How It All Began Read online

  HOW

  IT ALL

  BEGAN

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  FICTION

  Family Album

  Consequences

  Making It Up

  The Photograph

  Going Back

  The Road to Lichfield

  Treasures of Time

  Judgment Day

  Next to Nature, Art

  Perfect Happiness

  According to Mark

  Pack of Cards and Other Stories

  Moon Tiger

  Passing On

  City of the Mind

  Cleopatra’s Sister

  Heat Wave

  Beyond the Blue Mountains

  Spiderweb

  AUTOBIOGRAPHY

  Oleander, Jacaranda: A Childhood Perceived

  A House Unlocked

  HOW

  IT ALL

  BEGAN

  Penelope Lively

  VIKING

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

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  Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First American edition

  Published in 2012 by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Penelope Lively, 2011

  All rights reserved

  Publisher’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

  Lively, Penelope.

  How it all began : a novel / Penelope Lively.

  p. cm.

  EISBN: 9781101565759

  1. Life change events—Fiction. 2. London (England)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6062.I89H69 2012

  823.914—dc23 2011032994

  Printed in the United States of America

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  To Rachel and Izzy

  The Butterfly Effect was the reason. For small pieces of weather—and to a global forecaster small can mean thunderstorms and blizzards—any prediction deteriorates rapidly. Errors and uncertainties multiply, cascading upward through a chain of turbulent features, from dust devils and squalls up to continent-size eddies that only satellites can see.

  —James Gleick, Chaos

  HOW

  IT ALL

  BEGAN

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  CHAPTER ONE

  The pavement rises up and hits her. Slams into her face, drives the lower rim of her glasses into her cheek. She is laid out there, prone. What is this? Voices are chattering above her; people are concerned. Of course.

  Bag.

  She says, “My bag.”

  A face is alongside hers. Woman. Nice woman. “There’s an ambulance on the way, my dear. You’ll be fine. Just keep still till they come.”

  Bag.

  “Your shopping’s right here. The Sainsbury bag.”

  No. Bag.

  Bag is not. She’d known that somehow. Right away.

  Another voice, up above. Man’s voice. “She’s been mugged, hasn’t she? That’s what it is.”

  Ah.

  Voices discuss. She is not much interested. Nee-naw, nee-naw, nee-naw. Here it is. Know for whom the bell tolls.

  Expert hands: lifting, bundling. In the ambulance, she is on her side, in some sort of rigid tube. She hurts. Where is hurt? Don’t know. Anywhere. May as well try to sleep for a bit.

  “Keep your eyes open, please. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Trolley-ride. On and on. Corridors. People passing. Right turn. Halt. More lifting. They take the tube away. She is on her back now.

  Nurse. Smiling but business-like. Name? Address?

  Those she can do. No problem.

  Date of birth?

  That too. Not a good date of birth. Rather a long time ago.

  Next of kin?

  Rose is not going to like this. It’s morning, isn’t it? Rose will be with his lordship.

  Next of kin will be at work. Not bother her. Yet.

  On Mondays, Rose arrived at the house later than usual, having stopped off at the bank to collect some cash for her employer and to pay in any checks that might have arrived the week before. Henry did not care to fiddle with cash dispensers and could not be doing with the electronic transfer of money. He insisted on paper in the hand, for minor payments such as lecture fees or book reviews. E-mail too was beyond his remit; Rose dealt with that. Probably Henry did not know how to turn on the computer. Though you wouldn’t put it past the old devil to be cruising cyberspace once she was out of the house, Googling old friends and enemies.

  “I propose we drop Lord Peters and Mrs. Donovan, Rose. All right with you?” Her second week with him, way back, and actually it hadn’t been all right, not at first. She had called him “you” for months. He was after all her mother’s generation, never mind what else he was, or had been. She called some of her mother’s friends by their first names? Yes, but she’d known them all her life and they hadn’t been Regius Professors and head of Royal Commissions and adviser to a prime minister and what have you. String of letters after his name; people sometimes glancing at him, thinking: why do I know that face? Shirty enough if anyone looked like taking liberties: “Curt letter, Rose, saying Lord Peters does not provide puffs for other people’s books, and if you’re feeling expansive you could add that no, Lord P. does not recall his conversation with the author in 1993.”

  Well, in ten years a relationship tends to solidify. The newly retired, brisk and self-important Henry for whom she had first come to work had mutated into a querulous, though still self-important, seventy-six-year-old with a gammy knee, a high consumption of claret and certain unpredictable behavior patterns. You trod carefully. Occasionally you considered chucking in the job. Except that it was extremely convenient, he’d always paid a n
ice little bit above the odds, and you never knew what might happen, which was better than a desk in an office. And at the beginning, it had been the answer to a prayer: part-time, mornings only, she could be home to get the children from school, free to be theirs for the rest of the day.

  Now, of course, that wouldn’t matter—James in Singapore, Lucy at college.

  Over half an hour late. There had been a long wait at the bank, to get that check in. He’ll be tetchy. Opening the post himself, grunting over each sheet of paper. Or purring: “Rather a nice letter from Cornell, Rose. They want to give me an honorary degree. What do you think—shall we go over and collect it?”

  He did not like to travel alone now. From time to time she was prevailed upon to escort him. Swings and roundabouts: you got a trip to somewhere you wouldn’t otherwise have been; but the trip was with him, who could be a pain. One became “Mrs. Donovan, my PA,” and there was a lot of hanging about and making small-talk to strangers or no talk at all. The hotels could be a bit of a treat. And because someone else was paying it, was business flights, or first-class rail.

  She walked the last few hundred yards away from the bustling road and onto his leafy quiet street with the smart white stucco houses. Expensive houses. Academics are not usually well-heeled, apparently, but Henry’s father had been some sort of industrialist; money had filtered down to Henry—hence the house in a grandish part of London. Distinctly grand if you yourself live in a semi in Enfield, and grew up modestly enough in the suburbs of St. Albans, daughter of two teachers. Henry was kindly patronizing about her parentage, on occasion: “Accounts for your exemplary syntax, Rose. Breeding will out.”

  Her mother had ever been crisp about Henry. His lordship. Needless to say, they had never met. Her mother was entertained by the stories that Rose could tell of his lifestyle and his remarks—gleeful, indeed, sometimes—but Rose was well aware that she considered the job menial. Rose could have done better than that. The subject was never raised—comment and counter-comment remained unspoken: “Literate, numerate, efficient—there’d have been all sorts of options”; “But I never wanted a career. I chose this.”

  And thus had one chosen Henry also, though unwittingly, a blind date as it were. Face to face at that initial interview, across the now so familiar large desk with the tooled leather top: he seems nice enough; rather grand, lovely house, never seen so many books (thought we had quite a few); salary’s good, actually.

  “Do sit down, Mrs. Donovan. Suppose I start by outlining my requirements.”

  Correspondencea…diary…travel arrangements…protect me from the telephone…my memoirs.

  My memoirs. My Memoirs were but a gleam in his eye then, and remained so for several years. Only relatively recently—“Commitments thank goodness, being less consuming”—has the spiel gathered pace, the handwritten sheets waiting each day for her to type them up. “Here you go, Rose, this morning’s offering. You may be amused at what I have to say about Harold Wilson.” Chuckle, chuckle. There’ll be quite a few people distinctly unamused when the spiel at last achieves publication; good thing Harold Wilson’s dead.

  “Now tell me a bit about yourself, Mrs. Donovan.”

  What had one told? Secretarial experience, period as PA to a company chairman (who tried to put his hand up my skirt, so I walked out, but no need to tell that), five-year break for family reasons.

  Henry does not have children. Dear me, no. A dad figure he is not. Never a wife, either. But not gay, it would seem. There have been ladies, occasionally wined and dined or taken to the theater, but clearly none have managed to adhere. So Henry is a lone spirit. He had a sister, who died a few years ago, and he appears to have some affection for her daughter, Marion, who is a businesswoman and visits from time to time.

  About once a year Henry remembers to ask after James and Lucy. He never displays interest—assumed or otherwise—in Gerry, who is evidently beyond his horizon. “Ah, your husband…” in vaguely baffled tone, when once Rose mentioned him (with pneumonia, as it happened, requiring unusual attention).

  Gerry is not interested in Henry, either. Gerry is interested in local government, carpentry, sacred music and a spot of coarse fishing. Gerry is fine. Who’d want a husband who would run you ragged?

  She climbed the steps to that handsome black front door with the pillared portico, took out her keys, opened, entered. She went through to her own office, hung up her coat, removed the cash from her bag, and knocked on the study door.

  “Come in, come in.” Tetchy, yes. “Ah, there you are. A whole lot of stuff from the insurance company that I don’t understand and don’t want to. Deal with it, would you? Some other bits and pieces we can see to together—here’s a fellow I barely remember asking if I’ll stand as a referee. He’s got a nerve. The rail tickets for the Manchester trip have come. Why are we going so early? Nine-thirty at Euston. Christ!”

  “There’s a lunch before your lecture—they’d like you there by twelve-thirty.”

  “Inconsiderate of them. Oh—there was a phone call for you. Someone from a hospital. Can you call them back—here’s the number. About your mother, apparently. Unwell, is she? And, Rose, I’m dying for a cup of coffee.”

  She thought about the mugger. Her mugger. This faceless person with whom she has been in transitory, intimate relationship. Him. Or possibly her. Women muggers now, no doubt; this is the age of equal opportunities. Person who was here one moment, gone the next. With my bag. And my packet of Kleenex and my Rennies and my comb and my bus pass and my rail card and three twenties I think and some change and the Barclaycard. And my keys.

  Keys.

  Oh, Rose has seen to that. She said. Changed the locks. And the card. Stopped. Goodbye to the three twenties and the change.

  What will he/she buy with the sixty-odd quid I’ve so kindly given him/her?

  A handful of Three for Two’s at Waterstones? A ticket to Covent Garden? It’ll have to be Upper Circle, I’m afraid. A subscription to the Friends of the Royal Academy?

  Drugs, they say. Day’s supply of whatever is their particular tipple.

  No. I prefer to imagine my mugger as a refined soul. Just a rather needy refined soul. Our brief relationship is more tolerable that way. Maybe there’s a Figaro on offer—that would perk him up. Him or her. German Expressionists at the Academy, I think. Hmmn. The new Philip Roth is good. And there’s this book on Shakespeare.

  Hip. Hurts. Despite painkiller. Does not kill. Makes you woozy. As though hallucinating. No—sod you, mugger. Why didn’t you just ask nicely? Sod you. Go and slurp your heroin or whatever it is. No Figaro for you.

  Rose had had to call Henry from the hospital to say that she would not be back that day. He did remember to inquire after her mother, when she arrived the next morning.

  “They’re looking after her well, I hope? No joke—broken bones at our age. Now…we’re drowning in paper, Rose. Two days’ post not dealt with.”

  She explained that it was possible she would not be able to accompany him to Manchester. It would depend on the date of her mother’s release from the hospital, not yet decided. “I’ll need to bring her home and settle her. She’ll be coming to us for a while.”

  Consternation. “Oh dear. Well, let’s face that when we come to it. I suppose at a pinch Marion…”

  Rose’s spare room.

  “For a month or two, Mum. At least till you’re off the crutches.”

  “I’d manage…”

  “No. And anyway, the hospital is quite firm about it. So there.”

  So. Just what one didn’t want. Being a burden and all that. What one had hoped to avoid. De-railed. Thanks a lot, mugger.

  Sorry, Rose. And Gerry. And bless you. Let’s hope this won’t blight a beautiful relationship. It’s the classic situation: tiresome old mother moves in.

  Old age is not for wimps. Broken hip is definitely not for wimps. We are crutch-mobile now. Up and down the ward. Ouch. Sessions with delightful six-foot New Zealand physiotherapist. Serious
ly ouch.

  Of course before the hip there was the knee, and the back, but that was mere degeneration, not malign external interference. The knee. The back. And the cataracts. And those twinges in the left shoulder and the varicose veins and the phlebitis and having to get up at least once every night to pee and the fits of irritation at people who leave inaudible messages on the answerphone. Time was, long ago, pain occasionally struck—toothache, ear infection, cricked neck—and one made a great fuss, affronted. For years now, pain has been a constant companion, cozily there in bed with one in the morning, keeping pace all day, coyly retreating perhaps for a while only to come romping back: here I am, remember me? Ah, old age. The twilight years—that delicate phrase. Twilight my foot—roaring dawn of a new life, more like, the one you didn’t know about. We all avert our eyes, and then—wham! you’re in there too, wondering how the hell this can have happened, and maybe it is an early circle of hell and here come the gleeful devils with their pitchforks, stabbing and prodding.

  Except that life goes on in parallel—real life, good life with all its gifts and graces. My species tulips out and blue tits on the bird feeder and a new book to look forward to this evening and Rose ringing up and a David Attenborough wild life program on the telly. And the new baby of Jennifer next door. A baby always lifts the spirits. Rose certainly did, way back. Pity there were no more, despite trying. But her own, in due course, thanks be.

  Charlotte views her younger selves with a certain detachment. They are herself, but other incarnations, innocents going about half-forgotten business. One is not nostalgic about them—dear me, no. Though occasionally a trifle envious: physically spry, pretty sharp teacher, though I say it myself, all my lot got A’s at A level, no question.

  And further back yet, young Charlotte. Gracious, look at her—stepping out with men, marrying, pushing a pram.

  All of which—all of whom—add up to what we have today: Charlotte washed up in Ward C, learning laboriously how to walk again. Ward C is full of breakage—legs, ankles, arms. The elderly fall off steps, trip over curbs; the young pitch off their bikes, exercise too carelessly. People are grounded, heaped up here together, an arbitrary assortment of misfortune: middle-aged Maureen who borrowed a neighbor’s stepladder to put up her new curtains, with disastrous consequences; young Karen who tried to overtake a bendy bus on her scooter; old Pat who braved an icy pavement, and should not have done. Ward C is exhausting—noisy, restless, you don’t get a lot of sleep—but also perhaps in some ways an expedient distraction. You don’t fret so much about your own distress when surrounded by other people’s. You endure, but also observe; you become a beady eye, appreciating the spectacle.