‘What do you say, boys?’ Chloe prompted.
‘Thank yoooouuuuu,’ they chanted dutifully.
‘And what else do you need to say?’
‘Sorreeee.’
I suspected these boys had needed to say this once or twice before.
‘Well. Next time please remember that the library is for everyone. If you rip up all the books there’ll be none left for you to read.’ Irene sniffed.
Although, I have to say, it was a tiny bit less sniffy than usual.
11
It had been three weeks since I’d seen my mother. A fortnight since I’d spoken to her. According to Karina, she was still bitter, still grieving, but yielding to Karina’s invitation of companionship, already forming new routines involving morning yoga, afternoon trips out and crochet and Jaffa Cakes in front of gruesome detective series.
While part of me wanted to stretch out this sparkling new freedom for as long as possible, basking in the glorious, wide-open vista where my mother’s strangulating opinions and emotional issues had previously blocked the view, the more sensible part of me knew that the longer I left it, the harder it would become to break the silence.
Besides, she was my mother, and I missed her.
I phoned Aunty Linda and concocted a scrupulously managed meet-up, escape route at the ready just in case.
Late Sunday morning, I left Nesbit in the safe care of Joan and Leanne, then drove to meet Aunty Linda at the Buttonhole, which was closed on Sundays apart from occasional events such as a Crafternoon Tea or a guest workshop. After enfolding me in a much-needed hug, she started getting things ready while I made us each a drink. It would take me a good few hours to run up curtains for the bedroom and office, along with cushions in various complementary designs. Linda would be offering her expert advice and adding extra touches to the cushions like buttons, some hand embroidery and tiny felt decorations.
I filled her in on life in Bigley while we worked, and she updated me on the latest goings-on in the shop and with my cousins, who both lived in London. She was relieved and optimistic about Mum agreeing to revive her quilting course.
‘Honestly, Ollie, I think you moving out is the best thing that ever happened to her. It’s like now the worst thing has happened, she’s free from worrying about it any more. She misses you, of course, and is confused and angry, but we’ve somehow managed to convert it into a catalyst to get her enjoying things again instead of using it as an excuse to wallow. Not that she didn’t enjoy you being around, of course.’ She paused to deftly thread the tiniest of needles with gold embroidery silk. ‘But you know that subconsciously she was always playing the helpless victim to ensure you didn’t leave. She could never be too happy, in case you spotted that she didn’t need you any more.’
‘Is she really angry?’ I asked, apprehension jittering about in my stomach.
Linda looked at me. ‘I haven’t the foggiest.’
Just before six, the final cushion was zipped and plumped and loaded along with the curtains into my car, hiding in the small parking space behind the shop.
I took a shuddering breath, nodded to Linda and she made the call.
Seven minutes later, my mother burst through the Buttonhole door.
‘Ollie?’ she said, chest heaving, eyes wild until they spotted me. ‘I was halfway through my tomato and broccoli quiche.’
I could see the crumbs still sticking to her jumper.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I offered, not getting up from my seat near the back corridor that led out to my car.
‘Well, what is this? Am I allowed to give you a hug?’
After a short, stiff squeeze, I backed away and gestured to a seat.
‘Here we go.’ Linda placed a pot of tea and three slices of flapjack on the table between us.
‘Have you been speaking to Linda?’ Mum asked, her face brittle with hurt. ‘Meeting up? Is that how it is? She gets special treatment and I’m discarded like a used tissue?’
I tried my hardest not to mind. Not to drown in the swamp of guilt and self-loathing that I’d been trying to ignore for the past three weeks. I gripped my mug with both hands and willed myself to resist apologising, or making excuses.
‘Tina, making accusations like that is not helpful. If you can’t speak respectfully to Ollie, then she’ll leave.’
‘Oh, are you her mouthpiece now, as well? She can’t even tell me herself how she’s feeling?’
‘You haven’t asked me how I’m feeling,’ I managed to say, hating how my voice sounded so weak, on the verge of whining. I accepted that Mum was the one who’d suffered here; it was her feelings that mattered, not mine. I just couldn’t help wishing that she would act like a mother, just once, and put her child’s feelings first.