It’s Who We Are Read online

  ‘Nice!’ Embarrassed at herself, and feeling suddenly messy and old, her tone had been heavily sarcastic.

  For no good reason, when it would have been easier to return to her flat and put her feet up till Robert returned, she had brushed her hair and spritzed it with a pocket-sized hairspray, applied a hint of blusher, a generous coating of lipstick, and renewed her charcoal eyeliner.

  Just as she decided she would pass muster, the woman who had made room for her earlier had pushed open the cloakroom door and commandeered the basin beside her. In their somewhat squashed proximity, the two of them had exchanged views on the day’s weather.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m doing my hair, really,’ Wendy had laughed. ‘It’ll be blown out of shape in no time.’

  Her new companion had muttered something about how one had to make an effort, but then she had paused and stared at Wendy’s reflection in her mirror.

  ‘What?’

  The other woman had shaken her head briskly as she blushed slightly and rummaged in her handbag. ‘No, I shouldn’t… I mean, would I want to know?’ Her voice had been little more than a whisper.

  Wendy had raised an eyebrow, feeling as though she were performing a close-up for the camera in a TV drama. ‘Let me guess. You’re wondering whether to tell me that as soon as I came in here, my husband was all over that girl like a rash. Is that it?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  Wendy had swept up her belongings and smiled too brightly. ‘Thanks.’ She had sounded more dignified than she felt. But then, it was far from the first time.

  As they approached Ipswich, she found herself haunted by memories of family holidays on the Suffolk coast. Robert may have had his faults, but he had been a wonderful father. She wondered if he was serious about Miss Spiky Hair. And if so whether he might live with her and even produce a new family. The thought converted her numbness into actual pain.

  She had wanted children, but had been determined that her career should not suffer. So, producing two babies from one pregnancy had seemed a real bonus. Robert, on the other hand, would have liked a daughter in addition to their twin boys. Perhaps now he would get his wish.

  Daniel and Rhys had been born alike, but not identical. More importantly, they were robustly healthy, which had been a relief since various health professionals had warned that having a first baby at ‘her age’ – thirty-seven – carried certain risks.

  Just before returning to work, she and Robert had had the boys christened. Afterwards, they had hosted a party in their recently-purchased house on the outskirts of Dorking; a home with ample space for their expanded family.

  Wendy had been the only adult not drinking at the loud and excitable gathering. She had mingled with various groups in different areas of the property till it had occurred to her that Robert was missing.

  Eventually, she had gone looking for him. The hall had been empty but as she reached it, she had glimpsed the back of a guest, dressed in a bright red coat, disappearing out of the front door. Intent on finding her husband, it was only later that she had stopped to wonder who had left the party so early and without saying ‘goodbye’.

  She had run upstairs and put her head round various doors before trying their own bedroom.

  The bed was rumpled, and the quilt and cushions which had lain on it had been flung to the floor. Robert, who had not noticed her, had been absorbed in pulling on his trousers and then, clumsy in his haste, struggling to fasten his belt. Even from across the room she could see lipstick stains and a smear of mascara on his face.

  When finally he spotted her, his features had contorted with panic, and she had felt her own face pale with the realisation that something utterly impossible was happening. He had swallowed nervously. She had said nothing. Eventually, he had begun to assemble an explanation, but the words had died on his lips in response to her silence. Stunned, she had shrugged her shoulders and left the room. Somehow, she had been charming and civil to him until their guests had departed.

  ‘I felt neglected,’ he had confessed once they were alone. ‘I know it’s not very grown up. You’re the one who had to give birth. I’m not proud of myself.’

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘A couple of months.’

  ‘Unbelievable!’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling!’

  ‘Don’t “darling” me,’ she had snapped, before locking herself in the bathroom to cry.

  Naturally, she had forgiven him. It was the first time. Becoming a father was obviously difficult.

  Despite being ‘terrifying’ – as her colleagues tended to label her – she had never felt very confident as a woman. Robert was more obviously attractive than she was. But she was bright and successful, and he adored her quick mind, and always claimed that she had laughed him into bed. And each time she had learned about one of his conquests, he had persuaded her that it was a ‘temporary fancy’ and meant nothing.

  It was not long before she had stopped weeping about his infidelities and learned to live with them – and they had remained together in their own type of harmony.

  As the train slowed on the approach to its destination, her mobile rang.

  ‘Dad! Yes, nearly in Norwich. I know that I’m early… Um, well, OK. Take it easy. I’ll go out to the coast and see Mum first… Good idea. Tea in the city will be lovely.’

  It was hard to accept that her father, at eighty-seven, was sounding older and beginning to slow down. Clearly, he was keener on an afternoon rendezvous than an earlier one. Perhaps he needed a nap first.

  The rain had stopped, and it was sunny, cold and breezy when the train arrived in Cromer after its forty-five-minute journey from Norwich. A sudden gust of wind almost knocked her over. And for the first time that day she laughed.

  She took a taxi to the Seastrand Nursing & Care Home where a smell of the lunchtime fish pie hung in the air. In the lounge, a member of staff was wiping the hands of an elderly woman while chatting to her colleagues who were clearing trays and rearranging furniture. No one was watching the television, which was blaring away in the corner. Most of the inmates – including her own parent – were asleep in their chairs.

  Wendy sat down beside her mother, who failed to stir even when she took her hand. She watched the news for a while then surveyed the various residents in their slumber. Most were people she had seen before, but there was someone new. Something about him seemed familiar; perhaps she had met him when he was younger. Despite his age, he was a fine-looking man, and dressed in a smart Norfolk jacket, white shirt and mustard-coloured tie.

  Turning back to her mother, she attempted to wake her. ‘Mum. Are you OK today?’

  There was no response.

  After ten minutes, she left. She would come again tomorrow. Right now it seemed more appropriate that she should spend time with her father.

  ‘And how is Robert?’

  For a second, Wendy’s knife hovered over the segment of scone she was buttering. She and her father were at the Maids Head Hotel. And, as she had not had lunch, she was enjoying afternoon tea with no qualms about calories or cholesterol.

  ‘He’s fine.’

  She should tell him that her marriage was over, but somehow this did not seem the right time. Her head felt strange, as though it was not quite connected to her, and the events of last night and this morning now seemed so surreal that she could not find reliable words to describe them.

  ‘And Rhys?’

  ‘Bless him. He’s playing the piano for ballet classes at Pineapple Studios. He also accompanies quite a good choir. But I think he’s going to have to make some career choices before long. Everything’s so uncertain for kids nowadays.’

  Her father smiled. ‘He’ll be all right. I’m lucky to have such clever grandsons. Of course, I’d love them even if they weren’t bright, but it’s a bonus.’

  Wendy beamed at him. ‘And Daniel adores Harvard, and he’s very caught up in the US presidential election. He says it’s a fascinating time to be
there.’

  ‘Is the idea that he’ll help you run your business once he’s got that Masters?’

  Wendy gazed at her parent and reflected how his brain did not appear in any way to have aged with his body. She hoped she might take after him rather than her mother.

  ‘He was quite keen before he went, but I think his horizons have widened now. He told me that lots of corporations offer jobs to students before they graduate. And I imagine that most of those are in America. So, I’m preparing myself for the possibility that he’ll stay there for a while.’

  Later, back at her parents’ house in Hethersett, the hours flew by. She made supper. They watched an episode of Midsomer Murders, and her father guessed who had ‘done it’ long before she did.

  By unspoken agreement, they did not talk about the third member of their tiny family. She had never understood why her father had selected a home for her mother in the north of the county when he lived south of Norwich. But distance did not keep her parents apart because he drove to see his wife most days and remained as devoted to her as ever. Indeed, he was so adamant that his place was by her side, that Wendy was unable to persuade him to visit her in London.

  ‘We’ve been lucky,’ he declared suddenly. ‘Your mother and I had a good marriage. The best possible daughter…’

  His conversations with her often followed this pattern and she always joined in, asserting that she was the lucky one to have had such wonderful parents. But this time, over their pre-bedtime hot chocolate, he expressed some regret.

  ‘Of course, it would have been nice to have had another child. A boy perhaps. But it was hard enough producing you.’

  She was suddenly alert to a confidence that had never come her way before. ‘Really? I mean, you were still young.’

  ‘Your mother was thirty when we had you. Not as old as you were when you had the twins, but old for those days. We were fortunate.’

  The next morning, the two of them went into Norwich and meandered around. They had no need to go to a supermarket because her father took care of all his shopping online; a fact she related to friends and colleagues, often and proudly. However, she did buy him a cashmere pullover and a bottle of his favourite whisky.

  Later, they lunched at Harriet’s Tea Rooms in London Street, before she left him to go out to the nursing home again.

  The Seastrand was playing host to a number of visitors when she arrived. Her mother was awake today and they sat together with Wendy chatting away about her sons in the hope of triggering some spark of memory in that impaired brain.

  But there was nothing. No comment. No eye contact. So, it came as a shock when the old lady spoke – for the first time in several visits. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. ‘Fuck off!’ Then she pulled her cardigan up over her face and resisted with considerable force when Wendy tried to pull it down again.

  Rationally, Wendy was aware that she was dealing with a poorly individual who had lost her mind and who was not rejecting her personally. But emotionally, she felt rejected – particularly because her mother had never used bad language at home and had indeed reduced Wendy’s pocket money as a teenager when she had once shouted ‘Blast’ having banged her knee on the table.

  Her mother remained beneath her cardigan, leaving Wendy feeling exposed as well as ashamed by the vehemence of the outburst, so she took herself off to the visitors’ lavatory to collect her thoughts.

  She remained in the tiny room for a while, repairing her make-up, and when she did emerge, she walked the long way round, through another lounge filled with more elderly men and women and their visitors.

  The new resident she had spotted asleep the previous day gave her a twinkly smile. Again, he was smartly dressed and quite dapper – wearing proper shoes rather than the slippers favoured by most of the other inmates, and a crisp, white shirt beneath a purple V-necked sweater, as well as expensive-looking black trousers. His female companion turned to see who had caught his attention.

  The two women stared at each other.

  ‘Minty?’

  ‘Wendy Lawrence! Wow! And how lovely to be called “Minty”. Takes me back to my youth. Everyone calls me Araminta now.’

  They both giggled. ‘I haven’t seen you since I left Anglia in 1990,’ Wendy said.

  ‘God, is it that long? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Visiting my mum. Is this your father?’

  The man nodded and put out his hand.

  ‘Gosh!’ Wendy took his hand. ‘Dr Yateman, you won’t remember this, but way back before I knew Minty, when I was a little girl, you were my doctor – until I was about seven, I think, and my parents moved house.’

  ‘I do remember, Wendy,’ he answered. ‘And I followed your career.’

  ‘That’s amazing.’

  He raised his right forefinger as he said, ‘You were my Number One!’

  Wendy laughed. ‘Would you remember my mother then? She’s in the next room.’

  Dr Yateman suddenly looked confused and somewhat agitated.

  ‘Dad’s only been here for a week,’ Araminta explained.

  ‘I see, well, Mum’s been here for months. I’m afraid she doesn’t know who she is any more, let alone anyone else.’

  The old doctor’s eyes flickered between his daughter and Wendy. ‘Want to lie down,’ he announced. He tried to stand up, but his balance was poor and he needed help.

  Araminta put out her arm to steady him. ‘Dad, you’ve not been awake long. I thought we were going to play Scrabble.’

  ‘Tired now.’ He seemed distressed. ‘Come again soon.’ Then he swivelled round to look at Wendy again. ‘Will you come too?’ he asked as he lurched forward, almost falling, and kissed her cheek.

  Araminta looked embarrassed, then muttered something about him still being a ladies’ man. She held tightly on to her father’s arm as he headed, jerkily, for the door.

  ‘I’ll just get Dad settled,’ she called to Wendy, over her shoulder. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to go somewhere and have tea?’

  ‘I really would! Give me a couple of minutes to say cheerio to my mother. Not that she’ll…’

  The two women nodded knowingly at each other.

  Having established that neither of them had to rush, Araminta drove them along the coast to a tea room in a nature reserve.

  ‘Do you mind me asking what’s wrong with your father?’ Wendy queried as they walked in and selected a table by the window. ‘He’s certainly more with it than my mother.’

  ‘Well, he had a severe heart attack six months ago, but – against all expectations except his own – he rallied quite well. However, his memory was affected, though I sometimes wonder if he’s as vague as he appears. But other parts of his body seem to be giving up. To be honest, I doubt if we’ll ever understand exactly what his health problems are because he’s always been adamant that when he was old, he wouldn’t want what he calls “interventions”. He signed something to that effect which his GP passed on to the home.’

  ‘Difficult, isn’t it, this ageing business?’

  Araminta nodded. ‘Funny thing is that sometimes he seems almost normal. He definitely meant what he said about following your career. When I finally got him and my mother to agree to me applying for a job at Anglia, and that was a hell of a business let me tell you, he became fascinated in what I was doing, once I started working with you.’

  Their conversation focused then on their time at Anglia. They agreed that the age gap of some six years between them had been too large for them to have been close friends as well as colleagues, but they enjoyed recalling how much they had liked each other, and reminisced about the days when Araminta – having started as a copy-taker – became PA to Wendy when she was the main news director. Their working partnership had been disrupted only when Araminta had married young and produced a son.

  ‘I think the last time we met, you brought your toddler in when you came to do a shift on the programme. I remember everyone volunteering to babysit hi
m in the newsroom. You could see he was going to be a heartbreaker!’

  Araminta looked up from stirring her tea. ‘I still have a photograph from that day of Andrew sitting on your knee. It lives on top of my piano… You’ve changed your hairstyle. It suits you shorter and swept back, but then you always did have good cheekbones. Actually, you’ve hardly altered at all.’

  Wendy guffawed. ‘What nonsense. I’m going to be sixty next year! I’m a rather overripe size fourteen, and my hair would be quite grey if I didn’t have all these bronzy highlights put into it.’

  ‘Well, you look great. I, on the other hand, have changed a lot.’

  Wendy made no comment. Araminta was too thin and had the look of someone who had suffered. Having been a vivacious young woman and a colourful and trendy dresser, she was wearing camel-coloured clothes that looked slightly too big for her, her hair – a paler shade of auburn than it had once been – was pulled back into a ponytail, and her tired-looking face was cosmetic-free.

  ‘Tell me,’ Wendy changed the subject, ‘what’s your son doing now? He must be, um, about thirty. And did you have any more children?’

  Araminta used her fork to play with the slice of chocolate cake she had ordered, but did not reply.

  Wendy stretched out her hand and stroked the other woman’s arm. ‘Have I put my foot in it? Sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. The good news is that I have a lovely daughter, Hannah. She’s working for a company who make programmes for Channel 4. She’s living the dream… wants to get into television news… Got an Iranian boyfriend, who’s a journalist on the Financial Times, and is not just brilliant but the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen. But Andrew was killed. He was a passenger on his dad’s motorbike – about fourteen months ago now. They both died.’

  ‘Oh! I’m so sorry. I was going to ask about Simon.’

  ‘Obviously it was sad about him, but it was devastating to lose Andrew. He had such a lot of living left to do, but there we go. I’ve been lucky really. I’ve had a lot of support from the local priest. Also, I suspect the fact that I’m a therapist these days helped me. All the training, it, uh, provides insight into how we think.’