Cooee (21 page)

He pauses, and glances around with that candid and somehow vulnerable look of his, the one that always slays me.

‘Like all of you, I've thought a lot about what I'd like to bequeath to this bewitching scrap of humanity here. And I thought perhaps at first I'd focus on this element of her life: her centredness in a family, the way she nestles in the heart of her family. It's an extended family, I grant you, and my membership of it is a surprising part of it, I know. But it's a group of related people who all — whatever else they do or don't share — do share a profound and confident wish that Sophie's life will be the best life that it can possibly be, that we can possibly help to make it.

‘And so it seemed to me that it would be redundant to wish Sophie a strong and embracing family. She already has that. It encircles her and protects her; it provides her with all the support and love and sustenance she needs. And so the best gift I can give Sophie is a spirit of adventure, a spirit that will tempt her away from the safety and comfort and shelter of her family into the excitement and challenge of the unknown. A spirit that will lead her to test herself, to find how limitless her limits are, to leap into space and fly.'

Max actually goes over to Kate, and leans over her to kiss the top of Sophie's head. It's quite a theatrical thing to do, and I think a brave one. We all clap him (I am a little too enthusiastic, but really, I am so proud of him), and Kate turns to Dominic.

Dominic is unfazed, of course. He has notes — three or four small squares of paper — and holds them carefully, periodically shuffling the front one to the back as he speaks. He has prepared so well that he knows which notes are on which piece of paper.

‘So much,' he says, glancing around in a rather peremptory way, as if to make sure he has our attention. ‘So much one would like to offer to Sophie. So much one would like to have oneself, that somehow one doesn't have. I suspect we will all offer Sophie something that shines the more brightly for us because it isn't in our own possession.'

Shines the more brightly!
Ah, what an orator. What a future this kid has! How articulate, for fifteen! I recall Steve telling me (in one of our stilted antagonistic sessions during which we consult about the children) that Dominic is in the debating club at school. Even the president of it, perhaps. I must find out.

‘I am no exception,' continues Dominic. ‘I'd like Sophie to have something I've always wanted. Try as I might, it's always eluded me.' He pauses.

There is something I can't quite read about him. He's speaking so eloquently, so lucidly: he's mixing it so impressively with the adults; you'd expect him to be enjoying himself. Dominic's used to occupying the limelight in a variety of contexts and normally he adopts its sheen with aplomb. Not so today. There's something missing. He's not relishing any of this.

‘What I wish for Sophie …'

There is an awful second or two during which he seems to look into the middle distance and gulp slightly, and forget what he's saying. Just as I'm becoming nervous, however, he gains control and returns to us.

‘I'd like Sophie to believe in herself,' says Dominic, to my utter astonishment.

Was there ever a child, I think, born with greater self-belief than Dominic?

‘I'd like her to be deeply confident within herself. Not stupidly arrogant, not up herself. I'm not talking ego; I'm not talking conceit. Just a realistic and abiding self-belief. I reckon that'll see her through more than anything else.'

I am so thunderstruck by this assertion and its implications that I miss a beat or two of Kate's mild and inconsequential connecting remarks and the next thing I know Zoë has bounced up.

‘It's been a very interesting exercise,' says Zoë. ‘I'd like to thank Kate for the opportunity to think through some of the questions that her request inevitably generated. In thinking about what we would wish to give Sophie, as Dominic has so intelligently pointed out, we have all thought about what we ourselves would like to possess. And that naturally leads to a reappraisal of our own lives. Henry and I' — she ducks her head towards Henry in an acknowledgement — ‘have spent many hours discussing the matter. It's been most instructive.'

She smiles at us all, in a pleased way, as if we should be especially grateful for the chance at self-instruction.

‘What to wish for?' proceeds Zoë, clearly enjoying herself. ‘Kate didn't make it clear whether she wanted our gifts to be
qualities
, that is, an integral part of Sophie, or
conditions
, things like money, extrinsic to Sophie but available to her. So it was, for instance, open to any of us to choose great wealth, or immunity from disease. These would be good gifts. Instead, all of us so far have concentrated on qualities. This is what Henry and I decided, too, though of course I mustn't pre-empt Henry's choices in this matter.'

I suppose this is how Zoë talks when she gives a class. It's rapid, crisp, articulate, assertive. She feels no doubt, no diffidence. The outlines are clear; the colours are bright. We sit there, listening like obedient schoolchildren.

‘I think the reason we have all instinctively focused on qualities is that we implicitly acknowledge our own roles in our destinies. It would be possible to wish for Sophie, say, happiness, but happiness is something we achieve ourselves, not something that can be handed around on a plate. If Sophie is to be happy — and I certainly hope she will be — she must win that happiness herself. Nobody can give it to her.'

I'm trying not to look bored, but it's getting harder by the moment. It's just like Zoë, to turn all of this from a family celebration into a purely didactic occasion in which she can herself play a leading part and make a lot of unfounded assumptions about life and how other people live it. I recognise in her comments a barbed reference to my own circumstances, and hear her voice as it has sounded forth on other occasions, earnestly telling me that I am the master of my fate, the captain of my soul, and so on.

Zoë smiles, holding her hands clasped in front of her. She looks as if she is about to announce the winner of the under-twelve hurdles.

‘I wish Sophie a love of learning,' she says. ‘Through learning Sophie can become whatever she wishes. She can discover great opportunities and she can make the most of those opportunities. In some ways I feel this was an entirely predictable choice for me to make — exactly what you would expect of a tunnel-visioned, obstinate, old-fashioned, chalk-'n'-talk teacher.'

She laughs, slightly, as if she thinks this description of herself will seem inadequate to her audience. ‘But there it is. Sophie, I wish you a fine education, and I wish you the capacity to make the most of it.'

Zoë looks as if she will go on for a long time in exhortation and explication, but fortunately Kate breaks in with delighted exclamations. She turns then to Henry.

I am to be last, then. How am I to read this, I wonder? Does the last person speak more weightily, or am I something of a postscript to the proceedings?

All I can think of, for a few moments, as I try to concentrate on Henry, is how very much I have always disliked him. Then his words arrest this train of thought. He's been saying something about the specialness of the occasion, the bright promise of a new life, and so forth.

Then he says, in his finicky way, pronouncing all his words carefully in that over-particular manner he appears for some reason to cultivate: ‘None of this would matter, of course' — (I'm not sure what it is that wouldn't matter) — ‘if we only focus on those attributes, those characteristics, that in fact we do see as important, as significant.'

That's Henry all over. Never settle for one word if two will do the trick. Zoë always maintains he is a wonderful teacher. ‘Inspirational,' says Zoë, with bull-like force, so you don't feel like contradicting her. ‘Simply inspirational. He has them hanging on his every word.' I don't believe it, though.

‘Indeed,' says Henry, beaming around, ‘as
necessary
. However, let us not forget, in the daily striving, the competition, the conflict that constitute our lives, that other elements, other characteristics, characteristics that have nothing to do with competition, are still an integral part of our beings. In the great competitions that life sets us, enters us for, if I may put it that way, there are still other aspects of our personalities that are just as important, although they are not attuned to winning, to victory. One of these is the capacity to love.'

Shit
, I think.

‘It is this capacity to love — to love and to accept love — that stands us in such good stead in the significant relationships of our lives. Without it, we are unable to give or to receive the affection that in old-fashioned terms used to be called loving-kindness, that provides the links for all our friendships, the cement for our families, the single thing that holds us all together.'

The fact is that Henry has stolen my thunder. My gift to Sophie was going to be the capacity to love. And, in fact, the capacity to be loved, which he seems to have cottoned on to also. In the midst of my irritation and confusion, I am astounded that Henry's desiccated soul is capable of formulating these concepts. Goodness knows where he's got them from.

But what am I going to say? It's nearly my turn. While Henry rabbits on about love and its importance or significance or whatever, I'm thinking as hard as I can. I've got my little speech all prepared. I've known what I'm going to say: I haven't got notes because I don't need them; unlike Steve, I'm perfectly capable of making a simple statement without rustling my way through several sheets of A4. But the simple statement I was going to make suddenly isn't available to me any more. So far as I can tell, Henry's taken pretty much an identical line, and left me high and dry.

And how am I going to look? Everyone else has gone to a lot of trouble; everyone's thought about Kate's request and made an effort to meet it. So have I, of course, but it's not going to look like that. I, who love Sophie best of all: I'm going to be the one who looks inadequate, ill-prepared, uncaring. It's not fair.

I'm thinking so hard that I don't realise Henry has come to an end and everybody is looking at me.

‘Earth to Isabel,' says Gavin. ‘Earth to Isabel.'

I can never see why this is supposed to be such a witty thing to say, nor why people say it to me. Steve used it all the time and it drove me insane.
I am listening
, I felt like saying to him.
I'm listening, but you're not saying anything
.

‘Sorry,' I say. ‘The thing is …' The thing is, of course, that I don't want to say what the thing is. I don't want to admit that Henry and I jumped on the same tram. I'm not quite sure why this is. Well, perhaps I am. I can't stand Henry and don't wish to be bracketed with him. What I wanted for Sophie was special, and Henry's gone and spoilt it. I decide to improvise.

‘I've been sitting here, listening to you all,' I start. I look around and smile winningly. Well, I try to. I don't want any of them thinking I'm a bad grandmother. So many of them think I'm a bad mother. Wrongly, wrongly; but it's what they think.

‘And it's been fascinating, seeing what you've all chosen.'

By mistake I look at Dominic, and find his gaze on me, stern and brimming with judgement and perhaps slightly baffled, too, as if he's wondering what I've done to deserve being there at all. He's wearing that awful, fastidious, unforgiving look he gets. I turn my eyes from him.

I look around this group of people most of whom I do not love, although they are through genetic and legal ties the closest people to me in all the world. I see Max's concern, Kate's puzzlement, Zoë's irritation, Dominic's antagonism. I see Gavin's embarrassment, Steve's unease and Henry's disdain. I see Sophie, burbling away, quietly sociable, on her mother's knee.

And suddenly it comes to me. So many of these people have combined to thwart and frustrate me over the years; so many of them have militated against my happiness in different ways. I know what I want for my granddaughter, growing up amongst them.

‘I wish this for Sophie,' I say, firmly and steadily. ‘I want her to have a mind of her own. I want her to think for herself, to grow in strength and independence of character, not to be frightened to trust her own judgement, and to act as she sees fit, as she thinks best.'

Everybody looks relieved that I've actually thought of something to say and have said it, even if they don't much like the thing itself. Kate gives me one of her big gooey smiles.

‘What about you, Kate?' asks Dominic. ‘Don't you have a gift for Sophie?'

Kate gives him a gooey smile, too.

‘I do,' she says, as if this were a matter for particular congratulation.

She pauses, apparently gathering her thoughts. God knows, it shouldn't take her long.

‘I want to thank you all. Each and every one of you has given Sophie something truly worth having, something she'll be grateful to you for to the end of her days. I'm going to make a little book for her, with pictures in it, and I'm going to include all her gifts in it, all the wishes you've made for her and the presents you've given her. It will mean she can look back to this day and see how lucky she is to be at the centre of such a loving family, such a good and thoughtful and generous family.'