Astonishing Splashes of Colour (7 page)

The couple look concerned. “Where did you leave them?”

“Here, they were just here and I told them not to move—” I am going to cry. I can feel it all rising inside me. The woman puts a hand on my arm. “I’m sure they can’t be far away. Just stand here for a few seconds and look round slowly.”

The man turns to me. He’s elderly, with a neat beard. “Would that be them there? Two pretty blonde girls?” He has a kind voice. I turn to look and there they are, holding hands, still with their gloves and hats on, looking over at me.

I dash over to them. “Where have you been? I told you not to move.”

“We didn’t,” says Emily indignantly. “We stayed here all the time.”

I count the pillars from the entrance. They are by the sixth pillar and I was sure they had been by the seventh.

I have a sudden vision of myself when I was very young. I’d been told to hold my mother’s skirt so that she could have her arms free for the shopping. I remember the skirt—purple, crinkly material, with broderie anglaise along the hem and bell-like tassels hanging down from the waist. I know I didn’t let go of the skirt, but I looked up suddenly and there was a complete stranger above me. I don’t know how I reacted. I suppose I screamed. This is one of my very few memories of my mother.

I turn to thank the couple, but they’ve gone. I bend down to Emily, who looks frightened. “I’m sorry,” I say as gently as I can. “I must have made a mistake. Let’s go and find our seats.”

Our seats are right at the top of the theatre on the third level. I hold on to Rosie and Emily very tightly as we edge our way along the row, trying not to look down.

“What are these?” says Rosie when we’ve sat down.

“Opera glasses. Look at the programme.”

“What are they for?”

“They’re binoculars so you can see the people on the stage more easily.”

I hope there won’t be too much high flying, because we’re sitting so far up that we won’t see it. The top half of the stage is completely out of sight.

Emily is struggling with the opera glasses. “I can’t get them out.”

“You need 20p.”

“Have you got 20p, Kitty?”

“And me,” says Rosie.

I open my purse and find that I only have one 20p piece. I give it to Emily and Rosie’s face crumples, ready to burst out in jealousy.

“Excuse me,” I say to the man sitting next to Rosie. “I don’t suppose you have a 20p piece for my change?”

He obligingly finds one and hands it over amiably.

They settle down with their opera glasses, standing up and leaning over to see the audience sitting below us.

“Sit down,” I say, “otherwise the people behind us won’t be able to see.”

They sit back for two seconds and then jump up again. I sigh, but know they will sit still when it starts.

The lights dim.

“Sit down,” I say. “It’s going to start now.”

“Kitty,” says Rosie urgently. “I want to go to the toilet.”

Our trip to the toilets has not made us popular. Everyone has to stand to let us through, so the people behind can’t see either. Nobody says anything, but I can feel their hostility. I can’t see their irritation, because I’m too embarrassed to look at their faces, but I know it’s there. I whisper “sorry” as I stumble over their shoes, guiding the children in front of me, trying to persuade Rosie to move faster. We finally settle back in our seats and I breathe slowly and deeply, forcing myself to sit very still. I wait for the sweat of embarrassment to cool and dry.

“Is that a real dog?” whispers Emily almost immediately after we get back.

I nod.

“How do they get the dog to do what they want?”

I try to ignore her.

“Kitty!” she whispers more loudly.

“Shh.” I put a finger to my lips and shake my head.

“How?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I whisper into her ear.

She nods and sits back, and for a while we have some peace.

“They’re flying!” Rosie announces with delight.

“Shh.”

“How do they do that?” asks Emily.

“Shh,” I say.

“Kitty! How do they do that?”

“Magic,” I whisper.

“There’s no such thing as magic.” Her whisper is gradually turning into a normal speaking voice.

“Shh.”

People are shushing all around us. I close my eyes and try to work out which people we are irritating most. But the shh is a whisper without a mouth, a manifestation of annoyance without a source. It comes from nowhere and everywhere and circles us, and there’s no doubt about where it’s aimed.

For a time, everyone quiets down. Then Emily starts to use the opera glasses. Rosie sees her and tries to do the same. She slips off her seat, which tilts backwards with a thump, and stands looking at the stage. Neither girl is talking—they are becoming interested in the play—and I allow myself to relax very carefully.

I feel a nudge from behind. I assume someone has moved a foot, so I ignore it.

“Excuse me.”

I turn round and a man is bending towards me. “Do you think your daughter could sit back? My wife can’t see.”

“Rosie,” I whisper. “Sit down. They can’t see from behind.”

“Shh.”

The first act continues and the girls start to concentrate better. I knew they were old enough to enjoy it. Why shouldn’t they whisper a bit? Everyone knows that children never sit still. Surely it’s the people round us who are at fault. Why have they come without children to watch a children’s play? Perhaps they’re lost boys themselves who have never grown up and need
to keep reliving their childhood, thinking they’ll discover what’s missing from their lives. They could try to be more tolerant and find pleasure in watching children enjoy themselves. I’d like to suggest this to them in the interval, but I know I won’t, because I can understand the reasons they’ll give for being here and wanting to listen in peace. We’re grown-ups. We come here to remind ourselves of this and remember our lost youth. We’ve paid good money for these seats and we’d like to enjoy the play. There are matinées for young children. The other children who come to this performance are older and well behaved, used to coming to the theatre.

They’re right, I think sadly. I shouldn’t have brought them. I only see Emily and Rosie once or twice a week and it’s not enough. How do I know when they’re old enough? How can you tell?

A heavy weight settles on me as I see the future stretching ahead of me, with no clear way of finding out how children develop and change. I’ve lost it all. There’s nowhere for me to go.

“Kitty!” Rosie is at my ear. “What’s the fairy called?”

“Tinker Bell.”

“Shh.”

As the lights come on in the interval, I turn round and apologize to everyone in earshot. They nod and smile politely and say they don’t mind at all, but someone must be lying. Shushing doesn’t create itself. There are no invisible machines under the seats, producing the first furious shh that then feeds off itself and multiplies. There has to be a human source. I can’t guess from their faces or their manner who was most annoyed. They all seem pleasant.

We go down to the entrance and wait in a long queue for ice creams. Emily is very excited about Peter Pan, and Rosie is excited about the ice creams.

“What can we have, Kitty?”

“Whatever you want.”

“But what is there?”

I show them the pictures of what is available. Emily wants a Cornetto and Rosie wants an orange ice-lolly. When we reach the counter, they only have tubs.

“Strawberry, chocolate or plain?” says the woman.

“What flavour do you want?” I ask the girls.

“Orange,” says Rosie.

“I want a Cornetto,” says Emily.

“Two chocolate, please,” I say.

I can’t believe how expensive they are.

“I want an ice-lolly,” says Rosie, starting to cry. She is looking flushed and tired, and for a moment I wonder if I should give up and take them home. But then I remember that they’d enjoyed the first act once they’d quieted down. I was right to bring them. I open the tub and scoop out some chocolate ice cream.

“Open wide,” I say and pop it into Rosie’s mouth quickly, before she has time to change her mind. The bell rings for the end of the interval.

“Quick,” I say. “Does anyone want to go to the toilet?”

“No,” says Rosie and swallows her mouthful.

“Yes, please,” says Emily. “What shall I do with my tub?”

“I’ll hold it while you go.”

Emily is much easier than Rosie. She can go in the toilet on her own and flush it afterwards. She comes out and washes her hands slowly in the pink washbasins. “Nice toilets,” she says to me as we go back.

We reach our seats just in time and I can almost hear everybody sigh in disappointment when they see us returning. I settle the girls down, one on each side, eating their ice cream. They are silent for some time and I begin to relax.

“Kitty! I’ve spilt my ice cream.”

I rummage in my bag for a tissue. Somebody pokes me in the shoulder. I turn round and the woman from behind hands me a wodge of tissues. “Thank you,” I whisper, and manage to wipe most of the ice cream from Rosie’s front.

We relax into our seats and I think of the people sitting around us. They probably have their own children, much older than Emily and Rosie, and know what to expect of them. I’ll never know what they know, even with Emily and Rosie. I’ll always overestimate or underestimate their development, because I’m not there every day, giving them breakfast, talking to them, listening to them, reading to them every night. I only know children in books, having adventures, discovering things, thinking things, but because they don’t breathe or talk they can never be real. It’s not the same as living with the same children and watching them grow.

I think about the lost boys and realize that I’m one of them, not the people round me. I grew up without a mother. I’m lost and nobody can guide me back to the right place, because there’s nobody who can give me what I most want.

“Kitty,” hisses Emily. “Rosie’s gone to sleep.”

I take the ice cream out of Rosie’s relaxed hands, wipe her face gently and lower her head on to my lap. I eat her ice cream slowly and resist the urge to cover her with kisses.

We don’t realize that we haven’t got Rosie’s coat until we’re at the bus stop, the bus already approaching.

“Kitty!” Emily tugs at my sleeve. Rosie is lying on my shoulder, still half asleep, and my arms are aching with her weight.

“Wait till we get on the bus.”

“Rosie’s coat!”

“Can you hold it until we’re on the bus?” The change is ready in my hand.

“We haven’t got Rosie’s coat. It’s in the theatre.”

My right foot is on the step and I look at Emily irritably. “Of course we’ve got it—it’s under my arm.”

“No it isn’t.”

She’s right. We haven’t got it. I pause in the middle of the step and try to think.

“What’s it going to be?” says the driver. “On or off?”

I look at him. I am strongly tempted to get on anyway. “Sorry,” I say. “We’ve lost a coat.”

He smiles, quite friendly. “The next bus is in thirty minutes.”

“Thanks,” I say.

We trudge back. It’s ten o’clock and the theatre might be locked. I can’t think about Lesley getting home before us. Ten o’clock isn’t late. We can be home by eleven o’clock. I’ve known Lesley to be later than that.