Page 28 of The Three of Us
‘Dancing. Yes, Mum, I can see that. Don’t let me stop you.’
‘Oh, I think we were probably about ready to take a breather anyway.’ She flops into a high-backed dining chair and wipes the back of her hand over her brow. Is that sweat? ‘Come on, Anthony, sit back down for a while and I’ll go and make some coffee.’
‘That would be lovely, Joyce.’ Anthony flops down and makes himself look far too comfortable for my liking.
‘Fancy one, Carly?’
I nod wordlessly and sit down in what was always Dad’s chair at the head of the table. At least she hasn’t suggested Anthony sit there. ‘No Sam tonight?’
‘Off out with some mates. He said he might be late.’
‘Right. Mind if I help myself to some food?’
‘Of course not, love. Anthony always buys too much.’
Always? Did she say always? Just how often do they share these cosy little get-togethers?
I dip a serving spoon into what looks like chicken korma. It’s already a little congealed and not quite hot enough, but I eat a spoonful anyway, straight from the carton. Going in search of another plate would mean following Mum into the kitchen and I’m not sure I’d know exactly what to say to her just yet. Anthony sits there smiling, almost shyly, but he doesn’t speak. Does he feel as awkward as I do? There was me thinking Mum was doing her best to match me up with him, as unlikely as that seems now, and all the time she’s been seeing him herself. I can’t quite get my head around it. The age difference, for one thing. He must be, what? Ten or fifteen years younger than her. Still, he was a good ten or fifteen older than me and that hadn’t stopped her feeble attempts at matchmaking, had it?
‘You remember Anthony, don’t you?’ Mum says, as she comes back, carrying a tray of coffees and a plate of chocolate biscuits. What is this? Let’s-pretend-we’ve-never-met time?
‘Of course I do.’
She pushes a few foil cartons aside and places the tray on the table before sitting down in an empty seat between us. I wait for her to say more, to tell me why he’s here, but she doesn’t. She just hands the mugs round, the milk and sugars already taken care of, so she clearly knows just how he takes it.
The CD comes to an end and all I can hear is Dad’s old clock ticking on the wall and Anthony blowing vigorously and noisily across the surface of his coffee to cool it before taking a tentative but equally noisy sip.
‘Go on, love,’ she says, smiling at me. ‘Tuck in before the rest of that curry gets cold. Or is it already? I can always microwave it for you.’
‘No, it’s fine, Mum. All fine.’ And I eat what quite possibly warrants as one of the most awkward meals of my life as the two of them sit there comfortably, chatting about parsnips and dahlias and plain versus milk chocolate digestives and whether they prefer Cliff or Elvis, almost as if I’m not there.
Chapter 17
Molly
Jack’s been back in London for eleven days now and they’ve only spoken twice. At first, Molly was upset, but gradually that’s been overtaken by anger. How dare he cut her off like this? As if it’s her who’s done something wrong? She’s as surprised by this pregnancy as he is, but he’s acting like a spoilt child who can’t get his own way, throwing his toys out of the pram. Which isn’t a bad comparison really, considering it’s all about a baby he clearly doesn’t want.
Molly can feel the tears brimming up as she takes out her feelings on the cake mix, turning the mixer on to full speed and battering it so hard she’s likely to break the bowl.
‘Calm down, love,’ her dad says as he strolls into the kitchen with an empty mug in his hand. ‘What’s that cake ever done to you?’
‘Sorry, Dad. Just feeling a bit stressed.’ She doesn’t turn round, not wanting him to see her on the verge of crying. ‘Can I make you another cup of tea?’
He goes over to the sink and refills the kettle. ‘It’s fine. I can manage. Better than you can probably, with that wrist of yours. But I’d like to know what’s bugging you, and I think it’s more than just a broken bone, isn’t it? You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?’
She nods, still not turning to face him.
‘Is it painful still? You’re looking so pale lately, and you were sick again earlier, weren’t you? Sorry, but those bathroom walls are thin, you know that.’
‘No. It’s a pain, but not painful, if you know what I mean. Just feeling a bit down. A headache and a bit of a dodgy tummy, that’s all.’
‘Is that all? Really? Not Jack then? Something he’s done. Or not done?’
She switches the mixer off and turns round. Her dad’s pouring the boiling water into the teapot, not looking at her. She knows that’s deliberate. He wants her to talk.
‘Because I can’t help wondering why you’re still here and he’s not,’ he says, easing himself down into a chair and tapping the one next to him, inviting her to join him at the table. ‘Well, he has work, obviously, but why didn’t you go back with him? You’ve never explained, and it’s been, what? Getting on two weeks and you’re still here. Not that we don’t love having you, of course, and you know I don’t like to pry, but shouldn’t you be at home, with your husband?’
Molly lifts the mixing bowl off its stand and tips the creamy yellow mixture into two baking tins, then puts it down again and runs a spoon round the bowl to scrape out the bits left behind. Once they are safely in the oven, she takes two mugs to the table and sits, pouring tea from the big old brown teapot that’s so much a part of this kitchen it’s probably older than she is.