Witch Dust Page 4

  “You just didn’t hear the doorbell,” I’d said, he’d looked baffled as well he might, it’s hardly a huge appartment.

  “What’re you talking about?” He’d hissed, “One minute she wasn’t there, then she was! I was only in the kitchen, it was like she just appeared out of thin effing air and why didn’t you tell me she was coming round?”

  “I didn’t know.” I’d said honestly, ignoring the first part of his comment which was too close for comfort. “Honestly Mum,” I’d said, turning to her, “I do wish you’d call first.” She must have been upset, she didn’t even rise to the Mum bait, but nevertheless made a stab at flirtatious.

  “Martin, my dear, I am so very sorry. Of course I should have phoned first, I’ve completely ruined your evening and now you probably think I’m the most dreadful woman ever.” She paused for protest, but got no argument from Martin, who’d cordially disliked her from the moment I’d introduced them a couple of months back – rather a plus in my eyes – my Mother didn’t meet many people who weren’t instantly susceptible to her charms. Mind you, she hadn’t taken to him much either.

  “Since you ask, I thought he was exceptionally boring.” She’d commented to me after I’d succumbed to his repeated requests, taken him to a show and then brought him backstage.

  “I didn’t ask.” I said. “And he’s not boring, just normal.”

  “Same difference darling. You can do so much better.”

  “He’s not an exam.” I’d snapped. I was rather taken with Martin, who seemed to me to be the epitome of stability.

  “What did you say he did?” She’d asked.

  “Chartered accountant.”

  “Ah, well, there you are then.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “So, what exactly is it Pa’s done this time?” I asked reluctantly, because I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  “Betrayed me. Utterly betrayed me. See for yourself.” She was gingerly applying peas to the swollen ankle and nodded towards the brown envelope she’d brought with her, now lying a little soggily amidst the chocolates on the coffee table. I hesitated, I so didn’t want to see photographs.

  “For God’s sake.” She said. “It’s only his credit card statements.” I leaned forward and extracted the sheets. My Father was never the sanest of shoppers and there was the usual horrendous total at the bottom. I raised my eyebrows.

  “So?”

  “Look a little closer,” she spat, “Hotels, restaurants, jewellers. None of them with me or for me.”

  “Ah…”

  “And I caught them this evening.”

  “Caught them?” I enquired weakly. I thought back wistfully to just a short while ago, when my biggest worry had been the cliffhanger at the end of Coronation Street.

  “In the dressing room, in flagrante!” She started to cry. Ink woke up, ascertained it was only Ophelia, hysterical as usual, and went back to sleep.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Sasha Barrington, you know the new dancer. The little slut!”

  “Goodness, but she’s…”

  “…Young enough to be his daughter. Yes, well, no fool like an old fool.” I’d been going to say she was such a quiet little thing but true, she could only be about twenty-three, a good seven years younger than me. I was starting to get a bad feeling. This wasn’t the first time by a long chalk that Adam’s eye had wandered, but it wasn’t usually allowed to linger long enough for any harm to be done.

  “D’you know what she had the gall to say to me?” I shook my head. “She said,” and my Mother adopted, with cruel accuracy, the high, slightly breathy lisp of young Sasha, ‘Ophelia, I hope thith doethn’t mean we can’t be frienth.’ “Frienths hah! I’ll give her frienths!” She paused, choked with rage and recollection before continuing, “Then she said – listen to this – ‘You’re probably finding everything, the act and all, just a bit much for you now, maybe it’s time to take things a bit easier?’” I winced, I didn’t give much for young Sasha’s chances of reaching twenty four.

  “What’d he say?” I asked cautiously.

  “Huh, he was too bloody busy trying to pretend he hadn’t had his hand up her jumper, said it was all a big misunderstanding, begged me to stay, said the act wouldn’t work without me.” Her eyes iced over. “Too right, it wouldn’t. He’d never have amounted to anything if it hadn’t been for me. I love the so and so, you know I do, but I won’t be made to look a fool. And right now, my heart feels as if it’s broken in two.” She clapped a hand firmly to one turquoise-cashmered breast and looked thoughtful, “I feel I need to get back to my roots.” She said. I looked at her in astonishment. I hadn’t the remotest idea what she was talking about, the only roots I could think of were the ones she had done every six weeks in Knightsbridge.

  “I need,” she said, “To re-connect. With myself, with my past, with my family.” I was now completely baffled,

  “Me and Pa?”

  “Darling, must you always be so self-centered? I do have other family you know.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Normally she was the only woman I knew who could cry and still look radiant, tonight though she was pale and drawn, her hair lacking its usual sheen. Her skin was dull and there were delicate mauve shadow stains below each eye. I realized, with faint shock, she hadn’t even lipsticked before she left, things must be serious. I felt an entirely unexpected stirring of sympathy. I reached out to touch her arm and said gently,

  “Ma, they were dreadful, horrible to you. You ran away. You don’t really want to have anything to do with them now, do you?”

  “No, no,” she said impatiently. “Not them. I just made them up.” My hand fell away from her arm,

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “Well my sweet, be honest, you were always on and on at me weren’t you? Questions, questions, questions all the time – so I simply made up the odd interesting story or two – you know, just to keep you quiet.” She smiled absently and re-adjusted the peas.

  I got up abruptly and walked into the kitchen. On past occasions, when I’ve wanted to put both hands firmly round my Mother’s elegantly slim white throat and squeeze the living daylights out of her, leaving the room has proved an effective avoidance strategy. For no good reason, I put the kettle back on to boil and watched it absently while it worked itself up to a pitch of excitement and then switched off. Then I went back into the lounge again.

  “Ophelia,” I said, calm as you like, “Can I just get this straight please. Are you telling me your adoption, the ill-treatment, the running away – it’s all a complete pack of lies?”

  “Not exactly a pack of lies sweetie, why must you always exaggerate everything so?”

  “If you made it up.” I pointed out evenly, “It isn’t true is it? Hence, it’s a load of lies.”

  “Well if you’re going to nit-pick.” She said.

  “Did you run away from home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because they ill-treated you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does ‘not exactly’ mean? Were you even adopted?”

  “No.”

  “Wait a minute.” With an effort, I kept my tone measured. “Wait one bloody minute. Are you telling me that you – we – actually have family? Relatives? People related to us?”

  “Don’t swear and yes.”

  “But you brought me up,” my voice was rising despite my best efforts, “Believing we didn’t have a soul in the world. No-one. Not one single, solitary family member. Nobody on your side, nobody on Pa’s.”

  “Goodness, you do make it all sound so dreadfully dramatic.” She sighed in a heavily put-upon manner and I bit my tongue so hard it hurt, because when it came to dramatic, I’d learned from the best. “It’s true for your Father, he doesn’t have any siblings and lo
st both parents before he was twenty.” She added sanctimoniously, “But you know all about that. I’ve told you time and time again.”

  “Well you told me time and time again about your childhood too,” I protested, “But talk about changing your story. How the hell could you lie so well, for so long about something so important?” Another thought occurred. “Does Pa know, does Murray, is it just me who’s had the wool pulled?” She waved that airily dismissive hand,

  “Goodness me, I really don’t know. Anyway, it hasn’t been talked about for ages now, has it? I suppose I’d just sort of forgotten what I’d said, so I never really put you straight.” There was an awful lot I wanted to say, so much in fact that I really didn’t know where to begin, so I didn’t, I might not have known where to stop.

  “Never mind,” continued Ophelia blithely, “Look on the bright side, it’s actually rather a nice surprise for you, finding out about this now isn’t it? Will you drive me down there tomorrow?”

  “Drive you? Where?”

  “Near Stratford-on-Avon.” She said, “I’ll give you the address.” I took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then let it out very slowly to see if that might help – it didn’t.

  “No.” I said.

  “No?”

  “No. Firstly, I’m working. And secondly you can’t drop a bombshell like you’ve just done, and expect me to simply take it in my stride. I need to get my head round it, then I need to decide if I can ever, ever again, for the rest of my life, believe a single word that comes out of that mouth of yours. And,” I was in full flow now. “What on earth is it you’re planning? You can’t just descend on them out of the blue. How do you know they’re still there?” I paused as yet another unwelcome thought struck home, “Please, please don’t tell me you’ve been in touch with them all this time?” I realised my voice had now heightened to what might, uncharitably, be called shrill. Ophelia had the grace to look slightly sheepish,

  “Just on and off, now and then, you know, nothing regular and of course they’re still there.” She got back into her stride quickly. “Surely you can take one little day off to do me this teensie weensie little favour? You know Serenissima, all my life I’ve made sacrifice after sacrifice for you, and when was the last time I asked you to do anything for me?” Even accustomed as I was to Ophelia’s view of her own world, she still had the ability to amaze me. Taking tense silence for some sort of consent, she now pressed a trembling thumb and forefinger to her brow,

  “Thank you darling, I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Now, I’m quite beyond exhausted, with a thumping head coming on. Two of those little pink pills from my bag, quick as you can and I could probably manage a very weak cup of tea. Is it too much to hope you’ve anything other than Typhoo? Did you put my case in the bedroom? You’ll be all right on the sofa, won’t you? And pack a few things for tomorrow, we may well decide to stay over.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Call me an idiot, but experience has taught me, however awkwardly inconvenient, aggravating and downright wrong it is to do what Ophelia wants, it’s infinitely less exhausting than sticking to your guns and not doing it. Which is why, still furious and entirely against my better judgment, 11.00 o’clock the following morning saw us beetling down the M40, Stratford-on-Avon bound.

  Sal, my business partner had been less than thrilled when I called to tell her.

  “Oh, dear Lord.” She moaned, “Please tell me this is a joke, Sandy. If we don’t get those proofs for Potter & Kleins, finished and signed off today, we won’t get them to print on time and I’ll slit my wrists.” I clenched my jaw – sometimes it felt I’d simply swapped one drama queen for another. I moved automatically into soothing, God knows, I’d had enough practise.

  “I know, but not to worry, all in hand, I’ll have my laptop with me. Send me the pdfs as soon as they’re ready, I’ll proof them and get them back to P&K, they won’t even know I’m not in the office. If they sign off on them right away, we’ll be fine.” The phone emitted a drawn-out, hard-done-by sigh.

  Sally Leigh had proved somewhat of a disappointment to me. Lusciously built, with long red hair tendrilling around an even-featured face of pale serenity – she looked like one of those patient angels Botticelli slipped in when there was a space to fill and he’d used up his cherub quota. We’d met when I was with an events company, and had worked comfortably together on a few projects over a couple of years. When she’d suggested I think about joining her in her small design business, I’d thought it might be even further away from my hysterically theatrical upbringing than my current job. Unfortunately, deeply fond though I was of her, and successful as our growing business proved, beneath that serenely unruffled exterior it turned out, she possessed an outlook that made Murray look perkier than Pollyanna on Prozac. Still, I suppose the benefit of working with a glass-half-full type is it makes you, of necessity, consistently and determinedly more positive.

  Before we left home, I’d also rung Martin to let him know I might be away for a few days. He greeted the news with supreme indifference.

  “Let’s hope… ” he said, on learning of my unexpected family reunion, although it didn’t sound as if it mattered much to him, one way or another, “…that they’re not all as fruit-loopy as your Mother.” I ignored that and said I’d call him when I got home. He said he was pretty much tied up for the next few weeks, but yes, of course, we’d do dinner sometime. I said goodbye and mentally consigned him to the tried and failed drawer – in a fit of pique, filing him under E for exceptionally boring.

  Naturally, the very first of the series of calls I’d made that morning had been to Murray, to let him know Ophelia was with me and to check how Adam was.

  “Like a bear with a sore head – literally.” He reported glumly, “Had to cancel that Day in the Life piece they were doing on him, you know, for the Sunday Times. Mind you, not that we could have gone ahead without her here anyway, they wanted the two of them.”

  “What’s he said?”

  “Says it’s for the best. Says this is the end of the road. What about her?”

  “Same.” I reported. Murray sniffed noisily,

  “I don’t know Sandy love, this time things don’t look so good.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do. That Sasha’s a sly little minx, who’d ‘ve thought she had it in her. She’s already told the others she’s doing the show with him next week.

  “She hasn’t!” I was genuinely shocked, “He’d never go on without Ophelia.”

  “Tackled him on it. Says he will.”

  “Oh God, Murray, what’re we going to do?”

  “Search me. Not much we can right now. Look, sit tight, I’ll work on him today.”

  “Right, and just so you know, I’m taking her to Stratford-on-Avon.”

  “Gordon Bennett girl, are you nuts? D’you really think this is the right time for a day-trip.”

  “She says she’s got family there. Murray, she’s only been fibbing her head off all these years, all those stories about her childhood – completely made up, can you believe it.” I paused, but had to ask, “You didn’t know, did you?”

  “No, course not.” He was as indignant as he was incredulous. “You sure you got it right? You must‘ve have got it wrong.” I shook my head, which was silly because he couldn’t see me,

  “Driving her down today, soon as she’s ready.”

  “Blimey.” It was a long time since I’d heard Murray nonplussed.

  In the confusion of her dramatic defection, Ophelia had grabbed Ink, but not Ink’s basket. Luckily, there was a vet down the road and I went to purchase a ridiculously expensive cardboard effort, for which they presumably thought they were entitled to charge £15, because of the Pet à Porter printed in fancy letters on the side. Unfortunately, Ink took the view that this was a distinct and insupportable downgrade from
her usual mode of transportation – a luxurious wickerwork contraption, furnished with made-to-measure cushion and with a large Perspex window.

  Whilst there wasn’t much to choose between Ink and my Mother on bloody-mindedness, when it came to speed, the cat had the edge. I spent twenty sweaty and increasingly frustrating minutes, haring round the flat, trying to grab the wretched feline and bundle her into the box, against which she’d taken, with a vengeance. When my Mother wandered in, freshly talcumed and gently glowing from a hot bath and suggested I needed to be a bit firmer, I lost what little temper I had left.

  “She’s your bloody cat, you do it.”

  “Don’t swear, sweets.” And she turned her eye on the cat. “Ink. Box.” Whereupon Ink, who’d been attempting to haul her portly self up the curtain, an exercise threatening to rip the rail away from the wall, suddenly shot through the air. She hovered bulkily over the box for a second or so, before descending rapidly inside with a resounding thump and a small mew.

  “Well, don’t just stand there Serenissima. Shut it.” Said my Mother.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I don’t remember too many details about our drive down to Stratford-on-bloody-Avon that day. I think I was pretty much on auto, focusing on the many and varied things I wanted to say to the wretched woman sitting next to me. I was also distracted at an early stage by Ink, who utilised a paw to punch a large and defiant hole in the cardboard box, squirming out of it, bit by painful bit. It took her about twenty minutes to finally emerge triumphant, like a rather hefty butterfly from an ill-fitting chrysalis. She spent the rest of the journey sitting complacently on the back seat, her expression clearly indicating that if she had fingers, she’d be putting two of them up at me and my box.

  I wanted to tell my Mother exactly, and in some detail, what I thought of the dreadful deceit she’d perpetuated through the years. And when I’d finished expressing myself on that, there were a ton and a half of questions to which I wanted immediate and comprehensive answers. Unfortunately, everything was left to swish frustratingly back and forth inside my head because once the Ink incident had resolved itself, Ophelia put her seat into recline and went to sleep. She’s always had a world-class ability to nap neatly – never a drooping jaw or unladylike dribble – whenever, wherever and for however long she wants and once she’s gone, she’s gone. She hadn’t even bothered to ask whether I’d spoken to Murray to find out how my Father was – or wasn’t. For all she knew, or apparently cared, he could be lying on a slab somewhere with a label on his toe and she could be a fugitive from justice.