talking about the woman without mentioning the word mother. It is a peculiar spectacle eavesdropping on a conversation where the subject is not mentioned by name. Mum did away with the awkwardness by inserting the terms biological mother each time Clare faulted. This is nothing new. Mum has been very business-like since Clare started this debacle six months ago, though I sense an edge now the issue is close to hand. As Clare carries on wondering about the woman I can�t help but think what they have been talking about during their t�te-�-t�tes on the telephone.
�Do you think we should rethink lunch tomorrow, perhaps have it al fresco rather than the dining room?� suggests Clare.
�Whatever you believe is best,� Mum soothes.
Clare bubbles, lost in her own anticipation and excitement. I wish she would take account of our parents� feelings.
�A barbeque, yes� Clare coos. �It would seem less formal and perhaps less intimidating,�
Mum reaches over and strokes Clare�s hair, smoothing it behind her ears and stroking the length. The look of love that passes between them is complete and wholly unselfconscious. Dad smiles.
�If you want a barbeque, my darling, then a barbeque you shall darn well have.� Mum mock-slaps the dining table as her judgement is pronounced. They laugh, Dad laughs and I join in glad that the tensing atmosphere had once again ebbed.
It�s too hot after lunch to even take the appraisals out of my briefcase let alone to draft them, so sit watching Dad rescuing the plants I�d uprooted earlier. Mum joins me on the patio, two glasses of something cold and clinking in her hands.
�That�s much better,� she says, referring to her now showered and changed self. �It�s stifling.�
�It will be much worse in some of the countries on your itinerary. Ecuador, for instance.�
�Oh I know,� she says �but think of the shopping.� The side of her sarong slides down over her crossed legs. Though aesthetically she may no longer be called stunning she certainly is handsome and imposing, erect.
�But you hate shopping.�
�I know,� she laughs.
We chat pleasantly and aimlessly for the next hour or so about the semi world cruise when they both retire later this year, about her work and the tribulations of running a NHS hospital without sufficient funding, about my work, about what Dad intends to do with the garden, about what mum intends to do with retirement, gossip about the Jenking-Wrights, the tomfoolery of central government, Europe, anything except the inevitable. Clare flits in and out on occasions asking if we want: a) a snack b) our drinks refreshing c) a little walk d) a board-game of something e) more drinks, all the time emitting this nervous energy. �Why don�t you sit with us for a while?� Mum asks. Reluctantly Clare accepts but cannot settle, choosing to bumble off a minute or two later to try and do some work on her thesis.
�And how about you Christopher Edwards; are you still intending going into the office tomorrow?�
�I am, once I�ve finished playing squash.�
�With John?�
�With John.�
�And from that I take it you have not changed your mind?�
�I have not.�
�Very well. There will be other days.�
I feel like telling her there will not be other days but it is such a pleasant afternoon that I don�t want to draw her on this and risk a discussion. I just wish it would go away, far away and leave us alone. I change the topic.
�Are you looking forward to the gardening show tomorrow?� - knowing that she only goes along to help Dad. She wiggles her nose and swats a fly as it dive-bombs her drink.
�Though we are meeting Libby and Graham for lunch afterwards, so all is not lost.�
�You shouldn�t feel obliged to vacate your own home because of some stranger.�
�She isn�t a stranger, Christopher, far from it. She gave birth to both you and your sister. That makes her family. Besides which, it is Clare�s home too and if she wants to do this alone then your father and I must respect her wish to do so, as we do yours. I would be more at ease if there was someone here with her, though, not necessarily in the same room, just around if she should need Him��
�There�s always the Samaritans,� I offer. �Look, can we please talk about something other than this � anything other?�
�Of course, Christopher. Erm. . .did I tell you that on our trip your father intends selling me to the Bedouin for a donkey and a little hashish?�
As the afternoon progresses so does the heat. By mid afternoon the temperature seems to scorch everything it touches. It�s too hot to lounge outside and too hot to lounge inside.
I arrive at the hairdressers with time to spare and use it to pay silent homage to the new girl�s breasts. Pity she�s only in her twenties. My libido is tempered by the whining of the industrial hair-dryers with despondent middle income women attached. How they remain seated there without melting away is almost mystical. I pay for having my haircut and make sure to rebook for three weeks hence. It�s important to support the local economy.
I purchase a cold drink and some bread from the bakers next door before driving the few minutes to what is known locally as the Duck Pond. A pleasant somewhere with a small lake and not much else. The swans can�t even be bothered getting out of the water for my titbits so the ever hardening bread becomes staler with each passing second. I�m surprised by the lack of people here today not taking advantage of the cooling water. There are just a few older couples gently strolling around the perimeter nodding hellos whenever the need arises. I move over on the bench believing that a passing couple are intending to sit but they walk on. But I can�t settle on the bench, the solid seat making me sweat and itch. I opt for a cooler spot on the left bank and sprawl out looking up at the pure blue sky. It�s a misnomer that the sky is blue; it is in fact white, Mother Nature playing her beautiful tricks. There is only one single cloud suspended in the sky, just languishing there as if it has found an interesting spot from which to observe. A child on a bike whizzes over the crest of the bank, rides past and into the dense trees, a mother�s voice not too far behind first cautioning, then threatening; the bike continues along its way. Mum used to bring Clare and me here when we were children. It all seems so very long ago now lost in the worlds of fairytales and monsters.
I seem to have caught Clare�s restlessness so go back to the car to drive home, changing my mind at the crossroads and calling in on John instead. It�s a wasted journey as Mrs Faulkener informs me that he has just gone with a friend to an exhibition at Earl�s Court. �Would you tell him I called and I�ll see him tomorrow at two?�
She offers me something to drink but I refuse. She has obviously had the low down on what is afoot and wants the juicier parts to share with her fellow Rotarians. She can get her fix from someone else.
�I didn�t think you would be exercising tomorrow what with it being something of a red-letter day.�
�Mrs Faulkener, there is nothing special about tomorrow. It is just like any other Sunday in the year, nothing more nor less.�
This is quite clearly not the detailed answer she was looking for, stood against her hand-made overpriced and underused Italian kitchen that no doubt seemed like a good idea at the time.
�Call me Jean, please,� she flirts. �Jonathan did tell me you were having misgivings about meeting your mother but we assumed it was just nerves.�
Nerves? This is the woman who seduced me in this very kitchen when I was fifteen years old. This is the woman who I have fucked in this kitchen on at least three different occasions, the last time just over a year ago. She knows first-hand that I do not suffer from a nervous disposition and nor do I take kindly to my personal business being bandied for all to share. Clare!
�Clare is such a sensitive girl.�
�Clare is a fool,� I snap. I say my clipped goodbyes to the silly woman. I can tell she�s disappointed about having the house to herself and not making full use of me, but I am in no mood for her in any fashion. Bloody woman. They should take all these useless middle-class wannabe Lolitas and force them to work, preferably digging trenches in fields of landmines. They have nothing to do all day except chase the pool-boy and ingratiate themselves into matters which do not concern them.
I drive a little too fast on the way home to let off steam. When I get there Mum and Dad are embroiled in preparation for their horticultural thing tomorrow, while Clare seems like she�s still wired to the National Grid, her papers scattered everywhere.
�What�s another word for a large cloud?� she asks the room at large with her head still buried in volumes of books.
I feel like saying my life at the moment because of your meddling and neediness but resist the urge to fire her up anymore than she is. �The Roget is beside you.� I point to its location on the table under mounds of her papers.
�Oh I know. I just can�t seem to focus. It must be the heat,� she lies.
�Stratocumulus.�
�Pardon?�
�Stratocumulus, a large cloud.�
�Are you sure?� she asks.
�Yes. Have you managed to get much work done today?� I ask her though already know she won�t have done, notwithstanding the mass of various papers entirely covering the ten-seater table. I could never work in such disarray and am totally bemused that she can and managed to not only get through compulsory education but is now only a hop and skip away from a Doctorate in slimy things. Dr Clare. The mind does indeed boggle.
I sense her change of mood.
�Christopher?�
�Yes.�
�About tomorrow - �
�I am playing squash and going to work and that is all. Right now I am intending to have a long cold shower and a snooze.� I vacate the room.
It was a good idea leaving the blinds down. Being south facing my bedroom heats up like a horse-box within minutes on days like today. I undress and clamber into the shower, welcoming the cold spraying of the power-shower I had installed a month or two ago to replace the damp squib that was its predecessor. Refreshed, I dry and leave the en suite door ajar to allow the small amount of trapped steam to escape rather than listening to the whirr of the extractor.
I take a nap.
I dream about deserts and rainfall, about swimming pools and reservoirs, and wake with an arid sensation in my throat. I drink straight from the tap, guzzling more and more. The air has become heavier, promising some celestial fireworks later. I enjoy a thunderstorm with its power and threats, reminding mankind of its mortality, its temporary status. At school I would be lost to the elements, the teacher�s voice fading as the clouds corralled overhead becoming angrier, a fascination which still grips me today; my father is the same. Countless times we have sought sanctuary in his greenhouse, drinking fresh coffee from a Thermos while the hailstones tried to break through. They never did. We wouldn�t talk, just sit and sip our steaming beverages and watch the hail bounce off the lawn, the water cascade over the guttering, snow in February, and invisible March winds.
When I reach the living room the three of them are debating the merits of eating out tonight and thus risking the weather, or spending the evening at home with a take-away. Mum and Dad are at polar ends which gives Clare the casting vote. She telephones John and decrees that they will make a foursome at the Harlington.
�Are you sure you won�t join us?� my father asks.
�Really, I�m fine. I�ve got work to do, and some peace and quiet is just what I need.�
�Charming,� Clare offers, feigning offence.
* * *
They take Dad�s car.
I boil some pasta but lose interest half-way through cooking and instead opt for a piece of fruit. With the living room to myself I can organise my papers about me and begin work on these appraisals, music in the background, soothing. It�s seven thirty. By eight I�m still finding it hard to concentrate and thus upgrade Nazrul�s overall performance to an excellent rather than have to go through the inevitable turgid explanations of a lesser grade. No one ever sees them apart from me anyway and I only use them for constructing references. One down and twenty remaining. It�s a start. Perhaps a coffee or a tea will help, maybe a whisky or a beer, even a walk in the garden to smell the atmosphere as it charges? None of these help and when removing snails from Dad�s courgettes under the refreshing sprinkler fails to inspire, I come back indoors and take out the well-thumbed Social Services A4 brown envelope which contains my first childhood and no doubt the reason for my current lethargy.
* * *
I�ve packed up my paperwork and the envelope by the time they return at just after eleven, the gravel shooting everywhere as they pull in because I didn�t get around to levelling it. A magnificent, silent strip of lightning with numerous tendrils lights up the evening sky. Mum and Dad crunch over to the gazebo and wish me goodnight. Mum squeezes just a little harder than usual and she kisses me on the forehead. Dad drapes his arm around my shoulder. �You were missed tonight,� he tells me. �Very.� I offer a maybe next time, and they leave me to my thoughts. The solar lights scattered around the garden are strong this evening due to the intensity of the sun today. They illuminate my parents� path as they return to the house, hand in hand as always. I feel such pride to be able to call them my parents. They won�t sleep well tonight.
Clare comes out and I accept the glass of wine she proffers.
�Did you get much work done?� she asks.
�Yes.� Complete lie.
She takes a seat on the wooden swing and we rock gently watching first a hedgehog scuttling across the lawn for nocturnal treats, quickly followed by a brazen young fox who has to learn that spikes do not make for a tasty morsel. He soon gives up and the hedgehog uncurls and continues about his business unmolested. Clare seems to be lost in her own thoughts for she doesn�t speak for nearly ten minutes. We just watch nature and swing in silent contemplation, only the soft noises of the night being audible.
�I�m scared,� she says very quietly. �I�m really scared.�
I know she�s not talking of now so put my arm around her and let her nestle into me. I don�t tell her that I�m scared, that I�m terrified about what the fallout is going to be. It�s not possible to go back twenty years and start again. Things are different, people are different. We were children and dependant upon a mother who, as the case notes confirm, used to beat us until we had welts on our tiny bodies. We both still bear the battle scars. A loving mother who would lock us in an unheated flat for days on end while she was gallivanting goodness knows where, neighbours petrified to intervene because of her manic temper. A mother is not supposed to do this. The maternal instinct is a genetic imperative, a way of ensuring perpetuity. She obviously did not have it, she was marred, a fake, a freak.
�Do you think about her?� Clare asks. �I mean, ever, have you thought about her ever?�
�Of course I have. I�ve thought about her quite a lot,� I confess. �In fact I was thinking about her this evening while I was reading the catalogue of abuse she subjected us to. I was thinking what type of a mother could ever do that to an enemy let alone her own six and five year old defenceless children.�
I feel Clare tense against me like she did when I challenged social services for our files. If Clare was adamant that she wanted to be reunited with her abuser then I was going to ensure she knew exactly what she was intending to reunite with. I didn�t mean to hurt her more than was necessary.
�But shouldn�t we try to forgive her? We don�t know very much about her private life back then. Remember, she was ostracised from her family, stuck in a tower block with two small children of mixed race. Imagine what that must have been like in the 1970s. I just think we owe her a chance to explain.�
�We do not owe her anything and we certainly do not owe her a platform from where to spout her tales of woe. The facts speak for themselves. She lost any so-called rights the second she decided to inflict her pain on us. Surely you see that? You�ve got to know that we owe her nothing. Nothing!�
We sit for a few minutes in silence. �Why do you want to see her Clare; really, why?�
She doesn�t respond and for a minute or two I think she won�t. Up-righting herself from my arm, she takes a swallow of her wine and coughs, the sound stolen by the trees around us. Dad waves down as he closes the bedroom curtains.
�At first,� Clare starts, �I thought it was just curiosity but really I think all along I knew it was more than that. I love Mum and Dad very much and would never intentionally want to distress them, it�s just we don�t share the same genes as them, you and I. We had another life, another family with uncles and aunties and grandparents, many of whom may still be around. I need to know who I am and where I came from and, I suppose . . . why I was so easy to throw away.�
�And what happens if you don�t get the answers to these questions? What happens if she does it again?�
�Don�t Christopher, please don�t.� She tenses at the thought.
�What exactly do you know about her? I mean, what?�
�I know she�s our mother and has the same blood running through her veins. She will always be part of us.�
�You�re bringing her back into our lives, you�re not giving me or Mum or Dad a choice. We have no say. You have totally disregarded how we feel, and you don�t know the first thing about the woman.�
�That�s not true. Mum & Dad said they have always prepared themselves for this eventuality, expected it. Mum�s excited.�
�Don�t be so na�ve. And do you have to rub their noses into it; you talk about her incessantly.�
�I do not. That�s not true. I talk to them about it because they are my parents and are part of this. It demonstrates to them that I have nothing clandestine in mind.�
�And me, what about what I want? Aren�t I part of this too?�
�No, Christopher! You have chosen not to be part of it. You�re the only one who can really understand how I feel and you have walked away. You leave the room if I mention her, you won�t even look at the photographs, and you don�t answer the telephone any more in case it�s her. You chose not to be involved, but that does not mean it will go away. I�m not trying to hurt you and I�m not trying to hurt our parents. Why do you think I asked them not to be here tomorrow? I didn�t want them hurt, that�s why. You are making me face this alone.�
�I don�t see why it has to be here. You could meet her anywhere. Why here?�
�Because I�m going to be alone. I need the familiarity of home. You would have known this if you would have allowed me to explain it.�
She has a point.
I get up and go into the house for more wine. The pasta from earlier is still floating in the salted water looking dejected and decidedly sorry for itself. There�s only enough wine for one glass in the bottle Clare opened, so take another from the refrigerator and search for the corkscrew. The cards are resting against the microwave. Just two cream envelopes, one carrying my name and the other that of my sister. I pop them into the back of my shorts and go back outside. The air is still and the moon so bright. The flashes of lightning from earlier have moved on and in their wake is a hanging expectancy. It�ll come.
Clare has kicked off her shoes and is cooing over some dark shape on her lap. It�s the neighbour�s cat come to investigate. He accepts a quick fuss from me before jumping down in search of adventure. Clare takes her wine and curls back into a crunch, her feet underneath her and now disappeared by her flowing ethnic- patterned skirt.
�I found these in the kitchen,� I tell her, sitting back on the swing. �They must have left them before they went to bed.�
She sits up and places her glass on the floor. Fondling the envelope, I catch a glimmer of questioning in her eyes as she looks from the envelope across to me. Quietly she removes the card and reads whatever is in there, closes it, opens it, rereads.
�They�re so sweet,� she says, and begins to recite the contents. We love and support you in everything and for always. Love Mum & Dad. Isn�t that beautiful? Open yours.�
I do and not only is the card identical but also the sentiment. We finish our drinks, say our goodnights and make for our respective bedrooms.
It�s been a strange day.
The weather breaks just before seven am: a monstrous thunderclap that has no doubt caused damage somewhere. House and car alarms are shrieking in the distance as if in cheer. Our home and cars remain silent. Another grumble from the sky turns into a menacing growl before climbing to crescendo. It builds again and again, gathering pace as Tchaikovsky�s 1812. I can see flashes of lightning through the cracks in my wooden blinds, little spots of light flashing on and off. The rain batters the window with the force of an ocean. Thankfully the air pressure continues to fall as the storm clouds urinate; the freshness of the air happens almost instantly. . . takes on an unused quality. I fall back to sleep.
By ten thirty I�m showered and making my way down to the kitchen. I feel remarkably unperturbed about the day. Clare is in the kitchen busying herself with vast reams of paper as usual. She�s wearing her hair tied-up and I notice that she isn�t dressed in her routine Sunday clothes.
�You look very nice,� I tell her.
Her eyes have that clear glazed look of someone who is in need of sleep, functioning on some other power source. She�s almost electrified such is the static emitting from her direction. I make us both a drink and pass her another croissant as instructed, not mentioning the half eaten one by her side. She takes a small bite. �How did you sleep?� I ask her though knowing the answer.
�Not very well and when I did thunder woke me up. You?�
Clare has never shared our passion for the fireworks of the sky. �Fine,� I tell her. �I slept fine.�
It�s already starting to get hot again outside and beginning to feel clammy. The kettle does its stuff and switches off.
�Chris?�
My name is Christopher but I let it pass. Clare tends to use this abridged form of my name when she is being especially friendly or in need of something.
�I think I�ve made a terrible mistake,� she says.
Please let her be referring to today. �What�s that?� I turn to face her. �Just telephone and cancel. The end of the matter.�
She looks at me in a way that feels strange, as if she�s assessing me and my possible reaction to whatever it is she has to impart.
�It�s more of a confession.�
�Go on.� I say, becoming annoyed with the theatrics. �If you have something to say, say it, stop being childish.�
She looks at me as I have just attacked her with a cricket bat. I do so hate circuitous conversations. She glances away and then buries herself back in her books. �It�s nothing.�
And they allow women in government!
I take my coffee for a walk around the garden. The rain from this morning has given the plants a refreshed vibrancy. The signs of last night�s nocturnal visitors digging for food are evident. Chipped bark is scattered here and there, as is the odd depression. Dad mustn�t have had time this morning so I repair as best as I can from my standing position, kicking and levelling with my foot. Coming back in through the side entrance, Clare quickly replaces the handset. �Sorry,� I say, �didn�t mean to disturb you.�
�They weren�t home anyway,� she mumbles and takes off back to the kitchen. I follow.
�Are you alright? I ask her.
�No, I don�t think I�m alright,� she announces. �Please stay with me today. Please.�
�Don�t try to blackmail me. You started this and now you need to deal with it. If you have changed your mind, then simply tell her.� I don�t catch what she says at first.
�Pardon?�
�She�s not there. I was trying to telephone her when you came back in.�
�Then just go out. Leave a note on the door and go out.�
�I couldn�t do that, Christopher. I couldn�t.�
�So why were you ringing her then?�
She opens her mouth but nothing comes out. Exasperated, I leave her to her nonsense and go upstairs to continue with those damned appraisals.
I�ve decided to have a swim before meeting John. The woman isn�t due until four and I�m to meet John a couple of hours before. I�ll leave at one.
Surprisingly I zip through the rest of my work in excellent time. A very productive two hours. It�s while I�m packing my papers away that Clare knocks on my bedroom door. �Come in.�
No answer.
�Come in.�
Is that crying? I think it is. From the other side of my door. I open it.
Clare is cuddling the banister outside my room, dull sobs stifling the words she is trying to speak. �What is it?� If this is a manipulative last attempt at forcing me to comply, it will certainly not work. She seems to have changed her clothes yet again and her hair is hanging loose around her shoulders. By her distressed state it is clear that she isn�t acting. I feel a pang of guilt mixed with a need to protect her. I manage to just about get her to a standing position just as she collapses into me. I offer the usual soothing platitudes while guiding her onto the bed and offering her a box of tissues. �Ssh.� I tell her, hoping that this means the visit is cancelled. �Think what a state you�d have been in when she arrived.� Slowly the shaking subsides. The tears mix with the nasal excrement, hair with make-up, until she is now a complete mess.
�I�m sorry.�
�It�s fine. It�s what older brothers are supposed to do.� More snorting and blowing of nose, though less tears, thankfully. This is going to become very boring extremely quickly if she doesn�t pull herself together. I continue to pacify and coax while she slowly regains control. I take a glance at my watch. At this rate I won�t have time for a swim.
Eventually she regains her composure and says �She�s here.�
��Who is?� I ask.
�The biological mother,� she dry sobs.
What a ridiculous notion. It�s only just before one. She has gotten herself into such a state that she�s hallucinating. But looking at her I doubt it. I feel like I�ve been hit in the stomach with a mean demolition ball. Where my stomach used to be is now a void, sickly and festering around the edges. I�ve never wanted to hit Clare before. I want her to suffer the experience which has gripped me, all of me, and I want to ram it down her throat until she suffocates. If I don�t get her out of here, I probably will. She is like feathers in my hands as I grab her shoulders, yank her up and throw her through the door, ignoring her crocodile tears as she lands hard against the far wall. �So this was your true confession earlier?� I spit at her. �This is your idea of love?�
�I knew you wouldn�t stay if I told you. I�m sorry. I can�t do this without you.�
I want to kick her. I want to draw my leg back and crush her as anyone has been crushed before. �And you think by trickery you can manipulate me. You are mistaken. Keep away from me.� I slam the door, a picture crashes down. The destruction is satisfying. I lay on the bed and try to breathe, hoping to release the vice-like pain that has pinned my temples and started spearing pain down my spine. I�m shaking with undiluted anger. I can�t hear anything except the beating in my head and the whimpering at the door.
�I�m so sorry,� she bleats. �I tried to telephone her this morning and ask that she come later but she wasn�t there. I tried, I did. I�m so very sorry Christopher. Christopher?�
Her pleas are like her tears, irrelevant. The sound of her makes me want to throttle her but I have to ask. �Did Mum & Dad know?�
�No. I thought I was doing the right thing, I did.�
For whom?
I jump up from the bed and grab my bag and car keys. She looks pitiful when I open the door and look down at her. I�m ashamed for her. �Get up! You look ridiculous.� She takes this as a cue to collapse in a ball and resume that endless din of self-pity. I step over her and head for the stairs. She starts to beg. I disregard the first beseeching; walking on in anger and adrenalin, but the second one is emitted with such sorrow that she catches me.
�I�m begging you. . . please Christopher, don�t go, tell her to leave.�
�You weren�t brought up to beg anyone for anything. Stand up!� She does. �Where have you put her? Stop snivelling and answer me.�
�Sitting room.�
Wonderful. Not only has this stranger caused a rift between my sister and me but she�s probably half-way across the village green with the contents of the house.
I�m torn between putting my arms around Clare and punching her in the face. I do neither. Instead I pull her to her feet, to me, and very calmly look into her eyes and say: �This is your mess. You deal with it.� She lets out a groan of indistinct origin. �You wanted this, you created this, now you fucking live this.� And just as calmly push her away from me and back against the wall. She looks stunned, almost in shock and not quite believing. I grab my bag and descend the stairs, go out through the front door and drive off.
I don�t even look back.
� Anny de Foosaf
Reproduced with permission
