When I grow up, I decide, I’m going to get at least three cats. An orange one, a tabby one and a black one. And they’d better all get on all right. I’m not having cats that argue. There are too many arguments in the world.
In Lily’s kitchen, my mother is apparently making dinner. This began in a conversation at breakfast (‘No, Lily, I insist, I’ll cook.’) and has now sprawled over the entire day. Each distinct stage, from menu selection (‘But what if they don’t have sausages?’) to shopping (‘Maybe we should just get fish and chips if it’s going to be this difficult.’) to the return journey for missing items (‘How was I supposed to know we don’t have gravy granules?’) to preparation (‘I can’t work this cooker, I’m not used to it.’) has been a cacophony of tense shoulders and angry gestures and doors shut a little bit harder than necessary. None of this, it has to be said, is coming from Lily. To an outside observer, she’d seem serenely oblivious to the chaos unfolding in her kitchen. I can tell that she’s enjoying the spectacle immensely.
Despite how badly she’s behaving, I feel reluctantly sorry for my mother. To help her, I’ve been down to the shops on my own account and am now making a rice pudding. I don’t especially like rice pudding, but it’s easy and quick and I can make it in the small corner of the kitchen that’s still unused. Fat dusty white rice grains swirl and drag at the spoon while my mother makes the batter for toad-in-the-hole. Every time she crashes her whisk into the bowl, I see a tremor on the surface of the rice pudding, as if a dinosaur’s walking through the garden.
“Where’s all that milk you bought?” My mother’s face looms into my line of sight, flushed and anxious.
“I got two pints and it’s all in the pudding.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you only get… Oh, never mind, I’ll manage somehow.” Her whisk drips fat cream drops onto the worktop. I move my pudding bowl out of the way.
“But another time,” she adds, “maybe you could be a bit more considerate and make sure there’s enough milk for everyone.”
This is so unfair that I can’t begin to respond. I turn back to my basin, trying to decide if I’m upset enough to cry (because when did I become responsible for the household milk supply?), or if crying would make it a million times worse (because Lily will, inevitably, take my side, and my father will, inevitably, side with my mother, and even though we’re technically in the right, Lily and I will, inevitably, lose, and then what will become of us all?).
When Lily and I bake together, the kitchen fills with a serene peace as thick and golden as butter and egg yolks, and we clean as we go, so the kitchen always remains welcoming. Today, every surface is dusted with flour and covered with discarded spoons. My mother’s batter is lumpy. If she keeps whisking, the clumps will disappear. I bet she won’t though. I drop dots of butter onto my pudding.
“This looks beautiful,” says Lily, looking into my basin with pleasure. “A proper old-fashioned recipe. Did they teach you at school?”
“Yep.”
“How lovely. Amanda, isn’t it wonderful that Jen’s learning to cook?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, I’m interrupting you.”
“No, it’s fine, what were you saying?”
“It’s so annoying when batter goes lumpy, isn’t it? I was saying, isn’t it wonderful that they’re teaching Jen to cook? I’m glad they’ve started teaching proper cooking skills again.”
And the worst thing is, there’s nothing my mother can say about it. She vents her feelings on me instead, shuffling me along the counter because I am, apparently, taking up too much space. I escape to the pantry for nutmeg, and eat six glacé cherries with the door shut.
Back in the kitchen, a new crisis is brewing. After a frantic but mystifying few minutes, my mother manages to make me understand that my rice pudding will take two hours to cook, but she needs the oven for her dish after the first hour, and it’s not all right for them to go in together because rice pudding needs a cool oven and toad-in-the-hole a hot one.
“We can manage,” says Lily. “Put the rice pudding in right now, and we’ll have dinner a little late.”
“But then we won’t be eating until nearly seven o’clock!” My mother is close to tears. “It’s too hot for a stodgy pudding. We’ll have ice cream or something instead.”
I feel myself turn pale with anger.
“No, that’s not fair,” says Lily. “Jen’s worked hard on this pudding, we all want to eat it. Don’t we?”
So there, I think with satisfaction, and look at my mother. Lily stands beside me, poised and triumphant. My mother is flushed and unhappy, her hair hanging limply round her face, her eyes shiny, her lips drawn tight. I’m in the right, I’m winning, my mother has nowhere to go; so why do I feel so empty?
“We’ll have a snack now,” Lily continues. “We have plenty of fruit and cake. Then we’ll go down to the beach while the rice pudding cooks. It’s a shame to miss such a beautiful day. It’ll do you and Richard both good. And Jen can have a swim, I know she’d like that, wouldn’t you, darling? Then when we come back, you can put the toad-in-the-hole in the oven. That’s all fine, isn’t it?”
And it is fine, in every detail. Lily’s plan has thought of everything. Including how it feels to my mother to have a mother-in-law who is so visibly, effortlessly better at managing her family.
We’re walking back from the beach, tired and damp and sandy. Lily takes my hand, giving me the power to tackle the hill without pausing as strength flows through her skin and into mine. I look back to see how my parents are coping. My father, out of condition but still game, is laughing and red-faced. My mother lags behind, stopping often to catch her breath. This morning I would have called her expression sulky, but now I see more clearly.
As gently as I can, I remove my hand from Lily’s. I stop on the pavement and wait for my mother. When she reaches me, I put my arm around her waist to give her a hug.
“Not now, Jen,” she says, shaking me off. “I’m tired too, and I’ve got this bag to carry. And I’ve got to cook dinner when we get back. I said you’d be tired but you would go swimming, you’ve only got yourself to blame.”
I let go of her waist and kiss her cheek gently. Then I take the bag – heavy with sun cream, spare shoes, unwanted cardigans, a purse stuffed with small change, extra pairs of sunglasses, all of it hers, none of it needed – add my own small burden of wet towel and swimsuit, and swing it over my shoulder.
“Don’t put your wet things on top. You’ll make everything damp.”
Dizzy with understanding, I take the towel off the top and tuck it under my arm.
“Thank you,” she says, in surprise, and then, “and when we get home you can help me cook, if you like.”
It’s the end of the most exhausting week of my life. Even our departure feels wrong. Instead of the brisk walk down the hill, secretly blinking away tears and then the train and the familiar sadness of passing all the milestones I eagerly watched for on the way down, I have the awkward boredom of my father, my mother and Lily performing an elaborate departure dance. Careful embraces. A handover of sandwiches. A slightly spiky conversation concerning the provenance and ultimate destiny of said sandwiches. (My mother has already made her own, less appealing, sandwiches, and is trying to return the new ones on the grounds that we’ll never eat them. Lily, of course, is having none of it.) The ritual of the missing coffee thermos. My mother’s final return to the house to check nothing’s been left behind, the squirmy feeling inside me as I imagine her going into my bedroom. I’ve never been happy to leave Lily’s house before.
Bored of poking the gravel with my shoe, I look up and see Lily watching me. When she sees me looking, she tries to smile, but can’t quite manage it.
There’s a lump lodged in my throat as I hug her. She flinches and steadies herself when I squeeze a little too tight, because I’m still angry with her for the way she treated my mother – who, despite the way sh
e behaves, is so much weaker and more vulnerable than Lily. She hugs me back with fingers that feel like bony twigs. Her mouth is against the top of my head and I feel the puffs of warmth as she murmurs something to me. The words she always says. I’ll always love you best.
And I know she does. She’s better at everything than my mother. A better cook, a better planner, more interested in me and my life, kinder, gentler, more accepting, less angry, more responsive. Unfortunately for Lily, what I’ve learned this holiday is that no matter what, my mother is my mother. Lily thinks my mother bullies both me and my father, but that’s because she herself has always been strong. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be someone like her daughter-in-law, always struggling and always falling short. She needs protection and understanding, not to have her faults pointed out to her. I don’t like seeing cruel behaviour, even when its purpose is to protect me.
I hold on. Hold on. Breathe deep. Let go.
Chapter Thirteen – Sunday
Are you awake yet?
Are you awake yet? Come on Jen, please don’t do this to me again
Yes I’m here xxxx
Sorry. I only just woke up.
Busy night last night? :)
He has no idea what I really did last night. I distracted him with sex. My heart thumps with guilt.
It was. Paperwork. You know how it is.
You stayed up… afterwards… to do paperwork?
Had to make up for lost time. :)
This is a lie. I was so tired after the funeral and the beach that I could barely stay awake long enough to satisfy Daniel with blurry photographs and words of simulated passion. The sleep that followed was dark and dreamless, unbroken by memory.
Was Marianne all right for the rest of the night?
Not a peep out of her. Must have been a one-off.
Marianne slept without stirring, but I must have been sleepwalking again because I’m wearing one of Lily’s rings. This time it’s the hoop of diamonds that swings loose and heavy against the palm of my hand.
Right, I’d better get on. Loads to do today
What sort of things?
What do you mean, what sort of things?
I just wondered what you’re doing all day.
Wow. Okay, well today I have to go to the solicitor and go through the paperwork so we can get probate, then go to the bank to find out why they’re being awkward about me paying the undertaker’s bill despite having the will and the death certificate. Then I need to chase up all the estate agents so I can get three valuations and take an average, pay the undertaker, cook, clean, talk to Marianne, find a jeweller to value the rings and maybe an antiques person to look at the furniture and then I think I might stop to breathe for a minute or two before getting on with my choice from the many exciting forms I have to complete so I can finally get this bloody estate wound up and come home. Does that cover it?
Did I write all of that? I stare at the screen of my phone in disbelief.
Don’t be like that, I wasn’t having a go. I miss you, that’s all.
Yeah, I know. I miss you too. And I’ll be back as soon as I can
You could send Marianne back home if she’s getting in the way
No, she’s fine, she’s being a huge help actually
She said you hardly let her do anything and she wishes you’d give her more to do because you’re working too hard :)
I’ll get right on that. Child-Exploitation-R-Us
Okay, really got to go now. I’ll talk to you later xxxxx
I love you xxxxxxx
Maybe I should send Marianne home. I don’t want to, but that’s me being selfish. I should ask her what she wants. Except she won’t tell me what she wants. She’ll tell me what she thinks she ought to want, or possibly what she thinks I want her to want. Working out Marianne’s true wishes is always a ticklish business, or at least it is to me. Daniel never seems to find it a problem… I remember the red velvet dress with the Peter Pan collar that still hangs at the back of her wardrobe, and wonder if that’s because Daniel’s never realised how rare it is for Marianne to simply say what she’s thinking.
It’s almost ten o’clock, and Marianne is sitting at the desk with her legs tucked beneath her and looking out of the big bay window. Her hair, newly washed, hangs down her back in a tangle of spirally brown curls and when she turns to look at me, her skin glows golden. I catch my breath at how beautiful she is.
“Sorry I slept in,” I say.
“I don’t mind. You were tired.” She smiles shyly. “I came to check on you. You looked sweet.”
I’ve reached the age when my daughter comes to check on me as I sleep. I hide my embarrassment by going to the kitchen. I put bread in the toaster, then come back out. “Have you had some breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?” The kitchen looks very clean.
“Yes! I had toast and jam and some orange juice.”
I surreptitiously inspect the contents of the cupboards. One of the plates is slightly damp, one of the glasses distinctly smeary; but considering she’s grown up in a house with a dishwasher, it’s not a bad attempt. Daniel always tells me to stop worrying, not to nag, that I’ll make her weird about food and she’ll eat when she’s hungry. My toast pops and I prop the slices against each other to cool. Sometimes Daniel makes my breakfast, but he’s never yet understood that when I say I like my toast cold, I really mean it. I brew a pot of tea and take down an extra cup for Marianne. The table in the alcove has a sprig of buddleia propped in a dainty silver bud vase.
“Did you do that?” I ask, pointing at the buddleia.
“Someone was cutting it all off with a hedge-trimmer. It was on the ground so I thought it would be all right to take it.”
“It looks lovely.”
“If they complain you can say it was me, I don’t mind. I don’t want you to get into trouble for something I’ve done.”
“You daft article. Who’s going to tell you off for picking stuff up off the floor?”
“Well, I don’t know how it works, do I?”
“Nobody’s going to shout at you, all right? And if they even try, they’ll have to deal with me.”
“But they might shout at you too.”
“Fortunately I won’t have to listen.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” I say firmly, and pour her a cup of tea. She doesn’t really enjoy tea but she likes sitting with me while I drink mine. At home, she sits quietly and pretends to sip from her orange-cat mug. Then when she thinks I’m not looking, she pours the tea into the Christmas cactus that is mine and Daniel’s only successful attempt at owning a houseplant.
Lily’s porcelain cups are yellow and green, rimmed with gold. As an incentive to finish our tea, when our cups are empty we’ll find a painting of a rose on the bottom. The china looks delicate but it’s withstood decades of heat and tannin, lemon and milk, hot water and scrubbing. To my surprise, Marianne seems to actually be drinking her tea. At some point between last night and now, the album has moved again. It’s open on the table at a photograph of me. I feel as if I’m looking at a loaded gun.
“That’s you at the beach.” Marianne strokes the pages reverently. “I like your plaits. I wish my hair was straight like yours.”
“Well, I wish my hair was curly like yours, so I suppose it just sucks to be us.” She laughs in the half-reluctant way she has when I venture into teenage slang. “Maybe we should shave our heads and make wigs and swap.”
“Mum! You can’t say that, that’s horrible.”
“Is it? Fair enough. Let’s put this away now. What do you want to do today while I’m busy?”
Marianne turns over another handful of pages. “There’s you when you were a baby.” She’s found the picture of me holding my feet, as if it’s a job I’ve been given that requires all my attention. “And that’s… Who is that? Is it your dad?”
My father, a young man, laughing and holding a crab towards the camera. The crab hangs pa
thetically, legs dangling, claws splayed, resigned to its fate.
“That’s right. Come on, let’s put it away now, it’s boring.”
“No, it’s not, it’s beautiful. She was so clever! I wish I could take photographs like this. And make an album like this as well.”
“You can, if you like. I don’t know where Lily’s camera’s got to but when it turns up you can take some pictures. And I tell you what, why don’t you go down into town this morning and choose yourself a photograph album?”
“Maybe later. Look, there’s your dad when he was a baby.”
“Seriously, it’ll be fun. I’ll give you some money. You can take all morning, if you like; there are loads of little shops to look round. You can go by yourself, if you like.”
The look on her face reminds me of times in my childhood when my mother would get an idea for something she thought I ought to enjoy, then force me into doing it. Like a cat on a mouse, she would drag me away from my game or my book or my drawing, into organised craft activities with children I didn’t like or know, trips to museums that didn’t interest me, expensive days out I hadn’t chosen. She would watch my face for clues, alert for any sign that I wasn’t enjoying myself. If I failed to show enough enthusiasm she would become furious, then tearful, and declare me to be spoiled and ungrateful. It was such a relief to escape to Lily, who was perfectly happy to let me do whatever I wanted, from sitting at the dining room table balancing a pickle fork on a glass, to running breathlessly up and down the beach pouring seawater into a hole in the sand.
Marianne turns back through time. My father grows smaller and younger. We’re perilously close to the photograph of Margaret. How can I distract her? I take the book away and turn forward instead, through my own childhood and into adolescence.
“Look at your clothes!” Marianne looks as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. “Did you really wear things like that? Like, all the time, not for fancy dress?”
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