Read Online A Hundred Pieces of Me by Lucy Dillon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lucy Dillon
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New Age philosophy or not having enough tablecloths.
‘But it was Auntie Gloria’s! She’d have wanted you to have it.’ Janet offered it to her. ‘Have it, to remember Gloria by. It’s a lovely thing.’
Gina steeled herself. This was exactly the trait she was trying to overcome. ‘Mum, I don’t remember her. She died when I was five . And I’m not going to remember her by a glass bowl I never get out of the cupboard, am I? You should tell me about her instead. Then I can keep the memories in my head.’
‘There’s no need to be flippant, Georgina.’ Janet’s gaze returned to the heavy etched glass. ‘Poor Gloria. She was a nice old dear. It’s a shame you can’t remember her – she made your christening cake. Cream, with pale yellow daisies.’
That was a detail Gina hadn’t heard before; there were no photos of her christening cake in the sparse album. She felt pleased. ‘Really? So do I take after her at all? Do you?’
‘She was like you in some respects,’ said Janet. ‘She could hang wallpaper better than any decorator, and she was . . . romantic. Gloria would never admit it, but your granny always said she was in love with the father of that family she worked for, Dr Meredith. It was why she stayed so long. Best years of her life she spent there.’
‘Really?’ Gina leaned forward in her chair. Her mother rarely confided stuff like this. ‘Did he love her?’
Janet shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I mean, she was good-looking enough, had plenty of other offers but, no, Gloria was fussy. And by the time she decided he wasn’t going to, well . . . By the time she left, it was too late for her to have a family of her own. And I think Gloria regretted that.’ She gave Gina a meaningful look. ‘It was all very well her getting flowers at Christmas from those four she brought up, but it’s not the same as your own kiddies visiting you, is it?’
Gina groaned inwardly. She knew where the conversation would be heading now. ‘Mum, please. Not today.’
‘I’m just saying that I don’t want you to end up missing out on a family of your own because—’
‘Did I say I wanted a family? And, Mum, I’m only thirty-three.’
Janet ignored her. ‘Then I’m sorry but you have to be practical. You know I’d be happy to help out if you wanted to have one of those check-ups. You know, so you’ve got an idea of where you stand.’
Gina’s fingernails dug into her palms. Janet’s yearning for grandchildren had started out as playful hints, but it had got much less playful since all her friends had started crying off coffee mornings to babysit their ‘little ones’. ‘That’s very generous, but it’s the last thing on my mind right now.’
‘You could freeze your eggs!’ Janet gabbled. ‘Then you don’t have to rush into anything. I read an article in the Daily Mail about it.’
Gina shoved her hands into her hair, then looked at her mother, sitting, back straight, in the same brown leather chair she’d sat in every night while Gina was at school. By the window, the better to see the quick crossword by. Terry had sat in the matching armchair opposite the television; the cushion Janet had finished stitching for his fiftieth birthday still plumped ready for his return.
Sunday afternoons in this house: cold ham and Songs of Praise and heavy silences. It rushed up at Gina so vividly she could smell it. Everything she’d longed to get away from as a teenager, and thought in some ways she had – yet here she was, even down to the same Sunday-afternoon paranoia that she hadn’t wrung enough out of the weekend as Monday approached. And the time ticking inexorably past, metronomed by the carriage clock on the 1950s slate mantelpiece.
If only Terry were still around. There was absolutely no way Janet would have said something like that if he’d been sitting there, coughing in the discreet tension-breaking way he had. He’d oil the waters, as he had done so many times in
‘But it was Auntie Gloria’s! She’d have wanted you to have it.’ Janet offered it to her. ‘Have it, to remember Gloria by. It’s a lovely thing.’
Gina steeled herself. This was exactly the trait she was trying to overcome. ‘Mum, I don’t remember her. She died when I was five . And I’m not going to remember her by a glass bowl I never get out of the cupboard, am I? You should tell me about her instead. Then I can keep the memories in my head.’
‘There’s no need to be flippant, Georgina.’ Janet’s gaze returned to the heavy etched glass. ‘Poor Gloria. She was a nice old dear. It’s a shame you can’t remember her – she made your christening cake. Cream, with pale yellow daisies.’
That was a detail Gina hadn’t heard before; there were no photos of her christening cake in the sparse album. She felt pleased. ‘Really? So do I take after her at all? Do you?’
‘She was like you in some respects,’ said Janet. ‘She could hang wallpaper better than any decorator, and she was . . . romantic. Gloria would never admit it, but your granny always said she was in love with the father of that family she worked for, Dr Meredith. It was why she stayed so long. Best years of her life she spent there.’
‘Really?’ Gina leaned forward in her chair. Her mother rarely confided stuff like this. ‘Did he love her?’
Janet shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I mean, she was good-looking enough, had plenty of other offers but, no, Gloria was fussy. And by the time she decided he wasn’t going to, well . . . By the time she left, it was too late for her to have a family of her own. And I think Gloria regretted that.’ She gave Gina a meaningful look. ‘It was all very well her getting flowers at Christmas from those four she brought up, but it’s not the same as your own kiddies visiting you, is it?’
Gina groaned inwardly. She knew where the conversation would be heading now. ‘Mum, please. Not today.’
‘I’m just saying that I don’t want you to end up missing out on a family of your own because—’
‘Did I say I wanted a family? And, Mum, I’m only thirty-three.’
Janet ignored her. ‘Then I’m sorry but you have to be practical. You know I’d be happy to help out if you wanted to have one of those check-ups. You know, so you’ve got an idea of where you stand.’
Gina’s fingernails dug into her palms. Janet’s yearning for grandchildren had started out as playful hints, but it had got much less playful since all her friends had started crying off coffee mornings to babysit their ‘little ones’. ‘That’s very generous, but it’s the last thing on my mind right now.’
‘You could freeze your eggs!’ Janet gabbled. ‘Then you don’t have to rush into anything. I read an article in the Daily Mail about it.’
Gina shoved her hands into her hair, then looked at her mother, sitting, back straight, in the same brown leather chair she’d sat in every night while Gina was at school. By the window, the better to see the quick crossword by. Terry had sat in the matching armchair opposite the television; the cushion Janet had finished stitching for his fiftieth birthday still plumped ready for his return.
Sunday afternoons in this house: cold ham and Songs of Praise and heavy silences. It rushed up at Gina so vividly she could smell it. Everything she’d longed to get away from as a teenager, and thought in some ways she had – yet here she was, even down to the same Sunday-afternoon paranoia that she hadn’t wrung enough out of the weekend as Monday approached. And the time ticking inexorably past, metronomed by the carriage clock on the 1950s slate mantelpiece.
If only Terry were still around. There was absolutely no way Janet would have said something like that if he’d been sitting there, coughing in the discreet tension-breaking way he had. He’d oil the waters, as he had done so many times in
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