No self-worth to speak of for his mother, Ruth Church. Whatever initial rebellion she had in her had all been used up in the act of leaving home at fifteen and making her way to the city.
Poverty and her lack of education had done the rest. Too timid, too greedy for kindness, she’d been an easy target for a particular type of predatory male. The ones who liked to keep her beat down and fearful, dependent on them and oh-so-eager to please. Ruth Church Mouse, and when she wasn’t being criticised, she could often be found trying to make herself invisible.
She’d done her best to show him how to be invisible too.
Lesson learned—for what it was worth.
It helped that he was good at packing away feelings into tidy little compartments inside his head. Mother issues box? As in love her and despair of her in equal measure? Do not open. Father figure? See box labelled ‘Grandfather Joe’ and be grateful. Women he trusted? That box was empty.
A knock on the door had him reaching for the pyjama trousers he’d shed in the middle of the night. It was scorching hot in summer and his grandparents still didn’t have aircon for the bedrooms. ‘I’m up,’ he murmured, feeling all of eight years old again. He reached for his phone in an attempt to find out what time it was, but it was dead. Why was it dead? ‘Come in.’
The door cracked open and his grandfather’s head appeared. ‘Matilda’s on the phone and asking for you.’
Tilly? ‘What time is it?’
‘Six.’
Meaning early evening in London. ‘Thanks.’ He shoved his sheet back, headed for the bedroom door and claimed the handset. He wasn’t dressed for company, but Tilly would never know. He’d not only been using his old bedroom for this visit, he’d started wearing some of his old clothes around the place as well. His London clothes looked so out of place here. Too crisp. Too posh. All wrong.
‘Hot coffee in the kitchen when you’re ready,’ his grandfather offered. His grandfather was always up first, with the sun, putting wood on the fire and breakfast on. Such a startling concept when he’d arrived here all those years ago to find breakfast cooking and a mug of milky tea waiting for him at the kitchen table. His mother hadn’t believed in breakfast. She hadn’t put much emphasis on lunch and dinner either.
God, why was the thought of his mother so strong in his head this morning?
‘Thank you,’ he murmured to his grandfather, thinking of all those times he’d sat in stunned silence as the older man had filled his plate with perfectly poached eggs on toast, and bacon. Tomatoes and onion on the side. Sometimes even mushrooms.
He put the phone to his ear and attempted to stop wallowing around in memories.
‘Evening, Matilda.’ It sounded like Tilly was out and about, given the screaming baby in the background. ‘What’s up?’
‘Your daughter for one. Not that she sleeps, because she doesn’t.’
‘Sorry, I can’t hear you properly.’ He changed ears, thinking that might help. What was she saying about Len not getting enough sleep? ‘My doorman what?’
‘Sorry, what?’ Now it seemed like her turn to be confused. ‘Let me just—can I hang up, and you video call me back?’
‘Course.’ He grabbed his computer, which was charged, and headed out onto the verandah. ‘Fair warning, I’m just out of bed. No shirt, but I do have pyjama bottoms on.’
‘If only you’d kept them on,’ she muttered, and suddenly there she was on his screen, looking far from serene. She wasn’t alone. She had a little bundle tucked in the crook of one arm. A noisy screaming baby bundle. ‘Let me just—can you see her?’
‘Why are you babysitting?’
‘Exactly.’ Frustration roared along the airwaves, cloaked in Tilly’s voice. ‘Exactly my question! Did you know about this?’
‘Your babysitting gig?’ No.
‘Your daughter.’
His what?
But Tilly had barely drawn breath. ‘Because apparently you have one, and now she’s motherless, and if you could be genius enough to charge your phone, you might take the time to look at all the paperwork that came with her. And after that, I would very much appreciate your help when it comes to trying to care for her. Because I am doing a very bad job of that, Henry. A very bad job.’
Her dire words were accompanied by a wail from the baby that seemed to prove her point. ‘Hey,’ he murmured. ‘Shhh. Easy, there.’ Hard to say who exactly he was trying to soothe. Tilly most likely.
Because