She was waiting for her only client of the day, a Mr A, as she referred to him (but who we all knew as Big Dave from the pub in Polperro). She’d been a qualified therapist for ten years, as well as the unqualified one for most of our young lives, and her practice was in the back room, which was really the front, depending from what side you entered the house.
We all knew ‘Mr A’ was secretly in love with her and hid his rather inappropriate behaviour behind thirty pounds an hour and the indefinable state of transference. He brought my mother flowers every session and she refused them every session. He brought her his dreams every session; she brought him reality. We heard the sound of bike wheels on the shingle outside. My mother peeked through the window.
‘Roses again,’ she said.
‘What colour?’ I said.
‘Yellow,’ she said.
‘He’s happy,’ I said.
‘God help me,’ she said.
The bell rang.
‘We’re leaving as soon as I’m finished, Elly, so make sure Ginger’s up and you’re all ready,’ she said in her therapist’s voice.
I smiled.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘The poinsettia?’
‘Oh. Put it back in the hallway,’ she said, ‘and I’ll deal with it later,’ and she marched quickly out of the room.
She’d been trying to get rid of the poinsettia since January, but it was stubborn and wouldn’t die, and every week she’d place it on the kitchen table and wonder what she could do with it. ‘Just leave it outside,’ my father would say. ‘Or throw it in the rubbish.’ But my mother couldn’t. It was a living thing; a step away from a human being. It could go back into the hallway. For another week.
‘Hello, my darling,’ said Arthur, skipping in from his yoga session and embracing me tightly. I felt the cold clinging to his sweatshirt.
‘Hey,’ I said, trying not to look down at his legs.
‘I’ll get Ginger up, shall I?’ he said as he checked that the kettle was still warm and shoved a handful of leaves into the teapot.
‘Oh, thanks,’ I said. ‘Need any help?’
‘Not today, my angel, I’ll manage,’ he said as he poured the water into the pot and replaced the lid. I handed him the mug with the worn-out picture of Burt Reynolds barely visible on its side. Ginger had a thing for Burt Reynolds. Ginger had a thing for men with moustaches.
‘This’ll wake her up,’ said Arthur, as he carefully carried the teapot and mug towards the door, halting only to let my father enter.
‘Very smart,’ said Arthur, disappearing into the hallway.
‘Thanks,’ said my father, adjusting his tie.
My father looked good in a suit and even though he rarely wore one he still carried its form with unquestionable style. I caught him admiring his reflection in the glass door, just as I noticed him the night before, quietly reading an old law book, and somewhere I wondered if two rivers were about to converge once again. I’d heard whispers, of course, mainly from my mother. She told me that he’d recently ‘gone back to Rumpole’, and had delivered this news with such secrecy that I could have been forgiven for thinking that ‘Rumpole’ was indeed code for an illegal drug rather than the entertaining book it was. ‘It’s not just a book, though, darling,’ she’d said to me. ‘It’s a way of life.’
My father cleared his throat for the recital of the final line, and then delivered it looking at his shoes. I could do nothing except applaud and hide behind noise.
‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked. ‘Truthfully.’
I sipped my coffee and tried to think of something kind, something positive to say about a poem he hadn’t chosen, but had agreed to read only because he was the godfather and that was his duty.
‘It’s really bad,’ I said.
‘I know.’
‘Not you.’
‘I know.’
‘Just it.’
‘I know.’
Chubby little Alan junior had grown up and become a father when his wife gave birth to a baby girl called Alana (they were expecting a boy). The child arrived three weeks late and weighed ten pounds and ten ounces, and apparently looked every bit of it. When she was presented to her parents’ world at a small family gathering in St Austell, she revealed an astonishing head of curly hair that was quite particular to Alan’s wife’s side of the family. They all looked like they came from Naples, rather than Pelynt, and when Nancy commented that the baby looked like a fat Cher, it was only the careful addition of her laugh during the uncomfortable silence, that made people think she was only joking. (Over the years Nancy had lost interest in anyone less than three feet tall unless they were in pantomime and heading towards Snow White’s cottage.)
My parents were often invited to these gatherings, a fierce indebtedness that Alan senior still felt as sharply as a switch across his back. Nancy was invited simply because Nancy was a star. And everyone loves to rub shoulders with a star. But it was at this increasingly boisterous gathering that events took an unexpected – and some might say, careless – turn, when Alan junior gave my father a cigar and asked him to be Alana’s sole godparent, to the complete dismay of his wife’s side of the family. An uncomfortable silence ensued, in which my father’s mute embarrassment was somehow interpreted as a Yes. Whispers of ‘Outsider!’ and ‘What was he thinking?’ and ‘What about us?’ echoed around the small detached cottage, until Alan junior took his wife aside and put a halt to her family’s empty protestations. It was the first time he’d ever put his foot down, and even though he did it with the lightest of treads – that of fear – he was unflinching in his choice. My father was a good man; the best in the valley. The decision was made.
We bundled into the car late as usual, but Ginger said we’d already waited three weeks for the fat kid, so it was only fair that the fat kid waited an extra half an hour for us. My mother looked at her in the rear-view mirror and I noted the slight worry on her face. Ginger had drunk only half a mug of marijuana tea that morning, but it was Arthur who had administered the heavy-handed dose and not my mother because she was still busy deciphering Mr A’s erotic dream. And now Ginger was wearing a feather boa over the lovely dress and cardigan my mother had laid out for her, and had refused to take it off even when my mother reminded her that it was a christening they were attending and not sing-along night at the Fisherman’s Arm’s.
‘I’m still going to perform,’ said Ginger, grinning wildly.
‘You are part of a church service, Ginger,’ said my mother, ‘not singing at Carnegie Hall.’
Ginger sucked her teeth and wrapped the feathers tightly around her neck, and with her accentuated nose she resembled a mighty bald-headed eagle looking out for prey; my mother’s only fear was that she’d already found it and it was swaddled and curly haired and waiting for us at the font.
‘Right,’ said my father as he started the van. ‘Are we all here?’
‘Yes,’ said Arthur.
‘Yes,’ said Ginger.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Not quite,’ said my mother wistfully, looking down at her hands, thinking of my brother. It’s what happened whenever anyone said, ‘Are we all here?’
My father reached across for her hand but she pushed it away and said, ‘I’m all right, Alfie.’
My father shrugged and looked at us in the mirror. We sat there squashed and not daring to say a word, until Arthur finally did: ‘I don’t know why we have to be sad. There he is, having the time of his life clubbing and fucking in New York, and making obscene amounts of money on those trading floors, and here we are, attending a christening where the majority of people wished we were dead.’
‘Shut up, Arthur,’ said my mother, and he zipped his mouth shut like an infuriating child.
Ginger started to laugh. Not at anything in particular, but just because Ginger was stoned.
The postman waved us down as my father accelerated up the driveway, spitting shingle and dirt from his back wheels. He wasn?
??t used to driving the van – Alan still did that – and on every hill he seemed to override third gear as if it never existed at all.
‘Want these now then?’ said the postman, waving a bundle of letters and bills in front of my father.
‘OK, Brian,’ my father said as he took them, and handed them to my mother, who quickly scoured them for the flimsy blue airmail envelope that brought news from her son. She handed me a letter that had been redirected by Nancy.
‘Off to little Alana’s christening?’ said the postman.
Ginger rudely scoffed at the term ‘little’.
‘Yes,’ said my father. ‘I expect you’ve heard that I’m the godfather?’
‘I did,’ said the postman. ‘And heard you weren’t the most popular of choices round here.’
‘Well,’ said my father, as if he were about to say something more. But he didn’t.
‘Bye then,’ said the postman abruptly, as he turned and struggled up the lane.
‘Tosser,’ said Ginger.
‘Now, now,’ said my mother.
‘Run him over,’ said Arthur.
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ said my mother, stuffing a piece of chewing gum in her mouth.
The church wasn’t full and our lateness was noted by each and every one of the Pelynt lot who sat in the front stalls, best seats in the house, as Ginger loudly said. Alan hugged us all and led us to a section he’d reserved for us, a section that was easy for my father and Ginger to get in and out from.
It was a simple service of promises and tears and child-appropriate readings. My father got up and did the best he could with the poem entitled ‘The Child in my Arms Lays Quietly in your Heart’, and Alan senior made an interesting speech that included words like, ‘Lola’, ‘showgirl’, ‘diamond’, and ‘Havana’, obviously hoping that the big bundle weighing down the vicar’s arms could have been named after the heroine of one of the greatest songs ever. And as the opening bars to ‘O God, our help in ages past’ filled the air, I carefully pulled the letter from its prison envelope and started to read.
11 March 1996
I was so happy to get another letter from you, Elly. I know we’re back in contact but its hard for me to trust – I have to pinch myself.
The Christmas we disappeared is still as clear to me as yesterday. We left as soon as Uncle Phil came back from the Red House and fell asleep and we took the car to an abandoned car park where Mum had booked a minicab. Everything was about covering our tracks you see. Mum had been advised by a womens refuge in Liverpool and they told her what to do. We stayed a couple of nights in a small hotel in Euston, I think, before taking the train up north. We lived in the refuge till Mum got back on her feet. We couldn’t call from there or let anyone know the address, something about endangering the others. Thats why you never heard from me. Even when we got our own place, Mum said our previous life was dead. I had to forget about it all. About you. About all that had happened to her. She was so frightened. What she’d turned into no one should turn into and I couldn’t tell anyone. I called you once. One Christmas about ten years ago. At the end of the day, like we used to. You said hello and I heard laughter. I put the phone down. I think it hurt too much. Hearing what I was once part of. What I could of been. Could of had.
I did get married. It wasn’t a happy marriage although at first I thought it was. I thought it would give me everything I missed, or that my mum missed and thats all I can say really. I don’t know if you believe in destiny but I know he was mine.
I looked up. Ginger was singing loudly and had managed most of the words, even though she seemed to make up a few of her own in the third verse.
I’d love to read Arthurs book when you’ve finished editing it, also any articles you’ve written for magazines. I’ve got plenty of time to read you see. I work in the kitchen here and its quite good. Before I came here I used to have a company called The Tranquil Path, just me and a girl called Linda. I did tarot reading and massage mainly – aromatherapy, intuitive, even Indian head massage. I got quite good. Quite successful. Funny how life turns out.
Oh, Elly, this feels so good writing to you again. I’m trying to forgive myself for what I’ve done and its proving the hardest thing for me to do. I’m down to serve nine years at the moment. They say I’ll probably get out before with good behaviour. I should of got less, everyone said so, even the police. They didn’t think it was murder
‘Fuck!’ I said, and the Pelynt lot turned towards me. So did Arthur and Ginger.
they knew it was self-defence and so I eventually got done for manslaughter. The judge was so nice, so understanding but as he explained to me, he had no choice. Its all about precedent you see and mitigating circumstances, but I expect your dad can explain more about that.
‘What?’ mouthed Ginger, who’d suddenly got bored singing.
‘What?’ she said again.
‘I’ll tell you in a minute,’ I hissed, and continued to read.
‘Tell me now,’ she said, and started to laugh.
I hope this letter finds you well. Even though I said the M words please don’t be frightened of me. I’m still me, Elly. Not the monster some people said I was.
Om shanti and cheerio.
Love, Jenny
PS. I do understand if you don’t want to write to me again. Just thought it best to get it all out in the open. My diabetes is still under control. Thanks for remembering.
PPS. Stamps would be great. Legal tender in here.
I put the letter away as Ginger leant towards me and held my arm.
‘Jenny Penny’s murdered someone,’ I said in time with the music.
‘Ssh,’ I heard from behind me.
‘What? That strange girl with unmanageable hair?’ said Ginger.
‘Tell Arthur,’ I said, and she moved towards him, grabbed his head and pulled it towards her mouth as if it was a first-of-the-season peach.
I nudged my mother and whispered in her ear.
‘What?’ she said.
I told her again.
‘Murder?’ she said. ‘I don’t believe it.’ And as the music slowed to its desultory end, she grabbed my hand and sang loudly to the heavens, ‘Be Thou our guard while troubles last, And our eternal home.’
Amen.
After a monotonous reading about the responsibilities of parenthood, the message of which, thank God, must have bypassed my own parents with the temerity of a stolen car, I was grateful when Ginger finally stood up to sing. Alan and Alan junior beamed. In their eyes Ginger was a star because she had sung with Frank Sinatra (which she actually had done), and therefore it was really only one step away from having the great man there himself. And so when Ginger unnecessarily bowed on reaching the front, Alan senior couldn’t help but emit a tiny cheer. However, when she dedicated her song to, ‘Jenny Penny, our friend who’s been wrongly imprisoned for murder,’ I winced, and couldn’t have felt more exposed had I sat there naked. She’d been given carte blanche to sing whatever song she felt was right for the day, but as she sang the opening line to ‘I Who Have Nothing’, even I wondered what her thought process had been.
‘A child comes into the world with nothing,’ she said later, downing a large Scotch, as if she didn’t know what all the fuss had been about.
No one ever turned in for an early night down there. It was unheard of, like a silent rule; it just wasn’t done. We slept only when talk was exhausted, when we had wrung out its last vestiges and the space it left was empty, lifeless, tired. Many times I had sat with my mother watching the sky change from its French navy to a haloed hue, when the sun encroached upon the horizon, pushing upwards the blanketed dark to make room for its light that appeared golden and orbed and unnatural, and sometimes we would take the boat out down to the mouth of the harbour (sometimes beyond), and sit wrapped in blankets whilst a new day appeared.
But after the christening everyone seemed eager to retire, and by eleven the house was quiet and slightly forlorn. I made a fire because the spring d
ampness had intruded after the sun had gone down. I could feel it now, cool under my jumper, and I wanted to disperse it, and I wanted the comfort and the smell of flame. I held the match under the newspaper and fed slithers of dry wood, until they smoked and glowed orange and finally lit.
‘Hey,’ I said.
‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna change phones.’
I heard a click. I heard him pick up the replacement.
‘Hey,’ he said, and I heard him swallow.