Skeletons, p.3
Skeletons, page 3
Jason’s mother, Amelia, had made tea. Home-baked scones, salmon-paste sandwiches and a Victoria sponge. The stuff of Enid Blyton families, not something Jen’s mum would ever have had the time – or even the inclination – to do. It had struck Jen when Jason had first introduced her that if you ever had to explain to an alien what a mother was, you could just show them a picture of Amelia. She was so soft, so warm, so maternal-looking, covered in flour from baking treats for her children. Either that, or her cocaine habit was out of control. Jen had nearly asked if she could sit on her lap.
Elaine was all angles. Elbows and knees sharp like compasses. Skin scratchy like sandpaper. On the rare occasions Jen condescended to give her a hug, she couldn’t help feeling there was a danger she might snap her in half.
‘Do you take sugar, Jennifer?’
‘It’s Jen, Mum,’ Jason had cut in. He had heard Jen say the same thing many times, although she hadn’t been intending to insist on her preferred name here so soon.
‘My fault, Jason did tell me.’ Amelia had smiled, and the room had practically lit up. Jen had actually looked round to see if someone had turned a light on.
Jen hadn’t wanted to seem greedy by saying, ‘Yes, three please,’ so she had muttered a word that had come out a cross between ‘one’ and ‘two’, meaning Amelia had had to ask the same question again.
Jen had known that she wasn’t making a great impression. She wouldn’t have warmed to herself as a potential daughter-stroke-sister-in-law, in all honesty. She’d wished, and not for the first time in her life, that she was more polished, more … accomplished. Or, at least, more socialized. She’d felt like one of those children found living in the woods who has been brought up by a wolf pack and has never had human contact before. All she could do was grunt. They were lucky she didn’t sit on the floor, lift her leg and start grooming her bits noisily.
‘Come up to my room,’ Poppy had said, out of nowhere. ‘I’m going to a party tonight and I have literally no idea what to wear. I’ve been home too long; you’re the first person I’ve seen in weeks with any sense of style, so you can help me pick something out.’
Jen had almost kissed her with gratitude, nearly falling over the now sleeping cat in her hurry to get out and away from the questioning.
And then Jason’s father, Charles, had walked in. The sun had come out, birds sang, flowers bloomed.
‘You must be Jen.’ He had smiled his big, expansive smile. ‘Welcome to the madhouse. Are they torturing you yet?’
Jen had smiled nervously. ‘No … of course not.’
‘I bet they are. Take it as a compliment. If they didn’t like the look of you, they wouldn’t bother. They’re all bark.’
Charles had swept Amelia up into a floury hug, seemingly oblivious to the white powdery mess that transferred itself to his suit. Jen had actually been surprised that he was dressed so formally given the bohemian get-up favoured by the others. Even Amelia was wearing a floaty scarf with her pinny. She knew, though, that he had his own business, something in property, so he probably had to make a good impression. Later, she’d learned that Charles was always well turned out. Even on days when he didn’t visit the office, he was never less than impeccably attired. No lounging around in his PJs, or old gardening trousers, for him. He was up, showered, shaved and dressed to impress by breakfasttime.
Amelia had laughed and pushed him off, waving her pastry-sticky fingers at him as a threat. Jen had tried to imagine Elaine doing the same to Rory, but the only image she could come up with was her mum hitting her dad with a newspaper when he had tried to help himself to the cooking sherry once. Neither of them had been laughing.
Up in Poppy’s old room – a treasure trove of her childhood things, Rothko and Pollock posters, and a heaped-up clothes mountain sitting in the centre like an altar – Poppy had sat on the bed cross-legged and indicated for Jen to sit next to her.
‘Ignore Jess,’ she had said, conspiratorially. ‘She has a tendency to say inappropriate things. It comes from thinking you’re God’s gift and everyone will be fascinated by whatever you utter.’
Jen had laughed. ‘Honestly, she was fine.’
‘It’s all to do with being the youngest. You get away with more. Myself, I’m the overlooked middle child.’ She’d leaned across and dragged over a floral dress from the pile on the floor. ‘How about this? Too Lady Di?’
‘A bit. Maybe if you wore it with engineer boots?’
‘Don’t have any.’ She scrabbled around under the bed. ‘Converse?’
‘Perfect.’
‘If I can find them. So how about you? Youngest? Eldest?’
‘Both. I’m the only one.’
Poppy had stopped in her rummaging and looked at her as if that was the strangest concept she had ever heard. ‘God. Grim.’
Jen, who was used to people telling her she was lucky to have all of her mother’s attention, or not to have to wear hand-me-down clothes or share a bedroom, had screwed up her face in response. ‘It is a bit.’
‘Hey, do you want to come to this party?’
‘Oh, I don’t –’ Jen had started to say, but Poppy had continued, ‘Shit, no, Jason won’t go. He hates all my friends. Come without him.’
Jen had laughed. ‘Better not.’
‘Well, next time.’
‘Great.’
‘Or we could meet up in London. I mean, if you’re going to be part of the family we really should get to know each other properly.’
‘Bit early for that, I think. I wouldn’t buy a hat yet –’
‘Oh no, he’s got to settle down with you. He’s got no choice. I’ve always been terrified he’d marry some girl I didn’t like. Can you imagine what that’d …? Well, no, I don’t suppose you can. And that lot all love you too, I can tell,’ she’d said, indicating the downstairs.
And, just like that, Jen had acquired a best friend.
At some point, when they were sitting around the table after lunch, Poppy had produced a tin full of old photos and proceeded to show Jen every embarrassing haircut Jason had ever had – along with pictures of him in fancy dress, or school plays, or dressed as a page boy for a cousin’s wedding. To Jen he had looked adorable in every different incarnation, but what had captivated her more, what she could hardly bear to tear her eyes away from, was what was around him. The crowded messy life of a family – happy, smiling, pouting, sulking, it didn’t matter. They were an entity, a team, a gang.
And all the while Amelia had beamed, as if all she had ever desired was right there in that room, and Charles had sat at the head of the table smiling, making jokes, making his children laugh, making Jen feel at home. A patriarch completely happy with his lot.
By the time she and Jason had left to go home, a few days later, she was in love with them all in different ways. Even Jessie. She had nearly refused to leave, climbed up on the roof and claimed squatter’s rights. She’d wanted to stay in that overstuffed, noisy, alive house for ever and be a part of their lives. They were everything she had always imagined the perfect family would be. She’d known that, more than anything, she wanted to join this clan. She had wanted to turn the clock back to her lonely childhood so they could adopt her.
About a week later, Jason had asked her to move in with him and she hadn’t even hesitated before saying yes. Over the years, they had all become such important allies in her life that on the (very) rare occasions she and Jason had a fight that lasted into the evening, what kept her awake wasn’t worrying about who would get the house, it was how she would be able to win custody of her in-laws.
6
Jen lived in a permanent state of feeling bad where her own mother was concerned. Lived with the guilt while steadfastly refusing to do the one thing that would ease it, which would have been to make the trip to see Elaine more often. She knew that her mum looked forward to their visits like, she imagined, Lindsay Lohan looked forward to the pub opening. She always got a cake in, even though Jen had told her a million times that she was trying to go cold turkey where sugar was concerned. And then Jen would feel she had to eat a slice, but was resentful at the same time, so she’d end up with all the calories without even any of the enjoyment.
Elaine would make a list between visits of all the things she wanted to remember to tell her daughter and, every time, Jen would catch herself sneaking a look to see if her mother was getting near to the end and she could make her excuses and leave.
She knew she had to be there. She wanted to be there, wanted to be a dutiful daughter and to pay her mum back for the fact that she had done so much for her, bringing Jen up on her own after Rory had left, working full time but never deliberately making her daughter feel as though she was hard done by. Jen had done that on her own. It was just that the second Jen arrived, she couldn’t wait to leave again. She would spend hours beating herself up about it, promising herself that the next time she would stay longer, look happier, try harder, but then the day would come around, and she would be somehow incapable of behaving any differently.
She didn’t know why her mother brought out the worst in her. Elaine had never done anything but try to do her best. Actually, a thought had occasionally inveigled its way into the back of Jen’s mind, hovering there until she forced it out again: it was her mother’s trying that did it. It was too much, too revealing, too in need of her attention.
Elaine Blaine. Even her name was laughable. Jen had asked her once, when she was a teenager, why she had given up her own, more majestic surname, Rochester, for something that sounded like the start of a limerick.
‘Because that’s what people do when they get married,’ Elaine had said, as if that settled the matter.
Even after Rory had left, she had clung to the name like a life raft, unwilling to let the last part of him go.
Elaine liked routine. She had made it an art form once she and Jen were on their own. It could have been her specialist subject on Mastermind. What time will you get up every morning for the rest of your life? What time will you make yourself a pot of tea every afternoon? What day will you stock up at the Co-op?
Meals were allocated a night and never rotated, so Jen always knew that if it was Tuesday, it was fish fingers, oven chips and peas, but Thursdays meant spaghetti Bolognese. As far as she knew, Elaine still ate the same daily specials on the requisite day. Certainly Sundays, the only day she and Jason ever visited, was still roast. Jen had seen the frozen packets of individual chicken breasts lined up in the freezer like coffins, next to the already partially roasted potatoes and Yorkshire puddings.
‘Can’t we have something different?’ she had asked once, when she was about fourteen. A Wednesday, it must have been, because Elaine had taken a packet of ham out of the fridge, and lettuce and tomatoes to make a salad.
‘Ham salad today, you know that,’ Elaine had said cheerfully.
‘Let’s save that for tomorrow. I could make baked potatoes. With beans. Or scrambled eggs.’
‘Baked potatoes is Friday,’ Elaine had said, as if that was stated in the Bible, and who was she to argue? Thou shalt only eat baked potatoes on a Friday. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s spuds. ‘If you want to help, you can slice the tomatoes.’
Jen had stamped her foot. Literally stamped it like a cartoon rendition of a sulky child. ‘God, Mum, what does it matter? If we feel like having something else, then let’s have something else.’
‘I feel like ham salad,’ Elaine had said in a small but determined voice. ‘It’s Wednesday.’
It was only more recently that Jen had realized that Elaine probably thought that by taking control of what she had it in her power to influence, she could make her daughter feel secure in the wake of the devastating break-up. It hadn’t worked. Jen had felt scornful, even ashamed, of her mother’s lack of adventure and flair. Irritated by her practical ordinariness. No wonder her father had felt he couldn’t stay; he would have been bored to tears by the day-to-day mundanity. She had had no doubt he would come and rescue her from it one day.
Clearly, he hadn’t.
Now, every Sunday, Jen and Jason would either drive to Jen’s mum’s house – where they would use up all their conversation in the first five minutes, and then sit for hours in an oppressive silence punctuated every now and then by Elaine asking if they wanted more tea, or if they’d heard about the plans to build new homes on a local field that Jen had played rounders on, once, thirty years ago – or to the far more lively and joyous environs of Jason’s parents’ home.
Every Sunday morning, when Jen woke up, her first thought was always to work out whether she was in for a day of pleasure or pain. This week, thankfully, it had been pleasure.
7
Jen had brought with her: a bag stuffed with a large pumpkin she had picked up at the farmers’ market and that she knew was the perfect size and shape to be carved by Amelia, and to adorn the front step later in the month; a copy of a free magazine that had been put through her door that contained an article on the Bloomsbury set, which she thought her mother-in-law might find interesting; and a scarf for Charles that she had found in one of the more upmarket charity shops and knew would compliment his favourite autumn overcoat.
She liked it best when the whole family was there. You never really knew who was coming until you arrived. It was an open house. No need to book. Amelia would always cook enough to feed a small country, and whoever turned up turned up. Jen had sometimes wondered if her in-laws had to eat Sunday-lunch leftovers all week, some weeks. In fact, she knew they did. Charles had often joked about it.
‘Any word from Jess?’ she said to Jason as they drove up through Richmond.
‘Coming, I think.’
She reached over and rubbed the back of his head. With his three-day-old stubble and the new grade-two-all-over haircut he had finally resorted to (after catching sight of his recently acquired balding spot in a random combination of mirrors in a department store changing room, which meant he got a rare glimpse of the back of his own head), Jen had started to think he looked a little like a fuzzy tennis ball. It suited him. Gave him a sort of rugged Action Man look that was completely at odds with his character. Jason Statham with a soft spot for kittens. Christian Bale with a penchant for Aran jumpers.
‘I still can’t get used to it,’ she said, referring to his shorn hair. ‘You look like a squaddie.’
Jason raised an eyebrow, a habit that used to make her go weak at the knees when she had first met him. ‘Oh, you like that, huh?’
‘That depends. Can you do a hundred press-ups and run twenty miles in boots that are too big for you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Liar.’
‘OK, but I could do about eight press-ups and run two miles if I had very comfy trainers. But I need the ones that are built up on one side because I over-pronate.’
‘Right, you pass the test.’
‘Really?’ he said, taking her hand. He raised it to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers. ‘You’re that easy?’
Jen laughed. ‘Desperate is the word. You’re basically the best I can do.’
Jen and Jason’s initial attraction had been one of those eyes-across-a-crowded-room, I-have-no-idea-who-you-are-but-I-want-to-throw-you-on-the-floor-and-ravage-you kind of things. From her point of view, at least. She had always assumed he had felt the same, although – who knew? – maybe he just hadn’t had the energy to fight her off. After all, trying to set up a production of a mind-numbingly pretentious new play, written by a local would-be Harold Pinter, with a bunch of amateurs light on talent but heavy on attitude was exhausting, he’d told her the first time they had stayed behind after rehearsals to share a warm can of lager that he had produced from his bag.
‘Rewrite it,’ Jen had said, offering him a drag on her cigarette. ‘You’re the director, I’m sure that’s your prerogative. Make it so all the ones who are rubbish die by the end of Act One.’
Jason had laughed. ‘I don’t think that would be allowed. This is community theatre. It’s meant to be inclusive.’
Jen had yawned and stretched, noticing, with satisfaction, that Jason couldn’t resist checking her out as she did so.
‘Honestly? Who cares? It’s only going to be their parents or their husbands and wives in the audience, anyway. You could stick them up there reciting nursery rhymes and their loved ones would probably be impressed.’
‘Oh God, why did I get myself into this?’
‘So you could meet me,’ Jen had said, and then she’d blushed at her own forwardness.
Jason had given her a look that had made her stomach flip – and every other part of her body, for that matter. And then he’d leaned over and kissed her. She could remember the moment exactly. The thrill that had gone through her. And then he had broken off and started coughing so hard his eyes had begun to water.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he’d said, his voice cracking. ‘That’s what comes of pretending I smoke to impress you.’
They had been together ever since.
When Amelia opened the door, the familiar scent swept out after her. Still baking and coffee, but these days joined by the lilies she kept in a large vase in the hallway, and the cigars that Charles liked to enjoy after dinner some nights. Jen had always thought she should bottle it, call it ‘Home’ and sell it as a room spray to people who were living apart from their loved ones.
She tried to imagine what the scent of her own childhood home might be marketed as. ‘Bad Atmosphere’ or ‘Frigidity’, maybe. ‘Tension’ by Lancôme.
She chided herself immediately, as she always did, for comparing her own family negatively to her adopted one. It was never going to be a fair fight. There were no level playing fields. People were dealt different hands and, however hard you tried, you couldn’t make a royal flush out of sixes and sevens. It simply wasn’t possible.
