Read Online Another Night, Another Day by Sarah Rayner - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Rayner
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my brother and I did when we were small; they each have sections of our allotment where I encourage them to grow their own vegetables from seed just as we had in our garden . . .
Shirley interrupts her thoughts. ‘I do worry about George in that home.’
Oh dear. Karen braces herself. Here we go. I should never have criticized the staff for not getting him up. It only fuels Mum’s guilt. ‘You had no choice, Mum. It was impossible for
you to carry on the way you were.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ Shirley sounds uncertain, and her hazel eyes are troubled, but then she smiles. ‘I do love being nearer you and the children.’
‘And we love having you closer too.’ Though having you down the hall might be a bit too close, Karen thinks, then flushes with guilt for even having the thought. Don’t be so
selfish, she reproaches herself. It would be great for Molly and Luke to have their grandmother on hand.
‘I think it was the rosemary that made me realize,’ says Shirley. ‘Did I tell you that story?’
Karen shakes her head. ‘What happened?’
‘Your father went out with a bag of rubbish to the shed and he must have got confused and picked up the garden shears. In any event, he ended up decimating that bush I’d grown by the
back door. And he was so proud of himself! “Got rid of that awful weed, Shirley!” he said. The air smelled of it for days. I was so upset; that was when I admitted defeat. Especially
sad, when you consider rosemary is supposed to be the herb for remembrance. I should have brought some sprigs back with us, given them to you today . . .’ Her voice trails off, and she puts
down her fork.
For a few moments they sit in silence. The cafe itself is a charmless prefab building, so they’ve angled their chairs to face the sea. Straight ahead the light on the water is so bright
it’s dazzling; to their left is a stretch of neatly cut grass and beach huts which look to have been recently painted white; to their right a broad sweep of shingle, broken by a sculptural
array of rocks and crags.
Eventually Karen says, ‘Simon would have loved it here.’
‘And George. Perhaps I should try and bring him . . .’ But Shirley’s tone lacks conviction. They both know George wouldn’t manage it.
Again they fall quiet. The screech of seagulls and clatter of waves on stone mingle with the yelps of three teenagers trying to outdo each other balancing on the posts of one of the groynes.
‘You know something else Simon would have liked?’ Karen smiles. ‘This cake. If anyone was partial to a giant slice of gateau, he was.’
Presently a waitress comes to collect their plates, shaking them both from reverie.
‘Come on then, Mum, let’s take that walk before I have to pick up the children,’ says Karen, standing. ‘We’d better work off those calories somehow.’ And she
holds out a hand so Shirley can steady herself as she rises from her seat.
9
It’s 3 a.m., two days before Valentine’s, and Michael is heading for London. He usually likes driving at this hour: the road is wide and empty and he knows the
route well – the westerly sweep round the bypass; due north up the A23 with the shadowy downs behind him, slowing a touch to handle the bends past the garden centre where they’ve added
a lane recently; the sign for Pease Pottage Service
s
which always reminds him of ‘Pease Porridge Hot’ – a nursery rhyme he used to chant to Ryan and Kelly whenever they
passed en route to his parents in Croydon. But tonight he is glum. Throughout January, trade lived down to his expectations. His credit card is up to the limit, and his current account is seriously
overdrawn; he’s been lying awake next to Chrissie night after night, silently panicking. Still, he urges himself, with any luck Bob can help when I get to the other end.
To buoy his spirits, he reaches for the zip-up case containing his CDs, fumbles through the plastic pages with one hand and slips
The
my brother and I did when we were small; they each have sections of our allotment where I encourage them to grow their own vegetables from seed just as we had in our garden . . .
Shirley interrupts her thoughts. ‘I do worry about George in that home.’
Oh dear. Karen braces herself. Here we go. I should never have criticized the staff for not getting him up. It only fuels Mum’s guilt. ‘You had no choice, Mum. It was impossible for
you to carry on the way you were.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ Shirley sounds uncertain, and her hazel eyes are troubled, but then she smiles. ‘I do love being nearer you and the children.’
‘And we love having you closer too.’ Though having you down the hall might be a bit too close, Karen thinks, then flushes with guilt for even having the thought. Don’t be so
selfish, she reproaches herself. It would be great for Molly and Luke to have their grandmother on hand.
‘I think it was the rosemary that made me realize,’ says Shirley. ‘Did I tell you that story?’
Karen shakes her head. ‘What happened?’
‘Your father went out with a bag of rubbish to the shed and he must have got confused and picked up the garden shears. In any event, he ended up decimating that bush I’d grown by the
back door. And he was so proud of himself! “Got rid of that awful weed, Shirley!” he said. The air smelled of it for days. I was so upset; that was when I admitted defeat. Especially
sad, when you consider rosemary is supposed to be the herb for remembrance. I should have brought some sprigs back with us, given them to you today . . .’ Her voice trails off, and she puts
down her fork.
For a few moments they sit in silence. The cafe itself is a charmless prefab building, so they’ve angled their chairs to face the sea. Straight ahead the light on the water is so bright
it’s dazzling; to their left is a stretch of neatly cut grass and beach huts which look to have been recently painted white; to their right a broad sweep of shingle, broken by a sculptural
array of rocks and crags.
Eventually Karen says, ‘Simon would have loved it here.’
‘And George. Perhaps I should try and bring him . . .’ But Shirley’s tone lacks conviction. They both know George wouldn’t manage it.
Again they fall quiet. The screech of seagulls and clatter of waves on stone mingle with the yelps of three teenagers trying to outdo each other balancing on the posts of one of the groynes.
‘You know something else Simon would have liked?’ Karen smiles. ‘This cake. If anyone was partial to a giant slice of gateau, he was.’
Presently a waitress comes to collect their plates, shaking them both from reverie.
‘Come on then, Mum, let’s take that walk before I have to pick up the children,’ says Karen, standing. ‘We’d better work off those calories somehow.’ And she
holds out a hand so Shirley can steady herself as she rises from her seat.
9
It’s 3 a.m., two days before Valentine’s, and Michael is heading for London. He usually likes driving at this hour: the road is wide and empty and he knows the
route well – the westerly sweep round the bypass; due north up the A23 with the shadowy downs behind him, slowing a touch to handle the bends past the garden centre where they’ve added
a lane recently; the sign for Pease Pottage Service
s
which always reminds him of ‘Pease Porridge Hot’ – a nursery rhyme he used to chant to Ryan and Kelly whenever they
passed en route to his parents in Croydon. But tonight he is glum. Throughout January, trade lived down to his expectations. His credit card is up to the limit, and his current account is seriously
overdrawn; he’s been lying awake next to Chrissie night after night, silently panicking. Still, he urges himself, with any luck Bob can help when I get to the other end.
To buoy his spirits, he reaches for the zip-up case containing his CDs, fumbles through the plastic pages with one hand and slips
The
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