itself. It was as if the garden Petunia had loved was trying to reach towards her, into the home where she had lived and died, as she set out on her final journey.
58
‘I have to do another poo!’ said Joshua. Matya wasn’t sure whether to sigh or laugh, so did a little bit of both. They were in the sitting room downstairs, with the loo mercifully close. It was raining, so they were having an indoors day, though if the weather improved Matya had promised that they would go to the pond on the other side of the Common and feed the ducks. On the way, they would discuss superpowers, an interest Josh had now caught from his older brother: which were their favourite powers, which one they would have if they could only have one, which one they would have if they could make up a new one, and which superhero was best. Joshua’s current favourite was Batman because he liked his cave.
‘OK,’ said Matya. She took his hand and steered him towards the toilet. Joshua preferred to go to the toilet on his own, but did not like the door to be closed – it made him feel lonely. He also liked to carry on a conversation while he was in there because he liked the feeling of having company.
‘It’s runny,’ said Joshua.
‘Poor darling, do you have diarrhoea?’ said Matya.
‘No it’s not that runny. It’s poo sauce,’ said Joshua. He had been exposed to over-frank discussions of his own toilet habits, and since they were of great and legitimate interest to him, had acquired a complete confidence that anything which happened to him in the lavatory could and should be gone into in detail, with whoever he was talking to. Poo sauce was a term, invented by him and found very useful at 51 Pepys Road, for a stool which was neither liquid nor firm.
‘Oh well, that’s not so bad,’ said Matya. ‘Do you need me to wipe your bottom?’
‘Not yet!’ said Joshua. ‘Hmm. I wonder.’
This was a new expression which he had picked up from who knew where, and which made Matya’s heart do a little flip every time he used it. He went on:
‘Matty, you know the ducks?’
‘Yes?’
‘What if there are no ducks? What if they’ve all gone away?’
‘Well, then we won’t be able to see them.’
‘Yes, but what if they don’t come back?’
‘They always come back. They live there.’
But Matya was being deliberately obtuse, and Joshua started to become annoyed.
‘Yes, but one day.’
‘I don’t think that could ever happen, Joshua. I don’t think the ducks would ever go away for ever.’
That brought reassurance. It made sense that the ducks would not go away for ever if they had not gone away for ever before. ‘Could you please wipe my bottom please?’ said Joshua. It would have been untrue to say that this was Matya’s favourite part of her job, but she did her duty. Joshua climbed down from the loo seat and then climbed up on the step by the sink to wash his hands. He liked washing his hands but needed to be supervised or he would use up the entire soap dispenser to make bubbles.
‘All clean now,’ he said, holding his hands up for inspection.
‘All clean now,’ agreed Matya. ‘Shall we go up and see Mummy?’
‘Hmm. I wonder. All right!’ said Joshua. He held out his hand for Matya to help him get down from the step, and then kept holding her hand as they went upstairs together.
‘Then we can go and feed the ducks,’ she said.
‘Afterwards.’
‘Yes, afterwards.’
They knocked on the Younts’ bedroom door and were greeted by a faint, brave call of ‘Come in, darlings.’ Matya pushed the door open. Arabella lay propped up on a throne of pillows, watching a black and white film; the sound went off but the picture stayed on.
‘Hello, Mummy,’ said Joshua. ‘Are you better yet?’
‘A little bit, I think, darling,’ said Arabella. She had been out late the night before with her friend Saskia, and they had ended up at two in the morning at Saskia’s club drinking what the man they ended up talking to insisted on calling ‘post-ironic’ Brandy Alexanders. The alcohol and late night had brought on a bug that Arabella had been fighting off for a few days, and now she was ill. It had to be admitted that she did not look well: she was pink-eyed and red-nosed and pale.
‘How is my lovely boy?’ she asked.
‘I did poo sauce.’
‘Oh.’
‘Not very runny though. Not dia, dia, diary. Just poo sauce.’
‘Good.’
‘Now we’re going to feed the ducks. As long as you’re not going to die?’
‘No, I don’t think I will die, darling. It’s just a little coldy thing.’
Joshua climbed onto the bed, gave his mother a brief powerful hug, then climbed back off it again and said ‘Goodbye, Mummy!’ as he headed for the door.
‘Can I get you anything?’ asked Matya.
‘You are an angel. No, thank you.’ And then, as she heard the front door being opened with a key, she said, ‘What the hell’s that?’
It was her husband. Roger made bag-and-coat noises downstairs, then came bounding up to the bedroom, greeting his son with a ‘What’s up, matey?’ on the way.
‘I did poo sauce,’ said Joshua.
‘That’ll show ’em,’ said Roger. ‘Hello, darling! How’s the dreaded hangovirus?’
Arabella knew how tall her husband was; and yet about once every two weeks she was surprised by it. Here, as he filled the door frame while she lay in bed, was one of those moments.
‘Bastard. I’m dying.’
‘You said you weren’t dying, Mummy,’ Joshua said from the hallway.
‘Not really, darling. I’m just saying so to Daddy. What about that lovely walk now, darling? The ducks?’
‘They’ll still be there,’ said Joshua. ‘Matya said.’
Arabella waited while her son and his nanny went out. There was a struggle with shoes and clothes and a paper bag of breadcrumbs, and then the door shut.
‘What are you doing? Been sacked?’
‘Don’t be silly, it’s that thing,’ said Roger, who was taking his clothes off and heading for the shower.
‘Thing? What thing? Oh fuck!’ said Arabella, remembering that Roger had, in fact, told her some time in advance that there was a thing; had given it a follow-up mention a week or two ago; and had mentioned yesterday morning, when she had said that she was going out to see Saskia, that she shouldn’t end up too hung-over because there was a thing. It was some bank do for one of the charities Pinker Lloyd supported to advance the social ambitions of its senior partners. Arabella couldn’t quite remember which – it was Spina Bifida or Aids Orphans or the Soil Association. Something like that. It was a big thing too, she remembered, some sort of ball or banquet or ball-banquet. These occasions were, for Arabella, half fun and half ghastly, depending on the exact social mix much more than on the entertainment or venue. Now and then she would buy something for charity, a frock or cooking lesson or holiday week at somebody’s house. That would be out of the question tonight, of course, for two reasons: one, since the Christmas bonus disaster, they were officially tightening their belts; two, with this hangover, it was out of the question for her to go to the thing. It would literally kill her.
Roger came out of the shower and Arabella broke her news.
‘Well, that’s great. A pair of tickets at two hundred quid each and I’ll be sitting there on my own like a spare prick at a table of my senior colleagues. Still, it’s fair enough, though, I suppose, given that I didn’t give you any warning. Oh wait, hang on a minute – now that I think about it, I’ve been reminding you at regular intervals for
