Page 42 of People In Love
All is fine, he’s sure. It had been a late night for her, after all; later than usual. A few more stairs and he makes himself open her door, just so, only to find the bed is made. Maybe she’s still asleep in the chair, and hadn’t heard him showering; unlikely, when she wakes at the mere suggestion of a sound, but no, she’s not downstairs, either. He calls her name, then. Nothing. Checks the kitchen, the downstairs bathroom, runs back up to her bedroom, heart like a train in his chest. Maybe shedoesgo to the shop, sometimes. Maybe she’s filling the bird feeders in the front garden; back down, front door open, empty but for a blackbird which scarpers over the hedge. Volvo still in the driveway because she doesn’t drive; can, of course, but won’t; not since he was five.
He closes the door and the recollections sear through him, hot and sudden, like nausea. How things had changed, so slowly. Her willingness to do normal things fading likethe colour of her hair. No more driving. No more attending parents’ evening. No more part-time job at the florist. Her gradual slip into solitude, but still smiling, stillI’m well, thanksto the neighbours, when she wasn’t; Nora and Freya, the only ones who knew. Who saw and heard things through the wall. His father, handling everything. Counting out her tablets while Bren ate his Cheerios, falling still if he found there were pills missing. Phoning the doctor, then. First-name basis with the receptionist. Prescriptions collected alongside the shopping, kitchen roll, semi-skimmed milk, six milligrams of anti-psychotics, good day, Bren, how was school.
And now two decades later, Bren stands in the hall without him, his train-heart off its tracks as he says okay, out loud: okay.
Next thought, that he could knock for Freya.
Ask if he should call the police, like they did once; she would know.
Wouldn’t she? Or is he the only –
And then the back door opens and there is a second where his insides harden then melt with relief, and his mother is walking into the kitchen with a dozen tomatoes cradled in the fold of her apron.
Morning! she says, and she looks tired, but normal enough. Eyes alert. Shoulders straight. Slips off her garden shoes onto the doormat, careful not to spill the red fruit.
Where were you, Bren says, but Josie doesn’t catch his tone, which is just as well, he thinks, as it was rich, coming from him.
With Freya, Josie says, brightly. We have tea and toast on Saturdays, and she gave me these beauties. I thought you might want a full English, after your late night.
She moves further into the kitchen and Bren watches her, double-checking for signs. No tear tracks down her face, noslight twitch of her mouth, so he moves forward, relieved, helps her unload the tomatoes onto the side.
You’re all right, though, he asks, and she says of course. But what about him? She was so worried, when he wasn’t home by midnight. So worried, Bren thinks, that she fell asleep in the chair.
I missed the last train, he tells her. Ended up walking home.
Walking? Bren! You should have texted! I could have …
But she tails off, because she couldn’t have, and they both know it. That car is as good as dead in the driveway, a hunk of metal and rubber and bad memories.
It’s fine, he says. And thanks for the thought, he says, nodding at the tomatoes, rolling like billiard balls across the counter, but I’m heading out.
Again, pet?
Yeah, he says. Fancy a walk.
Even after your long walk home, last night? How was it, at Nora’s?
Good. Fine. She’s actually asked me to be her … best man.
Weird words, in his mouth. Still surreal, but he expects a flutter of delight from Josie, at the news. A beat of misunderstanding at such an oddity, followed by her usual glazed expression, a passinglovely. Instead she looks up in alarm, as if he’d just told her he was off to get another tattoo.
You’re Robin’s best man?
Not Robin’s, he says, Nora’s. They’re defying convention, or whatever.
He can see his mother working hard to process this concept. But she seems to accept it, thanks to years of friendship with Freya, probably, then moves on to her next concern.
Is that a good idea? she asks him, following him out of the kitchen, as he pulls on his boots in the hall. When he asks herwhy it wouldn’t be, she says is it wise for you to make promises like that, Bren? When you’d need to be …
She twirls her hand in the air.
More acquainted with a state of permanence, she says.
Heat in Bren’s face, then, as he laces up his boots. Caught between amusement and shame. As a rule, they do not discuss his inability to stay in one place. The way you don’t draw attention to a facial birthmark, or one’s continued mispronunciation of a word; no need to make him feel bad, and in turn, her too.
That’s all fine, Bren says, as he straightens up. She’s hoping for some kind of cancellation deal, or something, by the summer. So I told her I’d stay.
Josie blinks, her apron hanging loose over her floral dress.
