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Authors: Jennifer Maschek
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high-profile advertising company
based in Mayfair to stay close to her only daughter; this proximity
was a mixed blessing.
Although he wasn’t
quite sure how, Lyall had grown to look on his abilities as a
father as slightly inferior. Maybe, he thought, this was because
Lorna was so fervently and relentlessly positive about her own
maternal obligations, even in private for the most part, whereas he
found the whole business relentlessly difficult and wearying.
For him, Jane offered
some relief from the feelings of his own ineptitude in the face of
so daunting a responsibility by ensuring that even when she was
around and helping out, he was always kept firmly in charge. “We
need to check with Dad first,” was a catchphrase of hers. For this,
he was grateful.
The house was as
silent as it ever could be, and the only light, a dim one, came
from the glare he knew to be the 42-inch television screen on the
lounge wall.
Lorna sat on last two
seats of the black leather corner sofa, her left arm leaning on the
armrest, her long legs up and folded next to her. She was engrossed
in some programme he didn’t recognise, but pressed pause and looked
up with a smile as he walked into the room.
“How was he?” she
asked, patting the sofa next to her. As he dutifully slumped down,
Lyall realised that the sense of bonhomie that had surrounded him
during the taxi ride had waned and was slowly being replaced by a
flatness coloured only by uneasiness at the idea that he might have
been somehow complicit in his father’s slow but steady descent.
“Aw hell,” he said,
reluctant to share something he barely understood himself, but
desperate to be assuaged of the guilt that had begun to seep into
his thoughts. “He was good. He’s looking good and I don’t think
he’d been drinking beforehand. Nice food. And it was good to talk
about Ma and all, but… aw hell. I just wish I could help, you
know...”
“You didn’t cause it,
you can’t control it, you can’t cure it, babe. All you can do is be
there and look after yourself and us. It’ll be all right. You fancy
some tea? I’m making, or… you’re, erm, smelling a little beery… you
want another?”
“Yeah, he’d got some
in… for me,” he said. “I dunno… How was your evening? Girls get to
sleep okay? No madness at bathtime?”
“Mum came round –
she’s off to stay at the flat for the week from tomorrow… birthday
week of celebrations, you know how she is. Anyhow, naturally she
was heading out for dinner, but she helped with the bedtime chaos.
No idea how she manages to keep those clothes so impeccable – cream
linen suit tonight – while getting the girls so clean, but hey,
maybe it’s a trait I’ll get to inherit someday. They asked after
you… they were great, but I know they missed you at story time. I
said you’d sneak in and kiss them when you got home. They’ll get
over it.”
He left her to the TV
and made a mug of brickies’ tea for her and a pu-erh for himself,
eating two dried figs while the kettle boiled. He took his
upstairs, laid out some running clothes for the morning so he
wouldn’t wake Lorna up before needed, showered and fell asleep as
soon as his head sank wearily into the pillow.
Six days later, the
same household was in celebration mood. It was the last weekend in
May and the sun was straining a little, but there was a definite
feeling that summer was well on its way. This was enough to stop
Lyall’s usual internal groan when his wife suggested it was time
for the annual unveiling of the family firepit.
Jane had hinted that
another of her stream of “old friends” up from London might be
joining them for what Lorna insisted on referring to as her
“birthday tea”, although Lyall always found it hard to imagine his
mother-in-law at any meal other than dinner, perhaps, or supper.
She was distinctly not a tea sort of woman, and he assumed the idea
of a birthday tea was to fulfil some image of what Lorna would
ideally like
based in Mayfair to stay close to her only daughter; this proximity
was a mixed blessing.
Although he wasn’t
quite sure how, Lyall had grown to look on his abilities as a
father as slightly inferior. Maybe, he thought, this was because
Lorna was so fervently and relentlessly positive about her own
maternal obligations, even in private for the most part, whereas he
found the whole business relentlessly difficult and wearying.
For him, Jane offered
some relief from the feelings of his own ineptitude in the face of
so daunting a responsibility by ensuring that even when she was
around and helping out, he was always kept firmly in charge. “We
need to check with Dad first,” was a catchphrase of hers. For this,
he was grateful.
The house was as
silent as it ever could be, and the only light, a dim one, came
from the glare he knew to be the 42-inch television screen on the
lounge wall.
Lorna sat on last two
seats of the black leather corner sofa, her left arm leaning on the
armrest, her long legs up and folded next to her. She was engrossed
in some programme he didn’t recognise, but pressed pause and looked
up with a smile as he walked into the room.
“How was he?” she
asked, patting the sofa next to her. As he dutifully slumped down,
Lyall realised that the sense of bonhomie that had surrounded him
during the taxi ride had waned and was slowly being replaced by a
flatness coloured only by uneasiness at the idea that he might have
been somehow complicit in his father’s slow but steady descent.
“Aw hell,” he said,
reluctant to share something he barely understood himself, but
desperate to be assuaged of the guilt that had begun to seep into
his thoughts. “He was good. He’s looking good and I don’t think
he’d been drinking beforehand. Nice food. And it was good to talk
about Ma and all, but… aw hell. I just wish I could help, you
know...”
“You didn’t cause it,
you can’t control it, you can’t cure it, babe. All you can do is be
there and look after yourself and us. It’ll be all right. You fancy
some tea? I’m making, or… you’re, erm, smelling a little beery… you
want another?”
“Yeah, he’d got some
in… for me,” he said. “I dunno… How was your evening? Girls get to
sleep okay? No madness at bathtime?”
“Mum came round –
she’s off to stay at the flat for the week from tomorrow… birthday
week of celebrations, you know how she is. Anyhow, naturally she
was heading out for dinner, but she helped with the bedtime chaos.
No idea how she manages to keep those clothes so impeccable – cream
linen suit tonight – while getting the girls so clean, but hey,
maybe it’s a trait I’ll get to inherit someday. They asked after
you… they were great, but I know they missed you at story time. I
said you’d sneak in and kiss them when you got home. They’ll get
over it.”
He left her to the TV
and made a mug of brickies’ tea for her and a pu-erh for himself,
eating two dried figs while the kettle boiled. He took his
upstairs, laid out some running clothes for the morning so he
wouldn’t wake Lorna up before needed, showered and fell asleep as
soon as his head sank wearily into the pillow.
Six days later, the
same household was in celebration mood. It was the last weekend in
May and the sun was straining a little, but there was a definite
feeling that summer was well on its way. This was enough to stop
Lyall’s usual internal groan when his wife suggested it was time
for the annual unveiling of the family firepit.
Jane had hinted that
another of her stream of “old friends” up from London might be
joining them for what Lorna insisted on referring to as her
“birthday tea”, although Lyall always found it hard to imagine his
mother-in-law at any meal other than dinner, perhaps, or supper.
She was distinctly not a tea sort of woman, and he assumed the idea
of a birthday tea was to fulfil some image of what Lorna would
ideally like
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