sermon to write for yesterday, and there was a rumour that the bishop might drop by, so I wanted it to be a good one. And then he didn’t come, so I could have just recycled an old one.’ She sighed.
‘Blah blah, thou shalt not kill?’ I suggested.
My mother laughed to fill time. Then she asked, ‘Have you found a church in Edinburgh?’
I could feel my jaw setting as I drained the pasta. ‘Edinburgh is full of churches. I live behind one, actually, but not your kind.’
‘I wouldn’t mind if you went to a Catholic church,’ she said, her voice rising to a pitch which suggested she would probably prefer it if I joined a Satanic cult.
‘Well, I would. I don’t go to church. You know that.’
‘You used to.’
‘I used to do a lot of things.’
There was a long pause, which I ignored, because I was stirring the sauce through the pasta and grinding pepper onto the top. I might not be cooking, but at least I was seasoning.
‘Well, I thought you might be ready…’ she said. My mother never knowingly ended a difficult sentence.
‘Really?’ I snapped. ‘Ready to go to church and accept the love of a God who let my father die, and then my fiancé? You thought I might want to bathe in his warm embrace, did you?’
‘I know you’re angry,’ she said. ‘But Luke…’
‘Don’t even say it,’ I told her. ‘Don’t even try to tell me his death has meaning, because you know it doesn’t. You know it.’ I could hear my voice growing harsh and ragged. ‘If you want to find consolation in the trite words of idiots, be my guest. But don’t tell me he’s gone to a better place, because he hasn’t. I know he hasn’t and so do you. This was the better place. Here, with me. And now he’s gone, and you want me to just accept that. To move on.’
‘I had to,’ she said, quietly.
‘Dad was fifty-four.’ I was shouting now. I wondered if the woman downstairs could hear. ‘I know he wasn’t old, but he had cancer. You had time to prepare, and so did he. So did I, for that matter. Don’t compare what we went through with him to what happened with Luke, because they aren’t remotely comparable. I can’t believe you could even suggest that they are.’
‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ she said.
‘And yet, you’ve succeeded.’
‘I’m sorry. I only want to help you.’
‘I’m sorry too. I have to go.’
I could hear the muffled sounds of her crying as she said goodbye. I was too angry to cry, but I could feel the tears building up behind my eyes. I looked at the food, which was developing an opaque sheen as it cooled. I took a fork from the cutlery drawer, and slid the pasta into the bin.
7
‘Where’s Ricky?’ I asked Jono when they arrived in the basement for the next lesson a couple of days later. Jono had written a terse apology to me in Robert’s office the previous afternoon. The letters were pressed so hard onto the page that it had ripped in two places.
‘I’m not his keeper.’
‘OK.’ I tried not to sound martyred; I knew how annoying that was. ‘Does anyone know where Ricky is?’
‘He’s not in for the rest of this week,’ said Carly. ‘He punched a kid on the stairs this morning.’
‘Oh no. Really?’ I don’t know why I was surprised. Keeping track of these kids was like spinning plates: it was always the one you weren’t watching that hit the floor.
‘Get to fuck,’ Jono said, turning round to Carly. ‘Donnie Brooks isn’t a kid. He’s a wee scrote.’
‘So the punching is uncontested? He definitely hit another child?’ I wanted to be sure of the facts. Ricky was so spindly and quiet, I couldn’t see him as an aggressor.
‘Donnie Brooks has been asking for it since last term,’ Jono said. ‘Eventually he was going to get a crack. And now he has, and Ricky’s the bad guy who gets sent home for a week.’ He looked furious, again. Robert always reminded us, his teachers, that the children didn’t enjoy being angry. Jono had purple
‘Blah blah, thou shalt not kill?’ I suggested.
My mother laughed to fill time. Then she asked, ‘Have you found a church in Edinburgh?’
I could feel my jaw setting as I drained the pasta. ‘Edinburgh is full of churches. I live behind one, actually, but not your kind.’
‘I wouldn’t mind if you went to a Catholic church,’ she said, her voice rising to a pitch which suggested she would probably prefer it if I joined a Satanic cult.
‘Well, I would. I don’t go to church. You know that.’
‘You used to.’
‘I used to do a lot of things.’
There was a long pause, which I ignored, because I was stirring the sauce through the pasta and grinding pepper onto the top. I might not be cooking, but at least I was seasoning.
‘Well, I thought you might be ready…’ she said. My mother never knowingly ended a difficult sentence.
‘Really?’ I snapped. ‘Ready to go to church and accept the love of a God who let my father die, and then my fiancé? You thought I might want to bathe in his warm embrace, did you?’
‘I know you’re angry,’ she said. ‘But Luke…’
‘Don’t even say it,’ I told her. ‘Don’t even try to tell me his death has meaning, because you know it doesn’t. You know it.’ I could hear my voice growing harsh and ragged. ‘If you want to find consolation in the trite words of idiots, be my guest. But don’t tell me he’s gone to a better place, because he hasn’t. I know he hasn’t and so do you. This was the better place. Here, with me. And now he’s gone, and you want me to just accept that. To move on.’
‘I had to,’ she said, quietly.
‘Dad was fifty-four.’ I was shouting now. I wondered if the woman downstairs could hear. ‘I know he wasn’t old, but he had cancer. You had time to prepare, and so did he. So did I, for that matter. Don’t compare what we went through with him to what happened with Luke, because they aren’t remotely comparable. I can’t believe you could even suggest that they are.’
‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ she said.
‘And yet, you’ve succeeded.’
‘I’m sorry. I only want to help you.’
‘I’m sorry too. I have to go.’
I could hear the muffled sounds of her crying as she said goodbye. I was too angry to cry, but I could feel the tears building up behind my eyes. I looked at the food, which was developing an opaque sheen as it cooled. I took a fork from the cutlery drawer, and slid the pasta into the bin.
7
‘Where’s Ricky?’ I asked Jono when they arrived in the basement for the next lesson a couple of days later. Jono had written a terse apology to me in Robert’s office the previous afternoon. The letters were pressed so hard onto the page that it had ripped in two places.
‘I’m not his keeper.’
‘OK.’ I tried not to sound martyred; I knew how annoying that was. ‘Does anyone know where Ricky is?’
‘He’s not in for the rest of this week,’ said Carly. ‘He punched a kid on the stairs this morning.’
‘Oh no. Really?’ I don’t know why I was surprised. Keeping track of these kids was like spinning plates: it was always the one you weren’t watching that hit the floor.
‘Get to fuck,’ Jono said, turning round to Carly. ‘Donnie Brooks isn’t a kid. He’s a wee scrote.’
‘So the punching is uncontested? He definitely hit another child?’ I wanted to be sure of the facts. Ricky was so spindly and quiet, I couldn’t see him as an aggressor.
‘Donnie Brooks has been asking for it since last term,’ Jono said. ‘Eventually he was going to get a crack. And now he has, and Ricky’s the bad guy who gets sent home for a week.’ He looked furious, again. Robert always reminded us, his teachers, that the children didn’t enjoy being angry. Jono had purple
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