Julian thought. The kitchen looked like a bomb site after her efforts. At the best of times it was a good enough kitchen, despite Edward's fishing mess; the oldest part of a patchwork house.
There was a big pine table, large, heavy chairs which did not match and an old-fashioned Rayburn stove which Joanna loved for all the trouble of tending it and all the unreliability of the oven. A heavy kettle stood on top, simmering endlessly. The room was always warm. The pantry beyond the ancient fridge was cool by contrast, a large, walk-in store with stone-flagged floor, netted windows and pale shelves crammed with stores. On the floor in there, at all times, were two or three bundles of Edward's always superfluous fishing bait, worms, inelegantly wrapped in newspaper, an unlikely source of protein for the inmates of the house.
The cake, Mother announced in one of her very rare, comprehensible sentences, was for the guest. Joanna looked at it in horror. If only Mother wouldn't.
`She's late, this rotten old bitch of a lawyer, thank God she's late, the cow, nothing's ready.'
Joanna's temper was running high; Julian's likewise.
`Don't flap. It doesn't suit you. What do you want me to do? Worry about impressing her? I doubt if she's a cow or a bitch, it's physically impossible to be both, she's only a sort of hired help.'
`We should have a lot in common then,' Joanna hissed. 'Only I'm not paid.'
`No, but it's patently obvious you're well fed,' said Julian. This marked the end of the shouting.
The row had caused the delay and rendered a light cheese sauce inedible. Joanna had started again, which was why she was not going to cry now. The poached halibut required no extra salt.
Impatiently, Julian stacked two fishing rods against the wall. Edward's fishing tackle seemed to penetrate every room in the house except his own. Wherever he went, he seemed to fall over Edward's deliberate attempts to impress as well as dominate. Fishing and Edward did not really go together. He only did it to be manly, like his father.
`Did you check her room?' Joanna snapped. 'You know, the cottage? I suppose you managed that?' It was a poor attempt at sarcasm, her voice too shrill for impact.
`Yes, but I don't see why you didn't ask Ed first, he's far more time than me. It's fine. Could have done with some flowers, though.'
`She's only the hired help,' Joanna hissed, pleased with herself The pleasure faded quickly. No-one should have mentioned flowers, or even thought about them. Mother could sense a word from a mile away, also a row and the way to make it worse. She had the uncanny instinct of appearing on cue, in the wrong role and always the wrong costume like now as she stood in the kitchen doorway, holding an enormous bunch of dandelions in one hand, a clutch of nasturtiums in the other.
She had a full bottle of wine poking out of the pocket of her coat. An evening gown swayed round her ankles beneath a mackintosh and there were three ostrich feathers in her hair. Julian took away the wine and placed it on the table in a swift manoeuvre, well practised if devoid of humanity. Mother's eyes filled with tears. She had always been so infuriatingly defenceless, he thought. Earned her nickname of Mouse for always weeping like her daughter, neither able to stand their own ground.
`Why did you do that, darling? Oh, I'm hungry.' She moved unsteadily towards a small pile of grated cheese on the chopping board.
`No you don't,' Joanna said. 'Leave it alone, will you? What do you want?'
`Something to eat, I think. Just a little something. Don't you like my cake?' She stood centre stage, smiling at them both through bright, watery eyes.
Àre you going to change for dinner?' Julian asked ironically. `Should I? It's only a bitch or a cow, you were saying. I was just going to put flowers in its room—'
`No!' Joanna shouted. 'No you won't. Not after I've swept, hoovered, put out towels, no you don't.'
Mother's upper lip trembled. She looked at both her
There was a big pine table, large, heavy chairs which did not match and an old-fashioned Rayburn stove which Joanna loved for all the trouble of tending it and all the unreliability of the oven. A heavy kettle stood on top, simmering endlessly. The room was always warm. The pantry beyond the ancient fridge was cool by contrast, a large, walk-in store with stone-flagged floor, netted windows and pale shelves crammed with stores. On the floor in there, at all times, were two or three bundles of Edward's always superfluous fishing bait, worms, inelegantly wrapped in newspaper, an unlikely source of protein for the inmates of the house.
The cake, Mother announced in one of her very rare, comprehensible sentences, was for the guest. Joanna looked at it in horror. If only Mother wouldn't.
`She's late, this rotten old bitch of a lawyer, thank God she's late, the cow, nothing's ready.'
Joanna's temper was running high; Julian's likewise.
`Don't flap. It doesn't suit you. What do you want me to do? Worry about impressing her? I doubt if she's a cow or a bitch, it's physically impossible to be both, she's only a sort of hired help.'
`We should have a lot in common then,' Joanna hissed. 'Only I'm not paid.'
`No, but it's patently obvious you're well fed,' said Julian. This marked the end of the shouting.
The row had caused the delay and rendered a light cheese sauce inedible. Joanna had started again, which was why she was not going to cry now. The poached halibut required no extra salt.
Impatiently, Julian stacked two fishing rods against the wall. Edward's fishing tackle seemed to penetrate every room in the house except his own. Wherever he went, he seemed to fall over Edward's deliberate attempts to impress as well as dominate. Fishing and Edward did not really go together. He only did it to be manly, like his father.
`Did you check her room?' Joanna snapped. 'You know, the cottage? I suppose you managed that?' It was a poor attempt at sarcasm, her voice too shrill for impact.
`Yes, but I don't see why you didn't ask Ed first, he's far more time than me. It's fine. Could have done with some flowers, though.'
`She's only the hired help,' Joanna hissed, pleased with herself The pleasure faded quickly. No-one should have mentioned flowers, or even thought about them. Mother could sense a word from a mile away, also a row and the way to make it worse. She had the uncanny instinct of appearing on cue, in the wrong role and always the wrong costume like now as she stood in the kitchen doorway, holding an enormous bunch of dandelions in one hand, a clutch of nasturtiums in the other.
She had a full bottle of wine poking out of the pocket of her coat. An evening gown swayed round her ankles beneath a mackintosh and there were three ostrich feathers in her hair. Julian took away the wine and placed it on the table in a swift manoeuvre, well practised if devoid of humanity. Mother's eyes filled with tears. She had always been so infuriatingly defenceless, he thought. Earned her nickname of Mouse for always weeping like her daughter, neither able to stand their own ground.
`Why did you do that, darling? Oh, I'm hungry.' She moved unsteadily towards a small pile of grated cheese on the chopping board.
`No you don't,' Joanna said. 'Leave it alone, will you? What do you want?'
`Something to eat, I think. Just a little something. Don't you like my cake?' She stood centre stage, smiling at them both through bright, watery eyes.
Àre you going to change for dinner?' Julian asked ironically. `Should I? It's only a bitch or a cow, you were saying. I was just going to put flowers in its room—'
`No!' Joanna shouted. 'No you won't. Not after I've swept, hoovered, put out towels, no you don't.'
Mother's upper lip trembled. She looked at both her
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