I say, shutting the door behind us.
‘Black, two sugars!’ says Betsy, settling herself down in an armchair.
I shake my head as I go into the kitchen. Imagine one of my neighbours inviting herself into my flat in London like that. I might genuinely call the police.
Once Betsy and I are both sitting down with our teas, silence descends. She looks expectantly at me, but I haven’t a clue what I’m meant to talk about. It’s easy talking to Grandma, she’s Grandma, but actually I don’t really know what chitchat with elderly people entails otherwise. The only other old person I know is Grandpa Wade, and he’s an arse, so I mostly just ignored him.
I try to imagine this is a new client meeting and reach around for the small-talk skills I usually manage to conjure up in times of dire necessity, but Betsy gets there first.
‘How are you then, Leena, dear?’ she asks, taking a sip of her tea.
‘Oh, I’m very well, thanks,’ I say.
‘No, really,’ she asks, and she pins me there with those watery blue eyes, all earnest and intent.
I shift in my seat. ‘I really am fine.’
‘It’s been … gosh, over a year, now, hasn’t it, since you lost Carla?’
I hate that phrase, lost Carla. Like we didn’t take enough care of her and let her get away. We don’t have any good words for talking about death – they’re all too small.
‘Yes. A year and two months.’
‘What a dear girl she was.’
I stare down at my tea. I doubt Betsy really liked Carla much – my sister was too bold and brash to be the sort of young woman Betsy would approve of. I grit my teeth, surprised to feel the heat around my eyes that means tears are coming.
‘And your mother … She’s found it very hard, hasn’t she?’
How did this conversation get so personal so quickly? I drink a few more gulps of tea – it’s too hot and scalds my tongue.
‘Everyone processes grief differently.’ I find this line very useful for conversations like this. It usually shuts things down.
‘Yes, but she did rather … collapse in on herself, didn’t she? Is she coping, that’s what I wonder.’
I stare at Betsy. This is personal to the point of rudeness, surely?
‘Can’t we do something?’ Betsy offers, setting her tea down. ‘Won’t you let us help?’
‘What would you be able to do?’ It comes out too sharply, an emphasis on you that I didn’t mean to place there, and I see Betsy recoil, offended. ‘I mean … I don’t see …’
‘I quite understand,’ Betsy says stiffly. ‘I won’t be any use, I’m sure.’
‘No, I mean …’
I trail off, and her phone rings, ear-piercing in the silence. Betsy takes for ever to answer it, fumbling with the leather case.
‘Hello?’
A tinny voice rattles through the phone, indistinct but definitely very loud.
‘There’s ham and cheese in the fridge, if you want a sarnie,’ Betsy says.
More tinny rattling.
‘Well, I just put the mayonnaise on one side, and … Yes. I’m sure you – all right, Cliff, love, I’ll come home. Yes. Absolutely. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
I wince. Has he actually just summoned her home to make him a sandwich? That feels so ridiculous – if Ethan tried to do that, I’d … I’d probably laugh, actually, because it would be so absurd I’d know he would have to be joking. Presumably it’s different for Betsy’s generation, though – it wouldn’t be strange for a woman to make all her husband’s meals fifty years ago, I suppose.
Betsy puts her phone back into her handbag, then tries to get up too quickly and doesn’t quite have the momentum for it. She rocks back into the chair, helpless, like one of those dolls with a weight in the bottom.
‘Do stay,’ I say, conscious I’ve said all the wrong things. ‘I’m sure your husband can wait, if you want to have a—’
‘My husband cannot wait,’ Betsy says sharply. ‘I have to be off.’
I move to help her up.
‘No, no, I’m quite all right,’ she says. Once standing, she fixes me with another very serious look. ‘I hope you understand what you’re taking on here in Hamleigh, Leena.’
I can’t help it – my lip twitches. Betsy’s frown deepens.
‘I’m sure it all looks very easy for someone like you, but Eileen does an awful lot around here, and we need you to step up. You’ll be taking on her responsibilities for the May Day Planning Committee, I gather?’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ I say, managing