The Family Retreat, page 11
As I glance out of the window, I see James and the kids laughing as they load up the car. Buckets and spades, towels and packed bags in a trail of neatness. I look over at our small lounge area. Discarded clothes. A pack of wet wipes. The crust of last night’s sandwich. Two empty juice cartons.
I walk over to the picnic table and call Gemma.
She yawns as she answers the phone.
When I ask her, she’s vaguely apologetic about forgetting to tell me. ‘I was going to call you this morning,’ she says.
‘What’s going on?’
She tells me that Dad has changed his birthday plan, cancelling the long-standing arrangement to have a dinner in his college at Oxford.
‘Why?’
‘Dunno,’ she says, ‘but he seems pretty happy about it. He’s found somewhere else. Out near you. One of the telly chefs. Really nice place,’ she says, ‘I’ve looked it up.’
I don’t know what to say. My irritation at Gemma forgetting to tell me is eclipsed by a general state of confusion. And a kind of horror that my parents will be arriving in an hour.
‘Oh – did you have plans?’ she says.
And then I hear rustling and shuffling sounds. The sound of a duvet being moved. It’s half past ten and she’s still in bed.
Another yawn.
‘Apparently the place does a set menu, but you can go off-piste for special occasions,’ she says. ‘Mum asked if I’d help with the menu.’
I bet she did.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say, ‘he was really looking forward to the dinner. He’s been planning it for months.’
I can imagine her shaking her head. Tossing her beautiful hair over her beautiful shoulders.
‘Well, it’s a new plan. His new plan,’ she says.
‘But Max was going to do the speech. Some of his students were going to be there – I just don’t get it—’
‘Does it matter where he has it? It’s just a birthday,’ she says. I’m surprised by her clipped offhand tone and I imagine her disengaging, picking up a book or leafing through the pages of a magazine.
It’s then that I think about the ceremony. The accolade he didn’t receive.
‘You don’t think it’s got anything to do with him not getting the Emeritus award?’ and as soon as I’ve asked the question, I wish I hadn’t.
She sighs and I can picture her slightly glazed expression as she inspects her skin. It’s what she always does when she’s bored. I’ve never known anyone inspect their body like my sister does. Peering at her forearms. The freckles. The blemishes. The skin around her knee bone. This habit she has of talking to you while poring over her body constantly. She does it with everyone. I remember her ex-boyfriend Marcus watching in a kind of wonder. I thought perhaps he found it some sort of turn-on. The idea of her body, her skin, under constant examination. Like quality control at a factory. Continuing to talk to him as her fingers prodded, inspected and scanned. For a person whose body was once the focus of such neglect and punishment, a body that became so malnourished and skeletal, she now routinely gives it an almost mesmeric kind of scrutiny.
‘As I say, he’s allowed to change his mind, isn’t he?’
There’s a heavy moment of silence.
‘And anyway, it’s his birthday. And he sounds happy and excited. Good for him,’ she says, her tone short.
‘OK. Sure,’ I say.
‘I’ll text you the name of the place,’ she says. ‘It’s got a beautiful garden.’
‘Great.’
There’s the difference between us. Her lack of curiosity. Helen reminds me of her in that way. No analysis. Gemma is unconcerned by this sudden ‘change of mind’. She simply doesn’t get involved. She’s always taken a one step removed position in relation to family events and decisions. She detaches. Simply takes things at face value. Sometimes I envy this. I am the opposite. Overanalytical. Trying to understand and find a reason. Where there is space and absence, I dive in. I fill. I soak up. I overcompensate, and do the worrying and the thinking for the two of us.
After I put the phone down, I think back to the day we went over to my parents’ house not long after the Emeritus ceremony.
We’d made a special trip over for Sunday lunch, just after Christmas, a belated meal for my mother’s birthday. It was a bright crisp day, and we were in the garden, wrapped up against the chill. The kids were poking sticks in the mole hills on the lawn and my father was pottering about in his shed, clearing old pots and busying himself doing nothing. The kind of mindless activity that infuriated my mother.
Gemma was due to come, but she’d cancelled at the last minute. In itself, her sudden change of plan wasn’t unusual, but my parents’ inconsistent explanation about her non-arrival was. My mother said something about a social thing, while my father said it was work. What work? I scoffed, given her relationship with employment had always been tenuous to say the least. But either way, it was dropped and the conversation drifted on to something else.
We’d all been surprised by the turn of events. It was an award he was widely tipped to get. He’s been told as much by two of the other professors. Max even told him to ‘feign surprise’ when his name was called out at the college dinner. But there was no announcement. Two dons were granted their professorship, but there was no recipient for the Emeritus. I imagined my father sitting at the table, peering through his glasses, waiting expectantly, hands arched in a steeple. Until it was clear there was nothing else forthcoming. No more awards. I imagined him blinking. Then swallowing his wine. Then reaching down calmly for his pipe and pressing a small scoop of tobacco into its bowl, feeling the softness of the strands under his fingers.
Mum had told me on the phone. Brisk sharing of information, as opposed to any engagement or conversation. And that day in the garden, I’d tried to press her for more information. But instead, she was preoccupied with Sheila Mason. ‘Just a bout of constipation,’ she said, ‘only to find she’s riddled with cancer. Riddled,’ she said again, her eyes shining with the tragedy of it all.
Other people’s traumas had always somehow been a comfort to her. A distraction perhaps from her own difficulties. At times I felt she revelled in them. A hobby, like others might take up knitting or bridge.
‘Dreadful.’ She shook her head. ‘Those poor children.’ She stopped for a moment, her mind busy with altruistic plans, her fingers twitching, and then she rushed inside. Later, I found her rifling through the unwanted present cupboard, wrapping things in shiny paper for the family.
‘Sometimes that’s the way it goes,’ my dad explained. ‘Last year there were two: Professor Watson and Professor Varma. Perhaps they needed a year off,’ and he waved his hand dismissively, looking out over the fields beyond the house.
‘But, Dad,’ I said, ‘they practically promised it. What happened? Max said as much—’
Perhaps it was my imagination, but at the mention of his closest friend, he seemed to cloud over.
‘Yes – well,’ he said, with a flash of irritation. ‘It happens,’ he said again curtly. ‘Of course I’m disappointed. But we move on.’ He pressed his hands together, then brushed them briskly on the sides of his trousers before getting up and strolling across the lawn. When he was still in earshot, my mother said, ‘Lucky I didn’t come along. If it wasn’t for the music recital, I would have done. It is rather odd, don’t you think? I’ve told him to take it up with them, but you know your father. Doesn’t want to make a fuss. Forty years of work and dedication. I’d make a fuss. It’s not right. Unsavoury,’ she said stiffly.
My mind lingered on the word unsavoury. It’s a word she often used. She also frequently found things unpalatable. And it occurred to me in that moment how frequently her expressions or judgements about behaviour were food-related.
I watched my father. Perhaps he was avoiding the skewer-like focus of my mother. But he seemed unable to sit still. Constantly on the move. I was sleepy. The afternoon sunshine was surprisingly sharp and bright. I closed my eyes, tired.
Instead of retreating to his potting shed, which he always did in times of tension or conflict, that day, in an unprecedented move, he joined the kids on the lawn, leaping about pretending to be a mole for them to whack.
My mother said nothing, got up with the tea tray and disappeared into the house.
*
When the car draws up, there’s no sign of Dad.
Mum’s waving a hello, but then gets distracted looking for something in the back of the car.
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘He wanted to walk the last bit. He’ll be here in a minute.’
And then she swings around. ‘Where are they?’ she says, peering round as if the kids will suddenly materialise. She is skittish as she talks about the traffic and how they stopped in Dorchester for a coffee. ‘Lovely market town,’ she says, ‘have you been?’
‘Mum – what’s this about the restaurant? The new plan?’
And she wafts a hand through the air. An exasperated movement, like I’m slow to catch on. ‘Gemma was supposed to call you. Did she not? Perhaps she couldn’t get through? I would have done it myself, but Alicia Featherstone is very ill.’
She mistakes my confusion about Dad for confusion about Alicia.
‘Our neighbour’s sister? Brain tumour. She was getting a bit forgetful. Dropped the occasional word here and there. All a bit odd. Now we know why—’
‘I’ve just spoken to Gemma—’
‘Ah good. It’s so close to here. One of the telly chefs. Can’t remember which one. Hugo or Hugh – or something or other? Anyway, Dad thought it would make a nice change.’
I stare back at her. She’s still avoiding meeting my gaze.
‘Let me see my grandchildren,’ she says. ‘Where are they?’ and she calls their names out loudly until they appear at the door.
‘Nana!’ Sam shrieks. She pretends she hasn’t seen him.
‘Sam? Ruby? Where are you?’
‘Here!’ they shout, and she looks the other way. They jump up and down and so it continues.
They love this ritual. This pantomime. And usually, I love it too. But not today. I see it for what it is. The smoke screen to avoid meeting my gaze or answering my questions. She’s behaving like a cartoon villain throwing out drawing pins, or a smoke bomb to throw me off course. The longer it goes on, the more exasperated I feel. I go inside to make coffee, with the sound of the near hysterical laughter ringing in my ears.
As I bring the tray out to the garden, in the distance I see a figure striding towards us across the field. As it gets closer, it turns into my father. I walk down the path to meet him.
‘I met your neighbour,’ he says, kissing me with an unexpected flourish on both cheeks. ‘Philip. The doctor? What a lovely chap,’ and he waves his arms at the countryside. ‘This is wonderful!’ he says. ‘Did I tell you I spent my summers out here when I was a boy? Staying with my Great-Aunt Elsie? She had a little cottage near Corfe Castle.’
As we push through the gate into the garden, my mother and the kids walk towards us. ‘I seem to remember there was a huge rectangular rock pool. Fills up with water, like a swimming pool.’
‘Dancing Ledge,’ the kids say in unison.
‘It was in the Enid Blyton books, you know,’ he says, with an ebullient gesture of his hand.
I nod.
‘Shall we go?’ he says excitedly.
‘We went there,’ Sam says, leaping about. ‘The other day—’
And all of a sudden, my father looks distraught, like a child with a broken toy.
‘Can we go again?’ Sam says, pulling on my hand. ‘Can we take Grandad today?’
My father waves his hands in excitement. Sam tries to high-five him and after several missed connections, they manage a sort of half-connected fist-on-palm interaction, which Sam finds hilarious.
‘Seventy is the new forty!’ he says inexplicably and this time they bump fists.
Sam laughs. He is besotted with this new energised version of his grandfather.
‘Let me get my binos,’ my father says, rushing to the car. ‘Shall we?’ he says, when he returns, hovering on the doorstep.
I haven’t brushed my teeth yet, and Sam is still in his pyjamas. ‘Five minutes. Just hold on – I have to get a few things together.’
From the upstairs window as I get changed and grab sun cream and spare clothes for the kids, I see he is outside in the garden. Then, spotting Penny in her front garden, he strolls over, the binoculars slung round his neck. There looks to be an animated one-sided conversation. Lots of hand waving and then he is back in the garden. My mother is sitting at the picnic table.
We all set off together, crossing the road, then opening the gate onto the coast path. My father doesn’t take a breath. ‘I used to cycle here,’ he says, ‘when I was a boy. Me and Martin Fellowes, we’d set off with a packed lunch and go cycling all day. Looking for birds and wildlife. We kept a record of everything we saw. We set up our own birdwatching club,’ and he grins. ‘Different sort of birds now, eh?’ he says, thumping Sam on the back. ‘And I don’t mean the feathered kind,’ and he roars with laughter.
I stare back at him. Then look over at my mother. I am scanning for something on her face. Checking her out. What is this new version of my father? This mysteriously good mood, the ebullience, it’s baffling. She doesn’t look at me. She keeps her gaze fixed ahead. Then digs around in her handbag, keeping her head down low.
Sam has no idea what he’s talking about, but he is enjoying the boisterousness and the animation of a man who had barely shown him much attention in the past.
‘What a beautiful day!’ Mum says to no one in particular. Then she talks about Rob. ‘Poor thing, having to dash off like that. How stressful. Where will he stay? And what about meals?’
‘They’ll put him up in a nice hotel, Mum. He’ll be fine.’
‘But still – no homecooked meals – I hope he had something nice before he got on the plane. Airline food,’ and she grimaces.
In my mind’s eye, I have a fleeting thought about my father. There is something about the cancelled college dinner, his recent absence and this new plan for his birthday celebration. The hastily rearranged restaurant meal. They seem like small separate bursts of light that don’t quite string together. And similarly, there is no space. No opportunity to talk. He is moving too quickly and talking too much and too fast. I feel dizzy around him. And, in a thought that I will come to remember to my shame, part of me feels glad that he is a bit further up ahead. That he is entertaining Sam with the dizzying chatter. The pace. The wonder. The new-found interest in everything.
It isn’t long before they peel away, the two of them moving out in front. I can hear the rumble of my father’s voice, followed by Sam’s hysterical laughter.
‘Dad,’ I call out, ‘slow down. So we can catch up—’
I watch as my father waves in my direction. If I am thinking anything at that point, it’s that whatever they’re talking about, Sam is finding it amusing. He is happy.
I am walking with Mum, dictated by the slower pace of a three-and-a-half-year-old. Sometimes Ruby wants to swing between us; sometimes she slows down to pick up small things on the way: an odd-shaped stone or dandelions that she collects in a bunch in her fingers. The sun is warm on our faces. Further ahead is the blue of the sea, and the sunlight casting a pool of silver on the surface.
When I try to talk about this birthday change of plan, I am made to feel the fool.
‘He decided he didn’t want the fuss,’ she says crisply, ‘just wants to have drinks at the college instead. And this meal.’
It’s as if these last-minute changes to long-planned events happen all the time in my family. That it’s me who is rigid. Inflexible. I can almost hear Gemma on the phone now. ‘It’s his choice. Why does it matter?’ And in this fog is something I can’t articulate. And the more I am made to feel this is my difficulty, my problem, the more inclined I am to drop it. Looking back, of course, I wish I’d asked more questions. Wish I’d pushed her further. But even if I had, I’m not sure it would have made any difference in the end.
‘Who is he inviting?’ I ask.
‘What?’ she says, feigning confusion.
‘The birthday lunch.’
‘Oh,’ she says wearily, like she’s got to get something back out that she’s already neatly folded away. ‘Might be just family. A few others. He’s not sure yet. Gemma’s seeing someone. She might bring him. He sounds nice. Hope it works out. She’s been unlucky with men – don’t you think?’ And then before she takes a breath, ‘Look, Ruby! Look at those sleepy cows!’
Just family?
Already I can hear Rob’s response. ‘Just family? Jesus fucking Christ.’
She points up at the rolling clouds. ‘Looks like we might get some rain,’ she says. ‘Ten minutes ago, it was bright sunshine!’ She looks down at Ruby. ‘Lucky you’ve got your raincoat, and what a lovely one. Those big white daisies – is it new?’
I look away. When I glance up ahead, my father and Sam are climbing the hillside. They are moving apace, then stopping every now and then. I watch as my father points things out to Sam, occasionally stopping to let him look through the binoculars. I see the dance of my father’s hair, wispy and white, like the swirl of an ice-cream. He is striding ahead, with Sam happily running alongside, trying to keep up.
My mother seems twitchy. Anxious, talking incessantly about Gemma and the plans she wants to make about the menu. ‘We’re going to discuss them this afternoon. Gemma always has good ideas about food and what goes together. So terribly creative with all that culinary stuff.’
I chew on the inside of my cheek to stop myself saying anything.
‘Apparently, we can construct a special menu – “off-piste”, was what Gemma said. We have an appointment at 2 p.m. We’re going to have a spot of lunch while we’re there.’
‘I know, Mum,’ I say, ‘you told me.’
The wind whips through our hair as we walk. When we get to the decline on the hillside, the path up ahead is hidden. It’s only when we finally get to the brow of the hill that I can see how far ahead they are. Two small dots side by side on the hillside. I notice a heavy lurch in my chest. I feel myself wanting to speed up. To close the gap between us. Ruby drops back to inspect a large stag beetle that has scuttled into the path.
