Never Mind Miss Fox Page 5

  “About a hundred years old,” said Eliot. “So yes for a person, but no for a piano.” She adjusted the stool to suit Eliza’s height. “Half an hour,” she said, “and then a break.”

  “OK,” said Eliza, resigned. She began to pull her music from her rucksack and then said, “I won’t play ’til you go, Mum. You know I don’t like you listening in.”

  “I didn’t like to play for my parents either,” Eliot said.

  Eliza was pleased when she heard this, but Martha was hurt.

  In the kitchen with Martha, Eliot opened the fridge door and asked, “Will you have champagne? I found a whole case in a cupboard.”

  “I like the sound of your friend,” said Martha. “Yes please.” She was embarrassed when Eliot did not drink it herself. “Won’t you?” she said.

  “No, I won’t…I don’t. Not anymore.”

  She meant alcohol, and thinking of it Martha said, “Do you remember France?”

  “Yes.”

  It was the end of both subjects: France and drinking.

  Martha sipped her champagne. She wished she did not feel such a fool but why did she? She had expected laughter and stories but this reminded her of an interview.

  They sat in the garden, a brick-flagged square the size of a Ping-Pong table and yet containing, somehow, two wooden chairs and a glossy magnolia tree. The high walls of the surrounding houses peered over them. “Not much of a garden,” Eliot said.

  Martha hinted, “I suppose it depends what you’re used to.” She wanted to know more about America but Eliot did not respond. In the end Martha had to fill the silence herself. “You’re lucky,” she said. “I’d kill for some outside space.”

  A magnolia leaf, bottle green and velvet brown, clattered through the branches to the ground. “Odd how much noise they make,” Eliot said. “Like falling slates.”

  “I’d never noticed.” Martha felt disadvantaged, as if there would always be sights and sounds that reached Eliot’s eyes and ears but not her own.

  Clive worked on Saturdays—or at least, spent the mornings in his office—and then went to a smart, spacious gym where he swam or ran on the machine. Afterwards he would sit in the steam room and look down at his body, pleased. When it came to suppertime—pizzas, on Saturdays—he could eat without guilt.

  Today he would not get that opportunity. Changing back into his clothes he read a message on his phone: Mum drunk can you come.

  He rang Martha’s number. “What does this mean?”

  Martha’s voice was thickened by alcohol: “I think Eliza wants you to join us. So do I. It’s really nice here.”

  “Are you drunk?” He knew she was—he could hear it in her voice—but he wanted to let her know that she had been caught.

  “No! Of course not. I’ve only had…a glass…of champagne. Or so.”

  “I can’t come,” said Clive, thinking of what Belinda had said. “It’s impossible.”

  But then it was Eliza’s voice in his ear: “You have to come. Miss Fox says we can all have pizzas here. She says there’s a place around the corner, it’s really good, they throw the whatsit—the dough—in the air. Come on, Dad.”

  He could not say no.

  When he arrived Eliza opened the door and tried to tug him into the house. “Come on, Dad, we’ve all been waiting—”

  “We’re not staying,” he said to her, “we’re going. Now.”

  She looked up at him. “But—”

  “Get your stuff. Where’s Mum?”

  “I’m here.” Martha stepped forward from the hall behind Eliza. “What’s the problem?” She spoke in a low voice. If they were going to have an argument she did not want it carrying to Eliot’s sensitive ears.

  “I want to go.”

  “Well, I don’t,” announced Eliza. “You said yes to pizzas. You said.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “Why—are—you—such—a—P—I—G?” Eliza retreated—slow, meaningful steps on her sneakered feet—into the house.

  This was mutiny. Clive somehow felt that if he stepped over the threshold all would be lost.

  Martha leaned forward towards him and hissed, “What the fuck is your problem?”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “So? You’re being a dick.”

  Now Clive began to panic. “Your breath smells of champagne,” he accused her, wrinkling his nose.

  Martha laughed in his face.

  Eliza shouted from the hall, “Why do we have to go home? There’s nothing at home. Nothing. We never do anything, we never go anywhere and you don’t have any friends.”

  Eliot stepped forward from the shadowed room. “Hello, Clive,” she said. “Do you want to get back? But listen—” she turned to Martha, “Eliza doesn’t have to go. She can stay with me, for pizza, if she wants. I can bring her back to you later.”

  “Yes!”—this was Eliza, pirouetting on the bare floor.

  “No.”

  “Yes-yes-yes!”

  “Why not? It’s a good idea,” Martha said to her husband.

  “I said, no, OK? We’ve got plans for the evening already, remember?”

  This was not—quite—a lie, but nor was it a reason. Martha looked at him for a moment more but then she turned away and told Eliza to get her rucksack. “Don’t argue and stop showing off. Just do as you’re told.”

  Clive had won. He stood on the step and waited. Sunlight pressed the back of his head.

  “We can have pizzas next time,” Eliot said to Eliza. “And by the way: never mind ‘Miss Fox,’ OK? Call me Eliot. Miss Fox sounds so…wicked.” Her eyes sparkled as she smiled at Eliza.

  The compliment of familiarity made Eliza’s day; her mood was restored at once. She skipped along the street ahead of her parents.

  “We’re taking a taxi,” said Martha.

  “There won’t be one all the way out here,” countered Clive.

  Martha stuck out her hand and, on cue, a black cab stopped beside it. Martha was triumphant. “Serves you bloody well right for being such a toad,” she said. Her words seemed all to loll out together like an unrolling bandage—she must have drunk more than she thought. The air in the back of the cab seemed awfully close and she was sliding around on the seat as if it were the deck of a ship. Feeling suddenly sick, she opened the window.

  “Don’t do that,” snapped Clive. “The air-conditioning is on.”

  “I want fresh air,” said Martha, with an edge in her voice. “Not conditioned air.”

  Eliza was facing them from one of the jump seats and trying to make it flip up with her folded inside. They did not often take taxis—Martha was strict about public transport—so she was determined to make the most of the trip. “This is going to be so expensive,” she said happily. “It’s miles to get home.” Her observation was greeted with silence. Looking from one parent to the other she saw two grim, set expressions; both faces turned to the window.

  Arguments worried her. She thought of something to say that might interest them both: “Miss Fox—I mean Eliot—” she paused to blush and then repeat the name, “Eliot says air-conditioning gives her migraines.”

  “That’s impossible.” Her father did not turn to face her but addressed the passing traffic.

  “Why?” asked Eliza.

  “Yes, why?” Martha repeated, turning to query him.

  Eliza did not wait for an answer but went on, “Eliot says in New York it gets so hot there’s a hot draft if you leave the window open.”

  Clive opened his mouth. He seemed to be about to say, “That’s impossible,” again.

  “Eliot says—”

  “Please stop repeating everything Eliot says,” he cut in. His voice was dry and cool as if it too had been conditioned.

  Eliza was so surprised she could do nothing more than gape at him.

  Martha put her fingertips to her eyebrow for a second, then took them away again and said, “Clive—”

  “What?” he rounded on her. “Would it be too much to ask for a con
versation about something other than Eliot fucking Fox?”

  “Shut up, Dad!”

  “Sit down! ”

  The driver braked and Eliza tipped in a heap to the carpeted floor of the cab. She yelped, “Ow, my head!” and started to cry.

  “Stop the cab!” Martha was frightened.

  “I’m going to walk,” said Clive.

  “No; we are.”

  Martha scooped Eliza up off the floor and onto the pavement. She slammed the door behind them.

  “She’s fine,” said Clive out of the window. “Stop making a fuss—” But his face was as white and frightened as Martha’s.

  The traffic lights changed and other cars began to hoot. The taxi sped away.

  “I hate him I hate him,” Eliza said. “My head hurts.”

  “Ice cream is good for hurting heads,” said Martha, and so they stopped at their change of buses for pancakes and ice creams. They dawdled, eating at a café table and discussing Eliot.

  “I wish she was here,” Eliza said. “I wonder what flavor she would have. What kind of ice cream did she eat in France?”

  “It was a hundred years ago! I can’t remember.”

  “Oh, please, Mum, tell me more stuff.” Eliza was insatiable. “Did she speak French as well as you? Did she wear nice clothes? Did she play the piano then?”

  “Yes! Yes to all those things,” laughed Martha. “Why don’t you ask Tom about her? He was the one who really knew her.”

  “He loved her,” gloated Eliza, licking the back of her spoon.

  Back at the flat there was no sign of Clive. Martha said, “I bet you he’s gone for a run.”

  Eliza checked the cupboard. “Correct,” she said. “No shoes. I hope he runs into a big hole. Hey, Mum”—she hung around Martha’s neck for a moment, smackering the side of her mother’s face with big, open kisses—“I’m going downstairs to listen to my iPod”—kiss—“Eliot gave me some clavier music to put on it”—kiss-kiss—“That’s another word for a piano.” She let go and scooted downstairs, calling over her shoulder, “Tell Dad not to come and say good night. It’s bad night.”

  If it were just the two of us, Martha thought, smiling, we could be like this always.

  This thought was an occasional, luxurious indulgence, like a chocolate truffle. She would only allow herself to daydream about a life without Clive if he gave her an excuse—if he had been nasty, as he had today. It did not happen often. Sometimes she wished it would, so that her fantasies might be excused, but Clive was a fair, decent and proper husband who did not often slip up. Today, however, he had been a bully. She wanted an apology.

  First, however, she would treat herself to five minutes of an imaginary life. As she undressed for the shower—swallowed Nurofen—crouched to pee—she let a picture be illuminated in her head: herself and Eliza sharing a two-roomed flat, perhaps in Hampstead, perhaps near Eliot’s house. Now she saw the three of them—Sunday breakfasts—walks on the Heath—back and forth to the school together. Naked, dreaming, she clambered under the water.

  The pummel of it on the crown of her head brought her straight back to her senses. No; no. This was dizziness; silliness. She lathered bubbles up her legs and let water run over her face and into her eyes. Wash wash wash. She played the day back through her mind: taxi—Clive—angry—Eliot—mysterious—Eliza—adoring.

  Drying herself, she felt a weariness; a confusion. She did not understand Eliza, not always. Why did she insist on listening to Mozart and making friends with her piano teacher? She knew why Eliza was bullied—anyone could see.

  “They hate me,” Eliza had shrugged once, rubbing the tears from her eyes and the ribbons of snot from under her nose. “They hate me when I’m good at something like maths, and they hate me when I’m rubbish—like at swimming. They just do.” It had been like this for so long that now she was matter-of-fact. “In the wild there’s always one animal left out. It usually dies.”

  Hearing this had made Martha roar inside, like a lioness—How dare they? My daughter!—but it had also made her swallow as if something sharp had caught in her throat. During those many long nights that she had lain awake and worried about Eliza her conscience had accused her: You. You were a tormenter. She could remember the name—Suzy Milburn—of the girl in her class who had had to be taken away.

  One night she had mewled in the dark and woken Clive to confess, but to her surprise he had not understood—or even tried to. “Everyone’s done something they regret,” he had said. “You can’t get upset about it forever. It’s not rational.”

  “You haven’t done anything bad,” Martha sobbed at him over the duvet. “You don’t know what it’s like. I was mean—I was horrible—and I never said sorry.”

  “You have to stop this,” said Clive, terse. “It’s pointless to punish yourself—for this or anything else.” He lay down again, facing the other way. “Go back to sleep. I love you; Eliza loves you.” It was what tired people told each other in the middle of the night.

  Dressing again, Martha thought about her husband. Your breath smells. He had been sneering. Bother Clive! She had not been drunk, she had been enjoying herself.

  This was a moment to remind him that she was not a drunken layabout but a clever and valuable person. A contributor. Arranging herself at her desk she put on her headphones and immersed herself in the translation of a long document. An American voice recited into her ears, “Section Four: Code of Conduct. This board requires at all levels impeccable values, honesty and openness. Through our processes we achieve transparent, open governance and communications under all circumstances with both performance and conformance addressed…” Martha’s fingers flew over the keyboard and brought Arabic text to the screen.

  When Clive walked into the flat he came and found her, still at her desk, and stood beside her chair. Martha took her headphones off and turned to face him. Clive looked at the screen for a moment as if for a prompt, but there was nothing written on it that he could understand. Then he looked at her. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You should be.”

  “It’s…work. It’s an old case.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  But there was nothing more.

  After a silence Clive said, “Is Eliza OK? Shall I go in and say good night?”

  “No. Leave her alone. She’ll only get worked up again and you can see her in the morning.” After this, Martha picked up her headphones again. “I’ve got to finish up here, so—”

  Clive took the hint. “OK,” he said, and went downstairs.

  5

  Was everything all right, on Saturday?” Eliot asked Eliza when they were next seated together at the piano.

  “Not really. Dad was weird. But then me and Mum got ice creams on the way home.”

  “What about now?”

  “I don’t know; I’m not speaking to him. Correction: I am speaking to him”—she counted on her fingers—“I’ve said ‘fine’ twice and ‘no’ three times.”

  This seemed to satisfy Eliot. She took a piece of paper from the top of the piano and gave it to Eliza. “This is a concert that’s happening on Friday evening,” she said. “Would you like to go? With your parents? Or with me, if you like.”

  “Mum and Dad hate classical music,” stated Eliza. “They’re always trying to make me turn it off.” She read aloud from the slip of paper: “Carnival of the Animals by Saint…who?”

  “Saint-Saëns,” pronounced Eliot.

  “And, The Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra by Benjamin Britten.”

  “There are instruments in the orchestra,” said Eliot, “which are more sociable than the piano. It’s not too late to start one—you could play with other people, you see, instead of always on your own.”

  “I’m not always on my own,” Eliza said. “Now there’s you.” She looked up from the flyer. “We could really go together?”

  Eliza—being an intelligent and practical child—put the proposal to her mother in a manner w
hich would produce the desired result: “Eliot says is it OK if she takes me to a concert on Friday? Please please please, Mum. She’s got two tickets and everything.”

  “How exciting!” said Martha. “I bet you’ll have a lovely time.”

  Now Eliza skipped around the room saying, “Yay—yay—yay—”

  If Eliza was delighted, then Martha must be pleased. She spread a smile on her face, but—What is this?—a feeling had surprised her: the sneaking tread of loneliness in her veins. They don’t want me. She was startled by the press of this sensation and she tried to turn it away but on it came. I will be left alone. This was not right; this feeling was unjust; it was troubling and unwelcome and could not be allowed—she shook her head at herself—but now in its wake came something worse: a fearfulness which flooded her mind, staining it with an unexpected color.

  “They don’t want me around,” Eliza had said of the girls in her class. “When I say something, it’s wrong. I don’t like the same stuff as them.”

  “What sort of stuff?”

  “Oh…you know. Everything.” Her voice had quavered. “It doesn’t matter,” she said after a moment. “I don’t mind doing things by myself.”

  Martha had smoothed Eliza’s ponytail with one hand. “It won’t always be like this,” she had said.

  And now it was not.

  Clive was not pleased about the concert and nor did he pretend to be. “But I wanted to go to the cottage on Friday,” he said, thinking quickly and chewing his cereal in the kitchen. “I thought we could have a weekend away.”

  “Yes, let’s,” said Martha. She was leaning on the counter, waiting for the kettle and eating muesli from the packet. The row of the weekend was not forgiven; she still did not like her husband enough to sit down at the table with him. “You and I can go, Eliot can bring Eliza on Saturday, and we can ask Tom and the boys. We could surprise him with Eliot—I still haven’t told him.” She rummaged in the packet for a nut. “But—oh shit—what about the bats?”