Page 10 of Forgive Me Not
‘You’re the woman who talks too much,’ said Gail, folding and unfolding a chocolate wrapper – a gold one today.
‘Yes,’ said Emma in a cheerful tone. She peered into the fridge. Blueberries. Her mum’s favourite. ‘How about pancakes?’
‘Is Andrea eating with us?’
‘No. She’s picking strawberries.’
‘Pity it’s not tomatoes.’
Emma smiled. ‘Why? They’re the one thing you can’t abide.’
‘I like tomatoes. Can we have them on toast for breakfast?’
Emma stared.
‘Is Andrea eating with us?’ Gail asked again.
‘No. She’s busy outside.’
Gail lifted a glass of orange juice to her lips. The simple act made her seem so fragile. The way her hand shook as if she were in her ninth decade rather than her sixth. The detached look in her eyes. Would she miss her mouth? And the parting in her hair wasn’t quite straight. Emma glanced under the table. Yet again she was wearing odd socks.
‘Do you still do needlework?’ she asked.
‘Sewing?’ A vacant look came over Gail’s face. ‘How about those pancakes? I haven’t eaten for days.’
As Emma made the batter, Andrea walked past the kitchen window and glanced in. She didn’t catch her younger sister’s eye but concentrated instead on Gail. The lack of trust penetrated the double glazing.
And who could blame her? thought Emma as she sat down with her mum to eat, ignoring the movement at the window as Andrea walked past again. After breakfast, while she did the washing-up, Bligh came in for a coffee. Was that to check up on her as well?
A couple of hours later, she and Gail were sitting on the sofa. Emma was surprised Bligh hadn’t come back and told her it was time to leave. She’d glanced out of the kitchen window and spied her sister drinking out of a thermos flask. Clearly she’d taken every precaution to make sure their paths wouldn’t cross again.
Emma fetched the photo albums from the side cabinet in the dining room. She and Gail flicked through them from way back. Gail hummed to herself just like she did in the old days. Now and then her face broke into a smile. Would she finally make the connection and recognise her younger daughter?
They came to a photo of Andrea aged about six months. She sat in a pram, holding a rattle. Emma looked away until the page turned. She looked back to see a print of herself just a couple of months after she’d left college, with the fake blonde hair, sprayed skin and dressy clothes she liked back then – all clues that the person she used to be had no confidence.
‘That’s your daughter,’ she whispered, and held her breath.
Gail tutted. ‘Caused trouble day and night, that one.’
‘But… I’m sure she loved you.’
Gail turned the page without replying.
Emma collapsed back into the sofa and contemplated this uncomfortable return – the surveillance from Bligh and Andrea; the lack of recognition from Mum. Instantly her mind recalled thewhooshsensation she used to get from the first sip. How, with just one mouthful, the world became an easier place and seemed to have a space for her that was the perfect fit.
She stood up and paced the room, ending up by the front window. As she stared out at the pink foxgloves, Gail appeared by her side.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ she announced. ‘In the village. It’s Friday. That means fish for lunch at the Badger Inn.’
‘No! I mean…’ Emma softened her tone. ‘I can make you a lovely lunch here. I don’t think Andrea would want—’
‘My coat… I’ll just get my coat…’
Emma stood, unable to move for a moment. What should she do? Andrea wouldn’t want her to take her mum out, of that she was sure. And there was no way she could face the pub’s landlords, Polly and Alan. Not yet, not after she’d heard… She wasn’t ready to think about it. Soon, but not today.
Gail gazed expectantly, like a child waiting to open Christmas presents.
How could she distract her? Keep herdoingrather than just being? How had Andrea managed these last months? Emma had been here only a matter of hours and could already see how challenging Mum could be.
