hungry. ‘Can I get in on that, Mum?’
‘Certainly, dear. You never eat enough.’
‘I eat plenty, Mom, I haven’t fallen away yet.’
She took the butter out of the fridge and spread it thickly across the toast. I’d forgotten the taste of real butter.
‘Keith will be missing you,’ she said, after a couple of bites.
I couldn’t tell her more lies. Besides, it would probably bother her less now that she had other things to think about. ‘Keith and I broke up.’
‘No!’
‘Yeah. A while ago. But it’s OK. It’s for the best.’
‘That’s an awful shame. I was very fond of him.’
‘I was too. But I wasn’t in love with him, not like it should be.’
‘I don’t know what it is with your generation. You all think it has to be like the films. You just get on with it, dear. And Keith is one of the good ones.’ She sighed as she sipped her milk.
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’
‘Oh, don’t be. You’ll always do what you want. And just when I thought I’d the lot of you off my hands.’
‘Yeah,’ I agreed, but then I remembered Lucy. ‘Lucy isn’t married yet,’ I added jokingly. ‘I’m not the only one who –’
‘Oh, I know perfectly well that that Iris girl is her… partner, or whatever you call it. I’m not a total fool. She’s as good as married.’
I was astounded. ‘Mum?’
‘Yes?’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Why would I? I’ve never seen her happier.’
I couldn’t believe it. ‘But what about your sisters? Won’t they be shocked?’
‘Let them.’
‘Wow, Mum, I’m so impressed.’
‘Wait till you have children of your own.’
For the first time in my life I wondered if that would ever happen. And, for the first time, it bothered me.
‘It’s a pity about Keith. Sure you might get back with him yet.’
‘Sure I might.’ It seemed the kindest thing to say.
The next couple of days at the hospital were much the same. Dad seemed to be in good form, but weak. The doctors were still vague and noncommittal; the nurses were cheerful and positive. Mum had settled into a groove of getting up early in the morning to do a little housework (with her jobs done she was free for the rest of the day), then going into the hospital after lunch, usually with either Ruth or me. She would spend the afternoon tidying Dad’s locker, giving him a proper shave or reading interesting bits out of the newspaper to him. Then she would have dinner with one of us, and Jean or Marion or whoever hadn’t been around in the afternoon would be with Dad for the evening. It was an odd time: Dad wasn’t in any danger so it felt as if we were rehearsing for something that might happen in the future. And we were all doing marvellously. I think it was that, rather than Dad being in hospital, that made me so uncomfortable.
On the third day I visited Dad in the morning. It was to be my first day at college, involving registration, orientation and an informal get-together in the evening, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to see him later. There was no need to visit, but I wanted to, and I think he liked seeing me. The staff don’t like you interrupting their routines in the morning but they’ll allow you in if you’re quick. So I was surprised to find that I wasn’t the only one visiting Dad at that hour. When I arrived Mike was there.
I saw him through the glass in the door before I opened it. He was sitting on the bed and Dad was looking more animated than I’d seen him in ages. He seemed to be describing something in great detail and Mike was listening intently, his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing a jacket: he must be seeing clients later. My heart skipped a beat.
Just then a nurse jostled me as she went into the room and before I knew it I had tumbled through the door. He turned and saw me. I could swear that his first instinct, before his brain had time to take over, was to smile. He was pleased to see me. But he checked himself and the nearly-smile turned into a hesitant greeting that quickly became a farewell.
‘There’s no need to go,’ I said. ‘I’m on my way to the shop. I’m going to get Dad his paper.’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I have to get back.’
Then the nurse spoke, pushing past me: ‘I’m sorry now, but both of you will