Tony Parsons - Man And Wife

Kazumi was with a bunch of men and women, slightly younger than herself, all locals by the look of them. She was at the centre of the crowd, the boys trying to impress her, the girls wanting to be her friend. She smiled patiently, caught my eye and stared straight through me, not recognising the man from her friend’s past, or just not caring.

Kazumi was going dancing.

I was going home just as she was going out.

It wasn’t a different kind of night out.

It was a different kind of life.

Another postcard from America. On the front, under the words

Connecticut – the Nutmeg state, New England, a rural wilderness ablaze with the colours of fall. On the back, in joined-up writing, a message from my son.

Dear Daddy. We Goodbye.

a dog. His name is Britney. We love him.

’Britney’s a funny old name for a dog,’ said my mother. ’I suppose that was Gina’s idea.’

My mum had once loved Gina. I always said that when they first met, my mum thought Gina was a Home Counties version of Grace Kelly, a perfect combination of blue-eyed beauty, old-fashioned decency and regal bearing. Since our divorce my mum had slowly revised her opinion. Now Gina was less the Princess of Monaco and more the Whore of Babylon.

’Maybe Britney is a bitch, Mum.’

’There’s no need for talk like that,’ said my mother.

We were at my dad’s grave. It was the first time I had been here since Christmas Day after picking up my mum to take her to our place for the holiday. Three months ago now. It had been a surprisingly good Christmas – my mum and Cyd amusing each other greatly as they stuffed a giant turkey, Peggy on the phone to Pat for an hour comparing gifts, and the look on Peggy’s face when she opened her surprise present – an Ibiza DJ Brucie Doll, including his own little turntables.

With Pat gone, I was expecting Christmas to be steeped in feelings of sadness and loss, and in fact it was more of a respite from those things. But time was grinding on, and I saw that my dad’s headstone was no longer as white and pristine as it had seemed a few months ago. It was now stained by the winter, tilted by time. Things were wearing out without me even noticing.

’Is Pat all right?’ my mum said. ’Does he like his school? Has he made friends? There was trouble here, wasn’t there? You and Gina had to see his teacher, I remember. Is he all right now?’

’He’s fine, Mum,’ I said, although in truth I had no idea if Pat was a straight-A student or wandering his new classroom at will. It didn’t feel like my son was thousands of miles away. It felt like light years.

’I miss him, you know.’

’I know you do, Mum. I miss him too.’

’Will he come back for the holidays?’

’The summer vacation. He’ll be back for that.’

’That’s a long time. Summer’s a long way away. What about Easter? Couldn’t he come over for Easter?’

Til talk about it with Gina, Mum.’

’I hope he comes back for his Easter holidays.’

Til try, Mum.’

’Because you never know what’s going to happen, do you? You never know.’

’Mum, nothing is going to happen to him,’ I said, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. ’Pat’s fine.’

She looked up at me, briskly rubbing her hands together, wiping off the dirt from my father’s grave.

’I’m not talking about Pat, Harry,’ she said. Tm talking about me.’

And I just stared at her, as I felt the world turn and change.

I had always believed that my dad was the tough one. My mum didn’t drive, she wouldn’t open her front door after dark, and she hated confrontation of every kind. And because she didn’t have a driving licence, because she was polite to rude waiters, because she slept with the light on, I was stupid enough to believe that my mother was a timid woman. Now I was about to learn that my mother had her own well of courage.

’What happened, Mum?’

She took another breath.

’Found a lump, Harry. When I was in the shower. In my breast.’

I could feel my heart.

’Oh God, Mum. Oh Jesus.’

’It’s small. And very hard. I went to see the doctor. You know how much I hate seeing the doctor. A bit like your dad, really. Now I’ve got to go for tests. Graham’s going to take me in his car.’

This is how it happens, I thought. You lose one parent, and then you lose the other. Selfishly, I thought – I went through all this with Dad, and I don’t know if I can do it again. But I knew I would have to. It was the most natural thing in the world.

I could imagine her in the shower. I could see her washing herself with the Body Shop soap in the shape of a dolphin that her grandson had bought her for Christmas. I could see my mother’s face, her kind and irreplaceable face, as she discovered something that had never been there before.

A small, hard lump.

That lump the size of a planet.

When I came home I found Peggy sitting cross-legged on the carpet, studying a book on Lucy Doll.

’Look what I’ve got, Harry.’

I sat on the floor with her and looked at the book. / Love Lucy Doll: The World’s Favourite Dolly was a serious coffee-table job, full of social analysis and cultural deconstruction. First article

– ’Where Is Lucy Doll From?’ I skimmed the article, because I had always wondered that myself. It turned out that Lucy Doll was born in Paris of a part-Thai, part-Brazilian mother and an Anglo-Zulu father. The book revealed that Brucie Doll was from Ibiza.

There were more scholarly articles. Lucy Doll as modern icon. Lucy Doll as a feminist role model. Lucy Doll as a repository for traditional values. Lucy Doll as a radical of the sexual revolution. Lucy Doll was the perfect doll – you could get her to be anything you wanted her to be.

’Where did you get this, darling?’

’Uncle Luke gave it to me.’

’Uncle Luke?’

’He came home with Mummy in his racing car.’

’Did Uncle Luke come in?’

’No. But he gave Mummy this book for me. It’s for big girls.’

I wondered why these creeps always gave this little girl the wrong presents. Her dad with those useless huge stuffed animals that were no good to man or beast. And now a coffee-table book from Uncle Luke. Peggy was at least a decade too young for 7 Love Lucy Doll: The World’s Favourite Dolly. But what did I know? She loved poring over the pictures, and there were page after page of reproductions from all the Lucy Doll catalogues down the ages.

’All the different Lucy Dolls,’ Peggy said.

There they were in all their glory. Office Lady Lucy Doll (Lucy Doll when she was working for a giant Japanese corporation before the bubble burst). Rio Dancer Lucy Doll (Carmen Miranda feathers and tails). And Working Girl Lucy Doll (the blonde locks dyed brunette to denote career-girl seriousness, Working Girl Lucy Doll carried a briefcase and wore spectacles with no lenses).

There was also Space Shuttle Lucy Doll. Funky Diva Lucy Doll. Left Bank Lucy Doll. Hippy Chick Lucy Doll. Chanteuse Lucy Doll. Bungee Jump Lucy Doll. Fighter Pilot Lucy Doll.

Lucy Doll as singer, shopper, housewife, commuter, cook, warrior, adventurer and tourist. Home and career, love and sex, domesticity and glamour, work and fun.

’Which Lucy Doll do you like best of all, Harry?’

I looked at Night-Night-Baby Lucy Doll, who wore a seethrough white negligee that just about came down to her navel.

’I like Working Girl Lucy Doll,’ I said.

’Why’s that?’

’Reminds me of your mum.’

’Me too.’

Cyd was upstairs getting changed. She was sitting at the dressing table in her bra and pants, staring into the mirror. She looked up at me, already defensive, waiting for me to start complaining about the book, the lift home, Uncle Luke.