Maggie Gee - My Cleaner

And so they will be sharing a bed.

There is a vase of roses on the bedside table. “Your Aunt Becky crocheted that bedspread,” says Isobel. “I had to clear their house out after she died. She would have liked to be here to see you.” And then, seeing something stunned in Vanessa’s expression, she says, “Will this room be all right for you? I thought, seeing as the two of you are such friends…In any case, it’s all we’ve got.” And just for a moment there’s a flash of something that Vanessa remembers from when she was younger, when she went to college and her cousins did not, when her aunt thought she’d got above herself, and told her mother, and there was a row. Hurriedly she says, “That’s quite all right.”

“It is very nice,” says Mary, laughing. “I do not mind sleeping with Vanessa. Though sometimes Omar says I kick people.”

Vanessa does not laugh. She takes most of the hangers, and the side of the bed with the bedside table.

In the evening they all go to Lucy’s house, except Uncle Stan, who ‘has a programme to watch’, or so he says, but his wife whispers, “Well, the old boy never goes out.”

Lucy lives in one of the modern houses that have appeared along the lanes. It has an air of recent ruthless tidying; the beds in the garden are freshly dug over, spanking new winter pansies in brilliant islands upon a background of immaculate brown. They are building an extension at the back: it is large and white and nearly finished, with a round conservatory on the end.

Lucy is nervous, but full of laughter. Pretty from a distance, with a cap of yellow curls, close up her fine skin is wreathed in smiling wrinkles, Vanessa is relieved to find, as they kiss. Her blue eyes are kindly, but not the cornflower pools that used to lure Vanessa’s boyfriends away. And I am slimmer than her, thinks Vanessa. And surely I dress decades younger. She begins to feel better, to relax.

Lucy welcomes them into her pink front room, rather too pink, but very bright. There is a rose three·piece suite and a low carved coffee-table covered with a sheet of gleaming glass. It is loaded with things on cocktail sticks, sausage rolls, olives, bijou gherkins. There is a bottle of sparkling wine on the table. The late sun flashes on a set of crystal flutes. Lucy shows them her house with self-deprecating pride: it is light and bright and well-organised, a world away from Aunt Isobel’s (though Vanessa notes there are very few bookshelves, and she would never live in a 1980s house, with cubes of rooms and double-glazed windows). There are sunshine-yellow fitted units in the kitchen, with matching blinds, kettle and toaster. Vanessa says, “Lovely,” but thinks too yellow . “You don’t think it’s too yellow, do you?” asks Lucy. The floor is an eye-popping yellow and white check. Vanessa is determined to be nice to everyone. “Lovely, Lucy. You must clean it every day, how marvellous” ( but 1 would be far too busy ).

Lucy gives her a slightly quizzical look. “I’m afraid not, Nessa. I have a cleaner. Nearly as old as Mum, but she keeps going.”

It turns out Lucy pays half as much as Vanessa, and the cleaner comes for twice as many hours as Anya. “One day I’m moving to the country,” says Vanessa. “You can’t imagine how hard it is, in London. I mean, cleaners have us over a barrel, they aren’t even English, and we pay through the nose—”

Of course it’s OK to say this to Lucy, who lives in the country, and will understand. Then Vanessa remembers, with a sinking heart, that Mary is standing listening in the doorway. “I don’t mean you, Mary, of course,” she blusters.

Mary smiles at her, enigmatically. “Of course not, Vanessa. You cannot mean me. I am not your cleaner. And remember — when I was your cleaner you paid me very little.”

Vanessa hopes that Lucy did not hear her.

“I hope you’ll be all right at Mum’s,” Lucy says. “She does her best, bless her, but Dad is exhausting, it’s not his fault, but she has to do everything. I would have had you here but then the girls said they wanted to bring the kids for the knees-up, and I have to say, I’m the original doting grandma — I think that’s them!” And she rushes to the door.

And there they are, the next two generations. The daughters are stylish, handsome women; one is a solicitor, one a doctor; one is a Chloe, the other a Serena. They are warily friendly, at first, to Vanessa, as if they have heard too much about her. The grandchildren range between two and eight, and all have cut-glass middle·class accents, and either have nannies or go to prep school. The daughters are protective of their mother Lucy, and make a fuss of her, and praise her food, and admire her garden, so Vanessa does too, and they all get mildly tipsy together. Mary chats intensely to Serena, the solicitor, who turns out to have done VSO in Kenya, and Vanessa ends up with a grandchild on her knee, and there is a lot of shouting and laughter.

The first night, Vanessa says, aside, to Mary, “Mary if you don’t mind, I will have a bath. As you know, I have headaches when I don’t get my exercise, and the hot water helps me to relax.”

Mary doesn’t demur, though she is sweaty from driving.

But when Vanessa makes the same speech to her hostess, Aunt Isobel’s mouth tightens on a drawstring. “Oh no, we don’t really have baths at night. The water’s gone cold again by now. I expect we could manage one in the morning.”

Vanessa washes glumly in the bathroom. She’s asleep by the time Mary joins her in the bedroom. Vanessa jerks awake and looks at her watch. It is nearly midnight. “Mary, what have you been doing?”

“I was talking with your aunt and uncle. They are very interested in my life in Uganda.”

“Really?” asks Vanessa, disconcerted. She feels vaguely cheated by this news. Surely Mary should talk about Uganda to her ? “I too am very interested, Mary, you know. Particularly as I have been to Uganda.”

“Yes, Vanessa, you have mentioned it.” Mary goes to sleep smiling, and does not say, “But you never asked me about life in Uganda. You were always too busy telling me about it.”

When Vanessa comes down to breakfast next day, Aunt Isobel is in the kitchen. She gestures conspiratorially at the garden, smiling, showing stained and broken incisors. “Look who’s managed to get outside. And your friend’s with him. Heart of gold, that girl.”

“Really?” Vanessa goes out to join them. She has a heart of gold, as well.

Stan and Mary are propped against the garden wall, looking down the path towards the bird-table. And they are smoking. Mary’s doing it again. Vanessa stares at her, mute, accusing.

“Ah, Vanessa.” Mary smiles, and blows smoke. “Stan has asked me to join him for a cigarette. Although, as you know, I have given up smoking. But of course, I respect your uncle very much. I think it is a cultural thing, to join him.”

“She’s a laugh a minute, this girl,” says Stan. His voice sounds stronger, although he is coughing. “See, Izzie’s given up, so it’s nice to have company. I’m showing her my birdies, look there, down the garden.”

“I like the blue and yellow ones,” says Mary, indicating them with a flourish of her fag.

Not to be outdone, Vanessa joins in. “Your tits are absolutely wonderful, Uncle.”

And Mary quickly seconds her. “Very nice tits.”

Both of them are puzzled when Stan bursts out laughing, choking and heaving against the wall. But this visit is going really well.

Soon after, the day dissolves in grey rain. Mary and Vanessa try to wander round the village, but Mary has no Wellington boots, and the traffic soon sprays them with thin slurry. After a bit they give up and go back. The house feels small for the four of them.