Chalcot Crescent by Fay Weldon

Author:Fay Weldon
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Atlantic Books Ltd
Published: 2011-03-25T16:00:00+00:00

A Conversation With Polly

After Amos left, after I had promised not to tell, I called Polly, as I had to know about Henry.

‘Polly,’ I said, ‘it’s your mum.’

She was geniality itself. We exchanged pleasantries. She asked how I was; I said, well, except for knees. I asked how she was; she said she was okay, only last month’s wages hadn’t got through to the CiviBank. Their computer had allegedly crashed. But probably NUG didn’t dare print any more money. She’d had a nasty fright on the Underground when some madman tried to push her on the tracks, and might have succeeded only a brave, kind woman had pulled her back. In Polly’s view of the universe, men are always trying to destroy you and women the ones who rescue you, and she loves to dramatize. And Corey had been darning his socks when there was a power cut and he swore and ranted, so like a man.

‘But he is a man,’ I was tempted to say but held my tongue.

He was very much a man, rugger players from Samoa tend to be, muscled where others have fat, skin light brown and polished, a square chin, an amiable demeanour, a delight to behold. All he wanted to be was a man, and all Polly wanted him to be, crudely, was a woman with a penis. It wasn’t that she hated men so much as that she disapproved of them, and regarded them as second-class citizens in need of training.

It was as well, I thought, that she had had stepdaughters, not sons.

I told her Amos was staying with me for a couple of days.

‘What does he want?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know why you’re all so mean about Amos,’ I said.

‘Because he’s always been your favourite grandchild,’ she said. ‘You hardly take any notice of Steffie and Rosie.’

One thing you can say for Polly is she comes straight to the point. She starts with geniality and affection, and then suddenly she remembers a whole host of resentments. She was the same when she was a baby. I’d go into the nursery first thing in the morning and there she’d be, standing in her cot, all beams and smiles and a delight, then her face would pucker and she’d begin to scowl and stick out her chin and look furious, as if she’d start an argument if only she had the words. If she caught sight of Karl the scowl would evaporate, and the smile reappear. But I loved her to bits and still do, and when I die she will be sorry, and feel bad if we have words, so I really try not to. I forgive her in advance.

I am rather relieved that she has brought up the names of the children. I get them muddled or even forget. They are not proper names, just evidence of an unhealthy desire on the part of the parents to keep their children as pets. Who can grow up to be an Archbishop or the Prime Minister if called Rosie, or Steffie? But these were the names they came with, I suppose.

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