Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(9)

Finally, I summoned the courage to inquire directly as to the circumstances of my creation, and to seek any available information about the mythical donor of spermatozoan, my father. As any child would in such circumstances—possibly even more so, in my particular circumstances—I had been harboring a small but intense fantasy about the character and appearance of my absent parent. She laughed and laughed.

“Donor? Did I really say that? It was simply a metaphor, darling,” she said.

Another word I’d have to look up.

“I was actually trying to spare your feelings. It was more of a . . . compulsory donation, shall we say. I had no choice in the matter. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

I said that I did, but I was fibbing.

“Where does he live, Mummy?” I asked, feeling brave. “What does he look like, what does he do?”

“I can’t remember what he looked like,” she said, her tone dismissive, bored. “He smelled like high game and liquefied Roquefort, if that’s any help.” I must have looked puzzled. She leaned forward, showed me her teeth. “That’s rotting flesh and stinking, moldy cheese to you, darling.” She paused, regained her equanimity.

“I don’t know if he’s alive or dead, Eleanor,” she said. “If he’s alive, he’s probably very rich by dubious, unethical means. If he’s dead—and I sincerely hope that he is—then I imagine he’s languishing in the outer ring of the seventh circle of hell, immersed in a river of boiling blood and fire, taunted by centaurs.”

I realized at that point that it probably wasn’t worth asking if she had kept any photos.





4





It was Wednesday evening. Mummy time. However much I might wish it were otherwise, she always managed to get through to me in the end. I sighed and turned off the radio, knowing I would have to wait until Sunday’s omnibus now to find out whether Eddie Grundy’s cider had fermented successfully. I felt a flash of desperate optimism. What if I didn’t have to talk to her? What if I could talk to someone else, anyone else?

“Hello?” I said.

“Oh, hiya, hen, it’s just me. Some weather the day, eh?”

It was hardly surprising that my mother had become institutionalized—that, one assumed, was a given, considering the nature of her crime—but she had gone far, far further than necessary by occasionally adopting the accent and argot of the places where she has been detained. I assumed this helped her ingratiate herself with her fellow residents, or, perhaps, with the staff. It may simply have been to amuse herself. She’s very good at accents, but then she’s a woman with a broad range of gifts. I was poised, en garde, for this conversation, as one always had to be with her. She was a formidable adversary. Perhaps it was foolhardy, but I made the first move.

“It’s only been a week, I know, but it feels like an age since we last spoke, Mummy. I’ve been so busy with work, and—”

She cut across me, nice as pie on this occasion, switching her accent to match mine. That voice; I remembered it from childhood, heard it still in my nightmares.

“I know what you mean, darling,” she said. She spoke quickly. “Look, I can’t talk for long. Tell me about your week. What have you been doing?”

I told her that I had attended a concert, mentioned the leaving do at work. I told her absolutely nothing else. As soon as I heard her voice, I felt that familiar, creeping dread. I’d been so looking forward to sharing my news, dropping it at her feet like a dog retrieving a game bird peppered with shot. Now I couldn’t shake the thought that she would pick it up and, with brutal calm, simply tear it to shreds.

“Oh a concert, that sounds marvelous—I’ve always been fond of music. We’re treated to the occasional performance here, you know; a few of the residents will have a singsong in the recreation room if the mood takes them. It really is . . . quite something.”

She paused, and then I heard her snarl at someone.

“Will ah fuck, Jodi—ahm talkin tae ma lassie here, and ahm no gonnae curtail ma conversation for a wee skank like you.” There was a pause. “No. Now fuck off.” She cleared her throat.

“Sorry about that, darling. She’s what’s known as a ‘junkie’—she and her similarly addicted friends were caught purloining perfume from Boots. Midnight Heat by Beyoncé, would you believe.” She lowered her voice again. “We’re not exactly talking criminal masterminds in here, darling—I think Professor Moriarty can rest easy for now.”

She laughed, a cocktail party tinkle—the light, bright sound of a Noel Coward character enjoying an amusing exchange of bon mots on a wisteria-clad terrace. I tried to move the conversation forward.

“So . . . how are you, Mummy?”

“Fabulous darling, just fabulous. I’ve been ‘crafting’—some nice, well-meaning ladies have been teaching me how to embroider cushions. Sweet of them to volunteer their time, no?” I thought of Mummy in possession of a long, sharp needle, and an icy current ran up and down my spine.

“But enough of me,” she said, the jagged edge in her voice hardening. “I want to hear about you. What are your plans for the weekend? Are you going out dancing, perhaps? Has an admirer asked you on a date?”

Such venom. I tried to ignore it.