has a separate shelf for each type—and notice some new additions in there, gleaming white with intricately designed handles. She’s still deep in conversation, and absentmindedly, I pick one up, turn it, admiring the unusual shape, before it slips through my fingers onto the floor. Jo looks up from her phone, aghast.
“I’m really sorry,” I tell her later, for about the tenth time, because she looks so upset. “Please can I replace it?”
“Oh, it’s fine,” she says, managing a laugh I know is forced. “Really. Don’t worry, Kate. It’s just a mug! It’s my fault, anyway. I shouldn’t have been chatting for so long.”
Is she really taking responsibility for my clumsiness? It puts me in mind of the kind of thing I’d say to Grace—when she was four. It’s my fault you tipped the paint over. I should have been keeping an eye on you.
We move on to small talk about the weather and how unseasonably warm it is. How gorgeous her kitchen is, which clearly pleases her, because she animatedly, bizarrely, tells me at length about the company that designed it for them, but how it isn’t perfect and how next time, they’re already planning something better.
Then I comment on her garden, designed by someone who really knows what they’re doing. It has the structure and year-round interest that many lack. Something’s changed, too, since I was last here. A small, evenly shaped apple tree has recently been planted—not by Jo, who has beautiful hands. Her unchipped nail polish is a dead giveaway.
“It’s a lovely shape, Jo. Do you know which variety it is?”
She shakes her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about gardening.”
“Does Neal look after it?” I gesture through the window. The long, neat lawn is flanked by elegantly planted borders. The new tree is dead center at the far end.
“Oh, no . . . We have this man who comes in every week. That reminds me—I must call him. He’s missed the last two.” She shakes her head. “Or maybe he’s not coming anymore. I get so muddled, Kate.” She looks at me beseechingly. “He and Neal didn’t get on.”
“Where is Neal?”
“He’s gone away.”
“How long for?” I can’t believe he’s left her alone so soon after Rosie’s funeral.
“He wasn’t going to,” she adds, reading my face. “He’s in Afghanistan, though not working this time. He and some colleagues started a charity. For children orphaned by the fighting.”
“I had no idea.” Laura had mentioned the orphanage, but she hadn’t said he started it. Suddenly, Neal Anderson’s joined my list of people who do great things in this world, who count. And just maybe, too, it gives him something else to think about and takes him away from what’s here. “You must be so proud of him.”
She nods. “It’s the main reason I don’t have a job. Oh, I know some of the mothers think that I do nothing with my life, but sometimes he’s away for weeks. And anyway, I help him—do some of his paperwork, make calls, organize meetings.”
As she speaks, I realize how little I know about her. About either of them.
“Why don’t I help you with the garden? Just for now? I could fit in a couple of hours . . . if you wanted me to.”
But Jo doesn’t reply. She’s gazing outside, beyond the trees, beyond the sky even, somewhere far away where I can’t reach her.
I lean forward and touch her arm. “Jo? This must be so hard. . . .”
Feeling it with every fiber of my being.
Her gaze doesn’t alter. “I wonder sometimes”—her voice seems to come from miles away—“what I did to deserve this, Kate. All I ever wanted, as long as I can remember, was a happy family. I thought it was one thing I could do really well. . . .”
There’s a lump in my throat, because I share every word, every sentiment of what she’s saying. To a mother, most of life can be reduced to the one thing that matters: family.
“I can’t talk about it,” she whispers, her eyes
“I’m really sorry,” I tell her later, for about the tenth time, because she looks so upset. “Please can I replace it?”
“Oh, it’s fine,” she says, managing a laugh I know is forced. “Really. Don’t worry, Kate. It’s just a mug! It’s my fault, anyway. I shouldn’t have been chatting for so long.”
Is she really taking responsibility for my clumsiness? It puts me in mind of the kind of thing I’d say to Grace—when she was four. It’s my fault you tipped the paint over. I should have been keeping an eye on you.
We move on to small talk about the weather and how unseasonably warm it is. How gorgeous her kitchen is, which clearly pleases her, because she animatedly, bizarrely, tells me at length about the company that designed it for them, but how it isn’t perfect and how next time, they’re already planning something better.
Then I comment on her garden, designed by someone who really knows what they’re doing. It has the structure and year-round interest that many lack. Something’s changed, too, since I was last here. A small, evenly shaped apple tree has recently been planted—not by Jo, who has beautiful hands. Her unchipped nail polish is a dead giveaway.
“It’s a lovely shape, Jo. Do you know which variety it is?”
She shakes her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about gardening.”
“Does Neal look after it?” I gesture through the window. The long, neat lawn is flanked by elegantly planted borders. The new tree is dead center at the far end.
“Oh, no . . . We have this man who comes in every week. That reminds me—I must call him. He’s missed the last two.” She shakes her head. “Or maybe he’s not coming anymore. I get so muddled, Kate.” She looks at me beseechingly. “He and Neal didn’t get on.”
“Where is Neal?”
“He’s gone away.”
“How long for?” I can’t believe he’s left her alone so soon after Rosie’s funeral.
“He wasn’t going to,” she adds, reading my face. “He’s in Afghanistan, though not working this time. He and some colleagues started a charity. For children orphaned by the fighting.”
“I had no idea.” Laura had mentioned the orphanage, but she hadn’t said he started it. Suddenly, Neal Anderson’s joined my list of people who do great things in this world, who count. And just maybe, too, it gives him something else to think about and takes him away from what’s here. “You must be so proud of him.”
She nods. “It’s the main reason I don’t have a job. Oh, I know some of the mothers think that I do nothing with my life, but sometimes he’s away for weeks. And anyway, I help him—do some of his paperwork, make calls, organize meetings.”
As she speaks, I realize how little I know about her. About either of them.
“Why don’t I help you with the garden? Just for now? I could fit in a couple of hours . . . if you wanted me to.”
But Jo doesn’t reply. She’s gazing outside, beyond the trees, beyond the sky even, somewhere far away where I can’t reach her.
I lean forward and touch her arm. “Jo? This must be so hard. . . .”
Feeling it with every fiber of my being.
Her gaze doesn’t alter. “I wonder sometimes”—her voice seems to come from miles away—“what I did to deserve this, Kate. All I ever wanted, as long as I can remember, was a happy family. I thought it was one thing I could do really well. . . .”
There’s a lump in my throat, because I share every word, every sentiment of what she’s saying. To a mother, most of life can be reduced to the one thing that matters: family.
“I can’t talk about it,” she whispers, her eyes
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