loo roll, managing even to smile. ‘I’ve not been right for a couple of days,’ she croaked. ‘Hope I don’t give it to you.’
‘I don’t get bugs,’ Jean retorted. ‘My cod-liver oil sees to that.’
‘Yuk.’ Charlotte reached for the towel rail and levered herself upright. ‘I can’t bear that stuff, not even in the capsules they say have no taste.’ She ran the flannel over her face again, feeling a lot better, dimly aware that she wanted to stretch out the moment. But her mother was already half on the landing, instructing her to have a lie-down if she wanted, not to come down until she was ready.
Charlotte rinsed her mouth, tidied her hair with a dusty tortoiseshell comb from the back of the bathroom cupboard, then walked, treading softly, along the corridor to the linen cupboard, pausing for a quick sentimental peek into the eaves space where Sam had once loved to hide. She saw in the same instant how foolish it was to be talking to anyone about Sam’s troubles but Sam himself. She would do it that night, she decided, no matter how much he squirmed. If there was something sinister going on, she would whittle it out of him.
Having made up her mother’s bed and folded the dirty sheets carefully into the laundry basket, she went as far as the door of what had, in latter years, been her father’s room, then changed her mind and turned back for the stairs. His stuff had long since found its way to charity shops. The bed would be flat and empty, the air scented with furniture polish. The only memento left was the old photo that lived on the window-sill, of him among the tea bushes, hand raised to ward off the sun, two workers standing next to him, their dusty faces grinning, their sacks bulging on their backs, her mother’s writing across the bottom: Reggie at Ratnapura. Charlotte knew it so well she was past needing to look at it.
Downstairs Jean was in the kitchen, the radio on at a high volume, wiping down the table mats.
‘I’m sorry –’
‘No need. You’re not well. You should get yourself home to bed.’
‘I changed your sheets.’
‘Thank you, but I would have managed, you know.’ She turned off the radio and hung the cloth over the edge of the sink.
‘Of course you would.’ Charlotte picked up her handbag. ‘I’d better go. I might be moving house, by the way.’
‘Might you, indeed? I thought you’d given up on that idea.’
‘I almost had but…’ Charlotte left the sentence hanging, warning herself to get out while the air between them was still relatively clear, ‘I’ll let you know, obviously.’
On the doorstep Jean thrust a carrier-bag at her. ‘It’s for your birthday.’
‘My birthday? But that’s months away.’ Charlotte laughed. ‘I’ll see you long before then.’
‘Quite possibly, but I should hate to forget and one can’t trust the post these days.’
‘No… right, thanks.’ Charlotte peered into the bag.
‘And it is your fortieth, after all.’
Charlotte made a face. ‘Don’t remind me.’
‘I suppose you’ll have a big party, won’t you?’
‘I very much doubt it.’
‘That one you did for Martin was lovely.’
‘Yes , yes, it was, wasn’t it,’ Charlotte muttered, hastily kissing her cheek and hurrying down the path, so eager to get away that she forgot the snails and crushed two before she could help herself.
‘Love to Sam,’ Jean called, when she was at the gate. ‘Tell him Granny sends her love.’
Sam plugged in the earphones of his portable CD-player for the journey back to Wandsworth. It had come with a case strapped to a belt so that you could walk around listening to whatever you wanted, but every time Sam tried it the music jumped, even when he took tiny steps and tried not to breathe too hard. It was a stupid, gay machine – he couldn’t believe how thrilled he had been to get it a year before. What he really wanted now was an iPod like Cindy’s, but just when he’d got her on the point of caving in
‘I don’t get bugs,’ Jean retorted. ‘My cod-liver oil sees to that.’
‘Yuk.’ Charlotte reached for the towel rail and levered herself upright. ‘I can’t bear that stuff, not even in the capsules they say have no taste.’ She ran the flannel over her face again, feeling a lot better, dimly aware that she wanted to stretch out the moment. But her mother was already half on the landing, instructing her to have a lie-down if she wanted, not to come down until she was ready.
Charlotte rinsed her mouth, tidied her hair with a dusty tortoiseshell comb from the back of the bathroom cupboard, then walked, treading softly, along the corridor to the linen cupboard, pausing for a quick sentimental peek into the eaves space where Sam had once loved to hide. She saw in the same instant how foolish it was to be talking to anyone about Sam’s troubles but Sam himself. She would do it that night, she decided, no matter how much he squirmed. If there was something sinister going on, she would whittle it out of him.
Having made up her mother’s bed and folded the dirty sheets carefully into the laundry basket, she went as far as the door of what had, in latter years, been her father’s room, then changed her mind and turned back for the stairs. His stuff had long since found its way to charity shops. The bed would be flat and empty, the air scented with furniture polish. The only memento left was the old photo that lived on the window-sill, of him among the tea bushes, hand raised to ward off the sun, two workers standing next to him, their dusty faces grinning, their sacks bulging on their backs, her mother’s writing across the bottom: Reggie at Ratnapura. Charlotte knew it so well she was past needing to look at it.
Downstairs Jean was in the kitchen, the radio on at a high volume, wiping down the table mats.
‘I’m sorry –’
‘No need. You’re not well. You should get yourself home to bed.’
‘I changed your sheets.’
‘Thank you, but I would have managed, you know.’ She turned off the radio and hung the cloth over the edge of the sink.
‘Of course you would.’ Charlotte picked up her handbag. ‘I’d better go. I might be moving house, by the way.’
‘Might you, indeed? I thought you’d given up on that idea.’
‘I almost had but…’ Charlotte left the sentence hanging, warning herself to get out while the air between them was still relatively clear, ‘I’ll let you know, obviously.’
On the doorstep Jean thrust a carrier-bag at her. ‘It’s for your birthday.’
‘My birthday? But that’s months away.’ Charlotte laughed. ‘I’ll see you long before then.’
‘Quite possibly, but I should hate to forget and one can’t trust the post these days.’
‘No… right, thanks.’ Charlotte peered into the bag.
‘And it is your fortieth, after all.’
Charlotte made a face. ‘Don’t remind me.’
‘I suppose you’ll have a big party, won’t you?’
‘I very much doubt it.’
‘That one you did for Martin was lovely.’
‘Yes , yes, it was, wasn’t it,’ Charlotte muttered, hastily kissing her cheek and hurrying down the path, so eager to get away that she forgot the snails and crushed two before she could help herself.
‘Love to Sam,’ Jean called, when she was at the gate. ‘Tell him Granny sends her love.’
Sam plugged in the earphones of his portable CD-player for the journey back to Wandsworth. It had come with a case strapped to a belt so that you could walk around listening to whatever you wanted, but every time Sam tried it the music jumped, even when he took tiny steps and tried not to breathe too hard. It was a stupid, gay machine – he couldn’t believe how thrilled he had been to get it a year before. What he really wanted now was an iPod like Cindy’s, but just when he’d got her on the point of caving in
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