Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman

Pink, white, ivory and black, tumbling hair, long legs, firm stomachs: the room was heaving with feminine flesh. Women padded between the lockers and the showers, hairdryers hummed, a locker door slammed. They were all still young. Their bodies were not yet slackening and disobedient, and the gap between their desires and what was returned had not yet widened to be impossible. Perhaps that was what Nathan was trying to redeem, and felt he could not tell me.

Minty continued to stroke and perfect the body he preferred. With a shaking hand, I wiped away the damp that, in the heat, had flowered on my upper lip. I should face Minty and call her to account. But, trembling and afraid, I fled.

When I got back to Lakey Street there was a rucksack in the hall. Poppy flew out of the kitchen as I stepped into the house. ‘Mum, I’m here.’

I drew my daughter into my arms. She nestled into me and the relief at having her there was like a burst of sun. I thought, This is what matters. Eventually, she drew away, slid her arm round my waist and led me into the kitchen.

‘You look awful, Mum.’ She took off her glasses and polished them on her muslin skirt, her eyes widened with the effort of focusing. Poppy was extremely short-sighted, hated her glasses and was never comfortable with them, but hated more the idea of contact lenses.

I tried to smile, failed, then explained that I had lost my job to Minty.

The full red mouth tightened with fury and distress. At the best of times, Poppy did not find life easy and had not, as yet, had time to develop a sense of irony that would protect her. The pitfalls ahead of her were different from those that confronted Sam, but both were capable of being terribly wounded. That kept me awake at night, too.

‘Dad can’t possibly want to live with someone who’s done that.’ She struggled to get the words out, and her bewilderment was like a stake driven into my heart. ‘Can he?’

I tried to explain that Nathan had not meant any of this to happen, and that connections between events do not necessarily exist even if they appear to. ‘It was coincidental, Timon’s decision. Dad didn’t know. I’d been there a long time, Poppy, and they wanted a different approach.’

‘Like hell.’ Poppy’s eyes filled and overflowed. ‘Timon wouldn’t have done it unless Dad had left you. He wouldn’t have dared. Oh, God,’ she wiped away the tears with the edge of her skirt, ‘I feel so miserable.’

‘Bet you haven’t eaten.’ I took refuge in being predictable and motherly.

Poppy went over to stroke Parsley, who was sitting in her customary place. ‘Parsley looks older,’ she said.

‘Parsley is an old lady,’ I said quickly. ‘Look, I’ll make you an omelette.’ I was already reaching for the eggs and the cheese.

‘I’ll go and phone Richard.’

Fifteen minutes later, I went in search of Poppy and discovered her fast asleep on the sofa in the sitting room, her mobile phone clutched in one outstretched hand. The tearstains were still on her cheek. When I kissed her awake, she turned to me in the old way and I caught my breath.

Half-way through the omelette, she put down her fork. ‘There’s nothing Sam and I can do, is there?’

‘I don’t think so. It’s between your father and me.’

Poppy tried to digest this. ‘How could he have left you?’

My knees went weak with the effort to concentrate. How could I devise rules quickly for a situation of which I had no experience? I sat down, facing Poppy, and struggled to be dispassionate and fair. ‘We’ll try to make it as civilized as possible. We won’t treat you and Sam to scenes.’

‘Why not? You don’t feel civilized, do you?’

I sometimes forgot how shrewd Poppy could be. There was a cloudy patch on the walnut surface and I rubbed at it. ‘No, I don’t. I feel as if a limb has been cut off.’

‘I can’t believe it.’

The kitchen was very quiet. ‘Neither can I.’

With no evident enthusiasm, Poppy tackled the remainder of the omelette. ‘Dad’s behaviour is many things, and it’s embarrassing. Who does he think he is, going after a younger woman? It’s such… such a cliche.’

Her vehemence made me anxious. ‘I’m sure he’ll talk to you about his feelings. You must go and see him.’

She gave an impatient click of her tongue. ‘I’m not sure I want to see him. He’s ruined our family. He’s let us down.’

‘Poppy, you’re an adult now and he’s still your father.’

She brushed me aside. ‘How you will live? Where will you live? Which one of you is home?’ Poppy put her hands up to her face and covered her eyes. ‘Lakey Street will be sold. Picture it, Mum. One weekend with you, one with Dad. Awful meetings at weddings and funerals…’ She went quite still. ‘It’s broken. Our life. The picture of our life.’

If it curves too grandly a river will take a short cut, or so I had learnt in geography, which creates an ox-bow lake of drenched grasses, watercress and busy, secret life. Poppy had the same way of cutting across loops and corners as the river and I puzzled as to where she had got this stubborn, leapfrogging bit of her – the bit that also ignored rules, and inconvenient things like exams and the necessity of earning a living.

‘Let her – the child – tell you her needs,’ wrote one pundit, in whom we had initially believed. Nathan read from the book as I paced up and down with a squalling three-month-old Poppy, who had given notice that sleep was boring. It was a sentiment so thoroughly in tune with a society that wanted to reshape itself and rethink its women. By the time we discovered what the pundit really meant, that ‘We should bloody allow our children to stamp all over us,’ as Nathan put it (after a clash), Sam and Poppy were well advanced.

I stacked Poppy’s plate in the dishwasher and put an apple in front of her. ‘Here, eat this.’

She looked up at me. ‘It wasn’t anything Sam and I did, was it? I used to think we were such a drain on you that you didn’t have any time left for Dad. Then there was your work.’ She took off her glasses and placed them on the table in front of her. ‘It couldn’t be that, could it?’

‘No.’

She pushed the glasses away. ‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

Poppy bit into the apple. She seemed more relaxed and reassured. ‘I gave Dad what-for on the phone. I made him angry, actually’

I did not want to look into those puzzled, short-sighted eyes so I busied myself at the sink. ‘Poppy, one day… everything will be more normal and we’ll have to build bridges. Do you see? Do you understand?’

‘Sure.’ Poppy picked up her mobile, which was never far away, and fiddled with the buttons. ‘Message from Richard. He loves me.’ She giggled. ‘I love him. He’s so full of life. So adventurous. So generous. I don’t think Richard could ever be a drag. By the way, we’re off east the minute finals are over.’

‘I thought you and Jilly were going to do something.’ Jilly was Poppy’s closest friend. They had met at university and fallen instantly into that absorbing intimacy which is only possible before real life begins.

‘Jilly is off to New Zealand to see an aunt or something.’

Poppy spoke carelessly but I could tell she felt a little betrayed. I wiped down the sink and hung the dishcloth over the tap. My chest felt tight, as it had when Sam announced that he was going to Mozambique to teach in his gap year. It was partly the danger, but more that the nestlings were shaking their wings and flying. ‘Where will you go? And on what?’

Typically, Poppy ignored the last bit of the question. ‘India, I think. Perhaps Thailand. I don’t know yet. It’s the last fling, Mum, before we become boring and serious. You mustn’t worry, Richard will look after me.’

This was not reassuring. The last time Nathan and I had seen Richard, he had hair flowing over his shoulders, was dressed in a shalwar kameez and treated us to a lecture on the wickedness of western economic imperialism when he used expressions such as ‘way cool’ and ‘oppressors’. To this day, I was not sure if he was teasing or in earnest.

I knew perfectly well what I should not say, and said it. ‘What about job-hunting?’

Colour had crept back into Poppy’s mouth. ‘I don’t want to get all tied up and desperate a minute before I have to, Mum. Like you did.’

‘What do Richard’s parents think?’ They lived in Northumberland and were, as far we could make out, a fairly shadowy presence. ‘Has Richard thought about the future?’