Because Corinne ‘needs’ her out. And he’s obviously not about to try and dissuade her. But he doesn’t elaborate further. ‘Well, whatever,’ I say again, blinking at the dust motes that a shaft of summer sunshine is idly fondling in the hallway. Tomorrow is mine and it will be raining, for sure. I have half a mind to ask him if it will. No, in fact, to blame him if it does. Everyone else probably does. ‘You really don’t have to explain yourself to me, you know,’ I answer. Then I turn my back on him and stride off back into the kitchen.
Again, h e follows. ‘So,’ he asks conversationally, while I pull my rubber gloves back on. ‘What is going to happen with your mum, then?’
Like he even cares. ‘Well, isn’t that just the sixty-four thousand dollar question?’ I respond, with a definite edge to my voice. I catch my reflection in one of my mother’s many, many mirrors. And I wish I hadn’t. My hair, hastily scraped into the worst kind of ratty, uncombed, chaotic sort of ponytail, is sprouting in mad clumps in every direction, and my eyes, squinting in the harsh glare of the midsummer sun, are weighed down by sooty-smeared coalbags. I look a fright. There’s no other word for it. Memo to self: being tired and bad-tempered is so not a good look. Put head in ice bucket soonest, and chill . Get some sleep, at the very least. You look the absolute pits. ‘We don’t know yet,’ I tell him, as he’s clearly not in any sort of rush. He’s busy washing his hands now. ‘She’s staying at my sister’s at the moment.’
‘She doesn’t want to come back here? You know. For the time being at least? While she sorts something else out?’
‘Not remotely,’ I assure him, wondering exactly what ‘something else’ he assumes she is going to sort out. ‘I mean, would you ? With estate agents tramping strangers all around the place while you pack your whole life up in boxes?’ I shove the milk carton into the bin bag with the rest of the sludge. ‘No,’ I say tightly. ‘She doesn’t. She can’t manage on her own while she’s using crutches, obviously, and the rate your sister is pushing things along here, I don’t doubt that by the time she can you’ll have sold the place from under her anyway.’
All of which, frankly, is quite beside the point. This is my mother and she’s not like most people. Where Pru and I see a crisis and a bad situation, all she seems to see is her latest adventure. Were she hauled off the Titanic into a row boat in the ocean, she’d be barely in her seat before she started up a conversation that began ‘Well, now. Isn’t this exciting? Wonder where we’ll be shipwrecked?’ and then start up a chorus of Wandering Star . Except she wouldn’t, of course, because it hadn’t been written then. But still. That’s the gist of it. That’s what she’s like . For all her maternal failings (and I don’t doubt the two things are connected), I’ve always admired her pluck, her optimism, her pioneer mentality. I’m just not so keen on the ever-looming possibility that she now wants to pioneer a new settlement at mine.
‘Oh, dear,’ he says, because he doesn’t know her, of course. ‘Is she terribly upset?’
I think ‘ No. Not a bit of it. No, that’s just Pru and I.’ But I’m not going to tell him that. That’s none of his business. So I say ‘Y es . Of course she is! She’s seventy-four and disabled, for God’s sake! If you were in her shoes, wouldn’t you be?’
I know I’m ranting, but I can’t seem to help it. I have lost Sebastian, Charlie, my day off, my weekend, and in exchange I have inherited my mother. Only intermittently, I know, but that’s plenty bad enough. I do try to think positive thoughts about the future, but there just doesn’t seem to be anything to look forward to any more. And his solicitous platitudes really don’t help. Him saying how sorry he is doesn’t change anything, does it? He looks at me carefully while he dries his hands on a tea towel. ‘Yes,’ he says, nodding. ‘I imagine I would.’
Then he’s back at the sink again (does he do it on autopilot?) filling the bowl, gathering up the plastic dishes and the tea plate and the casserole dish I’ve just emptied, and peering under the sink, presumably for a scourer. I pick up the bin bag and relocate it to the back door, by which time he’s delved into a drawer for a clean dishcloth and is busy wetting it under the tap. Does he have some sort of fetish, or what? And, frankly, why doesn’t he stop all this trying to jolly me along? Why doesn’t he just go away and leave me to get on with my sulking?
‘Look,’ I say, picking up my cleaner and mop. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’
He smiles over at me as he wrings out the cloth. ‘I know I don’t,’ he says mildly, and carries on doing it anyway. It’s probably that, more than anything, that makes me see red. The way he looks – and has made himself – so very much at home here, while my mother sets her merry sights on doing just the same at mine. Childish, unreasonable, petulant and mean-spirited. Yup. Today, sadly, that would seem to be me.
Because I then say, ‘I mean, I’d rather you didn’t .’ Which, once I’ve uttered it, shocks me almost as much as I imagine it does him. He looks over and starts to smile (television person’s default expression), but then, seeing my expression, which I’m sure is fairly shrewish, his brow furrows instead. And it suddenly – belatedly – enters my head that perhaps I’m not the only one in this kitchen who’s feeling a bit testy and vulnerable and emotional today. Sure, I know why I am. I could write a bloody essay on the subject. But what thoughts, what regrets, what conflicting emotions are running through his mind right here right now? Twenty years is a great deal of time to have lost. I almost feel chastened. But I suspect I’m too late. Because his frown has morphed into a glower.
‘There’s no need,’ he says stiffly, ‘to bite my head off, okay? I’m only trying to be friendly.’
And though I don’t mean to I feel even testier. ‘Believe me, there’s no need for you to do that ,’ I reply.
There’s a very long silence while our eyes square up to each other . Measuring the odds while we stare each other out. Except he’s just got a dishcloth to my trigger pack of Mr Muscle . ‘Fine,’ he says, eventually, slapping down the cloth. ‘Message received and understood. I’ll be off.’
Ooh-er. Abbie, too much. Too much. ‘Look,’ I start to say. ‘I’m sorry, but –’
He lifts a hand to stop me speaking. ‘You know what?’ he says coolly. ‘Please don’t waste your breath. Because I actually don’t think you are.’
‘But I –’
‘No, no. That’s absolutely fine . Suit yourself.’
And then he leaves the kitchen.
And then he l eaves.
In a huff.
Humph, I think, watching as he bangs out through the front door with his boxes. Okay, so that was a bit over the top, but, well, humph anyway. He’s right. I’m sorry but not that sorry. It’s really been that kind of day.
And then I realise that our encounter has been so short, sharp and entirely to the point that I haven’t even had a chance to ask him how he came to make the physio appointment with me. So be it, I decide. Presumably now he’ll cancel. And if he doesn’t, I will . He can take his bloody ligament and shove it up his nose.
Chapter 8
I RING ON PRU’S doorbell a full seven times before managing to attract any attention. Once inside, and then outside – and now in the back garden – it’s clear why. My niece and nephews (plus assorted other small children – there’s always an assortment of other small children at Pru’s, much like there’s always an assortment of other big ones at mine) are galumphing around the garden, while my mother, reclining gracefully with her skirt pulled up in one of a pair of garden recliners, is sipping tea and flicking through a copy of Sainsbury’s Magazine. Childish, I know, but it makes me feel even more ratty. How come I didn’t get to spend any part of today – my day off – reclining in a garden in the sunshine?
Spike, to whom all of life is suddenly becoming just one big glorious garden idyll, launches himself enthusiastically into the fray.
‘Thanks a lot, Mum,’ I say, flopping onto Pru’s recliner while she goes back inside to make me
a cup of tea.
‘For what, darling?’ she replies, not looking up.
‘You might have warned me Hugo’s son was going to be there as well.’
‘Oh,’ she says, turning now. ‘Was he?’
‘Yes, he was. He was ferreting about in the attic. I thought there’d been a break-in. No, worse, I thought someone was breaking in right then. Fancy not mentioning it, Mum. He frightened the life out of me. ’ Okay, I know he didn’t. But why should she be the only drama queen around here?
‘I’m sorry, dear. I thought he was popping round earlier in the week. And to be honest it completely slipped my mind.’
‘Well, I wish it hadn’t, Mother. Because I really, really wasn’t in the mood. God, and I was foul to him, too.’
I feel myself slump in the recliner. I know Gabriel Ash’s opinion of me is of absolutely no consequence either way, but even so, that thought has been depressing me the whole of the way here. It’s so not to be like that. To be so scratchy and crotchety and peevish. So now I feel bad about myself as well as miserable. Memo to self: get some like me sleep .
‘Foul to him? Why ever were you foul to him, Abigail? He seems like such a nice man to me.’
Yes, rub it in, why don’t you? ‘Mum,’ I hear myself snap. ‘He may be the nicest man in Niceville, for all I know, but that doesn’t mean he’s not also one of my least favourite people right now.’
‘But it’s not –’
‘His fault. So you keep telling me! So does he! But what on earth were you thinking anyway? Giving him carte blanche to go into your home? You know, Mum, you don’t actually know the first thing about him. None of us do, do we? Yes, he’s clearly Hugo’s son, I’ll grant you. But we’re talking about someone who’s just turned up out of the blue, here. Don’t you think that’s just a little odd? Where’s he come from? Where’s he been all these years? What’s his angle? And what’s with all the snooping in the loft? And why did Hugo never mention him? Hmm? Don’t you find that odd as well? I mean, how do we know he hasn’t spent the last twenty years in prison for some terrible crime?’
‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, darling. Anyway, he hasn’t. He was an officer in the navy. That’s where he trained in meteorology. Then he spent some time working in Germany and Italy, I understand. And he’s certainly not been in prison. Don’t be so ridiculous. You honestly think they’d put a convict on the television news?’
My mouth’s hanging open. ‘How d’you know all of that ?’
‘From chatting to him, of course.’
‘When?’
‘Oh, here and there.’ She glances pointedly at me. ‘I thought someone ought to build some bridges.’ Yeah, right. For ‘bridges’ read ‘useful celebrity contacts’. Some things never change. She puts her magazine down and looks reflective. ‘Such a pity, isn’t it?’
‘What’s a pity?’
‘Oh, don’t play dense, dear. I mean about him and his father, of course. I do wish I’d known.’
‘Oh, you chatted about that too, did you?’
There’s clearly something in my tone that irritates her. She looks at me sharply. ‘You know, getting yourself into such a state about things is really not going to help anything, Abigail. We have to work with and accept things as they are , not hanker after what we would wish them to be. It’s the only way to –’
‘Did you just read that in that magazine of yours?’
‘Tsk,’ she says. ‘Honestly, the way you go on, anyone would think it wasn’t me but you that had lost their home!’
I absolutely cannot answer that.
Pru comes back out then, with a mug of tea for me, but almost immediately asks me if I’d mind coming back in, so I can help her dish up the kids’ tea.
I follow her back in gladly – I’m not in the mood for any more Garland homilies today – and once we’re in the kitchen she wastes no time in coming to the point.
‘Listen,’ she says, as she hands me a tea towel. ‘Do you want another weekend to yourself?’
My mood lightens considerably. I know a lot of my scratchiness all day has been the thought of Mum coming home with me again this evening. And feeling guilty about thinking unseemly thoughts like that has, of course, made me more irritable still. ‘I’d love one,’ I say, feeling better. ‘What’s the catch?’
‘Ah,’ she says, pulling two pizzas from the oven. ‘Hit the nail on the head, there, Sis.’ She puts them down on the hob and pulls off her oven gloves. ‘There is a catch. And it’s a big one.’
‘Which is?’
She pulls a drawer open and ferrets around in it. ‘Which is…well, things are – how shall I put it? – getting somewhat strained around here.’
‘Oh, dear,’ I say. ‘No surprises there, then.’
‘Doug is getting dangerously close to meltdown, to be honest. You know how things are between them.’
‘Don’t worry. I do.’
As they ever were, is my guess. In that Mum and Doug were never about to pal up and audition for the Generation Game. (Though I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if the thought hadn’t occurred to her at some point. Exposure is never terribly far from her mind.)
She pulls out a little metal wheel on a stick. A gadget, I realise, for cutting up pizzas. ‘Well, think ‘bad’ and then treble it,’ she says.
‘Oh, dear. That bad, eh?’
‘More than that bad. The atmosphere couldn’t get much worse if they built a sewage plant next door.’ She starts whizzing the pizza cutter across the first of the pizzas. A gob of onion flies off and hits the floor. I pick it up and throw it in the bin. Pru’s generally fairly unflappable, but the strain’s clearly showing. ‘She’s just so…so…bloody there all the time, you know? With her opinions, her pronouncements, her bloody Lactulose bottles. She’s up before us every morning, doing her bloody yoga with the television blaring. I mean since when did you do yoga to breakfast TV? And she never goes to bed! Never!’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘I know . And, you know, yesterday, she just waltzed into our bedroom at one in the morning! While we were…well …’ She grimaces.
I feel sorry for Pru. She’s the most easy-going person imaginable. But it clearly isn’t easy when the going’s down a path that’s in the middle of a mother/husband war zone. ‘Look, you clearly need a break, so I will take her back with me tonight. And don’t worry, I know what you’re going to say, and it’s fine. I’ll keep her for as long as you need me to, okay? Hey, at least we can drown her out with drumming. Even Mum can’t compete with Metallica.’
She doesn’t smile. ‘But that’s just it, Abbie –’ She puts down the pizza cutter and goes across to shut the back door. ‘That’s the whole point. That’s the catch. Doug’s said she can’t come back here. Not next week. Not next month. Just ‘ not ’.’
‘Ah,’ I say, as comprehension fully dawns. ‘I see.’
‘God, I mean, you know if it was just up to me –’
Comprehension as in a one- way ticket to my place. ‘No, no. Don’t worry,’ I hear myself saying, in my best big-sister, unstressy voice. ‘I understand . I do know how things are.’
‘I mean it’s not like she can’t come and stay for the weekend from time to time. It’s just that, well, things really aren’t so hot around here right now. Doug’s stressed out with work like you wouldn’t believe, and what with the kids, and…well, the main problem is that we always said we wouldn’t, that’s all. We’d agreed . I mean, even when Doug’s dad had his stroke and everything…even then . You know, I did offer. I mean, you do , don’t you? You make all these rules but when it comes to it, when something like this actually happens , everything changes, doesn’t it? You re-think, don’t you? But Doug was pretty firm about it. He wasn’t going to put us – me – through it with his father, so I can hardly dump all this on him now, can I? I mean you do understand, don’t you? He’s just not prepared to…’
I start gathering plates and cutlery. �
�Pru, it’s okay. I do understand. I’ll have her.’
‘Either that, or we think about finding somewhere for her to rent. I don’t know. What do you think?’
I shake my head, much as I’d like not to have to. ‘She can’t rent. Not yet, at least. Not till she’s walking unaided. It’s okay. I’ll have her, Pru. Stop looking so anguished.’
‘Oh, you’re such an angel. I knew you’d be okay about it. I don’t know why I’ve been getting myself in such a state about asking. I don’t even know why I feel so guilty about it in the first place. It’s not like she’s ever really…well… you know…’
I put my arm around her , and try to feel angelic. Up to now I hadn’t realised how close to tears she’s been. ‘You just do . Doesn’t matter what sort of mother she’s been, does it? There’s no balance sheet, is there? You just do.’
‘But are you absolutely sure? I mean really? I just thought that with Seb being away right now, it wouldn’t be so awful, would it? I mean, you’ll be at work most of the time anyway, won’t you? So at least you can escape from her a bit. And it’s not like it’s going to be for ever, is it? And she’s much better off there than here, isn’t she? It’s not sensible for her to be stuck out here, away from all her friends. At least with you she could still have some sort of a social life. Get out from under your feet a bit. And we could start looking at options, couldn’t we? Doug spoke to the solicitor this morning, and he apparently sounded quite confident about Mum getting something out of them for the conservatory – I mean, it’s added to the asking price quite considerably, after all. So there’s nothing to stop us at least starting to look at places, is there?’
‘You’ve talked about this to Mum?’ I say. She nods. ‘So how does she sound?’
‘Well, she’s not champing at the bit about it, obviously. But we talked about maybe going to see one of these retirement developments – not sheltered, or anything – God, she’d have a fit! – but something like that, at any rate.’
Out on a Limb Page 8