the
wife.’
‘Ex-wife!’ snapped
Angela.
‘I still can’t help
liking him, for a divorced man,’ revealed Sadie, apropos of
nothing. ‘ Though God
knows where you’d marry. The church can’t give its
blessing.’
‘Slow down, Ma! You can’t
help liking him because he’s shown an interest in me, without
being a multiple bigamist or on the run from Broadmoor. As far as we
know. Isn’t that the bottom line?’
Sadie turned away, twisting the
J-cloth through shaking fingers. ‘ Lowest
form of wit, Angela.’
‘Sorry!’
winced Angela, assailed by a rush of guilt, filial tenderness and
roaring resentment of her mother. The joints of Sadie’s fingers
looked swollen, and not just from the cold. It was the arthritis
kicking in, Angela knew. But when she’d offered to clean
Fenton’s headstone, Sadie had feigned deafness and scrubbed at
the granite with renewed zeal. She was determined to play the martyr.
‘ Let me
take your coat,’ said Conor as she stepped over the threshold.
‘Th-thanks.’ Angela
twisted out of it, an idiot smile clamped to her face. ‘ Ooh,
your house is lovely!’
Despite the cringe-making note of
cliché, it was true. Angela was awe-struck. 23 Pacelli Close,
Loxton, had looked an imposing detached house from the outside,
flanked by other four-bedroomed detached houses, and surrounded by
luxuriant but pruned trees, always a sign of middle-class affluence.
But the inside was something
else. A gleaming wooden floor, carefully littered with pastel rugs,
swept up to a spiralling wooden staircase. Through a door to the
left, she glimpsed a cream velvet sofa cradling gold-tasselled
cushions, and beyond that, a pair of french windows, hung with
amazing, ruched curtains. The sort you had to unswag every five
seconds and dust ‒ or so she suspected. It was like something
out of Homes & Interiors . No wonder his ‘ daily’
was often a live-in ‘ weekly’.
‘This is Shane,’
announced Conor, while she gawped.
She turned a few degrees, with a
smile not so much clamped in place as held by invisible fixative. A
figure shuffled down the stairs, extending a hand.
‘How do you do?’
mumbled Shane.
Angela gawped again, before
muttering, ‘ Pleased
to meet you!’ and pumping his hand over-enthusiastically.
He wasn’t what she’d
expected. Conor’s son was a skinny stick-insect of a child with
a prominent Adam’s apple, sticking-up mousy hair and a pair of
pebbly glasses. He had nothing ‒ not an iota ‒ of his
father’s stocky masculinity, red hair or green eyes ‒ nor
any discernible prospect of succeeding to such attributes. Angela
could only presume that Shane had been hit with the ugly stick via
Kate’s genetic input. She was ashamed to find this suspicion
comforting.
‘Goodness!’ said
Angela lamely. ‘ You
don’t look like your dad. I mean, you’re clearly going to
be ‒ taller.’
Shane shrugged and tugged up a
sock that couldn’t get a purchase on his skinny leg. He’s
probably a nice, sensitive, introverted kid, thought Angela, ashamed
of judging by appearances. He probably collects insects in jam jars ‒
and empties them down the back of his father’s fancy-women’s
necks, a cynical inner voice surmised. Could it have been Robert’s?
‘Lunch is all ready,’
announced Conor, guiding them both across the polished floor. ‘ Easy
journey here, Angela?’
‘Oh yes. Ten minutes on the
train, like you predicted.’
‘I’d have been more
than happy to pick you up at the station.’
‘Oh, but I enjoyed the
walk. Loxton is blessed with such leafy ‒ boulevards.’
She was perspiring as they
reached the kitchen. He seemed very eager to stuff lunch down her
neck, without the preliminaries of an aperitif or a guided tour.
Already, she and Conor were playing mannered roles. Here in his home,
where he should’ve been at his most natural, he’d become
a hostly automaton. She missed the little she knew of him so far ‒
his grunting, scratchy inability to
wife.’
‘Ex-wife!’ snapped
Angela.
‘I still can’t help
liking him, for a divorced man,’ revealed Sadie, apropos of
nothing. ‘ Though God
knows where you’d marry. The church can’t give its
blessing.’
‘Slow down, Ma! You can’t
help liking him because he’s shown an interest in me, without
being a multiple bigamist or on the run from Broadmoor. As far as we
know. Isn’t that the bottom line?’
Sadie turned away, twisting the
J-cloth through shaking fingers. ‘ Lowest
form of wit, Angela.’
‘Sorry!’
winced Angela, assailed by a rush of guilt, filial tenderness and
roaring resentment of her mother. The joints of Sadie’s fingers
looked swollen, and not just from the cold. It was the arthritis
kicking in, Angela knew. But when she’d offered to clean
Fenton’s headstone, Sadie had feigned deafness and scrubbed at
the granite with renewed zeal. She was determined to play the martyr.
‘ Let me
take your coat,’ said Conor as she stepped over the threshold.
‘Th-thanks.’ Angela
twisted out of it, an idiot smile clamped to her face. ‘ Ooh,
your house is lovely!’
Despite the cringe-making note of
cliché, it was true. Angela was awe-struck. 23 Pacelli Close,
Loxton, had looked an imposing detached house from the outside,
flanked by other four-bedroomed detached houses, and surrounded by
luxuriant but pruned trees, always a sign of middle-class affluence.
But the inside was something
else. A gleaming wooden floor, carefully littered with pastel rugs,
swept up to a spiralling wooden staircase. Through a door to the
left, she glimpsed a cream velvet sofa cradling gold-tasselled
cushions, and beyond that, a pair of french windows, hung with
amazing, ruched curtains. The sort you had to unswag every five
seconds and dust ‒ or so she suspected. It was like something
out of Homes & Interiors . No wonder his ‘ daily’
was often a live-in ‘ weekly’.
‘This is Shane,’
announced Conor, while she gawped.
She turned a few degrees, with a
smile not so much clamped in place as held by invisible fixative. A
figure shuffled down the stairs, extending a hand.
‘How do you do?’
mumbled Shane.
Angela gawped again, before
muttering, ‘ Pleased
to meet you!’ and pumping his hand over-enthusiastically.
He wasn’t what she’d
expected. Conor’s son was a skinny stick-insect of a child with
a prominent Adam’s apple, sticking-up mousy hair and a pair of
pebbly glasses. He had nothing ‒ not an iota ‒ of his
father’s stocky masculinity, red hair or green eyes ‒ nor
any discernible prospect of succeeding to such attributes. Angela
could only presume that Shane had been hit with the ugly stick via
Kate’s genetic input. She was ashamed to find this suspicion
comforting.
‘Goodness!’ said
Angela lamely. ‘ You
don’t look like your dad. I mean, you’re clearly going to
be ‒ taller.’
Shane shrugged and tugged up a
sock that couldn’t get a purchase on his skinny leg. He’s
probably a nice, sensitive, introverted kid, thought Angela, ashamed
of judging by appearances. He probably collects insects in jam jars ‒
and empties them down the back of his father’s fancy-women’s
necks, a cynical inner voice surmised. Could it have been Robert’s?
‘Lunch is all ready,’
announced Conor, guiding them both across the polished floor. ‘ Easy
journey here, Angela?’
‘Oh yes. Ten minutes on the
train, like you predicted.’
‘I’d have been more
than happy to pick you up at the station.’
‘Oh, but I enjoyed the
walk. Loxton is blessed with such leafy ‒ boulevards.’
She was perspiring as they
reached the kitchen. He seemed very eager to stuff lunch down her
neck, without the preliminaries of an aperitif or a guided tour.
Already, she and Conor were playing mannered roles. Here in his home,
where he should’ve been at his most natural, he’d become
a hostly automaton. She missed the little she knew of him so far ‒
his grunting, scratchy inability to
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