On Saturday it rained.
Sophie made telephone calls to pet shops and discovered that white mice were not popular in the district.
‘They cause a population explosion,’ one proprietor explained.
Ella thought of drowning baby mice and shuddered with revulsion.
That I will not do, she promised herself, and hoped the mice would be transients.
At last Sophie learnt of a pair of mice with cage and exercise wheel in a pet shop at Hornsby. She came into the kitchen disconsolate and stared through the window at the rain, which she had denounced already, since it threatened her plans for the video of Becky.
‘If we had the car we could go to Hornsby and fetch them. Why should they have the car? She has her own car, I suppose. So they have two cars and you have none. Very self-righteous, too, about people using cars when they needn’t.’
‘Sophie, please don’t talk like that. You know your father always practised what he preached. He took the train and the bus and I had the car all the week. There’s nothing wrong with caring for the environment. We all should.’
But it’s the grandparents who do that, she thought. Since Becky was born, she had shared his fears for the world in which the new generation would grow up.
‘Mum, I wish that just once,’ – Sophie was speaking through clenched teeth – ‘you would stop being balanced and sensible. Why can’t you get mad and throw something?’
Ella, who would not wish to get any madder, found it too difficult to explain that rage was her privilege, not Sophie’s.
‘David’s seeing about the car. I think we’ll get it back. I wish you wouldn’t prowl, love. What do you want for lunch?’
‘Is there any soup? It’s a soup day.’
‘David might run you to Hornsby. I suppose sport is off.’
Tipping a block of frozen pumpkin soup into a saucepan, she added, ‘You watch the soup while I go and ring David.’
She did not like the errand, not only because of her dislike of mice. She had thoughts of Sophie sitting in front of the cage staring as the wheel went round. It would suit her present mood.
‘I was about to ring you,’ said David. ‘I’ve got us an appointment with the solicitor. Wednesday at 2. Is that all right with you?’
‘You’re not taking too much time off work, are you, dear?’
‘They’re pretty good about that. I get credit for the out-of-hours stuff. It’ll be all right.’
He was amused at Sophie’s errand but willing to assist.
‘She surely is wrapped in that job of hers, isn’t she?’
Ella lowered her voice.
‘A little too much, I think.’
David answered in a tone which shocked her with its bitterness, ‘Half her luck!’
Was David unhappy? Could no appearance be trusted?
‘About the car, Mum. It’s in dock. It should be ready in a week or so. Dad’s quite agreeable to your having it. I’ll collect it for you as soon as it’s ready.’
What sort of interview had they had about the money? It had at least been effective; though nothing had been said, the cheque account had received a substantial increase.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful, dear. It will make a difference.’
‘See you in an hour, then.’
The rainy day was brighter for the arrival of David and Martha, though Ella had only a brief sight of them in the car, tooting the horn to call Sophie, who ran through the rain with her waterproof jacket over her head. Umbrellas were not part of Sophie’s world.
When the young people had left, Ella took down cookbooks from the shelf and began to plan menus for the unknown William. How fortunate that she would have the car. She could buy in bulk. She made lists and calculated quantities, then strayed to luxury recipes, desserts that she had made and since forgotten, which she might make again. For whom? Herself and Sophie? Firmly, she closed the page and the topic and went back to the study of economy dishes.
She heard the young people laughing and talking on the garden path and opened the front door to them before they reached the bell. The rain had stopped; a late ray of sunlight had struck the garden, making raindrops glitter on the bushes.
Sophie looked happy enough now, walking with Martha behind David, who was carrying a cage shrouded in an old teeshirt. Sophie was carrying a carton, Martha two pizza boxes.
‘The mice.’
David bowed, offering the cage to Ella, smiling widely at the absurdity of the errand.
Ella stepped back in haste.
‘I suppose I should be thankful they’re not funnelweb spiders.’
‘This film is getting curiouser and curiouser. Where do you want them, young Soph? I think Mum wants them stowed out of sight. We brought pizzas, Mum. Is it all right to stay to dinner?’
‘Of course.’
It was difficult in the light of his cheerful manner to take in the bitterness of his remark on the telephone, but she decided to open a bottle of the good claret, in case her ears had not deceived her.
When he and Sophie were upstairs installing the mice in the bedroom to which Sophie was migrating, and Martha was helping her to prepare salad in the kitchen, she said, ‘David isn’t happy in his job?’
‘Oh, Ella!’ Martha put down the carrot she was scraping and sighed deeply. ‘That beastly sportsmaster! All the work David put in at College on remedial exercises, and it was really scientific, measured and tested. You know the wonderful results he got with the group he took through with his master teacher.’ She said angrily to the absent sportsmaster, ‘He graduated top of the year and they thought enough of his thesis to publish it in their journal. First of all, he said he wasn’t going to have any clowning in his department and when David explained that the clowning was serious, he took the thesis to show him and the beastly man said, “Laughter therapy for the awkward squad. The awkward squad can smarten itself up quick smart and they’d better not try any clowning round here.” He wouldn’t even look at the thesis. He just humiliated David. He took that job because the school was supposed to be so progressive and he’d have a chance to do what he wanted, real physical education. He thinks everyone has the right to be at ease in his body, but all that lot think about is cups and trophies. They sneer at Speech Days and academic prizes and they can’t see the inconsistency. Such intellects!’ She picked up the knife and began to abuse the carrot. ‘He doesn’t mind coaching the teams, of course, and he likes to win, but he isn’t allowed to do his real work.’ She paused to listen. Talk and laughter were still sounding from upstairs.
‘Couldn’t he try another school?’
‘He’s very discouraged. He has this idea, you know, that he can’t cope with people. Says he can handle kids all right but not adults. So he thinks it would be the same everywhere. I tell him it’s all rubbish.’ She tapped one finger. ‘A, I don’t think Pritchett qualifies as an adult. He’s not more mature than David, he’s sillier. B,’ – she tapped a second finger – ‘he’s David’s superior in an organisation where he has all the power, so nothing David did would make any difference. So it’s commonsense to walk away, not weakness. I think he’ll see it in the end and maybe go to a smaller school where he can run the department himself. What do you suppose they are doing up there?’
‘Teaching a mouse to use an exercise wheel. Don’t worry about them.’
‘David’s a real idealist, you know.’
Martha had given up preparing salad and was watching Ella slice tomatoes.
‘About me, I’m not so sure. We seem to have gone wrong somehow. Everything seemed so straightforward, like adopting a Third World child instead of adding to overpopulation – it seemed like a responsibility, really. But now, I’m so jealous of Caroline, when I see her with Becky …’ She shook her head. ‘I’m wondering whether I was rejecting my own children because my father dumped me on my aunt. And never seeking money or power – but I burn when David is pushed around. Other people seek power all the time.’
‘Do you think you’ll have children then?’ Ella kept her voice neutral as she bent to check the pizzas in the oven.
‘I’m going to be a mean, vicious old woman if I don’t. Ideals!’ Martha said glumly. ‘You have to know where they come from and what they cost and whether you’re the type who can afford them. I’m afraid I’m not.’
This was cheering news for Ella.
‘Well, that’s the salad made. We’d better call them.’
‘I haven’t been much help.’
‘I was interested. I’m glad you told me.’
David and Sophie came downstairs arguing about names for the mice.
‘Mickey and Minnie! How corny can you get?’
‘Don’t get too attached to them, Sophie. You are going to have to give them up, you know.’
David raised his eyebrows.
‘Are you making fun of us, Mother dear? Taking the mickey?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
Their eyes met, unsmiling.
How much I love him. I can’t stand it if he’s unhappy.
He was cheerful enough at the dinner table, ready to tease Sophie about the film.
‘I never heard of a film that had a star part for a funnelweb spider. Are they going to audition?’
‘Ass. It’s a symbol, a visual expression of hatred. She keeps it in a jar and calls it Hannah. That’s the father’s girlfriend.’
A ghost visited the table. They gave it a moment’s silence.
David said, ‘Isn’t this going to be dangerous? Playing about with funnelwebs.’
‘I’ve been wondering that myself,’ said Ella.
‘It won’t be a real one. There’ll be a closed jar with a real one crawling but outside it’ll be a fake.’
Seeing her so much in earnest, David had given up teasing.
‘What about the mice? Are they a symbol, too?’
‘It’s the exercise wheel that’s a symbol of obsession.’
That word again.
‘I think that’s good,’ said Martha. ‘The mouse running and running, getting nowhere. Over and over again.’
Oh, Martha, please. But nobody can see inside my head. I can handle this, even when people talk about obsession. My face shows nothing. Nobody can see behind my face.
‘I hope somebody explains it to the mice. More wine, Mum?’ He refilled the glasses. ‘What did we do to deserve the good claret?’
Ella shrugged. ‘We might as well drink it.’
Pity again, damn it. Lowered eyes and pity. She couldn’t learn to avoid such moments. She had to remember they were well meant.
Meanwhile, David must be rescued from embarrassment.
‘If I’d had some old cooking wine, I’d have offered it.’
The idea of David as a lame duck was new but plausible. His amiable and flippant manner, which seemed to announce to the world that all things came easily and nothing was worth a stir, might well be a cover for disappointment and self-doubt. Do we all wear masks and send out deceiving messages?
It was becoming more and more difficult to trust in any appearance.
When she had got into bed, she considered her day with the monster. Had she made any progress? There were three stages: short spells of quiescence, even moments of peace in which it disappeared altogether, long spells where they co-existed reasonably well, and moments of crisis, when somebody mentioned obsession or some other cause of pain – nothing so bad again as that moment when the thing seemed to be conscious and mocking her. It had been coincidence, a trick of the light.
I am making progress. Things are getting better.
She was practising Pam’s exercise against insomnia: five forward and two back, if you make a mistake, begin again at the beginning. One, six, four, nine, seven, twelve – five sheep jump forward, two jump back …
Sunday was fine, a day of mild autumn sunlight washed clean by the rain, a perfect day for photography.
They made the video. It was a more complicated affair than they had expected. Sophie and Caroline had to work hard to persuade Becky into the little walk with Aunt Sophie. Max, proud behind his fine camera, spent so long planning angles that Becky complained ‘This is getting very boring,’ and was threatening to walk off the set.
‘For Pete’s sake, Max, it isn’t an artwork. We’re only trying to time a three-year-old’s walking pace,’ said Sophie, but the artist in the photographer could not be denied.
It was done at last, Becky adding a note of realism by roaring for the icecream which had been for the moment forgotten. Ella ran to the refrigerator to fetch it, Becky accepted it with the abashed smile that followed tears, and Max insisted on filming that, too.
‘It isn’t as if we were going to keep it,’ said Caroline, but Ella kept it for ever, though she never saw the tape. The picture of the two walking together, Sophie in yellow sweater and jeans, stooping towards stout, serious Becky in her best Sunday red and white, fluffy white Bunny bonnet, white jacket, red skirt and red tights, staring at her mysteriously important feet with unchildlike earnestness, the world glowing in the benign light of autumn – all this had a finished beauty which made it seem already filmed and stored away.
An ordinary day, but offering a promise of permanence.
Since the evening was cool, Ella had lit the gas fire in the living room, where she and Sophie were watching television, Sophie intently, Ella with some attention for the sweater she was knitting for Becky.
The doorbell chimed.
‘I’ll go, Mum,’ said Sophie without stirring, her eyes fixed on Geraldine Doogue and the visiting feminist she was interviewing.
‘That’s all right, dear.’
Ella put down her knitting and went to open the door to a stranger with a strangely familiar face.
She said, ‘You’ve changed your hairstyle.’
Louise stared at her, so taken aback that she forgot her script and had to pause to recover it.
‘I have come to collect some papers for Bernard. Since he seems to be barred from entering his own house.’
‘Oh.’ Ella stood back from the doorway. ‘Come in, then.’
She was considering with interest the news that that person thought himself ill-used.
‘While I am here, I think I should collect all the documents from the file in his study. Then I shall not need to intrude further.’
There was no guide to conduct in this situation, no book of manners to refer to.
Sophie had come to the living room door and was gazing at Louise with a malevolence that made her face hideous. Ella looked at her in horror, thinking, ‘Rob should have – shouldn’t have – ’ It had all been a mistake. Sophie looked well able to put a funnelweb spider into a shoe. She went back into the living room and shut the door.
Louise, too, had been gazing at Sophie. She said shakily, ‘Do you think it right to teach somebody to hate?’
Ella examined this outrageous remark and selected one of many answers.
‘I don’t discuss you with Sophie. I don’t discuss you at all.’
Louise reddened and made for the stairs. Ella moved fast to intercept her, got to the stairs ahead of her, climbed backward up three steps and stood guarding the approach to the upper floor. Memories of Hollywood films, visions of costumed heroes brandishing rapiers did not deter her. They did not even embarrass her.
‘There’s nothing upstairs.’
Louise stood disconcerted.
‘Bernard told me that all his papers were in the small room on the right at the head of the stairs.’
It was clear that she hadn’t expected to be dependent on Ella for information.
‘Everything has been moved into this room.’
Ella opened the door of the small study and stood back.
‘There are empty cartons in the laundry if you need them. That is the last door on the right.’
Louise cried out, ‘Civilised people don’t behave like this. They … they communicate. They have rational discussions. Turning a man out of his own house … it’s not civilised.’
‘What is there to discuss?’ asked Ella.
Well, that must be right. That must be the thing to say. She could remember it from at least half-a-dozen films.
An astonishing thing was happening. She was feeling a growing elation. Absurd. How could she be happy? Where did this lightness come from, this relief?
The face was gone. Gone for good.
Louise walked down the hall to the spare room, Ella went back to the living room where Sophie was glaring sullenly at the admired Geraldine.
‘It’s all right. It’s all right. She’s only fetching some papers.’
She uttered this nonsense in a soothing tone.
‘I didn’t imagine she was moving in.’
Ella murmured, ‘Darling, don’t hate. Don’t hate. You’ll damage yourself, not them.’
‘I’d damage them if I could.’
Ella wished she could communicate her own joy to Sophie.
‘It makes it worse for me if you suffer for this.’
‘That’s emotional blackmail.’
Her face softened, however, and she looked with friendlier eyes at the screen.
‘You’re being saintly again, Mum. It’s too much.’
‘I don’t feel saintly. I’m glad you moved that stuff downstairs.’
Sophie nodded.
‘She was all set to go upstairs, was she?’
‘I think I looked like Douglas Fairbanks Junior daring her to advance one step.’
Effort rewarded. Sophie began to grin at the image.
Ella had left the door of the living room open. They watched the screen in silence till they heard the front door open and close.
‘Lovely manners,’ said Sophie. ‘Could have put her head in and said goodbye.’
‘Thanks for having me.’
‘It’s been a pleasure.’
They laughed at the little exchange, Ella on such a joyful note that Sophie looked at her in astonishment.
She sobered then but remained joyful.
No more obsession. Her mind her own again. Never to be mad again.