Little Bits of Baby (15 page)

When Robin left for university (which was effectively when he left home, so small were the spans of holiday he spent in Clapham) Andrea had let herself be drawn into a deeper involvement with the choir. She took time off from the nursery school in Barnes where she then worked, and went on singing tours of Denmark, Israel and Holland, not enjoying herself greatly, because she missed Peter, but writing him long, amused letters and assuming that such extended leave from her presence would be a treat for him. When the choir librarian took time off to have a baby, Andrea stood in for her then accepted the post full-time when her predecessor miscarried and defected to sing for the BBC. Not content with the considerable task of ordering, numbering, distributing and recovering music, Andrea stood for election soon after this and was voted Alto Representative. This was a sort of Head Girl post. Any alto unable to attend a rehearsal had to call her in advance to apologise, she had to organise lift rotas for altos stranded in the suburbs, take head-counts, issue disciplinary warnings to absentees, sell choir pencils to those who had forgotten to bring one, welcome new girls and acquaint them with the vagaries of the dress and attendance codes.

When Robin ran away to become a monk and his childhood friend (to whom Andrea had shown such kindness, having her to stay for the entire summer holiday of her parents' divorce) married Jake Browne, Peter had gone to pieces. At first he took a week's holiday and, convinced that Robin had been brainwashed by some right-wing cult, had set about trying to get Abbot Jonathan to release him then, when that failed, trying to alert the police and press. Eventually, once Andrea was in communication with the Abbot, Peter accepted that Whelm was a bona fide religious community but the thought that his only child had rejected them both and the life for which they had so carefully nurtured him broke some inner support of his and he crumpled before Andrea's eyes. He didn't throw in his job and he wasn't sacked; it was a compassionate in-between with an early pension. He gave up the orchestra soon after that, or was tactfully eased out of it. The idea of starting a kindergarten of her own had always been at the back of her mind and she had never got over her relief at the way he had seized on her suggestion and used it to climb out of his collapse.

The visits to Marcus's hospital bedside and trips to the gym were now Peter's only regular outings from the house without his wife so, more than ever, Andrea clung to the choir as his important respite from her. She knew that he had no time in his life for fitting in any but the most self-effacing mistress. Inflamed by magazine articles, despite her intelligent scepticism, she nevertheless made half-jokes to Faber about her suspicions in the superstitious hope that these would defuse the risk.

The evening was cloudy-hot and humid and, with thin windows twenty feet off the floor and impossible to open, the practice hall was almost entirely unventilated. To make matters worse, a nervous fug lingered from an exam held in there that afternoon. Andrea had arrived early, as usual, and helped the Honorary Secretary set out chairs. He was a bossily efficient administrator with a military bearing she suspected of being bogus. He had never been particularly amiable towards Andrea but tonight it seemed that no courtesy would suffice.

‘I say, you look well!' he said, and ‘Easy now. We don't want to strain that graceful back of yours,' and then, ‘I'll do the rest with young Tompkins, here. It's so frightfully stuffy in here tonight. You sit down there and get on with your bookery.'

So, perturbed but grateful, she sat at her table by the swing doors, reading some more of
Blood Will Out
and occasionally signed out copies of
The Dream of Gerontius
to those who had missed its first rehearsal last week. The heat had made people pink and short-tempered so it was possible that she was mistaken in detecting a strangeness in the manner of the altos she greeted. The pianist arrived, deep in chortling conversation with the choirmaster, and the rehearsal began. The piece being a choral society standard, most of the singers knew it well and by half-time they had covered Gerontius's dreamed death and run once, erratically, through the devils' chorus. The men could leave early, it was announced, because the second half would be devoted to the women-only angelical sections.

‘However,' the Honorary Secretary continued, ‘an EGM has been called for.'

‘What's an EGM?' Andrea's neighbour asked her.

‘Extraordinary General Meeting,' Andrea told her.

‘Presumably none of you gentlemen wants to come back from the pub just for that, so would anyone object if we held it now?' said the Honorary Secretary. ‘Shouldn't take too long.' He looked around. There were questioning looks, not least from Andrea, but no objections. ‘Right,' he said and cleared his throat. ‘I declare this extraordinary general meeting open. Mrs President?'

The President, a soprano with an imposing manner and silver coiffure to match, rose to take the floor.

‘Very briefly,' she said, ‘I've been asked to call an election for the post of Alto Rep. It seems that Andrea Maitland, who has served us well and long, has a challenger in the person of Maeve Mckechnie.'

Andrea froze. She knew who Maeve Mckechnie was, of course, having welcomed her into the choir, but they had never spoken since then. Maeve Mckechnie went to a different, younger pub in the rehearsal interval and always sat in the back row, while Andrea sat at the front. Maeve Mckechnie had a close-knit circle of sharp-faced City-worker friends.

‘Now, if you ladies could both stand up briefly in case anyone doesn't know which you are …' Andrea stood and heard a giggle somewhere behind her, presumably where Maeve Mckechnie was standing. ‘Lovely,' the President went on. Andrea's cheeks were burning. This had never happened before; voice rep elections were only called on the announcement of a rep's death or voluntary retirement. She could sense the awkwardness around her. ‘Right. You can both sit down, now.' Andrea sat. The tenors and basses were muttering, some even chuckling in embarrassed disbelief at this palace revolution. She could meet no one's eye but fixed her stare on the President's clipboard. ‘Now, those voting for the present Alto Rep, Andrea Maitland, please raise a hand,' the President asked. Andrea felt hands rise close by, but the President's counting didn't take long. ‘Thank you. And now, those voting for the new candidate, Maeve Mckechie?' She began to count then said, ‘Only
one
hand,' which raised a giggle. ‘Thank you. Now, any abstainers.' There were several abstainers, kindly embarrassed at so public a taking-of-sides. ‘There,' said the President with a satisfied smile, totting up figures on her clipboard. Her nickname, doubtless known to and enjoyed by her, was HRH. ‘Now Andrea, do we have any absentees today?'

‘Oh. Erm. Yes,' said Andrea, and felt for her diary. Her cheeks burned as she turned to the day's entry. ‘Five,' she said.

‘Would you like us to wait and find out their votes?'

‘I don't think so. Unless you think they would …'

‘Actually, it wouldn't make much difference,' the President warned her.

‘Well, no, then,' Andrea conceded.

‘In that case,' the President raised her voice and took a few paces back so as to be more in the centre of the choir's horseshoe, ‘I announce that Maeve Mckechnie has been elected as new Alto Representative with thirty votes against Andrea Maitland's ten. There were five absentees and ten abstainers.'

Damn the abstainers, thought Andrea.

As was customary the choir clapped. Maeve Mckechnie's supporters cheered. The President begged for silence.

‘And would we just show our appreciation for all Andrea's hard work. She will, of course, be continuing as choir librarian.' She turned on Andrea with a gracious smile. ‘
Thank
you, Andrea.' Several people were already halfway across the room to the pub but they paused to clap again.

‘Is there any further business?' asked the President, hushing the chatter and stopping would-be drinkers in their tracks. Nobody offered further business. ‘Very well then. Honorary Secretary, ladies and gentlemen, I declare this extraordinary general meeting over.'

There was a rush for the pub. Several people, including the President, came to shake Andrea's hand or pat her back with condoling murmurs. The Honorary Secretary, doubtless feeling that he had already done his bit by being charming before the event, disappeared without a word. Andrea sat on in the swirl of light Autumn cardigans and tangled chairs.

‘Coming for a Guinness, old girl?'

She looked up. It was Victor, the used-car dealer. He had taken a long-standing shine to her and was forever standing her drinks. Or perhaps she merely aroused his compassion.

‘Be with you in a sec, Victor,' she said. ‘You go on.'

The hall was almost empty. A few of the women never went to the pubs but brought thermoses of coffee and boxes of homemade nibbles which they passed round amongst themselves in a corner. The pianist had already returned from the local hamburger bar with his customary milkshake. A few men were poring noisily over newspapers or displaying records they had brought in to lend to friends. Andrea picked up her bag, left her music on her seat and left. She walked past the pub, however, and the place where Maeve Mckechnie would be celebrating her victory, and stood at the bus stop for the journey home. There was no sign of a bus so, not wanting to be found waiting there when the singers emerged from their drinking, she damned the expense and hailed a taxi.

Seventeen

Peter was alone at the kitchen table trying to solve even half the crossword that Marcus had been filling out so effortlessly that afternoon. He had long ago abandoned the honourable method. Andrea's dog-eared ‘backstairs' dictionary lay close to hand and he was riffling through Roget's Thesaurus in search of an elusive synonym for seduction that seemed to be spelt S blank blank blank P blank R Y. If he didn't find it soon he would be forced to go upstairs, burrow in the jumble of mending heaps, neglected embroidery and hoarded magazines under the sofa to find the Scrabble set; a three-dimensional alphabet often jogged his memory. It wasn't cheating, not as much as Roget's Thesaurus, even if it felt like it whenever Andrea caught him pushing and rearranging the little letters.

There was a newly familiar thunder on the stairs overhead – Robin coming down. Brevity was yapping at his heels. At first her jealousy at his return had sent her into a bleak decline. She had refused her food for days and spent hours on end unreachably beneath a tallboy in Andrea and Peter's bedroom. Now that it was understood that his visit would be a longish one, she had changed tactics and taken to trailing him adoringly through the house, all the more excited for his scorn. Robin stopped in the doorway and, bending, turned to face her.

‘Go away,' he pronounced. ‘I
hate
you.'

Brevity sneezed then rolled on her back and waved her legs at him. He snorted disgust and turned back to his father. He was transformed. He had been to a barber to have his hair cut and beard tidied. Peter felt he couldn't say anything, but his son had looked none too clean since his return and on some days had been downright smelly. Now he shone as though he had been scrubbed, and had brought a scent of sandalwood to the room. The black clothes, it would seem, had finally found their way to the laundry basket. Robin had dug out an old dark blue suit that was a hand-me-down from his paternal grandfather and a white collarless shirt that was spotless, if unironed. With a flash of red braces, he slung himself into a chair across the table from Peter.

‘Aren't I smart?' he said with a knowing grin.

‘Well,' Peter ventured, ‘It is an improvement.'

‘What are you stuck on?'

‘I'm not stuck, exactly.'

‘What's the clue?'

‘“Blonde goddess is heard to lay foundations for naughtiness after success at rugby football.” I've got S blank blank blank P-blank-R-Y.'

Robin frowned, looking suddenly like Andrea in a stage beard, and gently took the newspaper. He tapped the pencil across the squares as he counted letters in his head.

‘Well,' he said, ‘The S and P are wrong, for a start; it's “Husses” not “Skates” and “Torrid” not … What's that word, with the P?'

‘Er. Oh. “Spires”.'

‘Spires?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where did you get
that
from?'

‘Not sure.'

‘Anyway,' Robin spared him, rubbing out the wrong letters and filling in three new words, ‘It's “Torrid” in there which means we can put in “Harlotry” in six across.'

‘Ah!' said Peter, as though he saw, but his curiosity got the better of him. ‘Why?'

‘“Blonde goddess is heard” – that's “harlo” which sounds like Harlow, as in Jean,' Robin explained. ‘“To lay foundations” – that means harlo comes first. “After success at rugby football” – that means you put “try” after “harlo” and the whole thing makes a word for naughtiness. Well. Not really, but if you look it up in the thesaurus they'll probably give it as a synonym.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Not at all.'

‘Want to do any more?'

‘No. It's all yours, but twelve down's an anagram.'

‘Oh,' said Peter, taking the crossword back. ‘If you say so. Are you going out?'

‘Yes. I'm out for supper.'

‘Where? Not that you have to tell me, or anything.'

‘Faber's asked me.' Robin smiled at his father's delicacy. ‘Faber Washington.'

‘Oh. Your mother didn't mention it.'

‘Why should she? I haven't told her.'

‘But Faber's her best friend. Well. One of them.'

‘Is he? He never said.'

‘She's been going round to him for cups of coffee and stuff almost every day since you … while you were away. However unlikely it might seem.'