Homecomings Read online

  She had not run away that day. We can take responsibility. Save ourselves. Act. It is a simple truth; unoriginal certainly, but also unyielding. She guards it fiercely in a corner of herself. Would Marianne guffaw at the thought?

  ‘Virginia, are you with us? Have you noted we have very few trainees registered for the next six months?’

  ‘Sorry, Father.’

  Andy hands over a schedule of the weekend training programme. Despite a forbidding skull, he is a reliable man, with easy manners and an old-fashioned politeness streaked with warmth that endears him to colleagues young and old. Ironically, acupuncture has failed to prevent the shining baldness.

  When Andy reports their accountant’s view that the fees they charge for the seminars are too high, Walter is quick to close the meeting: ‘Given the late hour, let’s have a special session when we have the accountant’s annual report.’

  Walter and Andy, the only ones who know how serious the situation is, exchange a glance. If the business does not pick up, the extravagant revamping of the buildings may cost them dearly.

  Meeting closed, the Franklins excuse themselves. They have to run and grab some food before fetching their guest from the East Midlands airport. Virginia dashes off another email: “Dearest, please get in touch.”

  Throughout the flight from Charles de Gaulle, Marianne Castagou fends off appreciative glances from her neighbour, an excitable, portly professor from the University of Birmingham returning from an international conference on the future of Romance studies. With stale breath, chivalrous, he says that her sing-song English is “superb”. She answers politely, trying to ignore the plump, ringed hand pawing the armrest. Yes, she comes from the Midi, Montpellier to be exact, he is right about her accent. Yes, she is on holiday. Yes, primary schools have a mid-term vacation. She will be staying in Leaford. Yes, she has been before, many times.

  She straightens her shoulders, turning her head away to study the dense patchwork unfolding beneath them in the evening light. Such a small island! Will more Brits cross to France to escape the overcrowding? They won’t drown. They will fill our markets with Marmite and cheddar cheese and tell us how to privatise our public sector. No, she doesn’t dislike England. Far from it. Her thoughts drift to her ‘English cousin’ who will be waiting for her at the terminal. Why did Virginia suggest her visiting now? She will soon find out. They last saw each other four years ago at the funeral of her godmother. Virginia came to Chateau Mourel knowing that the death would trigger, for her friend, a long period of mourning.

  ‘Are you alright? Afraid of landing?’

  She opens her eyes, realising that her sighs have alarmed her neighbour.

  ‘A little but I’m alright. Thank you.’

  She tinkers with her handbag to reassure herself. As a little girl, she lost her adoptive parents in a car crash. Her godmother took her in, her sister’s adopted child, and raised her single-handedly while running the family estate.

  The plane, ten minutes late, is getting closer to East Midlands Airport. There is a battered power station, cockroach-like, smudging the horizon. Sixteen degrees on the ground. Passengers smile at each other. Not bad for mid-October.

  ‘I’m glad you’re feeling better.’

  After a slight bow, the professor hurries off, having wiped her from his mind as soon as he reaches the bottom step. Marianne gets out her identity card. She resents the long queue, roped-in cordons snaking round to an overzealous immigration control: “UK and EU citizens”, “Foreign passport holders”. Why should she fear any of their glaring signs? This is not Sangatte with its barbed wire, dogs, traffickers, shacks, doped girls, hacks photographing the ‘sans papiers’. Nonetheless, the shame of entering Britain seeps through her bones, triggering the memory of other equally humiliating queues. For six cold years at boarding school, the invasive anonymity of a military discipline claimed her as one of the inmates marched between dormitory, classroom and refectory in sullen files, stripped of their own wills.

  At the final gate, a familiar voice echoes through the hall, teasing, ‘Hello super, super frog! Ha! Ha!’

  They burst out in giggles. Walter, a giant of a man, a mop of silvery hair coiffing a yet-unwrinkled face, arms outstretched, grabs her by the shoulders and jauntily butts his forehead against her cheeks in four successive hits, bone against bone, then wet lips smacking hard against hers. She staggers at the impact and before she fully recovers from this ‘French’ greeting, Walter leaps back to take a look. Satisfaction spreads across his face, charming and confident of her affection: a response he unconsciously expects from all the young people he likes to have around him. Maybe, for the insular English male, assaulting French women in public fulfils infantile desires. Relieved when Virginia goes for a softer approach. Dwarfed by her father’s athletic figure, Virginia cuts a less impressive shape – short, a shapeless blue cotton shift over layered white skirts. But beneath the indifference to fashion, there lies a feline, nervous vitality that the long garments cannot disguise. She moves gracefully, free of constraints and conventions. Rarely abashed, she inspects Marianne openly from head to toe at arms’ length, the light colour of her eyes deepening with emotion. She takes in Marianne’s tall figure, the beige linen outfit, the loss of weight, the puffed-up eyes and, under the tan, the blood-drained patches of dry skin.

  ‘You need a treatment! Sorry, Marianne. That was rude. Give me a hug. I’m chuffed you’re spending time with us. But you do need a rest, don’t you? Teaching can’t be that good for you.’

  She gives another squeeze. Marianne feels grateful for the Franklins’ welcome, her apprehension vanishing. Virginia has not changed, unmade-up, loud, oblivious of disapproving looks, her voice painfully posh, bursting with energy, out of proportion to her size.

  She climbs into the Rover, hoping that her friends have not felt her stiffness. She is so fond of them but what a strain! They speed down the M1 unaware that sitting at the back makes it difficult for her to follow what they say. Her English must be rustier than she thought. How will she cope under this onslaught? Maybe she has lived on her own for too long. They are nearing Leaford. Walter winks at her in the rear-view mirror:

  ‘Famous battles have been fought not far from here. I was born near here, in the middle of England, in a Saxon village called—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Dad, she’s just arrived!’

  Marianne smiles indulgently, sympathising with Walter’s passionate feelings about the heart of England. A large flock of gulls scour a just-harvested field, a squabbling playground. She likes the idea of Walter being born in the ‘middle’, a private spot he can fill with his own fancy.

  Leaford announces itself: two towers dominating the city centre, the same red-brick-and-glass feat of 1950s engineering which she had glimpsed as a teenager travelling by train from London abroad by herself for that first holiday, dreading mint sauce or cucumber sandwiches! Since then, things have moved on. Even Leaford University has brash mission statements on the lampposts.

  ‘Like a business park,’ Walter scoffs.

  Virginia shrugs. ‘Universities need to get the punters in, no matter how… degrees in media and sports, you name it!’

  ‘France is no better. Students drop out like, what do you say, Virginia, those…?’

  ‘Flies?’

  ‘Oui. oui.’ Marianne looks around. She understands well enough what is going on, in England as in France. Mix-and-match cultures where, insensitive to local craft and custom, IKEA’s blue and yellow dwarfs the universities. As they pass the station, within walking distance of the university towers, she recollects her first impression of the building, grand and prim, the expression of a proud Midlands Railway, toiling for Queen and Empire, delivering people and goods on time. She was just fourteen then, with more spots than confidence, intimidated by Ian waving from a Hackney cab as shiny as a scarab beetle.

  ‘You won’t recognise the city
centre,’ Virginia persists, ‘it’s now littered with beer bottles, plastic bags and private contractors. That’s Labour for you.’

  She does not fully grasp how Labour alone has polluted the city, but she is too tired to find out. They must be getting near. Walter negotiates the busy traffic, at first along a sumptuous leafy street bordered by stately Victorian houses built with the profits of industry. As they move further from the city centre, the ancient trees thin out and the street now opens to gusty winds and the homes of wealthy Indian traders expelled from Uganda in the 1970s, illuminated by dainty cast-iron street lamps, fussy neo-Gothic facades glistening in the dark. Walter, Virginia knows, instinctively calculates the price of each house as he points out “For Sale” signs, like a dog sniffing a bitch.

  ‘Dad talks about selling but he has a real horror of moving. He’s a limpet – he wouldn’t budge even if you paid him a million pounds!’

  ‘Where would we go? I’ve been happy living in this part of town since I married your mother. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Forty-five years in South Leaford! I hope I never match that!’

  ‘Why not?’ Walter asks gruffly.

  Marianne is puzzled at father and daughter, both with the same fleeting irritation on their faces. ‘How is Zaida? Is she enjoying her trip?’

  ‘She’s having a ball. They’re spending a fortune for her cousin’s wedding. Did you ever meet Zaida’s grandfather? When I was living with Khalid? No. His father has been orchestrating the whole caboodle of the nephew’s marriage for months. Khalid tags along. They’ve been preparing food, hiding whisky bottles, hiring people in, getting new clothes, choosing presents. What 12-year-old wouldn’t love it?’

  Seeing Virginia’s eyes watering, Marianne says tentatively: ‘You are not cool about it?’

  ‘For Zaida it’s great, it’s her first time, but I hope it isn’t the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.’

  ‘She’ll be back soon,’ Walter chimes in.

  ‘You understand, Marianne, they could keep her there.’

  ‘No, not Khalid. And she’s got her return ticket in her luggage.’

  ‘Drop it, Dad. I can’t bear us arguing again.’

  ‘I’m sorry I miss her, she is grown-up now.’

  ‘I’ll show you plenty of photos if you want.’

  Closing her eyes, Virginia leans back into her seat. Such a long day. Too whacked to explain. Her friend will have to wait.

  – 3 –

  Leaford

  Walter manoeuvres the car into the asphalt driveway lined with conifers and rhododendrons. A large front lawn announces an imposing property. There are blue signposts to the acupuncture clinic in converted outbuildings at the back. The three floors are brightly lit. Gwen Franklin hurries along the ornate balcony spanning the sitting rooms, and down steps bordered with deep blue flowers in square stone jars.

  ‘Welcome, dear girl. Your hair – what have you done to it? Is it much shorter? It suits you, of course.’

  Marianne laughs. ‘I had my hair cut years ago. I look less virgin, better for teaching. Your agapanthus! They are flowering!’ Only good things have happened to her in Leaford.

  ‘Virginia’s taking your luggage to your old room. Nothing much has changed there. You know the way,’ Gwen says.

  Unlike her daughter she speaks softly; and yet, physically, she is her spitting image, short but attractive, with brisk movements, chestnut hair parted on the side, compassionate eyes. In contrast to Virginia’s shapeless dresses, she wears a tight skirt and jacket, or an embroidered cardigan over linen slacks, revealing a sense of what is proper while understating the certainty that none of her Welsh relatives will ever find fault with her. Good wives indulgent of male passions, yet comfortable with young females, wet behind the ears, dazzled by husbands.

  The Franklins beam their appreciation as Marianne unpacks modest presents to be stored in the fridge.

  ‘Isn’t she clever, Mother, to bring everyone’s favourite?’

  ‘Not Ian’s.’

  Virginia should have kept her mouth shut, as everyone silently registers the absence of the sweet Brittany pancakes that Marianne used to bring. Ian loved them. It is typical of her parents to pretend they’ve not heard her remark. Christ! He left for Canada ten years ago, in a tiff, she isn’t sure what about now, but that’s water under the bridge. Irritated, she is trying to find room for the packs of French food in the overfilled fridge. Ian was always a selfish brat, too pretty for his own good. But Dad would hear nothing against him.

  ‘Any news from Ian? Still living in Vancouver?’

  ‘Seems contented enough over there. Off you go, you two. I’ll see to the rest.’

  After shuffling them out of the kitchen, Gwen turns round to stack what is left of Marianne’s presents. She breathes slow and deep, back in control. Her son couldn’t wait for the pan to sizzle. Lips pursed, giggling at his prowess, he’d toss the wafer-thin pancake and pat it into four folds before adding plenty of sugar and lemon for his dad. Zaida is the same – they always serve Walter first. What’s so wrong about that?

  Forgetting the clinic, her husband is in his element taking Marianne around the house. Unperturbed by the late hour, he whispers a joke in her ear, giving solicitous explanations about home improvement, pecking her cheek for a kiss, all signs of a prudent foreplay which Gwen puts up with, knowing that he has always been an unrestrained flirt. He will emerge from each trivial indiscretion shining, revived, the bouts of irritation gone, his energy rekindled. There is never anything improper, she is well aware of that, and Marianne still has that something. Must be such a gift for a teacher. She ought to show her Zaida’s schoolwork.

  Tea is served in the less formal of the reception rooms. Marianne looks around with pleasure. Where else but middle-class England would you find such high ceilings, intricate plasterwork, silk wall prints and rich William Morris wallpaper framing the high sash windows? There are shelves with Chinese vases, Inuit bears, dragons made of jade, family mementos and glossy books. She recognises the aspirations that float in this room. They are not unlike those in Chateau Mourel, although the décor at home is less urbane – walls teeming with antlers and African masks. Both places share the delusion that time is held at bay by unbridled comfort and expensive acquisitions from exotic cultures.

  On the Victorian mantelpiece, an alabaster male figurine, about thirty centimetres high, attracts her attention. It is exquisitely carved, standing upright, mapped in ink with lines and points. The acupuncture meridians?

  ‘It was used to teach acupuncture many years ago. Chinese students learnt by following the lines with their fingertips. Nice.’

  Marianne familiarises herself discreetly with the room, remembering fondly how Ian taught her to polish the parquet floor by dragging two woollen pads with her feet. What fun it was sliding like tipsy swallows through the tang of wax. The Franklins were like family to her then.

  ‘How old is Zaida here? About 12?’

  ‘Spot on.’

  The woman-to-be in the child stares back at her with searching dark eyes, an inhibited smile, mouth wide open – a child caught in a moment of mirth, repressing her laughter for the photographer while cuddling a tiger to her chest.

  With a twinge of indignation, Marianne realises that the room gives no sign of other children having lived there apart from the framed photos of Zaida. There are no pictures of Virginia and Ian as children.

  ‘Have you contacted your solicitor?’

  Virginia leaps to her feet, skidding across the floor to pull the long velvet curtains across.

  ‘I thought we were not going to raise this now, Marianne’s only just arrived.’

  ‘Anything new?

  ‘Mother, don’t, not now, it’s late in Syria.’

  ‘We’ve been on edge for months. Virginia didn’t want her to go, but Zaida took no for an answer. U
nderstandably, of course.’

  Marianne is taken aback by the bickering.

  ‘I understand, Gwen. When did you hear from Zaida?’

  Virginia presses her lips tight, unwilling to respond.

  ‘I wish I have not come. I am in the way.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling. We’re really glad you’re here, as you well know. We’ll have a long natter tomorrow. I miss Zaida terribly in the evenings. And it’s Halloween soon.’

  Gwen gets to her feet to grasp Marianne’s arm.

  ‘Don’t mind our grumps. Anyway, time for bed. Sleep tight, dear Marianne.’

  The wrong time to come. With her door closed, Marianne is relieved not to have to speak to anyone till morning. Virginia is a pack of nerves. She will have to find ways of talking to her. Why is she in such a state? Spending time away from home is usually for good for teenagers. And Zaida will be getting to know her dad as a real person, not someone imagined in his absence.

  She will take her time unpacking, but there are birds everywhere! Since her last visit about ten years ago, collections of birds made of wood, clay, one material or another, have moved in, covering shelves, bedside tables and mantelpiece. She had forgotten Gwen’s passion, ‘a bug’, Walter says, which his wife inherited from her Welsh grandmother who had a keen eye for ceramics and pots. Unable to blank the birds, Marianne winces at the privilege of wealth, erratic and wasteful.

  Apart from the bric-a-brac, she is pleased to have been given the old guest room. Ian used to have the bedroom above hers. Across his landing, Virginia kept quiet, although she knew. She was 18 when they made love. La belle affaire. And Ian, 17? Had Virginia heard them roaring with laughter when Ian dangled a smelly rubber thing in front of her, equally ludicrous as a capote anglaise? It wasn’t really love that kept them awake but the narcissistic need to go beyond childhood, to explore sex safely, to get her virginity over with without humiliation, and with a gentle partner.