‘Yeah, why not?’ They haven’t done this for years; it reminds Karen of her childhood. Her mum is of the generation where such frugality was commonplace. Karen has often thought people could do with acting more like that again.
It is peculiar, isn’t it, she thinks, as she removes dishes and stacks them on the sideboard; the way the past makes its presence felt at unexpected moments. Here she is, handling crockery laden with her own history.
There is the chipped cast-iron casserole Phyllis passed to her a few years ago, saying Karen would have more use for it than she did, now she had children. There are eclectic mugs from a range of sources: promotional ones Simon has brought back from work, a couple of finely shaped porcelain ones that were a gift from Anna, a jokey one from Alan about hirsute men being better lovers. There are the flan cases that were her grandmother’s, offered up when Karen went to college. It was the same autumn her grandmother went into a home; Karen recalls her saying she’d not be cooking any more but maybe Karen could use them to equip her own place? Karen had been blasé back then; now she finds the memory deeply affecting whenever she uses them.
Next, she removes one, two, three, four, five, six matching dinner plates from the service she and Simon asked for as a wedding present. How many meals has she served on these? She runs her finger round the edge, tracing the single line of blue glaze round the rim. They are nothing showy, just plain white china. Their friends weren’t awash with money at the time; she and Simon were married when she was relatively young, and she and her peers had only recently graduated. An extravagant wedding list would have seemed greedy. Anyway, they’ve lasted well enough; only two have been broken. And what would have been the point of something so precious and fragile they could never eat from them? Whereas these have had years of good use, taking them right through from their first dinner parties as a couple, when pretty much the only dish she knew how to cook was shepherd’s pie, to the children’s birthday parties. Their flat base makes them ideal for cakes, just as they have been ideal today for the quiches, pizzas and tarts . . .
And so it comes, like the plates themselves, full circle. At the heart of almost all these memories is Simon. For so long he has been intrinsic to her existence: almost every piece of crockery relates in some way to the two of them. Even the items that pre-date their relationship he has used, shared with her, time and time again.
It is too much to assimilate. Karen has shed every tear she can today. She is wrung out, numb.
Instead she empties the cutlery basket and refills the machine with one last load. Then she clips a tablet in the soap container, shuts the door, and rotates the dial to start.
* * *
Once more, Anna wakes after only a few hours’ sleep. She is surprised, relieved, that Steve has not caused any further disturbance. Perhaps he has gone away.
She returns to the bay, peeks between the gap in the curtains. If he’s still in the garden, she doesn’t want him to see her and cause another scene.
There’s no one there.
Then something catches her eye. In the doorway of the office building up the road are her blankets; she can’t see him, but from their rounded shape she deduces that Steve must be curled up underneath, asleep. It is where the homeless guy used to shelter: the man with the cottage-cheese sandwiches.
Karen stirs; someone is by her side in the bed.
Could it be?
It can’t be.
It isn’t.
It’s Luke. He sneaked in under the covers in the night; now it comes back to her.
Is every morning going to be like this? A punch to her stomach, every time she opens her eyes?
She closes her lids, in the hope it will all go away. Wraps herself tight round Luke; whether she is protecting him or he her, she doesn’t know. But he feels warm and soft, and, while he still slumbers, at peace. Maybe for a few fleeting moments, some of it will rub off on her.
* * *
First thing on waking, Anna checks out of the window. Steve has gone from the doorway, taken the blankets with him. She pushes up the window, leans out, scans the road.
No sign.
She is still rattled by all that’s happened, but, ever practical, swiftly assesses. She can’t leave the house at the moment, lest he return. Steve has keys. So, before she does anything else, she must call a locksmith. She plugs in the landline phone once more and eventually gets through to one.
It transpires it will cost double because it is Sunday. ‘Can’t you wait till tomorrow?’ says the man. ‘If you’re in the house already?’
‘No,’ says Anna, baldly. Thus, within an hour, she is up, dressed, and watching a guy chisel away at the front door.
She is scared Steve will come back before the man has finished, but rather than sit around jigging her feet, she decides to put her agitation to good use. She gets a roll of bin bags from under the kitchen sink and takes them upstairs. There, she takes every item of his clothing from the hangers in the wardrobe and lays them out on the bed. Then, with a half-hearted attempt at folding, she places them one by one into the bags. Within twenty minutes she is done.
She is hunting for boxes for his books when she remembers: her mobile is still switched off. Perhaps she can risk turning it on. At least she can vet the calls. No sooner has it sounded its start-up jingle than it rings. She jumps, nervous.
It’s Karen.
‘Thank God! I’ve been trying to get through for ages.’
‘I’m sorry. I turned my mobile off. Why didn’t you try the landline?’
‘I tried last night. It just rang and rang. Then I tried again this morning and it was engaged. I thought there must be a fault on the line or something.’
‘No, I unplugged it. And then this morning I must have been on the phone to the locksmith.’
‘A locksmith? Why?’
‘Steve and I have split up.’ There seems little point in prefacing it.
‘Oh.’ The surprise in Karen’s voice is evident.
Anna waits for it to sink in.
‘Really?’ Karen asks, after a moment.
‘Yes.’ Anna knows that Karen is probably not saying too much, lest she change her mind in the near future. It’s always a hazard when couples part – declaring swift allegiances can easily backfire should they get back together. She wants to make it plain this is terminal. ‘We had a massive fight when we got in.’
‘God, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘No, I suppose.’
‘He was being an absolute twat. I should be the one apologizing to you.’
‘It’s not your fault, either.’
But again Anna feels that it is. ‘I should have seen it coming.’
‘Anna, with Steve you can never see it coming. One minute he’s utterly charming, the next – well, I hope you don’t mind me saying this – but a, um, drunken bore.’
‘That’s putting it mildly.’
‘Last night he surpassed himself.’
‘You’re telling me!’ says Anna. ‘You didn’t see the worst of it. When he got back here he was awful.’
‘He didn’t hit you, did he?’
‘Not exactly . . .’ Then Anna laughs. ‘I think I probably hurt him more than he hurt me.’
‘Oh?’
‘I kicked him in the balls.’
‘Well done!’ applauds Karen, and finally Anna has a sense of how her friend truly feels about him. ‘Where is he now?’
‘I threw him out.’
‘What, this morning?’
‘No, last night.’
‘Ooh, dear, the poor bugger. It was a bit cold.’
‘I gave him some blankets.’
It is only as she is retelling this that Anna can see just how bizarre the whole experience has been. The mirror is shattering on her looking-glass world.
‘So now what?’
‘I’ve changed the locks.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Karen gasps. ‘You haven’t wasted much time.’
‘Only f
our years,’ observes Anna dryly.
‘Well, I am sorry,’ Karen repeats. ‘I did like him, in a way.’ Then she adds, ‘The sober him, anyway.’
‘That’s the problem: it’s only half of him.’
‘Mm . . .’ She can sense Karen thinking. ‘What are you doing today?’
‘Packing up his stuff mostly, I expect. Why?’
‘Mum offered to keep an eye on Molly and Luke for a bit, later. Shall I come round, lend you a hand?’
‘That’d be great,’ says Anna.
* * *
It has been a long week and Lou needs to catch up on her sleep. This, together with the fact that it is Sunday, justifies her staying in bed an hour or so longer than usual. Half awake, half dozing, she listens to the sound of people moving about the house. The buzz of the water heater as her aunt takes a shower, the faint strain of classical music from the radio in the conservatory, the clink of dishes in the kitchen.
Eventually, she knows she can’t get away with it any longer: her mother will be pacing, keen for Lou to have breakfast. She throws back the bedcovers, pulls on her dressing gown and makes her way downstairs. She can hear voices: but it’s not Uncle Pat talking to her mother: her sister Georgia is here. Georgia often drops by at the weekend; she and her mother are in the kitchen.
‘Elliot is rather like your father,’ her mother is saying.
‘Do you think so? I thought he was more like Howard.’ Howard is Georgia’s husband, Elliot her son.
‘No, see here? His chin? That’s your father to a T.’
Lou frowns and pauses on the bottom stair. Damn Georgia, showing her mother the Christmas photos – she’d wanted to do that. She was the one who’d taken them, after all, and she is pleased with what she’d captured with her camera. She is disappointed at missing an opportunity to gain her mother’s praise. Then again, she should have known better than to send her sister a set: when it comes to snaps of her offspring, of course Georgia is going to want to show them off at the first opportunity. Lou tells herself not to be churlish and goes to join them.
‘Good morning,’ says her mother.
Lou takes a cup and saucer from the dresser, lifts the tea cosy, pours herself a cup of tea from the pot. She likes it strong but this is stewed and – she dips in her little finger – cold.
‘I think I’ll make a fresh one,’ she mutters.
‘Oh, yeah, sorry, we made that a while ago,’ says Georgia. ‘I get up so early, with the children. It’s automatic. I am jealous of you, able to sleep so late!’
Just for a split second Lou feels like saying, ‘No, you’re not.’ But instead she takes a seat next to them, reaches for the photos. Her nephew Elliot licking a spoon of cake mix with most of it around his mouth; Elliot taking his first bandy-legged steps; Elliot splashing in the bath – to be anything less than enthused would be horrid of her. Then there is her niece being breastfed; her niece’s face scrunched up and scowling; her niece grinning and playing with a rattle Lou herself gave her.
Lou adds milk to her tea and immerses herself in the moment, gazing and laughing and cooing along with her mother and sister, and she is pleased with the pictures after all, even though her mother doesn’t once say how good they are.
Then, as they come to the last one, Lou has an inexplicable rush of emotion. Suddenly, she feels like crying.
She gets up, walks to the window, trying to place what it is that has affected her so. Tears prick behind her eyes. Then the cause comes to her, as she brushes them away. It is envy. Not of her sister’s life: she wouldn’t want her marriage, or her house, or even, come to that, her children. But she does envy her sister’s relationship with their mother.
It seems so easy, so clean, so honest, in comparison with her own.
* * *
Anna is midway through sealing up the third box of Steve’s books with a noisy length of gaffer tape, when her phone rings again.
It’s Lou. ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘This a good moment?’
This time, Anna feels more confident that it truly is OK to chat. The hurricane has passed. She is picking up the pieces, but not caught up as she was, mid whirl. ‘Yes.’
‘I just wondered how it went, yesterday.’
Where should I start? thinks Anna. It has been one almighty twenty-four hours. ‘The gathering back at Karen’s was wonderful. On the whole.’
‘I am so pleased.’
‘Where are you?’Anna wants to verify before she launches into the full version of events.
‘At my mother’s. Well, actually, I’ve come out to buy the papers. Wanted the excuse for a walk.’
As she says this Anna hears a car swish by. ‘You get there OK?’
‘Yeah, fine.’
Anna doesn’t know Lou that well yet, but nevertheless can detect an undertone to her voice; Lou does not sound fine, really. ‘Everything all right?’
Lou exhales. ‘I’m just having a shit time with my mother. She’s driving me insane.’
‘Ah.’ Anna just knows, from the way Lou says this, and from what she has intimated before, when they were out earlier in the week, that there is history there. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Same old, same old, I guess. I didn’t really expect it to be otherwise. Still, sometimes you hope it will be different. You can’t help it.’
‘Yes. ’Anna thinks of Steve. How often did she hope against hope that he would be different, that he would change? She decides to confide. ‘Actually, Steve and I split up last night.’
‘Oh.’
Anna gives her a few seconds, as she did Karen.
‘That’s a shame,’ says Lou, eventually.
‘Do you think so?’ Anna is surprised Lou would feel this way. She wouldn’t have thought Lou would have judged them an ideal couple.
But Lou clarifies, ‘It’s always a shame, when people who care for each other split up. I got the sense you cared for him a lot.’
Considering how short a time they have known one another, Lou has her sussed. ‘I do, I did.’
‘But it’s awfully hard, living with an alcoholic, that I do appreciate.’
‘I just couldn’t do it any more.’ Anna looks round at all the boxes. It is a shame. There were things she and Steve had in common like this – reading – that she will miss dreadfully.
‘I did mean what I said though, you know, in the park.’
‘Oh?’
‘That you can’t sort it out for him, cure him.’
‘No.’
‘He’ll probably have to hit rock bottom, you know, before he does that. That’s what they say. In some ways you may have helped him, made him face it. With you there to support him, you were enabling him; he was bound to carry on drinking.’
Anna has heard this reasoning before, but not till this morning has it resonated with her so strongly. Steve at rock bottom; it is a tragic thought. She feels for him. ‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’ She wants Lou to say he will. She can’t take him back, she knows that; nonetheless she feels concerned for him, guilty. She has left him – or some might say he has left himself – with no home.
‘Probably,’ says Lou. ‘There is help there for him, if he seeks it out.’
‘You mean like Alcoholics Anonymous and so on?’
‘I do. Has he ever tried anything like that?’
‘No.’
‘You never know, he might do now. Meanwhile, has he somewhere to stay?’
‘I don’t know.’ Anna is frank. The guilt grows. She still feels responsible for him – she can’t shake that off overnight. But counter to this is another feeling, new, but she treasures it: a recognition she must, first and foremost, look after herself. ‘I don’t want him here,’ she reiterates.
‘No.’
‘He might stay with the guy he works with sometimes, Mike, or something, I hope. I don’t even really want to speak to him. But I would like to know he is OK.’ She is torn. ‘I haven’t heard from him yet, this morning.’
‘Has he got his mobil
e with him?’
Anna recalls the ceaseless calls the night before. ‘Yes.’
‘I could ring him, if you like,’ offers Lou, unexpectedly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Check he’s all right. I work at a hostel for the homeless, too. So if the worst comes to the worst, and he’s not with Mike or anyone, I could direct him there.’
Anna feels a mix of emotions: the idea of Steve in a hostel churns her up again inside. Nonetheless, she would like to know he is warm and cared for, however basically. It would be better than nothing. She can’t bear to think of him sleeping in a doorway for another night.
‘Would you mind?’
‘Of course not. I can withhold my number so he can’t ring me back. We’ll just check he’s OK.’
Anna wouldn’t want Lou to get embroiled in endless calls; she doesn’t want a mediator. But Lou has evidently experienced behaviour like Steve’s before – not that surprising, given her work – and thinks practically as well as generously.
Anna is grateful, especially when Lou is having such a difficult day herself.
Lou’s mother doesn’t know how lucky she is, thinks Anna, as she waits for Lou to call her with news. She shouldn’t give her daughter a hard time; she should be proud.
* * *
No time like the present, thinks Lou. She doesn’t really know what she is going to say, but there is little point in rehearsal. She has been out for a while now, walking round the village green. Her mother will be wondering where she is.
To her relief, Steve answers straight away. ‘Hello?’
‘Oh, hi,’ she says, still gathering herself. ‘I, er, you don’t know me, but I’m Lou, a friend of Anna’s.’
‘Yes. She has mentioned you.’ Lou detects an Antipodean twang. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m calling on her behalf. She just wants to know that you’re all right.’
‘I’m OK,’ he says. He doesn’t sound drunk, Lou concludes. Good. ‘Just a bit of a bad night. Is Anna all right?’ She hears his voice soften.
‘Yes, she seems to be.’ She cuts to it. ‘Where are you?’
‘At my mate Dave’s. He says I can stay here, just for a bit.’
Ah, so Anna was right. That is also good. To some degree, he is someone else’s problem now. But something in Lou doesn’t want to leave it right there: she wants to steer him, give him hope. Not for him and Anna, but for himself.