I take a seat next to her. ‘Who was on the phone?’
She makes a dismissive sound and runs her fingers through my hair. ‘Who cut this?’
‘You did.’
‘Not recently.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Nothing but split ends and flyaways. I can squeeze you in.’
‘Next time. Who was on the phone?’
She makes a clicking sound, as though scolding me. ‘We’re behind on the rent. The landlord wants us to settle up now.’
‘How much?’
‘It’s not your problem?’
‘How much do you owe?’
‘Seven thousand pounds.’
The amount shocks me into silence. ‘What will happen if you don’t pay?’
‘We’ll lose the salon.’
‘But you’ve been here for …’
‘Thirty-eight years, if you count the barbershop.’
‘I could ask—’
‘It’s not Henry’s concern.’
‘I was going to say Daddy.’
Her features rush to the centre of her face.
‘I won’t take a penny from that man.’
‘He didn’t give you enough in the divorce.’
‘I got what I wanted.’
‘He can afford to—’
‘How would you know?’ She doesn’t wait for me to answer. ‘Have you seen him?’
I contemplate lying, but she’ll know when I send out my wedding invitations.
‘I went to his birthday party. He was turning sixty.’
Her head is shaking from side to side. ‘You’re a police officer. You can’t afford to get involved with him. He and his brothers are … are …’
‘Criminals?’
‘Gangsters.’
‘Those things happened a long time ago.’
Her whole body seems to vibrate with rage. ‘Your father is a cheat, a liar and a womaniser.’
‘You loved him once.’
‘I hate him now.’
‘Other divorced parents learn to get along.’
‘Bully for them. Let me tell you something. A mother’s heart is like her womb – it will stretch to make room for you. But that man’s heart is made of stone. He may say he loves you. He may say that you’re welcome in his house. But he is a blasphemer and a cheat.’
‘I want him to be at my wedding.’
‘God will strike him down if he ever sets foot in a church.’
‘I don’t think the Anglicans mind so much about divorce.’
Now she’s even angrier. It’s bad enough that Henry isn’t a Catholic, but if Edward McCarthy walks me down the aisle, I’ll be making a mockery of my faith.
‘I won’t go,’ she says adamantly. ‘I’m not going to sit in a church with that man, or sit at the bridal table, or listen to him make a wedding speech.’
‘In which case, I won’t get married. I’ll keep living in sin. Would that make you happy? And when I have babies, they’ll be bastards.’
‘Don’t use that language around me,’ she says, annoyed at being wedged between her faith and her stubbornness.
‘You do realise that I’m marrying a divorcee,’ I say.
‘I’m not happy about that either.’
‘But you like Henry.’
She stands and brushes dust from her bottom, refusing to argue with me. In her perfect world, I would have married some childhood sweetheart, a good Catholic boy, who kept me pure until the honeymoon and kept me pregnant until my womb fell out. And if I did have to work, I’d be a schoolteacher or a nurse or a beautician, not a police officer. That’s why I don’t talk about my job. She doesn’t need to hear how I ‘blue light’ around London, knocking on strange doors and grappling with criminals and drunks.
Although she missed the Second World War by a generation, she possesses exactly the kind of long-suffering spirit and stoicism that would have served her well. Keeping calm and carrying on is what my mother does best. She complains, of course – most stoics do – about the weather, graffiti, speed cameras, parking wardens, traffic and the price of eggs, but mostly about my father.
‘How is Tempe?’ I ask, wanting to change the subject.
‘She’s trying very hard to be liked.’
‘In what way?’
‘If I make her a cup of tea, or give her a biscuit, it’s the best tea and the best biscuit ever. The room is perfect. Her bed is perfect. You’re perfect.’
‘Me?’
‘She’s always asking questions – wanting to know everything about you.’
‘Well, I’ve found her somewhere to stay. She’ll be moving out in a few days.’
I don’t mention my father for fear of setting her off again. Hate gets her up in the morning and gives her energy and is so deeply ingrained, she would set fire to her own happiness if she could burn him as well. It’s like Socrates said: from the deepest desire comes the deadliest hate.
17
Tempe checks through the peephole and undoes the deadlock and security chain, which my mother never bothers to latch. She ushers me inside and quickly shuts the door, hooking the chain into the place.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine.’
‘Did something happen?’
‘No.’
We talk in the sitting room, which my mother refers to as ‘the parlour’， making the place sound grander than a two-bedroom flat overlooking the railway lines that lead north from Euston station. On the coffee table I notice an open sketchbook with a half-finished drawing done in charcoal. A portrait.
‘That looks like me,’ I say, moving closer.
Tempe quickly closes the sketchbook.
‘Can I see it?’
‘No.’
‘Is it me?’
‘Sort of.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I was doing it from memory.’
‘Please let me see.’
She is holding the sketchbook against her chest, but lets me prise it free. I open the page. The portrait is stunning. The eyes and ears and mouth are done, but the hair isn’t finished. I’m amazed at how few lines or smudges she has needed to capture me.
I turn another page and find another partially finished drawing. My eyes seem to stare back at me in monochrome.
‘Don’t look at those,’ she says. ‘I had a few false starts.’
These aren’t portraits, but fragments. My eyes. My ears. My nose. It’s as though Tempe has broken down my face into separate parts and practised each one before putting them together.
‘I wanted to give you something … for the wedding … if it’s good enough,’ she says anxiously.
‘These are beautiful,’ I whisper.
‘I was going to ask you to sit for me, but I thought you might say no, and people never sit still enough. They fidget and talk.’
‘How many hours does it take?’
‘Depends on how quickly I draw.’ She laughs nervously and takes the book from me. ‘It’s a hobby.’
‘It should be more. You’re very good.’
‘Did you want to talk about the wedding?’ she asks.
‘No. Something else.’