Page 10 of Thursdays at Orange Blossom House
‘Oh.’ The woman doesn’t move. ‘I just wanted a coffee.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ Dorothy says. ‘We don’t have any coffee ready.’
She grits her teeth as she realises what she’s said – the opening she’s given. The espresso machine has already been cleaned and turned off. She doesn’t have time – or the will – to start it up.
‘I can wait!’ the woman says brightly.
‘Dorothea,’ Frederick says loudly as he walks from the kitchen, wiping his hands, ‘are you ready to go home?’
She tries not to beam. It isn’t the first time he’s rescued her from this kind of circumstance – although he was so quiet after lunch that she thought he was having a nap.
‘Oh,’ he says, looking at the woman in the door, then looking at Dorothy, arching an eyebrow only she can see. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘This young lady wants coffee.’
‘That’s too bad,’ he says, dropping his hands by his sides. ‘I’m sorry, but we are closed.’
The woman meekly nods, mutters ‘Okay,’ and retreats, closing the door.
This happens every single time: people will listen to Frederick but not to Dorothy. Yes, he’s tall and broad-shouldered and that confers some kind of natural authority, but she’s the one at front of house. She’s the one whose word should be final. If only she were male, it would be.
If only she were male, a lot of things would be different. She wouldn’t have problems getting pregnant, for one thing. She could leave that to someone else. Someone whose body is better equipped for it. Someone who doesn’t feel like all her youthful hope and promise have been sucked away by the realities of life.
And here she is again, getting trapped in a spiral of thoughts about the ways she is failing herself and Frederick and the baby they are meant to have, and the future they dreamt of.
‘What happened?’ Frederick is saying, lightly touching her arm.
Dorothy blinks at him. ‘What? She … she wanted coffee.’
‘Not her. What happened just then?’ He’s frowning at her, concern crisscrossing his brow. ‘The woman walks out, then you get this … this look on your face and you can’t hear a word I say.’
She can’t tell if he’s guessed how distressed she is these days. She thought she was doing a good job of hiding it, but clearly she lapsed just now. They’re both upset that she isn’t pregnant, but she hasn’t wanted him to know that his pang of upset is her chasm of something far beyond that. It’s not pain; it’s fear. She is terrified that what she wants most will never happen, and then she won’t know who she is. Or be who Frederick wants her to be. Who they both want her to be.
What’s worst is that she’s starting to wonder if the fear isn’t so much about not being pregnant but about becoming a mother. She’s gone this long without a child – what if she really doesn’t want one after all? That fear is something she can never tell Frederick.
‘Entschuldigung,’ she says – sorry. She doesn’t want to say it in English because it sounds more pathetic that way. ‘My monthly started today. I feel a little faint.’ It’s partly the truth, and enough to convince him.
He runs his hand over her hair and kisses her. ‘Let’s go home. You have done more than enough for today.’
She should probably express gratitude that they’re not staying until absolutely every last thing is done, but it’s her business too. The bills will still be there to pay tomorrow, and they will both be in early; it won’t hurt them to leave today while there’s still daylight.
She knows Frederick will have already done all he needs to before tomorrow. He’s organised like that. The kitchen will be clean and ordered, and he’ll have his to-do list for the morning, ready to check off each item as they complete it.
Dorothy thinks from time to time that she’d like to have that kind of list for her life, to help her feel more in control of it. But how does that joke go?How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans.
Once upon a time, when she was a girl, she didn’t understand that. She does now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It seems to Grace Maud that Cecilia was right: one doesn’t have to be a vegetarian Hindu to go to a yoga class. But one does need to be younger than seventy-four. The other women – and they’re all women – are several decades short of Grace Maud’s age.
A young woman with frizzy hair is writhing around doing a version of what could be called calisthenics – even though the class hasn’t started – and a middle-aged woman with the worst haircut Grace Maud has seen since the 1960s and a gloriously beautiful, completely bare face is sitting quietly, legs crossed, looking as bewildered as Grace Maud feels. Next to her, a sparrow of a woman chirps about someone called Gordon. Two other women are wearing ballet leotards and tights, and they certainly have the figures for them, even if one looks to have a scoliosis.
Ellie Maud had a scoliosis that was never corrected. A doctor told her she wouldn’t have children because of it. Ridiculous notion. And thank goodness that doctor was wrong, otherwise they wouldn’t have Luca now. Grace Maud smiles whenever she thinks of him. For all her longing for daughters, she isn’t actually that fond of her granddaughters. How two young women with such sensible parents ended up with such flighty notions about life she’ll never know. Imagine saying that you ‘just want to be happy’ and that’s your reason for leaving your family and the places you know? Happiness has never been the barometer in Grace Maud’s life.Dutyis by far the sturdier concept.
Luca may not be her grandson but she considers him such, since Ellie Maud isn’t around to be his grandmother. Grace Maud likes to think she’s taking care of him for her sister. In reality he’s probably taking care of her.
‘Where would you like to go?’ Cecilia whispers in her ear. ‘There’s a spot by the window.’
