The Locked Attic, page 9
Janet looked up, an expression of mock surprise on her face. ‘What’s that? You mean you care what’s happening, now?’
His lip curled into an expression of disdain. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he muttered.
‘Sorry, my mistake,’ Janet continued in her slightly false-sounding voice. ‘It’s just that from the way you spoke earlier, it sounded as though you didn’t think the huge explosion nearby was much of a concern.’ She had climbed in pitch with every few words until she sounded more than a little rattled. Catching me staring, she immediately relaxed her face into a calmer, more neutral expression and moved her eyes back to her lap. Her husband, on the other hand, turned his attention to me.
‘So, Stephanie, if we’re all supposed to be staying in our houses, how come you’re here?’
This was very typical of Richard – to be all silent or quietly polite, and then suddenly come out with something blunt and borderline rude.
‘I just… didn’t want to be alone today,’ I said, knowing full well this probably made me sound like I was after pity and sympathy, but I didn’t really care. If pity was the only thing stopping them chucking me out, I had no problem using it. Richard seemed ill at ease with this answer, and a pained expression flickered across his rather gaunt-looking face.
‘No, of course not. What a terrible thing… that… How awful it must have been.’ His words were jerky, like a CD that’s started to skip, and his mouth twisted uncomfortably as he tried to find the words.
I didn’t bail him out. I didn’t offer him any ‘thank you’s or ‘It’s OK’s. I just let him squirm, unsure of how to treat the widowed, grieving woman in front of him. The cereal Mimi brought me was steadily getting softer, soaking up the milk. I took a mouthful of it and the dull crunches of the flakes sounded like earthquakes in the silent room.
‘You all finished with your lecture?’ Janet asked.
‘Evidently,’ Richard replied in a low monotone.
‘Young people these days, learning online… video seminars and stuff,’ Janet said. ‘It’s all so different to when I was a student.’ I saw her eyes flick up to me, as if expecting a prompt for something, or at least a sign that I was listening. I gave her neither and took another mouthful of frosted flakes. ‘I was at Exeter,’ she added, apparently deciding it was best to just pretend I’d asked the question.
‘Bristol,’ I replied.
Janet, who had just opened a new magazine, paused, clearly a little thrown by the word. ‘What? Sorry?’
‘Bristol. I was at Bristol. You said you were at Exeter, so I thought I’d say where I went. I went to Bristol.’
Janet nodded slowly. ‘Oh, I see. Right, yes. As in UWE? The University of the West of England?’
Over our years of living here, this sort of snobbery from Janet had become rather funny. Similar to her faux social-justice-warrior stuff (or, perhaps, in contradiction to it), Janet was fond of making sweeping statements and condescending presumptions about those she suspected belonged to a different social class than herself. At another time, I’d have wound her up a bit – told her that no, I actually just went to a nail bar in Bristol city centre that handed out BTECs to anyone with a pulse. But I wasn’t in the mood, so I just opted for the plain truth. ‘No, not UWE, although I hear it’s also a terrific uni. But I went to the University of Bristol.’
Although I was fairly sure Janet knew I’d been to uni and had a degree – I must have spoken about it at some point – there was a fair chance I may not have specified which institution I’d been to. It probably seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to presume the new ‘young mother’ at the school gates with the Somerset accent went to a former polytechnic or did an Open University course whilst working as a checkout girl. And it riled me that those two potentials could be seen as less than or not as worthy as her days swanning around Exeter.
‘I studied English Lit,’ I added, which made Janet’s eyes grow wider still.
‘Well,’ she said, turning her gaze back to the magazine, trying to recover herself. ‘I’m sure that was… convenient. Being relatively close to you. You’re from Somerset originally, aren’t you?’
This Janet definitely knew. ‘Yes. Bridgwater.’
‘I went to Bridgwater once,’ Richard said, unenthusiastically, but Janet didn’t seem interested.
‘Mimi did look at Bristol, but it didn’t really offer her the flexibility she wanted, and I think she’d rather prefer Cambridge, or Guildhall.’
Richard let out something between a laugh and a cough, which Janet ignored.
‘Doesn’t she want to go to the university where her father teaches?’ I asked, strongly suspecting neither Mimi nor Janet would want anything of the kind.
‘Oh no, definitely not,’ Janet said, looking horrified.
‘Or Canterbury Christ Church?’ I offered, guessing the reaction this would invoke.
‘What? No! She wants to study music, as in proper music with performance, not entertainment journalism.’ She laughed a little, both at her own joke and, it seemed, how preposterous the whole suggestion was anyway.
‘Well, I believe they do have a music department,’ I thought I’d add, both to keep some sense of balance and to wind her up a little further.
‘Jonathan, however…’ she cut across me ‘… is less of a dead cert. He needs to pull his socks up when it comes to his grades. But he’s got a bit more time. But you know what teenage boys are like…’ She shook her head, tutting, and this time didn’t seem to twig how insensitive her words were.
I stood up. All this talk about her offspring and their futures was making me feel faint again and I’d become dimly aware of how full my bladder was feeling since I’d drunk the tea and the glass of water. ‘I need to use the loo,’ I explained.
‘Out in the hallway and turn right,’ Janet said, not looking up from her magazine-rifling.
I followed her instructions and came to a little downstairs bathroom. I’d been in it once or twice before when we’d infrequently attended the odd Christmas drinks or garden party. It was decorated in a tasteful plain cream with a framed photo of a seaside view at dusk on the wall. I wondered if it was somewhere the family had actually visited, or if it was one of those stock images pre-framed that Janet had added to her basket when she was drifting round John Lewis. A small jar candle had been placed on the ledge above the taps – Jo Malone’s Pomegranate Noir – and although it wasn’t burning it still gave off a rich, heavily perfumed aroma, adding to my already dizzy state.
As I sat down, I saw to my left that there was a little pile of magazines, similar to the ones Janet was pretending to sort through in the lounge. I picked some of them up. A lot of recipes for ‘Beetroot and Guava Cake’ and articles about how ‘Pistachios will be the next big thing’. In between a copy of a John Lewis catalogue and an old Sunday Times weekend supplement, I discovered something else: a small pile of A4 paper. It looked fresh, newly printed, although from a quick glance I saw that the pages were Christmas themed, with a border of holly and berries around the side. Then I realised what they were: copies of the Franklins’ Christmas Round Robin. Either Janet felt her guests would welcome the opportunity to brush up on the family’s adventures over the previous calendar year or – and perhaps more likely – spare sheets of it had inadvertently got collected together with the rest of the downstairs loo reading material. The paper felt expensive, of course. Janet wouldn’t settle for any recycled rubbish. For all her empty chatter about saving the planet and climate change, she didn’t really alter her own life to suit her much-voiced principles. She still drove around in one of those huge polar-bear-killing cars.
I perused the opening paragraph of the round robin, remembering it well, having received it myself.
Upon our second Christmas in this town we had been promoted to the Franklins’ list of involuntary subscribers to this excruciating yearly ritual. I had encountered round robins once before in my life – my mum had a friend from her schooldays who had ‘come up in the world’ and always sent her one. But nothing could have prepared me for a round robin from the House of Franklin.
I could practically recite them from memory, or at least make an educated guess at what each one would contain when it arrived.
One year Pete and I, helped along with a bottle of Christmassy Baileys, had spent the evening sitting at the kitchen table making our own annotations on the first one we had received whilst screaming with laughter. It was probably a cruel waste of time; time I could have spent wrapping up more of Danny’s stocking-filler presents individually rather than grouping them into twos and threes to save time. But it was fun. Poking fun at posh people was a laugh, as if by doing so we were avoiding the uncomfortable truth: we were gradually becoming the people that we mocked. The house, the car, the private school – all paid for by Pete, who could never completely hide his own roots. But we had always considered ourselves different from the likes of Janet and the other parents at the school.
We were from the real world.
We were more unconventional.
We were special.
Or, maybe, we were just hypocrites.
I brushed this uneasy notion aside and began to the read the whole thing properly.
Merry Christmas, all!
* * *
My goodness what a year it has been! Not only have we had amazing adventures, we all feel and agree that we have developed and grown as people.
* * *
Both Jemima and Jonathan have learned valuable lessons in time management and academic discipline whilst remembering to enjoy their youth whilst they still have it. Jemima is currently studying for her first year of A Levels and is loving every second. It’s so wonderful to have a daughter who was born with a natural hunger to learn. It has become impossible to separate her from her revision. Even her boyfriend, Kenneth (charming boy, son of a human rights lawyer), has found it difficult to make her pay attention to the smaller things in life, such as rehearsing their duet for the school concert. It all went fine in the end; they played the three movements of (Emanuel) Bach’s ‘Duet for Flute and Violin’ and received a standing ovation. Jonathan is also currently beavering away at his studies and has likewise managed to cultivate some truly inspiring hobbies. He has learned three different languages outside of his compulsory studies and has even started to tutor children who are not fortunate enough to go to a school that places the same importance on academic rigour. I have no shame in saying it: my own children are an inspiration to me.
* * *
January started off grim and cold, with Richard having to deal with a lot of situations after taking on extra work at the university. He has now been promoted to Head of Education. When we heard the news we were over the moon! He had already booked time off for the children’s half-term holiday and we were initially planning to spend it kicking off the year in the garden. However, to mark Richard’s success we decided to hop on an impromptu cruise down the River Nile. The whole experience was utterly fantastic. Egypt is a wonderful country and very friendly to tourists, although we did have to contact the British Embassy when Richard’s passport was stolen by a man wearing a turban. Apart from this little hiccup, we were able to return to the UK only a couple of days behind schedule. Two months in and we have only caused one diplomatic emergency! Not bad for us!
* * *
The spring passed quickly, though the highlight was Charlton, the Newfoundland, winning the local dog show. He was truly sublime and everyone came up individually and said he was the deserved winner. I must confess I welled up a little too to see him so happy with his success. We are hoping he will now be onto a winning streak and are even contemplating entering next year’s Crufts!
* * *
We spent the Easter holidays going rambling as a family; we all enjoy discovering new places on foot and have drawn up a list of gourmet pubs we found reviewed in The Observer’s food supplement we wish to visit when going on our rambles. Our most successful trip was to the Lake District, although there was a small issue at the hotel which involved a drunken woman from Leamington Spa who did something very rude to Richard at dinner and we had to call both the management and then the police. The whole situation actually worked out rather well as the woman was wanted in several counties for sexual harassment and the authorities were most grateful to us for alerting them to her presence in the hotel. The managers also gave us vouchers for a free two-week stay, so we will definitely be returning, providing it is pervert-free next time!
* * *
This is the first year that Richard and I were able to get away ourselves without the children, so in the summer when Jonathan was staying with some neighbours and Mimi went to visit Richard’s mother in Hertfordshire, we decided to go and stay with our very dear friends the Marchendales in... and this was very exciting... their holiday apartment in Venice! What a treat! Richard and I had both visited Venice before of course, but never together, and to be let loose in the most romantic city in the world without the children was absolute heaven! It goes without saying we got up to a lot of exciting things, and thankfully didn’t have any passport situations to distract us.
* * *
When we returned to the UK we were overjoyed to see the children; it was the first time we had properly been apart. I enjoyed the holiday but was starting to feel like we were one of those poor, fractured families you read about; the kind who have people dotted around the globe and don’t talk to each other. I just wanted them all back in our warm nest. That first meal back in our home after three weeks of separation was one of the really special moments of the year. I am quite emotional even writing about it. We all reminded each other how lucky we were whilst we ate the lemon and herb partridge that Jemima had cooked up for our return. She is really becoming quite the domestic goddess in the kitchen! Delia Smith had better watch out!
* * *
As we reached late summer, I decided to start a book club in our small town. I have always been an avid reader and love engaging with people about the books they read. I got together with some of the mums at Mimi and Jonathan’s schools and we decided to meet once every three weeks in one of the restaurants in the high street and discuss our chosen read. I insisted all our books had to be written by female writers of colour. It was the only sensible thing to do. Of course, I did make a few exceptions, like the new Jeffrey Archer, and a John Banville, and naturally the new Julian Barnes, and we’ve been loving going through Martin Amis’s back catalogue. Next up: Philip Roth’s entire oeuvre! Can’t wait.
* * *
As the year draws to a close and I think about the upcoming couple of weeks I am reminded of what a joy Christmas with the family is. We have Richard’s sister and mother coming to stay, and my parents and siblings will also be dropping in on Boxing Day. We had a spectacular game of Guess Who I Am last year and we are all very excited to try it again. If you haven’t ever tried the game I suggest you do; it is immense fun! You write down a famous person on a piece of paper and attach it to the forehead of the person on your right, then one by one they have to guess who is written on the paper through asking questions, with everyone else only able to answer ‘Yes’ or ‘No’. It’s such a hoot! Though I have to admit it took me a shameful amount of time to guess that I was Sylvia Plath, whereas Jemima seemed to guess that she was Jane Seymour within two questions. This year we have agreed to raise the stakes by only picking leading LGBTQI+ figures from the twentieth century. I’m looking forward to it already!
* * *
Anyway, this leaves me and my fellow Franklins to wish all of you a wonderful Christmas and I hope you have a fulfilling and enjoyable New Year.
* * *
Festive wishes to one and all!
* * *
Janet Richmond, on behalf of the Franklin Family.
Five months after receiving it and reading it for the first time, its contents no longer made me laugh. What was the point of laughing, when I no longer had anyone to share it with? Phrases and sentences that I would have once read aloud to Pete flashed in front of my eyes, as if highlighted in fluorescent ink, then faded away into nothingness. All this didn’t stop me cringing at the essay’s contents. The insufferable presumption that the world cares what Janet and her preposterous family have been up to throughout the previous twelve months! Who cared if they’d had more holidays in a year than many children in Britain will have throughout their whole childhood? Did they think it made them more likeable or desirable or worthy of people’s admiration?
I was pretty sure that if one posted this on Facebook as a spoof example of how ridiculous round robins could be, people wouldn’t believe it. ‘Nobody’s round robins could be that bad!’ they’d say. Janet had successfully cooked up a piece of writing that you just couldn’t make up and nobody would believe it if you had. It was pretty clear to me she had exaggerated and embellished a number of events within the self-aggrandising essay. For one thing, Charlton wasn’t even her bloody dog; it was her mother’s, yet anyone reading it would think she had brought him up since he was a puppy. And they didn’t cause a diplomatic incident in Egypt. Richard lost his passport, like hundreds of travellers each year. It probably wasn’t even stolen, and Janet’s need to mention that the alleged thief was wearing a turban was, for all her overtures about diversity and constant policing of language, just an example of her underlying racism.
Glancing again at their other vacation-based incident – the woman in a hotel in the Lake District – I wasn’t sure whether to roll my eyes or be suspicious. Even if it had occurred how Janet described, it was still a pretty weird thing to put in a round robin. I couldn’t shake off the nagging thought that Janet was over-compensating for something. Had the woman really been to blame? Or had she been tempted into an intimate situation by a womaniser, at some place more private than a restaurant, only to be caught by his wife? Because Richard Franklin was a womaniser. I knew this. And I suspected Janet knew it too.
