Joanna Kavenna - Inglorious

So she called her father. She heard the phone ringing through the rooms of his large house, and she imagined him setting down a piece of work, a Spanish translation or something in the garden, or apologising to his bridge partner and rising from the table.

‘Father,’ she said, when he answered.

‘Rosa, my dear. How are you?’

‘Thanks very much for lunch the other day.’

‘That’s fine. It was good to see you.’

‘I wondered if I could ask something?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m just here with some friends, and we have to go to play tennis now. Will it take long?’

‘I’m not sure. Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On your response.’

‘I see. Well, now you’ve whetted my appetite, come on, be quick now. Bernard will be round any minute and I have to feed the dog before I go.’

‘How is the dog, Dad?’

‘The dog is very well. Is that what you wanted to ask?’

‘No. You know it isn’t.’ She laughed, but there were days — today one of them — when her father’s jocularity seemed like nerves. Keep cracking the gags, Dad, that’s just fine. That’ll steel you nicely against the inevitable.

‘The thing is’ — her father was clearing his throat impatiently and so she said, ‘I wondered’ and cleared her throat back at him. That made her think of their shared genes; she could sense them working away in her reluctance to come clean.

‘Rosa, come along, dear,’ he said, kindly but briskly.

‘OK, Dad. Well,’ she said.

Then there was a pause, while Rosa experienced a brief moment of illumination, a glowing, flushed with dawn colours realisation that there was something else stopping her tongue, something more than native cowardice. Her father was a crumbling column, succumbing to the elements; she wouldn’t rely on him any more. And finally, at the age of thirty-five, deep in the forest, profoundly lost in the thicket, you decide that your father isn’t the man with the answer to the riddle of the Sphinx or your cash-flow crisis, or any other problem. And that , she thought, with a nod to Dr Kamen, could be a step forward. She saw that it wasn’t a question of genes or any such thing, but that coming clean to her father was not part of the process. She had hardly helped him at all, this bereaved and antique father of hers, and this was one thing she could do. She could keep it all quiet, omit to tell him any of it. That was something she could do for him. This made her feel much better, though it hardly helped her. She was uncertain if this was her best conspicuous rationalisation yet, as she said, ‘I just wanted to say how good it was to see you, and how glad I am you are happy with Sarah.’

‘Well, thank you, Rosa.’ He sounded hesitant, as if he suspected something else might be coming. Then she heard a bell in the background. ‘That’s Bernard,’ he said.

That’s the bell, Sharkbreath is coming! ‘OK, Dad. But thanks again. And you know, I understand what you were saying.’

‘OK, good,’ he said, and rang off uncertainly.

Her brow was damp. She put her head down to the clammy tip of the phone. A monotone confirmed that her father had gone. Of course, she thought. He has to play tennis and prepare his body for dispersal. Really there’s no point expecting him to dole out money. He doesn’t have much, and what he has, well, he needs. Of course he does! He needs it to bribe the ferryman, all the rest. She hovered by the phone for a moment, thinking of calling him back and leaving a message. Daddy dear, the dough is all yours. You enjoy it, you old cricket. Splash out, buy Sarah a new wig. Thanks so much, Daddy. Thanks. Instead she called Kersti again, risking her thundering wrath. This time Kersti was out. ‘Would you like to leave a message?’ Tell her the guardians of the laws are angry. Tell her I have failed to unlock the secrets of TEMP. That a star is about to fall. The Kills are abroad. Tell her I still believe in the possibility of perfection and I wonder if she feels the same. ‘No, no message,’ said Rosa. ‘I’ll try again later.’

Rosa put down the phone. Again she was smiling. Her moods were shifting from one extreme to another. There was this lurking sense of despair and as if her own personal eschaton was nigh but she was trying to ignore it, quash it at least. Then the phone rang again and Rosa, hoping it was Andreas, said, ‘Jawohl?’

‘Hello, can I speak to Rosa Lane?’

‘Yes, speaking,’ she said.

‘Martin White here, from the Daily Post,’ said a happy elegant voice.

‘Hello,’ said Rosa uncertainly. Well, this is a surprise, she thought. She sat on the folding table and nearly slid off it, steadied herself and said ‘Hello’ again. Encore, she thought.

‘Good idea, your idea for the piece. Good idea. Nice sound to your style. Good enough. A little manic, perhaps you could tone it down. Just send it in, a little calmer,’ he said.

‘You really liked it?’ said Rosa.

‘Yes, yes, quite a good idea. Elective destitution. Good. A bit odd, just what the readers like,’ said Martin White. ‘Not really your largest demographic, I mean I can’t imagine there are so many of them, but I like the bit about blaming the baby boomers. Good idea. Give it a go. Send it to me whenever you can. About 600 words. Sorry not to give you more. You know, in plain English for the general reader. OK?’

‘Thanks, thanks very much,’ said Rosa.

She put the phone down and, because this was the best news she had had in ages and the first sniff of money for a long while, she cried. She wasn’t sure why she started gushing like a sap. It was an over-reaction. As she stopped crying she felt a sense of great joy, but then she wiped her eyes and realised that Martin White’s intervention, which had seemed so fortuitous just a few seconds earlier, so much like manna from heaven, didn’t really solve her immediate problem. Even if he took her article, she wouldn’t get the money for weeks. And, anyway, wasn’t it precisely her inability to write that was the problem? And now she thought she was saved, because someone had asked her to be a journalist again! ‘Shog,’ she said aloud. ‘Bloody shog!’

She started to write Dear Mrs Brazier, I wondered if you might need an interim tutor, before the real one gets started. Just for a few days? Just to get some money in my pocket … But she stopped. These letters won’t help at all, she thought. No more letters, and no more lists — she had a thousand things she thought she ought to do, but she was trying to keep herself disciplined, and she thought, You must simply make these calls. Find a solution. You’ve run out of time. Now she sat up straight. She saw the room in blurred vision, red dots danced before her eyes. She sliced the air with her arms. It was not too late; there was time. She picked up the phone and rang Whitchurch. There was no answer. She tried Jess at work. It switched to voicemail and Rosa lacked the barefaced ludicrousness to leave a message. She tried Andreas, but the man was still absent. Useless! she thought. Not there at all when you need a favour, a small spot of pedestrian salvation! She tried Kersti one more time, but Kersti had gone away. ‘She won’t be back in today,’ said Kersti’s secretary. ‘Not at all today?’ ‘Not at all.’ That was firm, and Rosa left no message. She called Whitchurch again. It was incredible; no one was at their desk. They had all bunked off, gone to walk through the dampness of the crowds and sluice themselves in rainwater. It was just downright unlucky, but today they were perpetually out to lunch, in meetings, the rest. She thought of Liam and Grace preparing for their wedding. Grace with her wedding dress stashed away somewhere. Her trousseau at the ready. Their honeymoon planned, somewhere flashy. Hoping the weather would be fine.