Playing with the Grown-ups Page 14

  They were staying at the Imperial Hotel, whose long corridors were empty like The Shining, and her mother stayed in bed till noon, joining them for lunch, sleepy and bad-tempered.

  Jenkins loved Torquay in its off-season squalor. He made the children accompany him to the funfair every morning, where they were the lone riders on a rollercoas-ter whose rickety skeleton caused Kitty to well with panic. His appearance was more eccentric than ever due to the haircut she had given him. Her mother told him that he desperately needed a trim and Kitty volunteered, saying that all of her friends let her cut their hair she was so good, which was a big lie.

  She liked the idea of someone putting their head in her hands and trustingher; it made her feel warm and important.

  They gathered in the Imperial Suite. A round room, where her mother and Jenkins slept, with heavy velvet curtains and a piano, which faced out to the impassive sea.

  She borrowed scissors from the front desk. She draped Jenkins in a towel, and rubbed his white head thoughtfully, examining him from all angles.

  'OK,' Kitty said. 'We shall begin. You need layers.'

  Sam and Violet sat on the bed, eatingjelly babies as they awaited the transformation of Jenkins.

  At one moment Kitty's haircut had potential, but it was brief, and she realised with each final snip that cutting hair was not her forte.

  'Perfect. Finished.' She rumpled the limp strands.

  Violet and Sam started giggling.

  'Great!' Jenkins smoothed it down. Hair sprang up in wild tufts.

  'I look like my hero Ken Dodd. You are clever, Kitty.'

  There was a pause. Her mother, from the bed, began to quake with laughter.

  'That is the ugliest haircut I've ever seen in my life. Jenkins, you're lucky I love you so much, because you could now PLAY Ken Dodd in a film biography. Good thing no one's making one.'

  'Kitty, my lamb,' Jenkins said. 'You are good at a plethora of things, but I don't think hairdressing is among them. We must immediately go out and get rosettes for a prize-giving. I win as the recipient of the ugliest haircut ever given in the world, and you as the bestower of said haircut. We will have a celebration tonight, following the prize-giving. Fred, you will give out the prizes. Sam and Violet will perform a re-enactment of the tragedy; Rosaria will be the barmaid, and Nora the director. Fred in bed is also the audience.'

  Fred became Fred-in-bed-a-lot, because Jenkins kept her up all night. Back at home he shouted and raged like the devil himself, after which there was dark silence and she heard her mother cry, ragged, like a piece of barbed wire.

  Kitty heard them through the floor. So did Sam and Violet. They crawled into her bed.

  'Can you turn the television up there off, Kitty?' Sam said. 'I don't like the programme that's on.'

  'Let's pretend that we're on a boat, Violet is the captain, Sam is the oarsman. I'll be first mate,' Kitty whispered, pulling them close. 'We're escaping the old country, and we're going to an island where they eat nothing but rice pudding and drink coconut milk, and they dance on the shore, and toys grow from trees. Before you go to sleep there there's a royal arm tickler, whose only job is to tickle your arms. The king of the island is a big jolly man who looks like Father Christmas in a skirt, and the queen is the tooth fairy. Shall we row?'

  'Yes,' the twins said in unison, their small starfish hands pressing against her.

  After the crying, there was the making up, which she couldn't give a form to, because she had nothing to relate it to. Murmurs, soft molasses sentences that culminated in gasps, and breaths and the bed creaking. Her mother's pleasure sounded like surprise.

  The house was still then, and her mother and Jenkins slept, oblivious to dawn, or the milkman.

  Sometimes the phone rang, late in the night, but there was never a voice, just a crackle that sounded like it came from seas away. When her mother answered, and was greeted with silence, she hung up crisply, but if Jenkins and she were out, at dinner, or drinking with one of his many friends at the Chelsea Arts Club, Kitty hung on for minutes, repeating 'Hello, Hello?' deep into a space that did not answer her.

  Marina wanted to show off Jenkins to her friends. She took him like a prize to many dinners and Sunday lunches and his charm spread infectiously throughout her mother's circle of friends.

  They drove down to the countryto have lunch with Katie, who had a title and a new husband. Lily in the box was with the old one for the weekend. Nora loved going there because they always got good food, and after lunch she could take Sam and violet to the estate farm to see the sheep and collect eggs from the bantams who nested in the barn.

  When Kitty was little she thought that she must have lived at Slip Hall in another life because being called for dinner by a bell and having someone turn down your bed and warm it before you got in it seemed so utterly natural to her.

  Jenkins made Katie's wizened deaf Aunt Tory, who sat in state permanently affixed to her chair by the fire, blush and twitch like a schoolgirl. She was usually allowed one watery sherry before lunch, but Jenkins slipped her sly tumblers when no one except Kitty was looking. She drank them as though she had been in a drought, her rheumy eyes sparkling with gratitude.

  At lunch Jenkins sat between Katie and Kitty, and he did magic tricks with the napkin ring, and whispered jokes that made Katie clutch the pearls at her neck and giggle.

  Oliver, Katie's new husband, looked over in disdain.

  'Where is it you live - Jenkins, is it?'

  'I'm living with Fred and the brood in Clapham,' Jenkins replied, kicking Kitty under the table.

  She swallowed a laugh.

  'Yes, but where are you FROM?' Oliver curled his lip.

  'Bromley by Bow,' Jenkins answered him, his gaze unwavering and clear.

  'Oh. Quite. How novel.'

  Katie rolled her eyes. Kitty saw her mother talking to the bishop next to her in an animated way; he looked slightly dazed and was nodding vigorously.

  After lunch, Kitty went with Nora, Violet and Sam to the farm. Kitty felt the same thrill as her seven-year-old self had when she pulled an egg brown and warm from a hole in the hay. They walked down the lane and watched the lambs, gawky and unsteady, teetering away from them to the safety of their mothers.

  Jenkins appeared, equally lamblike in his gait, yet there was nothing soft about his face, which was stretched into an unfamiliar mask.

  'We're leaving.'

  'What about tea?' Sam looked disappointed. He loved tea.

  'No. No tea. We're going. Your mother's saying goodbye to Katie. I'll be in the car.'

  Kitty looked at Nora, who shrugged her shoulders.

  In the car everyone was quiet. Jenkins drove, very fast, his mouth a thin slash.

  'Is something the matter?' Kitty said.

  Nora gave her a warning look.

  'Yes. Something is very much the matter,' Jenkins said.

  'That man, that filthy unspeakable man . . .'

  'Not in front of the children, please,' her mother said dully.

  'No, fuck it. Kitty should know. That filthy little man insinuated that I had some sort of disgusting interest in you.' Jenkins' voice trembled like reeds.

  She didn't understand.

  'What do you mean?' She felt like things were shattering in her head.

  'I mean that he thought I was interested in going to bed with you.'

  'Jenkins, please!' Her mother turned to him beseechingly.

  'But that's not true! You're like my father . . .' Kitty shouted. 'That's bloody disgusting!'

  Her brain couldn't connect this information to the rest of her. She thought she might be sick. All the way back to London she sat with her forehead pressed against the window, not looking at anyone, suffused with shame.

  'If I told you something, could you keep it secret? Kitty asked.

  Jenkins was playing old Rodgers and Hammerstein songs on the piano her mother had bought him.

  'Yes. I'm good at secrets.' He took a swig of his Martini.


  'I think, although she wouldn't admit it, that Mummy really misses her parents, even though she seems angry with them, and I think that the reason she's still not talking to them is because she's stubborn, not because she's truly angry . . . They didn't really do anything - they were just worried. I think that if you and I went to see them, and they met you, and saw how well everything's going, how happy you make her, that they might all make up. You're very persuasive, and I know they'd like you. We could surprise her. I've thought about it, and we could go on Saturday when Mummy goes to see Charleston. We could go on the train. If that happened, then everything would be perfect, more perfect then it is now even. What do you think?'

  Jenkins rubbed his stubble. He paused.

  'I think it is kind and dear and it absolutely has to work. I love a mission. Saturday it is.'

  Jenkins bought first-class tickets, and they sat in the smoking car. He wore a fraying grey tie, and a white linen jacket, whose creases matched his own.

  He sat down and ordered a bull shot. He opened a game of Travel Scrabble.

  'Could my wife have a drink?' he said to the attendant.

  'Jenkins!' Kitty said. 'He's not really my husband.' She felt herself turning red. 'He's just making a joke.'

  'Don't be bashful, darling. I picked her up in Mississippi. Lovely, isn't she?' Jenkins wouldn't stop the game.

  'What do you want to drink?' the attendant said as if Kitty was stupid.

  'Orange juice, please.' She kicked Jenkins under the table.

  'Ha! That'll give them all something to talk about,' Jenkins said after the attendant went away.

  'Look at the fields! Look at the sheep! Look, the station's coming - that's the bridge that I had to walk under to get to school. We're here!'

  Jenkins took a deep breath.

  'It's beautiful,' he said, putting an extra-strong mint in his mouth.

  Bestemama was wearing her big straw hat, and knelt over the lavender bush, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

  Kitty called out, uncontained, running towards her.

  'Bestemama, my Bestemarna!'

  Bestemama dropped her pruning shears.

  'Kitty! Oh my Lord! Kitty, what are you doing here? You're so tall! Harald, Harald, look! Kitty's come home!' Kitty threw herself upon Bestemama, who held her tightly, laughing as she murmured Scandinavian terms of endearment, which rolled over each other, breaking gently.

  'I decided to surprise you,' Kitty said.

  'What a wonderful surprise. How did you get here . . .?'

  Bestepapa came out of the front door slowly, resting on his stick.

  'What's this noise for, woman?' he said. 'Can a fellow not have his forty winks in peace any more?'

  He stopped abruptly when he saw Kitty.

  'Is that my little one? Standing in my garden?'

  'It's me,' she said.

  He yelled out, dropping his stick, and tears bigger than normal tears fell from his eyes, coming a cropper in the craggy obstacle course of his face. He wiped them away with his huge hand.

  'I knew you'd come back,' he said. 'Where's everyone else? Where's Marina? Where's my favourite Irish harpy?'

  Kitty remembered Jenkins then, who when she turned to look, was teetering on the edge of the drive, as if he were afraid to commit to the lawn.

  'This is Jenkins,' she said.

  'Would you like a drink, Mr Jenkins?' Bestemama asked.

  'I'd love a Bloody Mary. Don't worry, I can make it.' Jenkins poured himself a tumbler three-quarters of the way full with vodka, and the tomato juice that followed made a thin pink cloud on top.

  'Jenkins is a composer,' Kitty said. 'And a brilliant musician. You should hear him play,' she added proudly.

  Jenkins held up a shaking hand, as if to halt her, and put it quickly back on his lap.

  'My agent here.' He smiled at Kitty. 'I'm on a sabbatical. I'm researching a book on Mahler.'

  After lunch, Bestepapa took them to see his greenhouse, and Kitty knew that he liked Jenkins, and was glad.

  Her mother was wrapped thinly against her chair, her arms crossed, when they came in through the door. Her collarbone protruded from her dress and she looked tired.

  'My love!' Jenkins ran to her. 'How was Charleston? Was it magical? Do you want to get rid of me and run off with a Bloomsbury painter? We've been to market, Kitty and me.'

  'I know where you've been,' her mother said, ignoring him. It was the first time. She looked up at Kitty. Her eyes were scornful.

  Her voice was quiet but the quietness roared like the loudest shouting.

  'If you ever, ever, do something like that again, behind my back, without my permission, I will send you back to boarding school, and you will stay there until you are eighteen years old, do you hear me? I've just had Beste-mama on the phone for an hour, trying to interfere, talking about the company I keep, worried about you and Sam and Violet. I am your family, not them. I am your mother.

  If you ever try to undermine my authority again, I will punish you and you will live to regret it. How dare you?! How dare you do this to me, to us?!'

  'She was trying to help, Marina, she was doing something pure. Besides, it made them so happy. They liked me too.' Jenkins put his hand on Kitty's arm, like a barrier.

  'No, they did not. They did not like you. They said you were a common charming drunk. An old drunk.'

  'They did like me,' Jenkins said. 'I know they did, I'm likeable. Your father showed me his greenhouse. Kitty says he doesn't show it to just anyone.'

  'They appreciated you like people appreciate vaudeville,' her mother hissed.

  'People like me,' he said. This last statement was delivered to an empty chair.

  Kitty nodded mutely, as if to say yes, you are likeable.

  'Kitty, wake up!' Her mother shook her. 'You have to help me, I can't find Jenkins, he's gone.'

  'What? What do you mean he's gone?' She sat up. 'Is it the middle of the night?'

  'No. It's two. Come with me. I'm going to find him.' How young her mother sounded in the dark, she thought.

  'Can I get dressed?'

  'No, there's no time for that. Just put a coat over your nightie.'

  The street hung with whips of fog. A black cat ambled in their path and made them both jump.

  'Is it good luck or bad?' her mother said desperately.

  'What?' Kitty pulled her coat around her and hoped the neighbours weren't watching.

  'The cat. I can never remember whether it's good luck or bad if a black cat crosses your path.'

  'I think it's good.' Kitty squeezed her mother's hand.

  Three streets down, they caught sight of him. He was weaving in and out of the road, his hair white against the black backdrop of night. He looked cinematic.

  'Follow him,' her mother whispered.

  'What's he doing?' Kitty asked.

  'He's dancing.'

  They watched Jenkins waltz by himself, taking sips from a brown bottle. He clung to a lamp-post lovingly, as if it were a lifebuoy and he were being washed out to sea.

  Her mother stood in front of him with her arms crossed.

  'Hello, Fred,' Jenkins said politely. 'Hello, Kitty. Nice night for it. My funny valentine . . .' he sang.

  'Come home, Jenkins,' her mother said. 'It's late. Kitty was worried about you. Look, she's in her nightdress.'

  'Oh why oh why does everyone always spoil my fun?' Jenkins said like a little boy.

  'Come on, darling, please?' her mother pleaded.

  'My funny valentine, I had a valentine in Montana. I have to go back there, my favourite suit's there. I have to go and get it; it will be lonely without me.'

  'We'll get your suit, darling. We can have it sent tomorrow, all right?'

  'No it's not all right. It's all very wrong indeed, Fred. The ladies come and go, they speak of Michelangelo. I will come back if you dance with me, both of you.'

  He took their hands and they began an awkward ghost waltz home.

  * * *

&nbs
p; 'I can't believe I'm at a children's party. I must really like you, Kitty.' Dylan watched Jenkins pull a coin from behind a bespectacled child's ear. The other children cheered.

  Jenkins wore tails and a tall satin top hat. Sam wore a white rabbit's costume and Violet was, inexplicably to Kitty, Puss in Wellington Boots.

  'Sam and Violet will now take you on a magical mystery tour, the likes of which you have never seen, through the tunnel of Zadora . . . Quick, follow them . . .'

  Her mother had spent all night painting wooden packing boxes with snowy landscapes, and fairies dancing through pine trees.

  'He's pretty good. I'd have him at my party . . . your mother looks foxy!' Dylan nearly dropped his Ribena.

  Her mother came out in a black swimsuit over fishnet tights, black suede pixie boots.

  'Ah ha, my magical assistant, recently exiled from the wilds of Slovenia. Please welcome the lovely Marina!' Jenkins spun her around the garden.

  'Good afternoon,' her mother said in a throaty Baltic drawl. 'Ze forest can be perilous; each of you will need an invisible crown of safety.' Solemnly she placed a pretend crown on each child's head.

  'I feel like such an ass.' Marina came over to where Kitty and Dylan stood, and sneaked a puff of Dylan's cigarette. She held hands with a tall boy, who had a big gap-toothed smile.

  'Kitty, I want you to re-meet Tommy. You used to play together when you were little, do you remember? He's Natalie's son, he went to St Paul's till GCSEs. Aren't you at a tutorial now? I thought you should meet because he lives three streets away. It might be nice for you to have a friend who lives close by; and is slightly older . . .'

  'How do you do?' Tommy said politely.

  'St Paul's, eh?' Dylan said in his best rude-boy effort.

  'That's a posh school, innit?'

  'Oh Dylan,' Marina said. 'Isn't your mother in advertising?'

  Tommy blushed.

  'Hi,' Kitty said. 'Ignore him, he can't help it.'

  'I'm so glad we've discovered Tommy again; it's perfect with him only down the road. All of her other friends live so far away; I mean where is NW8? What is Jenkins doing?'