dishes, she slung a slice of hot apple pie into each one. ‘Here, take them through. I’ll be with you in a minute, soon as I’ve thrown some cold water on my temper.’
Lynda put her arms about her mother’s comfortable figure and held her close for a moment. ‘It’ll be all right. Trust me. You know I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, not for the world. Haven’t we always stood by each other?’
Betty sniffed, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘You’re a good lass, get on with you.’
But running cold water over her hands and wrists Betty knew in her heart that nothing would ever be all right ever again. Her sanctuary had been invaded. Her escape had ended the moment she’d spotted him leering at her from across the street. Rinsing her face to wash away the unshed tears and attempt to cool the anguish in her heart, she drew in a steadying breath. Children! Why was it they could never see beyond the end of their own noses?
But then to be fair to both Jake and Lynda, Ewan always could put on this clever act, as if butter wouldn’t melt on his lying tongue. Why should today be any different? He was somehow managing, by dint of saying very little, to put himself in the right with Betty herself seen as the difficult one. As if she were the one who had created the problems and called an end to this imagined idyllic life they’d led together. A fantasy Jake clearly believed.
Well, not even Ewan Hemley could keep up the pretence for too long. All Betty could hope for was that her son didn’t suffer too much when he saw his father for what he really was.
Then she picked up a jug of custard and went to join her family.
It was after the apple pie had been eaten and the dishes all cleared away, washed, dried and stacked on the kitchen dresser that Ewan revealed a glimpse of his true colours.
He got up from the table, belched loudly, then went to sit in the winged fireside chair. Betty saw the private battle taking place in her son’s face: the urge to order this stranger out of his chair warring with the desire to make friends with his father.
Ewan sat contentedly picking his teeth. ‘What a treat that was. I’d forgotten what an excellent cook you are, Betty love.’
Betty winced, averting her gaze. ‘I only made the Yorkshire puddings, our Linda cooked the rest. And I’ve told you before, I’m not your love .’
Ewan beamed at his daughter, a look of pleased surprise on his face. ‘Better and better. What talented children I have. Oh, and I’ve told you Betty, me old love, me old faggot, that I’ll call you whatever I damn well please.’
Jake snorted, stifling the sound quickly when he caught his mother’s furious glare from where she stood, unmoving, by the kitchen door.
Betty spoke through tightly compressed lips. ‘Lynda, fetch your father’s coat will you? Sunday lunch is over. Everything has been said that needs to be said, now I’ll thank him to take his leave.’
Jake looked as if he might be about to protest, but then glancing again at his father reclining in his chair as if he owned the place, changed his mind and seemed to think better of it.
Ewan watched this conflict of emotion on his son’s face with some amusement, then allowed his gaze to follow Lynda as she went to the under-stairs cupboard to reach for his overcoat. But he made no move to rise.
Instead, he casually took a pipe from his pocket and proceeded to fill it, tamping the tobacco down with meticulous care. Taking his time over the task, he drew on it till the tobacco flared hot and red, then glancing in mock surprise at Lynda, and using the stem of the pipe to indicate the coat she was holding out for him, softly smiled.
‘Thanks, love, but I don’t think I’ll be needing that till the morning. I’ve no intention of leaving, d’you see? I’ve come home and I mean to stay, so fetch me the Sunday papers and a stool for me feet. I fancy an hour or two of peaceful perusal of The Sporting Chronicle before tea. Then
Lynda put her arms about her mother’s comfortable figure and held her close for a moment. ‘It’ll be all right. Trust me. You know I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, not for the world. Haven’t we always stood by each other?’
Betty sniffed, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘You’re a good lass, get on with you.’
But running cold water over her hands and wrists Betty knew in her heart that nothing would ever be all right ever again. Her sanctuary had been invaded. Her escape had ended the moment she’d spotted him leering at her from across the street. Rinsing her face to wash away the unshed tears and attempt to cool the anguish in her heart, she drew in a steadying breath. Children! Why was it they could never see beyond the end of their own noses?
But then to be fair to both Jake and Lynda, Ewan always could put on this clever act, as if butter wouldn’t melt on his lying tongue. Why should today be any different? He was somehow managing, by dint of saying very little, to put himself in the right with Betty herself seen as the difficult one. As if she were the one who had created the problems and called an end to this imagined idyllic life they’d led together. A fantasy Jake clearly believed.
Well, not even Ewan Hemley could keep up the pretence for too long. All Betty could hope for was that her son didn’t suffer too much when he saw his father for what he really was.
Then she picked up a jug of custard and went to join her family.
It was after the apple pie had been eaten and the dishes all cleared away, washed, dried and stacked on the kitchen dresser that Ewan revealed a glimpse of his true colours.
He got up from the table, belched loudly, then went to sit in the winged fireside chair. Betty saw the private battle taking place in her son’s face: the urge to order this stranger out of his chair warring with the desire to make friends with his father.
Ewan sat contentedly picking his teeth. ‘What a treat that was. I’d forgotten what an excellent cook you are, Betty love.’
Betty winced, averting her gaze. ‘I only made the Yorkshire puddings, our Linda cooked the rest. And I’ve told you before, I’m not your love .’
Ewan beamed at his daughter, a look of pleased surprise on his face. ‘Better and better. What talented children I have. Oh, and I’ve told you Betty, me old love, me old faggot, that I’ll call you whatever I damn well please.’
Jake snorted, stifling the sound quickly when he caught his mother’s furious glare from where she stood, unmoving, by the kitchen door.
Betty spoke through tightly compressed lips. ‘Lynda, fetch your father’s coat will you? Sunday lunch is over. Everything has been said that needs to be said, now I’ll thank him to take his leave.’
Jake looked as if he might be about to protest, but then glancing again at his father reclining in his chair as if he owned the place, changed his mind and seemed to think better of it.
Ewan watched this conflict of emotion on his son’s face with some amusement, then allowed his gaze to follow Lynda as she went to the under-stairs cupboard to reach for his overcoat. But he made no move to rise.
Instead, he casually took a pipe from his pocket and proceeded to fill it, tamping the tobacco down with meticulous care. Taking his time over the task, he drew on it till the tobacco flared hot and red, then glancing in mock surprise at Lynda, and using the stem of the pipe to indicate the coat she was holding out for him, softly smiled.
‘Thanks, love, but I don’t think I’ll be needing that till the morning. I’ve no intention of leaving, d’you see? I’ve come home and I mean to stay, so fetch me the Sunday papers and a stool for me feet. I fancy an hour or two of peaceful perusal of The Sporting Chronicle before tea. Then
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