On the Level

By Anne Johnson

Geni is a woman with a colourful past, not all of it happy, and an uncertain future. Dissatisfied with what life seems to have on offer and feeling she has reached an important crossroads in her life, what happens during a holiday in the south of France with her best friend and their children has far-reaching consequences for everyone concerned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Legend Press
• Release date: Sep 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781789552836

Anne Johnson

ANNE JOHNSON has been a Londoner for fifty years. She is a professional storyteller and songwriter who is committed to bringing live storytelling and music into schools as the Director of Everyday Magic, which every year fires the imaginations of over 1,500 children at London schools.

Book preview

head.

Prologue

I know exactly what I have to do. Exactly. God knows, I’ve rehearsed it enough times in my head, yet just the thought is enough to make my knees shake and my legs feel rubbery.

I bounce the knuckle of my right hand against my mouth as I think about Trilby. I can see her face in my mind’s eye as she realises what I’m telling her. I know it isn’t going to be easy and it could all go horribly wrong. And then where would we be? Back where we started, I suppose.

I feel so hot. I open the hall cupboard and squirt myself with the large bottle of Miss Dior that I keep in there along with a few odd keys and some dried-up tubes of old hand cream. The cool spritz tingles on my skin and it feels good. I shut the cupboard door.

The bags are packed in the boot and I just have a few last-minute things to chuck on the back seat – sunhats, something to read, passports and tickets. It was a shame to wake Trilby this morning, she was dead to the world. She is already in the back of the car – definitely cross at having been woken so early, probably still grumpy and, knowing her, fast asleep again. Right then – all set, let’s go. Next stop, Sarah’s.

A glance at the sky is hardly encouraging. As dull and grey as a schoolboy’s socks, it looks gloomy and heavy with the promise of rain. So I am not surprised when I feel the first few drops of it splash on my face. I hope the weather isn’t going to delay our journey.

I look with disgust at the abundant bird mess on my car as I open the driver’s door. Bloody birds… swallows are such neat, immaculately turned-out little things in their dapper black and white evening suits, but they make one hell of a mess when they put their minds to it. They’ve built their nests under the porch and my car, a prime target on their regular route to collect or deliver food for their young, has come out much the worse for wear – or at least for bird poo.

I get in the car and start the engine. I look in my rearview mirror. There’s not another car in sight, so I pull out gently. Easy does it… It’s still raining so I switch on the windscreen wipers. Left right. Left right. Swish-swish. Swish-swish. The regularity of their rhythm is mesmerising.

As I reach the corner of the road, I turn the steering wheel and negotiate the bend. I switch on the car radio and I hear Kylie Minogue singing I Should be so Lucky. It’s been Number 1 for weeks and I hum along with it. I keep the volume low as Trilby’s gone back to sleep. Better let her rest or I’ll never hear the end of it.

God, where have all these lorries come from? We’ll never get to the airport on time at this rate. Our flight’s at 6.50 and we have to check in at least two hours in advance, so no time to lose.

And the person whose reaction I am so scared of? Not a lover or a big burly bloke, but a thirteen-year-old girl. For God’s sake! This little girl is the most precious thing in my life. I turn round as I stop at the lights and gaze at her, sleeping peacefully on the back seat. She looks like an angel, not the snippy little madam she can be when she’s spoiling for a fight. Her long fair hair falls over her face and flutters in her outgoing breath. When her eyes are closed, her eyelashes look so long, lucky girl. They are dark, too, almost as if she’s wearing mascara. They are Danielle’s eyes, no mistake. The father might be in doubt but certainly not the mother.

Pity about that stud in her nose, though. It looks like something nasty that’s not meant to be there – a spot, perhaps, or a wart, only shinier. It was only a few months ago when she took herself off to some seedy piercing parlour near Camden Lock to have that done. They hadn’t given a damn how old she was or whether her mother was OK about it. Of course she bloody wasn’t.

‘Come on, Trilby,’ I say in that awful wheedling voice I’ve developed lately as a way of pre-empting her usual short temper – a method more wishful than effective. ‘Wakey wakey. Holiday time!’ I add, hoping my resolutely cheery manner might be catching. Fat chance – still no response from the back of the car.

Trilby – it’s such an odd name. Why on earth did Danielle choose it? I never understood that. I don’t know where it comes from, nor how Danielle could even know that it’s a girl’s name. But I am sure it would be wrong to change it. It is right that it was her choice. Danielle was the best sister in the world to me. Her only mistake has been to die so young and it is not up to anyone else – not even me – to mess about with any of her decisions.

When I put Trilby’s name down for her London primary school, the secretary did a double take.

‘Tilley? Tibley? Or is that her surname? Tribly? Can you say it again, please? Ah yes, Trilby? Now how do you spell that?’ She didn’t mean to be rude. The school has so many foreign kids with strange names – but Trilby is a new one on them. I doubt they’ll ever have another.

The problem hasn’t become any easier as Trilby strides through the various stages in her young life. Brownies, dance classes, piano lessons, entrance exams for secondary school – but no one is able to take her name in their stride. Oh, Danielle, why did you choose it, why?

It could be worse and I do a quick round-up in my mind of all the other possible ‘hat’ names she might have picked – Bowler, say, or Panama, or Stetson? Any of those would have been a lot worse. I smile to myself at the thought. But if Trilby is what Danielle wanted, so be it. It is the least I can do.

I understand only too well how embarrassing it is for a child to be saddled with a strange name. I had to deal with that problem myself when I was little – just imagine, Geneviève. I hated it. It is such a mouthful and no one knows quite how to pronounce it, or where the accent is meant to go.

But Trilby is the oddest name anyone could have. I remember when Danielle first told me. It was the day Trilby was born. God, what a day that was – one of those big milestone days I will never forget. Milestones. I ponder on their meaning. Taken literally for what they are, they are the stones set up on the road to mark the distance in miles. Or kilometres.

But figuratively, they’re much more than that. They are the all-important days that are never forgotten. One-offs. Everyone has some of these in their life – first pet, first kiss, first screw, passing an important exam, driving test, graduation, marriage, divorce, first bereavement...

Some milestones are even more than that. These are the dates for which no diary is necessary and which are thought of daily, sometimes even hourly. And so it is for me. There are two milestones that I feel define me, both raw and painful. There is the day when Trilby was born. And then, not long after, there is the day when Danielle died.

And now? What next? I hope this holiday together will be a good opportunity to bond with Trilby. Bond properly, I mean. And I have to tell her the truth, at last. I’ve been putting it off for years but I really can’t hold off any longer. So Tell Trilby the Fucking Truth is what I have to do. I know it’s right, and I just have to find the strength in me. A stitch in time saves nine, as my father would probably have said.

In the back seat, Trilby opens one cross brown eye and yawns loudly. ‘Oh, Mum, why did you have to arrange this so bloody early in the morning? It’s absolutely ridiculous. Like everything you do. You always manage to get everything just that bit wrong.’

I sigh again. I’m sure I wasn’t like this when I was thirteen. Taking one hand off the steering wheel, I wind a strand of hair around my forefinger. And I drum a steady, rhythmic tattoo on the steering wheel with the fingernails of my other hand. It is like a friendly, familiar song. Tum tum. Tum tum. Rumptee tum.

But why does adolescence have to be so difficult? Is it always this bad? No, I don’t think so. But then, Trilby’s start in life was not easy – and that’s putting it mildly.

I always hoped I’d have a daughter. I used to indulge in warm, cosy fantasies of the wonderful relationship I would forge between me and my like-minded (of course!) offspring. We would look alike and think alike. We’d be more like sisters than mother and daughter. Good friends, too. We’d go shopping together. We’d borrow each other’s clothes. We’d watch the telly together. We’d never have rows. All would be perfect peace and harmony between us. Always. It was such a comforting picture.

In the end, though, fantasy and reality bear little relationship to one another. But then, in the event, perhaps this isn’t all that surprising.

Because Trilby isn’t really my daughter.

Chapter 1

We fly to France on a Wednesday. I know it was a Wednesday because it struck me when we booked our flights as an odd day to choose. Slap bang in the middle of the week when nothing much happens other than the bin men coming, which means the streets are smelly and scattered with rubbish. As I say, just odd.

I remember the weather that day, too – it was raining hard, pouring, chucking it down. It was what my Dad used to call stair rods. That’s about all I can recall about that morning.

The rest of the journey just whizzes by in that way it does when you’re busy doing boring stuff, as I pick up Sarah and Jack and we drive to Gatwick, park the car, find the right queue for our airline and our flight, check in and board the ‘plane.

I gaze in disgust at the flabby slice of cold grey toast that the airhostess puts in front of me. What can I be expected to do with that? I think about spreading it with one of the little packs of butter or jam on my tray, but no – I feel much too sick for that and I push them aside.

I pick up the paper lying on the seat next to me and cast an eye over the headlines. Piper Alpha rig still burning in North Sea days after death of 167 workers. Widow of British soldier killed by IRA buries husband amid tears and recrimination. Health authorities fear that new licensing laws allowing pubs to stay open all day will increase drunkenness.

I suddenly notice the Fasten Your Seat Belts sign has blinked on and I hear the pilot telling us we are starting our descent. That was quick, I think – I must have dropped off. I still feel sick but we’ll be there in a minute. I sense the plane touch down, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I feel better already.

Once off the plane, we breathe in the warm air and make a beeline for the car hire desk, where we show our driving licences, sign all the necessary papers and go to pick up our car. A black four-door Peugeot, shiny as a newly released conker, and Trilby and Jack both get in the back.

Sarah and I look at each other. ‘So who’s driving, then?’ asks Sarah pointedly, and I shrug.

There is just one issue that always causes problems between us when Sarah and I go on holiday – and that’s who is going to drive the car. Each time we become more and more like an old married couple – bicker, bicker, bicker. We love each other dearly and we have much the same attitude to books, films, plays and men, but we can never agree who drives the car. This time is no different.

‘You drive it.’

‘No, you drive it.’

‘But I always drive it.’

‘That’s because you’re so good at driving it.’

‘I don’t want to drive it.’

‘Well, neither do I.’

‘Oh go on.’

‘Please drive it.’

‘I’m sick of driving it.’

‘I can’t drive it.’

‘I hate driving it.’

‘I don’t know how to drive it.’

‘I’m fed up to the back teeth with driving it.’

‘I’m terrified of driving it.’

‘Have a go at driving it.’

‘Please don’t make me drive it.’

‘Oh go on, you drive it.’

‘I won’t be any good at driving it.’

‘Please drive it.’

‘I don’t want to drive it.’

‘But neither do I.’

‘Oh, go on, please.’

‘No, no, no!’

‘Oh, fuck off.’

And there isn’t a lot either of us can say after that.

I’ve been driving ever since I passed my test when I was just seventeen. I bombed around London, and then Brighton, quite fearlessly in my clapped-out old Mini, without a worry in the world. But abroad, things are always different.

Usually entirely confident and sure of myself, I am uncharacteristically petrified of driving a car with which I am unfamiliar and which has the steering wheel and all the controls, mysteriously as I see it, on the wrong bloody side. And that isn’t all: worse still, I am also expected to drive it on the wrong side of the road. Sarah isn’t happy doing all the driving but she bites her tongue once again and drives the three hours to Alba-la-Romaine, our home for the next three weeks.

I congratulate myself on the deal I managed to pull off. My sister had a former colleague, Phyllis, who has a holiday house in Alba-la-Romaine, which she often lets to friends. I have never been there, though Danielle spent many summer holidays there. I always meant to go with her but somehow, we never quite managed to get it together.

I kept in touch with Phyllis after Danielle’s death, and she never tires of trying to persuade me. ‘Go on,’ she says. ‘It’s very basic – a bit primitive, even – but it’s such a lovely part of France.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Silly of me.’

‘You’ll have a good rest there, if nothing else. It’s very peaceful. We used to love going there when my husband was alive. All those magnificent big trees in a golden glow of colour. Warm sultry evenings and the gentlest, most magical sunsets.’

I am touched by Phyllis’s quaint way of describing the place that obviously used to mean so much to her and held so many happy memories. So here we are, on our way to the Ardèche. Phyllis isn’t charging us any rent – just enough to cover the electricity and water bills. It seems too good an offer to miss and I have visions of a quaint, sundrenched house, made out of the local yellow stone, warm and weather-beaten outside, cool and refreshing inside.

Even the address is appealing: rue de la Libellule. Street of the Dragonfly. It sounds enchanting. I lean back against the headrest of my seat, shut my eyes and imagine myself delicately sipping a glass of Pastis or cold local rosé on the sunny terrace with Sarah. Best friends once again, I am sure, once she recovers from having, as usual, lost the argument and ended up doing all the driving.

This sounds like such a lovely part of France. So cosmopolitan, with beautiful countryside, great weather, lovely old buildings, fantastic restaurants that don’t cost an arm and a leg, and a bit of culture. A great change, too, from our usual holidays in southern Spain where the most sophisticated thing on offer was the Pavarotti tape at the local tapas bar.

The back of the car is, as usual, silent, apart from the usual tinny buzz that belies the music the children are listening to. It sounds like there must be a bee trapped in the upholstery.

‘I can hear your music, you two. Only too loud and clear, I’m afraid,’ Sarah says. ‘You’ll be sorry when you go deaf.’

But she’s wasting her time. They are both staring mindlessly out of the window, a couple of expressionless moon faces, gazing into the middle distance. They could be anywhere – the scenery is totally lost on them.

‘Are we nearly there, Mum?’ asks Jack, with no fear of repeating himself. How many more times will he ask?

‘Yes, not far now.’

The roads are narrow and winding. They follow a tortuous route quite impossible to compare with any map, and it seems inconceivable that we will ever reach our destination. Suddenly a dark, enormous castle looms in front of us, towering high into the sky, like something from a Walt Disney film.

‘Look, kids – there’s the castle that Phyll told me about. Isn’t it wonderful?’

‘Sarah, you really can’t expect them to be in the slightest bit interested in a castle,’ I say. ‘Shops, yes; somewhere that sells pizzas or hamburgers, yes; a swimming pool, maybe. But a castle? Definitely not, never mind all the history it represents.’

A few minutes later, Sarah parks the car and we all get out to inspect our new quarters. It is late afternoon and the sun is low in the sky, though still hot. I get the keys out of my bag. They are enormous, heavy keys made of iron, which weigh a ton when they are in my handbag, hanging from my shoulder. They look really ancient, too, fine examples of the skilled craftsmanship of the old-fashioned locksmith. I only hope the house will be as picturesque as the keys.

It certainly looks old. The stone walls glow warmly in the sunlight, while seeming to murmur an indefinable sense of what has gone on between them. There is no one around and I wonder if the kids could find it too quiet. The only sound I can hear is a blackbird singing ripely somewhere close by and the occasional distant roar of an aircraft.

The front door is on the first floor, up a flight of crooked, ramshackle old steps that form a sort of bridge across the narrow street. I put one of the keys in the lock and am startled to find how easily it opens – as if it wasn’t properly locked. Odd. I push open the door tentatively and my companions all follow me in eagerly, anxious to see what awaits them.

The first thing that strikes me is the filth. A slimy, greasy film covers every surface in sight, and a thick furry layer of dust tops that. There are cobwebs hanging down from the ceilings everywhere, and the atmosphere smells of dirty clothes and damp. The walls are painted a nasty shade of magnolia, now much faded and stained. The floor is covered in old quarry tiles, which could be lovely if they had been looked after which is certainly not the case here and a lot of them are badly chipped. An old sofa has burst and its stuffing is trailing sadly on the floor as if it knows it is past its best. The house obviously hasn’t seen a duster for months, let alone a hoover.

But it doesn’t matter – it can’t be very big and we can soon clean it up. Phyllis hasn’t been here since last year, so it’s hardly surprising, though a niggling thought at the back of my mind suggests that this is perhaps more than the accumulated grime of a few months. Perhaps Phyllis and her husband were never that fussy about the odd speck of dirt.

‘I presume this is the kitchen,’ says Sarah, looking disconsolately at two electric rings in a little room that leads off the main one.

‘Yes, I guess so,’ I agree, ‘and presumably they didn’t have a sink in here.’

‘No, I guess you’re right,’ Sarah acknowledges. ‘I suppose it was just their holiday home. They didn’t live here, though I do remember you telling me that Phyllis said they had considered retiring here.’

A fly buzzes angrily at the closed window and an open kitchen bin gapes at us, full of empty milk containers and old brown paper bags that must have come from the local shops – Phyllis mentioned a baker and a general grocer’s store. Sarah notices a crumpled shop receipt lying on top of the rubbish and she flattens it out as best she can on what approximates to a worktop.

‘That’s funny,’ she says ‘It’s faded and torn, and it seems to be covered in dried-up ketchup or something, but it looks like it’s dated only a few days ago. It’s this month, anyway.’

‘No, that can’t be right,’ I say. ‘Phyllis said there’d been no one here since they came last year. It must be older than that. It’s so filthy, anyway, you can’t really tell what it says.’

‘You’d think people would at least empty the bin when they leave, wouldn’t you?’ says Sarah, as she does her best to shut the lid.

‘And look at all that dirty washing up. How long has that been here? Ugh!’ I say, more than a little worried by what we’ve found.

‘I guess they must have done their washing-up in the bathroom, wherever that may be,’ says Sarah in her gloomiest voice. By now, we are obviously both feeling thoroughly downhearted and doing our best to put a brave face on things, particularly in front of the children.

‘It’s not exactly well equipped in the way of mod cons, is it?’ remarks Sarah. ‘It’s a bit like camping – only without the fresh air.’

I laugh a hollow laugh. ‘Yes, that’s more or less what I was thinking,’ I agree, ‘but there does at least seem to be a fridge,’ I say brightly, pointing at an ancient-looking thing in the corner of the room, ‘though I doubt whether it’s actually on.’ I open the door. A light comes on brightly inside, which is a surprise and contradicts my suspicions, and I look with disgust at the mess inside. A few tired root vegetables gaze up at me sadly from the salad drawer, as if they know that they will be no good to anybody now, along with a lettuce that has obviously seen better days and is sitting in a pool of smelly green liquid where it now offers rather more in the way of food poisoning than vitamins. There are a few discarded bread crusts on one of the shelves, now dry and curling rigidly like a strange little troop of fossilised pigmy seahorses. And half a shrivelled salami huddles against the back wall, oddly suggestive of a viciously amputated penis.

‘God, yuk! How foul,’ I say, shutting the door hard and wishing that I hadn’t opened it in the first place. ‘Whatever next?’

‘Where are the kids?’ asks Sarah.

‘Not sure,’ I reply. ‘I think they went upstairs to look at the bedrooms,’ and I call upstairs. ‘Hey, you two, where are you? What have you found?’ I wait for a reply but, for a while, there is none and I begin to worry.

‘Hey, you two,’ I call again. ‘Are you OK up there?’

‘Yes,’ says Jack. ‘We’re fine, just having a look round. Actually, we’ve only found one bedroom – aren’t there meant to be two?’

‘What do you mean, Jack? Aren’t there two of them up there?’

‘No. Only the one.’

By now, I am seriously worried. I turn to look at Sarah and we exchange troubled glances. I’ve noticed that Sarah has started her usual habit of nibbling her lips, almost absentmindedly at first and then ever more furiously as she becomes more anxious. I first noticed her doing this during our finals. Sometimes, if she’s really concerned, she can even draw blood.

Sarah and I follow the children upstairs to a large room with two double beds. I sit on one of them and it is as old and lumpy as I’d suspected. The room has that tell-tale digestive biscuit-like smell reminiscent of BO and socks, the odour of long-unwashed people walking by at too close quarters in the street. I cover my nose with my hand in distaste.

Between the two beds is a tangle of flexes as big and untidy as a squirrel’s nest and I can’t help but wonder just how safe it would be to plug anything in there. One of the beds has a filthy old sleeping bag rolled out on it and I am startled to see this – I wonder who can have been sleeping there. It doesn’t seem to be Phyllis’s sort of thing at all.

‘Ah – so this is the balcony,’ I say. ‘It’s enormous. Just the thing for evening drinks at that magical moment when the sun is going down. And look at the view. It’s fantastic. I love roofscapes like this, don’t you – all those chimneypots, quite charming, aren’t they? Those tubs of geraniums obviously haven’t seen any rain for a long time. I’ll go and get some water and give them a good long drink.’

I try to keep my voice as bright and calm as I can, but inside I am not feeling at all confident. I have a sneaky suspicion that tears cannot be far away, and I hope they won’t be mine. Not in front of the children, anyway. A cockerel is crowing for all he is worth somewhere fairly close by.

‘We can’t all sleep in the same room,’ says Trilby, now winding herself up into a fury. ‘It would be horrible. Just horrible. You should sue.’

‘I can’t sue,’ I reply. ‘Don’t be silly. This is a friend’s house, not a hotel. I’m surprised Phyllis thought we could all stay here, though, I must admit, but it must be my fault. I obviously didn’t ask her enough questions about the accommodation. I didn’t realise it was so small, anyway. But it’s certainly not Phyllis’s fault. She meant well.’

‘Surprised, my foot! I’m surprised she didn’t pay us to come here,’ says Trilby. ‘No one in their right mind would come here if they knew what it was like.’

‘I wonder where the bathroom is,’ says Jack. He is calm but it is obvious that he is just as disappointed as the rest of us. ‘I’m going to take a look.’

A few minutes later, he comes back. ‘I hope you ladies aren’t going to want to go to the loo in the middle of the night because it’s down a funny twisty spiral staircase thingy and there’s no light. It’s very steep and narrow, and you’ll probably break your necks. And when you eventually get there, if you’re still in one piece, you won’t like it – I promise. It’s just a hole in the floor.’

Trilby has followed Jack down the stairs and by the time she comes back, hysteria has taken over. ‘We can’t stay here. It’s horrible. It’s not even civilised. I’m not peeing in a hole in the floor. This is going to be the worst holiday of my life. Well done, Mother, you’ve buggered it up again. Trust you.’

In just about any other situation, I might have made some attempt at reprimanding Trilby for her language but this hardly seems an appropriate time. I don’t say anything.

‘Let’s go and have a drink somewhere and something to eat,’ suggests Sarah. ‘Then we can talk about what we’re going to do. I agree, this is not what we expected and I don’t think we can stay here. But there’s no need to panic. It’s not the end of the world. Nothing to get in a state about. Worse things happen at sea.’

She is looking decidedly uneasy, though.

‘How the hell would you know?’ mumbles Trilby.

‘Come on,’ I urge Trilby. ‘Don’t be rude. We’ll all feel better when we’ve had something to eat.’ I glance at my watch and twist it round my wrist. ‘Let’s go to that café we just passed on the way here.’

Talk about a sorry-looking bunch of people, I think. And, as usual, this is my fault. It sounded great but it really isn’t suitable for the four of us. This level of intimacy is hardly right for Trilby and Jack. How can Phyllis have misunderstood me so completely?

Danielle has been here, too – several times, as I remember. She never mentioned anything about it being a dreadful place, as far as I can remember, but that was Danielle all over. She wasn’t the sort to complain. She’d have been too excited about being in France. I couldn’t remember whom she used to come with when she spent holidays here – a friend, I suppose, all the details lost in the mists of time. Like so many things.

But I feel terrible about this. Awful. It is hardly a good start and not something I will be able to live down easily, either with Sarah or even less with Trilby, even if I do somehow manage to salvage the situation. I feel such a fool and my head is pounding. This certainly doesn’t bode well