by Fiona Gibson
‘Really?’ I blinked at them. ‘Are you sure, Jenna? I mean, does your mum know?’
‘Yeah, of course!’ she said brightly. ‘She’s fine with it.’ It must be okay, I decided; they’re both adults now. By their age, I had already spent a year fishing out pubey clumps from the shower drains in the Sunshine Valley chalets. A few days later, I spotted Natalie in Tesco and scampered down the poultry aisle after her. I vaguely knew her from when Morgan and Jenna were at primary school together. She was always the smartest mother at the school gates; in a crisp white shirt, black pencil skirt and a sharp pair of heels, she always looked as if she were about to swish off to some meeting. She was no different that day, and I was aware of her gaze flicking over my hastily ponytailed hair as we exchanged greetings.
‘Haven’t seen you for ages,’ I blustered.
‘No, it’s been a while,’ she remarked.
‘Last time must’ve been when I was going around bothering everyone, trying to drum up prizes for the community centre bottle stall …’
Her mouth tightened. ‘That was a long time ago.’
I sensed my heartbeat quickening. ‘Erm, isn’t it lovely about Morgan and Jenna?’
‘Yes, it’s very sweet,’ she said, looking as if she were experiencing mild pain.
‘And it’s okay, um, for her to stay over at our place? I mean, you’re okay with that, are you? Because if you’re not—’
‘She’s a very sensible girl,’ she said, before making her excuses and striding away with her basket. I mean, what should I have done? Charged after her, and alerted her to the fact that two young people, who loved each other deeply, might just possibly be having sex? I just couldn’t do it.
I’ve worked myself up into quite a sweat when I make the next call: Heather Watson, a jovial woman whose daughter Jessica was terribly keen on Morgan when they were about twelve years old. ‘How is lovely Morgan?’ she asks warmly.
‘Oh, he’s fine, he’s looking into, er …’
‘Bet he’s doing something terribly clever with science or maths. Oh, I remember his spy thing. Obsessed, he was. What a fantastically quirky boy …’
‘Yes, haha, he really was …’
‘… Inventing all those codes,’ she goes on. ‘The coloured dots, the symbols, the time he wrote Jessica a letter in invisible ink … my God, she talked about nothing else for weeks!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes! She was besotted with him, kept the letter for years. Never told me what it said, of course. She had to heat it under the grill to read it, nearly set the kitchen on fire …’ She chuckles. ‘So inventive. The brains of that boy!’
I laugh awkwardly. ‘So, erm, what’s Jessica doing?’
‘She’s starting law in Manchester, doesn’t want to be a high street solicitor, though, nothing boring like that. She’s aiming for international law, human rights, that kind of thing. You know, to make a real difference in the world …’
‘That’s great,’ I manage, hoping she forgets to follow up on the science/maths line of questioning.
‘So, what about Morgan?’
‘Oh, he’s, er, changed direction quite dramatically.’
‘Everyone’s allowed to do that …’
‘Yes, he’s, er, into performing now.’
‘Performing arts? Acting?’
‘Sort of, yes.’
She enthuses some more, and of course we must get together over coffee and, yes, she happens to have Natalie’s number. ‘I’ll see you at Ellie’s birthday lunch on Friday,’ she adds. ‘It’ll be so good to catch up.’
At Mrs B’s gates now, I glimpse Jasmine and Rose huddled over a picnic set out in the woodland at the bottom of the garden. Paul is nearby, balanced on a small stepladder, pruning a tree. Seeing me, he raises a hand in greeting and climbs down. ‘Thanks for having the listener last night,’ I say as he strides towards me.
‘No problem at all. She was quiet as a mouse and I looked in on her first thing. Everything seemed fine.’
‘Great.’ I glance over at his daughters. ‘Lovely day for a picnic …’
‘Want to join them? They’d be delighted.’
‘Better not,’ I say, forcing a tense smile. ‘I really should see to Mrs B.’ He nods, and as he heads back to his stepladder I realise I can’t start my shift until I’ve made this call. My heart is hammering as I tap out the number.
‘Hello?’ It’s Natalie who answers.
‘Er, hello, Natalie, it’s Audrey here.’
‘Oh,’ she says ominously.
Small silence. ‘Look, I, erm … I’ve only just found out, and I thought perhaps we should get together to talk …’
‘Yes, because you were away, weren’t you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You went away and left them alone for a week.’
I frown, wondering what she’s implying. ‘It was five days actually. Well, it was meant to be five but I came back early. Morgan phoned in a bit of a state, they’d broken up …’
‘Yes and no wonder,’ she hisses.
‘Natalie,’ I start, ‘could Morgan and I come over to talk to you? I really think we should all meet up. Would tomorrow morning be okay?’
‘I suppose so,’ she says resignedly.
I pause, wondering how to proceed. ‘I can understand why you’re upset. I am too, I mean, I know it’s far from ideal …’
‘Upset? Of course I am, Audrey!’
I bite my lip. ‘But … you did know that Jenna was staying over with Morgan …’
‘Yes,’ she mutters, ‘but I thought they’d be supervised.’
This knocks the wind out of me. ‘How on earth d’you think I’d have supervised them?’
‘Well, I would’ve,’ she declares. ‘I’d have found a way. I’d have made them keep the bedroom door open or …’
‘You’re not serious,’ I exclaim.
‘I would have done something.’ Yes, but what? Sit all night on a chair on the landing, like a watchman? But of course she’s upset, she’s allowed a rant and hopefully – I cling onto this thought – she’ll be okay when she’s had time to come to terms with it all.
‘Natalie,’ I say, as calmly as I can manage, ‘I’m very upset too, but these things happen …’ God, no, that sounds so trite, as if someone has broken a vase. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow,’ I add. ‘I’m sure we can work everything out.’
‘Really?’ she snaps with a mirthless laugh. ‘God, you must be feeling pretty optimistic because this is one hell of a mess.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
A Touch of Salt
The stale air hits me as I step into Mrs B’s house. ‘Hello?’ her reedy voice rings out from the living room.
‘It’s me, Audrey.’ I find her wide-eyed and looking a little anxious, perched on the edge of the sofa.
‘You didn’t knock,’ she remarks.
‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t think …’ I start to fold up a pile of unfinished embroidery projects on the sofa in order to make space to sit beside her.
‘Why are you moving things?’ she enquires.
‘Just to make space to sit with you.’
She turns to me and scowls. ‘Someone’s always hiding things.’
‘Have you lost something? Can I help to look for it?’
‘You wouldn’t know,’ she says tersely, ‘but things are going on around here, things I don’t like …’
I study her face, wondering whether her fears are justified, or a sign that she’s becoming muddled and confused. Instead of sitting and chatting with her – she’s clearly not in the mood – I gather together a scattering of craft magazines from the coffee table (which will probably be interpreted as moving/hiding things) and switch on Radio 4, her preferred station. ‘If you’re worried about something,’ I add, ‘you can always talk to me, or one of the others …’
‘It’s nothing you can help with,’ she says briskly, picking up today’s newspaper and emitting powerful leave-me-alone-now vibes. Considering
that she’d been asking for me while I was away, my presence doesn’t half seem to annoy her.
In the kitchen now, I chop carrots for disappointing soup and, while those are sautéing, I knock together the topping for an apple and berry crumble. I am beavering away, ‘keeping busy’ as people do when they don’t want to think about the thing they really should be thinking about. Spotting some ageing bananas in a wooden bowl, I dig out an old recipe book – grease-splattered, with spine peeling – and make a banana loaf. The process isn’t as soothing as it should be; baking isn’t the slow, sensuous experience Brad enthused about. But then, he hadn’t been reeling from the shock of possibly becoming a grandparent.
Without warning, tears start to drip down my face. I don’t mean to cry, but then no one thinks, ‘Right now, at my place of work, is an ideal moment for red, puffy eyes and a blotchy face.’ Natalie was right: somehow, I should have prevented this from happening. Maybe I just haven’t been around enough, keeping an eye on what they were up to. I’ve been too wrapped up in providing, in getting things done – plus nipping off to meet my boyfriend on the motorway – to take notice of the bigger picture. And now, as tears plop into the cake mixture – I quickly beat them in – I’m wondering if my contraception talk wasn’t up to the mark. Maybe I’m just not very good at conveying information. The fact that Morgan wandered off to stuff Caramel Chew Chew ice cream into his face during my washing machine tutorial would suggest that this is the case.
I pour the banana loaf batter into a tin and place it in the oven. As it bakes, I take Mrs B a slice of quiche and salad for her dinner, and wonder whether I should have at least run a compulsory refresher course. That’s it: I should have forced him to watch me cramming a condom onto a courgette. Or would that have seriously messed up his mind regarding sex, and vegetables? It’s difficult enough trying to persuade him to eat anything green … Anyway, too late now. Like harping on about the morning after pill, it’s a little late in the day for sex education.
It’s just not the way I’d envisaged things would turn out, I muse as I lift my loaf from the oven and turn it out onto a wire rack. My son is heading for fatherhood before his life has even properly started. Then to top it all – and right now, this disappoints me more than any Wilton Grange failure – my loaf is burnt at the ends and saggy in the middle. It appears to be over- and under-baked.
I help Mrs B to shower and, once she’s in bed – before the bowl-spitting regime – I saw a slice off the loaf and take it through to her with a cup of tea. I stand back, awaiting her critique.
She nibbles it tentatively. ‘Oooh, this is good. Not too sweet. In fact it’s almost …’ She slaps her lips together. ‘Almost salty. What did you put in it?’
‘Just the usual ingredients,’ I say lightly. And a bucketload of tears.
‘See,’ she adds, ‘you could do it, if you applied yourself.’
I stop and look at her. ‘You mean bake?’
‘Well, yes,’ she jabs at the newspaper beside her, ‘and this.’
‘The crossword,’ I say, my heart sinking.
‘Yes, you’re a capable woman. You’re a mother, a worker, an excellent cook …’
‘But my soup,’ I remind her. ‘You said—’
‘Oh, take no notice of me. Everything tastes bland to me these days.’ She grabs a gnawed pencil from her lap and pats the edge of the bed. ‘Now sit here with me and use your brain for once. I’ll show you how it’s done …’
My chest tightens as, obediently, because Mrs B has that way about her, I perch on the bed. She could be teasing, or perhaps it’s just an offhand remark. My gaze drops to the crossword. ‘If you’d just focus,’ she goes on, ‘you’d do fine, but you just give up without trying. So look, here’s how to break down this kind of clue …’ She starts filling in clues, explaining how she’s figured them out. But I’m not listening. In fact, I’m not here at all, in Mrs B’s gloomy bedroom with its heavy maroon curtains, but back in the pine-and-Formica kitchen of my childhood home, after Mum had gone, and Dad had made it his mission to make a maths genius out of me. It’s only long division! Just concentrate. What on earth’s wrong with you, Audrey? The thump of a fist on the table, the numbers in my dog-eared jotter blurring before my eyes. Crying isn’t going to help. You need to try, don’t you understand? You’re going to amount to nothing with an attitude like this!
I get up and take her crumb-strewn plate. ‘Audrey?’ The word jolts my ears. Mrs B has never called me by name before.
‘Yes, Mrs B?’
She peers at my face. ‘I haven’t … upset you, have I?’
‘No, no, of course not.’
She frowns. ‘Your eyes look a bit pink.’
‘No, honestly,’ I say briskly. ‘There was something, uh … something earlier today …’
‘What was it?’
‘Trapped my fingers in the car door,’ I say quickly.
‘Ooh. That sounds nasty.’
I force a smile at this frail old lady who I’m paid to look after, and can’t even bring myself to be annoyed with. ‘I’m fine now,’ I add, flitting off to fetch her toothbrush, toothpaste and the porcelain bowl. ‘Would you like anything else before I go?’ I ask, when we’ve been through the spitting routine.
A thin smile spreads across her face. ‘No thank you, dear,’ she says. Dear? Now, there’s a first.
As I’m leaving, I spot a box of vegetables placed on the step for me. It’s a whopper this time, too heavy for me to carry home. So I pick it up and carry it across the garden to Paul’s cottage. ‘Thanks for this,’ I say as he opens the door. ‘Can I take it home next time I’m here? I’ll bring my car …’
‘Oh, I’ll drive you home,’ he says. ‘Jackie’s just been to pick up the girls.’
‘Really? If you’re sure it’s no trouble.’
‘I know you like to walk to work,’ he says, ‘and of course it’s no trouble. C’mon.’ I smile at his bluffness and hand the vegetable box to him, which he loads into the back of his truck. ‘So how did she seem today?’ he asks as I clamber into the passenger seat.
‘Kind of … tetchy, a little irrational … but then quite sweet. Called me “dear”.’
‘Dear?’ He grins.
‘Yeah, I know. It’s pretty worrying.’ I pause. ‘Actually, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep working here, Paul.’
He throws me a startled look as we pull away from the cottage. ‘But why?’
‘Oh, I know she was asking for me while I was away but …’ I shrug. ‘I just seem to irritate her really.’
‘But you’re so good with her,’ he insists.
I smile. ‘I’m glad you think so. I’m not sure Mrs B does, though. I mean, it’s not as if I expect to be showered with gratitude. It’s just, there’s been quite a lot going on lately and I’m always on at Morgan to get out there, to make something of himself. And maybe I should do the same, you know? And find a job where I can really make a difference.’
‘But you do! You make a huge difference to Mrs B.’ He stops at red lights and glances at me.
‘I just think I could set a better example to Morgan,’ I mutter.
We pull away from the lights and fall into silence for a moment. ‘Aud,’ Paul says hesitantly, ‘has something happened? I don’t want to pry, but—’
I nod. ‘Morgan’s girlfriend is pregnant.’
‘Oh. God …’
I look at him, taking in the soft brown eyes, amazed that I’ve told him at all. After all, not even my friends know yet. No one does, except Jenna’s parents, Vince and me. I inhale deeply, deciding Paul won’t judge. He won’t imply that, somehow, I could have prevented it from happening.
‘How old are they?’ he asks gently.
‘Both eighteen.’
Another small silence settles around us. ‘Pretty young,’ he offers. ‘But not the end of the world, maybe.’
‘Yes, maybe not.’
‘I’m sorry, Aud. It’s not what you’d have wanted, but don’t d
o anything rash just because you’re upset. You’re good at your job. You’re needed there, not that you should feel trapped, but—’
‘It’s not that, Paul.’
‘And you’d miss your vegetable boxes,’ he adds, smiling now. ‘There are globe artichokes in there.’
‘Oh, they’re very on trend.’
‘Are they? I had no idea.’ He chuckles.
I smile, sensing my tension subsiding. ‘My road’s next on the right. You can drop me at the corner if you like.’
‘No, let me take you to your door.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘It’s last on the left.’ He pulls up and insists on carrying the vegetable box into the kitchen for me. I glance around, regarding the place through his eyes, terribly conscious of the unwashed dishes dumped on the worktops. ‘Teenagers,’ I say, turning on the taps at the sink and pulling on Marigold gloves.
He sets the box on the table. ‘Please don’t start clearing up because of me.’
‘Oh, it’s disgusting. I’m sorry.’ A thumping bass starts up from Morgan’s room as I wipe up a scattering of granulated sugar from the worktop. Something about bitches, hos and ass. ‘Christ,’ I say, picturing Paul’s wholesome daughters enjoying their picnic.
‘Aud, it’s fine.’
‘I’m sorry, this is what boys are like. At least, mine is …’
‘Hey, stop apologising …’ My mobile starts trilling on the table: Stevie. I leave it go to voicemail, and immediately he calls again. ‘Excuse me a sec,’ I say as I answer it.
‘Hey, babe,’ Stevie says, ‘you working tomorrow night?’ No, how’s things? I sense myself bristling with irritation.
‘Yes, I’m on a late shift … why?’
‘Want to ask someone to swap shifts with you?’ I give Paul, who’s hovering in the kitchen doorway, an apologetic glance.
‘I can’t, not at such short notice.’
‘Aw, just for one night?’
‘I can’t do it, Stevie. Julie covered the days I was down at Wilton Grange. I can’t keep doing this, expecting the others to jump in and help me out …’
Stevie sighs. ‘Maybe next week, then? If I give you a bit more notice?’ His voice is tinged with bitterness.
