‘I’m glad to hear that,’ she says. Then she adds, ‘Look, Steve, you don’t know me, you can tell me to piss off, and you might never use it, or do anything, that’s up to you. I know you drink a lot – Anna has told me.’ She pauses, waiting. If he is going to do it, this is when he will put the phone down on her. But no, he is still there; she can hear him, breathing. So she continues, ‘In a bit, when I’ve looked it up, I’m going to text you a number. Some people that might be able to support you if you feel you want to stop. OK?’
‘Whatever,’ he says. Then adds, ‘Thank you.’
Lunch is served bang on one; in fact the carriage clock on the dining-room mantelpiece strikes just as they take their seats: Lou’s mother, Lou, Pat, Audrey; Georgia has left to cook for her own family.
Nonetheless, Lou’s mother has unfolded an extra leaf of the oak table in honour of Pat and Audrey. She has cooked roast beef for them, too; Lou, as usual, must make do with the vegetables.
‘Are you still one of those vegans, then?’ asks Pat.
‘Vegetarian,’ corrects Lou. ‘I eat dairy.’
‘Thought you’d have grown out of it by now,’ he says, carving the meat with relish. Blood oozes down the side of the joint and onto the platter. He scoops it into a spoon and covers his helping.
‘It’s not something you grow out of,’ Audrey corrects him. ‘It’s something you believe in.’ She smiles at Lou, to show she understands – sort of.
Lou nods, appreciative. She has long observed that Audrey is more liberal than her husband, and, come to that, her sister, Lou’s mother. Her mother is the one who has children and grandchildren, yet her sibling seems more, not less, in touch with the younger generation.
For a few moments the only sounds are the scrape of polished silver on bone china. Then Audrey attempts to make conversation. ‘So,’ she says innocently, ‘do you have a boyfriend at the moment, dear?’
Lou nearly drops her fork. She is not used to such direct questioning; her mother avoids it.
‘I think there was something going on between Lou and that man on the train,’ says Lou’s mother, arching an eyebrow. Evidently, with Audrey and Pat to back her, she is prepared to probe more deeply than usual.
Lou grates her teeth. ‘No,’ she insists, ‘there wasn’t.’
She looks down, concentrating on spearing a carrot. Really, this meal is unbelievably bland; she can’t even have gravy because it has been made with the fat of the meat.
‘It’s all right, dear, you can tell us,’ says Uncle Pat, with the same overly sympathetic note in his voice as Lou could hear in her mother’s yesterday.
But I can’t! Lou protests inwardly. That’s the whole point.
‘I don’t think she wants to talk about it,’ Audrey realizes. ‘Sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s only you’re such a nice girl and—’
‘ – getting on a bit,’ says Uncle Pat, helpfully.
‘Pat!’ chides Audrey: ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
‘I was married at twenty-one,’ Lou’s mother points out.
‘I know.’ Lou reaches for the mustard. She needs something to give this wretched food flavour.
‘And your sister was married at twenty-four.’
‘I know that too.’
‘So you don’t want to have babies, then?’ asks Uncle Pat.
Lou feels herself being stretched by this conversation, like the string of a kite being pulled by the wind.
‘I, er, don’t know,’ she mutters.
‘You’d make a lovely mother,’ says Audrey.
Lou knows she means it kindly, but honestly . . . Audrey might have made a lovely mother too, but Lou wouldn’t contemplate saying so. She has no idea why Audrey hasn’t had children – miscarriages, infertility, her husband’s impotence – any of these could be the reason why. There might be all sorts of nerves it could touch. Why can’t they leave her alone?
‘You know what? I don’t think I really want children,’ she says, hoping to shock them, just a little. It is not even completely true – the reality is she hasn’t found anyone she would consider co-parenting with. But at least it might stop them prying.
‘Oh,’ says Lou’s mother.
Lou can read the disappointment in her face. Yet why should she be so let down? Aren’t two grandchildren enough? This reminds Lou of the photographs, earlier, and she feels the string inside her tautening.
Maybe it’s because her mother sees herself reflected in Lou’s circumstance: they are both single women, living alone. And even though she won’t admit it, Lou’s mother is lonely, her existence so circumscribed that she cannot believe Lou’s life could be otherwise.
Lou shudders. She can’t have her mother believe they are alike, not for a second. They are different, totally different. She has to make it clear.
And then she thinks of Simon, and all that has happened in the last week, and how she only has one life, which she has to live well, or at least, as best, with as much integrity, as she can. She recalls her father’s plea to keep the truth from her mother, and, at last, she sees it for what it was.
Cowardice.
Well, her father might have spent his life avoiding confrontation with his wife, but it killed him and Lou is sure as hell not going to let it kill her. She realizes that if she carries on denying who she is, then she really might end up like her mother; suffocated. If not immediately, then eventually.
She cannot pretend any more.
Once she has acknowledged this, the string can no longer take the strain. It snaps.
And—
‘I’m gay,’ she says.
This time there is no television to drown them out; they are there, in the middle of the table. The two most powerful words she has ever spoken, eclipsing the overcooked vegetables, undercooked meat and rapidly congealing gravy.
* * *
Warmed-up pizza, bean salad, couscous: Karen gives the children, herself and her mother a lunch of leftovers from the day before. Then, while Molly is having a nap and Luke and her mother are quietly practising Luke’s handwriting together, she slips away to Anna’s.
The short walk is the first time she has been alone – completely alone – for days. She has always had people upstairs, in the room next door, somewhere near.
It is a miserable afternoon. It doesn’t warrant an umbrella or pulling up the hood of her anorak, but dampness hangs in the air, permeating her hair and clothes, sitting on her skin. In many ways it is a day like a thousand others, though as she walks she grows increasingly aware: today is different. It is the first day of her life fully, properly without Simon.
He is buried, gone.
As she passes white terraced house after white terraced house, some with peeling paint, some newly decorated, some with scaffolding, she is struck: not all, but so many of them, are family homes. Inside, behind their whitewashed exteriors, are people with partners, children. They will be laughing, playing, arguing, sulking, serving Sunday lunches, snoozing on the sofa.
It seems unreal that her world no longer mirrors theirs.
* * *
‘I knew it,’ says Uncle Pat.
‘If you knew it, how come you never asked me?’ Uncle Pat appears not to know how to answer, so Lou helps him. ‘Because you were afraid to, maybe?’
‘I, er, don’t know . . .’
‘Well, I think so,’ she says. ‘And who can blame you? I was frightened to say so myself. The truth is, you’ve all known for years, but never admitted it out loud.’
She looks at them each in turn. Aunt Audrey is studiously examining her plate; it seems Royal Doulton has never been so fascinating. Uncle Pat is watching her, head cocked to one side, as if unexpectedly confronted by a strange animal in a zoo and trying to appraise it. But it is her mother who Lou really wants to read, and can’t.
Her face is blank, expressionless.
‘You know what, Mum?’ she says. ‘I haven’t got a boyfriend not because I can’t get one, but because I don’t want o
ne. I like women. At the end of the day, it is that simple. Dad knew and he asked me not to tell you. So I haven’t: not for all these years. I’ve protected you – kept it from you – because he was so worried it would upset you. In fact, he said it would destroy you. But I’m thirty-two, for fuck’s sake.’ She can see her mother recoil at her swearing, but Lou is no longer able to restrain herself. It must – she must – come out.
She turns to her uncle. ‘And you’re right, Uncle Pat, I am getting older.’ Then she says to her mother, ‘So what I’ve come to realize is that it’s all very well, protecting you, Mum, but what is protecting you doing to ME? If I carry on like this, living a lie, I’m the one that’s going to end up destroyed, eaten away. I’m telling you. I’m gay.
‘There’s no going back, no changing it, no “oh-she-just-hasn’t-met-the-right-man”. I am never going to be Georgia. I am never going to be married, with two point four children, live in a nice little house in the country, with a nice little husband, close to you. I am never going to drive a nice little Golf round Hitchin while my husband goes to work to pay for my frigging children’s clothes from Boden and my designer handbags like her. I don’t give a monkey’s for any of it.
‘I live in Brighton, where there are lots of other people just like me. I earn my own living. I have my own friends. And I’m going to sleep with women.’
She stops, breathes out, braces herself for the onslaught. Waits . . .
But instead, her mother just says, ‘Has everyone finished?’ and rises to her feet.
They pass their plates to her as implicitly requested, her mother collects them, and, without another word, she leaves the room.
The three of them sit there, awkwardly, Lou listening to the clock ticking on the mantelpiece, marking the passage of time.
Eventually, Audrey coughs, then says, ‘Well, then . . . Does that mean you’ve got a girlfriend, dear?’
Lou laughs, slightly manic. ‘No.’ Sofia comes to mind, but it is far, far too soon to give her that title, and anyway, Lou doesn’t want scrutiny about a specific relationship to add further heat to an already explosive situation.
Audrey smiles sympathetically and Lou feels that, ever so subtly, she is offering her support.
‘I’m not really seeing anyone,’ she volunteers.
She can feel Uncle Pat squirming, as if the very mention of her seeing a woman conjures up every kind of sexual freakery.
Lou returns her aunt’s smile, then takes a deep breath, reaches over, tips the remaining vegetables into one dish, places the empty container underneath, picks up the gravy boat and heads out into the kitchen.
Her mother is standing at the sink, elbow-deep in soap-suds.
Lou goes over to the draining board with the dishes.
Her Mum is crying.
Lou fights down anger, leans round to look her in the eye. ‘You OK, Mum?’
Her mother won’t meet her gaze. With her eyes studiously focused on the garden straight ahead, she says, ‘I don’t understand, Lou. What did I do wrong?’
‘It’s nothing you did, Mum,’ Lou replies. Inside she is screaming: what makes you believe you have to do something wrong for me to be gay?
Her mother finally turns to her, and Lou can see it: pain. A muscle twitches in her cheek; her eyes are full of sorrow.
‘You were always your father’s favourite,’ says her mother, as if she is struggling to find an explanation.
‘But not yours,’ observes Lou.
‘It’s not that I didn’t love you.’
Lou is shocked; her mother has never used the L-word with her before. She waits. Her mother’s hands rest on the edge of the sink; suds drip, unchecked, to the floor.
‘I just didn’t understand you, that’s all.’
‘I know.’ Suddenly Lou appreciates something of her mother’s point of view. It must have been hard, having Lou as a daughter: a girl who was so easily, so firmly connected to her father. Maybe she felt excluded, disempowered. ‘I’m trying to help you understand me more now.’
‘Mm.’ Her mother looks back out of the window, pensive. Outside, the garden is immaculately tended: the lawn gleams green with neatly manicured grass; pots of primulas and pansies edge the path in height order, smallest near the front, like a line-up of pupils for a school photograph.
‘It’s not too late, you know.’ Lou reaches over, places her own hand on top of her mother’s, gives it a squeeze. She is not used to touching her; they do so rarely. Through the wet and the soap, she feels her mother’s bones, her fragility.
And although her mother doesn’t respond, still doesn’t look at Lou, she doesn’t pull away, either.
For the time being, Lou is aware, this is as much as her mother can give.
* * *
‘Coffee, that’s what we need,’ says Karen. ‘I’ll make it, you carry on.’
She knows where Anna keeps the grounds, how the percolator works; and presently, she carries the mugs up the stairs, being careful not to spill anything on the cream carpet.
‘Stop for a minute,’ she suggests. They both take a seat on the bench in the bay window. Karen puts the mugs down on the floor close by.
For a moment they sit in silence, looking out.
It is not a smart street, and it is unlikely that it ever will be. There is litter on the pavement: a plastic bottle, a carrier bag, an old newspaper, wet from the rain. A car drives past, slowly, looking for a space to park; a young man walks up the road, side-stepping puddles. In the distance, on the hillside, a new office block is going up; next door, the house has lost some roof tiles.
‘Here we are, both of us without our men,’ says Anna, then adds, apologetic, ‘not that I mean it’s the same for me as you.’
She looks different today, Karen thinks. Then she realizes why. She has left her make-up off: a sure sign, if one were needed, that events have forced her, as they have with Karen, to abandon her routine. But Karen likes seeing Anna exposed this way: she seems younger, more vulnerable, real.
Karen leans forward, takes her hand.
‘Courage,’ she says.
The sky is the bluest of blues, cloudless. It is high summer, hot. The car window is fully wound down; Lou is leaning her left arm on the door, resting her head on her elbow, enjoying the breeze. They are in Sofia’s battered MG, roof folded back, headed along the seafront; Sofia is driving. Lou watches Sofia’s profile as she looks ahead, concentrating, and her heart soars up, up, to meet the cloudless sky.
It is one of those oh-so-rare times when Lou can’t, in any way, imagine how she could be happier. She loves her job, for all the pain-in-the-neck students she has to deal with. She loves this city, for all its down-at-heel mishmash of buildings and people and shingle-not-sand. She loves her flat, albeit small and imperfectly formed. She loves her friends, both old and new. She even – in a weird way – loves her mum. She knows her mum is trying – she can hear the effort in her voice when they speak. And although she can hear the disapproval too, it is nonetheless out there, in the open, who Lou is. At last, it is more her mum’s problem than hers. And her mother can deal with it, slowly, at her own pace. For, finally, Lou has a different focus: she has shifted, she has let go. Perhaps she needed to witness death in order to realize how much she wanted to meet someone, to make herself available, to free herself from the shackles of her past. Whatever the reason, Lou is in love, and, as of last night, it is official. She’d said it first, softly, while she and Sofia were in bed – ‘I love you.’ And Sofia had said, louder, with undoubted force, ‘I love you, too,’ and then they had both giggled, and kissed, and soon after that first Sofia, then Lou, came.
They are nearing a set of lights. ‘You need to go right here,’ instructs Lou.
Sofia indicates, makes the turn, and as they drive up away from the promenade through residential Hove, Lou has a sudden thought as to what would make this moment even more perfect.
‘Let’s stop and get ice creams,’ she says.
* * *
/> Karen is on her hands and knees, weeding the allotment, listening. Molly and Luke are chatting to each other, playing nearby. The earth is wet from rain the night before; they are making mud pies. A little further away someone is banging wood with a mallet: erecting a fence, maybe, or mending a shed. And further away still, she can hear chanting in the playing field across the road: ‘Go! Go! Go!’ It’s the weekend, so it must be the school baseball or rounders team, cheering on one of their members to complete a circuit and score.
Karen can feel the sun on her back, warming.
‘Children,’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘You need lotion.’
‘No, no, no lotion!’ Molly stamps her feet on clumpy grass. She hates this ritual.
‘Yes lotion.’ Karen walks over to the big wicker basket she has brought out with her and rummages for a plastic bottle. ‘Come here.’ And before Molly can protest further, she squirts the blue-white liquid onto her palms and squelches it over Molly’s limbs, sliding her hands round the plump flesh of her arms; down the front, then up the back of her legs. Then smear, smear, on either cheek – Molly is in full recoil mode by now, feet stamping one-two, one-two with increasing ferocity, and Karen can sense she’s right on the verge of a wail when – ‘Right, you’re done’ – she releases Molly to her game.
Phew, scene avoided. Molly’s tantrums have eased again lately – they reached a crescendo a month previously, but just when Karen really thought she might not be able to stand any more without doing something she’d regret, they’d decreased. Now they appear to be more of a once-a-day event, and that she can just about manage.
‘Your turn, Luke.’ He stands there, compliant, the barrel of his chest braced. His colouring is hers, but his physique is just like his father, thinks Karen, and his talents are his dad’s, too.
She wishes Simon could see them. He is missing these changes, the nuances of their growing up. The way Molly is less difficult, Luke’s body is changing from child to boy . . . She feels lonely, watching them sometimes, thinking about them like this: although she has friends and family who are glad to hear about her children, only their father would have appreciated these subtle differences just as she does.