Meeting the English (8 page)

Juliet was thinking: Struan did have a nice way with the wheelchair. Gentlemanly. And another good thing was that no one, seeing him with the wheelchair, could mistake him for anything other than a wheelchair-pusher. Anyone watching, anyone from School, would know that he was the carer and she, the slim, dark-haired figure in white, was the Daughter, care-worn but lovely. She was pleased with her new hair-clips, and it was nice walking along in the hot swollen evening, the sky a yellow colour, like abroad.

*   *   *

Over her gin, Myfanwy Prys surveyed the kitchen.
Her
kitchen, still: a succulent little place with its country accoutrements. Linda had made some inroads, added the fancy hand-built cupboard, painted the walls that sticky pink, but Shirin had done nothing to the place other than leave some odd seeds in the larder and let a pestle and mortar camp prettily on the dresser. Rubbish, just left about, the way Shirin herself was always lounging on tables, cross-legged, pointlessly, ostentatiously, young.

The dresser was Myfanwy's, spotted by Myfanwy in Portobello market and stripped and polished up by Myfanwy on the very cusp of the trend for stripping and polishing – but it had been too heavy to move, at the divorce. She wondered, once again, if it could be sawed down and brought to Finchley Road, and concluded, as usual, that it could not.

What she could do, though, was insist that it was cleaned up and brought to the fore when the agents came round for the valuing – for Myfanwy had already determined that the American Literary Giant was not going to get away with a paltry first offer. It would probably be worth hinting that the dresser was an Original Feature, made for the house, circa 1710.

*   *   *

‘My friend Celia went into that hospital just down there,' said, Juliet, chummily, as she and Struan effort-fully arrived at Jack Straw's Castle. ‘The Royal Free. For her anorexia, but in the end she ate enough to do all her exams. It's pioneering for anorexia, though, that hospital. Pioneering is a funny word, isn't it? Like covered wagons, setting out over the yellow desert of Seal? Because she went such a colour you know, when she was ill? Like you know, that marzipan layer when you do the rat in biology? Did you do the rat? I thought that was really weird because you know, that subcutaneous stuff was fat and Seal didn't have any, but she still went yellow.'

‘I never knew England was so hot,' said Struan, contemplating the bouncing strips of grey road and green heat haze, ‘I really didnae.'

‘You keep saying that,' said Juliet.

‘I keep thinking it,' said Struan, testily, ‘and you keep talking about your pal.'

‘Yes, of course I do,' said Juliet. ‘She's my friend. Don't you talk about your pals?'

‘No,' said Struan, ‘I don't, actually.'

‘Why's that?' said Juliet. ‘Don't you have any?'

Struan gazed out at the amazing amount of traffic. They had to cross the road and there was no gap. He thought about Archie, his best friend in primary school. They had never quarrelled or anything like that: but they hadn't managed to stay close, either. The week his dad died, Archie had asked him to go orienteering.

‘Not pals like that,' he said. Who would ring him up at midnight, the way Juliet did Celia?

‘Why not?' said Juliet.

‘I just dinnae,' said Struan. ‘Mebbe it's a lassie's thing,' and he started out determinedly through the traffic, one huge hand held out to oncoming cars. Juliet trotted after him.

‘My brother Jake,' she said as they reached the other side, ‘has so many friends, you can hardly speak to him. He says his friends are like his family.'

‘That's daft,' said Struan, firmly. ‘How can friends be your family?' He started to march towards the gate to the Heath, rather fast.

Juliet trailed behind. She was used to having this particular cliché affirmed. ‘Well,' she said, to Struan's sweaty back, ‘because he likes them. He likes his friends much more than he likes me. Though I hate him, of course. I like Celia much better. Even if she has been a bit weird lately.'

‘It's not about liking, though,' said Struan, ‘family.' He pictured his gran in her kitchen, sitting at the table with her cup of tea. He wished he was back there, and she was making an omelette and tipping potatoes from the pressure-cooker. ‘I mean,' he went on, ‘Celia can go off any time. Family can't.'

‘If Celia died,' said Juliet, ‘I'd be just as sad as if it was someone in my family.'

‘Has anyone in your family died, then?' asked Struan.

‘No,' said Juliet. ‘But.'

‘Then you shouldnae speculate about such things,' said Struan, severely, and then, more kindly: ‘Anyway, why would Celia die?' Celia had come round for tea, or rather Diet Coke, the other night. A silent wee lassie, and on the skinny side, that was for sure.

‘Of her anorexia,' said Juliet. ‘You saw her. Do you think she might die?'

‘I wouldn't know,' said Struan, ‘I worked in an old folks' home, no a hospital.'

‘You must have had anorexics in school, though,' said Juliet. ‘In my school, half the girls have anorexia, it's the thing to do. Loads of them were more anorexic than Seal, she was kind of Junior League. I mean, I'd definitely be anorexic, if I could manage it.'

‘Not in my school,' said Struan, with finality. ‘Not in Cuik.' The business of getting the wheelchair round the lychgate to the Heath was enough to make you weep, enough to make you consider leaving the damn thing there, in the netting cage, and returning for Phillip in the night, when it got a bit cooler.

*   *   *

In fact, thought Myfanwy, wandering up the narrow kitchen stair with her gin, the best plan for Yewtree Row, the way to get the very best offer, enough to put Phil in a Home and restart her property business and set Jake up in some pleasant little flat and send Juliet to Tutors for the Terminally Thick; the way to do
that,
whether from the Transatlantic Literary Giant or other buyer, or buyers – come to think of it, Myfanwy fancied an auction – would be to have the kitchen/cellar reshaped as a little service flat with separate entrance, and make over the study into a large family room/kitchen with top-quality hand-made units and dining table in the bay overlooking the garden.

Some sort of formal terrace could then be constructed outside the French windows, and the little room at the front, the one currently used for nothing but telly, the one which Myfanwy privately thought of as the parlour, could become a little formal dining room perhaps painted in a bold shade. It was crying out for panelling! One could do all sorts of clever things these days, with MDF and paint effects. Myfanwy had a new book,
Your Georgian House Restored!,
and was dying to do stippling. She'd even bought a couple of sea sponges, cheap, in Boots, in case the opportunity arose.

*   *   *

Struan had told Juliet a few things about Cuik now, and she was beginning to understand, though the eighties were a poor era for learning geography, and Juliet a poorer student, that it was not a village up a mountain, and it did not have a castle or even a nearby loch, was nowhere near Balmoral, and that no one wore tartan there. ‘That's the Highlands,' Struan kept saying, ‘Cuik's the Lowlands. It's in the Central Belt. Have you no heard of the Proclaimers?'

Struan had a Central Belt himself, thought Juliet, a striped, woven cotton one with a snake buckle, tenuously holding up the terrible trousers. She was going to ask if the belt came from Cuik, and if everyone in the Central Belt wore central belts, because on the whole Struan appreciated her whimsy, and had even consented to watch
Dallas
with her one afternoon, but he didn't seem in his best mood this evening: his great grey jaw set, shoving the chair through the lychgate with such a shove, it nearly upset it.

*   *   *

Myfanwy wouldn't mention stippling to Shirin, of course. This was going to be a business meeting: clear and simple. Myfanwy was not going to be so silly as to underestimate Shirin's business capacity, not when Shirin had moseyed in so successfully on poor old Phillip! Cosying up to him at a party when Linda was off seeing to her dying mother! One could almost feel sorry for Linda, the silly old cow. And as for getting Phillip to marry her – that was truly a coup. Myfanwy had barely accomplished that herself, back in the sixties, when everyone got married. Linda never got so much as a ring, never mind a settlement.

So, first she would point out what Shirin must have noticed, really: that Phillip's illness could only end one way, and that a nursing home was much the best place for him until that happened. Then, on to the deal. The sale of the house would entail a loss to Shirin, that was true. Shirin would lose accommodation and a studio for Phillip's lifetime, Myfanwy could see that; and she could offer an excellent solution: a delightful railwayman's cottage in Cricklewood, rent free, for the duration. She'd brought the estate agent's pack with her, and a few colour photos.

*   *   *

Struan and Juliet reached a big clear bit of heath covered with young people on rugs, all bathed in the thick dusty light. Juliet was reminded of the
La Grande Jatte,
and having to copy all the dots for Art. She was going to ask Struan if he had to do that too, but reflected that he probably didn't, in Cuik.

Struan positioned the wheelchair carefully in the shade, and clicked the brake. Then he flung himself to the ground. ‘Scuse me,' he said, ‘I have to, I just have to.' And he threw off his sweaty shoes and socks. His huge greenish feet spread on the parched grass. Juliet sat down, upwind of the feet.

‘You'll get athlete's foot,' she said primly, ‘if you keep wearing trainers in hot weather.' Struan started to unfasten Phillip's hand-made leather shoes, peel the cashmere socks from the hard white feet. Juliet could hardly bear the sight.

‘Why are you doing that?' she said.

‘Why do you think?' said Struan. ‘It's hot, so he needs his socks off.'

‘How do you know?' said Juliet.

‘Because that's what I want,' said Struan, ‘and he's a human being too.' Juliet was struck by this notion.

‘What else does he need?' she asked.

‘Maybe to see you,' said Struan. He was always doing this, trying to get Juliet in Phillip's sightline, which he was beginning to suspect was only on one side, the left. ‘Why don't you come round here?' Juliet wrinkled her nose.

‘You don't know that, though, Struan, do you? That he wants to see me? The thing is, the thing you don't realize, is that my dad wasn't all that keen on seeing me when he was well so I don't really specially see why he'd want to see me now.'

‘For Christ sake,' said Struan, ‘because you're his daughter, that's why. Just be normal, why can't you?'

Juliet was miffed. This was the first time Struan had spoken to her as her brother always did: as if she was thick. ‘Well,' she said, ‘actually, you may not have noticed but we're not all that normal in our family. We're Bohemian. We just don't fit into the ordinary rules.'

‘Right,' said Struan, folding one sock carefully into the other, and tucking it into Phillip's shoe.

‘So maybe,' said Juliet superbly, ‘just maybe, you shouldn't boss.'

Struan staggered to his feet and sat down heavily on the end of the bench.

‘I wasn't bossing,' he said, ‘I was making a suggestion.'

‘Yeah,' said Juliet, ‘for the zillionth time. You keep telling me to do stuff for Dad. Why?' Struan looked out at all the brightly dressed English people out there in the light and tried to remember the answer to Juliet's question, which was a long way behind him, in a grey corridor, in Cuik.

‘People bossed me, Juliet,' he said, after a while. ‘My dad couldnae speak for six months, and the last two of those he couldnae open his eyes, and I wasnae exactly sure if he could hear me, but what the doctor said to me was, you've got to take a punt on it, you've got to talk to him all the same. He pushed me to talk to him, and I did, and now, now I'm really pleased I did it. Do you see what I'm saying?' Juliet looked at Struan again, knees wide, huge knobbly feet in the dust.

‘Did he get better?' she said, suspiciously.

Struan smiled. ‘No,' he said. ‘No. He's dead, my dad. He had multiple sclerosis.'

‘Really?' said Juliet.

‘Uh huh,' said Struan. ‘Sorry. Did I no mention that before?'

Juliet didn't know anyone dead, except her guinea pigs, and Granny Davies.

‘Is that why you're so old?' she asked.

‘Am I old?' said Struan, rubbing his toes in the dust.

‘Totally,' said Juliet.

‘Aye,' said Struan. ‘Well, mebbe. Mebbe that's why.'

*   *   *

But she should just mention to Shirin, thought Myfanwy, contemplating the sad wreck of the study, its hospital bed and wrinkled rugs, its unfortunate medical odour – she should just point out, without, obviously, going into any detail about paint effects, just very simply
indicate
to Shirin, who could hardly be expected to be
au fait
with such things, that the current layout of Yewtree was really the equivalent of lighting the fire with five-pound notes.

That even for the simplest, quickest, private sale, just going straight for the Literary Giant, they should get Myfanwy's little men in to tidy up a few things. The sash windows, for example, were absolutely flaking – doing those could hardly be seen as controversial. It needn't cost Shirin! The money could come from the new House Account, the one she was going to set up tomorrow when she saw Giles. Giles was trustee, and would have to be signatory – but he wouldn't mind signing a few little cheques for her in advance, or to cash perhaps. Not when this sale was his idea in the first place. She'd specify uncrossed cheques – so handy for cash, and all the little payments inevitable in a renovation, and which were so awkward just now with the Cottages unsold. The account should be pleasantly full: Phil had stopped paying Baker Street after Juliet failed her mocks.