Nor All Your Tears by Keith McCarthy Page B

on sherry, and I have to admit that she looked every inch a sherry woman. ‘He said how much he admired the lines of a Hillman Avenger.’
    â€˜Beats a Maserati any day,’ I agreed, although Dad didn’t seem to hear the sarcasm that dripped from every syllable.
    â€˜We had a nice time, waiting for him, didn’t we, Ada?’
    She nodded and finished her sherry; well, I reasoned as I refilled it, it was only a small schooner. ‘What’s wrong with it? Was it the water pump as you said?’
    â€˜Eric – that’s the man from the AA – was fairly sure it was the starter motor.’ He spoke as if he suspected Eric was a charlatan, clearly not up to the job. ‘Maybe it is,’ he added generously. ‘Whatever it is, she’s certainly fairly poorly at the moment.’ He said these words sadly, as if he were talking about the family pooch that kept getting a variety of minor and annoying ailments but was really loved by all.
    â€˜When can you get it fixed?’
    â€˜I’ll phone the garage tomorrow. Hopefully they’ll be able to fit me in this week.’
    Max asked, ‘How will you get to the school to look after your vegetables?’
    I kind of wished she hadn’t made that enquiry because it would be just like Dad to assume that I would be able to provide a free, on-demand taxi service, but I need not have fretted. ‘I shouldn’t need to go over there until the end of the week. I know the children will keep up with the watering, which is the most important thing at this time of year.’
    The conversation waned, a lull into which Dad jumped with both heavily shod feet. ‘Ada has kindly consented to be my lady wife,’ he announced pompously, while she stared at the side of his face as an enigmatic smile played around her thin lips and I was uncomfortably reminded of the Mona Lisa, or perhaps of the way a cat will stare at a small, unknowing mouse that is trapped in a corner.
    I opened my mouth, aware that I was expected to pronounce something and that it had to be something politic and at least vaguely enthusiastic. All I could find in the locker, though, was, ‘Wow.’
    Max, so often my cavalry in social situations, said quickly, ‘Congratulations to you both. We had been wondering, hadn’t we, Lance?’
    Had we? But everyone was looking at me and I agreed effusively.
    â€˜Have we got any champagne?’ asked Max.
    Well, of course we didn’t, so we had to make do with a bottle of hock that I had been saving for a special occasion. We toasted the happy couple whilst I felt immersed in a sense of surreal disconnection. Max did the talking. ‘When’s the happy day?’
    â€˜We haven’t decided, have we, Ada?’
    Ada said, no, they hadn’t. ‘We haven’t yet told my son.’ Her voice was thin and slightly nasal.
    â€˜But we’re not going to hang about,’ he assured us.
    â€˜Well, no,’ I said without thinking. ‘You wouldn’t want to . . .’ There was an uncomfortable silence whilst the unintended meaning of my response hung about the room. ‘. . . I didn’t mean . . .’
    â€˜Any more wine?’ asked Max.
    It hadn’t been the best of evenings.
    And now Jane wasn’t quite smiling, but then she wasn’t quite not smiling either. I felt as I used to do when sitting in medical viva-voce examinations and I was trying to convince the learned professors that I knew what I was talking about; I nearly always failed and they nearly always had that smile on their faces when I did so. We were standing in the receptionists’ area, Sheila and Jean pulling notes in preparation for evening surgery, not listening to what we were saying, honest. Jane nodded in faux agreement. ‘Absolutely. It’ll be nothing to you at all.’
    â€˜What does that mean?’
    â€˜He was very happily married, Lance,’ she pointed out.