Read Online Comfort and Joy by India Knight - Free Book Online

always come back with the news that Tim likes his wine by the pint.
    ‘Um,’ I say, inclining my head towards Sophie, and then swivelling it around and indicating Pat. ‘The boys are upstairs. I
     don’t want them to come down and find people smoking.’
    ‘Maybe now’s not a good time, Jake,’ Tamsin says, putting her hand on his; the effect is of marble next to papyrus. But Jake’s
     already on his feet and marching up the stairs, trousers squeaking, to see what Jack and Charlie are up to. He comes down
     triumphantly a minute later. ‘They’re not there,’ he says. ‘They must have gone to bed.’
    ‘Ooh, let’s have a smoke,’ says Hope.
    ‘Ganja,’ says Tim, in his idea of a Jamaican accent. ‘GANJA! Yah mon. Takes me back. Takes me back, Hope.’
    ‘I don’t know,’ I say lamely, ‘that this is quite the night for it, Jake.’
    ‘I know what cannabis is,’ Sophie says indignantly. ‘I’m not that square.’
    ‘Well, none for me, thanks – but suit yourself, Jake,’ I say. ‘Though open the window, would you?’
    ‘Is that drugs?’ says Pat.
    ‘Medicinal,’ Jake says, pulling a gigantic packet of grass out of his jacket pocket (denim: the leather and denim combo reminds
     me of the Fonz). ‘Relaxes me, that’s all. Soothes away the aches and pains. So that I can concentrate on the important stuff,’
     he adds, giving Tam’s thigh a squeeze. ‘Right, babe?’
    ‘Right,’ says Tam enthusiastically.
    ‘Drugs!’ Pat says. ‘Well, I never.’ She picks up Jake’s bag and has a good sniff. ‘Smells nice,’ she says. And then, after
     a pause, ‘What kinds of aches and pains?’
    ‘Oh, just the usual,’ Jake says, swiftly constructing an enormous joint. ‘The aches and pains of age, Pat. Though you’re only
     as young as the woman you feel, eh?’
    ‘I know all about those.’ Pat nods. She’s looking more interested than I’m entirely comfortable with: I’d sort of have preferred
     it if she’d expressed abject disapproval. I catch Sam’s eye and wince: it seems to me that neither of us is entirely in control
     of the situation, but he just shrugs at me and leans back in his chair.
    ‘You must have smoked, Pat,’ Jake says. ‘At some point in your life. Everyone smoked in the sixties.’
    ‘No,’ Pat says. ‘That was only on the telly, and we didn’t get one of those till 1969. Dollybirds and parties in London. Such
     fun, they looked, the swinging sixties. We liked Val Doonican.’ She does a little dancing motion with her arms.
    ‘Ah, of course. You’re Irish. No Pill for you,’ Jake says, succinctly. He lights up. ‘I forgot.’
    ‘I have four kiddies,’ Pat says, laughing. ‘No Pill for me, no. No parties or miniskirts either, mind.’
    ‘You can make up for it now, Mum,’ Sam says fondly.
    ‘I’d maybe leave the miniskirts,’ says Tamsin, eyeing Pat’s small, rotund form. ‘That ship has sailed. And Pat’s probably
     okay on the contraception front.’
    ‘Ooh yes,’ Pat laughs, winking – yowsers – at Jake. ‘My cuddling days are over.’
    ‘You’re only sixty-five, Ma,’ Sam says. ‘You never know. But I didn’t mean miniskirts. I meant, have a smoke.’
    ‘Did you? Right you are,’ says Pat cheerfully. ‘I will, so.’
    See, this is what happens. This is the man I live with – my husband – and he still occasionally has the power to absolutely
     astonish me. I mean, he’s encouraging his mother to smoke weed. What is he doing, and why?
    Sam and his mother’s relationship occasionally takes me aback. They’re not close in any obvious way; they never say anything
     especially nice to each other. They love each other, obviously (though
is
it obvious? Do we all
obviously
love each
other through the goodness of genes?), but they’re not particularly physically demonstrative, and they don’t stand around
     saying lovely things to each other. But then, sometimes, you find that they are closer than you’d ever imagined. Once, I