the cold spring earth certainly didn’t care, and that there was something deliberately masochistic about planting food for someone who had neither desire nor intention of being there to eat it. She flung the spade away from her and it clattered across a brick path and skidded into a leaning pile of glass panes she used for cloches over early lettuce, sending out a shower of green-white splinters. She sank to her knees, where she was, in the vegetable bed, and let herself howl like a toddler having a tantrum in a supermarket, rubbing at her wet face every so often with her earthy hands. When it began to rain, she didn’t move: it was almost a comfort to have something, however slight, happening.
The dogs, she could see, were watching her from the dining room, their paws up on the low windowsill.They were eager for walks but considered gardening an incomprehensibly dull activity, best regarded as a spectator sport unless the sun was out. They were also anxious about her at the moment, anxious about Guy, about the atmosphere, about the suitcases on the landing ready for Guy to collect and take to his rented rooms in Stanborough, about the disruption of routine. Their anxiety took the form of following her about, even to the lavatory, lying down outside and breathing heavily at her under the door. When the telephone rang, they raised their heads and watched her. When she wept, they came and camped on her feet, leaning against her legs. When she gardened, habit kept them inside, but worry drove them from their baskets to watch her through the window, straining to be reassured that everything was all right, in order again, normal.
‘Get down!’ she shouted at them. ‘You’re worse than
children.’
They gazed at her, not moving. She could picture their tails, poised to wag but not daring to while she presented so distraught and disconcerting a picture. They would be relieved when the boys came, when Simon and Alan arrived, and they could release themselves into habit, dashing about the kitchen, bringing welcome presents of tea towels and stray shoes. Poor dogs. They should have been a comfort just now, she should be grateful for their loyal, loving agitation, but instead all she could feel was that she hadn’t a scrap of comfort to give them because she had less than a scrap to give herself.
She got up out of the muddy spring earth and banged at the clotted patches on the knees of her trousers. She would have to change: change her clothes and brush her hair and find her pearl earrings and put the kettle on and do her best, however poor that was, to present herself to her sons as someone who had not, overnight, turned from being their support into being their burden. She went across to the brick path and, with the side of her boot, pushed the glass splinters into a neat pile. Then she turned and went slowly into the house.
‘Do we need to go at this speed?’ Alan said.
Simon glanced in the driving mirror, moved the gear shift into fifth and pulled out into the outside lane to overtake an immense curtain-sided truck, with French number plates.
‘Yes.’
‘Mum isn’t expecting us till four.’
‘I need to get there,’ Simon said. He glanced in his driving mirror again. ‘And then I need to get away again.’
Alan looked out of the car window at the cold, empty-seeming landscape, not yet free of the deadness of winter. It made him feel slightly hopeless, looking at it, or at least compounded the hopelessness he’d felt last night when the prospective owner of the bar in Fulham that Alan had been going to redesign, redecorate, had rung to say that the whole project was off: he couldn’t get the financing. He sighed now, remembering, staring at the dead fields.
‘I might stay the night,’ he said. ‘I’ll see how she is.’
Simon said, ‘We know how she is.’
‘Yes, but I expect she varies. I mean there’s probably even a bit of
relief
, but being Mum, she’ll be managing to feel guilty about that,
The dogs, she could see, were watching her from the dining room, their paws up on the low windowsill.They were eager for walks but considered gardening an incomprehensibly dull activity, best regarded as a spectator sport unless the sun was out. They were also anxious about her at the moment, anxious about Guy, about the atmosphere, about the suitcases on the landing ready for Guy to collect and take to his rented rooms in Stanborough, about the disruption of routine. Their anxiety took the form of following her about, even to the lavatory, lying down outside and breathing heavily at her under the door. When the telephone rang, they raised their heads and watched her. When she wept, they came and camped on her feet, leaning against her legs. When she gardened, habit kept them inside, but worry drove them from their baskets to watch her through the window, straining to be reassured that everything was all right, in order again, normal.
‘Get down!’ she shouted at them. ‘You’re worse than
children.’
They gazed at her, not moving. She could picture their tails, poised to wag but not daring to while she presented so distraught and disconcerting a picture. They would be relieved when the boys came, when Simon and Alan arrived, and they could release themselves into habit, dashing about the kitchen, bringing welcome presents of tea towels and stray shoes. Poor dogs. They should have been a comfort just now, she should be grateful for their loyal, loving agitation, but instead all she could feel was that she hadn’t a scrap of comfort to give them because she had less than a scrap to give herself.
She got up out of the muddy spring earth and banged at the clotted patches on the knees of her trousers. She would have to change: change her clothes and brush her hair and find her pearl earrings and put the kettle on and do her best, however poor that was, to present herself to her sons as someone who had not, overnight, turned from being their support into being their burden. She went across to the brick path and, with the side of her boot, pushed the glass splinters into a neat pile. Then she turned and went slowly into the house.
‘Do we need to go at this speed?’ Alan said.
Simon glanced in the driving mirror, moved the gear shift into fifth and pulled out into the outside lane to overtake an immense curtain-sided truck, with French number plates.
‘Yes.’
‘Mum isn’t expecting us till four.’
‘I need to get there,’ Simon said. He glanced in his driving mirror again. ‘And then I need to get away again.’
Alan looked out of the car window at the cold, empty-seeming landscape, not yet free of the deadness of winter. It made him feel slightly hopeless, looking at it, or at least compounded the hopelessness he’d felt last night when the prospective owner of the bar in Fulham that Alan had been going to redesign, redecorate, had rung to say that the whole project was off: he couldn’t get the financing. He sighed now, remembering, staring at the dead fields.
‘I might stay the night,’ he said. ‘I’ll see how she is.’
Simon said, ‘We know how she is.’
‘Yes, but I expect she varies. I mean there’s probably even a bit of
relief
, but being Mum, she’ll be managing to feel guilty about that,
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