Another Mother's Son by Janet Davey Page B

your turn. The gaps are like amnesia, or blank pages caused by a print error. I tell him – in some desperation – that my mother underwent tests for glaucoma when her optician noted that the pressure in her eyes was raised. The hospital appointment – just a few weeks before she died – was at eight in the morning and she spent most of the day in the waiting room, first reading a book, then, once eye drops were administered, no longer able to read; after every intervention, back among the other patients in the rows of chairs, waiting for a doctor or a machine to become available. She returned home elated, not caring at all about the time spent, because she was given the all-clear and did not have a lifetime of eye medication ahead of her.
    â€˜I see,’ Dirk says, though I can tell he has stopped listening and closed an invisible door. I observed a similar expression on Randal’s face when Jehovah’s Witnesses called round with
The Watchtower
and tried to interest him in Armageddon.
    â€˜She always told a good story, putting on the voices and leaving out the tedious parts.’
    â€˜Good.’ Dirk speaks curtly.
    He fixes me with his gaze. There are fishtails at the corners of his eyes, where Jude’s skin is smooth.
    â€˜I had thought we would reconnect in Manchester, or at least find some clarity. But there is no clarity. Yet. The weekend did not go well. Frances referred to many of my failings. Some general, some particular. The particular I didn’t always recognise.’ Dirk touches the little bowl of wrapped sugar with his fingertips and pushes it a few inches along the table as if making a chess move. ‘She remembered things I said, even whole events, which I have no recall of at all. She spoke of an occasion in a shop in Biarritz when she was trying on a pair of trousers. There was another when we were on board a Stena Line ferry from Harwich to the Hook. I believe her because why should she make it up? I am perplexed that I have forgotten so much. It is like the
mise en abyme
. I am searching the long corridors of mirrors, looking for something I recognise. I don’t even recall we went to Biarritz. The holiday in the Pays Basque, yes. Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port where we stayed, the houses dipped in the River Nive, the cobbled main street, the very nice auberge where we ate colombe. From Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Biarritz is many kilometres. Frances did not like to drive the big car on mountain roads and at that time I had a bad back. A sciatica for which I took painkiller. I had a seat wedge and an adjustable backrest made of basket. I would never have undertaken the journey.’
    The woman comes out again from behind the counter. She brings two cups of coffee and a custard tart for Dirk on a thick white plate. I thank her. Dirk nods and bites into the puff pastry. He brushes the flakes from his lips.
    â€˜If her recollections are correct – and I have no reason to disbelieve her – I am indeed a monster. Such a person would cause unhappiness and the unhappiness would lead inevitably to Dr Fred Grabowski, a young, excessively handsome doctor who specialises in lacrimal surgery. Handsome to the point of ugliness. Or some similar man. Dr Fred Grabowski happened to be there at the right moment. The wrong moment for me. Often, it is the male who strays. When it is the woman it is doubly difficult because of the surprise element. I believed implicitly that Frances was where she said she would be. Tuesday evening at her clinic, Saturday morning with the horses. Where are people when they are not with you? Where do they go? I find I am questioning the most basic notions. Where is Mr Doig, for instance? I hope for your sake he is where he says he is. Now Dr Fred Grabowski has emerged and Frances has promised to tell the truth, however unwelcome, I believe she is where she says she is. There would be no advantage to a second layer of dishonesty at this