2009 - We Are All Made of Glue (8 page)

“Fortunately we were dressed by the time they got back. Mum fell for him at once. He could really put on the charm. Dad thought he was a class enemy. You see Rip was from a moneyed family, and I thought he might patronise my parents. But he was nice…respectful.”

She flicked her head impatiently. “So tell me more about loff.”

“Well…” the memories tightened in my throat, “you could say it’s a tempestuous story of forbidden love between an almost-aristocrat and a humble girl from a mining village.”

She nodded. “This is a good beginning.”

They’d been out to the Miners’ Welfare in Castleford—a retirement do for a fellow pit-deputy. There’d been a singa-long and speeches, and then more beer was drunk. Dad was glassy-eyed and unusually talkative. Mum, who’d drawn the driving straw, was also not stone cold sober.

Dad: (Mutters to Mum.) What the heck’s our Georgie brought home?

Mum: (Whispers to me.) You’ve landed a good fish here, Georgie.

Me: (Embarrassed, to Rip.) Meet my parents, Jean and Dennis Shutworth.

Rip: (All charm and golden curls.) Rip Sinclair. Delighted to meet you.

§

Dad was wearing his best three-piece suit, the waistcoat all buttoned up. The only concession he ever made to slackness was a slightly loosened tie. Mum, on the other hand, had long since surrendered to the lure of the elasticated waistband, but she’d made a special effort for the occasion, with a cupid’s bow of cerise lipstick and a dab of Je Reviens behind her ears.

§

Mum: (Taking extra care with her vowels.) Rip. That’s an unusual name.

Rip: (A dimply self-deprecating grin.) It’s short for Euripides. My parents had great hopes for me. (His smile makes my heart jump about all over the place. I’m in love.)

Dad: (Whispers to me.) Not your type, Georgie.

Me: (Whisper to Dad.) You’ve got it wrong. He’s not like that. He’s on our side.

Dad: (Jaw tight. Silence.)

Mum: (Getting in quick.) Would you care to join us for some tea?

§

“And so he drank the tea?” Mrs Shapiro stifled a yawn. “Mit your parents? This is quite normal in Germany.”

“No. In Yorkshire, tea also means dinner.”

Mum had pulled the giant-sized pack of oven chips out of the freezer, shook the contents into a Pyrex dish, and slipped a dozen pre-cooked BBQ-flavour Chicken Drumstix under the grill, heated up a tin of Jackson’s own-brand mushroom soup in the microwave and poured it over the drumsticks. My heart shrank into its boots. “Chicken chez-sewer,” she said, sprinkling them liberally with salt, in case Mr Jackson had been stingy in that regard. Rip made a great show of pleasure, chomping noisily and wiping his mouth on a torn-off square of paper towel. Mum was completely charmed.

We’d all squeezed round the bench and table in the kitchen. Rip was wedged between Dad and the corner. I was sitting on the other side with Mum.

§

Dad: (Still suspicious.) So what do you do for a living?

Rip: (A strange look of panic has come over him.) I’m training to be a…(he catches my eye)…Johnny…

Me: (What’s going on? Why has he turned suddenly weird?)

Mum: (From the cooker. Awed.) That sounds interesting.

Rip:…a solicitor. (Dad is chomping a drumstick. Rip is gesturing to me behind the table—a hand movement that looks a bit like wanking.)

Me: (Proud.) He was defending the miners in court today, Dad.

Dad: (Determined not to be impressed.) You mean Jack Fairboys and Robbie Middon?

Rip: (Giving me a kick under the table.) Yes, Jack and Rob. Rub. Rub…ber.

Dad: (Gives him a funny look.) They got off, din’t they?

Rip: (Shifty.) Absolutely. Scot free.

Dad: (Concentrating on the ketchup bottle.) Lads being lads. Should never have gone to court.

Rip: (More covert under-the-table wanking.) No case to answer. On the floor. By the fire. Justice was done.

Me: (A light dawns.) Excuse me, Mum…

§

I squeezed out past her and into the sitting room. There it was on the floor by the fire, glistening and slippery. I picked it up and tossed it into the embers. There was a brief sizzle and a smell of burning rubber. In the kitchen I could hear Mum saying, “I like a man with a good appetite. Euridopeas! Well I never!”

I looked across to see whether Mrs Shapiro had got the joke, but her eyes were closed, and I realised she’d drifted off to sleep long ago.

§

When I got home, at about three o’clock, there was a message on the answering machine from Mrs Goodknee. Would I be so kind as to ring her—a tinny, middle-aged voice. I rang, and got another answering machine. I left a message. Then I made myself a cup of tea, and took it up to my room. I’d taken the six photographs out of my bag and spread them across the floor in front of the window like playing cards. Now, crouching down beside them, I frowned as I tried to puzzle out the story I was sure was there.

First, the Shapiro family in which Artem was the toddler, taken in 1905. Then the wedding photograph—a different woman. Artem Shapiro must have been married to someone else before Naomi. The same couple, Artem and the mystery woman, were pictured in another photograph standing in front of a fountain. There was snow on the ground. He was wearing a cap pulled down low over his eyes and smoking a cigarette, grinning broadly at the camera. She was wearing a tight-waisted coat and a beret cocked rakishly to one side, looking up at him. There was something scrawled on the back.
Stockholm Dwtt
…I couldn’t make out the rest of the word.

There was a group photo, a man and four women wearing formal clothes seated around a piano.
Wechsler family, London 1940
it said on the back. I looked closely, but the faces were too small to be distinct. In another of the photographs I recognised Canaan House with the monkey puzzle tree, quite a bit smaller than now, in the background. Two women were standing in front of the porch. The taller of the two looked like the brown-eyed woman in the wedding photograph. The other, curly-haired and elfin small, I didn’t recognise. I turned the picture over. On the back was written
Highbury 1948
.1 looked more closely—although the facial features were indistinct, there was something familiar about the defiant feet-apart pose of the smaller woman. I remembered the slight boyish figure in the light of the street lamp, pulling things out of the skip. Naomi. So they’d been together in Canaan House, they’d known each other.

I recognised the same woman in another photo; this time she was alone, standing in an arched stone doorway, wearing a flowery dress, her dark eyes squinting into the sun, smiling. On the back was written
Lydda 1950
. That’s a pretty name, I thought, for a pretty woman. But who was she?

Downstairs, the front door slammed; the house shook. Ben, coming home from school at half past four. I heard the thud of his school bag in the hall, the slap of his parka on the floor, and the thump-thump of his footsteps on the stairs. A few minutes later, I heard the Windows welcome chimes. He hadn’t even said hello. I felt something in my chest fall away and flap against my heart. Sweeping the photos together into a pile, I went down to the kitchen, made two cups of tea and carried them upstairs. I knocked on the door of his room but he didn’t answer, so I pushed it open with my foot. Ben was sitting at his desk staring at the computer monitor. I caught a quick glimpse of the screen—a flash of red writing on a black page. A single word, picked out in flickering white flames, leapt out at me:
Armageddon
. Then with a click of the mouse the screen changed to a Microsoft sky.

“Ben…”

“What?”

“What’s the matter, love?”

“Nothing.”

I reached out and ruffled his hair. He flinched under my touch and I withdrew my hand quickly.

“It’s okay to feel upset, Ben. It’s a hard time for all of us.”

“I don’t feel upset.”

He was still staring silently at the screen, his hands clenched into fists, resting on the front of the keyboard as if waiting for me to go away. The blue light of the monitor caught the curve of his cheek and his upper lip, lightly shadowed with dark, soft down.

“Is it school? How’s the new class?”

“Okay. Fine. Cool.”

The move from Leeds to London had been hard on Ben. He’d resented being plucked out of his group of friends, some of whom he’d known since pre-school playgroup, and having to fight his way into the unwelcoming circles of his North London comprehensive. He never brought any friends home, but a few times he’d come back from school later than usual, and muttered something about having been with someone called Spike. Spike—what kind of a name was that? Although I burned with curiosity, I knew better than to press for details.

“What would you like for tea, love?”

“Anything. Spaghetti.”

“Okay. About half an hour?”

“I’ll come down, Mum. All right?” he said without looking up, in a voice that meant leave me alone’.

I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of Rioja, feeling my failure sink inside me like a stone. Failed wife. Failed mother. Friendless—for my old Leeds friends were Rip’s friends, too. I tried ringing Stella in York, but she was out, and the resident rock band was in session. Mum had enough troubles of her own—I’d ring her when I was feeling better. I downed the Rioja in a couple of gulps, and poured another. Maybe I should get a cat—or seven or eight.

No, I’d just have to pull myself together and make new friends here in London. In fact I’d made one already. (The Rioja slipped down, warmly reassuring). Sure, her food hygiene left something to be desired, but we were mates. And I had online work colleagues, too, whom I’d known for years but never met. I’d drop in at the
Adhesives
office in Southwark one day and say hello. I was particularly curious to meet Nathan, the boss. He had a soft, confiding voice when we spoke on the phone, as though he was sharing a secret, not just passing on technical information. I’d no idea what he looked like, but I imagined someone hunkily intelligent, with horn-rimmed glasses and a sexy white lab coat. Penny told me he was single, so I was in with a chance, and he lived with his elderly father, which seemed gentle and caring.

Penny was the admin manager; I’d never met her either, but she liked to gossip on the phone in her booming voice, filling me in about all the other people
I’d
never met: Sheila the office junior; Paul and Vie, who took care of the technical side and, alternately, of Sheila; Mardy Mari, the cleaner from hell; Lucy from design, who was a Jehovah’s Witness and got up Mari’s nose. Then there were the other freelancers like me, whose intimate lives she dispensed without inhibition.

Rip’s new Progress Project colleagues were frighteningly high-powered. I’d met some of them at a Christmas party last year. He’d introduced me to a couple called Tarquin and Jacquetta (Mum would think they were a kind of food bug) and Pectoral Pete and his wife Ottoline. He was bulging pectorally out of a loud check jacket. She was like a china doll—dainty and expressionless, with a perfect bow-shaped scarlet mouth and a voice that tinkled like cut glass. Rip had spent most of the evening out in the corridor tapping at his BlackBerry.

I poured myself another Rioja. My cheeks began to glow pleasantly. I went and fetched my exercise book.

“
Darling, I have to attend to some really important work on my BlackBerry,” said remarked Hick one evening
.

“
Of course, beloved,” she said murmured softly. (Vary your vocabulary, Mrs Featherstone used to say.) “Your work is really important and must always take precedence over everything else
.”

“
How lucky I am to have such an understanding wife,” said he uttered, and kissed her on her cheek before disappearing. (I know this is a bit unbelievable, but it is fiction
.)

An hour later Gina was surprised to hear a ringing sound suspiciously like Rick’s BlackBerry coming from the study. But Rick was nowhere to be seen
.

§

Suddenly I felt the pressure of a warm hand on my shoulder.

“When’s dinner ready?”

Quickly, I closed my exercise book and pushed the almost-empty wine bottle aside.

“Sorry, Ben. Just catching up on a bit of work.”

He frowned. “You should go easy on that stuff, Mum.”

“What, this?” I giggled. “It’s only a little Rioja.” Was he worried that I would turn into an unfit mother? I caught the anxious look in his eyes, and pulled myself together. Maybe he had a point.

We cooked dinner together. Pasta with anchovies, broccoli and Parmesan—a recipe Mrs Sinclair had taught me. Dad once boasted that he had never eaten broccoli in his life, and never intended to. Mum said that anchovies—anchoovies she called them—made her breath smell. Parmesan they did eat—they sprinkled it out of a cardboard container straight on to tinned spaghetti hoops. Mum said it gave them a touch of distinction.

Ben slurped his spaghetti noisily, pulling a goofy face to make me laugh, like when he was a little boy pretending to eat worms. From the next room, we could hear the television booming, the chimes of the evening news. I wasn’t really paying attention; I was still thinking about Rip—his BlackBerry obsession, my toothbrush-holder obsession. How had we let our happiness be ruined by such trivial things?

“Why do they do that?” Ben asked suddenly. His face clouded over and he seemed to hunch himself lower over his plate.

“What?”

“Suicide bombers—why do they blow themselves up?”

He was listening to an item on the news.

“It’s because…when people are desperate…it’s the way they draw attention…”

The warm glow from the Rioja had worn off and a gnawing headache was burrowing into my skull. “It’s when you want to hurt someone so much you don’t care if you hurt yourself, too.” Desperate. I remembered the frothed milk splattered all over the kitchen.

“But why do
that?
It’s gross.” Ben was still staring into his plate, twirling the remaining strands of spaghetti around his fork. Then he said, without looking up, “It’s like…There was this kid at school who cut his arms with a razor.”