Scissors, Paper, Stone by Elizabeth Day Page B

Anne’s conversations normally led this way – no matter what she began talking about, the subject matter would slide inexorably towards Charles. Charlotte was fed-up of hearing about her father’s shortcomings, partly because she was only too aware of them herself, but also because she thought that if her mother genuinely felt this strongly then she should have walked out years ago. It was as if the constant examination of Charles’s faults fed into Anne’s sense of self, enabling her to ignore her own. The familiar nit-picking seemed to have become integral to Anne’s own identity, as though she would cease to exist without being able to define herself in opposition to something. And while she clearly sought Charlotte’s sympathy for all that she had to put up with, the truth was that Anne was fuelled by her own unhappiness. She relied on it. Charlotte was pretty sure her mother wasn’t the easiest person to live with either.
    She had never voiced these thoughts to Anne, but they skulked beneath everything Charlotte said; a shadowy, irresistible undertow that pulled her words out of shape and twisted her sentences so that nothing that came out of her mouth seemed able to convey how she genuinely felt. She tried to quell the frustration she felt tighten in her chest.
    ‘Mum,’ she said, as pleasantly as she could, ‘he’s lying comatose in a hospital bed.’
    ‘I know that,’ said Anne sharply. ‘I’m just saying, it’s been an exhausting few days.’
    ‘Yes, I know. But he didn’t have the accident just to annoy you.’
    There was a lethal quiet on the end of the line.
    ‘Right, well,’ Anne said crisply, ‘there was a reason I was ringing you.’
    ‘OK.’
    ‘I’m clearing out the house and I notice there are still boxes of your stuff in your old room.’
    Charlotte thought of her childhood bedroom, the single bed in the corner with the pink-and-blue duvet patterned with dancing figurines, the small cabinet piled high with books and the motley assortment of patched-up teddy-bears. She could smell it: the instantly recognisable aroma of lavender pillows and sharpened pencils and toast being made in the kitchen below. She felt her throat constrict with an inexplicable sadness.
    ‘Is there anything you want to hold on to?’ Anne asked. ‘If not, then I can take a load to the Red Cross, but there might be some things in there that you’d like.’
    Charlotte dragged her mind back to the conversation. She knew she should be aghast that her mother was clearing out the house when her father was in a coma, teetering between life and death, but she wasn’t, not really. Anne had a curious capacity for detachment and Charlotte knew, from years of experience, that there was little point in trying to penetrate the carapace of her coolness. It was her way of coping. Charlotte held her breath. She sensed that Anne was issuing her with a challenge, was seeking to push her to the brink of something, to goad her into a reaction. She did not want to give into it.
    ‘No, don’t throw anything out. I’ll come round and sort it out.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘As soon as I can manage it.’
    ‘Well, it would be nice to know in advance.’
    ‘I’ll let you know,’ Charlotte replied brusquely. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go.’
    ‘Yes, yes, I’ve taken up enough of your time.’
    Don’t rise to it, Charlotte thought. Just don’t do it.
    ‘Bye, Mum. Nice to chat.’
    ‘Bye, Charlotte. Do let me know when you’re coming round, won’t you?’
    Anne hung up. Charlotte stayed motionless with the receiver pressed to her ear and listened to the reassuring crackle of the dialling tone for several minutes.
     
    The rest of the day turned out to be an accumulation of petty irritations. She found that she could not shake the discomfort of her conversation with her mother or the thought that the family home was being disembowelled of memories, that Anne was somehow preparing herself for Charles’s permanent absence. She tried