The Last List of Mabel Beaumont(28)

‘What are you up to in there?’ I ask.

‘I thought I’d do you a fish pie for your dinner.’

I haven’t had fish pie for years. Arthur didn’t like it, didn’t like any kind of fish other than the sort that’s battered. And it’s a faff to make for one. Julie’s done it, though.

‘I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble for me.’

‘No trouble, Mabel.’

‘You know,’ Patricia says, coming back through the door as if we were just this minute in the middle of a conversation, ‘if the walking’s getting too much for you, I could have a word with my neighbour, Kirsty. She’s always out and about with her baby and she was only telling me the other day that she grew up with dogs and misses having one. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind taking Olly on the odd walk. I’d be happy to as well, of course.’

‘Did you remember to take poo bags?’ I ask.

‘I did.’

She doesn’t say anything else about walking Olly and it’s not long before they say they have to go.

‘That pie will be ready in twenty minutes,’ Julie says. ‘It will do you three or four portions, I think. You could put on some peas to go with it. I saw some in the freezer.’

It’s as if she thinks I’ve never made myself a meal before. And why has she been rooting around in the freezer?

‘I’m perfectly capable of making my own dinner,’ I say.

‘I know you are, but sometimes it’s nice not to have to. I’ll be back tomorrow and we can start looking for that address, okay?’

I know I should thank her, thank both of them, but I feel a bit overcome with emotion and I don’t want them to see that.

‘Watch the door, it’s sticking a bit,’ I say, instead. ‘Maybe you could look at that for me, too.’





14





Patricia said ten o’clock and it’s dead on when the doorbell goes. She’s standing on the doorstep with that young woman I ran into on the street once, the one who loved Olly. The perfect one. What did Patricia say her neighbour’s name was? Kirsty?

‘Hello!’ the young woman says. ‘I’m Kirsty, and we’ve met before, haven’t we?’

Patricia looks surprised. She was all ready to do the introductions.

‘Come in,’ I say to them both. ‘Where’s the baby?’

Kirsty laughs. ‘Oh, at home with Daddy for once. I feel strange without the buggy to lean on, almost like I’ve forgotten how to walk. Do you have children, Mabel?’

It’s such an innocent question, but such a barbed one, too. All my life, I’ve hated it. Because when the answer is yes, people can follow it up with questions about names and ages, about how many and whether they’re boys or girls. But if the answer is no, it leads to an awkward silence no matter who’s doing the asking. I’ve gone through phases over the years. Saying no but… as if that might change in the future, though I knew it wouldn’t. Saying I was still mulling it over, and then, once it was clearly too late, that I’d never quite been able to make up my mind. Because society doesn’t like women who have made up their mind and who don’t want children, does it? That’s something I learned pretty quickly.

We are standing in the narrow hallway, awkward.

‘Come through,’ I say. ‘And no, no children.’

‘Oh,’ Kirsty says, and her flawless skin goes a bit pink and I know she wishes she had the baby with her as a distraction.

Luckily, Olly ambles in.

‘Olly!’ she calls, like he’s a friend she last saw in 1976. Which is probably before she was born, come to think of it. She crouches down and he does a little hop skip towards her and I’m astonished, just like last time, at his reaction to her.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I ask, and then Patricia insists on making it, so I just stand there watching this stranger bonding with my usually standoffish dog. There’s something about her I can’t put my finger on. Cut-glass accent, clothes that look like they’ve been made for her. Today, she’s in slim black trousers to the ankle and a sea-green jumper you can just tell cost more than my entire wardrobe. She’s got money, that’s obvious. Patricia has, too, but she’s American and that throws me off.

‘Patty said the walking was getting to be too much,’ Kirsty says, standing up. ‘I’d be happy to swing by and pick him up any time you like. Dotty only sleeps in the buggy so I’m always walking the streets.’ She laughs, and it sounds slightly hysterical. Sleep-deprived, I imagine.

I glance towards the kitchen, where Patricia is humming and the kettle is boiling.

‘Can you take him?’ I ask. ‘For good, I mean?’

She looks a bit panicked, and it’s only then that I realise how composed she usually looks. She’s slightly too knowing to be in her twenties, I think, but she can’t be far into her thirties. What was I like at her age? It feels too far back to remember, and yet, those days with Dot, which are further back still, are fresh and clear in my mind.

‘Take him? Adopt him, you mean?’

‘He was my husband’s. He doesn’t even like me, and I’m finding it all too much. And you just seem to have this natural way with him. And besides, Patricia said…’