fire.’
‘Mum, this whole house is a fire hazard. It’s fifty per cent paper.’
Her mother tutted. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘it’s quite interesting to me that I am perfectly happy living in this house until
you
come home and start criticising everything.’
‘That’s because I’m objective, Mother. I see things that you lot don’t. I see what you’re doing here.’
‘And what exactly am I doing here, Megan, apart from looking after everybody and doing the best job I possibly can to look after our lovely house?’
Megan didn’t bother to reply. It would have been too cruel.
Bob and Jenny had moved out the previous summer, and the house next door was now inhabited by a young couple with a baby who’d swapped a flat in Clapham for the picture-postcard Cotswolds cottage. They were called Vicky and Tim and their baby was called Madeleine, and of course Lorelei had invited them over for Easter lunch. Megan could only imagine that the invitation had taken them unawares, leavingthem no time to form a polite excuse. She could see it with her mind’s eye, Vicky stuttering and clutching her throat and saying, ‘Er, oh, well, yes, that would be
lovely
,’ with a terrible fake smile and a gulp. The baby was only six months old but still Lorelei planted her foil-wrapped eggs and brought out the battered wicker baskets and they all followed Vicky and Tim and the baby round the garden, trilling and oohing every time somebody found one, the baby in her mother’s arms looking entirely nonplussed.
The lamb was cooked and carved, the eggs were eaten, the foils were smoothed out, commented upon and put aside, the sun shone, there were too many carrots, not enough potatoes, the yellow walls ached under the weight of children’s art, the conversation sagged under the strain of nobody really knowing what to say any more, and Megan wished she’d stayed in London. At four o’clock Vicky and Tim took their sleeping baby back home to bed and then, rather surprisingly, Vicky reappeared five minutes later with a bottle of Beaujolais and she and Lorelei secreted themselves away in the snug where they sat and drank and laughed and talked for a full three hours.
Meg and Beth raised their eyebrows at each other as the sound of raucous laughter drifted from the window into the garden where they sat together in the last rays of the evening sun.
‘Well, said Beth, ‘not
everybody
thinks Mum’s as awful as you do, you know.’
‘I don’t think she’s awful. I just think she’s ill.’
Beth tutted. ‘She’s eccentric, that’s all.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Well, she is,’ laughed Beth. ‘Honestly. She’s a sweetheart – so much energy, so much character. She means well.’
‘She does
not
mean well. You know she hasn’t asked me one single question about my job since I got back. Hasn’t even noticed my haircut.’
‘Maybe she’s cross with you for leaving home.’
‘Well, that’s not normal, is it? What sort of mother gets cross with a twenty-year-old for leaving home?’
‘OK, maybe not leaving home as such, but living in London.’
‘What’s London got to do with it? Half the teenagers in this village end up living in London. It’s what
normal
people do. And what about Rhys?’
‘What about Rhys?’
‘Well, she just seems to have given up on him. She didn’t even make him come down for lunch. It’s like she doesn’t care.’
‘She did try, I heard her. He just refused to come down.’
‘Well, if that was my child I would not be able to sit at that table with those virtual strangers going “
tralalala, egg hunt, egg hunt
,” like there was nothing wrong. I would have dragged him down. I mean, he hasn’t even eaten anything. And it’s –’ she glanced at her watch – ‘it’s nearly seven o’clock. It’s nearly seven o’clock and she’s sitting in there, getting pissed with some woman she barely knows, and her son has been on his own all day and she hasn’t even been to check on
‘Mum, this whole house is a fire hazard. It’s fifty per cent paper.’
Her mother tutted. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘it’s quite interesting to me that I am perfectly happy living in this house until
you
come home and start criticising everything.’
‘That’s because I’m objective, Mother. I see things that you lot don’t. I see what you’re doing here.’
‘And what exactly am I doing here, Megan, apart from looking after everybody and doing the best job I possibly can to look after our lovely house?’
Megan didn’t bother to reply. It would have been too cruel.
Bob and Jenny had moved out the previous summer, and the house next door was now inhabited by a young couple with a baby who’d swapped a flat in Clapham for the picture-postcard Cotswolds cottage. They were called Vicky and Tim and their baby was called Madeleine, and of course Lorelei had invited them over for Easter lunch. Megan could only imagine that the invitation had taken them unawares, leavingthem no time to form a polite excuse. She could see it with her mind’s eye, Vicky stuttering and clutching her throat and saying, ‘Er, oh, well, yes, that would be
lovely
,’ with a terrible fake smile and a gulp. The baby was only six months old but still Lorelei planted her foil-wrapped eggs and brought out the battered wicker baskets and they all followed Vicky and Tim and the baby round the garden, trilling and oohing every time somebody found one, the baby in her mother’s arms looking entirely nonplussed.
The lamb was cooked and carved, the eggs were eaten, the foils were smoothed out, commented upon and put aside, the sun shone, there were too many carrots, not enough potatoes, the yellow walls ached under the weight of children’s art, the conversation sagged under the strain of nobody really knowing what to say any more, and Megan wished she’d stayed in London. At four o’clock Vicky and Tim took their sleeping baby back home to bed and then, rather surprisingly, Vicky reappeared five minutes later with a bottle of Beaujolais and she and Lorelei secreted themselves away in the snug where they sat and drank and laughed and talked for a full three hours.
Meg and Beth raised their eyebrows at each other as the sound of raucous laughter drifted from the window into the garden where they sat together in the last rays of the evening sun.
‘Well, said Beth, ‘not
everybody
thinks Mum’s as awful as you do, you know.’
‘I don’t think she’s awful. I just think she’s ill.’
Beth tutted. ‘She’s eccentric, that’s all.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Well, she is,’ laughed Beth. ‘Honestly. She’s a sweetheart – so much energy, so much character. She means well.’
‘She does
not
mean well. You know she hasn’t asked me one single question about my job since I got back. Hasn’t even noticed my haircut.’
‘Maybe she’s cross with you for leaving home.’
‘Well, that’s not normal, is it? What sort of mother gets cross with a twenty-year-old for leaving home?’
‘OK, maybe not leaving home as such, but living in London.’
‘What’s London got to do with it? Half the teenagers in this village end up living in London. It’s what
normal
people do. And what about Rhys?’
‘What about Rhys?’
‘Well, she just seems to have given up on him. She didn’t even make him come down for lunch. It’s like she doesn’t care.’
‘She did try, I heard her. He just refused to come down.’
‘Well, if that was my child I would not be able to sit at that table with those virtual strangers going “
tralalala, egg hunt, egg hunt
,” like there was nothing wrong. I would have dragged him down. I mean, he hasn’t even eaten anything. And it’s –’ she glanced at her watch – ‘it’s nearly seven o’clock. It’s nearly seven o’clock and she’s sitting in there, getting pissed with some woman she barely knows, and her son has been on his own all day and she hasn’t even been to check on
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