‘Maybe it’d be easier to list what she didn’t do,’ Mrs Laureau says without a shred of humour.
‘I see.’
‘The incident that inspired this call, however, was her being caught having … intimate relations with another resident in one of the out-of-bounds areas of the main complex.’
‘Oh, God,’ I sigh.
‘The member of staff who caught them was most upset.’
‘Old people have sex you know,’ I said, channelling, it seems, my inner Aunty Betty, ignoring the fact it would permanently traumatise me if I walked into a room and found two rutting people – whatever their age.
‘Yes, but in private, you would think,’ she replies, as sour as an unripe Granny Smith apple.
‘What’s going to happen next?’
‘We feel … We have no choice but to ask your aunt to leave.’
‘Leave?’ I reply tiredly. ‘Only her, I take it?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘The man she was caught with, is he being chucked out for not doing it in private or is it just my aunt?’
Mrs Laureau’s eyebrows twiddle themselves into position, as she prepares to put me in my place. She probably tried this with Aunty Betty and got a mouthful. We’ve been here, together, for ten minutes, enough time for a people-watcher like Mrs Laureau to realise that I’m most unlikely to ‘do an Aunty Betty’ no matter what she says to me.
‘If it was merely this “incident” we might be able to overlook it. But in the last three months alone, your aunt has managed to set fire to the rug in her apartment three times, she has roped in half a dozen residents to try hitchhiking to the next village so they can go to the cinema, and has been spotted walking around with only her bikini top and a mini-skirt when she knows we have a dress code. In short, it’s really quite a miracle that we’ve lasted this long.’
My cheeks are puffed up like over-inflated balloons and I blow out slowly as I exhale my biggest sigh yet. ‘When do you need her out?’ I say. A month should give me enough time to find her a new place; a fortnight would work at a push.
‘She’s just saying her goodbyes and then you can take her home with you.’
‘Excuse me?
‘Her belongings are packed and ready. Anything we can’t fit into your car, we’ll send on to you, at our expense. And we’ve already agreed we’ll refund this and last month’s fee as a gesture of goodwill.’
‘What?’
‘I know this must come as a surprise to you, and believe me, we wanted to tell you sooner, but she insisted this was the best way. She said it would be easier on you after all you’ve been through recently.’
‘And you believed her?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’ she replies with a victorious look.
That reply and that expression on her face are payback for not helping her out earlier on. I take another gander around her office: the desk has been polished to an unusually high sheen; all the usual accoutrements of a desk – stapler, mouse mat, pen pot, sellotape holder, contacts box – appear to be new. As if they’ve been very recently replaced, as if someone was attempting to remove all traces of something hideous, like a sixty-six-year-old woman who is the bane of your life having sex on your desk. Aunty Betty did it in here, I’m sure of it.
I really hope it was you who caught them in flagrante delicto, I think at Mrs Laureau. It would serve you right.
‘Your aunt has signed all the necessary paperwork so you don’t have to concern yourself with that.’
‘Right, well, I’d better get on with it, hadn’t I?’ I say to her.
*
That’s the worst thing about all of this, you know, Joel? I say to him in the darkness of our room, staring at where he should be. No matter how hard it is, because I’ve got children, because I’ve got people who rely on me, I just have to get on with it.
*
Aunty Betty plugs her seatbelt clip into its holder, having got into the back seat of my car. They have folded down the seats beside her to jam her belongings in. Her stuff has filled the boot, taken up most of the space in the back, and is piled up on the front passenger seat and footwell, too.
‘You can look as defiant as you like,’ I say to her as she sits, regal and silent, truculent and unrepentant, in the back.
In an expression that is pure Phoebe, she curls her pink, glossed upper lip at me, cuts her black-lined eyes and turns to the window to treat those outside to a full smile. The turnout on this April afternoon is incredible, I’ve never seen so many people show up to say goodbye to anyone who isn’t a celebrity, but here, about sixty people, all of various ages and stages of grey, stand, sit in wheelchairs and lean on walking sticks on the gravel driveway, waving Aunty Betty goodbye.
‘Just so we’re clear,’ I add above the crunch of the tyres on the gravel, ‘you’re going to have to talk to me at some point.’
VI
Imogen and her son, Ernest, are leaving as I pull up outside the house.
They’ve obviously dropped Zane back from school because he will have told them that Phoebe wasn’t in school today. Imogen is always polished, unhurried and calm. She’s a full-time homemaker (her title) and so is always suggesting Zane comes over to hers, that she collects him from school and that he stays over. She started her family young so has a twenty-one-year-old son and an eighteen-year-old son as well as ten-year-old Ernest. The last eighteen months or so, she’s been invaluable with Zane. And with me.
I climb out of my car, as they come off the last step and walk down the short, concrete path. We meet outside the black metal gate, pause on the pavement to talk. Without even glancing in his direction I can feel Ernest’s large green-hazel eyes on me. He always stares at me, mute and suspicious. When he and Zane are together in the living room or upstairs in Zane’s bedroom, or even when they’re in the kitchen and I’m busying myself with something, he’ll talk ten to the dozen. As soon as I engage with them, or I come near them, he clams up and becomes a mute, wide-eyed mannequin.
‘He’s just scared of you,’ Zane explained blithely when I asked him about it.
‘Why?’ I’d asked.
‘I don’t know, he just is,’ Zane replied as if that was an answer.
*
‘Oh, hello,’ Imogen says.
‘Hi.’
Aunty Betty is still ensconced in the car, waiting for me to open the door for her. She’s a princess, after all, and she expects people to run around after her. I often indulge her, but not today. Today she’s crossed the line and her recalcitrant silence on the journey home has done nothing to endear her to me. ‘Thanks for picking up Zane,’ I say to Imogen. Ernest’s stare doesn’t waver, doesn’t change. ‘I really appreciate it.’
‘It was an absolute pleasure, as always.’ Imogen comes closer to me and lowers her voice, for whose benefit I’m not sure since we are alone on the street. ‘Was everything OK at the school the other day? I’ve just asked Phoebe and she was less than forthcoming.’
I love Imogen. I can trust her, rely upon her, but I can’t tell her this. I don’t need any more judgement. I suspect she will judge me, like everyone who knows has judged me so far. Even Fynn, who did his best to reassure me the other night, probably judged me. They were right to – every conversation I have with Phoebe reminds me where I’ve gone wrong, where I’ve missed an opportunity to guide her, point her the right way. Even if she wouldn’t listen, those conversations – as difficult as they would have been – should have been waiting there like a secondary generator at the back of her mind, ready to kick in and help her when she needed guidance on what to do next.
I’ve failed her – in pretty spectacular fashion – and I don’t need any more external decrees of incompetence about that right now.
‘Yes, it was fine. Well, it will be – we have a few things to iron out first.’
‘Oh, good.’ Her concerned face softens. ‘I was so worried. You’ve been through so much, and you’ve managed to be so brave, I couldn’t bear for anything
else to happen to you.’
Neither could I, I think.
‘Is there someone in your car?’ she asks. I turn to look at my blue four-door parked a little way down from my house. Aunty Betty hasn’t moved from the car but she has unwound the window, so she can hear what we’re talking about, while doing a very good impression of being asleep. She’s not, but she’s probably thinking that if she appears asleep we will talk freely and give her access to some of our secrets.
‘Yes. That’s Joel’s Aunty Betty. You met her at the … at the … at the funeral. She was the one who sang “Amazing Grace” instead of a reading.’
Wearing a black dress and black hat, Aunty Betty stood at the pulpit with the order of service booklet in front of her. She cleared her throat as if to read and slowly raised her gaze until it was resting on me, on Phoebe, on Zane who were one either side of me, snuggled as close as possible.
She smiled at us and then she began to sing. Her voice carried across the skin of grief on the people in the church, soothing every person it touched, pricking tears into everyone’s eyes. I didn’t know she could sing like that, or she could make a song sound so enchanting, and every time I think of it, the skin on my body pricks with goosebumps. She’d done it to give Joel something special, something to remind us all of the special place he had in her heart.
‘Oh, yes,’ Imogen says. ‘I thought she lived somewhere near Middlesex? Here on a visit, is she?’
No, she’s been thrown out of her home for shagging on the managing director’s desk so she’s pitching up here until I find her somewhere else. ‘Erm, yes, something like that.’
‘Looks like she’s fallen asleep, would you like a hand?’
‘No, you’re all right, you’ve already done so much for me. Thank you. I’ll see you later.’
Reluctantly, Imogen curls her arm around her son and they start to leave. I wait until they have got into their car and driven away before I put my hand on the gate to go in. As I do so, a miracle happens: Aunty Betty opens the car door and steps out. She is regal and grand about it, of course, but it’s odd seeing her do something this ordinary. Naturally, she has a reason for opening her own car door and stepping out unaided.
‘I don’t like that woman,’ she says. Her line of sight – disapproving and contemptuous – is focused on the direction Imogen has driven off in.
‘I’m sure she’ll be devastated,’ I reply, sourly.
‘Child, she’s a grief vampire. She feeds off other people’s grief.’ When I don’t comment she adds, ‘I’m old, remember? I have been around this for many, many years. I have lost so many people, too many people, and I have seen people like that one several times. They need other people to be broken so they can feel useful. They hook into the bereaved and live off them.’
‘You didn’t even speak to her just now, and must have spoken to her for about five minutes at the … at the funeral, how can you make such bold pronouncements?’
‘At my age, you don’t need much time to see people for who they are.’
‘Obviously not.’
‘I don’t like that woman,’ Aunty Betty repeats.
‘So you said. And I find it incredible that you’re standing there bold as brass spouting all this stuff about one of my friends when you haven’t spoken in over three hours. Call me strange, but I was thinking maybe an apology, or even a simple explanation might have been forthcoming.’
Her silence is my reward.
*
‘I’m back!’ I call to my children. The woman behind me ‘Ah-he-hem’s me. ‘We’re back!’ I correct.
I wasn’t exactly expecting a thunderous stampede, but to have no acknowledgement at all is humiliating. In the living room Phoebe is on the sofa, on her phone; Zane has his Xbox controller in his hand, a Star Wars game on the screen.
‘We’re back!’ I repeat, louder this time.
‘Hi, Mum,’ Zane calls. He doesn’t even bother to turn his head to toss that over his shoulder – he remains focused on the screen.
‘Not even a little bit curious who I mean by “we”?’ I ask.
‘Uncle Fynn?’ Zane replies, still uninterested; while silence continues to emanate from Phoebe.
‘I think you’ll agree that I am far more interesting than that giraffe who claims to be your uncle,’ Aunty Betty says. She opens her arms and steps out to give them easier access to her.
‘Aunty Betty?’ Zane shouts. He throws down his controller and jumps to his feet. He hurtles at her, virtually shoving me aside to hug her. From residing in the world on her phone, Phoebe is now here, in the real world, her face lit up like it is Christmas morning at who is here in her living room. She drops her phone and is on her feet, ready to wait in line to steal a hug from her aunt. Guilt oozes into my heart: we haven’t been to see her since Phoebe’s birthday in February, more than three months ago. Joel used to see her at least once a month because she had no one else, and he’d often take the children. They’ve obviously missed her, and it’s been my responsibility to keep up with those visits and I haven’t. These past two days have made me wonder what I’ve been doing with my life. I know I’m always busy, always on the go, but I seem to have been sleepwalking my way through it all, missing out big, important chunks of time.
Aunty Betty studies Phoebe like she did me the first time she met me – seeking a weakness that will give her something to tease her beloved great niece about. ‘Well now, haven’t you been the busy little bee?’ she says with a cunning but playful grin.
Phoebe, who has obviously forgotten what a wind-up merchant her great aunt is, seems to grow ten feet taller and wider, her face a vicious snarl as she swings to me. ‘You told her I’m pregnant?’ she screams at me. ‘I can’t believe you!’
Aghast, Aunty Betty draws back, and blinks in fright. Zane stops hugging his great aunt and rotates on the spot to stare at his sister with his mouth open.
How can someone of the ‘hooking up’ generation make such a rookie mistake? I wonder.
‘Your mother told me nothing,’ Aunty Betty stutters. I’ve never seen her panic like this before, she never usually shows remorse for the things she does and says, so to hear her speak so respectfully is as alien as her opening her own car door. ‘I say that sort of thing to everyone to get them to confess something to me. You know that.’ She keeps looking at me, pleading with her beautifully made-up eyes for help. I ignore her. Even if I did know how to speak to Phoebe without enraging her, which I don’t, I wouldn’t help Aunty Betty in this instance – apologising will be good for her.
‘I’m sorry, Phoebe, I really had no idea what the situation was.’
Zane has closed his mouth, but his ten-year-old face is honed on his sister’s stomach. Any moment now he’s going to reach out and prod her abdomen. He is fascinated with pregnant women. He knows the biology of how babies are made, but he’s currently curious about why they have to stay in your stomach for so long, how they feel when they’re in there, and if they’ll know if you poke them. I’m always aware when we pass pregnant women that I may need to stop him from making contact with their bumps. I will also need to ask him not to talk about this. It’s a burden to put on a child, but until Phoebe decides what she wants to do, it’s better no one knows.
Aunty Betty has stopped speaking. She isn’t used to apologising, it must taste very strange and unpleasant in her mouth, something I’m sure she won’t want to sample again for a long time.
All eyes are on Phoebe in the silence after Aunty Betty’s apology – we are all waiting to take our cues from her, wondering what she’ll do now she knows she’s exposed herself. What she’ll do, apparently, is burst into loud, uncontrollable tears.
VII
After the madness, when my family have been herded off to bed, I gather up the post from the day and I sit at the kitchen table. I have the light from the cooker on instead of the main light, and sit still for a moment, pause, catch my breath.
Zane and Phoebe are both asleep, Aunty Betty is unpack
ing some of her belongings; most of them, though, are piled up in the corridor or in the corner of the living room. Zane and I managed to bring them all in from the car, at which point I admitted defeat – I couldn’t take it all up three flights of stairs to her room in the loft, too. And Zane was so exhausted afterwards he could barely bring himself to complain about having fish for dinner.
Phoebe, who I suspect was more distressed by crying in front of us than outing herself, escaped upstairs until dinner time, at which point she made it clear by the look on her face that she wanted no one to bring it up again.
Aunty Betty was contrite and quiet for most of the evening, and even offered to wash up after dinner to show sorry she was (for upsetting Phoebe, not for tricking me into letting her move in).
Everyone headed off upstairs at the same time and I’d sat on the edge of Zane’s bed and asked him if he could bear to keep Phoebe’s pregnancy a secret for now. ‘Too right!’ he’d replied. ‘Do you know how babies get inside? I’m not telling anyone she’s done that!’ Then added: ‘She has done that, hasn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ I confirmed.
Now, I can sit at my dining table and be alone for a while. I spend a lot of time in here because it was Joel’s favourite room. Everywhere else in the house we shared the input into decorating, but here, Joel took over. He knew exactly what he wanted – the range cooker over there, the stainless steel fridge behind me. The double sink, the rolltop edging on the white marble worktops, the shelves on the walls for the dried food, herbs and oils. The white floor tiles. It all came from his vision, his idea of the perfect kitchen for creating his culinary delights (and his many, many disasters, but we never talked about them).
I pretend to myself I can feel him in here, sometimes. That I can see him standing at the cooker, wooden spoon in hand, turning constantly to talk to me or to catch the latest footie scores on the television on the wall behind. That I can recall him standing at the worktop, fork in hand as he mixed a batter for gluten-free blueberry muffins. I can sense him opening the fridge and staring into it, wondering what it was exactly he wanted when he went there. And I can hear him, dressed in his black Run DMC apron, singing, ‘J-J-J-J-J’s House!’ right before he started cooking.