You Don't Have to be Good (8 page)

The traffic was stop-start and the meadows by Fen Causeway shimmered in a pollution haze. Katharine fixed her mind on slipping through the spaces caused by the hesitations of less
driven
drivers. The man in front of her was dithering, not driving, and the lights up ahead were on green for precisely seven seconds. Seven seconds was enough to let two cars through, one if drivers were barely conscious, as the one in front appeared to be. This, if she was honest, was why it was easier for the children to be at Bea’s house after school. She did not want them negotiating the traffic and then returning to an empty house, and while she could have got an au pair for the autumn, there didn’t seem much point given that they knew they were moving to London just as soon as her job was sorted out. Now, in fact. Almost immediately.

She glanced at Bea then revved the engine and flashed her lights at the car in front. Yes, it would have been simpler to have done what Richard suggested in the first place and sent the children to one of the private schools in the city, but at the time, it was Richard’s infuriating assumption that that was what they
would
do that enraged her. Richard and his family, with their benign wealth and bemused detachment from the rest of humanity, behaved as if education was an inoculation against unpleasantness. Katharine pressed her palm to the horn and wondered whether a gentle shunt with her cow bars on the bumper of the car in front was, strictly speaking, illegal. Yes, it was Richard’s fault they were at the community college in the first place. If he had not been so smug, so blinkered— What in God’s name was the man in front doing now? Not a three-point turn surely? She blew her horn again. If Richard had not blithely assumed that Laura and Adrian would go private, she might not have kicked up such a fuss, because, after all,
she
hadn’t gone to a private school. No, she had gained a place at the local grammar school, unlike poor old Bea who had gone to the secondary modern. Katharine shook her head and took a quick look at Bea. She was just sitting there, saying nothing, face closed. School had not done Bea any favours, that was for sure. Perhaps, in some ridiculous way – Katharine softened at the thought –
perhaps
sending the children to the school near Bea had been an act of contrition, an acknowledgement, an attempt— A heavy clunk brought her up short. Her wing mirror had been knocked askew as a stream of students on bicycles weaved their way in and out of the stationary cars. ‘Hey!’ Katharine shouted through the closed window.

The traffic began to move, was moving quite fast now, and the bloody clutch was sticking so that when she finally did get the car into gear, a long space had opened up ahead of her. She accelerated into second, punishing the engine. With any luck they would make the lights. Yes, she had hammered her point home to Richard, given him a lecture about equality of opportunity and social division (really, sometimes she suspected he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about) and all of a sudden he’d bloody well gone and given in. She’d won. ‘Damn it!’ Katharine braked hard and squealed to a halt inches from the car in front.

She swept the hair from her face and found the whole of her upper body was as rigid as an iron pike, the sort that kept the tourists out of the college wine cellars – her back, her neck, her shoulders, her jaw were painfully fused and unmoving. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she yelled at the driver in front. Bea looked bewildered and alarmed, damn her. She would have to tell Bea that this was their last week in Cambridge. It wouldn’t go down well; now was not a good time. Bea was doing her whipped-puppy look, her poor-me look, her it’s-all-right-for-you look. There was no putting it off. Katharine put the hand brake on and took a deep breath.

‘Oh, by the way, we’ve got some news.’

Bea looked straight ahead of her as she listened, heard the words flow past her in an unstoppable stream. After months of thinking about it, talking about it, delay and second thoughts, places had been found for both children at schools in London that would challenge Adrian and push Laura. Amazingly, they could start next week even though term had already begun, and so, what with places being like gold dust, and what with one thing and another, especially the nonsense going on with Laura, they’d decided that this would be best. A bit of a rush, but really, what with Richard’s job already being in London and her consultant job at the London hospital being more or less a foregone conclusion, (hopefully, fingers crossed), there was nothing keeping them in Cambridge any longer. She would manage the London–Cambridge commute somehow until the London job came through, and so the sooner they moved the better for everyone, otherwise Christmas would be upon them and they’d probably all have nervous breakdowns if they left it till then, and believe it or not, crazily enough, that meant this weekend. Well, Friday actually. Mad, isn’t it?

Bea looked at her hands and said nothing. She thought of them, numb and raw with cold, holding Katharine’s smaller one in sodden wool mittens as she pulled her whining sister up the hill home from school; the happy-sad pain of them against the red bars of the electric fire. She thought of her hands against Katharine’s, fingers clenched tight so she could feel the bones; Katharine’s knee on her belly; the sick ache and helpless struggle for breath; Katharine’s face inches from her own and the hissed threats not to tell. She thought of the giggling, soaring release when one well-aimed kick or bite sent Katharine reeling, screaming and coiling back. Their mother at the door, face like an anvil, words an icy stream from her mouth. And she thought of the shock and shame of it, the burning, stinging pain of it when her mother’s hurtling hand landed on her face. Hate and rage. Slap-bang. Branded.

Katharine looked at Bea. Looked and drove, looked and talked, adding details, making it ordinary, trying to soften the blow. She asked whether Bea thought Mum would like a day up in London on her birthday. Tea at the Savoy maybe. What was she talking about? thought Bea. They had agreed it was going to be a meal at Oyster Row. Wanda was going to help. Lance was coming. Mum could sleep in the spare room and Lance could sleep on the couch in Frank’s room. Frank would have to sleep upstairs again with her. Bea looked at the satnav on the dashboard and at Katharine’s wedding ring as she held the steering wheel. She tried to think of some words to say, something to calm Katharine’s deluge about mortgages and travel times and careers and schools and how they had tried their best to do the right thing but that when push came to shove they were spending a fortune on tutors and Claudia at Richard’s office had a brother who was admissions tutor at Durham and he said they never even looked at candidates who didn’t get at least ten A*s at GCSE and when all was said and done, they couldn’t rely on the school to make sure that happened, well, Adrian would probably be all right other than being bored to death, but Laura . . . they’d never forgive themselves if Laura ended up pushing paperclips in an office for the rest of her life.

Katharine turned the car into the shade-dappled road, where children played on bicycles and glossy dogs trotted smiling on leads. The gravel crunched as she swung into the driveway of a caramel-bricked, double-fronted house and brought the car to a halt. Bea thought, Why would anyone want to leave all this? Then she thought, What’s she brought me home with her for? She looked at Katharine. Katharine looked at Bea.

‘Damn,’ said Katharine. ‘Damn and damn it.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Bea undid her seatbelt and tried to open the door. It didn’t matter, and anyway, she was pleased to put some space between herself and Frank. Perhaps she would go to the cinema after all.

‘I wasn’t thinking,’ said Katharine.

‘Let me out, I can walk.’

‘No, you can’t possibly.’

‘I’d like to, really,’ said Bea and started to laugh.

She bent down to untangle the strap of her laptop case, which had twined itself round one foot. She opened it, stuffed the papers from one of the two carrier bags in and forced the zip shut. Heat consumed her head and she thought that if she had to continue laughing one moment longer her skull would split.

Katharine saw her sister beside her, the house in front of them, thought of the champagne chilling in the fridge, the lists to be made and phone calls to be planned. It was going to be such a busy evening and the traffic had seemed heavier then ever, really, Cambridge was worse than London when it came to rush hour. Her throat felt tight and a band of tension had begun to grip her forehead. If she got a migraine now, it would be a disaster. It would take an age to drive Bea home but Richard would disapprove if she let her walk. Too bad. She undid her seatbelt. Here she was, just like work, trapped as usual in an interminable loop where doing the right thing proved nigh on impossible. And here was Bea laughing and rummaging around with her coat and things like some old bag lady. Well, they were here now. The children were tired and there were things to do. She pressed at her forehead with her hand to keep the pain at bay, then rolled her head and closed her eyes with a sigh. It was just too bad, she thought with a guilty sense of release as she swallowed and allowed selfishness to throttle decency.

Bea had stopped laughing and was looking at her.

‘What,
walk
?’ said Katharine.

‘Honestly, it’s fine.’ Bea struggled with the door handle. They were locked in. Safety feature. Automatic.

‘What, all the way?’ Katharine stared at the wiring on the front of the house. She must remember to notify the utilities of their move date.

‘Well, yes.’

‘Round the ring road?’ Claudia could do all the phone calls though. Thank God for Richard’s PA. It was invaluable having one of those. Like a wife.

‘No, along the river.’

Katharine looked at her watch. Her mobile began to ring. The ringing increased in volume. Bea longed for her own phone, which she had lost. It had Adrian’s voice as the ringtone, Adrian’s voice saying, ‘Ans-wer the phone. Ans-wer
the phone
!’ in a rising tone of barely controlled hysteria. That hadn’t gone down terribly well at work during her one-to-one Targets and Objectives meeting with the head of Human Resources a few weeks ago. Katharine’s phone continued to ring.

‘I feel so bad about messing up your last afternoon with the children, Bea . . .’ She gestured at Laura on the back seat who had earphones in and her eyes closed. ‘But everything is such a bloody rush suddenly.’ She released the central locking and Bea opened her door.

‘Really, it’s all right.’ Bea climbed down on to the gravel. Christ, she hadn’t even got them a present. Tomorrow. She would nip into town at lunchtime and send it round in a cab.

‘Oh God, it’s the estate agent. I’d better take this!’ shouted Katharine. She waved the door keys over her shoulder. ‘Adrian! Keys! Bea, I’ll ring you later. Sure you’re okay?’

Bea hesitated between the house and the car as the children trooped up to the front door. ‘Hey!’ she said.

They turned and looked at her and she held out her arms. Adrian loped towards her and let himself be enveloped by her embrace.

‘Maybe see you at Granny’s birthday,’ she said into his hair.

‘Do you think she’d like fireworks?’

‘Definitely.’

She let him go and looked at Laura, who was feigning indifference by the sundial. Her face was pale and blotched. Spots threatened beneath the skin of her forehead and her brow was furrowed. Bea smiled and took a step towards her. Laura frowned, pulled out one earpiece and reached for Bea in a sudden clumsy movement. She dropped her head on to Bea’s shoulder and leant against her, arms hanging passively down by her sides. Bea hugged her soft form and kissed the side of her head. She smelt of shampoo and chewing gum.

‘Goodbye, my beautiful girl,’ she said. The tears rose up in her then and she concentrated on not sobbing. Laura brought her arms up and gave her aunt a fierce squeeze. Hair slides and clips pressed painfully into Bea’s cheek.

Laura pulled away and looked at the ground, her mouth tugged downwards like a clown.

Katharine’s voice sailed out of the car. ‘Absolutely not. Absolutely out of the question.’

‘Say goodbye to your mum for me.’

Laura spluttered a laugh. Bea smiled and turned away.

F
RANK SAT
back on his heels and admired Wanda’s bottom. She lay face down on the couch before him, naked apart from her blouse. He had the letter from Lancashire Arts in one hand and a glass of Scotch in the other. Joy flooded his body, chased by a riptide of fear. Joy that his literary career might be about to be resurrected; fear that, like his early success, this moment in the sun would be just that, a moment. He looked again at the letter. There was to be a performance of his play by the Burnley Amateur Dramatic Association as part of the council’s Winter Arts Retrospective. Lancashire Arts would be delighted if he would attend the first night and take part in a short question-and-answer session on stage beforehand. Wanda was impressed.

‘You must be very clever,’ she said, raising herself up on her elbows and flicking through the pages of
The Seagull in the Cherry Orchard
. He had written it in his final year at university, and his parents had spent their holiday money getting five hundred copies printed and bound. It was a gesture that Frank had appreciated, although the cover had always irked him. An enormous seagull, sketched by Lance, had been pasted on top of a cherry tree (found in his mother’s gardening catalogue). Frank had, not very kindly, explained that the title was not literal; the play was not
about
a seagull in a cherry orchard, it was an exploration of the Chekhovian understanding of all our sorrow – that neither love nor work will rescue us. This comment was lost on his parents because love had indeed rescued them – for the time being.

Wanda said, ‘What is the seagull sitting on?’

Frank raised his eyes to heaven and took a slug of Scotch. He felt the spasm in his back relax a little and asked whether she would like a signed copy. He had four hundred and seventy of them in a box under the couch. Wanda was delighted and tried to turn over but Frank told her to stay as she was because, in all honesty, he found the front of a naked woman rather – what? Offputting? Intimidating?
Demanding
was the word he was looking for. Roughly he took the copy of the play from her, rested it on her bottom, and began to write an inscription. ‘For Wanda,’ he wrote, then hesitated. Thank you for cleaning my house? Don’t be ridiculous. My Masha? No, she’d probably never read
Three Sisters
. The pearl in my oyster? He was getting sentimental now. Hastily he signed his name, ‘Frank Pamplin’, and handed it back to her.