Amy, having finished at Olivia’s, did the shopping on her way home with the cash she’d been given, had a go at her own house and then, finally, did her laundry. Having put her feet up for a well-deserved rest for an hour or so she was now in her kitchen cooking supper. She heard the front door slam. ‘Is that you, Ashley?’ she called.
‘Hi, Mum.’ Ashley loped into the tiny kitchen, his skateboard tucked in under his arm. ‘What’s for supper? Smells good.’
Amy paused in stirring the onions frying gently in the pan and offered up her cheek to be kissed. ‘Good day? And it’s mince and mash.’
‘Great, I’m famished.’ Ash propped his board in the corner with the hoover and perched on a stool. ‘Yeah, the day was all right. Called in at the salon to see Gran on my way home.’
‘That was nice of you.’ Amy picked up a pack of mince and began shredding it into the onions. ‘How was she?’
‘You know Gran, when she wasn’t bitching about the neighbours she was banging on about the bin collection. Oh, and giving me the low-down about the latest goings-on.’
Amy grinned at her son. ‘She does like a good gossip.’
‘And she said could you go round tomorrow – she says she needs to turn her mattress. I offered but she said it was woman’s work.’
Amy raised her eyebrows. ‘She really doesn’t get sex-equality, does she?’
Ash laughed as he shook his head. ‘I said I didn’t mind but...’
‘No, I know you wouldn’t. And talking of beds and bedrooms—’
‘Which we weren’t...’
‘I want yours sorted out, please.’ Amy reached for an open tin of tomatoes sitting on the counter and tipped them onto the sizzling meat.
‘It’s not that bad.’
Amy stared at her son as she stirred the mixture.
‘OK, it’s a bit of a mess,’ he admitted.
‘It’s a total mess.’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘You could make a start tonight.’
‘Must I?’
‘No, but it’s got to be done soon or I’ll do it.’ Amy’s ultimate threat. Last time she’d thrown out what she’d thought was a bag of rubbish only to discover later that it was a collection of magazine pictures that Ash had been putting together for an art project – and of course the bin men had been round between Amy shoving the bag in the bin and Ash coming home to discover the loss. Oops. ‘Go on – make a start. Supper’s going to be a while; you could probably get it done before then.’
Ashley trailed up the stairs to his room and then Amy heard the sound of his footsteps pacing back and forth across the tiny floor as he picked up his possessions and began clearing up the mess. He was, thought Amy, a good lad. His father might have been a dud but Ash had turned out all right. Better than Zac Laithwaite, at any rate.
*
Zac – the object of Amy’s thoughts – was in his room playing war games on his PlayStation. In a lull in the action he heard his mother’s voice floating up the stairs.
‘Zac? Zac?’
Shit, what did she want now? God, she was always on his case. He quickly plugged the headphone jack into the system and stuffed the earbuds in so he could pretend that he hadn’t heard her. He concentrated on his game until he saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He swung round, ripping out his headphones.
‘What?’ He glared at his mother.
‘Hello, darling. I’m going to be doing supper soon.’
‘So?’
‘I know it’s early but I’ve got to go out... council meeting. Is that OK?’
God, every night she said the same sort of dumb things. ‘Yeah, whatever.’
‘Good.’
He didn’t respond and concentrated on his game. Would she now get the hint and leave him alone?
She hesitated by the bedroom door. ‘And you’ll be all right till your father gets home, won’t you? I’ll have to leave his supper in the fridge for him to heat up...’
Zac couldn’t be arsed to answer her. Did she think he cared? Her voice petered out.
‘So, that’s fine then. I’ll leave you to get on, shall I?’
Yes, now fuck off. ‘Anything else?’ he asked, pointedly.
‘No, no. I’ll call when supper’s ready.’ She left but didn’t shut the door. She never fucking did. Irritated, Zac lunged off his chair and slammed it behind her.
He pulled his dressing table away from the wall, reached behind it and extracted a small plastic bag, a packet of Rizlas and a pouch of tobacco. Carefully, he made himself a spliff and then opened the windows of his room. He leaned out and sparked up. Slowly he felt calmer, his rage at his mother faded and he felt at peace. He drew in another hit and held it before slowly exhaling the smoke which drifted away from the house. Zac watched it dissipate and wondered what would happen to any birds that flew through it. The thought of the local starlings getting high made him chuckle. He finished his rollie and stubbed it out against the outside wall of the house, under the window sill. He then hitched himself onto the sill and reached up to put the fag end into the gutter above the room. No evidence remained except the reek of tobacco and pot in his room. Zac picked up a can of Lynx and sprayed it liberally. He chuckled again at the thought that his dad hated the smell of Lynx and it would piss him off no end if he caught a whiff when he came home. But not as much as it would if he knew what it was masking. He laughed out loud even more at that.
*
Bex slumped on a chair in her new kitchen. It was a lovely kitchen, she adored it and it had an Aga – her idea of heaven although, if she were honest, she wasn’t quite sure how it worked. But it couldn’t be that hard, could it, and the previous owners had left a manual... though where the hell it was was a mystery right now. And an Aga was, when all was said and done, basically an oven. She looked at her watch – seven. Too early for bed although she was tired enough to fall asleep right now but she couldn’t indulge herself like that – she still had far too much to do. The day before, after the removal men had finished, she’d got all the beds made up, they’d had a takeaway from the local pizza parlour and found time to call both sets of grandparents and tell them they’d arrived safely before they’d all crashed out; Bex collapsing in her bed only a couple of hours after the boys.
Today, her first priority had been to make the sitting room habitable enough so the boys could watch TV which kept them entertained while she and Megan had got on with yet more unpacking. And now they’d all had supper and the boys were in bed, another day of running up and down stairs, shifting boxes and furniture, unpacking and putting away had caught up with her. But there was so much still to be done although she needed a moment to herself before she started again on the packing cases.
‘Well, Richard,’ she whispered to the shadows in the kitchen, ‘we made it. Wish you had too.’ She swallowed down a whoosh of self-pity and sorrow. She leaned back in the chair and blinked back tears. The silence was total. Not even a clock ticked and the space seemed big and empty. Even the pile of cartons in the corner, which had almost filled their last kitchen in London, didn’t seem to take up much space here. She suddenly felt very alone. Which is ridiculous, she told herself, with three children upstairs. Maybe it was loneliness rather than being alone. She wished Richard was here to see this house, to know that his dream of moving to the country had come to fruition. How bitterly ironic that it was partly his life insurance that had made it possible. Bex could almost weep at the unfairness of life – and death.
She sighed and leaned back in the big carver chair, running her fingers over the curved ends of the arms, remembering how Richard had done that whenever he sat in it.
How she wished he was still alive. It wasn’t just that she needed his strength and stability to cope with this move – Megan needed him too, and the boys did. She couldn’t fill his shoes; she couldn’t be the other parent as well. She couldn’t do this on her own. And yet she had to.
Sitting here moping wasn’t getting the unpacking done. Wearily she stood up again. She’d promised herself she’d get the kitchen straight tonight but first, a drink. There was a case of wine that she’d directed the removal men to cart down to the cellar. She and Richard had bought it for their tenth wedding anniversary, but he’d died before they’d reached that milestone. Not much point in saving it now. She went to the door in the corner of the kitchen that led down to the basement and flicked the switch at the top of the stairs. A smell of damp and mould and ancient dust wafted upwards and a couple of antique cobwebs, hanging from the sloping ceiling of the stairwell, moved around in the disturbed air. One day, when she had the energy, she’d sort this place out, give it a proper floor, heat it maybe – and it would make the most splendid den for the boys. But it wasn’t on her list of priorities right now and, knowing how much had to be done to get the whole house straight before she could even think about extras like a den for Lewis and Alfie, she reckoned they might be leaving for university before she managed to get around to it. She clutched the handrail and made her way down the steep stairs into the basement. A bare light bulb illuminated the space which was, she thought, disappointingly small, given the size of the house. But there, in the middle of the beaten-earth floor, was the case of wine.
She pulled open the lid to reveal a dozen ruby-red lead foils. She picked out a bottle and carried it back upstairs, flicking the light off before she shut the door. Back in the kitchen she examined her booty. Bugger – a proper cork. Well, given the quality of the wine she shouldn’t be surprised, but now she had to find the blooming corkscrew before she could enjoy a glass – and that meant more unpacking. She knew she had to get the boxes emptied but she’d really hoped to have a few minutes’ relaxing before she put her back into it again. Bollocks.
She set the bottle down and pulled one of the big cardboard cartons off the stack and carried it over to the table. She opened the flaps and began to pull out, and unwrap, newspaper parcel after newspaper parcel. At her feet the drift of paper got bigger and higher and on the table the pile of mixing bowls and kitchen tools also grew. She picked out the final item from the box but she could tell instantly from the size and weight it definitely wasn’t a corkscrew. She peeled the protective paper off. No – a Kilner jar.
Bums.
Bex gathered up the newsprint and checked that she’d not missed anything before she shoved it back in the box and then bunged it all under the table. Then she went back over to the stack of packing cases, grabbed another one and began the process over again.