Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,81

weeks that hadn’t included a spare moment to get some shopping done. “I think we might have some custard creams in the biscuit tin….”

“Oh, that’s fine. We’re not hungry,” Mabel said, the unlit cigarette still in her mouth as she followed my mother down the hall. Frank, his hands pushed into the pockets of his big green trousers, tagged along behind next to my father. “We got something to eat on the way. Frank drove me over, you know.”

“Aye, that’s right,” Frank called toward my mother. “Came over in the Tuggles delivery van, we did. Let me use it outside of work hours, they do. And quite a ride it was. More curves on them there roads than on your Mabel!” He let out a loud raspy laugh.

At this, my mother turned on her heels, gave Auntie Mabel a sour look, and muttered, “Pick up the village idiot on your way, did you, Mabel?”

Mabel looked at Frank, exasperated. He swallowed his laugh and shrugged. “Just trying to lighten things up a bit,” he said, looking toward me and my father. I gave him a wan, apologetic smile, thinking that someone, at least, should let him know not to waste his energy. My father looked steadily at his own feet.

When we reached the kitchen, Mabel removed the still unlit cigarette from her mouth, grabbed me, wrapped me in a tight hug, and placed a greasy lipstick kiss on my cheek. “By heck, Jesse, I’ll swear you get bigger every time I see you. I bet you grow out of your clothes like nobody’s business.”

“You can say that again,” my mother said sternly as she filled the kettle. “You ask me, it’s a bit abnormal. When we were younger, we never grew like that.”

“Aye, well, kids these days, they’re a lot different,” said Frank. “My kids—”

My mother turned around abruptly. “You’ve got kids?” She waited for Frank’s nod of affirmation, then turned to scowl at Mabel.

“For God’s sake, keep your hair on, Evelyn,” Mabel said, sighing. “He’s divorced. His kids live with his ex-wife, don’t they, Frank?”

“Aye, nine and eleven, they are. Want to see a picture?” He gave my mother a hopeful smile, pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, and rummaged around until he found a creased photograph. He handed it to her. Eyebrows raised, lips pursed tight and small, she gave the photograph a cursory glance before passing it to my father.

“Hmmph,” she said. “I expect those poor little things must really miss their daddy. It’s awful, what happens to children of divorce.” She looked meaningfully over at Mabel, who, once again, popped the cigarette back into her mouth and began scouring her handbag for her cigarette lighter.

“Nice photo,” my father said, handing the picture back to Frank. My mother let out a snort.

For a moment, Frank held it in the flat of his hand. He was gazing at the photograph the way someone might if he were trying to read the lines in his palm, hoping to discern some hidden meaning from the deeply familiar.

“Can I see?” I asked, reaching for the photograph.

“Here,” he said, handing it to me.

It showed two dark-haired children, a boy and a girl. They were sitting on a beach, building a tilting, clumsy sandcastle, squinting and smiling as they looked toward the camera. The girl had two of her front teeth missing and a solid, pudgy body. She wore a canary-yellow swim-suit, and her hair was tied in two long, stringy plaits that hung limply over her chest. The boy, a little older, had Frank’s same skin-and-bones build. In the picture, as if immensely proud of his sandcastle, he was puffing out his chest to show the rigid arc of each of his ribs pressed against his pallid skin. “What are their names?” I asked.

“The girl’s Karen,” Frank said. “And the boy’s Bobby. Bit of a goodlooker, just like his dad, don’t you think?”

“You wish!” Mabel laughed.

I had never known a man to carry a photograph of his children around in his wallet. All the men I knew, like my father, left it to their wives to put their holiday snaps in albums or place the photographs that were taken annually at school in frames and set them on the sideboard. Children were something they left at home when they went out into the world, part of the domestic burden they shed as soon as they stepped out the front door. I wondered if once men got divorced and were freed of