The Single Mums' Secrets - Janet Hoggarth Page 0,28
once they reached twelve for a better chance in life. Couldn’t she see that Phil’s rejection of their affluent lifestyle was probably a reaction to being sent away, effectively being told he wasn’t good enough. He’d managed to finally find his way after wandering aimlessly through a varied series of McJobs that certainly weren’t on the cards for an alumni of Dulwich College. He’d eventually trained as a children’s social worker and now helped kids who flitted unseen round the periphery of society, not fitting in due to circumstance or mental health issues.
He and Nigel hadn’t been close, but Louise had liked Phil on the occasions they’d met up. He was a kind man, unmarried but had a son, Oscar, from a dalliance fifteen years ago. Nigel had axiomatically been the favoured son with his more conventional career, and had replicated his own parents’ unconscious model for family life: children should be seen and not heard. How else was he supposed to take being sent away?
Louise knew it was a very black and white way of dissecting it all, but somewhere, there had to be truth in her conjecture. Nigel had loved the children, Louise knew that, but he loved them up to a point, and that point was often reached just as he was about to leave for the golf course. Though in the last month things had slowly started to change…
Jean never did get to rummage in Nigel’s wardrobe, but Louise had promised that she would let her know the minute she decided to make a start, and she could help. That had placated her and the immediate tears were temporarily halted, only to be resumed once she visited the loo and walked past the wedding photos in the hallway. Brendon had bundled a damp-faced Jean into his Mercedes and shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to do with her,’ he admitted to Louise as they stood awkwardly on the kerb, the children waving from the front step behind them. ‘She’s got out all his baby photos, crying over them. I don’t think she’ll ever get over this. Keeps saying she never had enough time with him.’
Louise zipped her lips. Poor Jean, was all she thought and headed back into the house to take down the wedding pictures and redistribute them somewhere less obvious.
*
Louise hovered outside the modern church hall she’d driven past a million times. It was set back from the main road down by the sharp S bend on the A205, a 1970s later addition just to the right of the grey stone Victorian church. It looked in need of some of TLC, most of the window frames had peeled down to the wood, and filler held the glass in place were rot had set in. She couldn’t believe she was actually considering this. She was not the kind of person to share things in public, and she knew she could have afforded a personal therapist, but just the thought of talking about it all, about herself, rehashing things from the past, she wasn’t interested in that.
She just sat down on the nearest chair the minute she walked through the door at the grief support group. When she’d typed in her requirements into Google, a glut of options streamed down the screen. She’d picked the one nearest to her, which wasn’t affiliated with a religion, which started at six p.m., leaving her time to make the kids’ tea and have either Christa or, like today, Jean and Brendon, supervise. That had narrowed down the search considerably.
She shoved her handbag on the floor, retrieved her water bottle and glanced nervously round the room. She appeared to be the only person under fifty here, though she wasn’t inspecting everyone that closely. The plastic grey chairs were grouped in a semi-circle in front of a stage at the back. A woman in her fifties was sat in the lone chair facing the group. She was obviously the chairwoman, or leader or whatever you would call someone in charge of a support group. Faded posters pinned on the walls declared the coming of Christ, and also handily how to resuscitate someone should they need it. Useful information for a grief support group.
Louise was suddenly gripped with a panic that she would have to speak, tell the room a bit about herself, where she came from, how long she’d been a widow, whether she preferred church funerals or crematorium ones, or even humanist. What would they want to know?