by M. A. Hunter
I can’t believe he’s been snooping about inside. I hate the idea that guests of mine might wander about our house, looking at our possessions and passing judgement. Before I have chance to reprimand him, Morag appears through the smoke, and places a jug of homemade salad dressing next to the wooden salad bowl in the centre of the table.
‘I forgot to ask,’ she says, looking directly at me. ‘You’re not allergic to nuts, are you?’
I shake my head. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Ah, good. I’ve made some salted caramel ice cream for pudding, but it contains pecans.’
This woman is putting me to shame. My cooking – and I use the term very loosely – extends to nothing more than piercing film lids and heating in a microwave. It’s been months since I prepared a proper home-cooked meal for my family. I know that isn’t really my fault, but it doesn’t stop the guilt that is suddenly overwhelming me.
‘Sounds delicious,’ Charlie says in answer to Morag’s comment about the ice cream.
She disappears off, returning a moment later with plates and cutlery, and sets the table, as Angus continues to work at the barbecue.
‘Charlie tells me you work for a newspaper,’ Morag says when everyone is seated and Angus is passing around the plate of meat.
‘I did,’ I say, tearing apart the bread roll, and nibbling on the crumbs that cascade onto my plate.
‘I always wanted to be a journalist,’ Morag continues, staring wistfully into the distance. ‘I’m sure it’s nowhere near as glamorous as they make out in films and television, but I liked the idea of chasing after a story no matter the cost.’
Charlie holds the plate of meat before my eyes, indicating for me to show him what I’d like. The burgers are dripping in grease, and my stomach flips as I see the puddle swishing about.
‘I make them myself,’ Morag says watching me carefully. ‘Using the finest Aberdeen-raised beef, I mince it myself, adding seasoning, onions, bacon, and garlic. Oh, and there’s a little surprise in the middle when you bite into it.’
I don’t want to think about what the surprise might be, and nod at the burger nearest to me. I’ll make a show of eating it, but will focus on the bread roll and salad. Charlie stabs the burger with his fork and the grease spills over the edge of the burger, dripping onto the base of the bread roll.
‘So, is journalism as exciting as my younger self imagined, or drearier?’ Morag continues, still watching me.
I hate being the centre of attention, but I can feel them all staring at me now, and I just want the ground to swallow me up. I’m also annoyed that Charlie has been speaking to her about me behind my back. Presumably that’s what took him so long to return from the toilet.
‘It was only the local paper, so mostly stories about fete openings, and missing pets,’ I finally say, meeting Morag’s gaze. ‘I also had to ring up local businesses to try and sell advertising slots. Definitely as dull as it sounds.’
She blinks at me several times, as if her mind isn’t able to compute what I have just said. ‘Oh, I see, my misunderstanding then. When Charlie said… oh, it doesn’t matter. Have some salad, please. It’s just a bit of lettuce and some of the vegetables from our garden. The dressing is honey and mustard.’
I’m conscious that she hasn’t asked me what I now do. Does that mean Charlie has told her I gave up my job, and the reason why? I hate feeling like he’s been gossiping about me. Has he also told her about the rush to the hospital when I was in labour? Or what happened when the anaesthetist recommended the epidural?
Charlie holds the salad bowl near me and I nod for him to spoon some tomatoes and lettuce onto my plate, but I shake my head at the offer of the dressing. Sealing the burger in the bun, my hands are trembling as I raise it to my mouth and take a bite. I can taste the fat oozing between my teeth, but I can see Morag staring at me, and I try to smile through the revulsion I’m feeling.
‘You girls look exhausted,’ Morag says turning her attention to them. ‘I hope you’re having a good time, Grace.’
I look over at mention of my daughter’s name, wiping bap flour from the corners of my lips as I force myself to swallow. Her little cheeks are rosy, and her hairline is soaked through with sweat, but she is nodding vigorously as she pushes some of the sausage into her mouth with a generous coating of ketchup.
‘The trampoline is amazing,’ she says, swallowing the sausage. ‘I wish we had a trampoline at our house.’
‘That trampoline would probably take up most of our garden,’ Charlie chuckles, placing a delicate arm around her shoulders. ‘Ooh, you’re very hot, sweetheart,’ he says, suddenly recoiling, and turning back to me. ‘Did you put any sun lotion on Grace this morning?’
My hand shoots up to my mouth in shock at my own omission. I hadn’t even thought about it. We were only supposed to be going to the supermarket and then home, but of course we never made it home, and it never crossed my mind that she would be playing out in the hot sun and need protecting.
Morag must sense how poor a mother I am, as she quickly stands, and races to the kitchen, clutching a yellow bottle when she returns. ‘It’s okay, we have plenty,’ she says, handing the bottle to Charlie. ‘It’s factor 50, and not the cheap stuff either. Please, feel free to use it, and for yourselves too, if you want. I was going to say, your face is looking a bit flushed too, Jess.’
Pressing cold fingers to my cheeks, I can now feel how hot they are. I’ve definitely caught the sun, but there’s deep shame there too.
Charlie is smothering Grace in white lotion, and I am so disappointed in myself for not thinking about sun cream sooner. What kind of mother allows her daughter to play in the sun without adequate protection? I can’t blame this on my condition; I’ve been too caught up in my own issues to consider my child, and that stings more than the dry skin of my cheeks.
Charlie squeezes more lotion into the palm of his hand, and sets to work on my face and neck. I’m still wearing the thin cardigan, but I feel like I’m overheating, and try my best to pull it off, but each jerk sends a shooting pain to my lower back, and I have to wait for Charlie to wipe his hands, before he pulls the cardigan off me.
The table, and those around it, are spinning, and I can taste bile building at the back of my throat. I reach unsteadily for my glass of water, and Grace shrieks as I knock the glass over and water spreads across the table cloth. I know what’s coming, and I wish I was anywhere else but here. I need to move, but my arms fail me, and as my head lolls to the side, the heat rushes up my throat, and I know it’s already too late.
My throat burns as Charlie continues to cradle me, his hand pressed into my chest to keep me from tumbling all the way into the upstairs bathroom sink. The same burn reverberates up to my nose, and I can only hope that the retching is now finished; surely there can’t be anything left in my stomach.
‘There, there,’ Charlie purrs just behind me. ‘How are you feeling now?’
Embarrassed, disgusted, and ashamed probably best sum up my current mood. It’s horrid enough throwing up, but to do it at somebody else’s house, and all over their patio. I’ve had to clear up Grace’s vomit from the carpet before, and those stains just never go. They can be covered with the floral scent of various cleaning products, and even hidden by strategically placed furniture, but they’re always there as a constant reminder of what happened.
I feel like I should offer to have their patio professionally cleaned, or maybe even re-laid. Even if some industrial-strength cleaning fluid manages to bleach out the stain, every time they step outside they’ll remember how I lolled and lurched, before I couldn’t control my up-chuck reflex.
Thankfully, I managed to avoid getting any of it on my clothes. There is nothing worse than that stench following wherever you move, serving as a reminder of what you’ve done.
‘Jess, can you hear me?’ Charlie tries again, and I realise I never actually answered his question.
I’m about to tell him I think it’s stopped when I f
eel the rumbling in my stomach and my throat contracts, forcing my lips apart, and I clamp my eyes shut so I don’t have to watch as more accelerant is applied to the burn in my throat and mouth. It’s as if some invisible hand has reached into my gut and is wringing out my stomach like a sponge.
Charlie keeps tight grip of me as my body convulses with each strain, and I really don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t been here with me. If I’d been alone at Morag and Angus’s house, I’d probably still be outside redecorating the patio. But Charlie was quick to react, offering apologies as he scooped me into his arms, rushed in through the house, up the stairs, and into the bathroom, where we have now been for the best part of twenty minutes. The whole time he’s been offering nothing but positive platitudes in a calm tone that I would struggle to maintain.
I feel his hand gently rubbing my back in a circular motion, and as I swallow and redraw breath, I wish I could tell him how much I love him right now. Lesser men wouldn’t have held onto me without any mention of the ache he must now be feeling in his legs, having me sat on him as he straddles the closed toilet seat. What a picture we must make!
‘Okay, I think I’m done,’ I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. A pink and orange gloop forms a bond between my chin and thumb, and I’m grateful when Charlie quickly passes me a piece of tissue he has torn from the roll. ‘Thanks.’
‘We should probably wait a moment longer,’ he says without judgement. ‘I thought you were done a couple of minutes ago, and then… How are you feeling?’
I don’t want to tell him of my shame. ‘Exhausted,’ I settle for.
All I want now is to be taken home, cleaned up, and laid in bed. I need sleep, and the sooner this horrible day is over the better.
Poor Grace, what must she be thinking of her heaving mother? And it happened in front of her new friend. Grace doesn’t need rumours starting up in the playground about her mother vomiting. And poor Daisy too for that matter. I feel humiliated by what has happened, but I know that seeing someone being sick can be equally mortifying. How many times have I watched on in agony, holding back Grace’s hair, knowing there’s nothing I can do to stop her pain? I’ve probably psychologically scarred both children for life!
‘What do you think brought it on?’ Charlie asks, still drawing circles on my back with his palm.
I instantly picture the pool of grease on the burgers, and my chest strains, but I’m able to control it with my breathing. ‘I don’t know, but it was the fatty residue on the burgers that triggered it I think.’
The circles on my back stop abruptly. ‘I don’t think it could have been the food,’ Charlie states bluntly. ‘Grace and I ate it fine without being ill, and you’d barely had a mouthful of yours. What else have you eaten today?’
My eyelids feel so heavy, and if I was given the chance I could easily curl up in Charlie’s lap and go to sleep. My brain feels so weary that I can barely remember this morning.
‘I had a slice of toast and a banana,’ I say, unable to stifle my yawn. ‘I’m sure it was seeing those burgers.’
‘Jess, you can’t blame the food. I watched Angus cooking the burgers and steaks and they are definitely cooked through. You were saying how hot you were, it’s probably just a bit of heatstroke. Your back and chest are still pretty warm, and the back of your neck resembles a Belisha beacon. I bet that’s what it is. Too much sun, and your body overheated.’
Morag’s words suddenly echo in my mind: there’s a little surprise in the middle when you bite into it.
I don’t know why her words have suddenly returned to my short-term memory, and I frown involuntarily. Could she have put something in my burger to bring on the sickness? I dismiss the thought almost immediately. How would she know which burger I would choose, and what could she put in there to initiate nausea? Considering how hot the barbecue got, with the flames caressing every burger, it seems unlikely that any kind of poison could have survived such temperatures. More importantly, why would she want to make me ill?
She’s not my mum.
A chill jolts down the length of my spine. Is that why she invited us to the barbecue, in order to show me she’s in control? Does she want me to know that she knows what Daisy said?
I almost burst out in laughter at the ridiculousness of the paranoid thought. Of course that’s not what happened; there are too many variables for that sort of plan to succeed.
‘That’s two minutes since your last retch. How are you feeling now?’ Charlie asks.
I’m grateful for the distraction from my troubled imagination. ‘I think it’s stopped,’ I say, belching, and re-tasting the burger, but nothing follows.
‘I think we should go back downstairs and I’ll fetch you a glass of cold water,’ he says as he wraps my left arm around his neck, and puts his hand behind my kneecaps, lifting me into a cradled position.
I can hear Angus and Morag’s voices in the kitchen, but the door is ajar, so I can’t make out exactly what they are saying. Charlie carries me down the stairs very slowly, and into what must be their living room. An enormous television set is hanging from the wall, across from a faux fireplace. The room must be at least the length of our entire downstairs, if not the width. Two enormous leather sofas stand in an L-shape, and the leather feels cool and refreshing as Charlie gently lowers me onto the cushion closest to the door. A ceiling fan blows a refreshing breeze over my head, and I can feel the warmth of my neck already starting to cool.
There is a small wooden unit built into the wall beneath the television set, containing a SKY box and Blu-ray player, but there is no sign of any DVDs or Blu-ray cases in the immediate vicinity. Two large glass-fronted cabinets stand either side of the television. One contains a variety of glasses, each shining in the afternoon’s sunlight streaming through the patio door at the opposite side of the room to me. The other cabinet must be for decorative reasons, as it is filled with an assortment of teapots of different shapes, sizes, and designs. Morag must be a collector.
Charlie returns to the room a moment later, tightly gripping a glass of water, ice cubes clinking together with each step. He drops to one knee, and presses the rim to my lips, tilting the glass so the water splashes over my teeth and dampens the burn in the back of my throat.
‘You should take small sips often,’ I hear Morag advising from the doorway.
It startles me as I hadn’t heard her approaching. Angus appears at her side. Neither is masking their concern at my condition. Of all the ways I’d imagined today would go, this had never even entered my mind.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I offer, as Charlie places the drink on a coaster on the small table beside the sofa, and perches next to me.
‘How are you feeling?’ Morag offers, and I’m troubled to question whether the tremor in her tone is brought on by genuine concern or guilt at what she might have done to me.
‘A bit better,’ I say, sensing how worried I would be that the sick woman might throw up again over all the delicate furniture.
The fan is working wonders at cooling and relaxing me, and I feel confident that I won’t be sick again any time soon.
‘Can I have some more water, please?’ I ask Charlie, who reaches for the glass and holds it for me again.
‘Try not to drink too much too quickly,’ Morag warns again. ‘You don’t want to bring on another bout of… well, you know.’
‘You can take the lass out of nursing, but not the nurse out of the lass,’ Angus says, placing a hand on Morag’s shoulder, smiling proudly.
She pats his hand in acknowledgment. ‘That was a long time ago. Even so, some things you never forget.’
For some reason it doesn’t surprise me that Morag used to be a nurse. I can instantly picture her in a blue uniform, taking patient’s temperatures and handing out medication. Although she must be in her early fifties – if not older – I doubt she is old enough to have retired from the profession, and I’m curious to know why she would have stepped away from such a tough but r
ewarding vocation.
‘I’m so sorry about your patio,’ I say. ‘I don’t mind paying to have it professionally cleaned.’
Angus quickly brushes away my concern with a shake of his hand. ‘Don’t be silly, it’s already cleaned up. High-pressure hose and a broom did for that. Good as new.’
‘Is Daisy okay? And Grace?’
‘They’re back on the trampoline,’ Morag says, her frostiness thawing a fraction. ‘I’ve promised them an ice lolly in a bit if that’s okay with you?’
I nod, making a mental note to apologise to Grace when we’re back home.
‘I should go and sort those lollies,’ Morag says, taking Angus’s hand. ‘Would you two like some of that salted caramel ice cream? Might help the burn in your throat,’ she encourages.
I nod, hoping a burst of sugar will help boost my energy long enough to get home.
‘I’d better come and check on Grace,’ Charlie says, standing. ‘Will you be okay on your own for a few minutes?’ he asks, staring down at me.
There’s a shooting pain in my back as I look up to meet his gaze. ‘I’ll be fine.’
He follows Morag and Angus out of the room, and the rumble of their voices mutes into the distance. My arms are pocked with bumps as the fan continues to blow a gale down on me. I want another sip of drink, but I daren’t reach for the glass out of fear of dropping it and spilling water across the carpet. I shuffle into the cushion behind my back, and allow my eyes to wander around the room again. The orange brickwork gives the room an old-fashioned cottage-like ambience. There are photo frames of different shapes and sizes dotted about on the wall. Most are pictures of Morag and Angus in a variety of tourist locations across the globe. They seem well travelled, as I spot the Eiffel Tower, Taj Mahal, and Egyptian pyramids. And then I see an image of them with a sleeping Daisy in a pushchair. The three of them are on a beach, the sea crashing in the background, but the sky is covered in cloud, and all three are bundled up in thick coats. Angus looks a fraction thinner, but Morag hasn’t aged since it was taken. It can’t be more than a year old.
