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Authors: Marika Cobbold
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the last person to mind that sort of thing.’
Until then it hadn’t occurred to me to be ashamed of my flat. It was perfectly comfortable and most importantly I could afford it without taking any of my ex-husband’s money.
Ruth gave a skittish little laugh. ‘Or else there’s some other reason why you haven’t wanted to invite me.’ She led the way to the kitchen. ‘At least there’s no danger of getting lost.’ She indicated the kitchen table that doubled as a workstation and at the brushes and pots of pigments and Little Red Riding Hood herself. ‘You’re working.’
‘Yup.’
‘Busy time?’
‘Absolutely. We’re preparing for the opening of the new gallery so we’re flat out. All hands to the pump, that kind of thing.’
‘Is that so,’ Ruth said and sat down.
It happened quite a lot when I was working at home, that people phoned or visited unannounced, observed I was busy only to proceed as if they had caught me reclining on the sofa watching daytime TV with a box of Turkish Delight at my side.
People before porcelain, people before porcelain, I told myself and I thought of Uncle Ian’s mopping-up operation, or search for closure as Ove the vicar had termed it. If I were to die tomorrow, did I want to go to my grave having added unkindness to a large woman with tiny feet and wistful eyes to my list of sins? I think not. So I moved my work to the far end of the kitchen table and lied with a smile, ‘It’s lovely to see you.’
‘Well, I thought when you couldn’t make our lunch . . .’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘But we saw you at our barbecue so that’s nice.’ She sat down, checking the floor before putting down her embroidered velvet bag.
‘I cleaned up all the mouse droppings this morning,’ I said.
‘You have mice?’ She snatched her bag up into her lap.
I sighed. ‘Alas no. They are completely useless around here. Pigeons come to my window, though, and help me with my chores.’
Ruth put the bag down on the floor again. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It was a lovely party,’ I said, changing the subject back to her barbecue. I had turned up expecting family and a dinner of sausages and chicken legs on paper plates only to find at least fifty people in their garden-party best and a man in a chef’s hat roasting a pig on a spit.
‘You were so embarrassed.’ Ruth laughed uproariously. I tried and failed to laugh with her.
‘But honestly there was no need. I don’t expect you to remember my birthday. Although Olivia might have reminded you. I did feel for you, though; turning up without a present and wearing that old cardigan.’
‘It was cashmere.’
‘Whoops.’ Ruth slapped her neat little hand across her mouth.
‘What is hateful to you do not do to your fellow man.’ The Golden Rule as expressed by the great Rabbi Hillel. And it would be hateful to me to be thrown out of someone’s modest but perfectly adequate flat by the scruff of my neck without as much as an offer of a hot drink so I assembled another smile and asked, ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘I’d prefer tea. Peppermint.’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry.’
She smiled the smile of one used to disappointment. ‘Builder’s will do.’
‘I’ve got Earl Grey.’
‘No really, builder’s is fine.’
‘Lapsang it is, then,’ I said.
Ruth sipped her tea. ‘Olivia told me your news. I wanted to make sure you were all right.’
‘What news?’
‘ “What news?” she asks. You are a funny one.’
This made me none the wiser so I waited for her to continue. Usually, with Ruth, you didn’t have to wait long.
‘She told me your godfather had got in touch. The father of . . . you know, your friend.’ She lowered her voice as if she were speaking of some fatal disease.
‘Oh. Yes. He did.’
‘Olivia said you went to see him, in Sweden. It must have been difficult for both of you. I mean, after all this time.’
‘It was fine.’
Ruth looked disappointed. ‘No
Until then it hadn’t occurred to me to be ashamed of my flat. It was perfectly comfortable and most importantly I could afford it without taking any of my ex-husband’s money.
Ruth gave a skittish little laugh. ‘Or else there’s some other reason why you haven’t wanted to invite me.’ She led the way to the kitchen. ‘At least there’s no danger of getting lost.’ She indicated the kitchen table that doubled as a workstation and at the brushes and pots of pigments and Little Red Riding Hood herself. ‘You’re working.’
‘Yup.’
‘Busy time?’
‘Absolutely. We’re preparing for the opening of the new gallery so we’re flat out. All hands to the pump, that kind of thing.’
‘Is that so,’ Ruth said and sat down.
It happened quite a lot when I was working at home, that people phoned or visited unannounced, observed I was busy only to proceed as if they had caught me reclining on the sofa watching daytime TV with a box of Turkish Delight at my side.
People before porcelain, people before porcelain, I told myself and I thought of Uncle Ian’s mopping-up operation, or search for closure as Ove the vicar had termed it. If I were to die tomorrow, did I want to go to my grave having added unkindness to a large woman with tiny feet and wistful eyes to my list of sins? I think not. So I moved my work to the far end of the kitchen table and lied with a smile, ‘It’s lovely to see you.’
‘Well, I thought when you couldn’t make our lunch . . .’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘But we saw you at our barbecue so that’s nice.’ She sat down, checking the floor before putting down her embroidered velvet bag.
‘I cleaned up all the mouse droppings this morning,’ I said.
‘You have mice?’ She snatched her bag up into her lap.
I sighed. ‘Alas no. They are completely useless around here. Pigeons come to my window, though, and help me with my chores.’
Ruth put the bag down on the floor again. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It was a lovely party,’ I said, changing the subject back to her barbecue. I had turned up expecting family and a dinner of sausages and chicken legs on paper plates only to find at least fifty people in their garden-party best and a man in a chef’s hat roasting a pig on a spit.
‘You were so embarrassed.’ Ruth laughed uproariously. I tried and failed to laugh with her.
‘But honestly there was no need. I don’t expect you to remember my birthday. Although Olivia might have reminded you. I did feel for you, though; turning up without a present and wearing that old cardigan.’
‘It was cashmere.’
‘Whoops.’ Ruth slapped her neat little hand across her mouth.
‘What is hateful to you do not do to your fellow man.’ The Golden Rule as expressed by the great Rabbi Hillel. And it would be hateful to me to be thrown out of someone’s modest but perfectly adequate flat by the scruff of my neck without as much as an offer of a hot drink so I assembled another smile and asked, ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘I’d prefer tea. Peppermint.’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry.’
She smiled the smile of one used to disappointment. ‘Builder’s will do.’
‘I’ve got Earl Grey.’
‘No really, builder’s is fine.’
‘Lapsang it is, then,’ I said.
Ruth sipped her tea. ‘Olivia told me your news. I wanted to make sure you were all right.’
‘What news?’
‘ “What news?” she asks. You are a funny one.’
This made me none the wiser so I waited for her to continue. Usually, with Ruth, you didn’t have to wait long.
‘She told me your godfather had got in touch. The father of . . . you know, your friend.’ She lowered her voice as if she were speaking of some fatal disease.
‘Oh. Yes. He did.’
‘Olivia said you went to see him, in Sweden. It must have been difficult for both of you. I mean, after all this time.’
‘It was fine.’
Ruth looked disappointed. ‘No
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