THIRTY
They closed the shop on the day before Christmas Eve. As Pamela said to Jennifer and the Amazon, they had all worked their feet off for the last six weeks and the tassel-bound cognoscenti could go hang until the New Year.
‘Or drape,’ said Jenny, sitting down and rubbing her feet. ‘Or swag, or ruche, or pleat. . .’
The Amazon looked at them with eyes that bespoke postgraduate purity, eyes that believed their goal was to bring beauty out of chaos and raise the domestic into a fitting firmament for the gods. Interesting paint-finishes still interested her, thought Pam. Nevertheless, she, too, admitted that her feet ached and that if she saw the back end of yet another stencil brush this side of Christmas, she would self-combust.
What divides those two and me, thought Pam, is that whereas their state of mind, and tiredness of feet, is temporary, mine is nothing to do with the rigours of the season. I have come to the end of expediency. I want to go through the door that lies beyond.
She took them out to a very early dinner. Jenny looked at her a shade enviously. If there was one thing she could not do, she told Pam, as she emptied the till and so efficiently finalized everything, it was to persuade Howard to go away anywhere for Christmas. One small fissure in the rock hard joys of marriage.
‘Life after children,’ Pam said firmly. ‘It just seemed pointless with Daniel not coming home.’
‘You’re still not going to say where?’
Pamela shook her head.
‘Like a honeymoon,’ said Jenny. There was just a hint of disapproval.
‘Yes,’ said Pam.
‘Hmm.’ Jennifer pursed her lips.
Pamela remembered pursing her lips to her mother like that when she first moved into the Burlington. We disapprove of what we do not understand because it disturbs us, she thought. She was unable, then, to comprehend why her mother should abandon her life so cheerfully in exchange for the outer beigeness of the Burlington. Now she understood. Her mother did not want to play the role entitled ‘the brave widow soldiers on’ – just as now Pam had no intention of taking a starring role in ‘the loneliness of the long distance mother’. There were always choices to be made, caskets to be opened, at every stage of your life. Dean had talked to her about Exit, euthanasia, as brightly as he might have talked about going to the dentist. It meant nothing to him now, but it would. Even approaching death, there were still choices to be made. And scarlet rooms, lemon chintz or peacock tapestry were yesterday’s choices.
Even if Daniel and The Girlfriend had deigned to come and stay, she would not have seen her son’s face on Christmas morning. That door was closed now, as it should be. The tousle-haired little boy with the wide eyes and the monster stocking creeping into her room before light no longer existed. The tousle-haired Daniel of now would probably have his face buried in The Girlfriend’s pillow until lunchtime. It was his rite of passage and she had survived it.
She did not mention anything to Jenny and the Amazon until the cappuccino. Then she said, ‘Are you happy doing what you are doing?’ And they both said they were – very happy indeed. Which is when she dared to confess that she had become bored with it all herself. She saw the look that flitted across Jenny’s face. Menopausal boredom. Well, let her think it, if it helped.
‘I may not come back full-time in the New Year,’ she said.
The Amazon looked completely relaxed at the suggestion. ‘You’re retiring, right?’
‘No, I am not retiring,’ Pamela snapped back, despite it being the forgiving season.
She’d have her in incontinence pads next. ‘I want to do some more heavyweight stuff. Peter has asked me to work with him on the design of something quite different, and I might want to do it.’
Which made it sound a great deal more of a partnership than Peter proposed.
‘Oh?’ said Jenny, intrigued. ‘What?’
‘Can’t tell you until the New Year.’
Which was true enough. It was all under wraps until then. And, of course, until she herself had made up her mind.
Peter had just said, ‘Your coming in on the Rosen commission does not necessarily rest on the outcome of Dublin.’
She said, ‘Thanks very much.’ And wondered if it rested on wearing sketchy scarlet underwear.
She was looking to the future now, and there was quite a lot of it left, as her mother had so helpfully pointed out. This time nothing was going to detract from her talents, not gender, not cautiousness or age.
Jenny said, ‘We can’t possibly manage without you.’ With about as much conviction as the latter-day Tories to Margaret Thatcher.
Jenny would be fine. A nice middle-class young woman, with husband and potential children and nanny, doing a nice middle-class job for the middle classes. It had served Pam well enough while Daniel was growing up. Now she wanted more. If it was to be Pryor and Pryor, it would have to mean it.
The Amazon looked at her employer and blinked her big brown eyes, but not before Pam registered the look in them. Kindly contempt. Pamela smiled at her. So you think you will change the shape of the world? she thought. The truth is, it is the world that will change the shape of you.
She ordered brandy. They drank to the future. Oh, to be young, she thought momentarily – and then, remembering Ani Patel’s son and the baby, and Ani Patel’s face as she told her, she quickly crossed her fingers. The journey the Patels were all about to make was long and difficult. She kept her fingers crossed and took everything straight back. I would not like to be young again, she said to the bottom of her glass, not for a million pounds. Just as well, said the reflection, sister to the mirror before her, because you are not.
She paid the bill. Half-past eight. The others left to get a taxi. She would walk. She gave the Amazon a set of keys, which seemed only right and proper. The Amazon took the gift in her amazingly long stride. Pamela felt the slightest frisson of regret as she ceded her territory. But she was moving on.
Tomorrow she was flying out. She set off for home through the crowded Christmas streets. Not a part of any of it any more. She carried a basket of flowers for Ani Patel. These days, in the name of service, she kept the shop open all hours. It gave her customers what they wanted, and probably took her mind off things. Ari hung around fondling his moustache, looking sulky, to hide his fear. Pretending not to need his mother, punishing her by not being helpful, because he needed her so much. Thank God, thank God, it is not me, said Pam.
The shop was full. Pamela watched Ani Patel as she served and dipped and smiled, if a little wanly, at all her customers. Always helpful, always willing to tolerate any madness that her customers might bring. It would be like that for ever now. In the summer she would have a baby to play with, a baby in a carrycot in the shop, just as she remembered seeing Ari when she first came to live here. "Tis all a chequer-board of nights and days,’ she remembered from somewhere, ‘Where Destiny with Men for pieces plays . . .’ She certainly felt that when she was with Douglas all those years ago. ‘Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays. And one by one back in the closet lays . . .’ Only you did not have to choose to remain in the cupboard for ever.
When Ani Patel first told Pam about the baby she said, ‘Ah, but who will there be to care for me one day?’ and her usually kind brown eyes showed a flash of anger – but only for a moment before apologizing. Then she fiddled with the Bounty bars and said, ‘It is the fate of the coconut husk to float, for the stone to sink. . . My grandmother’s saying.’
Pamela wanted to argue with it, but Ani Patel looked quite resolute and calm again. ‘I have chosen,’ she said. Which Pamela realized was ineluctable truth. And so have I, she thought.
The flowers were Pamela’s way of saying thank you. Thank you, she thought grandly, on behalf of the world. For without its Ani Patels, it could not function. She had been lucky. She had escaped.
Margie was on the doorstep, cheerfully smoking.
‘Oh, hell,’ said Pam. ‘I forgot.’
‘Thanks, darling,’ said Margie. She was surrounded by carrier bags, some of which Pam was astonished to see came from Harrods’ Food Hall.
‘You only said you might,’ said Pam defensively, letting herself in. ‘And it’s not even nine.’ No more guilt, she thought, no more guilt. ‘I called in to take Ani Patel some flowers.’
‘I always said she was a saint, that woman,’ said Margie. ‘But a grandmother? I suppose they wouldn’t consider a –’
Pam shook her head. ‘Pro-Life,’ she said.
Margie shrugged. ‘Except, perhaps, her own.’
In the kitchen Margie looked about her. ‘No decorations,’ she said wonderingly.
‘Too busy doing everybody else’s,’ said Pam. And then she put her hands on her hips and said, ‘That’s not true. I just didn’t want the bother. If you’re going to be free, you may as well be really free.’
‘No baubles, no baggage?’ said Margie. ‘If only . . . Anyway, this is for us.’ She put her hand into one of the Harrods bags and pulled out the statutory red wine. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not staying. I’ll get the ten-fifty back. I know you’ve got to be up in the morning.’ She gave Pam a sly little look. ‘Packed yet?’ she asked. ‘Cheers.’ She raised her glass and they chinked.
Pam laughed and reached forward. ‘You should always make eye contact when you do that,’ she said. ‘Try again.’
They were silent for a moment. Then Pamela said, ‘Why do we do it, Margie? Why?’
‘Why do they do it? Why does anybody do it? You know your Dorothy Parker: Woman wants monogamy, Man wants novelty-’
‘What happens when Woman wants novelty?’
‘Trouble.’
‘I want novelty.’
‘I don’t. I’ve had enough novelty to last a lifetime. It’s called being on your own and doing everything for yourself and being perceived as liberated. But if you want novelty –’ Margie waved her hands like a conjuror – ‘then have some, my dear . . . I’ll settle for oppression and someone warm in my bed at night.’
It was like old times. Margie stretched out on the floor in the sitting room, Pam stretched out on the settee. She automatically felt the space beside her. ‘Not even masculine old Piggins,’ she said. ‘I do miss all that, you know.’
‘Ah, cats,’ said Margie fondly.
‘Not cats, men,’ said Pam, a little sharply. ‘Masculinity.’
‘One day at a time,’ said Margie. ‘It’s all psychological.’
Pam just laughed. Psychological, my foot, she thought. It’s a great deal more physical than that, the stuff I’m talking about.
‘I envy you,’ said Margie, stretching. ‘All this peace and control over your own life.’
Why do they always say that? thought Pam. While doing the opposite? But at least she could put her hand on her heart and say that she did not envy Margie. Whatever she was embarked upon was going to take a lot of energy. Ex-wives, current wives, ex-girlfriends, zealous mothers were the very devil and took a huge toll. And that was without all the energy the Beloved took as well. She stretched and yawned. No. She wasn’t ready to expend that energy yet. One day maybe, but not yet. . .
‘I still do that, you know,’ she said, running her hand over the cushion next to her. ‘I still feel for Piggins when I’m stretched out here.’
‘Ah, Piggins,’ said Margie, moved.
‘Even he got it right,’ said Pam, getting a little sentimental with the red wine and all. ‘He just shuffled off this Feline Coil at the perfect time. Right for him, decrepit old thing, and right for me –’
‘Decrepit old thing.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘I don’t even have to worry about him any more. It’s Christmas and I’m off out of it.’ She sat up, suddenly anxious.
‘And you – what will you be doing?’
Margie laughed. ‘Cooking a fucking Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. Like what I have never done before. Should be interesting.’
‘When in doubt, don’t take it out . . .’ said Pam, a little dreamily.
‘Pardon?’ said Margie, affecting the voice of an offended maiden aunt.
‘It’s what my mother used to say. . .’
Margie’s eyes widened. She suddenly thought of old Mrs Hennessy in a very different light. ‘She did? Raunchy old thing. . .’
‘About the turkey,’ said Pam.
‘Oh’, said Margie, disappointed.
Pam laughed. ‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall in your Christmas kitchen. So you’ve managed to winkle him away from his wife for the day? That’s positive.’
Margie picked at the carpet and said, ‘He’s coming to me on Christmas Eve. When I shall shag the daylights out of him. He is then going to spend the morning with me, and have Christmas dinner, and then, in the evening, he is going home. To eat another Christmas dinner. Only, if the plan works, he will be so tired, so full, and so brandied to his eyeballs, that he will just fall asleep.’
‘And if I know Christmas,’ said Pam, ‘with all its precious and pressured delights –’
‘She’ll throw him out for good.’
Maybe, thought Pam.
‘Ah, well,’ said Margie. ‘It keeps you young.’
After she had gone, Pam sat and opened her post. Among the cards was one from Danny. It said, ‘Happy Christmas, Mum, from Danny and Lilian. See you in the New Year.’ It was a cartoon of the Three Wise Men. The message, in its exactitude, was par for the course, she thought, putting it up in place of honour. See you in the New Year could mean any time between the coming 1 January and the following 31 December. Good old Daniel, why change the habits of a lifetime? As she picked up the envelope to throw it away, she noticed that he had written on the outside flap, in hurried scrawl, the extraordinary additional message, Dear Mum, I Miss You.
Maybe he felt he did not want The Girlfriend to know such things.
She rang, but the telephone was engaged. She could try the mobile, but the memory of his joy in it still rankled. Peter had it so easy. The struggle had all been hers. And maybe all the joys, too. When she got far enough away from it, she might really believe that was true. She had ground to make up. Starting now. The number stayed engaged and she could no longer keep her eyes open. She would call him tomorrow.
And then, more or less packed, she went to bed. She still had her mother to see before the off.