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Authors: Lucy Dillon
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carving set, from last Easter. And some recipe books I borrowed, and your flan dish . . .’ Gina stacked them on the coffee table, relieved to see them become part of her mother’s house now. ‘And those books about . . . you know.’
The pile of self-help books about Being On Your Own that Gina had found monumentally depressing. At least the self-help books Naomi had given her had been cheerful in a brutal sort of way. Practical shoves to get you back on the path to fulfilment whether you liked it or not. Janet seemed to have found a special sub-section of guides to maintaining your grief at a low simmer for the rest of your life. Gina didn’t want to join her mother in the ‘very supportive’ circle of lone middle-aged women she’d joined, moving from book group to flower arranging, privately ranking each other in order of abandonment, from divorcees to widows.
‘There’s no need to give those back,’ said Janet. ‘Don’t you think you should hang on to—?’
‘No, thank you. I’ve read them.’ Before she could protest, Gina put a large cut-crystal bowl on top, anchoring them to the table. ‘And this is your trifle bowl, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Janet. ‘Mine’s Dartington crystal.’
‘I think it is. I borrowed it from you a while back.’
Janet peered at it, then sighed. ‘It’s your Auntie Gloria’s.’
Auntie Gloria was actually Janet’s Auntie Gloria, a matronly figure of whom Gina had only the vaguest memories. She had smelt of dry fruitcake, and had been a live-in nanny-housekeeper for a big family near St Albans.
‘Do you remember the lovely trifles she used to make for tea in that? With Bird’s Custard. Remember?’ Janet added, seeing Gina’s blank look. ‘You used to love them. She put sprinkles on top for you. Red, white and blue.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Gina murmured, automatically. Auntie Gloria could have kept frogspawn in it for all she remembered. Janet’s memories of her own childhood teas were more familiar, through repetition, than Gina’s own.
After Gina’s dad had been killed, Janet had left Leominster and its reminders of their old life, and moved back in with her parents in Kent for a while. Gina didn’t have many memories of that time, beyond Janet wearing a particular blue dress for weeks on end, but she’d happily accepted second-hand memories of her early childhood there – picnics with aunties, and trips to see donkeys on a farm in Granddad’s Ford Granada. It sounded nice. Neither grandparent was around to corroborate the various stories, but Gina had the few images from the photo album imprinted on her brain from regular intense inspection, and mostly they seemed happy.
Her mother had been on the other side of the camera, taking the photos while Gina gazed solemnly from under her dark fringe. She appeared later on, when Terry arrived on the scene with his top-of-the-range SLR camera and insisted on posing them in front of his car, which was always more in focus than they were. Janet and Gina both, it turned out, had automatic ‘photo faces’: a bright, slightly fixed smile that remained exactly the same in every photo, regardless of weather or setting.
Janet was holding the bowl, gazing into it as if she could see the past in its depths, family trifles and all. ‘Gloria always had nice things,’ she said. ‘This was a wedding present, from that family she was with for years. From Liberty, she said it was. Lead crystal. They were very good to her. Mind, she was very good to them. Gave them twenty-two years of her life.’
Gina experienced a familiar tug of collector’s acquisitiveness but she squashed it. She had to focus on the flat, and how there was room only for her in it. ‘It’s lovely, but the thing is, Mum, I’ve got no storage, really. I don’t have room for trifle bowls.’
She didn’t think it was worth trying to explain her hundred-things target to her mother. Janet didn’t hold with anything that smacked of
The pile of self-help books about Being On Your Own that Gina had found monumentally depressing. At least the self-help books Naomi had given her had been cheerful in a brutal sort of way. Practical shoves to get you back on the path to fulfilment whether you liked it or not. Janet seemed to have found a special sub-section of guides to maintaining your grief at a low simmer for the rest of your life. Gina didn’t want to join her mother in the ‘very supportive’ circle of lone middle-aged women she’d joined, moving from book group to flower arranging, privately ranking each other in order of abandonment, from divorcees to widows.
‘There’s no need to give those back,’ said Janet. ‘Don’t you think you should hang on to—?’
‘No, thank you. I’ve read them.’ Before she could protest, Gina put a large cut-crystal bowl on top, anchoring them to the table. ‘And this is your trifle bowl, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Janet. ‘Mine’s Dartington crystal.’
‘I think it is. I borrowed it from you a while back.’
Janet peered at it, then sighed. ‘It’s your Auntie Gloria’s.’
Auntie Gloria was actually Janet’s Auntie Gloria, a matronly figure of whom Gina had only the vaguest memories. She had smelt of dry fruitcake, and had been a live-in nanny-housekeeper for a big family near St Albans.
‘Do you remember the lovely trifles she used to make for tea in that? With Bird’s Custard. Remember?’ Janet added, seeing Gina’s blank look. ‘You used to love them. She put sprinkles on top for you. Red, white and blue.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Gina murmured, automatically. Auntie Gloria could have kept frogspawn in it for all she remembered. Janet’s memories of her own childhood teas were more familiar, through repetition, than Gina’s own.
After Gina’s dad had been killed, Janet had left Leominster and its reminders of their old life, and moved back in with her parents in Kent for a while. Gina didn’t have many memories of that time, beyond Janet wearing a particular blue dress for weeks on end, but she’d happily accepted second-hand memories of her early childhood there – picnics with aunties, and trips to see donkeys on a farm in Granddad’s Ford Granada. It sounded nice. Neither grandparent was around to corroborate the various stories, but Gina had the few images from the photo album imprinted on her brain from regular intense inspection, and mostly they seemed happy.
Her mother had been on the other side of the camera, taking the photos while Gina gazed solemnly from under her dark fringe. She appeared later on, when Terry arrived on the scene with his top-of-the-range SLR camera and insisted on posing them in front of his car, which was always more in focus than they were. Janet and Gina both, it turned out, had automatic ‘photo faces’: a bright, slightly fixed smile that remained exactly the same in every photo, regardless of weather or setting.
Janet was holding the bowl, gazing into it as if she could see the past in its depths, family trifles and all. ‘Gloria always had nice things,’ she said. ‘This was a wedding present, from that family she was with for years. From Liberty, she said it was. Lead crystal. They were very good to her. Mind, she was very good to them. Gave them twenty-two years of her life.’
Gina experienced a familiar tug of collector’s acquisitiveness but she squashed it. She had to focus on the flat, and how there was room only for her in it. ‘It’s lovely, but the thing is, Mum, I’ve got no storage, really. I don’t have room for trifle bowls.’
She didn’t think it was worth trying to explain her hundred-things target to her mother. Janet didn’t hold with anything that smacked of
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