Maggie Gee - Where are the Snows

— And now that woman writes to me!

What does she want? Is she fucking crazy? How can she bear to write my name?

Come to think of it, it’s still her name as well since she hasn’t actually divorced him. I remember how ecstatic Isaac and I were when we found out her maiden name was Stoddy. It was written in a copy of some crappy novel — Gone with the Wind I think — she had before she married Dad. That bloody woman was a Stoddy! Our stepmother a Stoddy! We pissed ourselves with laughter. Alexandra was furious.

But the thought of the Stoddys cheered me up whenever I had to put up with her carping about my clothes or my laziness.

I suppose she wants to keep on being a Court. Part of the family she split up. My loving stepmother, Alexandra. Just looking at the envelope made me feel sick.

If only I still had my real mother. If only I could remember her better. I don’t even have a clear memory of Penelope, as if all the tears had washed it away. I remember losing her, of course. Days of howling. Dad silent and grim. Alexandra rushing round like a headless chicken, snapping at Dad, and ignoring us. Another death that Alex caused. Mum would never have died if Dad hadn’t left her.

— And perhaps if Mum was still alive I wouldn’t have done the things I did. Things which will always be on my conscience. However many children I help at school, however many children I might have myself — and I don’t suppose I will; there’s almost no time left — those deaths are on my conscience. I hated the idea of abortion always, but I went and had three. It was all like a dream. Then afterwards you wake up, and they’re gone, and the misery stays, and the longing for them. Feminists tell me I’m mad, or feeble, but I sometimes feel like a murderess.

Alexandra should watch her back. I’m like my father, murderous.

And there it goes sprawling into the bin, letter and envelope and all, her clawed black hand, her false bloody kisses, thinking about the old days… sweet girl…

I’m not very sweet any more, Alexandra.

I lost my sweetness years ago.

— Ah, there’s Madonna coming up for breakfast. She must have smelled coffee, great…

I’m terribly fond of Madonna of course but I sometimes wonder about her judgement. She’s fascinated by Dad and Alex. She thinks it’s an incredibly romantic story, which I suppose it is, in a way, if you don’t happen to have lived in the shadow of it. When I told her Alexandra had written she snatched the letter out of the bin. She managed to put me back in a good temper — it’s one of her talents, cheering me up. She can make me feel my background is picturesque rather than a series of appalling fuck-ups. It doesn’t last but it helps for a bit.

‘At least your stepmother isn’t dull! All those men fighting over her… death and mayhem wherever she goes… and always smart as paint, you say. She’s stunning in those photos upstairs. Definitely a role model for me. I’m so bored with working non-stop for stardom… When I do have time for a personal life, I’m going to go for it, wow… something fabulously melodramatic like hers.’

I could never get mad with Madonna. She’s so full of life, she makes me crack up with laughter… she sometimes comes on like a real bitch but I know it’s just a game.

‘Why not write back? Go on. To the Plaza. It’s so great that she’s going to be at the Plaza, as a final gesture when I left Armand I took him to dinner at the Plaza — saved my wages for a week to do it and told him I was leaving him over the petits pots au chocolat, and he threw it, my darling, on the tablecloth, a man of sixty acting like a child… Everyone stared. I didn’t care a bit. I mean, I cared about him, I suppose, but not the stares, and I thought the farewell meal was a brilliant idea. I think things should have theatrical endings.’

Armand was the man who she followed to New York, breaking Dan Brown’s heart in the process. ‘Was he really sixty? You’re so over the top. Your older men are older than anyone else’s…’

‘He said he was sixty. I suspect he was more. I don’t give a shit. I adore older men. They spoil one so. As long as they can still do it…’

‘Can they?’

‘Mine can. I make sure of that.’

‘What do you like about them?’

‘They’ve lived. I want to find out what they know, I want to suck it out of them…’

We both shrieked with laughter at the same time. ‘No wonder they like you if you suck it out of them.’

‘You can go on making love till you die.’ She was serious now. ‘I do like old men. I find them terribly sexy. Everyone thinks it’s because of Dad walking out but it isn’t, I never much cared for my dad, I just find those rugged, silver-haired types incredibly appealing… besides, to be frank, they’re unlikely to be poor. Men my own age are mostly poorer than me, and I work bloody hard for my money, I don’t fancy spending it on other p —… I don’t fancy spending it on my boyfriends.’

Money is a bit of an awkward topic. Household expenses have got out of hand. Madonna earns good money, and often buys treats — champagne, strawberries, scrummy organic meat from the wildly expensive butcher near her offices — but never remembers we have to have washing-up liquid, and bread, and potatoes, and have to pay the gas and the phone. I’ve been overspending on the garden, even though Dad sent money for the garden last year, which paid for a shed and some new shrubs and trees to replace the ones we lost in the gales. But there’ve been more gales since then, and in any case I’m mad on growing things, I really love to make new things live and grow, baby tomatoes, miniature roses… It’s my passion, the one thing I spend money on. I don’t spend a lot of money on myself. But teachers don’t earn much, either. And life seems more expensive, now Madonna lives here, though I’m sure she is contributing…

In any case she had a brilliant idea. If she came up and shared the top four floors with me, we could convert the basement, and rent it. That would rake in a lot of geld. Except the conversion would cost a fortune.

A fortune to us, but not to Dad.

And so I’m going to make myself write to him.

In any case, Madonna’s right, it’s sad not to be in touch. He’s in Venice, just a half-hour flight away. I’ve been mad at him — I suppose I’ve been sulking — ever since he wouldn’t let me visit him in prison. He never answered my letters properly. And at the funeral he stared straight through me; so he never explained the whole dreadful mess. Mary Brown says he must have been in shock, but at the time it just seemed he didn’t give a fuck. So I decided not to care about him. I’ve only written once since he came out of prison, and that was to ask him for money. I did it on a postcard to hurt him, a four-line postcard with a stupid picture.

We go on and on, tit for tat, all the time. He hurts me, I hurt him, it’s so bloody childish, and I’m in my late thirties, as Madonna reminded me. Coming up forty. Oh God, getting old…

This time I’ll write a proper letter. Nice. Be nice. And full of news. Asking him for money for the basement, OK, but also asking him — why not? — asking him if we could maybe get together. He is my father. I —… yes, it’s true. I’d like to see him. I long to see him, when I think about it. It’s just that I don’t expect it any more. I don’t expect to see my family. I learned the hard way what not to expect. I expect them to die, or abandon me.

The letter is Madonna’s idea, but I’m keen. He’s never said ‘No’ when I ask for money.

— And he might be lonely. P’raps he wants to see me. P’raps it’s the shame that’s stopping him.