Page 2 of The Notecard
‘You came on the tube, Mum.’
‘People traffic,’ says Mum brusquely. ‘Worse than cars. No indicators.’
‘Tea?’
‘Please. Your auntie Catherine says hello.’
‘Who?’
‘Norfolk,’ says Mum.
I have never heard of her.
Mum is looking thinner than ever. She used to have a fuller figure when Dad was alive, but since he’s gone, it seems like every year she loses a bit more weight. She’s only fifty-seven and still has a beautiful face with large blue-green eyes. They were a dazzling blue when she was young but have faded into green over the years. Her hair is shorter at the moment and she’s wearing typical ‘Mum’ attire. Black linen trousers, a white shirt, and a lemon yellow cardigan. Mum is always dressed like she’s about to head off to work at any moment. She hasn’t worked in years. She had a part-time job working as a receptionist at a doctor’s surgery, but she gave that up. Instead she goes to book clubs, spends time in the garden, and ‘keeps herself busy’.
‘I bought you some things,’ says Mum, plopping a shopping bag down on the table. She leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. ‘I got you some milk, bread, eggs, and some of that fruit bread you like. Soreen. It’s nice with a bit of butter on top.’
‘Mum, you don’t have to shop for me. I’m a thirty-two-year-old doctor.’
‘Well I did, so there you go,’ says Mum, putting the things away in the wrong cupboard.
I don’t have the heart to tell her I haven’t liked Soreen since secondary school. I’m not sure I was a huge fan then, to be honest, but Mum’s got it in her head that I like it and she keeps buying it for me. I gave the last one to a homeless man outside the train station. Even he didn’t seem bothered by it. He put it next to him without so much as a thank you.
‘What’s for dinner?’ says Mum, sitting down on the sofa.
The kettle boils and I pour water into two mugs. I pop in tea bags. Stir quickly.
‘I made a lasagne. There’s a salad and garlic bread too.’
One of the good things about working the night shift is that you have the day to get things done. I usually sleep when I get home, but I only sleep for four or five hours before I’m awake. Today I only slept for three. I was awake by one o’clock, so I had time to make a lasagne. It’s a dish I perfected at university. I know it sounds awful, but the secret is a tin of baked beans.
‘Sounds lovely,’ says Mum, before she looks around my flat. ‘When are you going to make the place look a bit nicer, Nick? It’s been how long since you moved in?’
‘Two weeks. I’ll get around to it, Mum. I’ve been busy with work, and…’ I stop because someone knocks on the door. I’m surprised because apart from Dotty, no-one has knocked on my door. Mum looks at me and I look at her. I shrug as if to say, I’m as baffled as you. I walk across, open the door, and stood there is Dotty from downstairs. Dotty is seventy-four, short, with a classic old lady haircut (a grey/blue colour, thinning, short). Today she’s wearing a long green dress with a purple cardigan over the top and white slippers. And she’s holding a tin.
‘Dotty, hi.’
Mum gets up and walks over. She stands behind me.
‘I won’t keep you. I made jam tarts and I thought you’d like some. You need to keep your strength up,’ says Dotty. ‘Can’t have the doctors getting sick.’
‘I tell him the same thing. I bought him some Soreen. He likes that,’ says Mum.
‘I love a bit of Soreen. Nice with a bit of…’ says Dotty.
‘Butter on top,’ says Mum, finishing her sentence like they’re a comedy double-act.
They both laugh as if it’s the most hilarious joke in the world. The old Soreen bit.
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the tin of homemade jam tarts.
‘I’m Nick’s mother, Sarah,’ says Mum, stepping forward.
‘Doris, but everyone calls me Dotty.’
‘We’re just about to have dinner,’ I say.
‘You should join us,’ says Mum.
