Sedating Elaine, page 13
Looking through the spyhole, she saw a pair of fiercely painted lips, perfectly matching the scarlet shield above. “Hello?” she said through the door. “Who is it?”
A voice replied: “Oh, hello. It’s Mrs. Langthorn. Elaine’s mother.” Frances stepped back, as if the door were lying to her. “You must be Frances, I presume?” the voice enquired.
Just as Frances was about to lie—the wrong address, Elaine’s not in, I’ve never even heard of her—another voice, from the bedroom this time, feebly called out, “Mummy?”
It was a difficult situation. If she let this woman in, who could tell what might happen, what she might say, what she might suspect. But if she turned her away, she’d have Elaine to deal with, she would have to explain. Besides, she doubted this lady in her bold colours and Head Mistress voice was going to be easily fobbed off. She seemed the type who might bang louder still, bellowing her daughter’s name, demanding to be let in. Full of reluctance, Frances unlocked the door. The woman’s mouth smiled. Her eyes did not.
“Hello,” she said curtly. “I’m sorry we haven’t met before but my daughter is frightfully protective of you.” She looked Frances up and down. “My, my. Not at all what I expected!” And she feigned a laugh, then pressed her hand to her chest. “I’m Jennifer.”
She was wearing glossy white gloves. Frances had never seen such gloves. Gloves were sensible things made of wool, surely. These were satin; it was like shaking hands with a doll. “Hope you don’t mind me just dropping by,” she continued, breezing in, “but I was in the neighbourhood doing some shopping and thought I might as well see if you were in, as my daughter clearly has no intention of arranging a formal introduction this side of Christmas,” and she hhar-hhhar-hhharred again, in an imitation of laughter, as if she had heard laughter somewhere once and had been rehearsing it ever since.
Frances did not like the way this woman kept referring to Elaine as “my daughter”; it caused a sudden surge of ownership to rise in her and she silently swore to refer to Elaine as “my girlfriend.” She closed the door. She also did not like the way the woman now stood in the hallway with elbows drawn tightly in as she clung to her handbag, as if danger lurked in every corner. And she especially didn’t like the way she was dressed.
Jennifer Langthorn wore the sort of heels proper ladies wear. Too high or too thin and you were common, too low or too fat and you were unfeminine. Hers were the type that click-click-clicked in a sharp, immaculate way, as if every step were to scold the dirty pavement. Her legs, two squat stumps of eighty denier, were certainly shapely, but disproportionally so, as if some stuffing from her breasts had slid down inside her body and deposited itself around the calves and ankles. She wore a blue dress, stretched tight across the hips, suffocating a blue-and-red-striped blouse, tucked in at the waist, where a red leather belt was attempting to hold back a tide of spillage. She opened the handbag and produced a tiny mirror with which she proceeded to analyse her face as Frances watched on, her own face struggling to find and form the correct expression, whatever that might be.
“Nice to meet you,” she eventually said, and Mrs. Langthorn snapped the little object closed and placed it carefully back in her bag.
“So, this is where my angel lives now, is it?” she said, looking around as if the hall were all that existed, like they curled up asleep at night on the doormat. “I can’t say I’m surprised. She’s always been a bit wild and rebellious, and I’ve been telling Lewis—Elaine’s father—for years that one day she’d go roughing it. She was going help the Africans, you know. That’s what she’s been saying for years. Personally, I’d rather she stayed here, where she’s safe. Well, when I say here…” and her words trailed off as her eyes looked fearfully at Frances’ grubby shoes on newspaper by the front door. Clearly she was wondering if Elaine should have gone to help Africa after all. Then she turned on her heel and marched in the direction of the living room, visibly curling her nose up against the smell, wafting her gloved hand in front of her face and clutching her bag even tighter against the likelihood of thieves and ruffians. Frances wasn’t blind—she knew the flat was a mess. Boxes were still piled up, some open, with their contents spilling out. She also knew it stank of sickness and stuffiness and sleep. She had grown used to it. She resisted the urge to explain, to say, “Most of this is thanks to your daughter.” Had the woman been politer she might have fussed about, straightening the throws on the sofa, stacking the magazines, inviting her to sit down. Instead she hoped the woman would trip, stumble exaggeratedly and hilariously across the room, and land head-first in the wastepaper basket currently overflowing with her daughter’s bile-encrusted tissues. But it seemed unlikely; the woman looked too affronted to move.
It always intrigued Frances that the wealthiest people, who had the most reason to be accustomed to dealing with those worse off than themselves (because, in almost every situation, they were better off than everyone), should be so ill at ease when amongst the common man. It was as if they lived a fantasy life straight from the pages of one of those haughty magazines, The Lady, or Horse & Hound. As if the only normal people they came into contact with were their staff. As if they didn’t realise they made up but a small percentage of the population and the vast majority had significantly less than them, and they should perhaps adjust downwards when meeting them, rather than expecting people to adjust up. Frances didn’t realise that Mrs. Langthorn had already, in fact, adjusted considerably downwards by even coming to this part of London. The problem was that, from those streets, to these flats, to this living room, with its offensive odour and empty beer bottles, Mrs. Langthorn wasn’t sure how much more downwards there could possibly be left to go. The many thin and overlapping layers of social class completely passed her by because, in her world, there were simply the wealthy, and then everyone else. As far as she was concerned, the next step down from this flat must surely be homelessness. I mean, where else was there left? Had she known that Frances had built herself up from house shares and rented bedsits, and more house shares, eating noodles in hot water, adding penny by penny to her meagre inheritance until she could afford the down payment on this flat, she would have better understood, albeit only in a simple mathematical way, because she would have no comprehension of the emotions and efforts involved.
She removed her hat, and a mushroom of grey hair sprang up in its place. She held the hat in one hand and with the other stroked it lovingly, like it was a cat, reminding Frances of Elaine smoothing her cashmere cardigans. Perhaps it was a sign of class to stroke one’s clothes. Deciding not to take Frances’ proffered hand, Jennifer strode over to the kitchenette and placed the hat and handbag firstly on the counter, then changed her mind and put them neatly together on top of the microwave, noticing with a long look of undisguised disgust the thin layer of grime glued there. Her lip curled and her mouth turned down at the corners. She brushed her hands together. Frances wanted to say, “It’s not normally like this,” but resented the compulsion to explain herself to this overbearing snob.
“Shall I take your gloves for you?” she asked with a sigh and a great big smile.
“No, thank you. I think I’d rather keep them on.” She interlaced her fingers. “Where is my daughter?”
“Mummy?” came a timid call from the bedroom. “Is that you?”
Mrs. Langthorn shot Frances a look of fire and rage, as if her daughter had been intentionally hidden away from her, and with a waft of perfume she brushed past, tottering loudly into the bedroom, crying, “Elaine? Oh, my angel! Oh! What has happened to you?”
Elaine had rolled onto her back and was looking over from her pillow, eyes barely open, forehead white and wet. The room was still in the chaos created by Elaine’s hunt for running gear. Jennifer Langthorn proceeded carefully, clutching her skirt, placing her feet with exaggerated care as she stepped between piles of clothing, as if snakes might appear from amongst them. Elaine flung a hand out across the bed, reaching for her mother. Her mother reached back. It was like an enactment of The Creation of Adam. Frances stood in the doorway and watched.
“Food poisoning, Mummy.”
“Oh, my goodness, you poor, poor thing. Come here, let me look at you—I had no idea.” Another glance at Frances. “My poor darling, you look dreadful.” She took Elaine’s hand in hers and patted it.
Elaine’s eyes dropped closed and she sighed, “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Well, I know you said we’d meet in a few weeks but I had a hunch, darling. I knew something was wrong, I could sense it. Mother’s intuition, sweetheart. That’s what it was.”
“Really?” Frances chimed in. “But you said you were shopping in the neighbourhood and just decided to drop by.”
Not a glance this time but a glare.
“Mummy and I have always had a special bond.” Elaine smiled wanly.
Her mother nodded and patted her hand, as if to say, “It’s true, it’s true.”
“I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” Frances turned and left them to it.
She empathised with the kettle as it fumed and boiled away. She could hear their conversation: The damn woman actually had the gall to come in here and blame her. As she was getting the teabags, she had heard her mutter, “The place is filthy, darling. No wonder you’re ill, living in such squalor,” and Frances clung on to a cookbook, wanting to slap her powder-puffed face with it, imagining a poof of make-up, like striking a dusty cushion. Frances knew she was to blame for Elaine’s situation—she wasn’t completely deluded, after all—but to suggest it was due to uncleanliness—an uncleanliness largely caused by Elaine—enraged Frances: She had always been, in her own way, rather house-proud and organised. She put mugs, milk, and sugar together on a little wooden tray and stuck the teapot under the hot tap to warm it. She had some Victorian cups and saucers with pretty painted handles which she kept in the sideboard, but thought, Fuck her; it would be more fun to see how she handled a Finding Nemo mug. She leant back and overheard, “If I had come in the car I could have packed a bag and taken you back with me, my poor love. Why didn’t you tell me you were ill? You look dreadful, darling. Had I known, I never would have come on the tube.” She did not pronounce tube like everyone else. Frances smiled. Everyone else said “chube.” This woman clipped the t and accentuated the u. “Te-uuuuube.” For a moment Frances imagined her there, wedged between armpits, squirting perfume around her and putting on a nose-clip, the handbag strangled beneath ten white knuckles. As the kettle boiled and she made the tea, she realised she was doubly furious that Elaine had not defended her, not explained that it was her ton of junk that had filled the flat, it was her smell, her mess, all her. The way the mother spoke, as if Frances had been holding her precious daughter hostage, was almost amusing. Frances stirred the bags in the teapot. She just needed to get this woman out of her flat.
In the bedroom, she placed the tray on top of the dresser. Mrs. Langthorn did not acknowledge her entering the room. Already relegated to staff, Frances thought. She took the lid off the teapot and spun the bags around with a spoon, squeezing as much strength out of them as quickly as possible.
Mrs. Langthorn was perched on the bed now, patting her daughter’s knee. Elaine had hunched herself into an almost upright position, rubbing her stomach in a circular motion as if she were pregnant. Mrs. Langthorn was right about one thing: Elaine did look awful. With the curtain closed, the dim light seemed to have faded her: Shadows crept into her diluted body, she peeped out from two small caves around her eyes, her face drawn and sallow. The dips behind her collarbones seemed more pronounced than ever, like the insides of two boats. She was practically black-and-white. Despite this, the resemblance to her mother was uncanny, especially as Frances looked over at them, both in profile: same nose, same chin, same brow. In a flash Frances had a glimpse—almost a threatening premonition—of a possible future: a proposal, a wedding, moving to a bigger house, Frances constantly working and bringing home the bacon, Elaine readjusting to the finer things in life until one day there’s her wife in proper lady’s heels and a matching sunhat, waving a gloved hand and saying, “Sweetheart, how was work? Do come and see how I’ve arranged the new garden furniture…”
“I said no sugar for me, dear.”
Frances blinked. The woman was talking to her. She had clearly said this a number of times because she now turned back to her daughter with raised eyebrows as if to say, “You’ve picked a right one there.” Frances poured the tea and handed Mrs. Langthorn the Finding Nemo mug. Elaine’s mother turned it round in her hands several times, looking at it like it was a foreign object, then placed it on the windowsill. Elaine smiled wanly and shook her head no when Frances pointed to the teapot. This performance of Elaine’s didn’t seem real, somehow, like she was being ever so brave just to show her mother how ill and helpless she was. Frances poured herself a drink with lots of sugar, then sat on the opposite side of the bed.
“It was so strange, Mummy. I was fine one minute, then gone the next. Wasn’t I, baby?”
Frances blew on her tea.
“I felt so ill.”
“How are you feeling now, angel?”
“Like I don’t know where I’ve been. I feel wiped out. Thank God I had Frances to look after me. I’m sorry you two had to meet like this. I’d rather hoped we’d go for a meal or something.”
Frances was about to say, “Don’t be silly—you’re ill,” when Mrs. Langthorn patted Elaine’s knee again and said loudly, “Don’t be silly, darling—you’re ill! There’s nothing to be sorry about. I only wish I had known, dear. I would have come sooner.”
The passive-aggressive accusations were flying in full force around the flat today. Frances sighed deeply and looked away.
“We can always go out for a meal another time, when I’m better,” Elaine said.
Frances drank her tea and Mrs. Langthorn said nothing. Then she cooed, “Don’t you worry about that for now, dear. Let’s just get you well again. Now, do you have everything you need? Is there anything I can get you? Do you have medicine, and vitamins, and rehydration sachets? Painkillers?”
Elaine smiled lovingly over at Frances and said, “Don’t worry, Mummy—she’s taking good care of me,” and Frances smiled an honest smile back, enjoying if not the sentiment, the victory. She knew that mothers like Mrs. Langthorn hated being usurped by anyone, especially another woman. She was also relieved to the point of gratitude that Elaine hadn’t said anything that might make the woman want to stay any longer than absolutely necessary. To the contrary, she said, “I must go back to sleep soon. I’m so exhausted.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But I do worry about you, darling,” the woman suddenly said, reaching forwards and brushing Elaine’s hair from her face. “And I don’t mean just now. I worry about you all the time. We love you so much, you know, your father and I. He’s going to be worried sick when he hears what a state you’re in. He’ll be furious with himself that he didn’t come with me, in the Bentley. Not that it would have been easy. What on earth do you do for parking if you live in a flat?”
Frances coughed.
“I’ll be fine,” Elaine said, smiling her small, stoic smile. Then, as Frances watched on, Elaine tilted her head so that it rested in her mother’s cupped hand, and they gazed lovingly at each other.
Perhaps it was having no mother of her own to gaze upon, perhaps it was just the disdain she held for these women, or perhaps it was simply that such lovey-dovey expressions always made her uncomfortable, but Frances felt a sort of horror as these two stared back at each other in a moment’s mutual adoration. There was also another feeling. Envy? Ludicrous: She’d rather no mother at all than a mother like Mrs. Langthorn. But it was difficult to witness nevertheless, such parental, maternal love, and her standing yet again on the sidelines. She slurped her tea, hoping to disturb them, but all it seemed to do was encourage a gentle stroke of the cheek. This was too much. It looked intimate, almost inappropriate, indecent, practically incestuous, as if they were moments away from a kiss. Between them, she could see the Finding Nemo mug. “Don’t let your tea go cold,” she said loudly, and they parted, slowly, as if sad that the moment was over. The mother’s hand returned to patting her daughter’s knee.
Frances found it slightly unsettling how willing Elaine was to submit to being petted by her mother. How much of it was genuine, due to illness and weakness, and how much was a sort of affectation, she couldn’t tell. Children, no matter how old, fall into the old roles when they are around their parents. She had witnessed it many times, especially with her ex-girlfriends. The person you know as a sharp, funny, intelligent adult suddenly becomes a sullen toddler whining about what’s unfair, and old woes from ten years ago are randomly brought to the surface, as if these resentments are never gotten over. She imagined it was exactly like this when Elaine was seven years old, sat up in a frilly pink bed in a frilly pink bedroom, her mummy beside her, reading her a fairy tale and stroking her face. Any lingering respect she felt for Elaine was falling rapidly under threat as she watched the woman pull out a handkerchief and begin to dab Elaine’s brow. Worse yet, Elaine closed her eyes and said, “Thank you, Mummy.” It made Frances want to wrench open Elaine’s box of horrors and start flinging out sex toys, waggle the wet-end of the LoveStud in her face and scream, “This! This is your daughter, you moron!” Edwin the Furby’s two big white eyes stared out into the room as Elaine closed hers and allowed her forehead to be stroked.
Mercifully, Mrs. Langthorn didn’t stay much longer. A few minutes later, after a whispered conversation Frances couldn’t hear no matter how low she turned the television, Mrs. Langthorn reappeared, smoothing her dress down and fiddling with her blouse as if the flat itself had crumpled her. “She’s asleep,” she said to Frances, and walked over to her hat and handbag. Frances had been thumbing through the cookbook she’d previously considered as a weapon. It was hers, but Adrienne had used it often, flour and crumbs remaining on the page of her favourite bread recipe. Frances ran her finger idly about in them. The corner had been turned down for so long that the book fell open on it, as if expecting Adrienne, as if everything welcomed her and wanted her back, even inanimate objects. “Going to do some baking?” the woman asked, suddenly remembering some manners. Frances, however, was well past the point of polite conversation and just wanted the woman gone, hopefully forever. The awful thought occurred to her that, if this all went wrong, the next time she saw her might be at Elaine’s funeral. She could see it now: the pearls, the hat, the same handkerchief dabbing beneath an eye, and the scowl she would throw at Frances then. “I shall never forgive myself,” she would sob. “If only I hadn’t taken the te-uuube.”
