The woman has a long face like a bloodhound, and deep brownish bags under her eyes, but there is a familiar curl to her lip, and that horse-toothed smile — Vanessa struggles to place her.
“I’m a wreck now, of course, but when I taught you, Vanessa, I was a hopeful young sprig of thirty. And now we’re both old biddies, eh?”
“Miss Tomlinson,” Vanessa gasps, struck. “You taught me English. You encouraged me.” But she is unsettled by that ‘old biddy’. She bolts the last of her gin and tonic.
“Yes well, I thought you had talent, then. I retired, of course, five years ago. But I hear you’ve gone and become a teacher. Always told you girls never to teach.”
“Oh I don’t really teach,” says Vanessa, ashamed. “Just part-time Creative Writing, you know. Really I’m a writer, as you said I should be.”
“Read your first novel,” the woman says. A silence follows. And extends. She seems to be swaying slightly on her feet. Vanessa remembers they all called her ‘Tommers’.
“You didn’t happen to read my second?” Vanessa is sure the second is better. “Shall I send you a copy? It’s not a problem.” Because I have three hundred copies at home.
Tommers holds up her hand as if to ward off demons. “Don’t bother. In fact, you sent one for the library.” She hiccups, and smiles, her mouth crooked.
“Did you read it?” asks Vanessa, breaking her own rule: never ask people if they’ve read your books. If they have, and like it, they will let you know.
“Started it.” Tommers leans closer to Vanessa, as if she is going to confide a great secret. “Not sure anyone else took it out. The girls will only read famous names. Or things which are, you know, exceptional.” Now Tommers is breathing into her face, a ghastly cocktail of wine and cheese. “Do you mind me asking, did you mean it to be funny?”
Neither ‘Yes’ nor ‘No’ seems a promising response. Vanessa decides to move away, but her old teacher sees her escaping.
“Jus’ got myshelf a bottle from the bar. Would you care to take a glass with me?” Her accent is suddenly very genteel.
Vanessa is slightly too drunk to say no. Besides, Tommers’s rudeness has a riveting quality, like watching a juggernaut run you down.
The two of them find a seat in the corridor. Vanessa tries to drink as fast as her old teacher. They discuss many things: Jane Austen, diaries. Tommers becomes quieter and less abrasive. Vanessa starts to dominate the conversation. Soon her old teacher falls totally silent. She seems to be asleep, but Vanessa prefers it. She hears herself say what she’s never said before. “I think I might write about my life. I’m teaching an Autobiography course. I’ve just given a chapter or two to an agent. A fairly high-powered one I happen to know. I do sometimes wonder what’s the point of novels—”
At which, the older woman jerks into life, waving her arm wildly and splashing her wine. “Thash right,” she says, staring straight at Vanessa, although her eyeballs aren’t moving quite together. “There’s no bloody point. Unlesh you’re fucking Cackfa. Kafka. Cackfa. Whish you’re not.”
Vanessa realises Tomlinson is paralytic.
“Autobiog. Og. Og. Ogra. Ography,” the woman says, triumphantly. “You’d shertainly have a lot to write about.”
“What do you mean by that?” asks Vanessa.
“BARKING mother. IDIOT father,” Tomlinson shouts, as if it is obvious. Now other party-goers are falling silent and pausing to stare, curious. “Feel I can be quite frank with you, Vanesha. All friends here. S’right, issn’t it?” She clamps her arm around Vanessa, looks suddenly serious, and opens her mouth. There is a burp, then a raspberry trickle of wine. “Jus’ write the truth about it all. Thing ish, you’ve done fucking well, Vanesha. Got to fucking Cambridge from our fucking awful school. Father who could hardly even write his name. Mother should’ve been in the fucking loony bin. You were practically a fucking servant, at home. OK, your novels aren’t fucking Proust—”
And at that, she slides gently on to the floor, and falls asleep, smiling cherubically.
Vanessa snatches up the last of the bottle, turns on her heel and returns to the party. She will talk to anyone who isn’t Miss Tomlinson. Drink blunts the contours of the conversation. Tommers was jealous and an alcoholic. Besides, Vanessa despises swearing. Within half an hour she is singing karaoke, and half a dozen people are clapping her on, while a few young men in the corner are jeering. But Mary is leading a loud conga round the hall, her red hips swinging from side to side, her face glowing, her smile very white, at the head of a great sweeping ‘S’ of people.
In fact, Mary seems to be the star of the evening. Vanessa drinks more in the hope of being jollier. Surely she can be as much fun as Mary, on her home ground, in her own village. Ray Biggins sways up to her, with his coat on. By now his face is more plum than crimson, but she knows he is going to apologise, and she offers her cheek, beneficent. Instead he smacks her on the lips, wetly. “You were always a good kisser, Ness. What I’ve come to ask though is…” (pointing at Mary) “is she really an African princess? That’s what she told my mate Gonzy.”
Vanessa’s last, unreal memory is of saying goodnight to Lucy’s daughter Serena, who is trying to apologise to her. “I do hope Miss Tomlinson wasn’t a bore. When she is drunk, she does tend to swear. She’s been very bitter since her girlfriend left.”
“Oh she can fuck off,” Vanessa shouts, cheerily. Serena stares at her, appalled.
Then begin the long trials of sobering up.
In the early morning, her head spinning with wine, many things she has forgotten come back to Vanessa. How often she missed school to look after her mother. How once when Miss Tomlinson was her form mistress, Vanessa went to school late with her nails raw and bleeding because her mother had begged her to bleach the kitchen. How she never went on trips. There was never the money. She would watch the others setting off, excited.
And yet, she got to Cambridge. That was really something. The only girl ever from this village.
It wasn’t nothing. It was surely something. Even if her novels weren’t any good…
No good, no good. Her life was no good. She hadn’t been good to her son, or her husband.
your novels are hardly fucking Proust.
The words come back to her, at three, at four.
When Vanessa finally starts to nod off, Mary starts snoring with imperial grandeur, then runs her feet in the bed like a hamster, until Vanessa says loudly, “Shush”, when Mary says, puzzlingly but distinctly, “I’m sorry, Justin,” turns over and farts, so obviously she is fast asleep.
It is a loud and very smelly fart which makes Vanessa burn with indignation. Somehow it seems to smell of Africa, and everything she doesn’t like about Mary. In any case, the fart has staying power; it is salty, peppery, meaty and fatty as all the sausages and bacon at the party. Perhaps that makes it an English fart. Why didn’t Mary do it before she turned over? The line of her cheek almost seems to be smiling. After that it is even harder to sleep.
It is an odd sensation, waking up with Mary. The first night they arrived, Vanessa was so tired she had slept dreamlessly through until morning, then got up hastily and put her face on before Mary could wake and see her, pallid. But the day after the party, Vanessa jerks awake with a thumping headache at half-past nine, and Mary has got up and drawn the curtains, so the morning light blazes full in her eyes. Vanessa is aware she must look dreadful. Mary stands peering down at her. She is dressed, and her eyes and teeth gleam white. She looks big and healthy. She has lipstick on.
“Good morning, Vanessa,” she almost sings. “Have you slept well? Did you like the party?”