The Rise and Fall of a Domestic Diva. Sarah May

Findlay said again, beginning to sound tearful.

      At this, Kate went into the kitchen.

      ‘The eczema’s got nothing to do with the heat, it’s stress related.’

      ‘Stress related?’ Margery stared at Findlay. ‘He’s five years old.’

      ‘I’m four and a half,’ Findlay said. ‘Can I have some fruit?’

      Unable to bear it in the kitchen any longer and feeling suddenly displaced, Kate prepared Flo’s baby rice and took it upstairs, balancing Flo on their unmade bed among the pillows, and feeding her what she could. She got her dressed and was just getting into a pair of trousers when she heard Findlay, yelling distinctly, ‘I DON’T LIKE PINEAPPLE.’

      Leaving Flo floundering on the bed, Kate ran back downstairs into the kitchen.

      ‘What’s going on down here?’

      ‘She’s giving me pineapple,’ Findlay said, pushing his face into his hands.

      ‘You like pineapple,’ Margery said petulantly.

      ‘I don’t,’ Findlay started to sob.

      ‘He drinks pineapple juice,’ Margery appealed to Kate.

      ‘I like pineapple juice, but I don’t like pineapple,’ Findlay sobbed.

      ‘It’s okay,’ Kate said, going up to him and stroking the back of his neck just beneath the hairline.

      ‘I’ve opened it now,’ Margery grunted. ‘It’ll go to waste.’

      ‘Opened what?’ Kate said, losing patience.

      ‘The can.’

      ‘Can of what?’

      ‘Pineapple.’

      ‘But we don’t have any cans of pineapple.’

      ‘I bought this yesterday.’ Margery held up the can with the can opener still clamped to the top, slamming it back down so that the syrup ran down the side over her fingers, which she started sucking on. ‘He said he wanted some fruit.’

      Kate watched her, suddenly revolted.

      ‘He meant fresh fruit.’ She gestured aggressively towards the basket on the surface near the coffee machine, adding, ‘It’s not like we’re on rations or anything.’ She tried to laugh, but it didn’t work. She’d been waiting to say that for too long.

      ‘I know we’re not on rations,’ Margery said, thinking suddenly of a cousin of hers who’d fought in the war and been taken prisoner in Burma by the Japanese, ‘But real fruit’s expensive and it goes off in this weather—doesn’t keep.’

      ‘It doesn’t need to keep, it just gets eaten—and it’s only April,’ Kate said, her hand gripping tightly now onto Findlay’s neck.

      Margery licked the last of the pineapple syrup off her fingers. She was drifting now, more concerned with the memory of her POW cousin than the preservative quality of tinned fruit.

      She stared at Kate, trying to remember what on earth they’d been talking about, but in the end gave up and turned away from her, starting to wash the frying pan instead.

      ‘You’re sure you’ll be okay today?’ Kate said, finally letting Findlay go.

      Findlay ran upstairs.

      ‘I’ll be fine,’ Margery responded, without turning round.

      Kate wasn’t convinced. ‘You’re sure you’re going to be okay?’ she said again, feeling a sudden, unaccountable remorse at the sight of Margery’s swollen feet, bound purple with varicose veins, emerging from a pair of mauve slippers they’d bought her at Christmas.

      ‘I was thinking about doing some cleaning,’ Margery said after a while.

      ‘Cleaning?’

      Margery tore off the rubber gloves she was wearing and strode purposefully to the kitchen door, standing on tiptoe and running her finger along the top of the frame. ‘Look.’

      Kate stared at her.

      ‘Dust!’ Margery said and, as she said it, Kate had a sudden memory of Margery filling the indoor drying rack with baby vests and sleep suits after Findlay was born, saying, ‘You’ll be washing at least twice a day from now on.’ Stumbling blearily around the postnatal void and trying to come to terms with the fact that she had become two people, Kate had nothing at her disposal with which to defend herself against Margery’s prediction of infinite domestic drudgery.

      ‘I never knew you were meant to clean the top of doorframes.’

      ‘I had an electrical engineer round once, who complimented me on the top of my doorframes,’ Margery said, as if this settled the matter.

      ‘Well, Martina’s coming today.’

      ‘Who’s Martina?’

      ‘The cleaner.’

      Margery digested this rapidly, staring at the dust on her fingertip. ‘I never heard Robert talking about a cleaner; he’s never mentioned a cleaner to me.’

      For a moment, Kate thought Margery was going to cry—it looked like her eyes were starting to water.

      ‘She’s a friend’s au pair.’

      ‘Where’s she from?’

      ‘Bratislava.’

      ‘Have you given her keys?’

      ‘Of course she’s got keys.’

      ‘Oh, I couldn’t…I just couldn’t.’

      Margery was about to predict something apocalyptic when there was a banging sound from upstairs, followed by screaming.

      ‘What’s that?’ Margery yelped, her nerves shattered under the duress of the newfound information about the cleaner who’d infiltrated her son’s household.

      ‘Shit—Flo.’

      Was somebody breaking into the house to kidnap Flo? When she was a child and her mother lost her temper she used to say she was putting her out for the gypsies to take, but now it was the Arabs you had to be careful of. As everybody in East Leeke knew, there was a buoyant market for blond children in the Arab world. Were they coming for Flo here—now? The world was a terrifying place Margery thought, her mind full of Arabs scaling drainpipes—too terrifying sometimes.

      Ignoring the strange whimpering sound that Margery, immobile, was making, Kate ran upstairs.

      Flo was lying on her back on the stained carpet in their room, howling, and Findlay was kneeling beside her. When did Findlay come upstairs? She couldn’t even remember him leaving the kitchen.

      ‘I was waving at the face in the other house, then she fell,’ he said, waiting.

      ‘The face?’ Kate picked Flo up, tentatively feeling her head and looking out of the window. There were no faces at any of the windows in the house opposite, which—local rumour had it—was some sort of Albanian- or Russian-run brothel. ‘She’s fine,’ she tried to reassure him, as Flo started to calm down.

      Findlay remained motionless. This wasn’t good enough.

      He wanted to know why she had permitted such a thing to happen and it dawned on her, standing there cradling Flo, that he was angry with her. The eyes staring at her through the slits in the Spiderman mask, which he must have come upstairs and put on himself, were angry. She’d shattered an illusion he didn’t want shattered and now he knew that mothers—in particular, his mother—sometimes left their babies on beds and forgot about them, and sometimes the babies rolled off.

      She tried to think of a comforting lie to tell him when she heard the post being pushed aggressively through the letterbox by the postwoman, who had some minor mentalhealth issues.

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