Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,40
“Now, that’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it would. We could get her one of those nice Neapolitan cakes she likes. Or you know what?” my mother said, sniffing and nudging me excitedly with her elbow. “We could splash out and get a packet of Mr. Kipling’s.” She looked down at the letter on the table in front of her. “And you’re right about your grandma. She’s entitled to her bit of fun. I suppose I can’t begrudge her that.” She sounded as if she was trying to convince herself.
“I’m sure she thinks about you all the time,” I said.
“Yes, yes. I’m sure you’re right,” she said, looking up to give me a weak smile.
“Better now?” I asked, again eyeing the chip pan nervously. The oil had begun to smoke.
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose again, leaving her handkerchief a crumpled and sodden bundle in her palm. “Yes, love, I think I am.” She reached up and took hold of my hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, darling, I really don’t. You’re an anchor, you know that? A real anchor.” She squeezed my fingers. “You’re always there when I need you, aren’t you? Always so sensible, always know what to do. Not like me. I’m so scattered sometimes, I—”
“Mum,” I interrupted, trying to pull my hand from her grip.
“Yes, love?”
“I think I need to turn the gas under those chips down.” The smoke from the pan had become thicker; it had begun to fill the room. It burned in my nostrils, and I could taste it as I spoke.
“Yes, love,” my mother said again, releasing her hold on me. I launched myself across the kitchen and turned off the burner. Then, my eyes stinging, I scrambled to open a window, not an easy task, since the frame, like most of those in the house, was soft with rot and had swollen into place. Finally, I managed to force it open. After gulping in the fresh air, I turned back toward my mother, who was still sitting at the kitchen table, squeezing her hankie in her fist, completely oblivious to this culinary crisis.
“So, when’s tea going to be ready?” she asked.
I strode over to the cooker and peered into the still smoking pan, where the potatoes floated in the sizzling oil, charred and blackened strips. “It’s going to be a while.”
“Good. Well, maybe I’ll go and get dressed, then. You know, put my face on and straighten myself up a bit. I bet your dad would appreciate that, don’t you?”
As I went about preparing the potatoes again, I listened to my mother clattering around upstairs, stomping across the bare wooden floors, slamming then opening then slamming doors. Then, when I’d got the chips in the pan once again (this time with the heat turned down), I sat at the kitchen table and picked up the letter my mother had left there.
My eyes scanned the introductory greetings, and then the couple of paragraphs that described the tour of the opera house. Grandma mentioned Ted briefly: “I got a letter from your brother the other day. He says he’s not doing so bad, considering. I wish you’d drop him a line, Evelyn. It’d be nice for him to hear from you. He is your brother. And I hate thinking how he’s stuck behind bars all day. He’s not a bad lad, really. I wish I’d managed to do more to keep him on the straight and narrow. But at least my girls are doing all right! I hope your new house is nice and that you’re out of the hospital and feeling much better now. I know shingles can be nasty, so I was very happy to hear you’ve made a full recovery.”
I dropped the letter onto the table. Shingles? So that was how my mother’s stay in the hospital had been accounted for. Why, I wondered, was everything in my family shaded in lies? Why did everyone, myself included, never stick to the truth? I knew the answer, of course, because it was obvious. In our case, the truth was always ugly and so very hard to swallow.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ONE WEEK LATER, EVERYTHING WAS FINALLY UNPACKED AND MY father had made noticeable headway on the repairs. Even my mother seemed better. She’d assisted me enthusiastically with the unpacking, and after we were finished appeared to finally find herself a mission when she decided she was going to tackle the jungle of thistles that occupied our back garden.