Come and Tell Me Some Lies Page 8

  People arrived and arrived, none seemed to leave and the house swelled and hummed with talk. Squeezing through to find Patrick, Va Va scratched her ear on a button and submitted to spattering kisses. ‘My, haven’t you grown? You must be ten now, Gabriella. How is your baby sister? You won’t remember me, I came to Mildney last summer.’ Women with painted faces purred at her and smiled. She couldn’t find Patrick anywhere, or Brodie or Flook.

  Eleanor came down the stairs. ‘I’ve been to see Dan and Poppy. They’re both sound asleep and Mrs Damley is watching them.’

  A man with red hair and a broad Scottish accent came up. ‘Eleanor, you look like a goddess.’ He squinted down at Va Va. ‘Hello, young lady. I’m Angus Dean. Have you heard of me?’ Va Va backed towards her mother and shook her head. ‘I’m a Catholic homosexual orphan from Glasgow. Your father is a very famous, very brilliant poet. I hope you’re proud of him.’

  Va Va glared at the man, suspicion freezing her scowl. ‘You’re too old to be an orphan,’ she said, but he wasn’t listening.

  ‘I’ll take you to Trixie’s room and you can watch television,’ said Eleanor and led her up the stairs.

  ‘What’s a homosexual?’ Va Va asked as they threaded past more people on the landing.

  ‘I’ll tell you some other time,’ replied Eleanor.

  Brodie and Flook were cocooned in Trixie’s mighty bed, sausage rolls strewn at their feet. Va Va climbed in between them and Kojak began.

  Chapter 29

  October 1988

  Trixie divorced Russell and came to stay at Mildney with her new boyfriend, David. We were all there for the weekend. On Saturday morning David put on a builder’s helmet and a checked shirt and went out with his chainsaw to cut up fallen trees in the Wilderness. Trixie, her hair held back by a child’s pink hairband adorned with two bobbing antennae, stamped round the house waking us all up. ‘Come on, you lot, I want to talk to you. Present yourselves in the playroom in ten minutes.’

  Groaning, I turned over, burying my face in the pillow, but Trixie was not to be defeated. Into my room she thumped, the yellow fluff-balls on the ends of her antennae swivelling as they brushed the ceiling. ‘You can marshal your brothers, Va Va.’ She sounded like a drill-sergeant chivvying soldiers on parade. I got up.

  There was a tray of tea in the playroom. I poured five mugfuls and handed them to the others as they slouched in; hair tangled from sleep, jerseys inside out. Brodie had holes in the toes of his socks; rosy flesh peeped rudely from grey wool as he sat down.

  Trixie enjoyed being in command. Her visits to Mildney were infrequent, but whenever she came her mission was to change things. Mum was fond of her, but she never failed to upset someone with her two-pronged approach of generosity and bullying. She bought Mum a new washing machine and then policed it, banning any items of clothing belonging to the boys. ‘They can use a laundrette,’ she insisted. ‘Their ghastly jeans will break it immediately, and as for their socks …’ She paused, dragged on her cigarette and exhaled a frill of blue smoke from her nose. ‘My dear, they should be incinerated.’

  In the playroom Trixie slumped her bulk on to the arm of a chair. She gazed round at all of us, eyes wide, face pulled into sensitive mode.

  ‘Now I want you all to listen to me. I have spoken to your mother, and although she never complains – dear Eleanor, she is a saint – I know she is desperately worried about money.’

  Flook sighed and got up to refill his mug. He frowned into the fireplace. ‘Why isn’t Mum involved in this conversation?’ he asked.

  Trixie blinked several times. ‘She’s too embarrassed, actually.’ She sighed. ‘She’s hiding in the loo, if you must know.’ Trixie laughed and looked round at us expectantly. None of us responded. She continued, ‘Anyway. It’s time you all helped your parents a bit. They’ve helped you, and now you are grown-up and earning money you can afford to let go of the selfishness of youth.’

  Dan and Poppy hissed venom towards her and she acknowledged them with a nod. ‘You two could give up your pocket-money and stop scrounging cigarettes, but I know you aren’t earning. And of course Dan’s leg is a dreadful worry for her.’

  ‘It’s not much fun for me either,’ said Dan.

  Trixie coughed. ‘Va Va, Brodie and Flook can each give ten pounds a week.’

  There was a long silence. Brodie stared at Trixie, his gaze steady, forcing her to look back at him. She lowered her eyes. ‘I know you think I shouldn’t interfere, but I don’t care, it has to be said.’

  I couldn’t decide if I hated her more for her ham-fisted approach or for being right. Anyway, I hated her.

  ‘Thank you for your lecture.’ Brodie walked towards the door. ‘I’m going to talk to Mum about it. We will do what she wants us to, not what you tell us to.’ He paused before leaving the room. ‘And why are you wearing that ridiculous thing on your head?’

  Trixie reached up and felt her drooping antennae. She gasped and laughed, eyes snapping shut, mouth gaping wide as hilarity bowled through her. Silent, treading softly, curving round her like cats shrinking from water, we all left the room.

  Mum was crying in the kitchen. ‘I told her not to. I begged her not to,’ she wept, ‘but Trixie insisted. I am sorry, all of you. Just ignore her.’

  Hooting guffaws still issued from the playroom. Brodie shut the door. ‘Mum, you should have told us. We don’t mind. It’s just being told by her.’

  Mum blew her nose. ‘Well, every little helps,’ she managed to say.

  Chapter 30

  Eleanor cured Patrick of drinking whisky. When she met him he would start and finish a bottle in an evening. By surreptitiously pouring half of each new bottle down the lavatory and topping it up with water, she weaned him from this dangerous nectar and steered him into a routine where he only drank on Saturdays.

  Red Martini, spiced and sickly, was his next peccadillo. He would clasp the bottle by the neck and keep it close to him all evening, challenging anyone who tried to share it.

  Patrick rarely invited the children into the Drinking Room. It was like a museum, deep shelves, deep dust, icons and a Chinese pipe. His special things. Patrick loved ritual, and he lit the fire in the Drinking Room at five o’clock on Saturday evenings. Then he went upstairs and had a bath, returning in clean clothes but the same scuffed cowboy boots, like a priest ready for Mass. He stood at the mantelpiece with his first glass of wine, head to one side listening to the opening melody of every Saturday night; the babbling summer notes of Theodorakis’s ‘On the Beach’ issued from the gramophone, heralding another Drinking Evening.

  Va Va was eight when she was invited, one afternoon, to help Patrick rearrange his Drinking Room things. Reaching back on a shelf for the broken wing of a plaster cherub, she found a tiny box of books. Eight bruised purple covers in miniature. ‘I shall give you these on your fifteenth birthday,’ said Patrick. Va Va shivered in the shadow of future sophistication. Something in the Drinking Room was hers.

  Chapter 31

  At school on Monday, all the sleek, shiny-haired girls with freshly ironed shirts and polished shoes discussed their neat, comfortable weekends, and I felt a thousand miles from home. It was nearly my birthday, and my friends wanted to know how it was to be celebrated.

  ‘Mummy and Daddy are taking me to the theatre and out to supper,’ I lied breezily. ‘And for my present I’m going to have my ears pierced.’

  ‘Dilly had her ears pieced and a party dress,’ said someone, and I found myself responding, ‘Oh yes. Mummy’s having one made for me already.’

  My fifteenth birthday dawned with decadence. Daddy was to drive us to school so that the family tradition of birthday presents at breakfast could be conducted at a reasonable hour rather than five in the morning. I had the ritualistic card-opening and was gratefully surprised to receive a cheque for five pounds from my grandparents. One envelope came covered in mud. It had no stamp, just my name scrawled badly across the top left-hand corner. Inside was a lilac-and-pink cut-ou
t ballerina from Mr Cardew’s, with loving scratches, paw marks and wobbling crosses (the signatures of those unable to write) from all the animals. Shalimar, with typical ostentation, had used a lump of coal to sign his name, and it came off all over my hands and my pale school jersey.

  I did not expect any presents because I was to have my ears pierced after school that afternoon, but in the tiled arches under the kitchen window a pile of lumpy, shiny parcels awaited me. Daddy sat with Poppy at the end of the table, posting jammy squares of toast into her round mouth. Mummy cleared a space among the bowls and plates, insisting on wiping the table before the presents were opened. ‘Come on, Ellie, let’s see what Va Va’s got.’ Daddy was excited; he loved presents, and opened his own impatiently, all at once, losing small things beneath a foam of ripped wrapping. ‘All right. I’m just coming.’ Mummy wiped her hands, lobster-red and veined from washing-up, down her skirt, and reached for the first parcel. ‘This is to Va Va with much love from Daddy,’ she read, and the kitchen fell silent apart from the ticking of the clock. I opened a small, heavy parcel, tearing the silver foil which Daddy always used to wrap his presents. It was the set of books from the Drinking Room, the books he had promised me years ago, and which I had forgotten entirely. ‘My Own Library’ read the faded gold script engraved across the green leather pediment framing the books. ‘Oh Daddy, thank you.’ I squeezed past chairs to kiss him. ‘I can’t believe you remembered about these books.’ ‘Neither can I.’ Mummy looked amazed. Daddy smiled slowly. ‘They mark a turning-point, my love. You are no longer a child.’

  My next present was from Dan. It was a red rubber moustache. I put it on and Flook laughed so much that he forgot about his porridge, and sank his chin into it. A purse, some bathsalts and some books from Brodie and Flook followed, and then a nearly clean handkerchief from Poppy. ‘I bought it from Mr Cardew with my pocket money for you, and I tried it out on the way home. It does work, I promise.’

  ‘To darling Va Va, with love from Mummy,’ Mummy read out on the last parcel. ‘You can take it back if you don’t like it. I asked the woman in the shop,’ she said, before I had begun to open it. Pink teddy-bear paper fell away, revealing a smooth pillow of palest cream silk. I lifted a corner. Loosened from its tissue paper, a dress cascaded towards the floor, soft as a rose petal with lace foaming in hoops around the skirt. Mummy looked anxious as I held it up against myself, craning her neck to see my expression, hidden by hair. ‘It’s old,’ she said. ‘Twenties, I think, but I thought it would really suit you, darling.’ Then, nervously, ‘Do you like it?’ I looked up, radiant. ‘Wow,’ was all I could say. There was a sudden rush as Flook realized it was nearly eight o’clock, and time to leave for school. I regained the faculty of speech enough to thank Mummy and Daddy, and drove to school numb with pleasure, anticipating the jealous disbelief of my school friends. We were even going to the theatre, although Daddy had refused to come, stating piously, ‘The bambini need looking after.’ Brodie said he would come instead.

  After school, I hurried the mile between school and Jones’s, where I was to have my ears pierced. Square grey houses loomed from belts of spruce, televisions flickering in downstairs rooms. Street-lights flared in the creeping dusk as I walked and I was glad to reach the crowded High Street. In Jones’s I pushed my hood down and a cold prickle of sweat rushed over me as hot air steamed out of knee-high heaters. I dawdled on the ground floor, wondering which tights would look best with my new dress. I chose a sparkling pair, and earmarked them for when Daddy had cashed my cheque for me. In the lift I pressed the button for the third floor, and the beauty salon. The lift was small. Just as the doors were closing, a man dashed in and stood behind me. Floating up to the third floor, I was disturbed by wafts of alcohol. I got out and idled by some stationery. I wondered what kind of birthday cake Mummy had made, and if I would be allowed a glass of wine now I was fifteen. The man from the lift was beside me, his red-rimmed eyes watery, staring into mine. His grey coat was undone, hands clasped through his pockets in front of him. He panted heavily, alcohol bitter on his breath. Over the collar of his coat, wispy fair hair drooped from a loose pony-tail. Mesmerized, like a rabbit in headlights, I stared back, curdling with cold fear. He was not very old.

  He spoke low and fast, obscene in his urgent need to communicate. ‘I’ve seen you. I’ve been watching you every day.’ Bile, salty, suffocating, rose in my throat, and my knees shook. I could not drag my eyes away. ‘You go to Mary Hall,’ he continued. ‘You are different from the others. I know you, I know your name. I see all the girls, but you are the best. I want you to come with me now.’

  His voice, his grotesque words, his stinking presence, overwhelmed me for what seemed like hours. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t find the right signals. Suddenly I did; paralysis left me. I ran, hurling myself at the nearest cashier. The man loped away down the emergency stairs. Now I had found my voice I couldn’t stop screaming, clutching the cash lady, shaking until I ached. She led me into a little office, but I wouldn’t let her leave me there in case the man came back. A phone rang, and she answered it. ‘It’s all right, love, they’ve caught him downstairs. Someone saw him following you into the shop, and had already told the detectives. He’s with the police now.’ She came and sat next to me, hugging me and stroking my arm. ‘Let’s phone your mum, shall we?’ I nodded and told her the number. I sat in silence, tears pouring down my face. He had followed me. He had followed me. What did he want to do to me? I wasn’t different. I was like everybody else at school. Why had he picked me? Was it my fault?

  A girl at school had been raped, we had been told one morning in assembly. We must be careful. I had listened and felt pity for the unnamed girl, but although I walked briskly down the street, I never imagined being followed or accosted, or raped. I didn’t know what rape was. It sounded like something to do with a sword. Had I now been raped? It was shaming; I blushed crimson, embarrassment breaking over waves of shock. Mummy and Daddy arrived, and a policeman came in and asked me what the man had said. Another policeman stood to one side with Daddy and the man who had raised the alarm. I heard one of them say in an undertone, ‘We’ve sent men into his flat. They’ve found photographs of the girls coming home from school, hundreds of them. And others, worse, much worse. He’s a nutcase. Thank God he’s done no harm to your daughter.’

  ‘It’s my birthday, my birthday,’ I sobbed as we drove home, and Mummy rocked me in her arms. Daddy vented his anger by driving like an Italian all the way home. For once, Mummy didn’t even flinch.

  A few days later, the nice man who had noticed the pervert sent me a book token. ‘Jones’s sent me this,’ he wrote, ‘but I think you need it more than I do. I hope you are feeling better now, and that you can forget your horrible experience.’

  I did not forget it, but it sank to the bottom of my mind as Christmas and the holidays approached. I had been invited to a dance by a girl called Imogen Lyttleton-Fraser. Daddy and the boys teased me about the smart party, and Daddy called her ‘Ima Little Freezer’, but I paid no attention. Mummy and I discussed my clothes exhaustively.

  ‘I’ll wear my new dress of course, and those sparkling tights, but I don’t have any shoes except the red velvet ones you gave me. I know, I’ll paint them gold.’

  ‘And what about your hair? Some combs might be nice.’ Mummy was making sausage rolls, her arms a blur of bright white where the flour had stuck to them like long, soft gloves. Dan came running into the kitchen, knees muddy, face pink from football training. He grabbed a sausage roll. Mummy screamed, ‘They aren’t cooked, you’ll get worms!’ but he had already swallowed it whole. ‘That’ll teach you,’ I said sourly. Dan groaned and ran out again. We heard retching sounds from the yard.

  On the day of the party I spent all afternoon getting ready. Lingering in the bath, I submerged every angle of my bony knees, hips and shoulders in the fog of water as the bathroom evaporated in steam. Everything had to be just right. A newly-washed towel from the airing cupb
oard, holey and singed, a faint aroma of bacon drifting from it; a new bottle of shampoo, bought specially, and a capful of rare bluebell bath essence given to Mummy for her birthday. My bedroom was warm, scented with joss sticks like a church heavy with incense before Mass. I put a pile of records on to my newly-acquired gramophone and danced around, hoping that this was the sort of thing other girls did before parties. Beads and ornaments clinked on their shelves and the little room shook. I saw myself dancing in the mirror. I narrowed my eyes, imagining I was Cleopatra in my brown towel, my long hair, never thick enough to make a decent pony-tail, draped wet across my shoulders. I dressed, not as languorously as I had hoped. Goose-bumps stippled my flesh, and I fell over sideways on the bed trying to pull my new sparkling tights over damp legs. Once the dress was on, I leaned towards the mirror and dabbed my eyelids with some mole-brown eyeshadow Mummy had given me. Spitting into an old cake of mascara, a trophy from a visitor’s handbag, I scrubbed the little brush through the puddle. The spiky effect on my eyelashes was most satisfactory. I had to climb on to the bed and then bend double to see my whole body, but I liked the contorted result. I went downstairs to show Mummy and Daddy.

  Daddy was reading by the fire. He looked round, then stood up and reached out his arms to me. ‘Beautiful, my love. What exquisite taste you and your Mummy have. That dress is marvellous.’ And he called through to Mummy, who was reading to Dan in the playroom, ‘Eleanor. Come and look at this beautiful daughter of ours.’ Half embarrassed, half delighted, I pirouetted in front of the fire.

  The heater in the car was broken. I put on a stiff sheepskin coat I found in the back and wiggled my toes to keep them from dropping off. We drove slowly. Specks of snow melted on the windscreen and were replaced by furred flakes fluttering like moths in the headlights. The car slid down a drive lit on both sides by guttering beacons. Imogen’s house rose spectral in front of us. The front door was open, a Christmas tree twinkled within, and white fairy-lights studded the creepers which grew up the front of the house.