‘. . . arranged a rival sex party?’
Rose glares at me. ‘I have put my house on the market.’
Taking a sip of river water, I choke on it. ‘You what?’
My mother raises her head, grandly. ‘My house is for sale. In fact, I’ve already accepted an offer.’
‘But, where will you live?’
Maz’s grip on my fingers convulses as both of us anticipate the answer a split-second before she says it.
‘With one of my dear daughters, of course. And in the light of Marigold’s hasty and unwise marriage, I think it should be you, Clover.’
37
All the intruders I have fought off in my dreams all these years, and I never imagined the one that would horrify me the most would be my own mother, clawing away at an obscure window that I was sure was closed. She’s sitting there, head inclined regally, fondly imagining that this is good news; that I will welcome her with open arms and say yes: see out your dotage in our dingy, draughty old house that you’ve never once deigned to stay in. In fact, Rose is so unacquainted with my home that I doubt she knows how many bedrooms we’ve got. No matter – if there aren’t enough then Robbie and I can camp in the garden from now on. Anything to accommodate my dear mama.
My pensive silence is broken by Alan coming back to retrieve the river detritus. I’ve cleared my bin lid, and Maz has made great inroads into her toolbox, but my mother’s toilet seat remains untouched. He gestures to it, anxiously.
‘Was it not to madam’s satisfaction?’
‘Mrs Ashton’s gastric bypass doesn’t allow her to eat solid food,’ I explain. ‘She likes to order it though, so she can feel like she’s joining in.’ I hold up a hand to stem my mother’s outraged rejoinder. ‘Not now, Nanna Rose. Could we see the dessert menu? Maybe she can manage a mousse.’
‘I know you must be unsettled by your sister’s betrayal,’ rattles my mother, as Alan bears the flotsam away. ‘But there is no excuse for these flippant, ungodly comments. What in the world is wrong with you, Clover? You were always such a sweet, meek girl. And now you’re acting like a hoyden.’
‘I’m just so excited,’ I reply, ‘to hear about your ambitious plans!’
Rose looks mollified. ‘I’ll have to see the rooms, to check they’re suitable, but all being well I could be in by the autumn.’
‘You’ve certainly thought it all through.’ I rest my elbows on the table. ‘Which room in our house would you prefer? There’s a little boxroom in the attic – if we sort out the plasterwork and slap a bit of paint over the damp bits then it should be right and tight for colder weather. You’d have to go downstairs for the bathroom, but that would help you stay in shape, I suppose.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that would do at all,’ says Rose. ‘Haven’t you got anything on the first floor?’
‘Well, apart from our room . . .’ I begin doubtfully.
‘That will do nicely,’ says Rose.
‘Of course, it’s next to Ethan’s, and he does tend to play his music quite loudly, but I think his taste is very eclectic and entertaining! He likes rap, and house, and hip-hop, and all sorts of electronic experimental stuff. And personally, I find the smell of cannabis fragrant and relaxing. Thank you so much, Alan.’ Our host has brought the menu.
‘Ethan will just have to keep it down. Children should be seen and not heard.’
‘I’m afraid Ethan is just the opposite – we rarely see him but we always hear him and definitely smell him too! I think children should be allowed to express themselves, don’t you?’
‘What nonsense,’ says Rose, perusing the list of puddings.
‘Oh yes, you never believed in freedom of expression, did you? You preferred to keep a lid on things. Which is why Maz spent years in therapy and I’m a nervous wreck!’
‘It’s not my fault you both turned out so lily-livered. Your father’s genes, I suppose.’
‘Can I interest you ladies in something sweet?’ says Alan, entirely inappropriately. There’s only sourness here, but we all order with bright smiles on our faces.
‘Of course, it would be lovely to have you around for the kids, to help them with their school work, get to know them better. Because you haven’t really hung out with them much, have you?’ Try ever. ‘The other day, I mentioned Granny, and Hazel said “Who?” and I had to remind her who you are! “The old lady who Granddad went to Spain to get away from!”’
‘What did you say?’ Rose’s eyes are flashing dangerously – her dander’s up, but I’ll have to do better than this.
‘I’m joking – can’t you take a joke?’
‘I don’t find it at all funny.’
‘Isn’t that strange? I don’t find your jokes funny either. We must both be missing something.’
Our dessert arrives, on bricks. Rose’s moue becomes even more pronounced. I’ve ordered a custard tart, which squats on the masonry like a little yellow toad, while Maz has a cherry cheesecake and Rose’s quadrille of truffles dot the amber ingot like tiny turds. We all stare at our respective slabs, wondering where the conversation will go next. I’m still biding my time – a few light parries, jabbing here and there, waiting to put the knife in. We’re nearly there – I might let her have her chocolate first though.
My tart is delicious, and I eat it loudly and messily, letting shards of pastry fall from my mouth onto the table. But Rose seems to sense I’m looking for a reaction, and refuses to rise, daintily picking up her droppings and nibbling them, ignoring me. It’s time for a major feint. I push away my littered brick, and turn to face her.
‘Anyway, I’m thrilled you’re finally taking your life in a new direction, but I’m afraid we can’t help you, accommodation-wise. Because we already have plans of our own.’
‘What?’ Rose finishes her final truffle and pushes the brick away in distaste. ‘What are you saying?’
‘You can’t move in.’
My mother blinks, unable to process the idea that her eldest child – the obedient one – could possibly be denying her. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘You can’t move in.’
‘I . . . can’t move in?’
‘No.’ It’s such a good word. Strong, final, definitive. A useful word. I should really use it more often.
