‘You are,’ I tell her. ‘You need to rough it up a bit.’
‘What? Why is she speaking that way? Like an oaf?’
‘Maz identifies as Glaswegian now,’ I explain.
‘There is no one Scottish in our family,’ declares Rose firmly.
‘Dad’s sister Julie married a man from Inverness.’
‘No one in our family,’ repeats Rose.
The wine arrives, and Alan makes a big deal out of asking Maz to taste it. He clearly finds her faint ‘How nice’ a bit of a letdown, but she is supposed to be undercover, so he lets it pass.
‘Will, er, Mrs Ashton be partaking?’ Alan asks, as
he pours.
‘Do you want a glass, Nanna Rose?’ I ask loudly. ‘Or would you prefer a lovely lemonade?’
My mother is both bewildered and irritated, but she is also a lady, and this is a public place. ‘Wine will be fine, thank you.’
Our glasses full, we are a trio once more, and I raise mine. ‘To the Ashtons. As we slide down the banister of life, may the splinters never point in the wrong direction.’
‘Ahem.’ My mother coughs delicately. ‘We are not Ashtons. You are a Hendry, since the occasion of your marriage. And as your father is no longer with us, I recently decided to revert to my maiden name.’
‘Parker?’ It’s hardly the Cholmondeley-Fitzwilliam of surnames; I would have thought my mother would be glad to bury it. In fact, I’m sure she once said it made her sound like a valet.
‘A very old English name,’ says Rose. ‘It dates back to the eleventh century.’
‘Just like you,’ I say. ‘Lady Rosie Parker of Stroud. Sounds like the first line of a limerick.’
‘You’re very odd today, Clover. I hope you’re not coming down with something. Your immune system always was weak.’
‘Just a touch of gonorrhoea,’ I reply.
Rose refuses to lower herself to my level, instead focusing on her youngest daughter, who is staring at the photo of Ruby and Elsie Brown with a dazed look on her face.
‘So, it’s just you, Marigold. Poor Marigold, the only Ashton left.’ She raises her glass. ‘To Marigold! My little spinster.’
We’re used to this, but I can feel my blood boiling just the same. Rose constantly harps on about Maz being single, asking what’s wrong, why can’t you find a man, is it because you give off vibes, you mustn’t seem desperate, but don’t be too standoffish, you’re away with the fairies, that’s why no one wants you, or is it because you smell of the farm and always wear those jodhpurs, which do nothing for your figure, Marigold, you should consider wearing a dress once in a while or people will think you’re a whatsit, particularly with that hair, and why don’t you wear some lipstick for goodness’ sake, because if you did you could be almost attractive, in a certain light . . . Oh, I’m joking, Marigold, can’t you take a joke? You always were such a solemn child . . .
For a second I don’t register Maz’s reply, lost in the chat and music and my own internal monologue. But I feel my mother stiffen beside me, hear her intake of breath and gradually process the words, wallowing in them like a spurned barmaid on a mudbank.
‘I’m not an Ashton either,’ she said softly, staring at the not-dead sisters, ranged by their uniformed entourage. ‘My married name is Fraser.’
35
It’s always been Maz and me against the world. No, not against the world, just against our mother, whose presence in our lives has been a constant, malign drip-drip of platitudes and can’t-put-your-finger-on-it putdowns. Never openly hostile, or overtly derogatory, just gently disparaging, dismissive, distracted by far greater concerns. Rose wasn’t the sort of mother who, if you fell over and grazed yourself, would comfort you and find a plaster. No; she would let you bleed until you stopped crying and controlled yourself, because that was a lesson worth learning. Then she would ask you how it happened, and tell you what you should have done instead. And then she would say ‘The first-aid tin is that way, don’t make a mess.’
So, from an early age, I was mother to Maz, who was such a fragile child – the kind who would cry over a cold bee slowly dying in the autumn chill. I was the one who soothed and bathed and found a cold compress. The one who made dinner when Dad was at work, Rose had gone off to her tennis club, and Annis the babysitter was watching Dynasty. The one who helped Maz with her homework, packed her lunchbox, plaited her hair. The one who worried when she went out. And you might think we’re closer because of it, but we’re not. We’re further apart, because we’re both embarrassed by it.
We were supposed to be sisters, teasing each other, fighting for the upper hand, enemies and best friends, but neither of us had the chance. That dynamic disintegrated long ago, leaving us floundering in our roles. When Maz got her A levels, there was a prize-giving ceremony at our school, and I came down from university on the train to be there, because although our mother was going too, I knew how it would play out. Dad was in Spain, and Maz needed someone there who would be proud of her. Rose had no interest in her daughter’s academic achievements, just wanted to wear her Sunday best and swan around. I didn’t want to be there, had my own stuff to do, and Maz didn’t want me there either, but someone had to say well done.
We watched her get the Sociology Prize and then met her afterwards for a drinks reception they’d laid on. My little sister stood there, in her uniform, clutching the certificate they’d given her.
‘Nice one,’ I said, pointing. ‘Not just a pretty face.’
‘Pretty?’ said Rose. ‘Would you say so?’ And then she went to chat up the headmaster, who regularly wrote for the Telegraph.
Later, I took Maz to the pub for one of her first legal drinks, then left her with her friends. When I went to pick her up later, she was retching over the wall of the beer garden and had to be helped home. It was classic teenage drunkenness, except I knew what – or who – had set it off. Rose was already in bed when we got back, so it was me who held Maz’s hair back as she vomited, fetched her a glass of water and waited until she went to sleep, the tears drying on her cheeks. As she drifted off, she murmured ‘You should go back to Leeds.’ She didn’t want me to bear witness any more. First thing the next morning, I left, and we never mentioned it again.
As a grown-up, Maz didn’t need as much mothering, and I’d forgotten how to be a sister by then, so we have an amiable but on-the-surface connection, confined to the odd text and visit. She’s a vaguely affectionate aunt who brings the twins too-hot alpaca-wool jumpers and Daim bars, and I occasionally hang out at her rewilded smallholding and work my way through her eclectic selection of spirits. Sometimes we meet at her IKEA store and wander around the showrooms before topping up my cheap crockery collection. But we never talk about anything remotely deep or meaningful – we just got into a groove of making snarky comments about Rose, without ever properly discussing how our upbringing affected us.
A few times, mostly after I’d hit her not-so-minibar, I found myself on the point of properly asking Maz about her therapy – more than just ribbing her about BILLY storage solutions – or telling her about what happened to me, and why I think it happened. But it felt like opening Pandora’s box, or maybe a window for an intruder to come in. Once he was in, that was it. It would become real, and scary, and sad and not a joking matter.
So instead, we talked about Scandi furniture, and Mabel’s dislike of foot trimming, made quips about Baby Jane, and because of that I had no idea, no idea that my sister got married and didn’t tell us, didn’t invite us, didn’t involve us in any way. No idea she was even seeing anyone, no idea who he or she might be, my sibling-in-law, our new family member.
Whoever it is, with a name like Fraser, I really hope they’re Scottish.
36
‘Married?’ exclaims Rose, with Lady Bracknell energy.
Maz appears to be gazing into space, but I know she’s looking at Geraldine, taking comfort from her calming alpaca breath. I picture the koala balloon floating away in the sky, unleashed, looking down on all of us, lowly ants scurrying round, and practise my mindful breathing, to slow myself down. None of this matters. Some things matter, but not this. Not this. Not this.
Actually, I think this does matter. My sister got married without telling anyone, it probably should go on a list of significant issues. Why didn’t she at least introduce him/her to us? Is he unpalatable in some way? Is he a convict? Oh God, my sister married an inmate, it sounds like one of those one-off ITV docs; maybe Vince will want me to cast her and her heavily tattooed gangster husband, and find other relationships hindered by one half of the couple being behind bars. I’ll have to recce a prison, get heckled by child killers as I walk through the visitors’ room; maybe one of them will develop a fixation on me and break out to hunt me down and I’ll end up in witness protection wearing a wig with a new name.
Or something.
