‘Because we’re singing the Gloria tonight, and you’ll enjoy that.’
‘But I don’t sing.’
‘Anyone can sing. And anyway, I’ve stood next to you in church and you’ve got perfect pitch. Frankie’s going to babysit for you.’
‘Right,’ I said flatly. Sing. I couldn’t remember how to talk.
Sure enough, as I set off with Archie an hour or so later, Jennie appeared miraculously from her front door with a straining Leila – I’d swear Peggy’s curtain twitched opposite – and we set off up the hill. We collected Clemmie, and walked back down the hill, all of which took about fifteen minutes, a little longer than usual as Jennie had a furtive word with Miss Hawkins, but still not enough for Leila, who needed a good hour.
As Jennie said goodbye, she bent down to talk to Clemmie.
‘That’s a pretty dress, Clem.’
‘I know. It’s got a rabbit on the front.’
‘It has. And a bit of gravy. You were wearing it yesterday, weren’t you, darling?’
‘Yes, and every day. Six. I’ve counted. Mummy said I could.’
‘Good, good.’ She straightened up. Looked anxious again. I must remember to ask about Dan.
‘Seven o’clock, then?’
‘Hm?’
‘Choir practice. I’ll send Frankie round, but I’ll have to meet you there because I need to take Jamie to scouts.’
‘Righto.’
Submissive. Punch bag. Best way.
The children and I had just about finished our tea when Frankie appeared sometime later. She was a sulky, skinny girl with a washed-out face, not helped by heavy, dark eye make-up, and over-long, bleached blonde hair. She was at the local comp where everyone tended to look like that, but where had that sensitive, rather pretty eight-year-old gone, I wondered, as she sat in a heap at the kitchen table, picking gloomily at her black nail varnish. Archie grinned and banged the table enthusiastically. He responded well to her sulky charms.
‘Hi, Arch.’ She took his soggy offering of a masticated biscuit and his eyes widened delightedly. ‘Crackers and lemonade, yum. We’re never allowed that for tea.’
The children beamed proudly.
‘Yesterday we had a Hula Hoop sandwich,’ Clemmie informed her grandly.
‘Good for you, Clem. Why bother with the old five a day, eh?’ She turned to me. ‘Jennie says you’re going to choir practice with her. That’s a bit sad, isn’t it? You’ll be doing the church flowers with her next.’
‘Your mum’s very busy, Frankie,’ I told her. ‘And someone’s got to do it.’
‘Why?’ she said belligerently. ‘No one would notice if there weren’t any flowers in church, would they?’
‘Some people would.’
‘People like Jennie. So she does it for herself, in fact.’
I could see she was pleased with that. Was probably storing it away to deploy on her stepmum later, when Jennie came home, tired. Normally I’d defend her, tell Frankie if everyone thought like that there wouldn’t be any community in the village, but somehow I couldn’t be bothered. Couldn’t raise the energy.
‘It’s like dusting,’ she was saying. ‘She’s got this thing, right, that you don’t do it any more, don’t hoover either, but what does it matter? So what if the dust builds up? Who was it said it gets to a certain level and doesn’t get any thicker?’
‘Quentin Crisp,’ I said distantly. Dust? Why were we talking about dust? Oh, as in ashes to ashes.
‘You see?’ she said admiringly. ‘You know things like that. Cos you read, which is more than Jennie does. Who was he, anyway?’
‘The last of the stately homos. At least that’s what he called himself. D’you want a cracker, Frankie?’
‘No, you’re all right. You’d better go, though. She’ll get stressy if you don’t turn up. D’you want to brush your hair?’
‘No, thanks. Do you?’
‘Not really. Shall I do Clemmie’s?’
‘Sure.’
My daughter slipped down shyly from the table and ran off to get her Barbie hairbrush. Such was her admiration of Frankie, she could hardly speak for the first five minutes of her visit. I got heavily to my feet and went to pluck my coat from the back of the door.
‘School breaks up soon,’ Frankie said abruptly, apropos of nothing. ‘Half-term. Can’t wait.’
‘So it does,’ I agreed. Ages away, actually; but for a sixteen-year-old it was like a drink in the desert. A reprieve from the daily grind winking away in the distance: lie-ins in the mornings, night life in the evenings. Never quite the reality, obviously: lashings of rain and endless boredom with the odd gnomic exchange with an equally bored mate in McDonald’s, but the idea was good. Like most ideas. Marriage. Children. In fact wasn’t most