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Authors: Jenni Mills
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stuff.’
‘No.’ I push down hard on a surfacing memory of my mother under the trees in Tolemac, a look of panic on her face. Get in the van, Indy …John, as usual, is spot on the button. ‘Well, perhaps when I first came back…But no. Everything’s cool’
He grimaces. ‘God, you’re like your grandmother. Never willingly admit anything. I remember seeing you surrounded by cardboard boxes in that miserable flat in London and I thought, How come our India’s ended up like Nobby No-Mates?’
This is really not fair. ‘I had plenty of friends–’
John is a master of the single eyebrow-raise.
‘It’s just that in London…it’s harder.’
‘Yeah.’
I glare at him. ‘I still have a lot of friends in television.’
‘Those would be the ones you keep telling me you’re never going to see again, then?’
‘You’re a complete bastard, you know that, don’t you?’
We sit in silence for a while, watching the log on the fire catch, John puffing his roll-up.
‘Is that pilot bloke still texting you?’ he asks eventually.
‘Not since I told him to piss off.’
‘Right.’
‘I know it hasn’t got anything to do with what happened but it feels like another thing that was wrong about that day’
‘Indy, people make dubious decisions all the time without the universe throwing a moral tantrum. Forget your bad experience at uni. Sleeping with a married man doesn’t always unleash the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.’ He stands up again to relight his roll-up from the candle. ‘Not that I’m recommending it, you understand.’
I glance pointedly at the green scarf. ‘You shag married women.’
‘I’ve learned to manage their expectations.’ John chucks his dog end into the fire, lifts the mugs off the reflexology stool and pulls it into position. ‘Can’t be bothered with the couch. Get your shoes off.’
‘Anyway,’ I attempt to muster some dignity as I haul off my socks, ‘I think I might be ready to resurrect my career in television, after all. Did you see the notice at the post office? Bloody hell, that hurts.’
‘Stress always collects in the soles of the feet.’
‘Fran!’ I call, as I open the glazed front door into the hallway. Usually at this time of day she’s in the living room watching one of those TV programmes that, by some miracle of demography, unite both elderly people and kids. Instead she’s in front of the hall mirror trying on a hat like a hairy raspberry.
‘Does this make me look like an old lady?’
‘It makes you look mad.’
‘It’ll do, then.’ She grins, then frowns. ‘What time is it? I’m sure Carrie Harper said she’d drive me to Devizes to do a supermarket shop. Or have I got muddled again?’
Fran has a relentless social life that revolves around people from church–every one at least twenty years her junior. I check the calendar on the back of the kitchen door. Under today’s date, in her shaky writing, it says, ’6 p.m. Broad Hinton W.I.’.
I’m snapping on rubber gloves and plugging in the vacuum cleaner before she has her coat out of the cupboard. Never enthusiastic about housework, Fran has recently decided it’s not worth the effort at all, so I grab every opportunity to clean unhindered.
‘What got into you? In’t you the girl I could never get to keep her bedroom tidy?’
‘Sorry. Once I start…’
‘Well, I wish you’d stop. I feel exhausted watching. You in’t thinking you’ll go fiddling in my room? Because don’t. Can look after it meself.’ ‘I wouldn’t dare.’ There’s little point in fiddling in her room, as I discovered when I tried a few months ago to find Margaret’s birth certificate there. An immense old-fashioned bureau in one corner holds Fran’s bank statements, chequebooks and personal detritus, and it is locked. The key is probably under her pillow, but Fran knows I’d never steal it. What a person chooses to lock away is private: that’s our rule, drawn up in the years when I
‘No.’ I push down hard on a surfacing memory of my mother under the trees in Tolemac, a look of panic on her face. Get in the van, Indy …John, as usual, is spot on the button. ‘Well, perhaps when I first came back…But no. Everything’s cool’
He grimaces. ‘God, you’re like your grandmother. Never willingly admit anything. I remember seeing you surrounded by cardboard boxes in that miserable flat in London and I thought, How come our India’s ended up like Nobby No-Mates?’
This is really not fair. ‘I had plenty of friends–’
John is a master of the single eyebrow-raise.
‘It’s just that in London…it’s harder.’
‘Yeah.’
I glare at him. ‘I still have a lot of friends in television.’
‘Those would be the ones you keep telling me you’re never going to see again, then?’
‘You’re a complete bastard, you know that, don’t you?’
We sit in silence for a while, watching the log on the fire catch, John puffing his roll-up.
‘Is that pilot bloke still texting you?’ he asks eventually.
‘Not since I told him to piss off.’
‘Right.’
‘I know it hasn’t got anything to do with what happened but it feels like another thing that was wrong about that day’
‘Indy, people make dubious decisions all the time without the universe throwing a moral tantrum. Forget your bad experience at uni. Sleeping with a married man doesn’t always unleash the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.’ He stands up again to relight his roll-up from the candle. ‘Not that I’m recommending it, you understand.’
I glance pointedly at the green scarf. ‘You shag married women.’
‘I’ve learned to manage their expectations.’ John chucks his dog end into the fire, lifts the mugs off the reflexology stool and pulls it into position. ‘Can’t be bothered with the couch. Get your shoes off.’
‘Anyway,’ I attempt to muster some dignity as I haul off my socks, ‘I think I might be ready to resurrect my career in television, after all. Did you see the notice at the post office? Bloody hell, that hurts.’
‘Stress always collects in the soles of the feet.’
‘Fran!’ I call, as I open the glazed front door into the hallway. Usually at this time of day she’s in the living room watching one of those TV programmes that, by some miracle of demography, unite both elderly people and kids. Instead she’s in front of the hall mirror trying on a hat like a hairy raspberry.
‘Does this make me look like an old lady?’
‘It makes you look mad.’
‘It’ll do, then.’ She grins, then frowns. ‘What time is it? I’m sure Carrie Harper said she’d drive me to Devizes to do a supermarket shop. Or have I got muddled again?’
Fran has a relentless social life that revolves around people from church–every one at least twenty years her junior. I check the calendar on the back of the kitchen door. Under today’s date, in her shaky writing, it says, ’6 p.m. Broad Hinton W.I.’.
I’m snapping on rubber gloves and plugging in the vacuum cleaner before she has her coat out of the cupboard. Never enthusiastic about housework, Fran has recently decided it’s not worth the effort at all, so I grab every opportunity to clean unhindered.
‘What got into you? In’t you the girl I could never get to keep her bedroom tidy?’
‘Sorry. Once I start…’
‘Well, I wish you’d stop. I feel exhausted watching. You in’t thinking you’ll go fiddling in my room? Because don’t. Can look after it meself.’ ‘I wouldn’t dare.’ There’s little point in fiddling in her room, as I discovered when I tried a few months ago to find Margaret’s birth certificate there. An immense old-fashioned bureau in one corner holds Fran’s bank statements, chequebooks and personal detritus, and it is locked. The key is probably under her pillow, but Fran knows I’d never steal it. What a person chooses to lock away is private: that’s our rule, drawn up in the years when I
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