Chapter Six
Celie
Celie stands in the corner of the kitchen while the gardener dresses the old man’s wound, kneeling at his feet like some kind of medieval serf. He has a bandage between his teeth and is liberally spraying the old man’s leg with some kind of antiseptic spray. “Dog bites can be full of bacteria,” he is saying. “I’ve flushed it with saline, but you’re going to want to keep an eye on it and head straight for A and E if it doesn’t look like it’s healing.”
The old man is leaning back in the kitchen chair looking weirdly cheerful. Celie guesses he’s the kind of man who likes to be the center of attention, even if it comes at the expense of a dog bite. “Cats are worse,” he’s saying, with a broad American accent. “I worked with a guy in Tennessee once who got scratched by a feral on set between takes. His whole arm blew up and he was knocked out of the production for weeks. Director gave all his lines to an extra. Mind you, he was an asshole. If I’d known I would have filled his trailer with cats. Would have saved me a whole load of grief.”
While the old man rattles on, Celie’s mum is standing by the kettle, her face like stone. But it’s a positive welcome mat compared to Bill’s. Celie thinks she has never seen Bill like this. He is standing with his arms crossed firmly over his chest, his legs in power stance, like a second-rate politician. He has not taken his eyes off the American since he walked in, as if he’s half expecting him to get up and run away with what’s left of the family jewels.
Meena keeps texting, asking her when she’s coming, but Celie ignores the buzzing in her jeans pocket. Meena is blowing hot and cold just now and she’s not sure whether to trust her.
“I think that’s it,” says the gardener, getting to his feet. He’s the only person smiling in the room, apart from the old man. Even Violet is unusually silent. “Like I said, you might want to head to A and E anyway. It went pretty deep for a puncture wound.”
“That’s quite the guard dog you have there, Lila,” says the old man, examining the bandage.
“He’s never bitten anyone before,” says Violet, quickly.
“The dog has immaculate taste,” mutters Bill, and Violet’s head spins round. Bill never says anything mean about anyone.
“Good to see you, Bill,” says the old man.
“Wish I could say the same, Gene,” says Bill.
Gene seems not to hear that. He turns to the gardener man and holds out a broad, tanned hand. His veins pop out of his skin like worm casts. “I’m obliged to you, young man. Thank you for your attentions.”
“No problem.”
Celie glances at her mum, who is still stony-faced.
“Are you part of our family?” Celie says, finally.
“I am! And you must be Celia. The last time I saw you you were knee high to a—”
“A baby,” interrupts Lila. “She was a baby when you last saw her. And it’s Celie. Always has been.”
Bill is the only old man left in Celie’s family. She has another grandfather, her dad’s dad, but Granny and Granddad Brewer live up in Derby in a small, terrifyingly neat house that they rarely visit because Granny Brewer doesn’t like mess or chaos and their house is too small for guests, especially children, who mess up the net curtains and tread dirt into the carpet. The last time they went Violet was small and did a wee on the guest bed, which didn’t have a mattress protector, and they were told that next time they would have to stay in a Premier Inn. Not like this big, vibrant man with a shock of dark hair and movie-star creases at the corners of his eyes and a…is that a Nirvana T-shirt?
“So you’re little Violet! Bring it in, honey!” he says, holding his arms wide, and Violet, as if she’s on autopilot, steps into them for a huge hug. “It’s so great to finally meet you!”
Celie watches her mother’s face remain completely immobile as this happens. Bill adjusts his position and lets out a small grunt, as if it’s all he can do not to intervene.
“I’ll—I’ll be off then,” says the gardener man, who is reaching for his jacket.
“No,” says Bill. “Stay for a cup of tea, Jensen.”
“You’re all right, Bill. I’ll just—”
“Stay,” says Bill, really firmly. After a moment, Jensen glances behind him for a kitchen chair and sits down awkwardly. Bill turns and fills the kettle, his stiff old back radiating displeasure.
“Well, aren’t you gorgeous?” Gene is saying to Violet. “You look just like your grandma. She had those big blue eyes when she was young.” He turns toward Celie. “And you too! Aren’t you just a long glass of cool water! Look at the pair of you!”
“What are you doing here, Gene?” says Mum, her voice cold.
“Sweetheart! I’m doing a short run at one of the London theaters so I thought I’d come and see the family! I can’t believe how they’ve grown!”
“Yes,” says Mum. “Sixteen years will do that to you.”
“I mean I would have loved to come back before but things were kind of tricky with work and—”
“Barb?” says Mum.
“Barb?” He furrows his brow. “Oh, no. Me and Barb weren’t much of a thing. She went back to Ohio in, what, 2007?”
“Brianna? Wasn’t she the next one?”
“No. Brianna and I—Well, that ended badly.”
“Don’t tell me. She went back to the titty bar. Jane?”
“Jane I stay in touch with!” he says, almost with relief. “She’s back over here, as you know. I think the west coast didn’t agree with her.”
“The west coast,” Mum repeats.
“The lifestyle.”
Mum nods to herself.
“ Titty bar! ” says Violet, delightedly, and repeats it twice, glancing round the adults as if hoping for a response.
“Anyway! Here I am! Just so happy to see you all again and hoping to get to know these two gorgeous girls a little while I’m here.”
“While you’re where?” says Bill, handing a mug to Jensen who takes it swiftly, apparently grateful to have something to focus on.
“Here,” says Gene. “In the UK.”
“Specifically where in the UK?” says Bill. He is being so weird.
“Well, London. Say, could I grab a coffee while you’re up there?”
“I’ll do it,” says Mum, immediately, relieving Bill, who looks like he would rather be anywhere but there, but also seems oddly reluctant to leave. Then she adds: “You’ll have to remind me how you take it.”
“Oh, black, please, sweetheart. Gave up cream since the docs said I had to look after the old ticker. I don’t suppose I could prevail upon you for some potato chips or something? I haven’t eaten since I stepped off the plane.”
Mum stiffens slightly, then reaches up to the cupboard for the biscuit tin. She puts it down on the table in front of him without opening it. “We don’t have potato chips.”
They sit in silence. Jensen the gardener is drinking his tea as quickly as he can, even though it is clearly boiling hot. Celie watches him sip, wince, and sip again. Upstairs Truant continues a furious, muffled barking, locked in Mum’s room. She wonders briefly if the American man will demand that the dog is put down.
“Truant is a good dog,” she finds herself saying. “He doesn’t normally bite. It’s probably because nobody ever comes in by the back gate.”
“Oh, he meant no harm. I never hold a grudge against an old dog.” He looks briefly up at Bill. “Well, mostly.”
“It might be wise to get it checked out professionally, though,” says Bill. “The risk of bacteria.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure Jensen here has done a great job.” Gene pats his leg.
“I meant the dog,” says Bill, and finally leaves the room.
···
Celie texts Meena from the bathroom and tells her she can’t come. Family emergency. It’s not an emergency but there’s a really weird atmosphere in the house and Celie is curious about it.
Mum never talks about the rest of her family. On the few occasions they have ever been brought up in conversation, her face does that closed-off thing that it now does when Dad turns up to collect them. As if a million thoughts are running through her head and she won’t allow a single one to show through.
No, this is more than how Mum is with Dad, these days. This is like a cold, tired thing, like Mum is absently picking an old scab and not even noticing when it starts bleeding.
You’ve got to come! Spence is here and he’s brought the stuff!
Sorry , types Celie, and sends a bunch of shrugging-face emojis.
Besides, she’s not sure she wants to smoke weed in the park today. She’s not sure she wants to see the girls. She gets stomach-ache when she approaches them now, the silent glances, the compliments that don’t sound like compliments, the sense that a dozen conversations are going on behind her back. There is no chat on their WhatsApp group anymore, and Celie has the horrible feeling that a new one has been set up without her. This is her daily dilemma: to go and sit with them, and feel the whole time like she’s the butt of a joke that nobody will explain, or sit without them and know she will be anyway. Celie shoves her phone back into her pocket.
···
When she comes down again Bill is cooking with his back to everyone. He normally cooks on the old kitchen island, with its scarred wooden butcher-block top so he can chat to them, but today he has moved to the small space beside the draining board and is head down with his back to everyone, chopping determinedly, not even listening to his usual classical music. Mum is sitting in Bill’s upright armchair. (Why do all old people want to be sitting up like statues in the evenings? Celie and Mum mostly lie on the two couches, either feet up on the battered old leather pouf, or spread along the length of them, a bowl of microwave popcorn between them.) Jensen appears to have snuck off. But Gene is taking up the sofa, his injured leg on the pouf, and keeping up a one-sided conversation about the house, how quaint it is, how much character, how she must love it here.
“It needs a lot of work,” Mum says, when she clearly cannot get away with saying nothing any longer.
Gene looks up as Celie walks toward them. “Hey, sweetheart! Glad you can join us. Your mum has invited me to stay for dinner. Jensen thought it was best if I kept the leg elevated for a little longer, you know?”
Celie’s gaze flickers toward Mum, who wears an expression that suggests Gene has invited himself.
“What’s for supper?” Celie says to Bill.
“Pea and asparagus risotto,” he says, and she lets out a brief sigh of relief. No fish or lentils. The evening suddenly looks a little brighter. “With a chicory and fennel salad.”
Celie slumps.
“So how come you’re cooking, Bill?” says Gene.
Bill doesn’t turn around. Chop chop chop. “I cook every night,” he says curtly. Chop chop chop.
“You come here every night?”
“No, I live here.”
Celie glances at her mother. Nobody has actually said those words up till now, but her mother’s face doesn’t flicker.
“I’m just…helping with the girls. Lila has a lot on her plate right now.”
Gene’s genial expression seems to slip a little at this. “Well,” he says. And then again. “Well. Cozy!”
“Have you two known each other for a long time?” Celie looks from one old man to the other.
“Long enough,” says Bill, shortly.
“I’ll say,” says Gene, and the room falls silent again.
Truant is lying on the floor by Mum, his eyes trained on Gene, as if he is waiting for the slightest excuse to spring at him again. Celie goes and sits cross-legged beside the dog and strokes him near his collar, just in case he does. She does not want this man to cause their dog to be put down, no matter what he said earlier. Gene shifts in his chair and Truant lets out a quiet warning growl.
“Did you say you were an actor?” Celie says.
Gene’s smile returns immediately. He bestows it on her like a shaft of sunshine. “I am! You ever seen Star Squadron Zero ?”
Celie shakes her head, and sees a flicker of disappointment on his face.
“I spent years as Captain Troy Strang, leader of the Unified Star Forces. You should watch it on YouTube or whatever you kids watch, these days. It was a big thing, you know? ‘Captain Strang, reporting for intergalactic duty’—that was my catchphrase. People still say it to me wherever I go.” He raises his hand in brisk salute and Truant lets out a faint protesting whine.
“ Star Squadron Zero ?”
“It’s why I had to stay in LA, Celia. I was lucky enough to hit a seam of gold. That doesn’t happen very often in an actor’s life. Doesn’t happen at all to most. I played that damn captain for eight years. Got nominated for an Emmy once. We had Nielsen ratings that were off the charts.”
Violet has come into the living room and sat down next to Gene. He puts his arm around her. “You want to see it, Violet?”
Violet nods. She clearly likes him.
“You got a cell phone?”
“Mum won’t let me have one,” she says.
“Because she’s eight,” says Celie, defensively.
“You got one, Celia?”
“It’s Celie,” says Mum, through gritted teeth.
“Of course it is.”
Celie doesn’t want to hand it over. She doesn’t know what messages might come through while he’s holding it. So she shakes her head and pushes her phone deeper into the front pocket of her hoodie.
There is a short silence. Mum sighs. “Violet, go and get the iPad.”
When the extract is finally located, with a lot of squinting from Gene, who clearly can’t see very well but doesn’t have glasses, Celie moves to the sofa on the other side of Gene so that she can watch. She feels like a traitor, though she’s not entirely sure why. Mum, who has clearly seen this before, gets up and goes to help Bill in the kitchen. She cannot hear what they’re murmuring to each other, but at one point Bill reaches out a hand and rests it on the middle of Mum’s back.
And then some tinny theme music is playing on the iPad and Gene is exclaiming with pleasure. “There it is! Twenty-four million Americans tuned in every week at its height. Isn’t that a great theme tune? Da-dadadadada-da-DAAA…da-DAAA.” He waves his right arm like a conductor.
And then there he is, his face thinner and unlined, his hair black and sleek against his head. He is wearing a blue nylon jacket with gold epaulets and a planet insignia on his chest. “I didn’t think I’d see you again after the great Saturn disaster,” he is saying, with his American accent, his voice low and tender.
A beautiful young African American woman with sprayed silver hair is gazing up at him through huge eyes. “They told me…you were killed in battle, Captain. Why would they do that?”
“Isn’t she a doll? That was Marni Di Michaels. We were…very close for a while. She eventually married a football player. You know the Chicago Bulls? Or was it the Braves? What was his name…?”
Celie stares at the woman, who is gazing at Young Gene like she could eat him. Oh, God, she probably had. She steals a sideways glance at Old Gene, who is mouthing the words of the script as it plays, lost again in his fictional world.
“The episodes where Captain Strang and Vuleva were together were the highest rated in the whole series. They killed her off in series three, and I told the director it was a mistake. And you know what? I was right, because—”
“Supper,” says Bill, loudly, and starts moving the dishes with a clatter onto the table.
···
They are halfway through a near-silent meal when Mum finally speaks. “So why weren’t you in touch after Mum died?”
There is a brief pause, and then Gene sighs. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I had so much work and I couldn’t get a flight so…”
“She was your wife.”
“Not for a very long time.”
“Wait, what?” says Celie, her fork halting halfway to her mouth.
“But she was. For ten years. I’m proof of that. It would have been a mark of respect to show up. For once in your life.”
The girls are staring at Gene and then at each other.
“You’re Mum’s dad ?” says Celie. She is about to say we thought you were dead but realizes it might not be the kindest thing. Instead she says: “But…how come you aren’t in Mum and Dad’s wedding pictures?”
Gene rubs at his ear. “Yeah. I had to be away filming. It was…tricky. The industry, you know? It’s like a juggernaut. Nothing I could do.”
Mum’s face looks like it’s sculpted from marble. Nothing moves on it. Violet closes her mouth as if she’s just remembered she has one, then says slowly: “You don’t look like a grandpa.”
“Ahh, I never much liked that term. You can call me Gene.”
“You never liked ‘Dad’ much either, as far as I can remember.” Mum doesn’t look up from her plate.
Celie is in shock. The only things she knows about her grandfather are these: that Mum doesn’t ever drink because he drank; that he left when Mum was small; that he was unreliable, and Grandma had to cope all by herself, but we don’t need to talk about it. That Bill is the exact opposite of him, and that was why he and Grandma were so happy. She’s not sure now why she thought Gene was dead, but she has never even heard him mentioned by name until today.
Gene’s smile is conciliatory, his voice soft. “C’mon, sweetheart. A lot of water has passed under the bridge. Can’t I just enjoy dinner with my girls?”
Bill says, in a voice Celie has never heard him use before: “They’re not your girls.”
Gene’s voice hardens slightly. “They’re not yours either, buddy.” The two old men stare at each other across the table, and Celie is overwhelmed by the weirdly exciting sensation that they are going to hit each other.
And then Mum reaches across the table between them for a bowl. “Who wants some more chicory salad?” And the moment passes.
Celie has never been at a supper like this. She has never seen that vein throbbing in Bill’s jaw, or heard the weirdly clipped tone to her mother’s voice. This is her grandfather! Her actual grandfather! She keeps sneaking glances at him, trying to see some kind of family resemblance, but with his unnaturally dark hair and his teeth and his tan he seems utterly unrelated to them. He keeps up a constant stream of chatter, his voice deep and rhythmic, talking about work he’s been doing (just small parts, they probably wouldn’t have seen them over here), reminding Mum of people called Hank and Betsy whom she doesn’t remember, asking Celie and Violet about school, their friends, what it is they “get up to” around here. It is both fascinating and interminable.
Finally Mum gets up and clears the plates, and Celie, who never helps unless she’s nagged, gets up and helps too: the atmosphere is so peculiar she feels the need to do something. She’s not sure Mum even notices. Behind them Violet clearly grows bored and switches on the television, tuning into some children’s channel that she’s not usually allowed to watch.
Finally Mum finishes washing up, places the dishcloth neatly on the worktop, and walks back to the table. She pauses, then rests her hands on the surface, like she’s letting everyone know that supper is over and she will not be sitting down again. “So. Gene. Where are you staying? We can get you an Uber if you don’t fancy walking on that leg.”
Gene’s smile wavers. “Ah, yeah, that’s the thing I wanted to talk to you about, sweetheart. Turns out my hotel was double-booked and I was wondering—”
“Oh, no,” says Bill. “Oh, no.”
“Well, hey, will you look at that!” Gene says suddenly, glancing up at the terrible picture of the naked old woman that Bill had hung on the wall. “Francesca as I live and breathe!”
···
That was the point, Celie thought afterward, at which things had got really messy. Bill had leaped up, waved his hands violently backward and forward in front of the painting and forbidden Gene to look at it. Actually forbidden him.
“Are you kidding me?” Gene had said. “It’s a painting!”
“Francesca would not want you looking at her naked!” Bill’s voice was oddly hoarse. “Don’t you dare look! You relinquished that right many years ago!”
“But it’s okay to place her with her hoo-hah hanging out in a lounge where anyone else can see her? Jesus, Bill, get that stick out of your ass before it calcifies.”
At some point Violet had come away from the television. She was staring up at the wall as if she hadn’t noticed the picture until now. “That’s Grandma ?” she’d said, and she looked as though she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “But—but you can see her pocket book !”
That was apparently it for Bill. He strode up to the painting, wrenched the frame violently from the wall, and walked with it out of the living room. They could hear him carrying it stiffly up the stairs, grunting slightly at the effort. After a gap slightly longer than was entirely comfortable, they had heard his bedroom door slam.
Lila sits down heavily. “Jesus, Gene.”
“What? What did I do? He hangs a nudie of your mom on the wall and suddenly I’m the bad guy?”
“I think you should leave,” Mum says, and closes her eyes for absolutely ages.
Gene takes a step toward her and dips, both his knees cracking like pistols as he crouches so that he is looking directly into her face. “Honey. Sweetheart. I just really need a bed for tonight. The hotel I was meant to go to double-booked me and all the other central London places are a little heavy on the old wallet. And it’s kind of hard to walk around looking for a place now that my leg…”
“I don’t have a room.”
“I don’t need a room. I can crash right here on the sofa.”
Mum looks at him, and her face has this expression like when you’re going to do something you really don’t want to. Suddenly he seems a little pathetic.
“Please,” he says, perhaps sensing a momentary weakness. “I’m in a lot of pain here. It would help me out so much. And I would…I would really appreciate the chance to spend just a few hours more with the girls.”
Mum looks at Celie, and then at Violet.
“He is our grandpa,” says Violet. Celie feels less certain, but shrugs. It might be quite useful to have the heat taken off her for an evening.
“Fine,” Mum says, throwing up her hands. “Fine. But you need to leave first thing, before the girls get up for school. I don’t want you and Bill winding each other up again.”
“Two nights?” he says hopefully.
“Don’t push it,” says Mum, and goes off to stand at the end of the garden.