Page 100 of Commitment Issues
Chapter Forty-One
Freddie
“You look like you could use a cuppa, my boy.”
They’re the first words Mum says when I come into the kitchen. A steaming hot cup of tea is the answer to all the world’s woes. There’s no use saying no, I’ll have coffee, juice, or a nice mug of arsenic, tea’s what you get first thing in the morning, no argument. It’s the way it’s always been and the way it is, and I’m so glad for that solid as a rock consistency. I can’t help but throw my arms around her. She knows something’s wrong, but she hasn’t pushed, she hasn’t asked why I phoned asking her to pick me up from the station a couple or so days before I was due home, and I love her all the more for it.
“Get off me, you silly bugger,” she chides, but her flushed cheeks and smiling eyes tell me a different story. “You sleep okay?”
“Yes, I did.” No, I didn’t, just like I haven’t in what feels like ages.
I’d tossed and turned, reading and re-reading Elliot’s texts, listening and re-listening to his voice message. I know I have to speak to him, to confront him, even, and I resolve to do it today, but my heart cringes from it. Who knew I was such a coward?
Mum doesn’t believe me, but she says nothing as she busies herself making the tea and cooking up a storm of breakfast for me — another thing it’s futile to say no to — as I look around the room that’s been the hub of my family for as long as I can remember.
The kitchen’s ramshackle and large, and nothing matches. It’s old-fashioned but in a rural, rustic way. Except for the massive silver American-style fridge freezer. When did that land? It looks like it’s come from outer space. In the corner, in a beaten-up dog basket, Mervin’s curled up and snoring. He’s an old, mixed mutt, the gentlest dog we’ve ever had. I smile, but it falls away almost immediately, as I remember another kitchen where everything’s mismatched and eclectic, another dog in its basket.
“Dad’s out, meaning it’s just the two of us.” She places two piled-high plates down, followed by the old teapot that’s older than me, and swathed in its woolly jacket, before settling herself into her seat.
I swallow a groan. So much for her not pushing, but I’d turned up out of the blue, phoning from the station callbox because my mobile had run out of power, late on Wednesday night after a nightmare journey of cancellations and diversions.
“Yeah, I know. It’s nice spending time alone with my old mum.”
“Not so much of the old,” she huffs. “What brought you home all of a sudden?”
She looks at me over the rim of her teacup waiting for me to take the bait, but I resist.
“I told you I was coming home for a few days.” It’s evasive and she knows it.
“But at the weekend. Saturday, you said, which is today. You arrived Wednesday night.”
“Is it a problem, me coming a bit early?” I’m defensive and truculent, but she doesn’t rise to it.
“Well,” she says, her voice taking on a softer edge, “it’s lovely that you’ve come early because you know how much me and your dad love having you here. You can stay as long as you need to, you know that.” She reaches across the table and ruffles my hair the way she’s done for as long as I can remember, and always when I was worried or anxious or upset about anything. The touch always held some magic and it does so now. I blink hard to stop the tears welling up and overflowing. “Freddie love, if there’s anything you need to talk about—”
Her words are chopped off as Dad crashes into the kitchen. He’s a dynamo, always moving, always busy, and I’m relieved beyond belief that this ruddy-faced, big-boned man, clad in oily mechanics’ overalls, is here in the kitchen and taking possession of it.
“You’re supposed to be at work this morning,” Mum says, frowning at Dad.
“I am. Just forgot something that’s all, and thought I’d nick a couple of these to take back with me.” He raids the battered tin box on the side, which for as long as I can remember has held the sugary, yeasted fruit buns Mum makes every week. “I’ll have one now, though, before I set off, just to keep my strength up. Hmm, lovely. Nice buns, Julie,” he says with a grin, but Mum just tuts and shakes her head. “You make sure you eat up all that breakfast Freddie, because you’re looking a bit too pale and tired if you ask me. You got dark shadows under your eyes, too. You ain’t sickening for something, are you?”
“No.”
He grunts, but his chewing slows as his eyes narrow, and he looks hard at me. Too hard.
“Nobody’s been knocking you about, have they?”
What the—?
“Dad!”
“Simon!”
Me and Mum gasp at the same time.
“Of course they haven’t,” I splutter. “I’m tired because I’ve been working like a dog. Supermarket shifts, working at the university, doing my research.” It’s the truth, but every word feels like a lie. “And of course waiting to hear from Oslo has been a strain.”
I say the magic word.
