No One Could Have Guessed the Weather by Anne-Marie Casey Page B

in therapy school is that everyone of our age has to give their parents an amnesty. No one had a clue about parenting in those days, so they just muddled through and did what their parents did to them. The challenge for us is not to repeat the mistakes they made. Cordelia thinks Mum and Dad were completely useless. The important thing is that we shouldn’t blame each other.”
    â€œThat’s actually very helpful, George.”
    And she walked down the stairs to the kitchen, thinking about Cordelia and her exemplary perception, until George shrieked and she turned and rushed back upstairs.
    â€œThat robin
is
looking at me strangely,” he said, amazed.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    L
UCY IS STANDING
holding a plate of wilting egg-and-cress sandwiches and avoiding her portly second cousin who stuck his hand up her skirt at her eighteenth birthday party. As she looks around the church hall she thinks this, this strange cocktail party bit, with the complimenting on the organization and the sausage rolls, and the peals of laughter from corners of the room, is the very worst bit of the day; worse than having to sit next to a coffin containing the body of someone in whose body you grew; worse than watching George choke on tears as he read out a letter his eldest daughter had written to her grandmother; worse than watching people struggle to describe this difficult, disliked woman in euphemisms; worse than the hideous
Wizard of Oz
curtain moment at the crematorium.
    She looks over to see George towering over Aunt Eva, deep in conversation, probably about the house and his return to England. She watches her father, his face red and puffy, sitting isolated on an uncomfortable chair at the side of the room, forever the villain, with Paula beside him, holding his hand, occasionally getting up to bring him another cup of tea. She feels his bemusement that his life should have turned out like this and Paula’s relief that their remaining years on earth together will be free of the tormenting phone calls, the demands for money, and the guilt, the interminable guilt of it all.
    Lucy wishes them well.
    She puts down the sandwiches, asks the two sweet teenagers from the Tasty Bite to make more coffee and tea, and heads to the ladies’ bathroom, pausing to splash water on her face before going into the disabled stall and sitting down for a few moments.
    Outside, the door opens and a familiar clip of heels and a high-pitched whisper indicate the entrance of Camilla, who has driven down with Rose to support Lucy, for which she is grateful. Camilla goes straight to the small window and opens it, and Lucy hears the click of a cigarette lighter, a deep inhale, and there is a bustle as Camilla climbs on the sanitary towel disposal unit so she can stick her head and shoulders out and smoke while Rose pees loudly, ending with a few intermittent splashes to strengthen her pelvic floor.
    Lucy remains silent, gripped with curiosity, listening as Rose comes out and washes her hands.
    â€œDo you think we can go now?” Rose says.
    â€œAbsolutely,” replies Camilla. “We’ve done our bit for poor dear Lucy. She looks dreadful.” She pauses to climb down onto the tiles. “George turned out surprisingly attractive, though, didn’t he?”
    â€œThat’s it, we’re leaving.”
    But Camilla is having a reflective moment.
    â€œYou know the worst thing about these sort of funerals, funerals of people who were just awful, is that everyone has to stand up and say how great they were, and how it was all the fault of the ‘illness,’ how they really did love their husband or their kids despite everything. But the truth is, I never saw Lucy’s mum smile except when a large bottle of chardonnay was heading toward her. Do you remember her performance at Lucy’s twenty-first, when she tried to pick up one of the waiters?”
    â€œDon’t remind me. We picked up the