Majorca, August 1980
Margot James is Forty-Nine Years Old
I’d never been on a proper holiday and neither had Humphrey. We’d eschewed the idea of a honeymoon until his sister had recommended a hotel in Majorca – telling us both it was time we got some sun.
We didn’t fit in at all. The people by the pool knew what they were doing – they had towels on sunbeds before we’d even made our way down to the restaurant for breakfast. They knew to order three drinks at a time to make the most of the ‘all-inclusive’ system. They knew when to drag their sunbeds to the other side of the pool to get the best of the afternoon sun.
Watching Humphrey try to deal with the cognitive challenge of being in no way cognitively challenged – with just a spy novel I’d bought him in a charity shop and hours of relaxation ahead of him – was wonderfully amusing. As I lay in the sun, feeling that something inside me that had become concrete was beginning to soften, he struggled to get comfortable, to keep himself entertained.
He asked a complete stranger what he thought of the Wellington Observatory while we were waiting in line for our first dinner.
‘Dunno, mate,’ the man had said. ‘Don’t really wear wellies.’
On the first night, we decided to try out the hotel bar. The heat from the day had dissipated with the evening breeze, and if the outdoor bar hadn’t been so full of people, and if there hadn’t been a shaky rendition of ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’ being performed by a hotel rep on the harshly lit stage, we’d have been able to hear the grasshoppers and the sway of the sea.
A sweet-natured couple came to ask if the two empty seats at our table were free. I can’t remember their names now, but we’ll call them Tom and Sue. Humphrey had gestured for them to take the seats, but rather than carry them away, they sat down and joined us. Much to our collective horror.
‘So, do you have kids?’ Sue asked, several questions in to the ice-breaking chit-chat we’d been making over the top of ‘Born To Be Alive’， which was being admirably belted out by a very sunburnt holidaymaker.
I’d opened my mouth to tell Sue the stranger-friendly version of why no, Humphrey and I had no children, but he got there first.
‘Oh, yes,’ Humphrey said. My mouth fell open.
‘Girls,’ he added, ‘two girls.’ And Tom and Sue made the requisite ooh-ing and ahh-ing noises.
I took a sip of my drink so that they’d know not to expect me to speak any time soon.
‘What are their names?’
‘Bette and Marilyn,’ Humphrey said, and I nearly dropped the brightly coloured cocktail I’d accidentally ordered when I’d tried to use Spanish to ask for an orange juice.
‘What unusual names,’ Sue said.
‘We’re both really big film fans,’ Humphrey said, holding his hands up as though he’d just been caught midway through a crime.
Though I tried my best to communicate to him the sentiment Stop pretending our chickens are our children, Humphrey put his hand on my knee and smiled as Tom asked how old our daughters Bette and Marilyn were.
‘They’re both eight,’ Humphrey said.
‘So they’re twins?’ Sue said excitedly.
‘Well, they came together!’ Humphrey laughed.
‘I love twins,’ she said. ‘My grandmother had twins. They say it skips a generation, so if we had kids, they might be twins.’ Sue looked at Tom with such hope that it almost hurt to witness.
‘That must have been a handful,’ Tom said, downing his watery pint.
‘Well, we got very lucky with them,’ Humphrey said. He had that twinkle in his eye that only appeared when he was really enjoying himself. ‘As long as they’re fed and watered, they’re happy.’
I took another big sip of my cocktail.
‘Girls, though, lots of pink,’ Tom said.
‘Not for us. Marilyn and Bette are both very outdoorsy,’ Humphrey said. ‘Although they are quite incorrigible at times – they’re always sticking their beaks in, aren’t they, Margot?’
Fruity alcohol exploded out of my mouth and across the table, settling in a number of little pools on the white plastic tabletop. Tom looked on in alarm as I apologized and Sue patted at the puddles of my regurgitated cocktail with her small paper napkin.
‘Went down the wrong way, did it?’ Humphrey asked, his eyes gleaming.
P
‘ARE YOU IN pain, Lenni?’
Derek’s eyes betrayed his fear of an honest answer. But luckily for him, I wasn’t going to be honest.