the day of the introduction it felt ridiculous to Tony that at his first meeting with the mythical Clarice he was going to be telling her that he was marrying her daughter and she would be a grandmother in six short months. It was the first time he’d been to Alice’s house and he even had to bloody write down directions, standing in a cold phone box with the phone wedged under one ear as he scribbled the route on to an old receipt. It all felt wrong.
Alice of course hadn’t warned him that she lived in a castle. He’d known she outclassed him and presumed that she came from a bit of money, but not the huge house that towered over the village and had a turret tacked on to its side, for Christ’s sake. He’d recently bought a shitty three-hundred-pound Renault 5, which smelt of petrol so you had to drive with the window down, even in the cold February air, which obviously wasn’t going to work for a baby, but was the best he could manage right now. He parked down the road and fortified himself with a fag before going in, wishing he had something stronger. A strange need to see himself overtook him and so he flicked down his sun visor and looked into the mirror, which was tiny and cracked but still showed the sweaty, white face looking back at him.
Eventually there was nothing to be done other than get out of the car and ring on the baronial bell. It was self-evident that this afternoon would put paid to his dreams, pathetic as they were. He’d have to get a proper job, probably cut his hair, start wearing a suit. He’d come home to his tea cooked and, if they were lucky, look forward all year to two weeks on the Cornish coast. His money would go on nappies and milk and Alice would never work because it was simply impossible to imagine her doing so. His hand hovered over the bell. It could be easy to forget this had ever happened. The baby wasn’t even real yet. Alice might miscarry. But his father’s red, bloated face swam before his eyes and so he pressed hard on the brass ball.
Alice opened the door so quickly he wondered if she had been standing behind it. Her eyes were shining and she pulled him into the house, which seemed dark and cold.
‘Bloody hell,’ he whispered, ‘you didn’t tell me you lived in a mansion.’
She looked around her and it seemed to Tony that she was seeing it for the first time, which made him feel even colder. She shrugged. ‘Mum’s in the drawing room. We’ve got the fire lit.’
At least that sounded nice and friendly, so Tony let himself relax slightly. He touched her arm to hold her back for a second. ‘What was she like when you told her?’
‘Told her?’
‘Yes, you know, about us, the baby.’ Very occasionally Tony wondered if Alice was simple, because even when she said very clever things she didn’t seem to know what she was talking about.
‘Oh, I haven’t said anything yet,’ she answered, smiling brightly, as if it was completely normal to get him to come here with their news without preparing her mother in advance.
‘You’re joking, right?’
She looked puzzled. ‘No. I thought that’s why you were coming.’
‘Christ, Alice.’ He really wished he’d had a drink now.
‘Come on,’ she said, taking him by the hand and leading him into one of the rooms off the hall.
The drawing room – or lounge as he would have called it, although he could immediately see why the word was all wrong to describe such a room – was not nice and friendly. It was too big for a start, with a massive fireplace surrounded by what looked like marble, supporting a huge gold mirror. And the paintings, Christ, he’d never seen so many paintings, all worth a fair packet in Tony’s estimation and all of such peculiar subjects, like dogs and old women sitting by fires and country paths leading nowhere. The walls were the deep red of blood that has been exposed to the air for a while and the carpet was lush, folding over his feet. Disconcertingly there were also things everywhere; a multitude of silver and china perched like butterflies on little tables so that his head spun with all the reflected light.
Then there was Clarice Cartwright herself, the woman who was going to become Tony’s mother-in-law and grandmother to his child. The thought ran into his feet and he wondered if he was going to faint. She was sitting very straight in a high-backed blue velvet chair, with a china cup and saucer on her lap. Tony hadn’t known that people actually used them outside of the TV costume dramas his mother had favoured; he couldn’t imagine drinking tea out of anything other than a mug. And the expression on her face was so – what was the word? – unforgiving, as if nothing he could say or do was of any consequence to her.
‘Clarice,’ said Alice, ‘this is Tony.’
Tony jerked his gaze away from Mrs Cartwright for a moment. Surely he’d misheard? Surely she’d said Mum or Mother or Mama even?
‘Hello, Tony,’ said Mrs Cartwright. ‘And to what do I owe this pleasure?’
Tony held out his hand. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Cartwright. I’ve heard lots about you from Alice.’ He knew he was getting everything wrong because her smile was too small and flat.
‘Please sit down.’
Alice put her arm out to stop him. ‘No thanks. We won’t be long.’
They wouldn’t be long? Tony looked at Alice again and saw a broad smile on her face, as though she was going to burst with the excitement of a child. He looked at his hands to give himself a sense of perspective, he couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t in the middle of an episode of The Twilight Zone. He looked back at Alice’s mother and she didn’t seem to find this behaviour strange, she simply sat waiting, twirling the expensive-looking brooch at her neck.
Alice ploughed on. ‘We’ve just come to tell you that we’re getting married.’
At least this seemed to ruffle Mrs Cartwright. Her hand clasped the brooch now and Tony estimated that it was probably worth more than he got paid in a year. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Why would that be ridiculous?’
The absurdity of their words washed over him and he realised that he barely needed to be there. He felt Alice’s enjoyment of the situation radiating out of her like heat. All of this was some sick game to both of them, one they’d probably been playing for ever and Tony recognised himself as nothing more than the hand which would win Alice this round.
‘It would be ridiculous because I’ve never met this man before. And you’re only nineteen.’
‘But we love each other.’
‘Oh come on, Alice. You don’t know what love is.’
‘And you do, I suppose.’
‘Tony,’ said Mrs Cartwright, shocking him out of his thoughts. ‘Do you love my daughter?’
‘Yes, I do.’ It was the only possible answer, apart from also being close to the truth, but he would have liked to add that of course he knew she was right and they were too young, but that they had a reason to get married. Somehow though he knew that would be denying Alice something.
‘And how long have you known each other?’
‘About six months.’ His mouth was dry and he heard his tongue click as he talked.
‘Where did you meet?’
‘In Cartertown.’
‘Yes, but where?’
‘On the street. We sort of bumped into each other.’
Clarice sighed and Tony hated himself for wanting to impress her.
‘Alice,’ she said, ‘you are not getting married.’
Tony wished she was right, but he heard Alice draw in her breath, he heard her say, ‘Oh, but we are, Clarice. You see, I’m pregnant.’
Tony saw Clarice shrink from the news, her head actually rocked slightly on her neck. ‘You silly girl,’ she said. ‘How far gone?’
‘Twelve