The Single Mums' Secrets - Janet Hoggarth Page 0,27

simmering at the base of her throat desperate to let loose. It would be so easy to shout at him to shut the fuck up, to behave, to make him realise there were other people left behind in this family who couldn’t take out their frustrations on their bedroom door or siblings. He wouldn’t let her soothe him, so she had just left him to fight it out with himself, breaking her heart along with all his Lego creations.

The grief literature that Christa had stocked her up with stated most kids will let you know when they’re ready to talk. Ted was ready to scream, but talking seemed beyond him. He was closed off until he blew. Most kids, she read, won’t be able to process the grief of losing a parent until later on, but there was no time frame specified. That could mean when he was twenty he might finally decide to get help while fucking his life up along the way. Breathe, Louise, breathe…

She didn’t want to throw any of them into therapy until she could be sure they would open up. Meanwhile Gemma just followed her round the house the entire time, wanting to know the exact days Aunty Christa was picking them up from school so she wouldn’t think something had happened to Louise. Gemma didn’t even want to go to Hannah’s for tea on a Wednesday any more just in case. Louise could have accrued a million one-pound coins since Nigel had passed, one for every time Gemma shouted ‘Mummy’ when she was in the house, checking to see where she was. It was like a tick now; she almost couldn’t stop it and still said it even when Louise was standing right in front of her. And Isaac – he was on planet Isaac, and that revolved around Mummy and Peppa Pig.

Breathe, Louise. Just breathe… In for five, out for five.

‘Mummy, is he angry because Daddy died?’ Gemma bluntly asked as Isaac sat oblivious in his booster chair spoon-feeding himself a strawberry fromage frais. He hadn’t managed to ingest an awful lot, but the floor was having plenty of taster samples.

‘Yes, I think so, Gem.’ Brendon and Jean were arriving tomorrow to take the kids to the fair in Crystal Palace so she could go out. It was now officially the summer holidays and Louise was pretty much stuck for childcare. They had visited twice since the funeral, and both times Jean had ended up sobbing into her sherry and Brendon had to take her home.

‘Have you sorted out his clothes and things yet?’ she’d asked before the last emotional outburst. ‘I can help you if you want.’

‘I haven’t yet. I can’t quite face it,’ Louise had replied hoping that would be the end of it.

‘Do you want to make a start now?’ Jean had persisted.

‘Not really, Jean. I’ll get round to it when I’m ready.’

‘Do you mind if I have a look through? I’d like to take something as a reminder.’ Louise hadn’t yet worked out an appropriate response to these requests. She’d already guessed there must be some kind of mausoleum undoubtedly being curated in Nigel’s old bedroom back in Kent. Was Jean going to start charging visitors three quid a pop to have a nose round Nigel’s childhood bedroom and check out his teenage porn stash she’d found buried under a loose floorboard by the window?

‘It’s a bit of a mess from when I had to find a suit for him for the…’ Fuck me, fuck off! Louise wanted to scream. I do not want to have this conversation! Louise had just shoved all of Nigel’s clothes indiscriminately back in his wardrobe once she’d found a suitable outfit. She had wanted to put him in golfing attire, but Christa wouldn’t let her in case Jean asked for one last peek. At least it would have been a small victory. Burn, motherfuckers…

‘I don’t mind,’ Jean persisted.

‘I do,’ Louise shot back. Brendon was noticeably silent on the matter. Jean’s lip had started its customary quiver and Louise had inwardly rolled her eyes. Here we go again. She’d wanted to let rip with all the things she’d never said, but didn’t. It was a pity when the husband died, the remaining family didn’t automatically follow him to the grave. She stuffed down the wish to ask why Jean was so desperate for some of Nigel’s old rags when she had been more than happy to pack him and Phil off to boarding school