one-step-forward-two-steps-back of my boy.
For goodness sake, get a grip, she scolds herself. Weakness and self-pity won’t help anyone. I must be strong. She wipes away tears with the back of her hand and turns her attention back
to the task in hand.
A few minutes later Glenn strolls into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks, flicking on the kettle.
‘Making biscuits,’ says Abby, hoping he won’t notice she’s been crying. ‘You can lend a hand if you like.’
‘You’re OK.’
‘Of course we are,’ she mutters under her breath. ‘You carry on, leave us to it.’
‘Have fun,’ says Glenn once he’s made a coffee, and he ducks back out of the room.
However busy he is, Glenn could easily work in here if he wanted, she thinks. We’ve got a wireless connection and he could set up his laptop at the other end of the table. Just being in
the same room as Callum would show willing. She bites back a surge of anger. Since when did I agree to look after our child 24/7?
‘Well, it’s his loss, isn’t it?’ she says to Callum, unlocking the cupboard by the cooker. ‘Hey, sweetheart, look, it’s sugar.
Sugar
.’ She
grabs the packet.
Her son likes sugar, but he likes flour more. He sees the red-and-white-striped box beckoning and stretches up eagerly. ‘Eeee!’
‘Wait a minute, love.’
‘Ah, ah.’ Callum’s fingers ping, impatient.
‘No, this bit next.’ Abby removes the bowl from the mixer and grabs a wooden spoon, determined to give this a try. ‘Go ahead, that’s good . . .’ Together they tip
in the sugar, and Abby stirs while Callum watches, mesmerized.
‘Want a go?’ She hands him the spoon.
Callum picks it up, gives the mix a cursory stir, then drops the spoon and leaves her side.
Abby finishes and turns back for the flour.
‘OH NO! CALLUM!’
Somehow he has climbed onto the cooker and is standing on the hob, reaching into the cupboard . . .
He flips open the plastic lid, peers inside, scoops a handful of flour and stuffs it into his mouth –
Mm, delicious,
his expression declares. Then
POOF!
there’s a
splutter, and he coughs a white cloud. Before Abby can take in what is happening, he’s down in one leap and off, running down the hall with the box in his hands. By the time she catches up
with him, he’s reached the first-floor landing.
‘You . . . You little monkey . . .’ she says, grabbing one of his ankles to waylay him and gathering him into her arms. Maybe because the packet is empty, he allows himself to drop,
relaxed, onto her lap.
Abby pauses to catch her breath and they sit together on the top step. Then she looks back down. There’s a powder trail all the way along the hall and up the stairs. On some steps
it’s only a thin film of dust; on others giant blobs spray out like stars. The carpet is peppered with footprints. Her son’s face is a ghostly mask of white; there’s even flour in
his hair.
She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Well, I certainly experience things differently to other parents, don’t I?’ She laughs. ‘You’ve created our very own art
installation.’
* * *
After the stifling heat of the care home, it’s a relief to be in the fresh air, thinks Karen.
‘This cake is delicious,’ she says. ‘How’s yours?’
‘Good. Want to try?’ Without waiting for an answer, her mother loads a large piece of gateau onto her fork and leans over the beach cafe table.
Karen eyes the layers of cream and chocolate sponge. Never mind her father’s insult; she’s earned this treat. She opens her mouth and Shirley feeds her directly from her own
fork.
Mum’s never been squeamish about sharing germs, reflects Karen as she savours the sweetness. For this she is glad. Shirley was a post-war child, used to making do and mending, and her
no-nonsense approach ran through Karen’s early years like an underground stream, invisible and nurturing. My mothering mirrors Mum’s, she thinks. Molly and Luke share bathwater just
For goodness sake, get a grip, she scolds herself. Weakness and self-pity won’t help anyone. I must be strong. She wipes away tears with the back of her hand and turns her attention back
to the task in hand.
A few minutes later Glenn strolls into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks, flicking on the kettle.
‘Making biscuits,’ says Abby, hoping he won’t notice she’s been crying. ‘You can lend a hand if you like.’
‘You’re OK.’
‘Of course we are,’ she mutters under her breath. ‘You carry on, leave us to it.’
‘Have fun,’ says Glenn once he’s made a coffee, and he ducks back out of the room.
However busy he is, Glenn could easily work in here if he wanted, she thinks. We’ve got a wireless connection and he could set up his laptop at the other end of the table. Just being in
the same room as Callum would show willing. She bites back a surge of anger. Since when did I agree to look after our child 24/7?
‘Well, it’s his loss, isn’t it?’ she says to Callum, unlocking the cupboard by the cooker. ‘Hey, sweetheart, look, it’s sugar.
Sugar
.’ She
grabs the packet.
Her son likes sugar, but he likes flour more. He sees the red-and-white-striped box beckoning and stretches up eagerly. ‘Eeee!’
‘Wait a minute, love.’
‘Ah, ah.’ Callum’s fingers ping, impatient.
‘No, this bit next.’ Abby removes the bowl from the mixer and grabs a wooden spoon, determined to give this a try. ‘Go ahead, that’s good . . .’ Together they tip
in the sugar, and Abby stirs while Callum watches, mesmerized.
‘Want a go?’ She hands him the spoon.
Callum picks it up, gives the mix a cursory stir, then drops the spoon and leaves her side.
Abby finishes and turns back for the flour.
‘OH NO! CALLUM!’
Somehow he has climbed onto the cooker and is standing on the hob, reaching into the cupboard . . .
He flips open the plastic lid, peers inside, scoops a handful of flour and stuffs it into his mouth –
Mm, delicious,
his expression declares. Then
POOF!
there’s a
splutter, and he coughs a white cloud. Before Abby can take in what is happening, he’s down in one leap and off, running down the hall with the box in his hands. By the time she catches up
with him, he’s reached the first-floor landing.
‘You . . . You little monkey . . .’ she says, grabbing one of his ankles to waylay him and gathering him into her arms. Maybe because the packet is empty, he allows himself to drop,
relaxed, onto her lap.
Abby pauses to catch her breath and they sit together on the top step. Then she looks back down. There’s a powder trail all the way along the hall and up the stairs. On some steps
it’s only a thin film of dust; on others giant blobs spray out like stars. The carpet is peppered with footprints. Her son’s face is a ghostly mask of white; there’s even flour in
his hair.
She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Well, I certainly experience things differently to other parents, don’t I?’ She laughs. ‘You’ve created our very own art
installation.’
* * *
After the stifling heat of the care home, it’s a relief to be in the fresh air, thinks Karen.
‘This cake is delicious,’ she says. ‘How’s yours?’
‘Good. Want to try?’ Without waiting for an answer, her mother loads a large piece of gateau onto her fork and leans over the beach cafe table.
Karen eyes the layers of cream and chocolate sponge. Never mind her father’s insult; she’s earned this treat. She opens her mouth and Shirley feeds her directly from her own
fork.
Mum’s never been squeamish about sharing germs, reflects Karen as she savours the sweetness. For this she is glad. Shirley was a post-war child, used to making do and mending, and her
no-nonsense approach ran through Karen’s early years like an underground stream, invisible and nurturing. My mothering mirrors Mum’s, she thinks. Molly and Luke share bathwater just
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