by Meg Mason
‘Nursery supper, I thought, was in order,’ Phil said, as she put Abi’s meal down in front of her. Abi was sitting so low in her chair, her rounded shoulders were barely visible above the table. There was none of the usual spirit in Phil’s voice. Abi stared down at the pretty egg cups, knowing she was the one who’d drained Phil of her energy. She looked up with wide, wet eyes. ‘Phil, about Stu. We were having a row and I don’t think he meant to . . . he didn’t. When I said he . . .’
Phil raised a palm. ‘I think I’m better out of specifics. There are always two sides to these things, but I’d rather have neither if you don’t mind. Needless to say, you’ll be here as long as you need.’ She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. ‘I’m quite done in suddenly, I think I’ll have to retire. You stay here, finish that, and things will feel much brighter in the morning.’
She patted Abi’s shoulder as she passed by and left Abi alone in the desolate silence of the kitchen. All around her, the framed photographs, the mail pile, the Dutch Masters calendar. Once the prospect of being alone in here and able to study each piece one by one would have thrilled her, but now the sense of her own intrusion made her wish, for the first time, that she was back at Highside watching Strictly with Rae while Pat got up to light another Parliament off the gas hob. After lingering at the table for a time, Abi scraped her eggs into the bin. She’d eaten nothing since the oily wedges and her stomach was twisted with hunger. As she crept upstairs, she wondered if Rae felt like this all the time, hollow, emptied out. And whether you could come to like it.
* * *
Phil lay in bed swatting away each charge as it came. Entanglements. A magnet for strays. Brigitta had once accused her, in jest, of confusing people with projects and the unkind jibe repeated itself now. She could only imagine what they’d have to say about her giving refuge to the victim of a domestic knocking about. People’s lives. People’s awful, complicated lives.
Although in the past she had often picked up waifs and strays, they tended to be latchkey friends of her own children whose parents were off somewhere, too busy with their important jobs to be home buttering pikelets. Those who were truly down on their uppers were dispatched with a generous cheque in the Red Shield bucket and did not impinge upon her actual existence. Abi was a decent girl, clever and kind, who’d been dealt a heavy handful. But no matter how much Phil had enjoyed her company until now, the simple fact was it was all becoming too much. She heard Frederick’s voice so clearly that she turned her face to his side of the bed. ‘This isn’t Pygmalion on the Point, Phyllida my love. I believe it’s time to draw a line.’
Phil sat up and dug a pill out of her bureau. After sloshing it down with the dregs of last night’s water, she picked up the phone and dialled Brigitta, feeling an urgent need for confession. To her shock, Brigitta picked up at the first ring.
‘Oh,’ Phil stuttered. She had no idea why she’d chosen to answer now after such ongoing resistance. ‘Hello darling. I didn’t expect to catch you. What time is it there? I’m so sorry, I didn’t check.’
‘Hello Mum. I don’t know. Nine probably? There’s a racket going on downstairs, but I’m hiding from Polly. Don’t tell her, will you. She’s working at home today and if I go down she’ll have me rationalising her plastics drawer in a second. I’ve been lying here trying to send Toby very strong tea and toast messages with my mind, but he’s clearly not receiving.’
As Brigitta spoke, Phil settled back into her pillow. That wonderful voice cascading out of the receiver, its pace and cackles and whispers made it clear Brigitta had no intention of wading into old hurts from her side, and things could simply start again from here if Phil so chose. What a good, good girl. Brigitta was really one of her own, Phil thought with an onrush on love. ‘Oh darling, I know. Polly can be such a commandant. I’m reminded every time I’m forced to stoop over one of Domenica’s revolting heaps and clutch it up in a polythene bag.’
‘I’m sorry I haven’t called, Mum. I know it’s been far too long.’
‘Briggy, not a word about it. I imagine you’ve been putting one foot in front of the other all these weeks, and I applaud you for it, darling. I’m just sorry you’ve had such a rotten time and that I couldn’t be any help. Life can be a bugger and sometimes one can only wait it out.’
For a minute Phil considered redoubling her offer of asylum but decided against it and then, with a jerk, remembered Abigail somewhere downstairs. ‘Meanwhile,’ she went on, ‘your mother’s got herself into a frightful spot.’
‘Have you? Well that makes me feel better. Go on.’ Phil heard the rustle of Brigitta’s bedclothes. She was settling in. ‘You’ll remember my little neighbour.’
‘Abi, yes. With the baby and the cucumber soup.’
‘Yes, well, I became rather involved, too involved one might say, in brokering a reunion between her and the boyfriend who had tried to bolt. It’s ended badly and now I’ve accidentally, I think, possibly, let her move in.’
‘What do you mean, possibly?’
‘Insofar as I have, darling.’
Brigitta let out a torrent of laughter.
‘It isn’t funny, Briggy. I can’t bear to be wounding, but I worry she’s already very settled. I can only imagine what your father would say. The boyfriend may or may not be a bad egg, I can’t quite get a handle on it.’
‘Oh Mum.’ Brigitta laughed again, although lovingly to Phil’s ear. ‘You were only being sweet. And don’t you remember? Dad was such a hypocrite about your strays.’
‘Pardon darling?’ Brigitta was offering a recollection and Phil was hungry for it. She swapped the receiver to the other ear.
‘Don’t you remember when we kept getting the school magazine from Barker, and none of us went there? And when you phoned about it, it turned out Daddy was paying for Sharon’s son to go through.’
‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten. That sweet paralegal with the malingering husband. Goodness. People’s lives, darling.’
‘Mum, I can hear Polly. Do you mind if I hang up? I need her to think I’m asleep.’
‘All right darling, of course. But while I think of it, perhaps we won’t tell her about my current bind. Best not to give her another thing to tizz about, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Not a word. Although you will owe me.’
‘I can’t think how I’d ever repay you, darling. Goodbye.’ Phil made a kiss into the receiver and hung up feeling infinitely restored.
66.
It won’t be nice cold
Stu said he didn’t want any but Elaine could not let his plate pass without spooning out a measure of mixed veg. She’d done three steam-in bags and even if he wasn’t going to touch them, she’d be blessed if on top of everything else, they were going to eat from plates that lacked colour interest. All because of Abi.
‘Mum, seriously.’ Stu’s elbows were planted on the table and his head was in his hands. It had been a job to get him off the loveseat after the terrible revelations that morning, when Elaine had come through in her dressing gown and found him lying with his knees drawn up to his chest, unresponsive. But it had all come out eventually, the sordid truth, and Elaine had used up half a roll of paper towel mopping her anguished tears.
Afterwards, he had disappeared into his room and stayed there all day, but now Elaine felt tea at the table would be an important stake in the ground. The Kellett family way would not be undone by Abi’s machinations . . . Gosh, it is a good word, she thought in spite of herself as she set down the Pyrex of veg and began tonging out the sausages. It had been Word of the Day on the subscription email a fortnight ago, and here she was, having used it twice in a single day. ‘Roger, you’ll be for a sausage. They’re devilled.’
Obediently, Roger moved his plate towards the oven dish, but Stu refused to raise his head or lean back to accommodate the tongs as Elaine held a sausage towards him. ‘Mum, I’m not hungry,’ he said, which couldn’t be true because he had always had a good appetite, even as a small baby. It had
been a point of pride.
Elaine sighed and tried to insert the sausage through the narrow gap between his bowed chin and his plate. She could see he’d been crying and the sight of his swollen eyes was a dagger through her heart. If she could do nothing else, she could nourish his being with a low-sodium sausage from the Coles Own range.
‘Fucksakes, Mum!’
Elaine gasped, and shot a look at Roger, who cleared his throat and said softly, ‘Son.’
She glowered at him, tongs held out like a weapon, and Roger tried again. ‘We know you’re upset, but keep a watch on the language, eh chief?’
Stu lifted his face and conceded to a dollop of cheat’s potato dauphinoise. No one ever guessed that the potatoes were microwaved first and simply sliced into a half cream–half sour cream mixture and given a light grilling. Satisfied for the time being, Elaine recovered the dish with foil and picked up her cutlery. ‘Your father and I –’
‘Mum, please don’t.’
‘We simply feel –’
Stu leaped up and fixed her with a look so hateful, her undercarriage actually spasmed in shock. The private sensation forced her to cover her mouth.
‘How about we talk it out later, Laine,’ Roger suggested anxiously. ‘I think he just needs some time to think, for now.’ He looked up at Stu. ‘Mum is only trying to help, son.’
Stu slapped the table with an open hand, causing the cutlery to bounce noisily. ‘No, Dad. She’s not. She isn’t. She never gave Abi a chance, even though she’s actually a good person. Abi is, I mean. She’s a really decent girl and I loved her. But I’ve had Mum’s drip-drip-drip fricking poison since the second she got here. What if I still love her? What if we’re meant to be . . .’ Stu’s face reddened and he left the thought to hang.
Elaine stabbed her sausage and began slicing it into rings with hands trembling. But as soon as she put the first meaty disc in her mouth, she realised Stu’s accusation could not be left to lie. She was not a poison dripper! Elaine pressed a fingertip to her lips so neither of them would speak until she had swallowed. The truth had to be told.
‘All I would say is that you are very young and if you made the decision . . .’ Elaine chose her words carefully ‘. . . if the decision was made that it was best to just move on, knowing as we now do that she can’t be trusted . . .’
Stu’s eyes were growing wider and wider until Elaine felt he actually looked quite menacing. Bravely she persisted. ‘I think you would find it’s easier than you think to sever the ties and get back to your own life.’ She set her cutlery down and, with her wrists resting on the edge of the table, held up two hands in surrender. ‘There. That’s all. I’ve said my piece.’ No one spoke. ‘You might even meet a lovely –’
‘So, are you saying I should just move on from Abi, or forget Jude as well? Yeah, forget him. Let’s forget him. He’s only my son. Good thinking, Mum.’
Elaine looked at her husband balefully.
‘What your mother means is . . .’ Roger began, before turning unexpectedly to Elaine. ‘Love, I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s as easy as all that.’
She listened aghast. They were ganging up on her! This is why women need daughters, Elaine thought. To always take their mother’s side. She fiddled with the small pendant at her neck and stared at Roger in dumb fury, unsure whether she was about to scream or cry.
‘Excuse me.’ Stu stormed out of the room before she’d had a chance to do either. ‘This is rooted. This is all totally rooted.’
A second later, they heard his bedroom door slam, rattling the glass-fronted china cabinet which sat just outside it. Elaine made a note to check a-s-a-p that none of the Lladro inside had been damaged.
‘Well,’ she said, when it was clear Roger wasn’t going to be the one to break the unhappy silence. ‘That was very upsetting.’
Although her appetite had faded, she slid her fork through the small mound of mixed veg and managed it into her mouth, chewing in silence as she waited for Roger to see sense. Abi had shown herself to be a calculating, premeditating . . . Elaine couldn’t think of a word in her vocabulary that could do it justice, whilst also being savoury. Anyway, she had shown her true self and Elaine only required an acknowledgement of that fact from either Stuart or Roger who, for no reason she could understand, was still not obliging her.
‘He’s had quite a shock,’ he said finally. ‘He’s bound to be a bit emotional.’
‘Of course. But it’s our duty as his parents to help him keep going and begin to rebuild his life.’
Roger stroked his cheek. ‘But you wouldn’t want to lose contact with the little tacker, would you? Your only grandson.’
‘Of course not,’ Elaine said sourly. But if it came down to it, if she was made to choose between Stu and her grandson . . . she terminated the thought. ‘Of course not, but our first priority must be Stuart. He’s our son, Roger. He is our son.’
‘I suppose so. But still.’
‘Will you eat this last sausage?’ she said, lifting the tongs.
‘I’ve done well, thanks dear.’
‘I’ll only have to put it in the bin if you don’t. It won’t be nice cold.’
‘All right then.’ Roger held out his plate.
‘I hate waste.’
‘I know, love,’ he said, gamely beginning on the last sausage. ‘I know you do.’
67.
Owing to my prostate
Phil found the days that followed Abigail’s arrival severely testing. She clearly had no intention of leaving and having served her an open-ended invitation, Phil now found herself unable to broach the subject of future plans. Spring was usually her favourite time of the year, but a cloud overhung it.
The poor girl seemed content to spend entire days padding noiselessly about the house or playing half-heartedly with Jude in the garden. Occasionally she made efforts to be helpful around the house, inexplicably hoovering only the stairs, or offering to make dinner if Phil could tell her what to cook. But being made to think was so much more enervating than scrambling an egg and being done with it.
In the evenings after Jude went to bed, Abigail would sit in the front room with her knees drawn up inside of her enormous jumper, sleeves hiding her hands, and stare at the garden barely visible beyond the dark windows. Although Phil was sorry to see her in such a state, her presence there also ruled out the prospect of anyone else watching Q&A with a glass of something. Even when Abigail took Jude out for a walk, Phil found that going about the little customs she had built into her own long days made her feel self-consciousness in her own home. And although she hated to be petty, there was also the fact that Jude was a much busier boy than before, now at that pulling up stage that means every cup of tea’s got to be on a high shelf. As closely as Abigail supervised him, he had still managed to reach her lovely hand of coral off the coffee table and pull it onto the floor, breaking off the loveliest spines.
Eventually the question of Abigail’s finances would also need to be addressed but Phil found herself putting the subject off, unable to decide whether giving her a little lump sum, or a temporary stipend, was a necessary kindness or an overstepping of things.
Yet, as unpleasant as it was to have a truly untethered human soul at one’s own breakfast table, as much as she might have wanted to employ an entrenching tool, Phil found herself unable to give Abigail even the gentlest prod towards action.
The simple fact was that in all this time, not a single person had rung the mobile that never left Abigail’s hand. Phil knew she was not hard enough to overlook the awful fact that, at this moment, Abigail had no one besides her. She spoke to no one and only very occasionally pecked out the odd text message, which Phil hoped was to a friend back home, but was more likely connected with the transfer of custody that now took place on weekends.
It began as threatened shortly after Abigail moved in, and although Phil wasn’t party to handings-over, which took place on the neutral ground of the kiosk, it was awful to see Abigail retur
n red-eyed and go straight up to Brigitta’s room, where she stayed, doing goodness knew what, until Jude was given back on Sunday evenings. Phil felt hostage to it all, depressed and irritated, but until such a time as she felt able to bring about a resolution to the unsustainable arrangement, she could only up her quotient of outings, starting with much earlier jaunts to the kiosk when Abigail was reliably occupied with the baby’s breakfast. The really vexing thing, Phil realised, was that she still somehow missed the prospect of running into Abigail there – the old order of things, another of her little compass points, had been lost. Now she could only depend on the presence of Noel and his newspaper.
After so many shared mornings together, he and Phil fell into a quiet rhythm of light conversation, followed by amiable silence as he read the obituaries in his paper, and she did all of the Quick and as much as she could be bothered of the Cryptic in hers.
Phil always hoped that by the time she got back, Abigail would have dragged herself out with the pram and Phil could enjoy an hour of proper solitude, even if it was overhung by the prospect of her return.
‘Noel,’ Phil said, one particularly warm October morning. She was restless and needed a fresh occupation. ‘I’ll tell you what. Let’s make it a race of today’s crozzie. Five minutes on the clock, and we’ll see who fills in the most.’ She bit the end of her pen – feeling oddly girlish – and started scanning the clues for Across.
Noel demurred with a polite laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t think so, Phil. I’m not a wordsmith like you.’
