silence,
scrubbing bird mess off Fenton’s headstone with a J-cloth and
Cif.
Sadie had gone for granite, which
looked weather-beaten in the space of a year. Robert’s black
marble headstone still gleamed, rain or shine, the white lettering
picked out with the sharp definition of bones on a Hallowe’en
skeleton suit.
Angela wiped her hands on her
coat and stood back to admire her handiwork. The budded tulips
pointed upwards, tiny praying hands.
Instinctively, Angela felt
guilty. She was trying to appease Robert, buying him off with a
votive offering, so he’d leave her alone to get to know Conor.
It was two weeks since the London picnic. Tomorrow, she was going to
Conor’s for lunch.
‘Hey!’ called Sadie. ‘Y ou’re
standing on an Eva Shanley’s grave.’
‘Am I? Sorry,’ said
Angela to the unknown Eva Shanley. She joined Rachel on the bench,
treading carefully. ‘ Mum,
what was Owen like at fourteen?’
Sadie looked thoughtful. ‘ Much
as he is now, middle-aged and serious. He never gave me and your dad
a moment’s trouble, which was worrying in itself. I should’ve
realised he was just biding his time to skip off and reinvent
himself. Is this about Conor’s son?’
‘Yes,’ admitted
Angela frankly. ‘ Should
I bring him a present? Or should it be a general
thanks-for-having-me-to-lunch gift, like a bottle of wine?’
Sadie pondered. ‘ You
could always slip the lad a tenner as you’re leaving. He probably gets cards full of money from his aunties and puts them towards things you’d never dream
of buying for him.’
‘Good idea,’
brightened Angela. ‘ And
a bottle of Blue Nun for politeness.’
‘A shame the kid’ll
be there at all, cramping both your styles,’ murmured Rachel,
slinging a cat among the pigeons. ‘ I
mean, there you’ll be, in his house, with a master bedroom
going begging upstairs, wine sloshing round your pleasantly numbed
faculties and limbs, the Catholic guilt on temporary hold.’
‘Sssh!’ Throwing a
look at Sadie, Angela slid down next to her and hissed, ‘ No
references to physical contact, if you please. Um ‒ you don’t
think that’s why he’s invited me to lunch en famille ,
do you? In case I pounce on him across the salad bowl?’
Rachel laughed smuttily. ‘ You
‒ pounce? I know he hasn’t known you long, Ange, but he
must have the measure of you as far as pouncing goes.’
‘What’s that supposed
to mean?’ muttered Angela, knowing exactly what it meant. Her
womanly wiles, such as they’d ever been, hadn’t exactly
been honed by sixteen years of comfortable marriage to a man who’d
still fancied her in winter flannel nighties.
‘I think the son’s
presence is significant,’ backtracked Rachel. ‘ It’s
like being invited to tea to meet your beau’s parents.’
‘But he’s not my
beau!’ spluttered Angela. ‘ And
he dropped it too casually into the invitation ‒ oh, by the
way, you’ll probably get to meet the child prodigy ‒ in
fact, the more I think of it, the more it comes across as a way of
keeping me at arm’s length.’
Sadie puffed up to join them,
suspicious of the muttering. ‘ Now,
if I were you, Angela, I’d find out a bit more about the wife.’
‘Ex-wife.’
‘Has she gone for good?’
mused Sadie. ‘ Is she
likely to reappear on the scene?’
‘Why she did a runner,’
prompted Rachel. ‘ And
has he got a cellarful of ex-wives, like Bluebeard?’
‘Enough already! How am I
supposed to subtly extract all this key info?’
‘Who said anything about
subtlety?’ snorted Rachel, snipping stalks with gusto. ‘ Just
ask him straight out what happened to his marriage. It’s not as
if you’ve anything to hide. Your spouse didn’t leave by
choice.’
Angela stood up. ‘ I
find these ‒ unwholesome wonderings distasteful in this
setting.’
‘Just remember’ ‒
and here Rachel wagged a finger ‒ ‘ don’t
do anything daft, like really fall for him, until you know about
scrubbing bird mess off Fenton’s headstone with a J-cloth and
Cif.
Sadie had gone for granite, which
looked weather-beaten in the space of a year. Robert’s black
marble headstone still gleamed, rain or shine, the white lettering
picked out with the sharp definition of bones on a Hallowe’en
skeleton suit.
Angela wiped her hands on her
coat and stood back to admire her handiwork. The budded tulips
pointed upwards, tiny praying hands.
Instinctively, Angela felt
guilty. She was trying to appease Robert, buying him off with a
votive offering, so he’d leave her alone to get to know Conor.
It was two weeks since the London picnic. Tomorrow, she was going to
Conor’s for lunch.
‘Hey!’ called Sadie. ‘Y ou’re
standing on an Eva Shanley’s grave.’
‘Am I? Sorry,’ said
Angela to the unknown Eva Shanley. She joined Rachel on the bench,
treading carefully. ‘ Mum,
what was Owen like at fourteen?’
Sadie looked thoughtful. ‘ Much
as he is now, middle-aged and serious. He never gave me and your dad
a moment’s trouble, which was worrying in itself. I should’ve
realised he was just biding his time to skip off and reinvent
himself. Is this about Conor’s son?’
‘Yes,’ admitted
Angela frankly. ‘ Should
I bring him a present? Or should it be a general
thanks-for-having-me-to-lunch gift, like a bottle of wine?’
Sadie pondered. ‘ You
could always slip the lad a tenner as you’re leaving. He probably gets cards full of money from his aunties and puts them towards things you’d never dream
of buying for him.’
‘Good idea,’
brightened Angela. ‘ And
a bottle of Blue Nun for politeness.’
‘A shame the kid’ll
be there at all, cramping both your styles,’ murmured Rachel,
slinging a cat among the pigeons. ‘ I
mean, there you’ll be, in his house, with a master bedroom
going begging upstairs, wine sloshing round your pleasantly numbed
faculties and limbs, the Catholic guilt on temporary hold.’
‘Sssh!’ Throwing a
look at Sadie, Angela slid down next to her and hissed, ‘ No
references to physical contact, if you please. Um ‒ you don’t
think that’s why he’s invited me to lunch en famille ,
do you? In case I pounce on him across the salad bowl?’
Rachel laughed smuttily. ‘ You
‒ pounce? I know he hasn’t known you long, Ange, but he
must have the measure of you as far as pouncing goes.’
‘What’s that supposed
to mean?’ muttered Angela, knowing exactly what it meant. Her
womanly wiles, such as they’d ever been, hadn’t exactly
been honed by sixteen years of comfortable marriage to a man who’d
still fancied her in winter flannel nighties.
‘I think the son’s
presence is significant,’ backtracked Rachel. ‘ It’s
like being invited to tea to meet your beau’s parents.’
‘But he’s not my
beau!’ spluttered Angela. ‘ And
he dropped it too casually into the invitation ‒ oh, by the
way, you’ll probably get to meet the child prodigy ‒ in
fact, the more I think of it, the more it comes across as a way of
keeping me at arm’s length.’
Sadie puffed up to join them,
suspicious of the muttering. ‘ Now,
if I were you, Angela, I’d find out a bit more about the wife.’
‘Ex-wife.’
‘Has she gone for good?’
mused Sadie. ‘ Is she
likely to reappear on the scene?’
‘Why she did a runner,’
prompted Rachel. ‘ And
has he got a cellarful of ex-wives, like Bluebeard?’
‘Enough already! How am I
supposed to subtly extract all this key info?’
‘Who said anything about
subtlety?’ snorted Rachel, snipping stalks with gusto. ‘ Just
ask him straight out what happened to his marriage. It’s not as
if you’ve anything to hide. Your spouse didn’t leave by
choice.’
Angela stood up. ‘ I
find these ‒ unwholesome wonderings distasteful in this
setting.’
‘Just remember’ ‒
and here Rachel wagged a finger ‒ ‘ don’t
do anything daft, like really fall for him, until you know about
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