‘Your father knew nothing about poetry, which is why he had no patience for it. You should have shown them to me. I’d have offered some shrewd advice.’
‘But I showed them to him.’
‘Yes, you did.’ Her mother nodded morosely – how old she looked. ‘Yes, you did.’
She was just going to tell her about the telegram she’d received, about Roger. Nothing more. If invited in, she’d decline with a show of reluctance. Oh, but I must dash, I’m so horribly busy. That sort of thing. But Jean wouldn’t invite her in. Jean probably hated her.
This was, of course, a terrible idea.
She paused at Jean’s gate, her hands wrapped around the black-painted metal rivets, and looked up and down the quiet avenue – cherry trees lined the pavements and the various hedges in front of the houses were clipped and boxy. Had Jean cried, she wondered (and how awful that she was only considering this now). Or had she raged? Probably both. Rage first, tears second. A few hours in the wardrobe and then out to that old lesbo pub to pick up an old flame. But it wouldn’t be the same and she’d feel empty. Yes. That’s probably how it had gone.
She rapped the door knocker, stepped back and waited. Jean would’ve closed up shop two hours ago – supposing there was a shop to close up; she was continuing to sell The Well of Loneliness, despite its banning. She had it smuggled over from France and hid it between the covers of The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette by Florence Hartley (which was frightfully ironic – hurrah, well done) and was very nervous about a police raid.
The door swung open. Jean was wearing a white shirt, long and untucked, and her hair was messy under a black beret. She crossed her arms, a cigarette sticking out from between her fingers.
‘What do you want?’
‘Nice to see you too.’
Jean glared at her.
‘I’ll get to the point then. I’ve some bad news, though it’s possible you’ve—’
‘Roger’s dead. I know.’
‘Oh.’
Jean raised her eyebrows. ‘Anything else?’
‘Um. I suppose I should ask how you’re keeping?’
‘None of your business is how I’m keeping.’
‘All right then. In that case—’ Movement to her right – a curtain swishing aside in the front bay window. A face peering out.
Megan’s.
Bettina took a big, gulping breath. It felt like she’d just been dunked in cold water – that feeling in the head, behind the eyes, of white noise and blank shock, of all existence, all consciousness being sucked out of the ears, then slammed back in. Jean was smiling. Such a nasty, gloating glee in her eyes. Such petty triumph.
‘Guess what?’ she said. ‘We were fucking the whole time. Right under your nose.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Bettina. And actually, she didn’t.
‘Believe what you like,’ said Jean, airily. She went to close the door and Bettina sprang forward, wedging her foot in the gap.
‘Guess what?’ she said, pushing the gap wider.
‘What?’ said Jean.
But Bettina had nothing to say. No ammunition at all. And she so badly wanted to hurt her back.
She snapped back her foot and kicked her hard, in the kneecap. And ran away.
Bart arrived home late at night. Alone. He had a bandaged nose and a faded shiner – purple turning to yellow around the edges – and he smelled like booze and piss. Bettina wrapped her arms around him and they breathed out their secret miseries into the warmth of a neck, the ridge of a collarbone.
‘Where’s Etts?’ she said.
‘He’s not coming back.’
‘Why? Again? Why?’
He shook his head. One of his eyes was spectacularly bloodshot. ‘He left another fucking note, the coward. He wants to stay in America. He’s very sorry et cetera, et cetera.’ Bart’s voice was hoarse, his tone lifeless. ‘He wrote notes for you and Tabby, too. I haven’t read them. They’re probably very magnanimous, but I’ll clue you in on the subtext: I’m a piece of shit and he’s had enough.’
‘But that’s not—’
They heard the opening and closing of a door upstairs and then the pitter-patter of footsteps, child’s footsteps.
‘Daddy!’ said Tabby, seeing him from the top of the stairs and carefully descending, eyes on her feet, then on her father, as if checking he hadn’t gone anywhere, then back to her feet. She reached the bottom and he picked her up and held her. Bettina saw her hands interlaced behind his neck, the fidgeting thumb disturbing his grey-blond hair.
‘Où est Oncle Étienne? Daddy? He said he’d bring me a present, he promised.’
Bart and Bettina looked at each other, pained.
‘Daddy? Can I tell you a secret in your ear?’
‘Of course you can, sweetheart.’ The skin around his nose tightening.
She put her lips to his ear and whispered, loudly: ‘I think Uncle Étienne got me a ginormous teddy bear and it’s orange and it’s called Pierre.’
Bart was crying now, but silently, his face scrunched up and his mouth stretched open to show creamy dabs of saliva at the corners.
‘We’ll buy you a teddy bear,’ said Bettina. ‘The biggest in the world.’ She could feel tears rising in her own throat. This was horrible. Just… horrible.
‘Why are you crying, Daddy?’
‘He’s crying with happiness,’ said Bettina. ‘Aren’t you, darling? He’s very happy because Uncle Étienne found a wonderful new job in America, didn’t he? A very nice new job, doing, um, doing – oh now, let me think… doing painting! Yes, painting sets for all the new talking pictures, and he’s very happy to be doing what he loves, and so is Daddy, because when our friends are happy, that makes us happy. Isn’t that right, Daddy?’
Bart nodded, his mouth still anguish-stretched. ‘I’m so happy for him. We must all be happy for him.’
‘But I want him to make me my breakfast in the morning.’
Oh, Christ in heaven. What could be worse than this?
Dear Bettina,
I am crying as I write this because I will miss you very much. You are a sister to me – it is no exaggeration that I say this. I am sorry I could not see you in person to say goodbye, I did not know the course of events would lead me to stay in Los Angeles. I must keep this brief because I can see Bart will wake up soon. It is terrible that I am doing this, but I have not been my true self for a very long time and it diminishes my soul. Please forgive me my cowardice, I am like a worm wriggling into the deep earth and I am ashamed of myself. Know that I love you and wish you all the health and happiness, for you deserve it. My heart is breaking but I must do what is right.
Dear Tabby,
You will know by now that I am staying to live in America. I want you to know something else: I will miss you more than anyone. You are the smartest, sweetest child in all of Britain and your smile, it dazzles even the sun. Because you are a girl, you will be valued throughout your life on your appearance, and luckily, your appearance is very pleasing, but know this: you are more than just your looks. You are a tiny conquering queen with a brain that is better than the brains of most boys. Be brave and be bold. Soon you will be a big sister. What a lucky child to have a big sister like you! I am sorry that I will miss you growing up – I am more sorry about this than anything else – but when I am settled here in LA I will write to you with my address and we can be pen friends and you can practise your French. But I will understand if you are upset with me and do not wish to write. Ma petite, tu me manques tellement que ça me brûle le coeur.