chapter sixty-nine
‘Ding, ding, ding!’ Pam tapped her spoon on the side of her water glass and got to her feet. ‘Could I have your attention, please?’
Clementine should have known. There was going to be a speech. Of course there was. Her mother had been delivering speeches all her life. Every birthday, every holiday, every minor academic, sporting or musical achievement merited a speech.
‘Oh goodness, are you going to sing for us, Pam?’ said Sylvia, turning in her chair to regard Pam. She winked at Clementine.
Clementine shook her head at her. She knew that Sylvia had been a terrible mother to Erika, that she had said and done unforgivable things over the years, and that was all in addition to the hoarding problem, but Clementine had always felt traitorously affectionate towards her. She enjoyed Sylvia’s subversiveness, her outlandish comments, her meandering stories and snarky, sly little digs. In contrast, her own mother always seemed so staid and earnest, like a well-meaning minister’s wife. Clementine especially enjoyed seeing Sylvia’s outfits. She could just as easily look like a bohemian intellectual as a Russian princess or a homeless person. (Sadly, she’d chosen ‘homeless person’ for Erika’s wedding, in order to make some long-forgotten, convoluted, pointless point.)
Tonight Sylvia looked like a lady who lunched. You would think she was going home to a glossy McMansion with a banker husband.
‘I hope you’ll allow me the indulgence of saying a few words,’ said Pam. ‘There are two people here tonight who can only be described as …’ She paused and took a deep, shaky breath. ‘Quiet heroes.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Clementine’s dad too loudly. He’d been drinking more than usual. Erika’s mother made him nervous. Once, she’d sat next to him at a school concert, and while discussing local politics she had apparently put her hand ‘very close to his … you know what’ (this was how Pam described it), causing Clementine’s dad to ‘make the most peculiar sound, like a yelp’.
‘Yes, that’s what they are, quiet, unassuming, unsung heroes, but heroes nonetheless,’ continued Pam.
‘Awww.’ Sylvia put her head to one side in an ‘oh shucks’ way, as if Pam were referring to her.
Erika rotated one shoulder as if she had a stiff neck. Oliver adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. The two of them looked profoundly uncomfortable. ‘Why did you invite Erika’s mother?’ Clementine had asked Pam earlier that night.
‘I thought it would be nice for Erika,’ Pam said defensively. ‘We haven’t seen Sylvia for a long time, and her hoarding has got very bad again lately, so I thought it might be helpful.’
‘But Erika hates her mother,’ said Clementine.
‘She doesn’t hate her,’ Pam had said, but she’d looked upset. ‘Oh gosh, I probably shouldn’t have invited her, you’re right. Erika would have enjoyed the night more without her. You try to do the right thing, don’t you? And it just doesn’t always work out that way.’
Now she looked brightly around the room.
‘They don’t want accolades. They don’t want medals. They probably don’t even want this speech!’ She gave a merry laugh.
‘I want a medal,’ said Holly.
‘Shh, Holly,’ said Sam, on Holly’s other side. He had barely touched the food on his plate.
‘Yet some things simply cannot go unsaid,’ said Pam.
‘But I do want a medal!’ demanded Holly.
‘There is no medal,’ hissed Clementine.
‘Well, why did Grandma say there was?’
‘She didn’t!’ said Sam.
Erika’s mother giggled deliciously.
‘The debt of gratitude we owe Erika and Oliver is of such magnitude,’ said Pam, ‘that I cannot even begin to …’
‘Could I trouble you to pass the water, Martin?’ said Sylvia in a loud whisper to Clementine’s father.
Pam stopped and watched her husband half-stand and awkwardly place the jug of water next to Sylvia while avoiding any eye contact whatsoever.
‘Sorry, Pam,’ said Sylvia. ‘Carry on. Lovely earrings by the way.’
Pam put her hand confusedly to one ear. She wore the plain gold studs she always wore. ‘Thank you, Sylvia. Where was I?’
‘The debt of gratitude,’ said Sylvia helpfully as she poured herself a glass of water.
Oliver tipped back his head and studied the ceiling as if for inspiration or salvation.
‘Yes, ah, the debt of gratitude,’ said Pam.
Ruby, who had been sitting on a cushion on the chair next to Clementine, suddenly put down her spoon with a purposeful air and slid onto the floor.
‘Where are you going?’ whispered Clementine.
Ruby put her hand to the side of her mouth. ‘Going to sit on Grandpa’s lap.’
‘I wanted to sit on Grandpa’s lap,’ huffed Holly. ‘I was actually just about to go and sit on Grandpa’s lap.’
‘There is a quote,’ said Pam. (There always was.) She swept her hands wide, palms facing the ceiling. She liked to deliver her quotes with this particular statesman-like gesture. ‘Friends are the family we chose for ourselves.’
‘Indeed,’ said Sylvia. ‘So true.’
‘I’m not sure who said it,’ admitted Pam. She liked to attribute her quotes. ‘I meant to check.’
‘Don’t worry, Pam, we can always look it up later,’ said Clementine’s dad.
‘Oliver could check right now!’ offered Sylvia. ‘Oliver! Where’s your phone? He’s so quick. Tippity-tippity-tap and he has the answer!’
‘Mum,’ said Erika.
‘What?’ said Sylvia.
‘Friends are the family we chose for ourselves,’ repeated Pam. ‘And I’m just so glad that Clementine and Erika chose to be friends.’ She glanced at Clementine and then hurriedly looked away. ‘Erika. Oliver. Your amazing actions that day saved our darling Ruby’s life. We can obviously never truly repay you. The debt of gratitude we –’
‘I think we already covered the debt of gratitude,’ said Sylvia. ‘Didn’t we? Anyway, from what I hear, the debt is set to be cleared –’
‘Sylvia,’ said Oliver.
Sylvia gave Clementine a roguish look. She leaned close and whispered, so that Oliver and Erika couldn’t hear, ‘You and Oliver, hey?’
Clementine frowned. She didn’t get it.
‘Making a baby together!’ clarified Sylvia. Her eyes sparkled maliciously. Clementine saw that Erika’s jaw was set in the manner of someone enduring a painful but necessary medical procedure.
‘Erika and Oliver. We love you. We thank you. We salute you.’ Pam lifted her glass. ‘To Erika and Oliver.’
There was a scramble as everyone found wine or water glasses and raised them too.
‘Cheers!’ cried Holly. She tried to clink her lemonade glass against Clementine’s wineglass. ‘Cheers, Mummy!’
‘Yes, cheers. Be careful, Holly,’ said Clementine. She could see that Holly was on the cusp of crazy. These days you could never tell what she was going to do next, and right now she was drunk on too much lemonade.
‘Cheers, Daddy!’ said Holly. Sam didn’t register her. He still had his wineglass lifted, but his eyes were on Ruby sitting on Martin’s lap, whispering something to Whisk.
‘I said, cheers, Daddy,’ said Holly angrily, and she got up on her knees on her chair, and slammed her water glass so hard against her father’s wineglass that it shattered in his hand.
‘Jesus!’ Sam leaped up from his seat as if he’d been shot. He turned on Holly and yelled, ‘That was naughty! You are a very naughty, very bad girl!’
Holly cowered. ‘Sorry, Daddy. It was an accident.’
‘It was a stupid accident!’ he roared.
‘Okay, that’s enough,’ said Clementine.
‘Oh dearie me,’ said Pam.
Sam stood. There was blood on his hand. For a moment the only sound was the perpetual patter of rain.
‘Do you want me to take a look at that cut?’ offered Sylvia.
‘No,’ said Sam rudely. He sucked the side of his hand. He breathed heavily. ‘I need to get some air.’ He left the room. That was all Sam did these days: leave the room.
‘Well! There’s a little drama to spice things up,’ said Sylvia.
Oliver stood and began collecting the pieces of glass in the palm of his hand.
‘Come and sit here with me, Holly,’ said Erika, pushing back her chair and patting her legs, and to Clementine’s surprise, Holly slid off her chair and ran to her.
‘I had told you to be careful, Holly,’ said Clementine, and she knew her sharp rebuke was only because she’d been expecting the comfort of Holly’s body against hers. She wanted Holly to sit on her lap, not Erika’s, and that was childish. All her emotions had become tiny and twisted. She really should cancel her audition. She was too emotionally stunted to ever be a good musician. She imagined her bow screeching and scraping across the strings as if she’d suddenly become a beginner: squeaky unpleasant notes to match her squeaky, unpleasant emotions.
‘Right. Well. Cups of tea? Coffee?’ said Pam. ‘Erika brought along some very nice chocolate nuts that will go very nicely with a cup of tea. Just the ticket!’
‘Isn’t she clever,’ said Sylvia.
‘I’m quite remarkable,’ said Erika.
As Pam began the complicated process of confirming everyone’s tea and coffee orders, Clementine collected plates and took them into the kitchen. Her father followed her, carrying Ruby, who had that comfy, superior look children always got in the arms of a tall man; like a fat-cheeked little sultan.
‘You okay?’ said her father.
‘Fine,’ said Clementine. ‘Sorry about Sam. He’s just stressed about work, I think.’
‘Yes, he does seem stressed about the new job,’ said Martin. He put Ruby down as she began to wriggle. ‘But I think it’s more than that.’
‘Well, it’s been hard for him ever since the … accident,’ said Clementine.
She wasn’t sure if she was allowed to call it an accident, if that implied she didn’t consider herself responsible.
‘Sam blames himself for not watching Ruby – and I think, I know, he also blames me,’ said Clementine. It was somehow easier to just baldly admit it to her dad, who would just take what she said at face value, rather than her mother, who would listen too intently and empathetically and filter everything through her own emotions.
‘And I guess I blame him,’ said Clementine. ‘And at the same time we’re both pretending we don’t blame each other at all.’
‘Right,’ said her father. ‘Well, that’s called being married. You’re always blaming each other for something.’ He opened a kitchen cupboard and began taking out mugs. ‘What’s the bet I’m getting the wrong ones out?’ He turned to look at Clementine, holding two mugs by the handles on his fingertips. ‘But I reckon there’s something more going on. He’s not right. He isn’t quite right in the head.’
‘Not those ones, Martin.’ Pam bustled into the kitchen. ‘We want the nice ones.’ She took the mugs off him and swiftly put them away. ‘Who isn’t right in the head?’
‘Sam,’ said Clementine.
‘I’ve been saying that for weeks,’ said Pam.