‘But . . . why ever not?’ Her expression is thunderstruck. The world’s dearest, most devoted mother, denied by her daughter.
Here we go. ‘Because, like I said, we have other plans.’ I pull out my phone. ‘I had a chat with Dad the other day . . .’ My mother immediately looks aggrieved, as she prefers us to maintain the illusion that Cousin Jack is dead. ‘And he and Valentina are moving back to England. They want to start a business here importing Spanish rugs, Dad thinks they can get around the Brexit red tape and make a killing. So anyway, to cut a long story short, they’re moving in with us!’
I barely pause for breath, although I can see Rose gripping the table in shock, her knuckles white.
‘Just until they can get themselves sorted – six months or so, a year maybe.’ A glancing blow. ‘While they get themselves up and running. It’ll be a bit cramped with them both, of course, but wonderful to have everyone back together, under one roof. Plus, Val’s a great cook!’ The blade at her throat.
‘What are you talking about?’ says Rose, her voice strained and faint. ‘He . . . Jack wouldn’t come back.’
‘I know, I was as surprised as you, but they’ve gone for it. See.’ I scroll on my phone and hold it out.
Taking it with shaking fingers, Rose reads the last text I had from Dad: Can’t wait to move in. Thanks, love. The knife goes in.
‘No,’ she whispers. ‘No.’ Her face is ashen and I feel almost sorry for her, then remember she’s an almighty cow. Maz takes the phone from her and stares at it, her brow puckering, then clearing.
She smiles. ‘How nice.’
‘Your father would never dare to come back,’ says Rose, her voice trembling with rage. ‘Not after what he did.’
‘What did he do?’ She glares at me. ‘Oh, you mean, leaving you?’
‘He left all of us,’ she grates.
‘Hmm, he did, but he mainly left you, I think. Why are you taking it so personally, after all this time? It’s been years, and he’s been happy with Valentina in Spain, and you’ve been . . . well, I’m sure one day you’ll find a man. I don’t know, maybe you’re just giving off the wrong vibes, or need to update your look or something. It’ll happen, don’t worry.’ I pat her quivering hand, as she seethes. ‘Anyway, even bigger news – Dad and Valentina are talking about renewing their vows when they get back, so we’ll have a proper family wedding this Christmas after all, and we can all finally meet Calum! Wouldn’t that be lovely? Maybe you’ll meet someone there.’ The mortal wound. ‘Would that be so very . . .’
But I don’t get to the end of my speech, because it’s at that point that Rose takes her brick, and hurls it through the window opposite.
‘Special,’ I conclude, to the accompaniment of shattering glass, and then shattering silence. I must admit I didn’t expect to succeed quite so spectacularly, but having crossed the Rubicon, Rose obviously feels she has nothing left to lose and proceeds to go all out.
‘How dare he!’ she shrieks, her chignon loosening around her snarling face, as our fellow diners look on in astonishment and horror. ‘That fucking bastard! That fucking, fucking bastard.’
It’s really quite impressive, watching someone who’s maintained a strictly genteel and carefully manicured façade for decades let it splinter in a split-second. Like a gently flowing stream suddenly becoming a mass of churning rapids, bringing all sorts of unwelcome debris to the surface. In a way, I think this might be good for her, get it all out, off her chest. As Maz watches, open-mouthed, Rose leans forward and sweeps her arm across our table with a guttural roar, sending glasses flying and guests ducking for cover. What a palaver! People are definitely staring.
Alan dashes over, with several staff members close behind.
‘Now, now, Nanna Rose, don’t go upsetting yourself,’ I say loudly, moving round the table to rub her shoulder. She shakes me off, irritably, stumbling backwards into Alan’s arms. He catches her and she bats him away like a madwoman.
‘Get off me!’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘She’s very confused.’
‘Do you need me to call an ambulance?’
‘No, no, I’ll just put her in a cab.’ Alan raises his eyebrows, obviously thinking that me bundling my batty old gran into a taxi is not the most caring act, but I want to wrap this up as quickly as possible.
‘Time to go home, Nanna Rose.’ I pick up my mother’s handbag – a lime-green Mulberry number – and escort her to the door, as everyone watches and whispers. She seems to shrink into herself as we exit, her shoulders hunched, highlighted hair falling over her face. How the high-and-mighty have fallen. I notice a few grey roots at her parting, and magnanimously resist pointing them out.
There’s a handy taxi rank round the corner and I wave to the first in line, checking her purse, which has several notes in it that should see her as far as Redcliffe.
‘Off you go then. Go and have a lie-down.’
She gazes out at me from deep within the cab. ‘Why did you do it?’
I hesitate. Now it’s done, I don’t really have anything left to add. ‘It’s been a long time coming,’ I say. ‘Today was the day.’
She nods, pulls the door closed, and the cab moves away.
38
There was a moment, when I was twelve, when my mother put a brick through my heart. It was the day Dad left, packing his bags and heading to the airport, leaving Rose covering her ravages with extra make-up and hairspray, before sailing off to her tennis club to pretend all was well. Annis slumped round to watch whatever was on, and after I made dinner for me and Maz, and did my homework, I sneaked out to the club to find Rose. It was out of character for me – a daring, rebellious act – but I wanted to see what she got up to, what she was like when we weren’t around. And it wasn’t like the babysitter would notice.
It was only a fifteen-minute walk there, and the summer evening was light and warm. When I arrived, I slipped through reception without anyone spotting me and headed for the bar. There she was, in the middle of a group, talking and laughing as if she didn’t have a care in the world, as if her husband hadn’t just quit the family home, as if she hadn’t just left her two daughters to fend for themselves, again. The bar area was partitioned, so I sat in the next section unobserved, and listened to the conversation. Rose’s friend Ginny and her husband were there, along with another couple I didn’t recognize, and a man they all called Dingo, which I assume was a nickname. They talked approvingly about Margaret Thatcher, disapprovingly about Nelson Mandela, and neutrally about Ronald Reagan. They had a long chat about house prices in Norwich, which nearly made me fall asleep. It was mostly predictable and boring, but the interesting part of the conversation went like this:
‘Where’s Jack tonight, Rose?’
A short pause. ‘Working again. He never stops. I’m a Vertex widow!’
Dad worked for an engineering firm, but not hard, and while he often stayed late, I suspected it was to socialize rather than slog. He didn’t apply himself to anything particularly, apart from putting his feet up.
‘You’re a tower of strength, Rose. A wonderful mother to those girls.’
That was definitely Ginny laying it on.
‘I won’t deny it’s tough when he’s away. But they’re what get me through it. My little girlies. They’re not the prettiest, or the cleverest . . .’ She couldn’t resist a swipe. ‘But they’re my babies. They’re what keep me going.’
I didn’t stay after that. Couldn’t listen to her playing the devoted mama, gushing to her friends when she never directed any of that warmth towards us. Running home in the dusk, I felt angry and betrayed, but when I got back and saw Annis still slouching on the sofa, watching Tomorrow’s World, the emotions segued into a kind of flat despair. I huddled next to her, staring into the future.
‘You missed EastEnders,’ she said, her eyes on the screen. ‘Angie Watts went to Spain as well. Just like your dad.’ Of course, Annis knew what was going on, even if no one at the club did.
