Читать книгу Lily Alone: A gripping and emotional drama - Vivien Brown, Vivien Brown - Страница 15

Patsy reached across the lumpy bed for Michael. He wasn’t there.

It was ridiculous to feel so tired after such a short flight, but perhaps the months of intense work had finally caught up with her. Now she’d sealed the latest contract she could take a couple of weeks off and relax a bit before Phase Two. The hefty bonus coming her way would help too. She could feel a spot of retail therapy coming on, just as soon as they could get up to London and hit the shops.

They’d had a meal at the local pub with Michael’s mother last night, but it had proved to be a rather strained affair. They’d both been putting on smiles for his benefit, but underneath the surface they’d been squaring up, marking their corners. Womens’ stuff, that Michael wouldn’t have noticed. But she knew. Geraldine did not like her, did not really want her here.

Michael had clearly felt a bit awkward about sharing the bed. It was his mother’s house. The last time he’d properly lived here was a long time ago and he’d been a single man for most of that time. She’d still done his washing, hoovered his room, made his meals. Even when Ruby had arrived, he’d told her, it hadn’t felt like this. Ruby had been like family to start with, like a younger sister, just there living alongside him in the house, until things had suddenly and stupidly changed between them. Things had moved so quickly then, into an intimacy he had never felt ready for. A shared room, a shared bed, a baby on the way, but always something lacking. Now he was finding it hard to make this new transition, to bring his own fiancée, a woman his mother hardly knew, into the house, take her into his old room and do the kind of things he would have done if they’d been back in Portugal, where walls did not have ears. His mother’s ears, anyway. And things he had never done with Ruby.

And so, after the pub outing last night they’d drunk cocoa and made small talk until Geraldine had gone up to bed, and then they’d tiptoed up the stairs like naughty teenagers and gone to sleep curled against each other, with far too many clothes on, the light off, and not so much as a snog, let alone anything that might have made the bedsprings creak.

Patsy had not slept well.

Geraldine had made them breakfast, which they’d all eaten together, squashed around the kitchen table, then she’d made some calls before deciding to get off back to the shop. She didn’t usually open on a Sunday, or at least not out of season, but she’d missed a good bit of yesterday and there were things to be done, she’d told them. Paperwork, stock taking, financial stuff. It had sounded like an excuse to get away from the house, and probably from them, but Patsy wasn’t complaining.

‘At last,’ Patsy had said when the front door closed and they’d heard Geraldine’s car move off down the road. ‘Bed!’

‘But we’ve only just got up,’ Michael had pleaded, as she led him back up the stairs, still clutching a slice of cold toast in his hand.

‘Oh, no, my lad. You haven’t got up at all yet. That’s the problem!’

And now, what must be three or four hours later, she was awake again, her clothes scattered in heaps on the carpet, her hair tangled up in post-coital knots, and the other side of the bed empty.

‘Michael?’ she called, raising her head from the damp sweatiness of the pillowcase, which was made of some sort of shiny nylon. In a sickly pale peach colour, too. Certainly not to her taste, but they wouldn’t have to stay here long. Not if she had anything to do with it.

There was no answer, so she swung her legs over the side and sat up. Her head ached. Alcohol from the night before? Unlikely. She was sure she hadn’t drunk all that much. No, it must just be the air in here. It was too warm, muggy, like the onset of a storm. And daytime sex didn’t help, with no window open, and the curtains closed. Oh, she could do with a coffee. A good strong one. But Geraldine didn’t go in for proper coffee. There was no percolator, no filter machine, no fancy coffee pods in her kitchen. Patsy had established that last night. So, instant it would have to be.

‘Michael?’ she called again, louder this time. ‘Can you put the kettle on?’

He was in the back garden when she finally ventured down to find him. The shed door was open, and he had a pile of old tennis rackets, some kind of net thing, and a rusty bike laid out on the grass.

‘Just looking out a few bits for when Lily comes down,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘Well, I’m awake now, and my head’s banging.’ She pulled her flimsy gown tightly around her and picked her way barefoot over the grass. ‘How about we go out, find a coffee shop, take a walk by the sea? It might blow away the cobwebs a bit. This stuff can wait, can’t it? It all looks pretty ancient. Wouldn’t she rather have new? And it’s not as if you’ve heard anything yet from Ruby, so we have no idea when Lily’s likely to need any of it …’

Michael shook his head. ‘Leave it an hour or so, eh? You go back in and help yourself to whatever you fancy in the kitchen, have a shower – the water’s hot – and then we’ll go out for a late lunch. How does that sound?’ He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss. ‘Just give me time to get this lot sorted at least, and then I’ll be in, okay?’

The kitchen felt cold as she flipped the switch on the kettle and hauled herself onto a high stool to get her feet up off the tiled floor. There was a blob of mud on her big toe and she leant down to wipe it away with a scrap of kitchen roll. Back in Portugal now it would be warm, the sun sending long streaks of pale light through the shutters, and she would have real strong coffee. Lots of it. She had almost forgotten what England was like at this time of year. All brown trees and chilly winds, and the awful driving rain. No wonder they hadn’t been brave enough to open the bedroom window. Maybe it was being here near the sea that made it worse. Not the clear blue sea and golden sands she had grown used to, but this harsh grey pounding sea that struck at the endless piles of pebbles Geraldine had laughingly called a beach.

The instant coffee, heaped with more sugar than was good for her, didn’t quite hit the spot, but it helped. She gazed out of the window, watched Michael busying himself in his mother’s garden, and breathed. Just breathed. She had to tell herself that she was here for a reason. And that reason was Michael. And Lily, of course. She felt her stomach lurch involuntarily as she thought about Lily. They would meet properly soon. This tiny child who still meant so much to Michael, whose absence had left a hole in his life he was so anxious to refill. My new stepdaughter, she thought, trying out the word for the first time. Oh, hell. What do I know about children?

*

Geraldine had tried. Well, not very hard admittedly, but it wasn’t easy to like Patricia. Or Patsy, as Michael insisted on calling her. They had met before, of course. Once or twice, in London, before her son had made the big announcement that he was going to go off and work abroad. Something to do with land, and holiday homes by the sea. Project management, he’d called it. Whatever that was.

Moving from Brighton to take up a better position in the bank’s head office in London had been bad enough, but she hadn’t tried to stop him. Much as she had missed them all, she had to admit it had made sense. A fresh, exciting new start for him and Ruby, and for little Lily, a chance to build a better life together as a family. There were opportunities in London that would never have come his way at home. But then he’d heard about this new company, been offered a job, left the bank behind, grabbed his chance. ‘Now, I’m really going places,’ he’d said, proudly, as if that was what mattered in life. And within months he was. Moving on from the company’s London base and all the way to Portugal. A place too far.

Back then, when she’d first come across her, Patricia hadn’t seemed particularly important. Just some girl from work. Michael had not long left the bank and was still settling in at the new place, full of ambition and eager to please. The girl was visiting from their office in Lisbon where she had been making a name for herself. She knew the right people, the right contacts. They spent time together, working on some project or other. There were working lunches and late night meetings. She’d even been to the flat, met Ruby, drunk her tea, shaken her hand.

Geraldine still remembered sitting with Ruby one night, waiting for Michael to come home. With Lily in her pyjamas, clutching that bear of hers, trying to keep her eyes open for a goodnight cuddle from Daddy, and not managing it. And Michael coming back smelling of too much wine and crashing out on the sofa, Ruby pulling a blanket around him and making excuses. He works hard, he’s busy, he’s doing it all for us …

Geraldine had driven back to Brighton in the dark that night, much later than planned. Something didn’t feel right, but he was her son. It was her place to worry, but never her place to say. He was an adult now, in charge of his own life, and the last thing she wanted was to be seen as an interfering nag of a mother, trying to tell him what to do. Besides, it was probably all something and nothing. One of those rocky patches all marriages go through when there was a baby involved. Both of them coping with too much change, not enough time for each other, and nowhere near enough sleep. She had no idea then that Patricia had been head-hunting, looking for a suitable candidate for a new post in Portugal, or that it was Michael’s head she had set her sights on. And the rest of his body too, so it seemed, and no idea that her little family was about to fracture beyond repair.

Patricia! There was something about the girl that made her hackles rise. The six-inch high heels, the tarty ankle chain, the hair held so immaculately, unnaturally in place. Not that there was anything wrong with making an effort, trying to look your best, but this girl was …

Geraldine shuddered. She knew she was being unfair. Michael was his own man. Whatever had happened was as much his fault as Patricia’s. Nobody had made him fall for her, leave his life behind, abandon his family. If he had been someone else’s son she would have seen things differently, looked down her nose at him and branded him a typical bloody man, following the contents of his trousers instead of his head. But if the girl had dressed more plainly, done up a few more buttons on her bulging blouse, shown some respect for the fact that Michael was a father, then maybe, just maybe …

Ruby may not initially have been her ideal choice of daughter-in-law. She was young. Far too young and definitely troubled, but there were reasons for that. And Michael had seemed happy enough and settled with her, and with little Lily. While it lasted, anyway. Until the banns had been read and the flowers had been ordered and the novelty had worn off.

Geraldine sat inside the empty shop, her laptop open and a pile of receipts spread out on the counter. She hadn’t looked properly at the accounts in weeks, and today was no different. It was a job she hated, something Ken had always taken care of. Perhaps it was time to pay for some help. Someone good with figures, for just a few hours a week, to take away the burden. It was the sort of thing Ruby and Michael could have helped with, if they’d still been together. They could have made it a family business again, something to build on, for Lily’s future.

She stared out of the cluttered window, watching a young family walk by. Mum, Dad, toddler skipping along at their side with a huge balloon in her hand, and a baby snuggled down in a padded buggy, fast asleep. That’s what weekends should be about. Family. Not the shop. Not sitting here by herself, stewing over things she couldn’t change.

It had been so long since she had seen Lily, but her little face was imprinted on her brain. Such a pretty little thing. Blonde, bouncy, always giggling, just starting to talk in real sentences, develop a mind of her own, and a stubborn streak like her mother’s, already learning to answer back …

Her only grandchild. Well, as far as she knew. No, she wasn’t going to follow that train of thought. She would not go there. She’d promised Ken long ago that she would never talk about that period of her life, that she would put her teenaged mistake behind her, forget about it, never try to find out …

Considering the way Ruby had spoken to her the last time she’d called, she knew she was no longer welcome. But Ruby was angry. Hurt. She was just lashing out, not only at Michael but at anyone or anything that reminded her of his betrayal. Geraldine knew that, but it didn’t make it any easier to help her. Or to know what to do.

She had tried so hard not to take sides but, for months now, she had been a grandmother in name only. It was all Patricia’s fault. How could Michael even think of marrying the girl? She was the reason Ruby had cut off those all-important links between them, kept her at arm’s length for so long. The reason there had been no christening, even after she’d dug out the old family robe and bought the most beautiful little silver bangle, engraved with Lily’s name. No wedding either. The hat she’d spent hours choosing was still there, at the top of the wardrobe, in a big pink box. All fancy feathers and net. She’d so looked forward to wearing it, but she’d be buggered if she’d get it out for this latest bride-to-be, that was for sure.

Patricia was the reason her granddaughter was lost to her. Stealing her son away from his family, bringing out all the hate and blame and anger in Ruby, feelings that had erupted and spilled out towards Michael, and had somehow marked her, Geraldine, as the enemy too, tearing her dreams for the future and her innocent little granddaughter away from her in one fell swoop. And now she had let the bloody woman into her home. Put the naffest sheets she could find on the bed, hidden the coffee maker, plastered on a smile so false it was almost a match for Patricia’s fingernails, or her ridiculously pointy boobs. Small gestures, a silent rebellion that her son, in his Patricia-blindness, would never see.

No, she didn’t like her. And if Michael insisted on going ahead with this wedding, then she wasn’t overly keen on him either. She loved him, of course, in the way mothers tend to do – no matter what – but right now she didn’t like him an awful lot. The sooner he and Patricia sorted things out with Ruby about access to Lily, and buggered off back where they’d come from the better.

*

Lily had found the medicine easily. It had been left out on the table in the kitchen, next to the empty tomato sauce that Mummy had turned upside down to catch the last drips, and a big pile of letters. She held the small medicine bottle in her even smaller hands and pulled at the lid but she couldn’t undo it. She tried twisting and twisting until her wrists hurt but it wouldn’t come off. She had seen Mummy open things with a knife before. Slitting into envelopes, opening packets, and forcing lids off things.

Lily knew where the knives were kept, even though she wasn’t allowed to use them, except for eating her dinner and that was just a small kiddie knife without the really sharp bit. She stood up on her tippy-toes and pulled the drawer open, blindly dipping her hand inside. Wrapping her fingers around the wooden handle of one of the big knives, she pulled it towards her and lifted it out. It was heavy and it wobbled in her grasp, the blade part all long and flat and shiny. Like the sword you use to kill dragons with. Lily hoped there weren’t any dragons in real life. She could still hear the noise from the phone by the door. She was getting used to it now, and she still wasn’t sure what it was, but she didn’t think it was a dragon.

Lily sat on the floor and held the medicine bottle in one hand and the big knife in the other. She pushed the tip of the knife into the side of the lid, jabbing it hard and then moving it about, like Mummy did, but nothing happened. She pushed harder and harder, but still it didn’t come off. And then the knife slipped away from her and the edge of the blade sliced into the flesh at the base of her thumb as it fell. A thin trickle of blood appeared instantly and spread in spidery patterns across her palm. She cried out, more in shock than pain, and clutched her hand closed. Lily didn’t like blood. Mummy would have got her a plaster, one with cartoon pictures on it, but Mummy wasn’t here. She put her hand down flat, leaving a sticky red handprint on the floor, and levered herself back up onto her feet, but the knife drawer was still open and her head hit the corner of it, hard, bouncing her back.

Lily’s hand flew to her head as she fell, the warm wet blood from her thumb oozing out again and mixing with a fresh trickle that was already running from somewhere beneath her hair. She didn’t know what to do. It hurt. Everything hurt, but there was nobody to help her. All she could do was scream, cry, curl up on the floor in a tight ball, the sobs racking through her tiny body, until the throbbing, stinging feeling slowly ebbed away and the blood on her head and hands dried into a dark red crust, and she fell asleep.

When she woke up she was hungry again, hungrier than she had ever been. Her head felt better, but she needed something to make her tummy feel better too. And her poorly hand. She wasn’t sure if it was her left hand or her right hand. Was it the one nearest to the door? All she knew was that it felt sore again as soon as she tried to open her fingers out.

She had already eaten the last apple from the bowl earlier, right down to the pips, and a very hard slice of half-eaten toast she’d found on a plate on the table. But now her tummy was empty and growling out loud and all she wanted was a biscuit. Mummy always let her have a treat if she’d been brave. And she had. She had real blood now to prove it.

The cupboard with the biscuits in it was very high up. Nearly at the ceiling. Lily stood up slowly and closed the knife drawer, dropping the big bad knife back inside. She looked around for something to help her reach the cupboard, and the biscuit tin. The kiddie step was still there by the sink, standing in a little puddle of water. She dragged it carefully across the kitchen floor, leaving a slippery wet trail behind it, like a snail. Kiddie steps were made for standing on, so she stood on it, but it wasn’t tall enough. She wasn’t tall enough. She still couldn’t reach up high enough to get to the biscuit cupboard.

She lifted one leg up high, as high as she could stretch. The right leg. Or maybe the left. She put her foot halfway up the cupboard where the plates were kept, rested it on the long white handle and hauled herself up, the way she always climbed up the frame in the park, wriggling until she was sitting on the worktop, with her bottom next to the kettle and her legs dangling over the edge. It was like being on the side of the swimming pool and looking down into the water. Mummy had taken her once but she didn’t like it. The noise, the cold, the not wanting Mummy to let go. The kitchen floor seemed a long way down, and it was wet, just like at the pool, when their bare feet had gone slip-slap on the floor and Mummy had laughed and said they sounded like fish.

But she could get to the top cupboard now, if she just stood up next to the kettle and reached above her head. The floor looked even further away as she pulled herself up. She wobbled as she leaned backwards just enough to pull on the handle of the door where the biscuits lived. She felt the cut in her thumb sting and open up again as she squeezed her fingers tightly around the handle, and then the cupboard swung open towards her, too smoothly, too quickly, and almost knocked her flying, but she had it now, between her hands. The big tin, with the picture of a monkey on it. Cheeky monkey, Mummy always said when Lily asked for another chocolate finger.

Lily bent down and lowered the tin very carefully onto the worktop next to her feet, before starting to shuffle herself back down to a sitting position beside it. Her hip banged against the kettle and she stumbled, one foot tangling itself into the lead, tipping the whole thing over as she bumped herself down. A little stream of cold water poured out and sent her slipping, grabbing for something to hold on to, and knocking the tin, with a very loud crash, to the floor.

By the time Lily had clambered down, the lid was off and the contents were scattered all over the lino. But there were no chocolate fingers today. Just one broken rich tea, which she stuffed hungrily into her mouth in two big bites. And then there were just crumbs. Nothing left but crumbs, a trickle of water, and a trail of sticky red fingerprints all over the cupboard doors.

*

William couldn’t settle. The afternoon was slipping by, like so many others. What he needed was a job, a purpose, a life. A woman? No, probably not. He looked around at the mess that had once been their tidy, well-ordered house. His and Susan’s. How had he let this happen? The unwashed clothes, the takeaway boxes, the unopened mail …

He should do something about it, but it was Sunday. Wasn’t Sunday meant to be a day of rest? So, he’d do something about it tomorrow. He’d start cleaning up, start trying to sort himself out. Tomorrow.

There was no Susan any more. Well, there was, obviously. Somewhere. But not here. And that was a good thing. Despite the mess and the loneliness, he knew it was a good thing. And now it was time to be just William again. Just William! He remembered the book with that name that his mother used to read to him, about the naughty schoolboy. Wasn’t he a pretty hopeless character too? Covered in mud, with his socks hanging down? Full of half-hearted, dimwit schemes that were usually doomed to fail? The likeness wasn’t lost on him.

He went into the kitchen looking for food. When had he last gone shopping for food? Proper shopping, with a trolley and a list? There was a tin of beans at the back of the cupboard, and the final two slices of last week’s loaf sat curling in their plastic wrapper on the bread board. They’d have to do for now. Just a little bit of green around the crust, but that didn’t matter, did it? He sliced the mouldy edges away with a knife, the blade slipping, slicing a thin slit into the tip of his little finger. It was surprisingly deep, and painful. A spot of bright red blood ran out and dripped onto the bread. He grabbed for a piece of kitchen paper to wrap around it, but the cardboard roll stood empty on its holder. He needed to buy some more. And he needed a plaster. Did he have any? Where were they kept? He had no idea.

He sat down at the table and stuck his finger in his mouth, sucking hard at it, like a baby seeking comfort, until the bleeding eased. He was sick of being on his own, with nobody to talk to, nobody to notice, let alone care, if he were to sit here and slowly bleed to death. Tomorrow he would definitely go and see his mother, if the car battery was charged and working by then. Something told him that fixing the car would probably be a lot easier than the fixing he needed to do on himself.

*

Lily was playing with her bricks in the bedroom, building a house with a chimney like the one where Granny lived, when the poo came out. She didn’t get any warning. It just happened, ever so quickly. She’d forgotten she wasn’t wearing any knickers, and it slithered out onto the carpet, all runny.

It was too late to get the potty. She’d done it now. But maybe she should try to clean it up, so Mummy wouldn’t shout at her when she came back and saw it there. There was a special lock on the cupboard under the sink. Mummy said the lock was to stop her touching the cleaning things because they were dangerous and she mustn’t swallow them. So she couldn’t get to the big bottle of stuff that Mummy used that smelled like lemons.

Lily stood up. The last bit of runny poo streaked down her leg and onto one of the plastic bricks she was using to make the chimney. She picked the brick up – a red one –.before it made any more of the bricks dirty. The ones for making the walls, and the windows. She didn’t want to build a dirty house. Granny’s house was clean. She remembered the nice smell of flowers, and that you had to take your shoes off when you went inside before you were allowed to stand on the carpet. Mummy always laughed about that. She said lots of posh ladies did that, but they didn’t.

Maybe she could get some paper from the roll hanging in the bathroom to clean herself up with. And a flannel, or a towel, to wash the blob off the carpet. Then she could put it in the washing basket with the pyjamas. Be a good girl.

The smell that followed her was worse than it was before. Not like lemons or flowers. Her bottom felt all squidgy and messy, and a bit sore. Lily tried to reach round and rub it clean with the paper, forgetting she had the brick in her hand, but it just made her hand all nasty, and the brick even nastier. And the kiddie step wasn’t here to reach the bathroom sink and wash it off. The step was still in the kitchen, but it was too dark in there and she couldn’t reach the light.

But at least her tummy ache had gone now. That was good. She didn’t need the Cowpol any more, from the bottle that wouldn’t open. Maybe that had a special lock on it too. But it wouldn’t be to stop her swallowing it, because she knew she was allowed to swallow Cowpol. It tasted nice and made everything feel better.

Lily wished everything would feel better now, but it didn’t. She had never been on her own before, and she didn’t like it. It was getting dark outside again, and the tree outside was blowing around, and the wind was rattling the window. She was hungry again, and she wanted something nice to eat, but whatever was left was in the kitchen, and she wanted a plaster for her hand that kept hurting all the time but the plasters were in the cupboard she couldn’t open, in the box with a red cross on it under the sink. She wanted to get into her bed with Archie and have Mummy tuck her in, but it was all wet and nasty. And she wanted to cry but when she did it didn’t make any difference because nobody came. And she wanted to see Daddy, and Granny, who she hadn’t seen for such a long time …

But most of all she wanted Mummy. She just wanted Mummy.

*

Dinner was a fraught affair. Patsy had offered to help but had been turned away from the kitchen with a look that could have curdled milk. Now they all sat together around the table in the dining room, very formally, eating some sort of indeterminate pie with waxy potatoes and thin tasteless gravy, and trying to make polite conversation.

It was only half past six. Much too early to be eating, but it wasn’t Patsy’s house and therefore, according to Michael who was doing his best to keep the peace, not her decision. The meat was chewy, the pastry as hard and tasteless as cardboard, and the gravy was lukewarm, but Michael didn’t seem to notice or, if he did, he’d chosen to ignore it.

‘Lovely, Mum. Thank you,’ he said, clattering his cutlery down and wiping his mouth on a paper serviette with Christmas robins around the edge.

Patsy moved her knife and fork to the side of her plate and left them pressed together at an angle, to signal she had finished, in case the pile of pushed-about uneaten food still on her plate should indicate otherwise.

‘Anything wrong, Patricia?’ Geraldine smiled at her, her teeth bared like a protective mother tiger. ‘don’t you like pastry? Can I get you anything else?’

‘No, everything’s fine, thank you, Mrs Payne. We ate a late lunch, and I’m not very hungry, that’s all.’

‘Tart?’

Patsy wasn’t sure for a moment whether she was being offered more food or if Geraldine was taking a sly opportunity to tell her just how she felt about her. She looked across at Michael, hoping to see some reaction, but his attention seemed taken up elsewhere, as he gazed out at a tree branch that overhung the fence and watched a bird balancing on it like a mini ballerina, bobbing up and down on its thin little legs.

‘It’s apple,’ Geraldine continued, straight-faced, not batting an eyelid. ‘Oh, no, of course, you don’t like pastry. Ice cream, then? Or a piece of fruit? We do like to finish with some sort of dessert, don’t we, Michael? Even if we think we’re full!’

We! We? Why did she think she could speak for Michael? Act like some kind of expert on what he liked to eat. As if he was still five years old. The woman was infuriating. Michael went on watching the bird, oblivious as always.

‘No. No, really. Nothing else. But let me help with the clearing up at least.’

Patsy would not rise to it. She would remain on her best behaviour, breathe deeply and say nothing. She started to pile up the plates, turning her back towards the others to hide her frustration, and dropping a greasy fork onto the carpet in the process. It was lying right next to Geraldine Payne’s fluffy-slippered foot, and, as she bent to retrieve it, she couldn’t help but notice the big thick blue vein that ran haphazardly up the side of her calf like a length of coiled string. Ugh!

There was a gravy mark on the carpet now too, but best not to point it out and risk all the fuss, so she supposed it was up to her to clean it up. She had no idea where to look for the right cloths or cleaning stuff, and no inclination to ask. It would have to be a blob of Fairy on a j-cloth. Or on one of those hideous robin serviettes. Oh, God, how she wanted to get out of here and back to her own cooking and her cold tiled floors.

‘Oh, and I do think you should start to call me Geraldine, don’t you? We’re as good as family now. Mrs Payne sounds so formal, and you’ll be calling yourself by that name soon enough, won’t you? If everything goes to plan …’

Goes to plan? Why shouldn’t it go to plan? They were getting married, weren’t they?

‘So, Michael, when are you going up to see Ruby?’ Geraldine’s voice had dropped to a whisper but not enough to prevent it reaching Patsy’s ears as she stumbled through into the kitchen, catching the heel of her shoe on the door jamb.

‘It’s okay, Mum. No need to whisper. I don’t keep secrets from Pats. But in answer to your question, I don’t know. I had hoped Ruby would be reasonable for once and that she’d have been in touch by now. She knows we’re here. I’ll call her in the morning …’

Patsy tried to keep her balance, but hopping on one foot was not easy when she was carrying a pile of plates. Chucking them ahead of her onto the draining board quickly, before they could slip out of her hands, she winced as they landed loudly. Too loudly. But at least they hadn’t smashed. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, half-heartedly, over her shoulder, knowing they probably couldn’t hear her anyway. ‘No harm done.’

But Michael and his mother were already moving off into the front room, the subject changed, and were now deep in conversation about the overhanging tree and whether to talk to the next-door neighbour about cutting it back, leaving her to do the washing-up and try to make something that at least half-resembled a decent cup of coffee.