“They’ll do nicely for tea,” her mother conceded, screwing the cap back on her fountain pen.
She was a fussy eater and liked her little treats. Mrs. Melsom had, perhaps unwittingly, hit on the surest way to gain her approval.
“Hello, Mrs. Swinney,” Mrs. Melsom said in that artificially high, bright voice used to address the hard of hearing or imbeciles. “I see you’re doing your paperwork.”
“I have a mountain of letters to write,” the old lady replied, tapping her notepad.
Jean blinked in surprise. Apart from Dorrie, her mother’s only other regular correspondent was an old friend in Toronto. The protective barrier of ocean between them had saved this from going the way of other relationships.
“The problem is thinking of things to say,” she added, the mask slipping for a moment. “When you don’t do much.”
“Well, I was wondering if I could tempt you out of the house on Saturday,” Mrs. Melsom said, casting a wary glance at Jean. “The Mothers’ Union are doing a strawberry tea at the village hall. The handbell ringers are giving a little concert and there’ll be a swap meet. It should be rather a nice afternoon.” She put her head on one side.
Jean’s mother looked momentarily panicked. “Oh, I think it might be too much for me,” she said.
“Of course it won’t,” Jean exclaimed. “It sounds lovely.”
“We’ll find you a comfy seat—you don’t have to make conversation if you’d rather not.”
Jean couldn’t now remember if she’d briefed Mrs. Melsom about her mother’s social anxieties, or whether this was something that had become apparent during their tea together.
“It’s the walking,” her mother said, shaking her head firmly. “I’m not steady enough.”
“My husband will take us in the Riley,” said Mrs. Melsom. “Door to door.”
“There,” said Jean. “What could be nicer?”
“Well I suppose if you’re coming, too,” said her mother.
This wasn’t the outcome Jean was hoping for.
“The invitation is for you, Mother,” she said, shooting Mrs. Melsom a supplicating glance. “It would be so good for you to get out of the house.”
She hadn’t wanted to use this form of words. Nothing that was presented as being “good for you” was likely to hold much appeal. She almost wondered whether it would be worth enduring a strawberry tea and swap meet just to induct her mother gradually into a new world of extramural activities. But the immediate possibility of a free Saturday was too tempting.
“Well, you think about it and let me know,” Mrs. Melsom said.
Jean felt the prospect of liberty slipping away. If she didn’t settle the matter now, with Mrs. Melsom still here providing additional traction, the battle would be lost.
“You might find you enjoy yourself. And it will be something to tell Dorrie in your next letter.”
Her mother wagged her hand as though waving a white flag. “Oh, all right. If you’re so set on it.”
Mrs. Melsom, to her great credit, refused to take offense at this ungracious response but beamed as though on the receiving end of a huge favor.
I will make it up to you somehow, Jean thought. She had no great confidence in the long-term success of the experiment. It was too much to hope for that her mother might make and keep a friend, and find some source of entertainment or comfort beyond herself and their four walls.
“I suppose you’ll be off gallivanting with your new friends while I’m out,” said her mother astutely as soon as the door was closed on the visitor. “They seem to be making quite a project of you, for some reason.”
“If I am ‘gallivanting,’” said Jean, magnanimous in her victory, “surely it’s better I do it while you are out having fun yourself than when you are on your own here.”
“Fun?” said her mother with a kind of shudder. “A lot of silly women more like.”
“I’m sure they’re not all silly. Mrs. Melsom is perfectly decent.”
“As long as they don’t try to get me on some kind of committee. You know what those churchy women are like when they get their claws into you.”
Jean laughed. “You do exaggerate! It’s the Mothers’ Union, not a pack of wild beasts.”
“I didn’t see you volunteering to get involved.”
“I’m not a mother,” Jean said.
16
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Pam’s Piece