The Happy Family

by Jackie Kabler

  Why is that bottle of Obsession at the front? I haven’t used that in ages; I’ve gone off it. And I didn’t leave my eyeshadow palettes piled up like that. Or did I?

  I frown, trying to remember, but the alcohol is making my head fuzzy. Slowly, I put everything back in its correct place, thinking. Barbara was in the house tonight, wasn’t she? But she was looking for her glasses, and there’s no way they would be up here, in my bedroom. She’d only have looked downstairs, in the kitchen or living room. Unless … could she have thought that maybe Robin found the glasses when she was cleaning and thought they were mine? Might she have had a root around up here just in case? Maybe. I cast my eyes around the room, looking for anything else out of place, but everything seems in order.

  I did get ready in a hurry earlier, didn’t I? And all that wine … I roll my eyes at myself in the mirror. It was probably me, then. I’m such an idiot at the moment. I’ll be hearing voices next.

  Stop it, Beth. Hot chocolate and a good night’s sleep, that’s what you need.

  I give the now neat rows of cosmetics one more glance, then pull some clean pyjamas on and head back downstairs.

  Chapter 14

  It’s Friday, and I’ve finally remembered the books I promised to bring Nadia. When we close for lunch, I peer out of the waiting room window to check that she’s there – she is; she always seems to be there these days – and nip across the road. When I reach her, she greets me with a small smile. She’s reading a newspaper today, The Independent I think, but her eyes light up when I open the bag I’m carrying and show her the selection of Agatha Christies I’ve selected from my bookshelf.

  ‘I’ve brought Crooked House, Endless Night, and a couple of Poirots – Third Girl and The Clocks. Are they OK?’ I ask.

  ‘Perfect, thanks. Very kind of you,’ she says, and smiles again. Her teeth are yellow and one upper incisor is missing.

  ‘That’s OK. Enjoy. And I don’t need them back; my bookshelves are bursting at the seams, so just pass them on to someone else when you’re done or leave them with a charity shop or something.’

  She nods, eyes fixed on the books, and I feel a little surge of sympathy and sadness.

  This poor woman.

  I squat down beside her. There’s a faint, stale odour of sweat and dirty clothes, but in her fingerless gloves her hands look clean and her nails are neatly clipped.

  ‘Nadia, is there anything else I can do for you? What do you do at the weekends, when the surgery is closed? Do you still sit here or go somewhere else?’

  She closes the plastic bag and pushes it into the big black half-open suitcase that’s sitting next to her in the doorway. I can see clothes in it – a pair of denim jeans and a navy jumper.

  ‘No, I usually go down to the Prom at weekends. Shoppers, you know. Some can be generous,’ she says. Her throat sounds raspy, and she reaches under the blanket that covers her knees and pulls out a bottle of water. I wait while she takes a drink, unsure what to do next.

  Give her some money? Would she be offended? Oh gosh, I don’t know how to help her. I’m rubbish …

  ‘What are you doing this weekend? Anything nice?’ she says unexpectedly. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and screws the cap back on the bottle with slightly trembling fingers.

  ‘Nothing exciting really,’ I say. I’m starting to wish I hadn’t squatted down now; my left leg is starting to cramp.

  ‘My mum is staying with me at the moment and I’ve got some friends coming round to meet her. We haven’t seen each other for a long time – years, in fact – so none of my friends know her, you see. She lives down in Cornwall and we’ve only recently been reunited – it’s a long story. But anyway, two of my neighbours are coming round for drinks later, which will be nice. I just have to decide whether I’m going to cook something or just get a takeaway. I won’t have much time after work, so a takeaway would be easier, but it seems a bit lazy, you know …’

  Her eyes have widened and she’s staring at me with a bewildered expression. I’m suddenly aware that I’m waffling, speaking far too quickly, and anyway, why on earth am I telling her all this, this poor old homeless woman?

  Why would she care if I cook or get a takeaway? Talk about middle-class problems. Shut up Beth …

  ‘Oh, heck, sorry Nadia,’ I say. I stand up awkwardly, rubbing my leg. ‘I’ll leave you in peace. But do let one of us know if you want anything, OK? I’m sure Ruth will be out with some coffee in a bit. She usually makes some around now.’

  She’s still staring at me, but she nods.

  ‘Thanks. And for the books. Thank you,’ she mutters.

  ‘No problem. Well, bye.’

  I lift a hand in a half-wave and then turn and walk swiftly back across to the surgery, cringing inside.

  What’s wrong with me, going on like that? She’ll think I’m bonkers …

  I’m just metres away from the door when a man emerges. He glances at me, then quickly looks right and left and jogs across the road towards the car park. I stop walking so suddenly that a woman coming towards me on the pavement has to step out into the road to veer round me. She tuts loudly, but I barely look at her, my heart pounding.

  Is that Mike? Not again. Don’t start this again, Beth. You know it’s not him. You know there’s nothing to worry about. Stop it, stop it …

  But it’s not working. My eyes frantically scan the car park but the man is already out of sight. I push the door open and walk into the waiting room. Ruth is behind the reception desk and Deborah is leaning across it, and they’re having a conversation in low, urgent voices. Then Ruth spots me, and pokes Deborah in the arm with a manicured finger.

  ‘Beth!’ she says loudly. ‘How was Nadia? Did she like the books?’

  Deborah turns abruptly.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she says. She looks a little flushed.

  Why stop talking so suddenly? Were they talking about me? Was it him, after all? Did he … did he tell them?

  ‘Who was that?’ I say and point over my shoulder in the direction of the door. ‘That man, in the dark overalls? He just left. Who was he?’

  I know I sound agitated but I can’t help myself. Deborah frowns and looks at Ruth. Ruth hesitates for a moment, looking at me, then picks up a business card that’s lying on her desk.

  ‘He’s a plumber. He just popped in to leave a card in case we need one at any point,’ she says, waving the small white rectangle at me. ‘Why? What’s wrong, Beth? Are you OK?’

  I take a breath.

  A plumber. Just a plumber. And the other day with Barbara and Brenda it was just a gardener, and before that, with Robin, just a runner who dropped his wallet. It’s not him. None of these men are him. He went home ages ago. I’m worrying about nothing. Nothing bad is going to happen. Everything is OK. Everything is fine.

  I’m losing it, I think. Literally losing my keys, seeing people … Is this stress? A result of Mum appearing so suddenly and Dad being ill? I need to get on top of it, and fast. I breathe in again, and out, slowly.

  ‘I’m fine, sorry,’ I say. ‘I got cramp in my leg, crouching down talking to Nadia, and it’s a bit ouchy, that’s all. And I just thought I recognised him, that bloke, but I’ve obviously got him mixed up with someone else. You two OK?’

  I smile reassuringly.

  ‘Erm … great,’ says Deborah. She looks at Ruth, then back at me. ‘Happy it’s Friday, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ says Ruth. ‘Hey Beth, we were just talking about how we’d love to meet your mum. Why don’t we organise drinks or something? Before she goes home again?’

  Instantly, the paranoia is back.

  Why were they just talking about me and Mum?

  I hesitate, but they’re both smiling, acting completely normally.

  Oh, for God’s sake, Beth. They’re your friends, and you’ve just been reunited with your long-lost mother. Of course they’d love to meet her.

  ‘She’s not planning on going any time soon,’ I say.
‘So yes, that would be lovely. I’ll run some dates past you later. Brenda and Barbara are coming round tonight, so maybe next week?’

  ‘Ace,’ says Ruth. ‘Have you spoken to your sister yet, by the way? Weren’t you going to FaceTime or something?’

  ‘We did, last night. It was … well, amazing,’ I said.

  It was. Once the kids were in bed – I decided it might be too much for Liv to be faced with all three of us at once – Mum and I settled down on the sofa and dialled the number. I’d had butterflies for hours, but as soon as she answered the call and her smiling face appeared on the screen of Mum’s phone, they vanished.

  ‘Hey big sis,’ she said.

  She looked even prettier than in the photos I’d seen: long blonde hair a similar shade to mine falling in soft waves and framing delicate features. We didn’t chat for long – she was at work, taking a coffee break during an evening shift at the shipping office – but she sounded exuberant, repeatedly saying how exciting all of this was and how she couldn’t wait to meet me and her niece and nephew. She had, it emerged, known about me for years, but had rarely dared to ask about me, knowing I was a sensitive subject for Mum.

  ‘When she finally decided to get back in touch with you, I literally ran around the room screaming,’ she laughed. ‘I couldn’t believe it, could I, Mum? I’ve always, always wanted a big sister, and now here you are. It’s mad, isn’t it?’

  When we ended the call, blowing silly kisses at each other and giggling like children, I felt elated, and went to bed dreaming of shopping trips, cocktails, and girlie weekends away – sisterly activities I’d always envied in my friends’ lives, never imagining they could one day be possible for me.

  As I relate this now to Ruth and Deborah, any residual feelings of unease fade. I need to pull myself together, I think, or I’m going to ruin this for everyone. This should be one of the happiest times in my life. I have to stop thinking about the past, have to stop being so terrified that it’s going to ruin my future.

  ‘Whoops, look at the time,’ says Ruth suddenly, tapping her watch. ‘The afternoon hordes will be here any minute now. Scoot, you two. Busy, busy.’

  Deborah rolls her eyes at me.

  ‘You’d think she was in charge here, not you,’ she says.

  ‘I know. What you can do, eh?’ I give a dramatic sigh and we all laugh. I head back to my office feeling lighter, happier again. After work I go home via the hospital where I find Dad sleepy but still stable, and then race home. As I’m parking the car, Brenda’s just getting out of hers and she waves to me across the wall.

  ‘Looking forward to this evening!’ she says. ‘How are things though? Must be so odd for you … Is it going well?’

  I nod.

  ‘It really is. You’d think it would be odd, and I suppose it is in some ways – we’re still getting to know each other again, you know? But in other ways it just feels … normal. Weird, eh?’

  She shrugs.

  ‘Blood’s thicker than water and all that. That’s brilliant, Beth. See you later then!’

  She waves again and heads for her front door, and I lock the car and let myself into the house. I can hear music – is that the Bee Gees? – coming from the kitchen, and I walk in to find Mum twirling Eloise around the island, Finley perched on one of the high stools, laughing.

  ‘What’s going on here then?’ I say. ‘Party started without me?’

  Mum stops dancing, pink-cheeked and breathless, and a beaming Eloise rushes over to give me a hug.

  ‘We couldn’t wait,’ Mum says with a grin. ‘Friday night and all that!’

  Something’s in the oven too, something savoury and fragrant. There’s no sigh of Robin though, and I wonder if Mum’s sent her home early.

  ‘Grandma’s giving me dancing lessons!’ Eloise is looking up at me, arms still wrapped around my waist. She’s still in her school uniform, her tie askew.

  ‘Lovely!’ I reply and kiss the top of her head. ‘Rather her than me – two left feet here.’

  Mum laughs.

  ‘I’ve always loved dancing,’ she says. ‘And I’m glad you’re home, love. I let Robin go, hope that’s OK? She didn’t seem to have much to do anyway. She was just hanging around, and with me here …’

  There’s a disapproving tone to her voice and she pauses for a second or two then says, ‘Anyway, I know we’re getting a takeaway later but I popped out earlier and bought some ready-made canapés – they’re in the oven. I thought the kids might be hungry. It’s just little prawn blinis and some mini chicken kebabs. We can have them as an appetiser when your friends arrive?’

  ‘Yum. Great. Thanks so much.’

  I release Eloise and lean over to give Finley a kiss, and then Mum. This is great, I think. It’s so nice to come home to a kitchen filled with noise and music and dancing, to see the children having so much fun with their grandmother, to feel … looked after, I suppose. Looked after, by my mother. Food in the oven, wine glasses laid out on the countertop, a bottle in an ice bucket.

  ‘Oh, and I got you something, a little present. Thought you might like to wear it this evening.’

  Mum’s waving a plastic carrier bag at me; it’s from one of those chi-chi little boutiques in The Suffolks – not Brenda’s but another even more expensive one.

  ‘Mum! That’s so naughty. You shouldn’t have! You don’t need to be spending your money on me, honestly.’

  She shrugs and hands me the bag.

  ‘Just trying to make up for all those birthdays and Christmases I missed over the years,’ she says. ‘And I have a very long way to go yet, so humour me. It’s nothing much, just a little top.’

  ‘Well, that’s incredibly kind of you, thank you.’

  I take the bag, and peek inside. I see leopard print and my heart sinks a little. I don’t really do animal print. It’s not my style – too ‘out there’, but I don’t want to offend her, so I gasp appreciatively.

  ‘Wow, that looks gorgeous,’ I say. ‘I’ll run up and change. Brenda and Barbara will be here in a few minutes.’

  ‘I’d better get those canapés out then,’ she says. ‘Eloise, darling, why don’t you go and change out of your school uniform? And Finley, can you put your shoes away? Don’t want Mummy’s friends to trip over them, do we?’

  The children leap to do her bidding and, wondering why they’re never so well-behaved for me, I head upstairs to get out of my work clothes. I had wondered about asking Robin to stay this evening, to join us for drinks and dinner if she was free, but now I’m glad I didn’t. I’m still getting the sense that Mum doesn’t seem too keen on her, for whatever reason. When I take my gift out of the bag it’s even worse than I feared – a garish, leopard print jersey top with a flouncy, ruffled neckline. I pull it on and even though it’s labelled a size medium it’s far too small, flattening my boobs and clinging to my tummy. I stare at myself in the mirror and poke at the rolls of fat around my waist. I look dreadful, but I can’t not wear it, can I? Not when she’s gone to so much trouble and spent so much money.

  I root in my wardrobe and find my stretchy black palazzo pants, which are high-waisted and help, I think, to conceal some of the lumpy bits, but I still feel horribly uncomfortable as I go back downstairs, my armpits already damp, the frills at my neckline scratchy against my skin.

  ‘Oh!’ Mum looks wide-eyed for a moment, then seems to recover herself and smiles.

  ‘Well, don’t you look pretty,’ she says, but her eyes flick downwards to my stomach, to my thighs, and I feel again this new shame about my body, an acute sense of disappointment that I don’t look nicer for my classy, fashionable mother.

  I’m about to reply, to thank her again for the present, to apologise, maybe, for not looking as good as I should in it, when the doorbell rings. The next few minutes are a whirl of introductions and kisses, wine being poured, and glasses clinking. When we’re all finally settled around the island, Eloise and Finley in the lounge nibbling canapés on the sofa, thrilled to be allowed to
stay up for the takeaway, I wave my drink in the air.

  ‘A toast,’ I say. ‘To Mum, and to friendship.’

  ‘To Mum and to friendship!’ they all echo, even Mum with a grin, and we clink again and drink. We spend the next hour chatting and laughing. Brenda and Mum hit it off straight away with their shared love of fashion and the arts. But Barbara seems quiet, distracted, not her usual self at all. She’s listening to the conversation, her eyes fixed on Mum and Brenda as they chat, but she’s not joining in. Then she catches me watching her and seems to perk up a bit, clearly making an effort to smile and interject now and again, but she’s not fooling me. It’s pretty obvious that something isn’t right. I need to find out what’s going on, so the next time I stand up to refill the glasses I pull my stool over to sit next to her.

  ‘You OK?’ I ask in a low voice, as Mum regales Brenda with a story about a famous British artist she knows who had a threesome with two of his life models. I’m quite glad the children are in the lounge with the TV on, out of earshot.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ she whispers. ‘Just a bit tired. Long week, you know.’