I were young, we’d all been quite certain that by this age we’d all be settled and happy. Domestic bliss felt like a lifetime away for me. I guess that’s what happens when you start all over again at the age of almost thirty.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Alex
10th May
I get on the train to Canterbury. Not sure why it feels like the right thing to do, but it’s been nagging at me. I dunno, maybe I’m reading too much into it, but the last couple of times we’ve spoken on the phone Mum’s sounded a bit fragile: keen to tell me how busy she is, and how much she’s got on.
I stare out of the window as the train pulls away, watching the familiar landmarks. I’ve sat on this same train countless times. An older man in an expensive-looking suit clears his throat in the chair opposite and spreads his newspaper over the table, and I feel a stab of grief. Weird how it hits you. It’s not the anniversaries or the birthdays, it’s the way a stranger shakes their newspaper open, or a song on the radio at the nurses’ station, that reminds you of what you’ve lost. I rub my face with both hands, screwing up my eyes and then opening them wide. I can’t remember not being tired. Everything’s just a blur of—
I wake up as we pull into the station at Canterbury, because someone knocks me on the shoulder with their bag as they’re pulling it down from the racks overhead.
‘Sorry, mate.’
‘You’ve done me a favour,’ I say gratefully. I stand up, blearily, and pull my ticket out of my pocket as I get off the train.
I see my mother before she sees me – she’s sitting in the car, waiting in the pick-up area beside the car park.
‘Hello, darling,’ she says, and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
‘Mum.’
‘I thought we could get a bit of lunch before we head home – go to the Red Lion?’ she says, and we pull out of the car park.
The pub’s busy, despite it being a weekday. We squeeze into a table in the corner and scan the menus.
‘I spoke to Gwen the other day,’ my mum says, casually.
I sit up and put the menu down. Mum carries on looking through the lunch options, as if we didn’t both know that she was going to have the same thing she always has when she comes here – ploughman’s lunch, no pickled onion, and half a pint of shandy.
‘What for?’ I ask.
I feel weirdly uncomfortable about that. Alice’s mum was nice enough, but the idea of her ringing is … weird. Is it weird? Maybe it’s perfectly normal for them to stay in touch.
‘You were going to marry her,’ Mum says, clearly reading my thoughts. ‘They would have been family. I thought it was nice.’
I make a vague noise of agreement. The last time I’d seen Alice had been anything but nice; we’d had a massive argument, where she’d made it more than clear that I was throwing my life away, ruining hers, and giving up a good career to (and I quote) piss about wiping people’s backsides for the rest of my life.
I go up to the bar and place our order. We chat about mundane things for a while, then when our food arrives, Mum launches into a long list of all the things she’s doing to keep herself busy. She’s got a pretty full-on job as a social worker for the local council, so I’m a bit worried she’s filling every second with things to avoid dealing with how she’s feeling.
‘I’m not overstretching myself, darling,’ she says, when I suggest she might need a bit more down time. She looks at me for a moment. ‘Have you just done a module on grief, or something like that?’
My mouth twists into a smile despite myself. ‘Yes, I might have – but that doesn’t mean I’m not right.’
‘Your dad’s health took up a lot of my time for the two years before he died. I had to give up pretty much everything apart from work and hospital visits, and then caring for him, and taking him to and from the hospice …’
‘I know.’
‘I still don’t see how all of that – that dreadful time – made you want to give up a perfectly good career.’
‘You know this.’ I try and keep my voice level. I feel like I’ve had this conversation a million times over and it’s like every time I