by Sue Watson
The goat’s cheese tart sits in the middle of the table, warm, golden and melting, surrounded by a rainbow of salads. I watch us all and imagine how we’d look through a filmmaker’s lens. The sixty-something widow presiding over a summer table, her family eating and chatting in the sunshine, while her new old love catches her eye. I love this scene and will play it over and over in my head for years to come.
The food is eaten, the tart is perfect and Anna’s banoffee is sublime. Peter even asks her for the recipe and I’m delighted to hear her offer to email it to him, which suggests that she sees Peter in the longer term. I’ve never been happier. Something as apparently insignificant as this email exchange lifts me up and like a balloon I bob around the table refreshing the drinks. Everyone is sitting round chatting and I think how lovely this is and with time we could all be one big happy family. And then, without warning, it all starts to go horribly wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It’s about six p.m. when James gets up from the table and starts to clear the glasses away.
‘Leave that,’ I say. ‘Relax, enjoy the last rays of warmth – it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.’
‘No problem, Rosie, I thought I’d make a start on the washing up,’ he says kindly. ‘I could at least fill the dishwasher . . . there are already loads of glasses . . . don’t want to leave everything to you.’
‘That’s so thoughtful but you’re a guest tonight. You all do so much for me, I’ll wash up later – and anyway, tonight I have help.’ I look at Peter, who raises his glass and winks at me. I smile back, and I nearly suggest Katie lights the new tea lights – she’s always loved that job – but at twelve I think she probably feels slightly patronised.
I ask Peter instead and throw the box of matches to him. He catches easily and everyone claps. ‘I was always a good fielder back in the day,’ he laughs, and James sits down again and they chat a little about cricket. More bonding with my sons-in-law, I am delirious, but just as I’m about to relax into this bath of joy, I hear Anna’s voice at the end of the table.
‘James, you shouldn’t be talking cricket now, I thought you were supposed to be helping clear the table?’ she says, feigning, but not pulling off a light-hearted look, and suddenly the air is loaded. James looks at her and I can’t see the love in his eyes I saw earlier, and I’m reminded of how my daughter can upset people with her brusque manner and demanding ways.
But being Anna, she can’t leave it and goes in for the kill. ‘Come on, James, I’ll help – Peter won’t want to hang around now he’s eaten, he’s got a long drive back to Oxford tonight, haven’t you?’ she says with apparent concern, but betraying her real feelings by banging plates and wearing my mother’s tight lips.
My stomach is churning. ‘No . . . ’ I protest, but she leaps up and is now collecting glasses aggressively while simmering. In the awkward silence I can feel the atmosphere thick with tension – how can my own daughter be so thoughtless, so selfish as to ruin this for everyone, especially for me?
‘Peter is staying here with me tonight,’ I say, loudly and clearly. I’m now standing at the head of the table but in an effort to be assertive with Anna realise I have just announced to the assembled throng that Peter and I will be sleeping together. Tonight.
Everyone looks round at me, except Anna who continues to clank glasses and crockery and sweeps through the French windows into the house without acknowledging what I’ve just said. Aware I’m probably making things worse by walking out on my now ruined party, I go through into the kitchen. I’m hurt and embarrassed but determined to try and nip this in the bud.
When I walk into the kitchen, Anna’s at the sink, scrubbing hard at the platter that held the antipasti, and I walk over to her.
‘What the hell was all that about?’ I say.
‘I’m sorry, Mum, I just think it’s all a bit much. You may have known him years ago but I can only go off now, and all I can see is a man you’ve been seeing for six months making himself very much at home in my dad’s house.’
‘It’s also my house and your dad has nothing to do with this, so don’t use his memory to manipulate me, Anna.’
She whips round and looks at me, open-mouthed.
‘I know exactly what you’re doing, and I understand you – I’ve known you a long time and I know why you’re upset. You don’t want things to change, you lost your dad and now you think you’re losing me, but you’re not. And you have to get your head round this. Peter isn’t a threat, and even if he could, he doesn’t want to take me away from the family or come between us – the irony is that he would like to be part of it.’ I put my arm around her and I see a tear fall down her cheek. ‘I know you miss your dad and you feel a bit shaky about life at the moment, love, and I want you to know I’m here for you, always. But I’m not giving in on this one, so help me make it easier for all of us and accept that Peter is my future . . . in the same way that I accept James is yours.’
She leans her head on my shoulder and I squeeze her like she is seven years old.
‘I just didn’t expect him to be staying the night . . . ’
‘He offered to stay in a hotel, but I didn’t see any reason. He’s a good man, Anna. Don’t make me feel bad about someone who makes me feel good.’
She finishes what she’s doing, tells me she has an early start in the morning and all I see is my angry, confused little girl walk out of the kitchen. She lost Paul, then her dad, and now she thinks she’s losing me, but until she’s calm there’s no talking to her.
I’m filling the dishwasher when Peter walks into the kitchen with an empty wine bottle.
‘Anna’s upset,’ I say, grateful to have a confidant, a supporter just for me at last.
‘Thought I sensed something, that’s why I brought this bottle.’
‘What, for ammunition?’
‘No,’ he laughs, ‘so I could see if you were okay. Are you?’
‘No. Oh yes, sort of . . . but it’s more to do with Anna and what’s been going on in her life. Really.’
‘Is she okay? Should I perhaps try to talk to her?’
‘No, that’s kind of you, but I don’t think that would help. When she’s like this she needs a little time to adjust – and she will.’
James, the girls and Greg appear in the kitchen; Anna is now standing in the hall with the car keys. Emma hugs me and whispers in my ear that she’s sorry it’s all been a bit ‘tragic’, but informs me I will, at some point in the future, LOL about it. I doubt that very much but I smile and hug her back.
‘Thanks, darling.’
‘Nan, I’m glad your boyfriend came today. I know it was a bit tough on you, but Mum was so distracted she didn’t even notice when I swore and Greg had a fag.’ She giggles conspiratorially in my ear. ‘I’m LMFAO.’
I hug her again, feeling a wave of comfort, a poultice on the open wound left by my daughter.
‘It will all be fine, and so will you and Greg . . . even if you swear and he smokes, LOL,’ I say under my breath, before walking them all to the door, including a rather sheepish James. ‘Sorry, Rosie,’ he says. ‘It’s not you. She just takes everything on . . . ’
‘I know. She always has. Look after her tonight.’ I half smile, touching his arm gratefully as he nods. James has only been with Anna for a matter of months, he’s only ever talked to me about superficial stuff like the weather so for him to acknowledge the issue feels big for me. I think he’s giving me a signal that it’s okay and Anna’s just overreacting.
I stand on the step to wave them all off and Anna opens the car door and waves absently at me. I blow her a kiss and she smiles. She’ll come round.
I return to the garden where Isobel and Richard are saying goodbye to Peter, and Isobel hugs me.
‘Don’t worry, Mum, it will all be fine,’ she says in my voice. Isobel and I have always tended to gravitate towards each other, and while Anna sometimes rails against the world we think things through before saying them. People like us seem qu
iet and cautious next to the Annas of the world who wear their hearts on their sleeves. But I’ve learned that we are stronger, more flexible and accepting of what life throws at us. Isobel and I have both been through the same experience of losing children – though I’ve never shared it with the girls Isobel knows I understand. She told me once that the four pear trees in their garden had been planted for the babies she’d lost, because she needed to see them and remember. And we cried together.
I close the front door on them all and stand in the kitchen awhile, leaning on the worktop. All the planning, the expectation, even the bloody tea lights and the goat’s cheese tart. I never realised until tonight – I hate goat’s cheese. It’s like the mint choc chip ice cream, I was doing this for everyone else. Peter’s right, it’s time to start doing things for me. And if one of my kids doesn’t approve then that’s up to her, but I will never be able to put my arms around them all at once, be in two places at the same time, or please everyone.
Apart from a short spell of rebellion somewhere around 1968, I spent a lifetime trying to please my mother and now I’m trying to please my daughter. I look through the window and see Peter at the table alone. I feel like I lost him in the emotional chaos of the evening and seeing him lifts me. I desperately wanted this evening to work, for Peter to be welcomed into the family, but it wasn’t that easy after all. I wonder what this means for our future. I will have to keep trying and hope one day we can all be together, but I worry that day may be far away and neither of us are getting any younger.
He’s pulling a sprig of hydrangea from the jug, gazing at it, lost in thought, and I feel a surge of life flowing back into me. I run from the kitchen into the dusk, surprising him with a flurry of kisses.
His face lights up when he sees me and he puts one arm around my waist, places the hydrangea in my hair and we look into each other’s eyes.
‘I feel bad. Have I caused problems for you?’
‘No, Anna will be fine, we’ve been here before over much bigger and much smaller stuff than this. Anna has always liked everything in its place, people in their pigeonholes and the doors locked from strangers. But it’s time for me to open the doors and windows, and let life back in.’
‘I’m sure in the end it will be okay. Life has a way of working out,’ he murmurs into my hair. ‘Look how you came back to me. That was fate . . . magic.’ Then he pulls away slightly to look at me. Our eyes meet, and they are the same eyes that gazed on each other almost fifty years ago.
I slip off my sandals as we lean on each other, slowly merging into a lazy dance. There’s a warm breeze blowing through the trees, the sky is unusually clear and the stars are out in their millions. I think of Mike and wonder if it’s a sign that he’s looking down tonight and giving us his blessing.
We sway for ages as early evening turns to black and in the thick silence I look up again into the night sky. Here in the garden there is just eternity and us, and like a string of fairy lights in the dark, we are all tangled together by the stars, the years and the beating of our hearts.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The night of the party Peter stays over and we sleep in the spare room. I couldn’t sleep in the bed I’d shared with Mike, that was ours. But I know that Mike would understand, he’d known all about my love for Peter, he’d known more about my feelings probably than Peter himself. Mike would know this is right and that Peter is good for me, and makes me happy – and ultimately that’s all Mike ever wanted.
Thinking about him as I lie in Peter’s arms in the family home, I feel the familiar wave of guilt for the hurt Mike must have secretly endured over the years, for the knowledge that he wasn’t the love of my life. Mike was the man I married and he was the best husband and father I could have chosen. While Peter was off round the world treading on grapes and girls’ hearts, Mike was the one who stayed up with the children when they couldn’t sleep, held my hand and mopped my brow during two tough pregnancies. He was the only other person in the world who looked at our girls the same way I did, with unconditional, parental love – and no one can ever take that away.
The following morning it seems strange to wake up in bed at home with Peter and as soon as I open my eyes I remember the night before. He is a wonderful, gentle lover, and only Peter could take me to bed and make me almost forget.
‘I must phone Anna . . . ’ I say out loud, causing Peter to stir.
‘Yes, phone Anna. You’ll be miserable until you do.’ He reaches out and touches my hand.
I try Anna at the shop, but there’s no answer, not even the answerphone. I know she’s probably trying to avoid speaking to me, so I just keep calling again and again until she picks up.
‘Anna, are you okay?’ I say, relief flooding over me.
‘I’m fine. But extremely busy, which is why the phone was left to ring – in fact we could do with you here.’
Monday mornings are always quiet in the shop, so I know she’s just being mean – and it is no excuse to leave the answer machine off.
‘I will be in tomorrow and the rest of the week, and if this is just a ruse to make me feel guilty about being with Peter, I’m not having it,’ I say.
‘I’m sorry, I will get used to the idea. I just need time.’
‘I know, and I understand all you’ve been through and know what your concerns are. But I think it might be time for you to look at this through my eyes and see how happy he makes me. I love him, but I’m not being stupid or naive, and you have to trust me that I know what I’m doing and I’m doing it for all the right reasons. He came back at a time in my life when I never expected to feel like this again, so try and support me and enjoy this journey with me because it will be so much better with you there.’ I tell her I love her and put the phone down.
In the past I’ve given in to Anna too much. Often it was little things like where we buy our sandwiches from at work, or which lamp would look best in my living room, but when Mike died the little things became bigger. I wanted to keep his ashes until I knew where to scatter them, but Anna said we should scatter them at the crematorium, so we did. Now I might like the option to move house and Anna’s saying I can’t leave the family home. Having done everything for my kids all my life, I feel it’s finally about what I want. It’s my life and I have to love it and when I’m rattling around in the family home Anna will be happily in hers. And it’s the same with Peter – he’s such a wonderful part of my life so why should I give him up because Anna doesn’t feel comfortable that I have a boyfriend? I wasn’t comfortable about her having a boyfriend at fourteen, but I didn’t try to stop her.
As I reach the bedroom door I hear his voice and I’m about to ask what he’s saying, because I think he is talking to me, but I realise he’s on the phone.
‘Yes . . . okay, if you want me I’ll be there, no worries. No, I’m really happy you called. I just wish you’d told me sooner . . . Actually, I’m with someone.’
I stay outside the room on the landing, slowly walk over to the window and open the curtains. The morning sun floods my face and my organs feel like they are being moved around my body. His voice sounds gentle, intimate, like it does when he speaks to me – my whole foundations are shaken.
‘Okay, okay, I can be there tomorrow. Oh, sooner? Really? I suppose . . . if you insist.’
He puts down his phone and I walk in, pretending I haven’t heard, and make like I’m preoccupied fluffing pillows. I climb back into bed and he looks at me.
‘Camille,’ he sighs.
‘Oh . . . you were on the phone? I didn’t realise. Is she okay?’
‘Mmmm, I’m not sure. She’s desperate.’
‘To see you? I thought she was happily married? She can’t just walk back into your life and—’
‘No, no, when I said desperate, I didn’t mean like that, you haven’t met Camille, have you. She really is done with me.’ He reaches his arms out. ‘You are so sweet. No one’s walking back into my life and I’m not walking out.’
‘I’m sorry, but I just sometimes feel like this is all too good to be true.’ I lie on the bed in his arms and he strokes my forehead.
‘She rang because she’s doing a piece for a French magazine about concrete architecture and she wants me to go over and do the photos. I haven’t done a magazine shoot for a while, but she knows I can’t resist a challenge. She wants something a little more avant-garde, you know?’
I had never considered concrete to be avant-garde, but I nod.
‘Thing is, she’s booked a flight already, she says the magazine will pay all expenses. I’m torn, Rosie. I want to stay here with you but I’d love the chance to do a big shoot like this. Have I still got it in me?’
‘Of course you have, you’re the one always telling me to take chances and let go, it’s later than you think and life’s too short.’
‘Oh, do I really speak in clichés?’ he asks.
‘I’m afraid so. Get your bag packed.’
‘Would you mind? I feel bad just going off and leaving you, but I think I may be having a renaissance, both in my personal and professional life.’
‘Of course you must take up this chance – who knows how many chances like this you’ll have.’
‘I love you. I’ll be back by the weekend. You could come to my place. I’ll spoil you to make up for my sudden departure.’ He’s getting dressed, already eyeing up that concrete in his head. ‘Camille says there’s a lot of interest in my type of photography at the moment – it’s fashionable again and this job could bring me to a newer, younger audience,’ he says excitedly, pulling on his shoes. ‘She says we could show in a gallery again . . . wouldn’t that be amazing?’