were wide, fixed on their mother’s face. She recognised the act of will involved. ‘You did mention it,’ Callie said, trying not to sound defensive.
‘Another boy. That makes three grandchildren. So far .’
‘How nice for Maddie,’ Peter said brightly.
‘It was Celia’s first, of course. I imagine she’ll have at least one more. Celia always struck me as such a maternal sort of girl.’ Laura played with her salad, turning it over with her fork, and addressed her next remark—a question, in fact—to Peter. ‘You remember Celia, don’t you?’
Callie held her breath, but Peter was on his best behaviour. ‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Such a lovely girl. That luncheon party a few years ago—remember?’
‘Yes, I remember,’ Peter confirmed. There was just the merest trace of irony in his voice; Callie heard it because she knew him so well, but trusted that their mother was typically oblivious.
Laura, characteristically, didn’t leave it at that. ‘I did think that the two of you would have made such a nice couple. She’s interested in the arts, and she’s very presentable. Knows howto dress. And as I said, so maternal. Married just a year, and a baby already.’
Callie feared that Peter had now been pushed far enough. As he opened his mouth, she created a diversion by dropping her fork. It hit her plate with a clank, then bounced on to the floor.
Frowning, Laura turned her attention to her daughter. ‘I hope that fork was clean ,’ she said sharply. ‘The carpet’s just been cleaned.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Callie’s voice was suitably meek and contrite.
‘You’ve always been clumsy, Caroline. I don’t know where you got it from—certainly not from me.’
Caroline. Laura always called her by her full name when she was more than usually peeved with her daughter. Or her son, or her life in general.
Why, thought Callie, did she and Peter put up with it? Why did they subject themselves, periodically, to the torture of being with a woman who didn’t seem to like them much? Who never approved of anything they did, or ever had a positive word to say?
She’d been worse since her husband died, a few years back—an act for which, perversely, she blamed him. Laura Anson hadn’t forgiven him for getting cancer, succumbing to it and leaving her on her own, and her bitterness poisoned everything in her life, including her relationship with her children.
Not that she’d ever been an easy mother. Not even when their father was alive. She’d always had the ability to see only what she wanted to see and ignore the things she disapproved of.
Peter’s decision to pursue a career as a freelance musician rather than follow his father into the Civil Service, for one thing. And then there was the small matter of his homosexuality. Laura Anson refused to believe in it, no matter how many times it was explained to her that Peter was not interested in being paired up with the daughters of her friends. That he was not going to marry a suitable girl, or give her grandchildren. She continued to be convinced that he just hadn’t met the right girl yet, and it remained her duty to push females of an appropriate age and social status in his direction until the situation corrected itself.
Callie had disappointed Laura Anson by leaving the Civil Service for the Church, and she hadn’t exactly done a great deal to please her mother in the grandchildren department, either. She’d be thirty in a few months, with no sign of settling down. No grandchildren on the horizon. And what if things continued to progress with Marco? ‘That policeman,’ her mother called him dismissively; he was obviously not the sort of son-in-law Laura Anson had in mind for the father of her future grandchildren.
Peter looked at his watch. ‘Callie,’ he said pointedly, ‘didn’t you mention that you had an appointment this afternoon? For an…urm…eye test?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Good old Peter, thought Callie as she pushed her chair
‘Another boy. That makes three grandchildren. So far .’
‘How nice for Maddie,’ Peter said brightly.
‘It was Celia’s first, of course. I imagine she’ll have at least one more. Celia always struck me as such a maternal sort of girl.’ Laura played with her salad, turning it over with her fork, and addressed her next remark—a question, in fact—to Peter. ‘You remember Celia, don’t you?’
Callie held her breath, but Peter was on his best behaviour. ‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Such a lovely girl. That luncheon party a few years ago—remember?’
‘Yes, I remember,’ Peter confirmed. There was just the merest trace of irony in his voice; Callie heard it because she knew him so well, but trusted that their mother was typically oblivious.
Laura, characteristically, didn’t leave it at that. ‘I did think that the two of you would have made such a nice couple. She’s interested in the arts, and she’s very presentable. Knows howto dress. And as I said, so maternal. Married just a year, and a baby already.’
Callie feared that Peter had now been pushed far enough. As he opened his mouth, she created a diversion by dropping her fork. It hit her plate with a clank, then bounced on to the floor.
Frowning, Laura turned her attention to her daughter. ‘I hope that fork was clean ,’ she said sharply. ‘The carpet’s just been cleaned.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Callie’s voice was suitably meek and contrite.
‘You’ve always been clumsy, Caroline. I don’t know where you got it from—certainly not from me.’
Caroline. Laura always called her by her full name when she was more than usually peeved with her daughter. Or her son, or her life in general.
Why, thought Callie, did she and Peter put up with it? Why did they subject themselves, periodically, to the torture of being with a woman who didn’t seem to like them much? Who never approved of anything they did, or ever had a positive word to say?
She’d been worse since her husband died, a few years back—an act for which, perversely, she blamed him. Laura Anson hadn’t forgiven him for getting cancer, succumbing to it and leaving her on her own, and her bitterness poisoned everything in her life, including her relationship with her children.
Not that she’d ever been an easy mother. Not even when their father was alive. She’d always had the ability to see only what she wanted to see and ignore the things she disapproved of.
Peter’s decision to pursue a career as a freelance musician rather than follow his father into the Civil Service, for one thing. And then there was the small matter of his homosexuality. Laura Anson refused to believe in it, no matter how many times it was explained to her that Peter was not interested in being paired up with the daughters of her friends. That he was not going to marry a suitable girl, or give her grandchildren. She continued to be convinced that he just hadn’t met the right girl yet, and it remained her duty to push females of an appropriate age and social status in his direction until the situation corrected itself.
Callie had disappointed Laura Anson by leaving the Civil Service for the Church, and she hadn’t exactly done a great deal to please her mother in the grandchildren department, either. She’d be thirty in a few months, with no sign of settling down. No grandchildren on the horizon. And what if things continued to progress with Marco? ‘That policeman,’ her mother called him dismissively; he was obviously not the sort of son-in-law Laura Anson had in mind for the father of her future grandchildren.
Peter looked at his watch. ‘Callie,’ he said pointedly, ‘didn’t you mention that you had an appointment this afternoon? For an…urm…eye test?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Good old Peter, thought Callie as she pushed her chair
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