Olivia’s Luck (2000) (31 page)

Molly looked at me in horror. “Liwy, you’re surely not thinking – ”

“Liv darling, he’ll have your guts for garters,” interrupted Hugh gently, taking my arm. “And not just for garters. He’ll make suspenders out of them, believe me. The man’s world famous, he has a name to protect and, God, even if he hadn’t, even if he was as small a fish as I am, he’d be so bloody furious about being accused of – Well, Christ, if anyone said that about me I’d – I’d – bloody…” For once he was lost for words.

“Precisely,” I said quietly. “So don’t you see? I have to go back. It’s so awful, what I’ve done, and now I’ve made it worse. I have to go back.” I turned.

Molly caught my arm. “Wait a bit,” she urged. “Hang around out here and wait until everyone’s gone. Catch him on the way out. At least then he won’t be surrounded by all those bloody sycophants.”

I shook her off. “No, I’m going. If I don’t go now I’ll never pluck up the courage, and then I’ll never do it.”

They watched in silence as I walked away from them. I retraced my steps, up into the Abbey, down the side aisle that we’d just this minute raced through, bubbling over with laughter, down towards the altar. I tracked right through the nave, past the tombs, the monuments, round the vast painted column at the far end, and then, full of fear and dread, went down through the great gothic arch and the wooden steps to the refectory. I stopped for a second, my hand on the handle, heart pounding. There was still plenty of noise coming from inside, chattering and laughing – and for a moment I almost lost my nerve. Molly was right: I didn’t have to do this. Not here. Not now. Some other time perhaps. Then – damn it. Get on with it, Liwy. I turned the handle and walked in.

The room was still crowded, but not nearly so tightly packed. It had thinned out a little and it was possible to walk around. I slid along the sides, my eyes darting, searching, until quite quickly I found who I was looking for. He saw me at exactly the same moment. Broke off abruptly from talking to the cluster of ten or so people around him who were listening intently. I wouldn’t say you could hear a pin drop, exactly, because the rest of the room was still buzzing, but certainly as the group around Sebastian fell silent, it provoked something of a ripple effect. I noticed Imogen and Ursula to the right of me, staring.

“Excuse me,” muttered Sebastian to his neighbour. He came towards me, a muscle going in his cheek.

“Mrs McFarllen,” he said in a low voice, “you’ve made your way back to my party. Is that wise? Are you so deprived of social engagements that you seek out even those where you are clearly unwelcome?” His voice was soft, but bitter and scathing, and it seemed to me that at this point, the rest of the room caught his tone and went quiet.

In an instant Ursula and Imogen were beside me.

“Olivia, what is it?” hissed Ursula. “What’s going on?”

I cleared my throat. “I’ve come to apologise,” I said, looking up into his stony face. “I made a very foolish mistake the other day, and accused you,” I made myself meet his cold brown eyes, “of a dreadful thing.”

“
What? What dreadful thing?” urged Ursula, just a little too
agog.

“She accused me of being a child molester,” said Sebastian in a level voice. “A paedophile.”

A horrified gasp went round the room.

“No!” someone breathed, Then, “Good God!” and, “Slanderous!”

“Olivia, how could you!” gaped Ursula.

I felt incredibly giddy and a bit light-headed, but I managed to meet his eyes.

“How could I?” I said. “Because I was frightened. Terrified, actually. I don’t know if you have children, Mr Faulkner, but let me tell you, the most frightening thing in the world is losing them. I lost my child,” I said, forcing myself to look round the room, to catch anyone’s eye who was interested, “last Sunday. My ten-year-old. She slipped off on her own on her bike, and when I followed the route I imagined she’d taken, through the woods, down by the river, I found something that confirmed my worst fears. Her bike, dragged into the bushes, and abandoned. When I asked a passer-by – no, screamed at a passer-by – if she’d seen a little girl in red shorts, she said yes, going into a nearby house, sobbing, and being taken by a tall man. This tall man.”

Even Ursula looked slightly askance at this. She shot a look at Sebastian, who was still staring at me.

“So without stopping to think, and imagining only horror, I stormed into that house, all guns blazing, to find my little girl, sitting in this same man’s house, and wearing nothing at all, but his dressing gown.” I paused. “Now what would you have thought?” I asked, trembling now. “Ursula, what would you have thought?” I turned demanding eyes on her.

“Well I – I…” she floundered, turning bewildered eyes on Sebastian.

“Exactly. You’d have thought the same as me. But you’d be wrong, as it happens, and that’s why I’m here. To apologise. I apologise, Mr Faulkner.”

There was a stunned silence.

“S-so what happened?” stammered Ursula. “I’m confused, I mean, if he didn’t – ”

“Claudia fell in the river,” I said. “She hit a rut on her bike and went headfirst into the stream, banged her head on a rock. Mr Faulkner saw from an upstairs window and rushed out to help her. He dried her clothes, gave her a dressing gown, and made her some tea. I have a lot to be thankful for. She had a pretty bad bump and had he not seen her, had she been floundering about in the river for longer, it could have been a different story. I might even have lost her. As it was,” I turned back to Sebastian, “I called you every foul and vile name under the sun. In my defence I might say that I had no idea who you were, although I doubt that would have made any difference. To an enraged mother a famous composer is just as culpable as a man in a dirty mac. But I was wrong.” I was aware my voice was beginning to wobble so I speeded it up. “Very wrong. I slandered and insulted you and I’m deeply sorry and ashamed. I’d like to thank you for being so quick-witted and helping Claudia, and – and I deeply regret,” I rushed on, “any pain I’ve caused you. I’m sorry.”

With that I turned, and without waiting to hear his, or Ursula’s views on the subject, walked out of the room. I went back down the Abbey, and out into the night, whereupon I promptly burst into tears.

T
hat night I slept fitfully. I dreamt I was up on the Abbey stage, a key member of Sebastian’s orchestra, performing his masterpiece with a vast, outsized cello clamped between my legs. As I screeched and scraped away hopelessly, making a terrible din and ruining the symphony, the front row of the audience became mutinous.

“Off! Get her off!” they yelled.

I glanced up from my bow, sweat pouring off me, to see Angie, Howard, my mother, Imogen, Ursula, Johnny and Nina, their faces all contorted with rage, shaking their fists, baying for my blood.

“She never could play!” yelled Johnny, on his feet now. “She’s a fraud!”

In the row behind, Alf, Mac and Spiro, still in their work overalls, feet up, and swigging Stella from cans, were booing and making obscene gestures involving strenuous wrist action. A can came flying my way. “Off, get ‘er off!” they jeered.

Finally Sebastian stalked on from the wings, enraged. “Mrs McFarllen,” he spat, “in the words of the great Thomas Beecham, you have between your legs something that can bring pleasure to millions, and all you can do is
scratch
it!”

“I can’t play!” I wept. “I never said I could, I – ”

“Mummy, Mummy!” I was being bounced up and down now, my head nearly coming off my shoulders as it rocked back and forth.

“Aaggh! Don’t! I’ll learn, I swear to God I’ll learn, I’ll – Claudes!”

I opened my eyes to see Claudia, astride me, dressed in her stripy summer school uniform, bouncing me up and down on the bed. The sun was streaming in through the windows.

“Learn what?” She frowned down at me.

“Oh my God,” I breathed, blinking sweaty eyelids and pushing back my hair. “What a nightmare. What a godawful, terrible, horrific, nightmare. I feel sick. What time is it?”

“Twenty to eight, and I’ve got my ballet exam today.” She yanked the duvet off me. “Oh yuk! You’re all sweaty!” She dropped it back in disgust.

I sat up and clutched my head. She was right, my hair was plastered to my scalp, my T-shirt sticking to me. I shot my eyes to the bedside clock.

“Christ! Your ballet exam! You’re supposed to be there in twenty minutes!”

“I know.”

“All tutu’d up with a hairnet on!”

“I know.”

I stared. “And you deliberately didn’t wake me earlier because you don’t want to do it! Claudia, you are such a devious, mendacious little – ”

“Don’t say the F word.”

“I wasn’t about to say the F word!”

“It shows lack of character. And, anyway, what’s the problem? I’m waking you now, aren’t I?”

“Claudia, I’ll give you lack of character!” I seethed, leaping out of bed and grabbing my jeans. I plunged my legs into them. “Just get your tail downstairs
now
, grab your tutu and get in that car and I’ll join you there in two minutes!
And don’t forget the bloody hairnet!
”

Three minutes later, unwashed, dying for a cup of tea, mouth like the bottom of a budgie’s cage and armpits decidedly pongy, I was nevertheless reversing at high speed out of that drive. I can move when I feel like it and, amazingly, I thought, glancing smugly at the clock, we’d made it. She’d be in that exam room in precisely ten minutes, strapped into her pointes and doing the dying swan if I killed us both on the A41 in the process.

“You’ll make it,” I snarled as she sulked beside me.

“Yeah, I know,” she sighed, resignedly. She’d had a go, but I’d had a better one.

I caught sight of myself in the rear-view mirror and pushed desperate hands through greasy hair. “Oh, Claudes,
look
at me! Pass me my – ”

“Here.” She’d already reached into the glove compartment and found my dark glasses.

I shoved them on. “Thanks.”

“And this?” She picked up an old baseball cap from the floor.

“Please.” I rammed it on.

She was still rummaging around. “Mint?”

“Definitely.” I opened my mouth and she popped in a Polo. I sucked for a bit, then shot her a sideways glance. Winked.

“Heavy night?” she offered sympathetically.

“Terrible,” I groaned, sucking hard. I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips, remembering. “Oh gosh,
really
terrible, actually.” What an evening. What an absolutely, awful evening!

“I had a great time last night, Mum.”

“Good, good,” I murmured distractedly, shooting straight across the top of a mini roundabout, four wheels off the ground. God, what a disaster! First Johnny and Nina all snuggled up together in hand-holding cosiness, and then bloody Sebastian! Up there on the
stage
, for heaven’s sake! I shook my head in disbelief.

“It started off really badly ‘cos Alf was so sad and grumpy and still upset about Vi, but then Spiro came over from the caravan and said that their telly wasn’t working so did I think you’d mind if they all came over and baby-sat with Alf. I said you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t, would you, Mum?”

“Hmm?” Oh God, and
Molly
, practically giving
birth
like that!

“Mum?”

“What, darling?”

“Watching the telly?”

“Yes, no fine. Lovely.”

“Oh good. So anyway, they all came over and we got loads of pizza and stuff out of the freezer and they drank lots of beer –
lots
of beer, actually – and Spiro got really happy and larky. Oh Mum, it was so funny. He was doing Greek dancing on the table and throwing plates and catching them – we used those big Spanish bowls you’ve got – and I was doing it too, all in my nightie!”

“Excellent, excellent, my love,” I murmured distractedly, as I remembered yet another shaker. What about my mother? Turning up with a
man
, for goodness’ sake!

“And then in the middle of being really happy, Spiro suddenly got really sad because he missed his wife and son so much – you know how he cries – so I had a brilliant idea and said, why didn’t he ring her up! You don’t mind, do you, Mum?”

“Hmm?” Unbelievable really. My mum. God, after all those years. All those arid years.

“Mum?”

“What, darling?”

“Using the phone?”

“Of course you can use the phone.” Heavens, and talking of mothers, what about Ursula! In fine ambitious form, throwing Imo to that conductor like a Christian to the lions.

“So anyway he rang and talked for ages, all in Greek, of course, and then because he was so cheered up and happy, we decided to have a disco, and we turned the music up really loud and Mac was the DJ and he did all the rapping stuff, you know, and Alf – oh gosh, Mum, Alf was
so funnyl
He was like, really, really drunk – could hardly stand up by now – and he was burping and everything, and then he started doing this striptease dance – you know, like in
The Full Monty
– de da de da de da!”

But it was Sebastian who was really making my toes curl in their trainers this morning. I cringed down low behind the wheel, hiding under my baseball cap. I’d never forget his face, gimlet-eyed as he pushed through that room towards me. I glanced across at Claudia, who for some reason was slipping her blazer off one shoulder and rolling her eyes like Shirley Bassey. “Put it on, darling. You know Mr Harty likes you to at least turn up in it.” I hoiked it back up. Yes, crikey, those
eyes
of his – wouldn’t like to come across them in a dark alley. I shivered.

“And then he got up on the sofa and was mucking about and sticking out his bare tummy, which was really fat and hairy like a dog’s, and he was rubbing it and everything, and we were laughing and laughing, and suddenly – he was sick! But
luckily
Spiro held out a bowl, so most of it – “Puyaka!” – went in the bowl! Wasn’t that lucky, Mum?”

“Hmm? Christ!” I just managed to screech to a halt as a lollipop lady stepped out in front of me. “What?”

“I said wasn’t it lucky it went in your Spanish bowl?”

“Oh. Yes. I expect it looked nice.”

Claudia frowned. “No, it didn’t look nice. But, anyway, we chucked it down the loo and Alf had another beer and said he felt better, and then we did this brilliant kanga – you know, de-da-da-da-da-da – DA! De-da-da-da-da-da – DA! – all holding on to each other in a line all over the house. We even went upstairs and tramped all over the beds – it was brilliant!”