Читать книгу Coming Home - Annabel Kantaria - Страница 17

The Speckled Hen did a good lunch. Stopping in on our way back to the house, Mum and I ordered salmon fishcakes, salad and thick-cut chips washed down with a warming glass each of Merlot.

‘So, shall we get the funeral party thing catered?’ I asked, the wine already buzzing in my head. I wasn’t expecting a yes.

‘Sure,’ she said, waving over the waitress. ‘Can you ask the manager to come over?’

This was a side of Mum I’d never seen before. When Dad was alive, she’d have stood up all night, on pins if she’d had to, cutting rounds of sandwiches rather than buy them. I was pleased—it was progress. The pub, it turned out, had a home-catering department and the manager was obliging. Within a matter of minutes, it was agreed that uniformed waiters would hand around a selection of sweet and savoury finger foods and hot and cold drinks.

I, however, wasn’t making much progress of my own. I’d fully intended to start going through Dad’s address book after lunch, letting people know that the funeral had been set for Friday, but the rich food and unaccustomed lunchtime wine took their toll on both me and Mum. Back home, Mum flicked off her shoes, dropped her keys onto the dresser by the front door and collapsed in her favourite chair in the living room while I went to make us each a coffee. But, when I brought it out to her five minutes later, Mum was out for the count, her mouth slightly open, a magazine on her lap. I placed the coffee quietly on the table and looked at my mother. In sleep, her face was softer, free of the worries that plagued her in life.

‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll always be here for you. It’s just us now. Just the girls.’ I placed a fleecy blanket gently over her lap and went upstairs to lie down. The wind had picked up and I wriggled luxuriously in bed, the duvet half over me as the wind splattered the rain against the windowpanes. We never got afternoons like this in Dubai; I let the rhythmic patter of the rain lull me to sleep.

‘Aaargh!’

The furious scream that woke me was followed by the crash of the phone being slammed down.

‘That woman is so rude!’ Mum yelled.

‘What’s wrong? Mum? What’s up?’ I leapt off my bed and into the hall where Mum was standing staring at the phone as if it had got up and slapped her on the cheek.

‘It’s unacceptable! How can people be so rude?’ she raged. ‘I never even liked the woman!’

‘What? What happened?’

‘I told her that Graham was dead and she denied it! It’s not as if it’s easy telling people, but that woman had the temerity to deny it! She said I was “having a turn”!’

‘Oh, Mum, I …’ I took a step towards her.

‘“Oh, Mum, I” what?’ Mum was still staring at the phone, but now she snapped her head to look at me, her eyes flashing.

I reached out for her arm, but she jumped away.

‘It’s not Graham,’ I said gently. ‘It’s Dad who’s died. Robert. Not Graham.’

Mum stared at me, her eyes wide. Then she shook her head. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Good God, I may be old but I don’t have dementia. What kind of idiot do you take me for?’

‘I …’

Mum turned for the stairs. ‘Cup of tea?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m fine.’