I really love my lovely grandmarmar.
There’s a drawing beneath the words that looks like a young child’s attempt to create Corinne out of multicolored felt-tip pens.
On the other side of the clock hangs another framed poem, a longer one. “It Matters” is the title. This one definitely isn’t by a grandchild. Sally’s eyes are drawn to the last stanza:
Dear friend, you deserve all good things and better.
You know how much I love you and admire you.
Obey this next instruction to the letter:
Never work for someone who can fire you.
There’s a bit in italics between the title and the start of the first verse, a kind of dedication: “For my brilliant, talented friend and mentee Corinne, who keeps getting fired by ungrateful dimwits.”
Sally looks for an indication of who the author might be, but there are only two small initials in the bottom right-hand corner—HS—and a date: 23 February 2008. How old would Corinne have been then? She’s in her early to mid-fifties now, Sally guesses, which means she was maybe mid- to late thirties in 2008.
“Sally? You ready?” Mark’s voice reaches her as if from very far away. “Sal!”
“Coming!” she calls back, feeling much better suddenly. If a world in which people fired Corinne Sullivan existed as recently as 2008—a world that now cannot be conceived of—that means future unrecognizable worlds are possible too. Worlds with nomunched-up arm flesh, no false accusations, no need for Champ to hide from anyone.
A world with no Gaveys, Sally thinks to herself.Wouldn’t that be wonderful?
18
Mum told Dad what happened during the stolen viewing of Shukes (stolen from poor Mr. Henry Christensen) and about Lesley Gavey weeping in front of her for a second time. She didn’t tell him in her usual way, however: really giving it her all, both detail-wise and emotionally. No, she decided to play a game in which she pretended to be a robot, determined to strip her account of her own point of view and relinquishing all attempts to shape Dad’s opinion.
His initial responses had not been encouraging, and Mum had a self-preserving routine for such occasions (like when all the non-furry Lamberts refused to believe her car engine kept weirdly cutting out and told her the car was fine and it must be something she was doing wrong—until Dad drove it, it broke down, and instantly everyone accepted the engine was the problem, not Mum, and the garage was summoned to tow it away and fix it).
Mum felt strangely invigorated whenever she knew she had no one’s full support. It sparked a sense of power inside her, a sort ofrecognition that this was what she was born and trained for, that she was moving closer to her essence. She’d felt it for the first time aged thirteen, during the Gardenia Incident: a heroic (but also quite bitchy) inner voice that was braver than her had said, “Okay, then, you soul-crushing despot. If you really want to earn my hatred, let’s fucking go. I’m going to be ready for you from now on.” Mum knew there was a big difference between Dad and her own father. She didn’t thinkmydad, Mark Lambert, was a despot, but she was sure he was a contrary git who loved to quibble wherever possible.
Tonelessly, she gave him only the facts that would have been provable in a court of law: She’d shown Lesley the front garden first, then the lounge, the den, the downstairs loo, the utility room. In each of these, Lesley had emitted a loud sigh of contentment and said things like, “Oh, it’s gorgeous!” and/or “You couldn’t have made it look more incredible” and/or “This is so lovely! What an exquisite color—is it Farrow & Ball?” (It was: Vardo. A bold choice for what used to be a small lean-to at the side of the house.)
Mum wondered how the outside of Shukes could have caused Lesley Gavey such distress on 12 August, and then the inside such joy on 19 September. “Oh, I forgot to say,” she told Dad. “I found out from Peter that she’d rung him in early August to ask if anything would soon be going on the market in Swaffham Tilney, anything that wasn’t on Rightmove yet. He told her about Shukes—name, address, everything.That’swhy she was there that day in August.”
“Who’s Peter?”
“Our estate agent.”
“Right.” Dad nodded.
“Anyway, then I took her into the kitchen, and that was herfavorite room of the whole downstairs, she said. The sight of it made her yelp with joy. She started praising my good taste, but in a mad, almost desperate way, as if I’d saved her life or something.” At this point, since Dad was properly listening now, Mum abandoned her attempt at objective narration. “It was like… I don’t know how to describe it. Like I’d set up a new religion with…with our kitchen as the main deity, and she wanted to be the first…”
“Disciple?” Dad suggested.
“Exactly. It was embarrassing. Normally I’m good at taking compliments graciously, as long as it’s only one or two. But she went on and on: how clever I was not to have worktops darker than the drawers and cupboard doors—”
Dad looked indignant. “I hope you told her I was the one who chose our countertops.”
“I couldn’t get a word in edgeways—not until later, when she was miserable. For as long as she was happy, she gushed on and on, and then Champ came in and she patted and stroked him and said he was a lovely boy whose mum had just as good taste in dogs as she did in kitchen cabinets and floor tiles. At one point she froze, and I was terrified she was having a heart attack. Then she said breathlessly, ‘Are these tiles Fired Earth’s Galicia? They’re my favorite in the whole world!’ I had no idea if they were or weren’t. I forgot the name and brand as soon as I’d picked them—which I was about to tell her, until she gasped with horror, having noticed what was beyond the kitchen windows. ‘What’s that yard?’ she said.
“‘It’s just a little yard,’ I told her, feeling proud of how cozy it was looking. It was full of sunlight, and I’d watered the pot plants and swept and plumped up the cushions on the chairs. To be honest,she’d been so ecstatic about everything else, I was kind of waiting for her to say, ‘Oh, this yard is the most heavenly thing I’ve ever seen, and you should enter it for a landscape design competition in the Small Backyards category.’”
“No such luck?” Dad guessed.
“Er, no. The honeymoon period was well and truly over. She said, ‘Well, then, where’s the back garden?’ and her voice sounded tight—completely different, total change of demeanor. And she shooed Champ away from her suddenly, as if he was a pest. That was the worst thing she did. Poor Champy! And she’d been so friendly to him until then. Honestly, I was scared when I told her there was no back garden of the kind she was clearly expecting. Her plan at first was evidently to put a brave face on it. All she said was, ‘I see,’ though she sounded furious and sort of…refused to look at me.”
“Sal, I’m not happy about you doing these viewings,” said Dad. “Can’t the estate agent take over? I don’t want you having to cope with any loon who feels like turning up.”
