Ripped by Frederic Lindsay

representative of all the others, she had not crossed the threshold of a church since that time. Altogether, with her good complexion and upright carriage, in a dress of light colours, she made of old age a reassuringly modern icon. Yet one still somehow unsuited to being called 'Mum Wilson' in Irene's light clear tone. Perhaps for no better reason than that her sons called her Mother. Perhaps because Irene never called her just Mum; it was always in full 'Mum Wilson'. To an unreasonable extent it got on Murray's nerves.
    'Mum Wilson, as usual we apologise.' Her voice rang through the tiny flat. 'Or I apologise for him. He didn't want to be hurried this morning. Sunday's his day for lying in bed and worrying.'
    'Worrying?' The old lady fixed her gaze on her younger son. Her eyes were extraordinary, being palest blue against her brown skin and the nested wrinkles of age. They had the milky appearance of the near blind, but in reality her vision was perfectly good. Against this, as she aged, she had become increasingly deaf. By habit, voices were raised in her presence. 'What is it? What's wrong?' And her tone had sharpened with an anxiety that was instant, apprehensive and hovering.
    'Not a thing, Mother.' Malcolm brushed a kiss against her cheek, and went through into the sitting room assuring her over his shoulder, 'Everything's fine.'
    'What did you say?'
    'He says everything's fine, Mother,' Murray said raising his voice, before dropping it again to ask, 'Why do you do that? You know she can't hear you if you walk away from her.'
    'What is it?' Mother asked him. 'How can I hear what Malcolm's saying if you keep talking?'
    'Look at Malcolm,' Irene cried into the silence. 'You can see how well he's looking, Mum Wilson.'
    'No,' the old woman said. 'He's not.'
    She stared at her son who had spent a lot of time outdoors in this good summer; the paleness slid behind his tan made him yellow. He had the look of a man who has slept badly.
    'Don't fuss, Mother,' he said irritably, and then to Irene more quietly, 'Don't you think I've had enough?'
    'Speak so Mother can hear,' Murray burst out. At which all three turned to look at him.
    'What is it?' Mother asked. 'What are you keeping from me?' It was the start of a Sunday visit familiar to them. The table had been opened out and set for dinner since midday. Now , two hours later, Malcolm and Irene had arrived. There had been plenty of time while they waited for Murray to listen to his mother's concern over whether Malcolm was well, happy, untroubled. Meticulously, she did not relate any of these speculations to Malcolm's wife. Since her younger son's marriage two years earlier, she had, after the first shock, come to terms with Irene for her own reasons. Mostly that day she had fretted over his reason for missing the previous Sunday's visit.
    'They don't come every week, Mother,' Murray had said. 'Even I don't manage every Sunday. Things happen.' She widened her strange blind-seeming eyes on him and said, 'No, he's been very faithful about coming. He doesn't often miss a Sunday now.'
    'Not since he got married.'
    'Irene keeps him up to the mark,' she said seriously. 'She's been good for him.'
    For some reason, he covered his mouth with his hand. He felt the hard pressure of his teeth against the drawn tightness of flesh at the root of his thumb. Thinking of the reach of her ambition for her younger son, he said, 'Malcolm needed to marry a lady.'
    'Irene?' His mother surprised him. 'You're the detective. I'm only an old woman. She is a good wife for Malcolm – he needs someone to give him a push, he's not as confident as he seems – but she isn't a lady. I wish she was.'
    A memory had made him smile . 'Do you remember, years ago, when the plane crashed on Breagda? There was no one on the island – you had all left it long before and so though they searched it was weeks before they found him. He had been alone piloting his own plane . That seemed marvellous to me, to have your own