Page 29 of Annabel and Her Sisters

His words stayed with me, and later, I understood. By then I’d encountered a few more people who were a bit different. Clarissa included.

My mother ate heartily at a table speedily cleared and wiped by Derek as he simultaneously removed the washing from the Rayburn and radiators and took it all to the laundry.

And then, when we’d eaten, Ginnie asked timidly if we might all go for a walk with Mum’s dogs?

My mother’s face cleared like a hopeful child and I blessed Ginnie for including everyone, not a splinter movement of the three of us, which of course we wanted, but she’d been right to phrase it thus, for Mum.

And Clarissa instantly said she’d love to but she was off to the slaughterhouse and Derek said there was a drain that needed unblocking in the backyard. So off we went.

The dogs were indeed in a stable, just the four now, with Hippo at the vet’s, but looked well fed and happy and delighted to see my mother.

The change that came over her was extraordinary.

It was as if someone had flicked a switch.

She called to them in her usual, more hearty voice, crooning to Brown Dog who looked none the worse for his dust-up.

We set off, not up the hill and across the fields, but along a footpath, which was a bit flatter and easier to navigate for my mother; but the spring in her step and her excited chatter was palpable and Ginnie and I relaxed.

Afterwards, in the car on the way back, we agreed that one more month would be doable. She’d been there for one already, and we didn’t want to rock the boat for our mother’s sake.

‘Thank God they’re going to Norway at the end of the month,’ muttered Ginnie, ‘it cuts her visit by three weeks. We need to organize it like this every year, so that she’s there as little as possible. Arrange it around their visits to Derek’s parents.’

‘And maybe in time Clarissa will agree she just comes to us? It’s not as if she’s a particularly nurturing person, and she’s always rushing about. She can’t enjoy having her to stay, having to cook–’

‘Except Derek does it,’ Ginnie reminded me.

‘Yes, but you know. A house guest. Changing beds, et cetera. She never entertains, except all those farmers in a tent every summer for the clay pigeon shoot. It must be cramping her style.’

‘But we’ll have to be clever,’ Ginnie said thoughtfully. She glanced across at me from the wheel.

‘Let it be her idea,’ I said slowly.

‘Exactly.’

We were silent as we pondered how to achieve this. It required dexterity and cunning, neither of which Ginnie and I possessed much of.

Hebe, however, was brilliant. The pair of us often joked she should have been in MI5, that she’d missed her calling. She listened carefully on the phone when I got home that night. I’d left a message and was working when she rang back.

‘Right. So she must leave Clarissa’s immediately before it gets worse.’

‘Well, not immediately, but Ginnie and I are thinking in an ideal world it would be her last trip there.’

‘But she can’t just come to the two of you…’ she said thoughtfully. ‘That excludes Clarissa, and your mother wouldn’t like it.’

‘No.’

‘So exclude all three of you.’

‘What?’

‘I’m thinking Aunt Joan.’

‘Oh!’ I stared above the computer out into the dark street: my desk was in the front bay window, curtains still open. ‘But she’s nuts.’

‘Exactly. And needs looking after. Doesn’t she still live independently, in London?’

‘Yes, but I’m not sure… she’s so independent, Hebe. In a sort of batty house on the other side of Primrose Hill, full of paintings, easels, clutter–’

‘Big garden?’

‘Well– yes, like Mum’s.’

‘And older?’

‘Yes, but –’

‘So might well need looking after now. In her dotage. Reverse the situation. Say she needs your mother.’

It was sort of inspired, but I couldn’t see how I could get her to agree. Aunt Joan, I mean, or even my mother, without the most elaborate subterfuge. Hebe disagreed.

‘No. I’d be straight with Joan. Tell her life with Clarissa is unbearable for her sister and you have a plan, but it involves a big fat lie on her part.’

‘You think?’

‘Yes. Joan may be eccentric and arty, but she’s got all her marbles.

So what if she paints in her undies, she gets hot.

God, my mother used to iron in the garden in her bikini, passing the cord through the window– albeit to get a tan.

And who cares if she smokes cigars and drinks?

I think she’s rather impressive. And she’s very fond of your mum, in her way. ’

It was sort of brilliant. Back on her own patch– almost. Joan was in Belsize Park. Primrose Hill was close by, for the dogs. ‘So not live with any of us,’ I said, thinking aloud.

‘No, just Joan, full stop. But there’s absolutely no reason why she can’t stay , in inverted commas, quite a lot– in fact, a great deal– with you and Ginnie.

Clarissa will have had a bellyful by now, she’ll go with it.

And that house is huge; I went there once, four floors.

And your mum will sort it out. The roles will reverse, she’ll tidy up, get a grip, and be the sensible sister all over again, not the needy, dependent daughter. ’

I was silent.

‘Hebe, you are seriously wasted as a corporate wife. You should be running ICI, or whatever it’s called now.’

‘Zeneca. Well, I suppose if I’d married that waster of an art director I was besotted with before I met Sam, I might be,’ she said a trifle wistfully.

Not about her love life, but about not having had a career.

Oh yes, Hebe had her own regrets. Which included being sent to a convent where they’d barely taken O levels– no sixth form– then a finishing school in Switzerland, then St James’s in South Ken– down the road from Queen’s where I’d been– before fetching up beside me, working for a staggeringly stupid man, not a patch on Mr Delightful.

‘Gus got the sack in the end, didn’t he?’ I said, still back in the old days, at the agency. ‘All that coke.’

‘Yes, and ended up working in Asda. Stacking shelves. That could have been my life.’

‘I’m not so sure. Remember when Bill and Hillary Clinton drew up at a petrol station and she told him she used to go out with the guy filling the tank?

And he said, “Just think, you could be married to a petrol pump attendant,” and she said, “No, if I’d married him, he’d be the president of the United States. ”’

She laughed. ‘I’ll take that. But you think it’s got legs? My plan?’

‘I do. I’ll go and see Aunt Joan tomorrow. Thanks, Hebe, it’s certainly a possibility.’

It was. Two elderly ladies, two sisters living together.

It was how it had often been, back in the day.

When so many men had been killed in the war, and so many women ended up unmarried, Mum had told me.

Like Miss Piper and Miss Otterway who lived next door to us in Elsworthy Road.

Both ancient, but they’d lived together for years.

Gay, Clarissa had said smugly, but my mother said she was wrong.

And yes, Joan might drive her mad, but Joan was silent, on the whole.

Totally preoccupied. And as Hebe said, my mother would be in the ascendancy.

Have more control. Be less anxious. Less… I hated to say it, nervy.

‘How’s André?’ asked my friend, while I was silent and contemplative. I’d been miles away. Forgotten she was there.

‘Oh.’ I lowered my voice. Then I got to my feet and took the phone to the kitchen and shut the door. ‘Hebes, I’m just not sure…’

‘Why?’ she demanded.

‘Well, for one thing he speaks very sharply to his workforce.’ He had, again, this morning, to Ivan, I’d heard him. More expletives. I told her what he’d said.

‘Oh…’ she said slowly, not loving that either.

‘And for another, he’s incredibly fit and toned and I’m honestly not sure I want to take my clothes off in front of him.’

Hebe was not my best friend for nothing. She didn’t say, Oh, don’t be ridiculous, you’ve got a brilliant figure! She was a proper friend.

‘No, I get that.’

‘Would you?’

‘No,’ she said shortly, and Hebe was gorgeous. ‘Stretch marks. Don’t pretend you haven’t seen them. And it’s only in a film that Tom Conti kisses Shirley Valentine’s.’

‘True.’

‘It’s hard, I understand that. I suppose… at least you liked him briefly? That’s a start. Progress.’

So I told her about Ralph. She was enormously cheered, as I knew she would be.

‘And he’s older?’

‘Yes, eight years.’

‘Oh, splendid!’

‘And not so fit and toned. More…’

‘Normal?’

‘Quite.’

‘But nice looking?’

‘Very. I think.’

‘A hot priest!’ she shrieked. ‘Just like–’

‘That’s what Polly said, but not too hot, more sort of…’

‘Warm?’ She giggled. ‘A warm vicar?’

‘Rector, actually.’

I’d looked him up. And I’d also looked up the ecclesiastical hierarchy, something I never thought I’d find myself doing.

He was a notch above a vicar. He’d rung, yesterday, and we’d had a lovely chat, actually.

I hadn’t forgotten Anthea’s remarks but I’d got them in perspective.

She was malicious, I knew that. And he’d been nice about Mum.

Understanding. Whereas when André had asked what I’d done all weekend, because he’d been windsurfing in Devon, I’d thought ‘walking the dogs’ sounded feeble, so I’d made up something about another woman’s life, one who was feisty and gung-ho, which is what writers do.

They lie. When we’re little, our mothers say, ‘ Don’t tell stories.

’ Now I get paid to do it. When people ask, ‘Where d’you get your ideas?

’, I rarely tell the truth– that I make them up– because they don’t believe me.

They smile knowingly and say, ‘Ah, but come on. That attractive artist was surely my Dominic?’ Enjoying it.

So, not wanting to disappoint, I’ll be vague.

Say– ‘Oh, you know, a melting pot of ideas, people I meet, a process of osmosis.’ Not true at all. All stories invented.

‘Volleyball,’ I’d said to André. He’d looked astonished.

‘Right.’

Over the top, admittedly. Not one of my better fibs.

But the windsurfing had reminded me of a beach, and on the beach a net, and– oh, you know.

But I’d felt weary when he’d gone. It was one thing doing it for a living, but in real life…

It was another reason why I was coming down firmly on the side of Ralph.

I wouldn’t have to keep up appearances so much.

I said this to Hebe now, and she understood.

‘Yes, I agree, exhausting. Can I meet him?’ she asked eagerly. ‘He sounds lovely.’

‘When the time comes,’ I promised, ‘you will be the first. The very first.’

‘Ooh, let it be soon! Let it be very soon! Good luck! With Joan, too, let me know how it goes.’

I promised I would and put the phone down, once again feeling blessed for having such a gorgeous friend. And encouraged, too, about Joan. And about Ralph. Golly, in the space of one phone call, they’d both shot right up the ratings, hadn’t they? Well done, Hebe.