‘What’s the problem that’s more important than canapés, o daughter-my-daughter?’
‘Well,’ I began, unsure of how to put it, ‘remember you said how you wanted to be a grandmother?’
‘Oh, that,’ she said, laughing, ‘I’ve known you’ve had a bun in there for a while—I was just wondering when you were going to tell me.’
‘Wait a minute!’ I said, feeling suddenly cheated. ‘You’re meant to be all surprised and tearful.’
‘Done that, darling. Can I be so indelicate as to ask who the father is?’
‘My husband, I hope—and before you ask, the ChronoGuard eradicated him.’
She gave me a hug.
‘Now that I can understand. Do you ever see him in the sort of way I see your father?’
‘No,’ I replied miserably, ‘he’s only in my memories.’
‘Poor little duck!’ exclaimed my mother, giving me another hug. ‘But thank the Lord for small mercies—at least you get to remember him. Many of us never do—just vague feelings of something that might have been. You must come along to Eradications Anonymous with me one evening. Believe me, there are more Lost Ones than you might imagine.’
I’d never really talked about Dad’s eradication with my mother. All her friends had assumed my brothers and I had been fathered by youthful indiscretions. To my highly principled mother this had been almost as painful as Dad’s eradication. I’m not really one for any organisation with ‘anonymous’ in the title, so I decided to backtrack slightly.
‘How did you know I was pregnant?’ I asked as she rested her hand on mine and smiled kindly.
‘Could spot it a mile off. You’ve been eating like a horse and staring at babies a lot. When Mrs Pilchard’s little cousin Henry came round last week you could hardly keep your hands off him.’
‘Aren’t I like that usually?’
‘Not even remotely. You’re filling out along the bustline too—that dress has never looked so good on you. When’s sprogging time? July?’
I paused as a wave of despondency washed over me, brought on by the sheer inevitability of motherhood. When I first knew about it Landen had been with me and everything seemed that much easier.
‘Mum, what if I’m no good at it? I don’t know the first thing about babies. I’ve spent my working life chasing after bad guys. I can field-strip an M16 blindfold, replace an engine in an APC and hit a two-pence piece from thirty yards eight times out of ten. I’m not sure a cot by the fireside is really my sort of thing.’
‘It wasn’t mine either,’ confided my mother, smiling kindly. ‘It’s no accident that I’m a dreadful cook. Before I met your father and had you and your brothers I worked at SO-3. Still do, on occasions.’
‘You didn’t meet him on a day trip to Portsmouth, then?’ I asked slowly, wondering whether I really wanted to hear what I was hearing.
‘Not at all. It was in another place entirely.’
‘SO-3?’
‘You’d never believe me if I told you, so I’m not going to. But the point is, I was very happy to have children when the time came. Despite all your ceaseless bickering when you were kids, and teenage grumpiness, it’s been a wonderful adventure. Losing Anton was a storm cloud for a bit but on balance it’s been good—better than SpecOps any day.’
She paused.
‘But I was the same as you, worrying about not being ready, about being a bad mother. How did I do?’
She stared at me and smiled kindly.
‘You did good, Mum.’
I hugged her tightly.
‘I’ll do what I can to help, sweetness, but strictly no nappies or potty-training and Tuesday and Thursday evenings are right out.’
‘SO-3?’
‘No,’ she replied, ‘bridge and skittles.’
She handed me a handkerchief and I dabbed at my eyes.
‘You’ll be fine, sweetness.’
I thanked her and she bustled off, muttering something about having a million mouths to feed I watched her leave, smiling to myself. I thought I knew my mother but I didn’t. Children rarely understand their parents at all.
‘Thursday!’ said Joffy as I reappeared from the vestry. ‘What use are you if you don’t mingle? Will you take that wealthy Flex fellow to meet Zorf, the Neanderthal artist? I’d be ever so grateful. Oh my goodness!’ he muttered, staring at the church door. ‘It’s Aubrey Jambe!’
And so it was. Mr Jambe, Swindon’s croquet captain, despite his recent indiscretion with the chimp, was still attending functions as though nothing had happened.
‘I wonder if he’s brought the chimp,’ I said, but Joffy flashed me an angry look and rushed off to press flesh.
I found Cordelia and Mr Flex discussing the merits of a minimalist painting by Welsh artist Tegwyn Wedimedr that was so minimalist it wasn’t there at all. They were staring at a blank wall with a picture hook on it.
‘What does it say to you, Harry?’
‘It says… nothing, Cords—but in a very different way. How much is it?’
Cordelia bent forward to look at the price tag.
‘It’s called Beyond Satire and it’s twelve hundred pounds; quite a snip. Hello, Thursday! Changed your mind about the book-flick?’
‘Nope. Have you met Zorf, the Neanderthal artist?’
I guided them over to where Zorf was exhibiting. Some of his friends were with him, one of whom I recognised.
‘Miss Next!’ said Stiggins as I approached. ‘We would like to introduce our friend Zorf.’ The slightly younger Neanderthal shook my hand as I explained who Harry and Cordelia were.
‘This is a very interesting painting, Mr Zorf,’ said Harry, staring at a mass of green, yellow and orange paint on a large six-foot-square canvas ‘What does it represent?’
‘Is not obvious?’ replied the Neanderthal.
‘Of course!’ said Harry, turning his head this way and that. ‘It’s daffodils, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘A sunset?’
‘No.’
‘Field of barley?’
‘No.’
‘I give up.’
‘Closest yet, Mr Flex. If you have to ask, then you never understand. To Neanderthal, sunset is only finish-day. Van Gogh’s Green Rye is merely poor depiction of a field. The only sapien painters we truly understand are Pollock or Kandinsky, they speak our language. Our paintings are not for you.’
I looked at the small gathering of Neanderthals who were staring at Zorf’s abstract paintings with emotion-filled wonderment, tears in their eyes. But Harry, a bullshitter to the end, had not yet given up hope.
‘Can I have another guess?’ he asked Zorf, who nodded.
He stared at the canvas and screwed up his eyes.
‘It’s a—’
‘Hope,’ said a voice close by. ‘It’s hope. Hope for the future of the Neanderthal. It is the fervent wish—for children.’
Zorf and all the other Neanderthals turned to stare at the speaker. It was Granny Next.
‘Exactly what I was about to say,’ said Flex, fooling no one but himself.
‘The esteemed lady shows understanding beyond her species,’ said Zorf, making a small grunting noise that I took to be laughter. ‘Would lady-sapien like to add to our painting?’
This was indeed an honour. Granny Next stepped forward, took the proffered brush from Zorf, mixed a subtle shade of turquoise and made a few fine brush strokes to the left of centre. There was a gasp from the Neanderthals and the women in the group hastily placed veils over their faces while the men—including Zorf—raised their heads and stared at the ceiling, humming quietly. Gran did likewise. Flex, Cordelia and I looked at one another, confused and ignorant of Neanderthal customs. After a while the staring and humming stopped, the women raised their veils and they all ambled slowly over to Gran and smelled her clothes and touched her face with large yet gentle hands. Within a few minutes it was all over; the Neanderthals returned to their seats and were staring at Zorf’s paintings again.