All the Hopeful Lovers (4 page)

On the train to London to meet her sister Diana, Laura Broad allows herself the luxury of idle thought. Somehow at home there’s always something waiting to be done. This short hour of the train journey she can give to herself.

Except she doesn’t think of herself, she thinks of her children. Both Jack and Carrie are unhappy, and she doesn’t know why. You think when your children get big that caring for them will be easier, but instead it gets much harder. When they’re little and in distress they come crying to you, they tell you about their bad dreams and their broken friendships. It’s easy then to take them in your arms and love them, giving them with kisses and caresses the comfort they need. What is a mother if she can’t comfort her children? The impulse is so primitive, so overwhelming. But neither Jack nor Carrie seek her comfort now. When she tries to find out what’s making them unhappy they get angry with her and ask to be left alone. So she leaves them alone. But that doesn’t lessen the ache in her.

I’d rather be unhappy myself.

Not some self-dramatizing pose: simply the truth. If she could save her children from unhappiness by taking their pain onto herself she would gladly do it. When you’re hurt yourself you can do things to mitigate the pain. When your children are hurt, all you can do is suffer.

Laura thinks then of Diana’s children, who’ve grown up to be such self-possessed young Londoners. Isla, now twenty-two, making money as a model, without of course taking it seriously as a career. Max at Oxford, but already interning at one of the big international banks, Credit Suisse, is it? Jack and Carrie so clumsy and provincial by comparison. Lonely, surly, struggling to find their place in the world. But so gallant, both of them. So precious and so beautiful.

Live your own lives, my darlings. I won’t burden you with the need to be happy for my sake. But when the clouds lift, I’ll be here waiting for you.

Diana is already in the Hayward lobby, impatiently glancing from the exhibition programme in her hands to the people drifting in and out of the gallery. Laura sees her before she is seen: her older sister, her lifelong companion, the person with the power to annoy her most in the world. You’d think when you both pass the age of fifty some kind of truce could be declared, some plateau of maturity achieved. But as soon as she sets eyes on Diana Laura is six years old again, and Diana is nine, and Diana holds all the cards.

‘Where have you been, Laura? I’ve been here for ever.’

Laura compliments Diana on her coat, clearly a new acquisition: purple wool, fitted to the waist, then flared. It looks chic on Diana’s bird-like frame. But her face has grown thinner. Laura can feel her unhappiness like a shiver in the air.

‘Prada,’ Diana says. ‘Bicester Village, forty per cent off.’ She offers no comment on Laura’s own appearance. ‘Come along, then. Let’s do the rooms.’

She nods to a passing couple, murmuring to Laura, ‘You must know him, he owns the Wolseley.’ Laura knows nobody. Diana is in her element as metropolitan guide to her country sister. Presumably this is why Laura has been summoned to meet her in an art gallery. Diana appreciates the avant-garde much more in the company of one who is, artistically speaking, bringing up the rear.

The show is called BREAK OUT, and features installations by three artists. The first installation is a complete recreated prison cell, built out of real concrete blocks with real iron doors and real bars in the window. The front wall has been ripped open, leaving a big jagged hole. Through this hole can be seen a realistic corpse hanging by a twist of sheet from the window bars. It’s called
Break Out
.

Diana casts a rapid eye over the scene.

‘Interesting,’ she says.

Laura stares at the artwork and feels her usual sense of bewilderment. How does one judge something like this? It’s disturbing to look at, which is presumably part of the point. The hole in the wall should have offered the prisoner a way out, but instead he has hanged himself. Is that interesting?

But already Diana is moving on.

The second room contains a sculpture in plastic of a life-size pregnant woman. Through the translucent skin of her distended belly can be seen a grotesque foetus, an armoured creature with long clawed fingers. The claws pierce the plastic skin, causing a dribble of water to come seeping out. The work is called
Break Water
.

‘Interesting,’ says Diana.

Laura hates it. It’s ugly and frightening.

‘I don’t get it,’ she says.

‘Male violence,’ explains Diana curtly. ‘Maternal complicity.’

‘It’s horrible,’ says Laura.

‘It’s meant to be.’

What can you say to that?

They move on briskly to the third artist. To Laura’s relief there is no horror here. A wooden table raised on a plinth has been laid with blue-striped china, a milk bottle, and all the other elements of what seems to be a 1960s breakfast. A box of Kellogg’s Cornflakes stands beside a rack of toast and a jar of Robinson’s Golden Shred. The work is called
Break Fast
.

‘Interesting,’ says Diana.

‘But it’s just a breakfast table,’ says Laura.

‘Nostalgic. Iconic.’

As before, she shows no desire to linger. This has always been Diana’s way in art galleries. Register, categorize, move on. She views art like a general inspecting troops: the essence of the response is contained in the act of being present. Her sharp mind moves rapidly, she’s easily bored. But she does not tire.

‘Time for a cup of tea. There’s a café outside.’

As they head for the café Diana chides Laura for her naive responses.

‘Really, Laura, you must expose yourself to the modern world a bit more. You never would have come if I hadn’t made you, would you?’

‘No,’ says Laura. ‘I don’t get it. Why does it have to be so nasty?’

‘What do you want art to be? Hay-wains and views of the Grand Canal?’

As they cross the lobby they’re accosted by a young woman with a microphone. She smiles at Laura as if she knows her.

‘Could you spare a minute?’

Laura becomes aware that behind the young woman hovers a man with a large video camera on his shoulder. The young woman is slim, intelligent-looking, forceful in a quiet way.

‘We’re making a film about Joe Nola,’ she says. ‘What did you make of his work?’

‘Which one was Joe Nola?’ says Laura.

‘The breakfast table.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Laura can think of nothing to say. She can feel Diana fretting beside her. ‘I don’t think I understood it.’

‘Laura, honestly,’ says Diana. The camera moves to her. She addresses the lens directly. ‘It made me aware of all we’ve lost,’ she says fluently. ‘The innocence of childhood. The structured family. Shared mealtimes.’

The young woman has not moved the microphone away from Laura.

‘Don’t do that, Jim,’ she murmurs.

The camera returns.

‘So you didn’t understand it,’ she says. ‘But what did it make you feel?’

‘Golly,’ says Laura. ‘Nothing, really. I mean, how is that art? It’s just a breakfast table. Can anything be art?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Look, this isn’t my thing, really. I only came because my sister insisted. I’ve never understood modern art. Ask Diana. She understands it.’

The young woman is undeterred.

‘Actually, Joe Nola is interested in reaching people just like you,’ she says. ‘His work isn’t a puzzle to be decrypted. It’s simply a process of pointing. He’s saying, Look at something ordinary, and see it as something extraordinary. So your response is always the right response. There is no wrong response.’

‘Right,’ says Laura.

‘So all you have to do is say what thoughts went through your mind when you looked at it.’

What thoughts did go through my mind? Feelings of inadequacy. Embarrassment.

Then she remembers something else.

‘I think I thought about Golden Shred. I used to collect the golliwogs. Then they stopped doing them because they were racist. But all I thought was how sweet they were. And I wanted the golliwog badge, of course.’

‘Perfect.’ The director smiles. She looks genuinely pleased. ‘Joe will love that. Thank you very much. Okay, Jim. That’s it for today.’

Diana and Laura go on into the café.

‘Golliwogs!’ says Diana. ‘What drivel you talk, Laura.’

‘I didn’t know what else to say.’

‘She was looking for a mug to say something moronic and you obliged. That’s what they do on TV today. Make fools of people.’

Laura doesn’t disagree aloud, but inside herself she thinks Diana is wrong. In the past she would have said so and they would have bickered, perhaps even fought. But Diana is muted, her scornful dismissal of Laura’s point of view has no animus to it. She speaks out of long habit, almost unaware of what she’s saying.

Diana gets an espresso, Laura an Earl Grey. They sit by the window looking out onto the concrete walkway and the blank back of the Queen Elizabeth Hall.

‘I’m worried about Roddy,’ says Diana.

So now at last they have come to it, the real purpose of their meeting. Diana has never in all her life directly asked Laura for help, or admitted that she needs it. But there have been times when she’s thrown out a casual remark at some inappropriate moment, using words that can be disowned later when the crisis is past.

The little crisis is about her husband Roddy.

‘I think he’s depressed,’ she says. ‘Does Henry get depressed?’

‘Yes, sometimes.’

‘Does he stop talking?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘What do you do when he does that?’

‘Nothing, really. I don’t mind if he needs time alone.’

‘Not alone. Just not talking.’

‘You mean, like, at dinner?’

‘At dinner. At night. Over breakfast. All the time.’

Diana takes care not to meet her eyes. Laura is shocked.

‘Roddy’s not talking all the time?’

‘Well, he says the odd word. But that’s about it.’

‘Why? Have you asked him?’

‘Of course I’ve asked him. He doesn’t answer.’

‘What, he just sits there?’

‘Well, he might laugh, or give the odd grunt.’

Laura wants to laugh. The image is so comical, Roddy gazing back at Diana and parrying her every spoken thrust with silence. But Diana’s eyes reveal real panic. She’s blinking rapidly, pressing her lips tight together. Nothing to laugh at here.

‘How long’s this been going on?’

‘Almost a week now. I don’t really know what to do. I’m sure it’s something to do with what’s happening at his work. It’s an absolute nightmare, this crash. All the banks have lost fortunes. I suppose he’s having some sort of breakdown. I’ve asked him to see a doctor, but he … Well, he won’t talk about it.’

‘Is he like this with everyone?’

‘He must talk at work. But at home he won’t even answer the phone. The thing is, Laura, he doesn’t look unhappy. I mean, he eats and sleeps and everything, just like before. And he has this little smile on his face, like – oh God, it’s a horrible smile. I hate it.’

‘Like he’s gone somewhere else in his head?’

‘Yes.’ Diana looks at Laura in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘The thing is, he might talk to you.’

‘Me?’

‘Roddy’s always had a soft spot for you.’ The words are coming out faster now. ‘I wondered if you’d come up one evening and talk to him, try to find out what’s going on. He just might tell you. I can’t help worrying that he’s been sacked and hasn’t dared to tell me. You know, sitting with his briefcase in the park all day. But why wouldn’t he tell me? I always thought we were rather good as a team. It’s not as if all I care about is the money.’

Diana has never come as close as this to admitting weakness. Laura is touched.

‘Of course I’ll come. I expect I’ll be no use, but I’ll give it a try.’

‘Not on a special visit to talk to Roddy, of course. He’d smell a rat at once. But you and Henry could come to dinner. Then after dinner I’ll work it so you have some time with Roddy alone.’

‘Yes, all right. If the dates work for Henry.’

‘It’s got to be tomorrow night, really.’

‘Tomorrow? That may be a problem.’

Diana reaches out one hand and clasps Laura’s wrist.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘We’re having the Lymans to dinner. Come too. You must. I can’t go on like this.’

‘I’ll talk to Henry.’

‘If Henry can’t come, come alone. Just come.’

What can she say? This is a cry from the heart.

‘All right.’

Only then does Diana let her go. And at once, Laura’s agreement secured, she reverts to type. The window that opened briefly onto her inner panic has closed again.

‘That TV crew,’ she says. ‘They never got you to sign a release form. They can’t use what you said without your permission.’