Cuckoo (43 page)

She lurched to her feet, swept the charts off the beside table, heard them sigh and rustle to the floor. Her body felt as if someone had wound it tighter, tighter, like a fire-hose on a reel. ‘Let Magda go,' she prayed, the entire fire brigade clanking through her head, in the startled blaring silence.

She fell back into bed, turned over, away from charts and Clomid towards the second bed, and the dark shape called her husband. The long-case clock was booming through the hall, echoed by fourteen faint and muffled chimes. One A. M. All the clocks were back again, on duty, carving night and day into manageable pieces, reminding her that Time ruled in the universe, and Charles in Richmond Green. How could she have even thought to silence them? More foolish than Canute! If she chose to live in the bank-vault of her husband's bounty, then she must accept his rule, his clocks.

Half a lifetime later, fifteen throats struck two. Sleep was an impostor, like herself. She crept out to the bathroom, and sat on the cold white shoulder of the bath, peering at the moon. Was it Hungary's moon, as well? Was Piroska staring at it, even now, through the grandma's greasy curtains, weeping for a lost daughter, or praying to some moon-goddess that she would never be sent back?

Frances drifted to the window. Thin steel knives of moonlight cut across the floor-tiles, flickered on her feet. She realized, suddenly, and almost with astonishment, that there was no decision to be made. All her tossing, frantic agonizing had been completely purposeless. It was Piroska herself who must and would decide. If mother opened heart and home to daughter, then she, too, would be freed. But, if Piroska hesitated, if there were the slightest frown or obstacle in Budapest, then Magda must stay with them in Richmond Green. However much she longed for the child's departure, that was her basic duty, and she would follow it. No more reason to lie awake. It was simple now – Piroska held the final card. Softly, she closed the bathroom door, and climbed back into bed. The sheets stretched clammy arms around her neck.

‘Let her be happy,' she whispered, to the darkness.

Charles flung out a hand and snorted in his sleep.

When she woke, the silence was still there, but pale now, like sour milk. She looked across at Charles. The blurred black shape he had been all night had changed into cold white sheets, sheets turned neatly back, pillows smooth and plumped.

She dragged herself out of bed and leaned over the banisters. ‘Charles?' she called.

Why hadn't he woken her, to cook his eggs and bacon, before his early meeting in the City? She'd laid the table late last night, left the grapefruit ready in the fridge. She trailed downstairs, pulling on her housecoat. Her head was clearer now, her period pain reduced to a nagging ache. The kitchen was unscathed. Charles hadn't even made a cup of tea. She wondered, suddenly, if he'd bothered to eat or drink at all while she'd been at Ned's. It was almost beneath his dignity to boil a kettle, or poach an egg.

The kettle sat beside the telephone. In the interests of efficiency, Charles had fitted phone extensions in almost every room. The kitchen one was red, as a slight concession to frivolity. She picked up the receiver. Charles should be beside her now, making that vital phone call to Piroska – red-hot Piroska, who would pale to white and innocent, if only she would have her daughter back. Frances dialled the first digit of Charles' private office number, then banged the receiver down again. She'd ring from the study, where the phone was grey and businesslike. There was nothing frivolous about this call.

The ringing tone sounded querulous, impatient.

‘Charles?'

‘Mr Parry Jones is in a meeting.' The voice was pedigree barbed wire. ‘Who's speaking, please? Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs Parry Jones, I didn't recognize you.' Barbed wire with icing sugar sprinkled on the top. ‘I'll see if he can speak to you. Though it is a little tricky, I'm afraid. They're right in the middle of a breakfast session.'

‘Tell him it's urgent, please.'

‘Yes? Well? What is it?' Charles was on the line now – grudging and abrupt.

‘Charles, what happened? Why didn't you wake me? I've only just got up. I couldn't understand it when I went downstairs and …'

‘For God's sake, Frances, what do you want? My secretary told me it was urgent.'

‘Well, it is urgent, Charles. We've got to ring Piroska. I must know what's happening, before Magda gets up. I'll phone her myself, if necessary. I'd rather do that, than have to let Magda down this evening, when she's …'

‘I've already phoned.'

‘Already? But when, Charles? It's only half-past eight.'

‘So? I thought it would be safer from the office. No chance of Magda overhearing then, just in case there was a hitch.'

‘And was there?' The study held its breath, the blotter sprouting doodlebugs beneath her trembling pen.

‘No. Everything's fine.'

‘You mean Piroska's glad about it? She wants Magda back?'

‘Yes. Delighted.'

‘Are you sure, Charles?'

‘What d' you mean, am I sure? I've just spoken to her haven't I?'

‘I'm sorry, it's just that you sound a bit – well – flat. Did you check on all the problems? I mean, are you certain they've got room for her?'

‘Well, they are a little cramped, but they'll manage.' She could hear him tapping a pen against a desk and an electric typewriter stuttering in the background. ‘There's an attic they can use, apparently.'

‘An attic! We can't send Magda to an attic. She's not a suitcase, or a piece of lumber.'

‘Don't be absurd!' The pen tapped faster. ‘Magda won't be sleeping there. It simply means they've got a bit more room, if they find they need to expand. Anyway, sooner or later, they'll have the whole flat to themselves, which is quite a stroke of luck. Flats are scarce in Budapest. A lot of the bigger ones are still held by the State. Now, look here, Frances, you've dragged me out of a very important meeting …'

‘Wait, darling, wait! This is urgent, too. I'm still a bit worried about all the formalities. You know, visas and permits – all that sort of thing. I mean, it's a Communist country, isn't it? They might not let Magda in, unless she …'

‘No problem. My secretary's looking into it right now. It's much easier apparently than it was ten years ago. It should only take a matter of days to get her in. They can complete the formalities once she's over there.'

‘Days, Charles? But surely you don't want …?'

‘I'm sorry, Frances, but I simply can't talk any longer. They're holding up the meeting for me, as it is. I've got two bank managers in there, and the President of American Continental.'

‘Please, Charles. Just one more minute. I must get things clear, before I see Magda. Look, what about Miklos? Is he still there?'

‘I'm not sure.'

‘Not sure! But couldn't you have …?'

His ‘goodbye' was like a steel bolt rammed home in her face. She sat at the desk, staring at the messy blotter. Well, she'd got what she wanted, hadn't she? Magda off her hands, room in the flat (just about), a delighted mother, even a secretary's capable help with the visa. So why did she feel so joyless?

It was probably just Charles' irritation rubbing off on her. He always sounded strained at work, hated interruptions. When he got home that evening, he'd fill in all the details. The main thing was that Piroska wanted Magda. She was free!

She plodded up the stairs to change her Tampax. It still seemed strange to have a period, when she'd planned on no more tampons for at least nine months. She stared at the fierce, dark blood trickling into the lavatory bowl. Why were physical things so messy and barbaric? Babies themselves were squalid, primitive – as
she
had been at Ned's, and at the party …

No, she mustn't think of that. If only she could stick a tampon in her brain, to plug it up, stop it analyzing. Better to keep busy. She marched back to the kitchen. The kettle had boiled and turned itself off. Even kettles were well-trained in the Parry Jones household. She'd take Magda tea in bed – not just tea, a full-scale breakfast. She wanted, suddenly, to spoil the kid, shower her with treats and affection, now that she was leaving. The trouble was, Magda didn't eat breakfast, just grabbed a piece of toast, or stuffed a bar of chocolate in her pocket. She didn't like bacon, she wouldn't touch eggs. She was always finicky and critical at meals. All she ever wanted was trans-Atlantic junk-food – hamburgers and ice cream, pecan pie and Pepsi. You couldn't serve up triple-scoop Banana Boat for breakfast.

Perhaps she'd make real French brioches, or a plaited loaf with poppy seeds on top. But yeast needed time to rise, and it would be lunchtime before she got it in the oven. She thumbed through her cookery books. What did you give a runaway for breakfast, a refugee, a hostage?

Pancakes. That was it! Pancakes with maple syrup and thick whipped cream on top – a real American breakfast. She sieved the flour in a basin, cracked eggs, added milk, humming as she beat the mixture smooth. It was only now that relief and elation were beginning to surface, like the froth on the batter. She was ashamed of that elation, ought to stifle and disown it; yet to have the house to themselves again, to remove that sullen, slouching presence, stop the bumpy seesawing between guilt and resentment, pity and anger … It was the only way she could survive, the only hope of saving her relationship with Charles. They were equal now. Both had lost their children, both been unfaithful and unreasonable, and both preferred to rip out a messy, blemished page, and begin again on a clean one. She didn't even want to be his equal. Safer to be his child, his only child, loved and spoiled, with no rivals, no siblings; protected from the harsh world outside, from having to earn her own living, or struggle for her own identity.

She beat and beat the batter, till her arm ached, refused to use the painless electric mixer. She must put everything she had into those pancakes, even the strength of an elbow, the discomfort in a wrist. She tipped an inch of the frothing batter into the pan. The syrup was already heating with cinnamon and butter; the cream whipped stiff with sugar. For a few more days, there would still be another child, but not a rival. Now Magda was indisputably departing, she was no longer any threat – only a cropped and branded orphan, a displaced person, temporarily squatting in a foreign land. There wasn't any love, but there was pity, guilt, regret. And, so long as the kid was with them, there must be white flags and olive branches, penitence and peace.

She knocked at Magda's door with the loaded breakfast tray. ‘Magda?'

‘Go away! I'm busy.'

‘But I've brought your breakfast up …'

‘Don't want any breakfast.'

Frances put the tray down and opened the door a crack. All she could see was the spiky outline of Magda's butchered head. ‘But it's pancakes, darling …' She took a step inside.

‘Yuk!'

‘I thought you'd like them. They eat them in America for breakfast.' Magda was kneeling on the floor, on a pile of jumbled clothes.

‘So? This is Richmond, isn't it?'

‘Yes, of course, but …'

All the dressing-table drawers were open and Magda was scooping out her underclothes and flinging them on the pile. ‘I don't like pancakes.'

‘You haven't tried them. They've got cream and maple syrup on, and …'

‘Double yuk!'

She mustn't get annoyed. No point starting all those rows again. If Magda didn't want pancakes, well, let her go without. She banged the tray down on the dressing-table. The child hadn't even glanced at it, had ignored the mug of chocolate, the frosted glass of orange juice.

‘Charles has rung your mother.'

‘Oh?' The hands stopped scrabbling in the drawers, the head looked up. The girl was far too proud to say anything directly, but she must be hoping desperately that there had been no change of plan.

‘It's all right, you can go. Piroska's longing to have you back.'

The hunched shoulders capsized with relief, the knuckles unclenched. So she and Magda were both relieved. Couldn't they build a bridge out of that one common feeling?

‘Look, Magda, you don't have to rush off immediately, you know. Of course, I realize you're longing to see your mother, but … why not stay with us for a while, and let your hair grow?'

‘No.'

‘Wouldn't you rather Piroska saw you with your hair a little prettier? I could take you to Evansky's and ask Geoffrey to tidy it up a bit …'

‘No.'

‘All right. It's just that – well – I didn't want you to think you weren't welcome. I mean, Charles and I are happy to have you here, just as long as you want to stay.' All lies. She had nothing else to offer the kid but lies. ‘You don't have to go at all, unless you're absolutely sure about it. You do understand that, don't you?'

Magda was sweeping all her possessions off the desk and dumping them in a plastic bag. ‘I want to leave today.'

‘Today, Magda? But that's impossible.'

‘Tomorrow, then.'

Relief was swirling round the room, swelling up like yeast. Frances could almost see herself stripping off the sheets, ripping down the posters. Relief like that was wicked and unnatural. She had failed as a mother, even as a human. No wonder Viv was so contemptuous. Magda would be better off without her.

‘It's not quite as easy as that, darling. You have to have a passport and a permit. Charles is looking into it, but it takes time. And then there's your ticket and all your stuff at school. Mother Perpetua phoned, you know – and Mother Gregory. Yesterday morning. They didn't sound too pleased.'

‘Why not? They should be bloody glad to get rid of me.'

‘No one's glad to be rid of you, Magda.' Shameful how glibly the lies tripped out, easy honeyed lies.