Cuckoo (21 page)

Charles cut a neat square from his fried bread and matched it with a square of egg. He was already in the Bahamas, astounding the court-room, impressing the judge. His note-pad was propped against the coffee pot and he was smiling into it, jotting down inspired rejoinders. Last night had never existed as far as he was concerned. Her panic, her outburst, had dwindled to nothing in the face of a court case. A tenth of his income came from this Nassau company, and two-thirds of it from Oppenheimer. Heinrich was gold-dust, and she only a handful of loose change, in comparison.

‘Got everything?' Ridiculous, of course he had. Charles had a check-list taped inside his head. He stood at the door, trying not to look too eager to be gone. He gave her his Bahamas kiss, longer and more ardent than the London peck, but slightly shorter than the full-scale Antipodean embrace.

‘Try to relax, darling. Enjoy yourself. Play a bit of golf.'

‘Yes.' She polished up her long-distance smile and clamped it on her face. How could he talk about relaxing when hate was crouching in the house.

‘Take care.'

‘Yes, and you.'

‘I'll phone.'

‘Yes.'

She closed the door. It was drizzling outside. Egg had congealed on the plates and the smell of bacon fat seeped into the hall.

‘Shocking weather!' reported Mrs Eady, making a self-righteous hurricane with her plastic pack-a-mac.

‘I'm afraid I can't be disturbed this morning. I've got a fashion job to finish.'

Mrs Eady pulled off a galosh and replaced it with a brown canvas beach shoe. ‘Never did understand what good fashion did to nobody.'

Frances knew what she meant. Who cared whether skirts were longer, or bosoms back? But she had decided to get down to work. It wasn't an important job, only a paltry piece of advertising she had taken on as a favour to an old client, whose normal copywriter was coping with divorce and influenza, both at once. But at least it would return her to the iron rock of discipline and professionalism, at a time when things were crumbling like sand. She tried to sweep her problems off the desk. Magda must stay at Viv's, not keep creeping back into the in-tray, making ugly blots all over her clean page. She had locked the studio door, so that Mrs Eady wouldn't turn the lipstick into a National Disaster. Reggie had agreed to strip the wallpaper, and emulsion the walls in plain blue. That only left the hate …

She opened her folder with its collection of spring suits. It was summer outside, winter in her head, and spring in the advertising business. She read over the jaunty phrases she had written so glibly just a week ago. ‘Trap your big-game hunter in these jungly camouflage colours', ‘Ambitious little hat with a going-places feather', ‘Bosoms blossom out'. Nonsense. Whipped-cream, rose-tinted, chocolate-coated nonsense. Reality was harsher. Reality was flowery walls blighted by red lipstick. Red for hate and danger, passion and Piroska. It was almost as if Piroska herself had written on the walls, etching her love for Charles into the very fabric of the house. Love and hate, both four-letter words, which socked you in the jaw and broke families apart.

Maybe it had broken Magda, too. How did it feel smashing precious pictures, and ripping the petals off roses? Only last week Magda had picked a bunch of McGredys Yellow for Viv, wrapping them in tissue paper from the laundry box and cradling them like glass. For Viv, though – not for her. She had only the hate.

She picked up her pen again and tried to write a headline for a wedding suit. ‘Mother of the bride steals the show …' ‘Bells are ringing for this …' ‘I hate you.' She stared at the three black words polluting the pad. They had blotted out every word in the whole vocabulary of fashion. She couldn't work, had to talk to someone, to help to drown them out. But who? Magda had fled to Viv's, so she could hardly use Viv as an ally. And even if she did, Viv would be on Magda's side. Viv always took the ‘crime is a broken home' line, and Magda would fit it to perfection. She and Charles would be the criminals, in Viv's eyes. Charles was phoning Viv, in any case. He'd promised to fit it in, between his duty-free brandy and passport control.

Her other friends were useless. How could she confide in them, when she'd fobbed them off so far, with convenient fictions. She couldn't turn a vague foreign cousin into an instant delinquent. They'd never understand, in any case. Someone else's pretty daughter sounded a delight, not a disaster – until you were actually in the ring with her, parrying every blow, or knocked senseless in a corner. Even if she told them, it would be all a charade. ‘Little spot of bother with our guest … messed her room about a bit … yes, difficult age, isn't it?' The obligatory light touch and forced little laugh, feelings bandaged up, tourniquet on the tears.

There was no one she could turn to. Only stainless-steel acquaintances, neck-deep in their own problems, or their careers, or their children. Only empty formulae for standard situations.

She had been doodling on her pad, the blank page a tangle of flowers, feathers, numbers, squares, fighting and overlapping with each other. Only the numbers had arranged themselves neatly – into a group of three and then a group of four. A phone number. And she had no one to phone.

No one? She picked up the receiver and held it in her hand. She grimaced – no wonder Magda never learned, when even teachers couldn't speak the Queen's English. ‘It's Frances Parry Jones here. So sorry to bother you, but I wondered if …'

‘Franny! Fantastic! Let's go down to Brighton.'

‘Please, Ned, I …'

‘Say it again. Your Neds absolutely ravish me! It's a magnificent day. Let's …'

‘It's raining.'

‘Ah, here it is, yes. But I've heard the weather forecast. They're already in bikinis in Brighton, collapsing from sunstroke from Dartmouth to Dover. If you want to dodge the clouds, my love, there's nothing for it – we'll have to head south.'

‘Ned, do be sensible. I've got work to do and I only rang to …'

‘How's Magda?' The doodles were submerging the spring suits – umbrellas, sunshades, starfish, waves.

‘Fine.' Puppies, cornflowers, lipstick, hate. ‘In fact I wanted to ask you about …'

‘Ask me in person. You'll get much better answers. Meet you at Victoria Station as soon as you can get there. You bring the bikinis and I'll bring the jam butties.'

‘Ned, if you can't be serious, I'd better phone you later.' She removed the telephone from the desk to a side table, and spread out her work sheets again. She stared at a picture of a pink suit with suede trimmings and frilled shirt. ‘Frills and thrills, think pink, suede upgrades …' Why shouldn't she escape? Charles had. She couldn't work properly, in any case. The day stretched ahead like an endless piece of tangled string. The words had returned again. Every time she shut her eyes, she saw them bleeding down the walls … ‘I hate you.' Terrifying words, fraught with fury and danger, hot with Magda's misery. Part of her wanted almost to beat the brat, for ruining her room and rejecting all her attempts at a relationship, and part of her felt guilty and petty and despicable for not being able to love even a puppy, let alone a child. She couldn't endure the battle raging inside her own head. She needed an ally or an arbitrator, someone to step inside the lines and win her peace with honour. And why shouldn ‘t that somebody be Ned? The very fact that she hardly knew him was a distinct advantage. If she confided in any member of their own sacred circle, it would compromise Charles and embarrass Magda. But Ned was outside that circle. He'd also had more experience. Working in that enormous comprehensive, he was bound to have had to deal with other Magdas. They needn't go to Brighton – that was quite unnecessary. But she could meet him in Richmond, or even at Victoria – somewhere safe and neutral – and merely ask his advice. Magda was clearly in need of some professional help, and Ned would know the procedures for teenage counselling or child guidance. Teachers always did.

She picked up the phone again. ‘Look, Ned, I'm sorry I was sharp. I would like to talk to you, if it's no bother – just for half an hour or so. I've got a problem.'

Ned sounded so close, it was as if he had squeezed down the phone and catapulted into the room. ‘Right, Brighton it is! We'll talk on the train and then collapse on the beach. I'll get the tickets, shall I? Meet you on Platform 16 about an hour from now.'

Frances frowned. ‘I'd really rather not …'

Mrs Eady popped her head round the door. ‘Will you be wanting coffee, same as usual?' She made the simplest question sound like her own funeral service. Even the hoover turned tragic when she used it, droning in mingled pain and protest. Frances gestured her away – she'd missed all that Ned was saying. She moved the phone to the other hand and started again.

‘I'm sorry, Ned, but it seems a bit pointless for us to rush off to the sea. I mean, we haven't planned it, and I still don't even know you well …'

The phone almost rocketed out of her hand. ‘Christ, Frances! You really are the most joyless, rule-ridden female I've ever met. Don't you allow yourself the slightest grain of pleasure, unless it's been weighed out and allotted to you on your ration book? Can't we just go to Brighton because it's
there
? I'm not planning to rape you or murder you, or wall you up in the Pavilion. You phoned me in the first place, for heaven's sake! It's a wonder you've got any friends at all, if you can't even catch a train without written permission from your husband or guardian. One day you'll be dead, my love, and you still won't have ventured a toe outside your impregnable fortress on Richmond Green. OK, I'm sorry, I've gone too far. Bugger Brighton! I'm sorry I even suggested it. I'll meet you in the Wimpy Bar in Richmond.'

A squall of rain spattered at the windows, nagging her like Ned. The room was always sombre, with its mahogany furniture and leather-bound books, but today it was even darker, grey clouds weighing down the morning. Now she'd offended all of them – Charles, Magda, Viv, Bunty – even Ned. He was right. She was a fossil and a curio, nailed down under glass with a label and a price tag.

Yet it did seem risky and ridiculous to jaunt off to the seaside with one man, when she was married to another. Just because Charles had behaved outrageously, was that any reason why she should change her own standards? Other women might plan sordid escapades, just to get their own back, but it wasn't easy to get even with a man like Charles. They had revenge and rebellion enough with Magda. On the other hand, Ned could be a genuine help with the child. She had only planned to see him, to help talk out the problems, and surely it was no more wicked to do it in Brighton over lunch, than in Richmond over coffee? If some solution resulted from their meeting, then it was Charles who would benefit.

‘Ned?'

‘Yes?'

‘All right.'

‘What do you mean ‘‘all right''?'

‘I will come to Brighton. You're right – it's not the end of the world, either geographically or in any other sense.'

She almost heard the grin on the other end of the telephone. ‘That's better. But are you sure, my love? I don't want to drag you kicking and screaming from your fastness …'

‘Yes, I'm sure.' She wasn't. But, then, everything was confused and contradictory at the moment. Last night, she'd shouted and panicked and wished Charles a thousand miles away, but in the morning, when he'd gone that far and further, he seemed indispensable and precious. He and his daughter might be turning her from Minton china into barbed wire, but her life was still grafted on to his, like a frail scion on a strong branch, and without him she would droop and wither. It was humiliating to be so dependent on him, but she appeared to have no choice. He was her sap and root-stock, and no other man, no Ned, could be as strong. Her marriage was sacred, despite Magda. There was still the Charles who was civilized, considerate, and cultivated – loyal and faithful even. After all, the Magda business was only a relic from the past. Was it fair to keep on blaming him for something which had happened sixteen years ago? It was simpler to snip Charles in two. Magda's Charles she could turf out and send away with no compunction, as she had done last night, but her own Charles she still needed as her rock and her lodestar. That left Magda – fatherless. The second Charles would somehow have to deal with her, not as a daddy, but as a distant relative and a strict disciplinarian – the only way the three of them could live together. And in the meantime, Magda must be sent to cool off. With a little help from Ned, they could choose somewhere bracing and remote, with friends her own age and a safe set of rules.

‘We'll be able to have a serious talk in Brighton, won't we, Ned? I need your advice. That's why I rang.'

‘'Course. That's first priority. Didn't you know I'm Brighton's answer to Evelyn Home?'

He was. They got down to Magda almost as soon as the train heaved out of Victoria. It wasn't easy. Ned had met her with a huge scarlet beach-ball and a hug to match, a pile of peanut-butter sandwiches, a party pack of Mars bars and forty pigeons in tow whom he was teasing with the crusts.

‘Ned, you're not
allowed
to feed the pigeons. There's a notice up.'

‘I'm not feeding them, my darling, I'm preaching to them. It's my Francis of Assisi thing. Though I must admit they seem more interested in their grub than in their God. Christ – you look ravishing! Let's not go anywhere. I'll just put you on a pedestal and stare at you for ever and a day.'

People were already staring, especially when he bounced the beach-ball all the way down Platform 16. She tried to walk a step behind. The station was probably swarming with accountants, half of whom were Charles' bosom friends. She could imagine the phone call that evening.

‘Hello, darling. How's Nassau?'