Routine was a frail net stretched over emptiness, ensuring survival, if nothing more.
Pam came in for coffee on Monday morning. Ella changed the day for Nina’s lesson to Tuesday, to shorten the gap which stretched to Thursday evening, when David and Martha came to dinner, bringing fish and chips and cheerful conversation. On Sunday afternoons Max and Caroline came bringing Becky. Sophie seemed to bear her burden of hatred lightly, joking with David, playing with Becky, and spending Friday nights absorbed in working on the film script with Rob.
After two meals from the Small Palace Garden, Ella began to make dinner for the film-makers. She could tolerate fish and chips once a week, but would go no further along that path. Besides, cooking filled in time, of which there was an excess. She did not admit to herself how much she wanted Rob’s approval.
The script had now left the spider-keeping daughter for the mother, who was obsessed by an album full of photographs, images of a divinely happy past. Mother was manipulative, brooding over the album, involving the daughter in an illusion of lost happiness (so leading to hatred and funnelwebs).
The photographs came to life as she talked. (This was called a voice-over.) They were supposed to have all the gloss and the false authority of a soft drink commercial.
Ella, who listened intently, measuring herself against the mother, looking for clues to her own failure, asked, ‘How will the audience know it isn’t true?’
‘Ella, my love, you have reached the nub. I sometimes wish I was William and could just tell people what I want them to know.’
‘William doesn’t find it so easy,’ objected Sophie.
‘I suppose not. The other media always seem so much easier than one’s own. Well, people get things on different levels. I’m aiming at an audience which despises soft drink commercials, I suppose.’
So much detail, thought Ella, like working away at some enormous jigsaw, but Sophie remained enthralled. Ella listened for the next nasty revelation of Mother’s character, the next evidence of her own innocence.
Rob read dialogue onto tape:
‘Darling, here we are with Daddy on the beach at Ulladulla. What a lovely holiday that was. You wouldn’t remember it, you were only three. You dropped the icecream, I remember, just after I took the photo. You started to cry, but Daddy took you back to the kiosk to buy another.’
Rob abandoned her plaintive dreamtone to ask, ‘How fast does a three-year-old walk?’
‘I’ll time Becky. She’s three. She’ll be here on Sunday.’
‘Can you get me a video?’
‘I think so. Max won’t mind. He’s crazy about photography.’
‘Great. Leave it this week, then. I’ll bring a tape next week.’ She paused, embarrassed but amused, being after all sure of her welcome. ‘That is, if you’ll put up with me next week again, Ella.’
‘Of course.’
‘Say from your garden gate to the next corner, then pick her up and mime getting the icecream.’
‘There won’t be any miming about it, if I know Becky.’
‘One icecream, to incidental expenses. Note it down.’
‘I’ll contribute the icecream,’ said Ella, feeling quite ridiculously proud of the contribution.
‘Right. That’s it for tonight, then. I’ll be off.’
She’s a bright spot, thought Ella, watching her depart. I’m going to be really sorry when the script is finished.