Another Mother's Son by Janet Davey Page A

lingers on the nurse’s watchful waiting. I imagine an agonised swallowing going on out of shot.

26
    AS I WALK along Green Lanes, I glance down the Luptons’ road at the unbroken terraces of houses. There is no one about. Cars are parked bumper to bumper on either side but the pavements lack shoppers. I go past boarded-up premises. I have lived into the late capitalist period and this is what it looks like. Kebab shops, fried-chicken shops, betting shops, pawnbrokers. No Woolworths. If cattle emerged from the quiet lines of an English print and lugged their heavy bodies in the direction of the North Circular, they would not cause much of a stir. The traffic is slow moving, as usual.
    We look forward to meeting you, Dirk said. I wasn’t keen to get involved but for Jude’s sake I agreed. He suggested Palmers Green as the venue, though he and Frances do not know the area and I had to name the café. The choice was between the usual chains, one of the Greek Cypriot cake shops, or the bustling place with deliberately mismatching old china that is loved by young parents and crammed with buggies. I chose Costa’s, one of the Greek Cypriot cake shops, though now, recalling the air of melancholy that prevails and the elaborate wedding cakes in the window, I think I have made the wrong decision.
    The glass-fronted counter at Costa’s displays cakes and pastries but they could be fake because there is no smell of baking. I remember this characteristic as soon as I walk through the door. Baking, I conclude, as I did on a previous visit, must happen off the premises.
    I am the first to arrive at a few minutes before eleven and choose a table midway down the café in the centre row. The air is cold and I feel a draught around my ankles. I take off my coat and hang it over the back of the chair but keep my scarf on. The other tables, bolted down in neat ranks, one behind the other, are unoccupied. I take a book from my bag and begin to read without much attention, glancing up every now and then, though no one comes in or goes out.
    At ten past, the door opens and two men walk in, the first in work dungarees and heavy boots. The second, older man comes straight towards me. He is tall, wide-shouldered and fails to smile – forgetful or unfriendly – I do not know which yet. He wears a dark padded jacket. His close-cropped hair is of an unvarying grey. I bob up. He shakes me by the hand, remaining severe.
    â€˜Frances is riding. She says hello and is sorry not to see you. I think on this occasion she really is with the horses.’
    He undoes the buttons of his coat and sits down opposite me. His face shows signs of fatigue but I can see Jude in him. The sturdy set of the head, the downward-sloping eyes. The woman in the white wraparound overall comes out from behind the counter. We order coffee and Dirk gets up to choose a cake. He rises quickly and, before moving away, adjusts the position of his chair so that it is once more squared up with the table. After examining what is on offer and asking the woman various cake-related questions, he makes a decision.
    â€˜This is a good choice,’ he says, as he sits down again. ‘Quiet. A fragment of the past, like in a museum. When you said Costa’s I thought no because I prefer to avoid the chains but then you said cake and I knew we were in business.’ He puts his hands on the seat of the chair and repositions himself.
    â€˜It’s rather cold in here. I’m sorry about that,’ I say.
    â€˜Warmer than Manchester,’ he says. ‘The weekend there did not go well from my point of view. And Christmas was very difficult.’
    â€˜Ah,’ I say, or perhaps it is some other indeterminate sound.
    I tell him how much I like Jude. What a lovely girl she is. He clasps his hands together and bangs them against his lips. I ask him about his work. The conversation is hard going. I am aware of its construction – the my turn,