“Pods,” Linda said sharply. “He’s building something called pods. Quite successful he is at it, by the way. Which isn’t a surprise to me, as I always believed his strength was in using his hands.”
“Yes. I so agree. Just as Missa’s strength is her brain.”
“But this is where you and I part ways.”
“How? Why? You can’t think that Missa—”
“What I think,” Linda said, “is that children are meant to discover their own strengths. They aren’t meant to have their strengths thrust on them because their parents have some sort of plan in mind. You call your intentions for Missa’s life your ‘dreams’ for her, don’t you. But they’ve never been that: what you’ve got in mind. They’ve been your plans: whatever’s on the path that you’ve decided is the one she’ll take. And I bet you decided on that the day she was born.”
“That isn’t true. Missa herself fully intended to go to uni. She fully intended a future in science. She wanted these things, and then she didn’t want them. She’s thrown away her future and she won’t tell me why.”
Linda looked away from her, as if she wanted thrown away her future to echo round the car park for a bit. She had put her attention on a garishly painted purple building across the street from the museum, where a woman sold crystals, various rocks from round the world, and badly made silver jewellery. She was just closing shop for the day, a process that involved removing candles and folding up a gold lamé cloth that covered a small table outside the front door.
Yasmina added, “And now she’s told Sati that when she and Justin marry, Sati may live with them in their house. You must see that can’t be allowed to happen.”
Linda turned back to her. She walked to the wall and spat out the gum. She said, “Would this be the house you told Justin you would purchase for them if he could talk Missa into returning to college and then going on to uni? Is that the house, Yasmina? And ’course, he believed you, didn’t he? As he would do, not because he’s dim like you think, but because he’s honest. He appears to people exactly who he is, and he reckons other people are just the same. Only he’s wrong, isn’t he, especially when it comes to you, his future mother-in-law.”
“Linda, please. You can’t want them to do this.”
“My kids’ lives aren’t about what I want. My kids’ lives are about making their own decisions and getting the consequences and coping with those. You think my Justin isn’t good enough for Missa—”
“I’m not saying that. I’ve never said that.”
“—and it could be you’re right as rain. And maybe that’s what my Justin’s meant to learn: that he’s not the bloke for someone like Missa no matter how he feels about her. But there’s this as well: it could be Missa’s not good enough for him. It could be that, at heart, she’s just like her mum, not able to believe in Justin’s talent and in his goodness. Perhaps like you she really thinks, underneath it all, that stringing together a mass of uni degrees is more important than being who you are every single day. I don’t know. Neither do you. But what I suppose is this, Yasmina: we’ll all find out eventually.”
She nodded sharply. She walked away, in the direction of her car, an ages-old Audi in a special parking bay marked Director. Yasmina was left with nothing to say and was about to go to her own vehicle when Linda turned back to her.
“So I won’t intercede for you,” she said. “That’s what you’ve come to ask me to do, isn’t it? All else has failed and now it’s down to Justin’s parents. Stop this madness, return Missa to her mother where she belongs. I won’t do that. I wouldn’t have done it to one of my own children and I certainly won’t do it to one of yours.”
Yasmina remained where she was as Linda reversed the Audi and then left the car park. She felt a numbness that kept her rooted to the spot. It was impossible for her to believe that any mother would allow events to unfold in the life of her child as events were unfolding in Linda’s own son’s life. The future was rolling out in front of all of them with the speed of a bullet train and no one wanted to lift a finger to alter its course.
When she finally left the car park and drove along the River Severn, she saw nothing of it. The hillside that rose to her left and contained the homes of the town might not have been there at all, and the great brick factories that had once produced the iron for the goods sent all over England might have disintegrated into nothing. All she saw was the future and what it could have been and what it would be now.
Sati, she decided, was her only hope. When she arrived home, she saw that Timothy was already there. She hoped that nothing played upon her face. He would not approve of her speaking to Linda Goodayle any more than he’d approved of a single thing she’d done to help Missa through this difficult time.
She gathered up her groceries and her shoulder bag. She forced her expression to pleasant and went inside the house, finding at once that her concerns about Timothy’s reading her were unfounded. While Sati was at the kitchen table dutifully struggling with her maths prep, Timothy was not with her. Having a lie-down was the information Sati passed along in a subdued voice. He said he was done in from the day. He said to tell Mummy that he wouldn’t want dinner. He said sorry but he needed rest.
Yasmina knew what rest equated to. She felt the urge to run upstairs. But how much, she asked herself, was one woman expected to cope with, and wasn’t there a moment when that woman had to take life’s hurdles one at a time and in order of importance?
“Well, you and I shall have our dinner together, then.” Yasmina put her carrier bag on the work top and smiled at her daughter. She said, “What a good girl you are, Sati. Is your prep going well?”
Sati shook her head. Slowly, she sucked her lower lip into her mouth, pulling it so tight that she disfigured her chin. It was a most unattractive habit that she needed to shed. Yasmina didn’t mention it, however. Instead, she went to the table, stood at her daughter’s shoulder, and gazed at her schoolwork.
“Oh dear,” she said as she took in the mess of it. Rubbings, scratchings, and an area that looked as if it had been wept upon. “It really shouldn’t be this difficult. You have such an excellent mind. You merely have to be taught how to use it.”
“I don’t understand it,” Sati said. “I never will. I won’t ever need it either so I don’t know why—”
“But of course you’ll need it, Sati. It’s the basis of so many things: science, technology, business.”
“Not poetry. Not writing. Not art.”
“But even then . . . Well of course you don’t want writing to be what you’ll do with your professional life. I suppose if you teach . . . but why would you want to teach with a fine mind like yours? We’ll find you a tutor.”
Sati gazed at her wordlessly. She was twelve years old but her eyes looked ancient.
Yasmina emptied her carrier bag to see what she’d grabbed in the supermarket. Chilli con carne, swede with cheddar, corned beef crispbakes, spaghetti carbonara. She announced with a laugh that it would be dinner surprises all the way round, which she knew Sati would like especially.
“Missa c’n help me,” Sati murmured, her gaze on the papers in front of her. “She says she will.”
“Of course,” Yasmina said. “But when she’s back in college, it’ll be difficult for her. But, as I said, not to worry. There’ll be a tutor, and while we look for one, there will be Gran to help you. We’ll set about the tutor tomorrow, shall we? I saw Mrs. Osborne in the market only just now. Do you remember her? I’ll ring her and she’ll know someone. Why don’t you finish up there and help me with our dinner? Afterwards, we’ll watch telly, shall we?”
Sati nodded. She closed her books and gathered them up. She took them to her bedroom, always the child who did as she was told to do.
Yasmina had the table set and was reading the instructions on the containers of the bizarre meal she’d bought when Sati returned. Yasmina chatted t
o her about what a silly dinner they were going to have. She gaily talked about how she simply didn’t know what she’d been thinking as she picked up this and that, her mind obviously flitting about on other things: a celebrity marriage, a celebrity divorce, reading over lunch about a silly American woman on a trip into the Rocky Mountains who had thought her anti-bear spray was intended to be sprayed upon her children to keep the bears away! But it was meant to be used if a bear came near, to be sprayed at the bear! Her children ended up in casualty, Sati. Can you imagine the condition they must have been in?
Sati appeared to be engaged by the story. How mad it was to think someone would assume anti-bear spray was like mosquito spray! On the other hand, it did rather make sense, didn’t it, Mum? Well, yes, but only if the spray had said on its label bear repellent, darling. Which, naturally, was rather different. What did Sati wish to watch on the telly, by the way? Did she want to look at Radio Times to see what was on? She could choose. They would curl up together and perhaps have a chocolate ice each. That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?
When the meal was heated, Yasmina placed everything on the table, going to the effort of removing items from their containers and scooping them into serving dishes. She patted Sati’s chair and spooned chilli into her bowl. Onto her plate went some swede, some spaghetti carbonara.
“I’m not really hungry, Mum,” Sati said, standing behind her chair and looking down at the food.
“Of course you are,” Yasmina said. “We both must eat. Sit, sit, my darling. And afterwards—”
“Mum—”
“No, no, sit, sit. Just eat a little. Do that for me, won’t you, Sati?”
Sati sighed. She pulled the chair out and dropped onto it. She picked up a spoon and, when she toyed with her chilli and ultimately put a teaspoonful of it into her mouth, Yasmina did not scold her or urge her to have more. She picked up her own spoon and dug into the bowl and tried to ignore the unpleasant mixture of scents from the different foods on the table.
She chatted to her daughter: this, that, the other. Reality television, a royal faux pas, an increase in bullying, a decrease in bullying. Whatever came into her mind. And then, finally, she ventured where she knew she had to go.
She said, “Sati darling, I must tell you something that I learned today from Mrs. Osborne.” Yasmina waited for a sign of interest. When it did not come, she ventured on anyway. “This was in the supermarket, when I saw her, as I’ve said. I’m going to tell you what I learned from her, and then I must ask a favour of you.”
Sati looked at her with those ancient eyes. She was such a pretty girl, Yasmina thought. Every handsome feature that her parents possessed had managed to blend together in her. It was as if Missa and Janna had been experiments in blending this and that while Sati was the finished product, perfected after the first two tries. At twelve she was a child to be admired. At twenty she would cause people to stop and stare. Women would envy. Men would desire. And Yasmina’s job with this, her youngest child, was to make certain Sati understood how fleeting it was: Beauty was temporal, wisdom was not.
“What?” Sati asked. “What favour, Mum?”
“Let me tell you first what I learned from Mrs. Osborne.” Yasmina then revealed what she had been told: the registry office and the intended marriage of Missa to Justin Goodayle. “Mrs. Osborne was there with her fiancé to register their marriage, you see. And the banns were posted . . . Missa and Justin . . . to be married. Do you understand?”
As Yasmina had been speaking, Sati had dropped her gaze to her bowl of chilli. She’d lifted a fork and moved the swede with cheddar here and there on her plate. But now she lifted her head, looked directly at Yasmina, and said quite unexpectedly, “I’m not stupid, Mum.”
Yasmina gave a laugh. It was too obviously forced, but she couldn’t help that. There was something different in Sati’s tone. She’d insulted her daughter without meaning to do so.
“I’m sorry, darling Sati,” she said. “I didn’t intend that. I suppose what I meant is that registering as they’ve done means it’s to happen soon. It’s perfectly legal, of course. They’re both of age. But I think we ought to consider that this might not be the best for either of them.” She paused to gather her thoughts and to consider the best direction to take. She went with, “Sati, here’s what it is. A marriage when one is so young is nearly always doomed to fail, and I can’t bear Missa going through such a thing as a failed marriage. Can you? I think—no, I am convinced—that Missa will listen to an appeal from you. She knows you miss her. She knows you need her. I want you to speak with her. Do you understand? I would like you to meet with her at the Goodayles’ home or to see her at Blists Hill—I’m happy to drive you there—and when you do, I want you to ask her to come home. Tell her the truth: Mum is sorry for the mess she made of West Mercia College and Mum apologises with all her heart and you—Sati—need her to be with you, which she will not be if she marries—”
“She told me I can come to live with them,” Sati said abruptly.
Yasmina took up her glass and drank some water. “Darling, surely if they do take the cottage in Jackfield—”
“This was before all that, Mum. She told me that when she and Justin are married, I can live with them if I want to. They won’t be living in a little cottage. They’ll find a bigger one. She said there will be a room for me—not the spare room but my own bedroom—and I can live with them.”
Yasmina found that her mouth was dry. So were her lips. Even her palms felt completely desiccated. She said, “Sati, darling girl, you aren’t of an age to live anywhere but with your mum and dad.”
“She said she’ll tell me exactly when the wedding’s going to be so I can go to it. And after that, she and Justin will come for me and I’ll live with them.”
It dawned on Yasmina that she’d missed a quite salient point as her daughter was speaking. She said, “You already knew they’d registered to marry?”
“She told me they were going to. They both told me. They asked did I want to come with them to the registry office but I said no as you would be angry if I did that and they said it was quite all right if you were angry and if I was frightened of you, Justin would come for me. I said I wasn’t frightened but I didn’t want to upset you more so I would wait. But then when they have everything ready I would live with them.”
Yasmina sank against the back of her chair. “Why did you not tell me any of this?”
“I knew you’d say no.”
“I don’t mean about living with them. I assure you that is not going to happen. I mean . . . the registry office, the marriage, their intention . . .” Yasmina reached for Sati’s arm. Her fingers closed over it in a grip that made the girl cry out. “This is her future!” Yasmina hissed. “Do you not understand that? This isn’t a game. This isn’t a way to slap Mum in the face. This is her life, you stupid girl. And you knew. You knew all along.”
Sati pulled away. “You’re hurting me, Mum!”
“Nothing like I shall be hurting you later. What’s the matter with you? Where is your sense? I could have been there waiting. I could have stopped it. I could have—”
“That’s what she said!” Sati’s eyes filled. “She said you would do anything. She said you hate her. She said you hate Justin. She said you hate anyone who doesn’t do what you want them to do.”
“I do not—”
“You’re hurting me! Your nails . . . Stop it. Mum, stop it.” She began to cry. “I won’t stay here. I won’t stay with you. Janna is gone and Missa is gone and I have no one because I’m not anything and I’m going to live with Missa and Justin and you can’t stop me because if you try and if you do I’ll run away and you’ll never find me and I’ll go to London and I’ll live on the street and—”
Yasmina hit her so hard that Sati’s head flew back. It took a moment before she realised that she’d not slapped her as she’d intended, but rather she’
d punched her. She said, “Oh Sati . . . My God . . . Sati, my dear daughter . . .”
But in speaking, she’d also released her grip on the girl. Sati jumped to her feet. She ran for the door. Yasmina called after her with a desperation born of regret and sorrow and utter knowledge.
The slamming door told her the damage was done.
ST. JULIAN’S WELL
LUDLOW
SHROPSHIRE
When the doorbell sounded, Rabiah Lomax’s first thought was that the police had returned for more questioning of her. If the telly was anything to go by, they knew that the unexpected call at an off-duty hour—especially after ten o’clock at night—was certain to produce better results than they’d managed to amass on an earlier go.
When she opened her door, however, she came face-to-face with her younger son. The fact that he had a carrier bag into which he’d apparently thrown a few garments did not bode well. Nor did his expression, which was so cut up that Rabiah knew immediately that something terrible had occurred.
She stepped back from the door. Timothy entered. He said nothing at first, merely going into the sitting room, dropping onto the sofa, and letting the carrier bag fall from his fingers.
“Sati as well,” were his initial words, which drove a stake of fear straight through Rabiah’s midsection. She sat upon the closest piece of furniture at hand, which was an ottoman.
Timothy rubbed his hand over his face, and from where Rabiah sat she could hear the scritch of his palm against whiskers. When he looked at her, she could see that his eyes were bloodshot, so she experienced another stake of fear that he’d been drinking. But he’d managed to drive all the way from Ironbridge, she realised, and he wasn’t acting the least bit drunk. There were the pills as well, but he also wasn’t acting drugged.
“She’s driven Sati off as well,” he said. “I went after her once I came downstairs. I’d just gone to have a lie-down, nothing more, and she probably thought that I’d taken something that would keep me dead to the world. I hadn’t, so I heard their voices and then the door slamming. Hard, this was. The door, I mean. The windows in the bedroom actually shook. Why does that happen? Are houses not built well any longer?”
The Punishment She Deserves Page 64
