asked.
‘You know he never answers my calls.’
I sat beside her and tried Lola’s smiling trick. ‘We could go somewhere by ourselves, if you like.’
‘Shouldn’t you freshen up?’
‘It’s the weekend. I’m allowed to be scruffy.’
She sighed then gazed out of the window. ‘He’s still got that death-trap van.’
‘I think he’s scared to let it go.’
‘Why?’ My mother’s voice was shrill with exasperation.
‘He sleeps in it sometimes, when he’s stressed.’
‘You shouldn’t allow it, Alice.’ Her grey eyes darkened by several shades.
‘He’s thirty-six years old, Mum. I’m not his keeper.’
When we finally got outside, the walk along the river calmed her, and she told me about the holiday she was taking in Crete, with a friend from the library. It sounded like an endless slog around Minoan ruins, but it would suit her perfectly. It was hard to imagine my mother relaxing on a sun lounger, listening to the sea. She talked about her voluntary work too; one day a week for Help the Homeless, answering the phone. Maybe it appeased her guilt. Will had lived in his van for eight years but she’d never even offered him her spare room.
‘I visited your father’s grave on Monday.’
‘Did you?’ I was too stunned to offer an appropriate reply. Months had gone by since the last time she’d mentioned him.
‘That rosebush I planted is doing well. It’ll need pruning soon.’
I nodded. My father had never shown the slightest interest in gardening, unless she nagged him to mow the lawn; he was too busy getting pissed in the garage. My mother seemed to be on the verge of explaining something, but we arrived at the Design Museum before she could speak. We bought our tickets and stepped into a fantasy world. The exhibition was called Child’s Play. Hundreds of Barbie dolls were trapped in a vat of transparent resin. Some of them had their arms raised, swimming frantically for the surface.
‘Ridiculous,’ my mother snorted. ‘What on earth is that supposed to mean?’
I thought for a moment. ‘That childhood memories are fixed, maybe? They can’t be changed.’
My mother’s frown deepened. She marched from one exhibit to the next, hardly glancing at the huge city made of Lego, suspended upside down from the ceiling. Afterwards I bought her an iced tea, but the museum had reinstated her bad mood. At least she found something to admire on the way back. Hanging baskets blossomed from every lamppost, filled with lobelia and trailing geraniums.
‘Gorgeous,’ she murmured. She’d saved her first smile of the day for a floral display.
There was still no sign of Will when we got back, so she smoothed her hair in the hall mirror and prepared to leave. She kissed the air directly beside my cheek, then stepped back to study my face.
‘You look shattered, darling. Haven’t you been sleeping?’
I gritted my teeth. The urge to tell her to fuck off was overwhelming. ‘I’m fine, Mum, honestly.’
From the kitchen window I watched her return to her car. Her walk was the same as always, light-footed as a ballet dancer. She could have been forty, not sixty, completely carefree.
9
Burns was hard at work when I found him on Monday morning. His office was half the size of his old one at Southwark, as though the architecture had shrunk to match his stature. He was scribbling notes in the policy book. No doubt Brotherton had been breathing down his neck to keep it up to date. When he looked up from the pages, he studied me intently.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Of course I am. Why?’
‘I should have taken you home. You didn’t need to see all that first-hand.’
I could guess what he was thinking: he felt guilty for exposing me to yet another corpse. People handled me with kid gloves all the time when I got out of hospital. Friends spoke in whispers, and took me to see romances instead of thrillers at the cinema. The whole world seemed determined to smother me in tissue
‘You know he never answers my calls.’
I sat beside her and tried Lola’s smiling trick. ‘We could go somewhere by ourselves, if you like.’
‘Shouldn’t you freshen up?’
‘It’s the weekend. I’m allowed to be scruffy.’
She sighed then gazed out of the window. ‘He’s still got that death-trap van.’
‘I think he’s scared to let it go.’
‘Why?’ My mother’s voice was shrill with exasperation.
‘He sleeps in it sometimes, when he’s stressed.’
‘You shouldn’t allow it, Alice.’ Her grey eyes darkened by several shades.
‘He’s thirty-six years old, Mum. I’m not his keeper.’
When we finally got outside, the walk along the river calmed her, and she told me about the holiday she was taking in Crete, with a friend from the library. It sounded like an endless slog around Minoan ruins, but it would suit her perfectly. It was hard to imagine my mother relaxing on a sun lounger, listening to the sea. She talked about her voluntary work too; one day a week for Help the Homeless, answering the phone. Maybe it appeased her guilt. Will had lived in his van for eight years but she’d never even offered him her spare room.
‘I visited your father’s grave on Monday.’
‘Did you?’ I was too stunned to offer an appropriate reply. Months had gone by since the last time she’d mentioned him.
‘That rosebush I planted is doing well. It’ll need pruning soon.’
I nodded. My father had never shown the slightest interest in gardening, unless she nagged him to mow the lawn; he was too busy getting pissed in the garage. My mother seemed to be on the verge of explaining something, but we arrived at the Design Museum before she could speak. We bought our tickets and stepped into a fantasy world. The exhibition was called Child’s Play. Hundreds of Barbie dolls were trapped in a vat of transparent resin. Some of them had their arms raised, swimming frantically for the surface.
‘Ridiculous,’ my mother snorted. ‘What on earth is that supposed to mean?’
I thought for a moment. ‘That childhood memories are fixed, maybe? They can’t be changed.’
My mother’s frown deepened. She marched from one exhibit to the next, hardly glancing at the huge city made of Lego, suspended upside down from the ceiling. Afterwards I bought her an iced tea, but the museum had reinstated her bad mood. At least she found something to admire on the way back. Hanging baskets blossomed from every lamppost, filled with lobelia and trailing geraniums.
‘Gorgeous,’ she murmured. She’d saved her first smile of the day for a floral display.
There was still no sign of Will when we got back, so she smoothed her hair in the hall mirror and prepared to leave. She kissed the air directly beside my cheek, then stepped back to study my face.
‘You look shattered, darling. Haven’t you been sleeping?’
I gritted my teeth. The urge to tell her to fuck off was overwhelming. ‘I’m fine, Mum, honestly.’
From the kitchen window I watched her return to her car. Her walk was the same as always, light-footed as a ballet dancer. She could have been forty, not sixty, completely carefree.
9
Burns was hard at work when I found him on Monday morning. His office was half the size of his old one at Southwark, as though the architecture had shrunk to match his stature. He was scribbling notes in the policy book. No doubt Brotherton had been breathing down his neck to keep it up to date. When he looked up from the pages, he studied me intently.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Of course I am. Why?’
‘I should have taken you home. You didn’t need to see all that first-hand.’
I could guess what he was thinking: he felt guilty for exposing me to yet another corpse. People handled me with kid gloves all the time when I got out of hospital. Friends spoke in whispers, and took me to see romances instead of thrillers at the cinema. The whole world seemed determined to smother me in tissue
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