I can’t quite place it.
‘This is Felicia Laureau from the retirement village where your aunt, Betty Mackleroy, is living?’
‘Oh, hello,’ I say, pleased that I don’t have to play the ‘pretend I know who you are’ game. Then it strikes me: this is Felicia Laureau from where Joel’s Aunty Betty is staying. I close my eyes and ground myself, like I would if I was about to be battered by a hurricane.
‘We were wondering if you could come in and see us tomorrow? Nothing to worry about, we’d simply like to discuss a few things with you.’
‘It has to be tomorrow, does it?’ I ask, trying to gauge how bad it is this time.
‘Yes, it has to be tomorrow.’ It’s really bad.
‘Right, fine. I’ll see you about midday.’
‘Perfect.’
I sit back on the grass, not bothered that the damp from the lawn seeps into my jeans and slowly soaks through to my knickers.
I’m not bothered because I know without question that tomorrow is going to be a repeat of yesterday.
II
V
15 years before
That Day
(February, 1996)
‘Saffron, meet Aunty Betty,’ Joel said proudly.
Aunty Betty reclined on the red velvet chaise longue in the living room of her Ealing mansion flat, her gold and silver cigarillo holder installed between the fore and middle fingers of her right hand. Her shiny black hair was piled up on top of her head in an elegant bun, at its front an ornate silver bun clasp. Her large eyes, heavily made up with gold and plum eyeshadow and what I suspected were false eyelashes, inspected me carefully. She lingered over my chin-length straightened black hair, she noted my lack of jewellery, she debated with herself over my knee-length blue silk skirt, and cream jumper secured at the middle with a blue patent belt. She openly disapproved of my blue and white shoes. Once she was done checking me over like a farmer might do a new pig at an animal auction, she took a long, theatrical drag on her holder. (You could tell it was all for show as little smoke came out when she exhaled.) Slowly, her rouged lips parted and she grinned. She was watching me like a predator watched the walking takeaway meal that was an injured, bleeding deer – it wouldn’t take much to devour her prey, but there’d still be enough fight in the creature to give her some fun.
‘Saff-aron.’ Her beam grew wider. ‘I like that name, you know.’ She had a Jamaican lilt so slight I wondered if I imagined it. ‘She’ll do. In fact, I think she’s perfect.’
Aunty Betty turned her slender, slightly wrinkled neck towards Joel, her smile growing by the second. ‘Ashtray.’ She indicated the blue and white porcelain ashtray on the teak sideboard with a waveof her hand. ‘Your parents are going to hate her,’ she informed him. ‘That makes me like her even more.’
‘Aunty Betty!’ Joel laughed as he handed her the ashtray then returned to my side, casually taking my hand. ‘Ignore her. She loves to cause controversy.’
‘Don’t I just?’ she said, the grin now taking up most of her face.
‘It was Aunty Betty who bought me my first cookbook and apron when I was seven,’ Joel said. ‘She unleashed my love of cooking.’
‘Yes, and his parents think that’s the reason why he didn’t go to Cambridge,’ she said, laughing. ‘They still hate me for it.’
‘Aunty Betty!’
‘It’s true. I don’t care, though. And that’s why it doesn’t matter that Ma and Pa Mackleroy are going to hate you, darling Saff-aron – I like you. And in the Mackleroy family, what I say is the law.’
‘Ignore her,’ Joel said. He was smiling indulgently at his aunt but not denying what she was saying: in his family, Aunty Betty was the law. And his parents were going to hate me.
*
Another office, another person who is uncomfortable, tense, shuffling papers and repeatedly clearing their throat in front of me.
What’s going to happen now? Is this woman going to tell me that Joel’s sixty-six-year-old Aunty Betty is pregnant,
‘This is Felicia Laureau from the retirement village where your aunt, Betty Mackleroy, is living?’
‘Oh, hello,’ I say, pleased that I don’t have to play the ‘pretend I know who you are’ game. Then it strikes me: this is Felicia Laureau from where Joel’s Aunty Betty is staying. I close my eyes and ground myself, like I would if I was about to be battered by a hurricane.
‘We were wondering if you could come in and see us tomorrow? Nothing to worry about, we’d simply like to discuss a few things with you.’
‘It has to be tomorrow, does it?’ I ask, trying to gauge how bad it is this time.
‘Yes, it has to be tomorrow.’ It’s really bad.
‘Right, fine. I’ll see you about midday.’
‘Perfect.’
I sit back on the grass, not bothered that the damp from the lawn seeps into my jeans and slowly soaks through to my knickers.
I’m not bothered because I know without question that tomorrow is going to be a repeat of yesterday.
II
V
15 years before
That Day
(February, 1996)
‘Saffron, meet Aunty Betty,’ Joel said proudly.
Aunty Betty reclined on the red velvet chaise longue in the living room of her Ealing mansion flat, her gold and silver cigarillo holder installed between the fore and middle fingers of her right hand. Her shiny black hair was piled up on top of her head in an elegant bun, at its front an ornate silver bun clasp. Her large eyes, heavily made up with gold and plum eyeshadow and what I suspected were false eyelashes, inspected me carefully. She lingered over my chin-length straightened black hair, she noted my lack of jewellery, she debated with herself over my knee-length blue silk skirt, and cream jumper secured at the middle with a blue patent belt. She openly disapproved of my blue and white shoes. Once she was done checking me over like a farmer might do a new pig at an animal auction, she took a long, theatrical drag on her holder. (You could tell it was all for show as little smoke came out when she exhaled.) Slowly, her rouged lips parted and she grinned. She was watching me like a predator watched the walking takeaway meal that was an injured, bleeding deer – it wouldn’t take much to devour her prey, but there’d still be enough fight in the creature to give her some fun.
‘Saff-aron.’ Her beam grew wider. ‘I like that name, you know.’ She had a Jamaican lilt so slight I wondered if I imagined it. ‘She’ll do. In fact, I think she’s perfect.’
Aunty Betty turned her slender, slightly wrinkled neck towards Joel, her smile growing by the second. ‘Ashtray.’ She indicated the blue and white porcelain ashtray on the teak sideboard with a waveof her hand. ‘Your parents are going to hate her,’ she informed him. ‘That makes me like her even more.’
‘Aunty Betty!’ Joel laughed as he handed her the ashtray then returned to my side, casually taking my hand. ‘Ignore her. She loves to cause controversy.’
‘Don’t I just?’ she said, the grin now taking up most of her face.
‘It was Aunty Betty who bought me my first cookbook and apron when I was seven,’ Joel said. ‘She unleashed my love of cooking.’
‘Yes, and his parents think that’s the reason why he didn’t go to Cambridge,’ she said, laughing. ‘They still hate me for it.’
‘Aunty Betty!’
‘It’s true. I don’t care, though. And that’s why it doesn’t matter that Ma and Pa Mackleroy are going to hate you, darling Saff-aron – I like you. And in the Mackleroy family, what I say is the law.’
‘Ignore her,’ Joel said. He was smiling indulgently at his aunt but not denying what she was saying: in his family, Aunty Betty was the law. And his parents were going to hate me.
*
Another office, another person who is uncomfortable, tense, shuffling papers and repeatedly clearing their throat in front of me.
What’s going to happen now? Is this woman going to tell me that Joel’s sixty-six-year-old Aunty Betty is pregnant,
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