Make Yourself at Home Page 6

  ‘Yes, well, that’s … good,’ said Marianne stiffly.

  ‘Although your mother deserves a lot of the credit, she really—’

  Marianne pulled her cardigan tight around her. ‘I don’t mean to be rude but …’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Hugh. ‘I’m keeping you from … what are you up to?’

  ‘Are you always this nosy?’ snapped Marianne.

  ‘I am, aye,’ said Hugh, grinning again.

  ‘I see,’ said Marianne. And then, when he appeared to be prepared to wait as long as it took for a response, she added, ‘I’m reading.’

  ‘I won’t disturb you so,’ said Hugh, shaking his massive head so that his mane of hair swished around his head. ‘I only wanted to give you this.’ He handed her a driving licence. ‘Rita must have dropped it when she was at mine for dinner the other day.’ He waved, then turned and walked towards his car.

  ‘Thank you,’ Marianne felt obliged to call after him. Although she wished she hadn’t because he stopped and turned.

  ‘What are you reading?’ he asked.

  What Marianne wanted to say was, ‘None of your bloody business.’ What she actually said was, ‘I Capture the Castle.’

  ‘I’m the same,’ said Hugh, smiling broadly. ‘I go back to the old classics when I need a bit of comfort.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was in need in comfort,’ said Marianne. ‘I just … I couldn’t find anything else to read.’

  But Hugh had turned again, waving at her as he manoeuvred himself behind the steering wheel of his car.

  Marianne shut the door and leaned against it, closing her eyes and exhaling. She felt exhausted. Too much exposure to people. At least, in the last few months, while she had waited for the bank to come good on their promise of repossession, she had waited alone.

  She looked at her mother’s driving licence. Rita’s photograph – taken at least ten years ago – was a riot of colour: bright yellow hair, streaks of pink along her cheekbones, a scarlet scarf tied around her neck and a speck of ruby-red lipstick staining one of her front teeth.

  A date in the bottom corner.

  The expiration date.

  The licence was out of date.

  It had been out of date since Christmas.

  Perhaps this was her old driving licence? Her current one was in her wallet, surely?

  But Rita did not own a wallet.

  And Marianne would be prepared to bet a sizeable amount, were she a betting person and if she had any money, that there was no current licence.

  Marianne ran to the studio and picked her phone out of her handbag, scrolled to Rita’s number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Rita?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me. Marianne.’

  ‘How lovely of you to ring. How are you?’

  ‘Are you driving?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t be on your phone then.’

  ‘But you rang me.’

  ‘Just pull over.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘So I can talk to you,’ said Marianne with as much patience as she could muster, which wasn’t much.

  ‘There’s no need to shout, darling.’

  ‘Have you pulled over?’

  ‘Oh, fine then. Hang on, there, yes. Yes, I have.’

  In the background, Marianne could hear a blare of car horns. She pressed the phone closer to her ear.

  ‘A Scottish man – Hugh Mc-something or other – dropped your driving licence in just now.’

  ‘Darling Hugh,’ said Rita. ‘He’s such a—’

  ‘It’s out of date.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Your driving licence.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Did you know that?’

  ‘Well, now that you mention it, I think I did know.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you renew it then?’

  ‘I did. Well, I mean I meant to. I got the form from the post office and everything.’

  ‘So why didn’t you fill it in?’

  ‘Have you seen the length of those forms? The amount of questions they ask?’

  Marianne couldn’t think of a suitable response to that.

  ‘Don’t be cross, darling,’ Rita said. ‘I promise I’ll send the application off tomorrow. Or definitely by the end of the week.’

  ‘You know it’s against the law to drive without a valid driving licence?’ said Marianne.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Rita, giggling. ‘Two criminals in the family.’

  ‘That’s not funny,’ said Marianne stiffly. Down the line, she could hear the blare of a police siren and she felt her muscles clench. Rita said something but Marianne couldn’t hear her over the din. Gradually the sound petered away.

  Marianne did her best to compose herself. ‘You’re not parked in a bus lane or anywhere else inappropriate, are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Am I in a bus lane, darlings?’ Rita shouted.

  ‘Any particular number bus, dear?’ enquired Ethel earnestly.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I never get the bus. I prefer taxis.’

  ‘Which begs the question,’ piped up Freddy, ‘why you don’t take a taxi to Ancaire instead of getting little old ladies to pick you up.’

  ‘Who are you calling a little old lady?’ Rita shouted.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Marianne cut in urgently. ‘You can’t drive at the moment. You have to get your licence renewed first.’

  ‘I have to drive, darling,’ Rita said. ‘How else am I going to get my clients to Ancaire?’

  Marianne closed her eyes. Exhaled.

  ‘You are in a bus lane,’ shouted Shirley. ‘So unless you want to get flattened by the number twenty-seven, I suggest you shut up yapping on the phone and move your arse.’

  Marianne could hear Rita say, ‘Does anyone know where the hazard lights are?’ and then the line was disconnected.

  Chapter 8

  Marianne didn’t see Rita until later, at dusk, when she spotted her and Patrick through the kitchen window. They were laughing, their arms linked. Patrick noticed Marianne first. He nodded at her and gently extricated his arm from Rita’s. He moved towards his apartment, melting into the darkening evening.

  ‘Don’t worry, Marnie,’ shouted Rita as she opened the back door. Immediately the kitchen was filled with icy wind that carried a hint of rain, perhaps even snow. Rita had to use both hands to wrestle the door shut. ‘I’ve come up with a brilliant plan.’

  Unlike George, lying on the floor by her feet, Marianne felt her hackles rise.

  ‘If your brilliant idea has anything to do with me driving your … people to and from Ancaire, then the answer is no,’ said Marianne firmly.

  ‘It wouldn’t be for long,’ said Rita. ‘Just until I got my licence sorted.’

  ‘That will be months,’ said Marianne.

  ‘It won’t take that long,’ said Rita airily.

  ‘It will. You’ll need to do a medical. And an eye test.’

  ‘Such a money-making racket,’ said Rita, with a theatrical sigh. ‘Not to mention ageism. The system is riddled with it.’

  Marianne concentrated on scrubbing the mugs, all of which she’d removed from the cupboard since their insides were stained rusty brown from years of tea.

  ‘Besides,’ went on Rita, ‘it’ll be good for you.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘Getting out and about,’ said Rita. ‘Meeting people.’

  ‘I hate meeting people,’ said Marianne.

  ‘You just haven’t met the right people,’ said Rita.

  ‘You could cancel the meetings until you get your licence,’ Marianne suggested.

  Rita shook her head. ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘Why can’t they just drive here themselves?’

  ‘It’s part of the Get Well Soon recovery programme,’ said Rita. ‘I don’t want my clients to have to think about anything else except getting better.’

  ‘
I don’t see how any of this is my problem,’ said Marianne.

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Rita.

  ‘But you’re making me feel like I’m responsible, all the same,’ snapped Marianne. ‘Nothing new there, of course.’ The bitterness surprised her: how fresh it was, how plentiful. It lodged in the back of her throat, sharp as a fish bone.

  ‘I’m sorry, Marnie,’ Rita said, her voice devoid of its usual frivolity. The two women looked at each other and Marianne felt the silence between them like a weight, bowed down with all the things they had never said to each other.

  Marianne pulled the plug and watched the water circling the drain, powerless against the suck and pull of it. ‘Look,’ she said, turning on the tap and rinsing the suds off the mugs. ‘I can’t help you with this. I don’t drive.’

  ‘You passed your test, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. But that was years ago. I haven’t driven since then. I hate driving.’

  ‘What do you hate about it?’

  ‘Other drivers,’ said Marianne, raising her voice over the noise of the water coming in sporadic spurts from the tap.

  ‘But you can drive?’

  ‘Technically,’ Marianne allowed. She had taken driving lessons when she got her first job after university. She thought that’s what adults did. She had passed her test first time and thereafter travelled wherever she needed to go on buses, trains and trams. She wore comfortable shoes, in the event of a strike or mechanical breakdown or terrorist threat, whereupon she walked.

  ‘Why does Patrick not drive?’ Marianne snapped, turning round to look at Rita again.

  ‘I did try to teach him a few times,’ said Rita, shaking her head.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Marianne, rounding on a flaw in the plan, ‘I’m not insured on the Jeep.’

  ‘It’s open insurance,’ said Rita. She bent to pick up her swimming togs from the floor where she’d thrown them earlier and wrung them out over a gigantic yucca plant in the corner. ‘It’s like riding a bicycle, apparently,’ she went on. ‘You never forget.’

  ‘I said no,’ said Marianne, turning off the tap and folding the dishcloth neatly over it.

  ‘Is that a hard no?’ asked Rita.

  Marianne nodded.

  ‘Okay, darling,’ said Rita. ‘I understand.’

  Marianne should have been suspicious, given the speed at which her mother capitulated. Instead, she gave it insufficient thought and took to her bed, citing a headache and clamping the pillow over her face when Rita sounded the gong for dinner.

  By the time Marianne struggled – late – out of bed the following morning and returned from the beach, having succumbed again to George’s persistent pleading, Rita was ushering the Get-Well-Sooners into the drawing room.

  She beamed when she saw Marianne. ‘Good morning, darling. How’s your head?’

  ‘How did they get here?’ asked Marianne, pointing into the room. Rita shrugged. ‘Same way as usual,’ she said.

  ‘So you blatantly broke the law?’ said Marianne.

  ‘Well,’ said Rita, tilting her head to one side, ‘is it not more of a recommendation than a law? A best-practice idea? It’s not like I’ve suddenly lost my ability to drive, is it? It’s just a minor administrative issue.’

  ‘No,’ said Marianne. ‘It’s an actual law.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry, Hugh has offered to pick them up after today’s meeting.’

  ‘But what about tomorrow?’ demanded Marianne.

  ‘I find it best not to worry about tomorrow until tomorrow, Marnie,’ Rita said. She stepped closer to Marianne and lowered her voice. ‘Besides, I have another, more pressing, issue.’

  ‘Another one?’ said Marianne, trying to push George away. He had an annoying tendency to lean against her legs when she stood still for any length of time, as if he was intent on propping her up.

  ‘This one wasn’t my fault. It’s Gerard, he—’

  ‘The rooster?’

  ‘No, silly,’ said Rita, smiling indulgently. ‘Gerard’s our goat. Anyway, I think Donal— Oh, have you meet Donal yet?’

  ‘Is he a threadbare donkey, by any chance?’

  ‘Threadbare is a little strong,’ said Rita. ‘He has the sweetest nature but can be somewhat greedy, I’m afraid. I think he ate Gerard’s breakfast again so Gerard ate all the teabags and now I’ve none left for our mid-morning snack.’

  ‘Goats don’t eat teabags.’

  ‘Gerard does.’

  ‘Is everything all right, Rita?’ enquired a man’s voice from inside the drawing room.

  ‘Fine, darling,’ said Rita, planting an enormous smile across her bright red mouth. She turned back to Marianne. ‘Can you tell Patrick,’ she stage-whispered. ‘He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘What? Buy teabags?’ said Marianne testily.

  Rita shook her head impatiently. ‘It’s more complicated than that, Marnie,’ she said. ‘Ethel likes peppermint tea in a muslin teabag with a string attached so she can pop it back into the cup if she wants a refill. Freddy and Bartholomew are strict PG Tippers, even though they hate the fact that they have something in common, and Shirley insists on Lyons tea leaves. If you go near her with a Barry’s she’ll call you a “Blueshirt”. Even if it’s their Classic Blend.’ Rita was breathless after all the stage whispering.

  ‘That is complicated,’ Marianne had to concede.

  ‘I’d say Patrick keeps an emergency stash in his house for this kind of eventuality.’ Rita clasped her hands together in a sort of begging gesture. ‘Would you go and ask him?’ she said.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Marianne.

  ‘Pretty please with a petit four on top?’

  ‘Oh, fine.’

  Marianne made her way to Patrick’s workshop. He was sanding an ancient cabinet when she arrived. It was worse for wear, the wood faded and splintering in places, one of the doors hanging off and some of the handles missing.

  ‘Hardly worth the bother,’ Marianne said.

  Patrick ran his hand down the side of the unit. ‘The structure is still sound,’ he said.

  Marianne pushed her hands into the pockets of her anorak to protect them from the worst of the biting wind. Patrick returned to his sanding. Marianne cleared her throat. ‘So,’ she said. He stopped sanding again and looked at her. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?’ Marianne said.

  ‘I presumed you’d let me know when you were ready,’ he said, and it sounded reasonable, the way he said it.

  ‘I’m ready now,’ said Marianne.

  Patrick set the sandpaper down and looked at her.

  ‘Well,’ began Marianne, ‘it’s about teabags, which I know is—’

  ‘Did Gerard eat them again?’

  ‘Eh, actually, yes,’ said Marianne. ‘He did.’

  Patrick rose from his stool. He opened a door at the back of the workshop where stairs led to his apartment. Marianne looked around while he was gone. Yellow sawdust covered the cement floor and tools hung on rows of nails along each of the walls, in an orderly and efficient way, she had to acknowledge. Logs of wood stacked in a corner smelled sweet and dense. Patrick returned with what looked like a toolbox. He handed it to Marianne. Inside, she was unsurprised to find different brands of tea, in sealed Cellophane bags. PG Tips, peppermint tea in muslin, Lyons tea leaves and one containing the weeds Rita used for her own brand of herbal tea, complete with mucky roots.

  ‘Rita can always rely on you,’ said Marianne, snapping the box shut.

  ‘I relied on her for a long time,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Lucky you,’ said Marianne. She hated how harsh and sour her voice sounded. Patrick’s face flooded with colour and he lowered his head as if she had shouted at him.

  Marianne picked up the box. Moved towards the door. She stopped there. ‘Sorry,’ she said in a quieter voice. ‘It’s this place, it’s like liquorice: it doesn’t agree with me.’ She laughed as if she had told a joke.

  Patrick did not laugh. Instead, he said, ‘No need to be so
rry,’ and something about his voice, so gentle, so careful, caused a lump to form at the base of Marianne’s throat and she bowed her head, swallowed, hard, a couple of times before she was absolutely certain that she would not cry.

  What the hell was happening to her?

  She hated Patrick being there, a witness to her struggle, but when she looked up, he had returned to his workbench and was measuring a slat of wood.

  In the kitchen, there was no sign of Rita, although she had put the kettle on and set a selection of mugs on a tray. A delicate china cup and saucer with floral print. That was for the elderly lady, Marianne guessed. Ethel, was it? A sturdy black mug with ‘#mefuckingtoo’ emblazoned along the middle in gold lettering. The angry young woman, Marianne presumed. Shirley, wasn’t it? And her children must be in there too, since there were two smaller mugs – Star Wars ones – already filled with hot chocolate, the surface foaming with frothy pink bubbles.

  The Gilda mug with a black-and-white photograph of Rita Hayworth printed on it was most definitely Rita’s. Which meant that the last two – a dainty Mr Neat cup and a massive, bright pink Chippendales mug – belonged to the PG Tips drinkers, Freddy and Bartholomew.

  It took Marianne an age to make all the different varieties of tea and carry them into the drawing room.

  It was a bright, airy room with an enormous bay window, which, like most of the windows at Ancaire, framed the restless, grey sea. A fire burned in the grate and, while it did little to penetrate the sharp chill, the long orange flames dancing up the soot-thick walls of the chimney introduced a small degree of cheer into the room, Marianne had to admit. However, it also prompted a concern about the chimney itself and she wondered when it had last been swept.

  The group was sitting on chairs in the centre of the room, arranged in a circle. They were either meditating or had dozed off. Either way, they didn’t notice Marianne’s arrival.

  On the other side of the fireplace, Rita had set up what could pass for a play area. A carton of Lego. A stack of papers – mostly bills – to draw on the back of, and an old beer tankard, crammed with colouring pencils. Two large cardboard boxes bulged and shifted, leading Marianne to conclude that they contained children. This turned out to be accurate as a crashing noise, like a localised tropical storm, erupted from the boxes before they burst open, revealing two boys, maybe six and eight. They clambered out and stood in front of Marianne. They were largely made up of white, skinny legs and arms, both clad in matching football shorts and socks. They had the same long navy eyes as the angry young woman, Shirley. Each had a collection of bright orange freckles smattered across the bridge of his nose.