‘So you last saw her in, what, the 1960s?’ Kirsty asks.
‘That’s right. A few weeks before my wedding in 1961.’
‘What did she look like?’
Julie and Patricia haven’t asked this. Presumably because they think she won’t, now, look anything like she did then. But it’s nice to reminisce.
‘She had blonde hair, curled.’
‘Like me,’ Kirsty says.
It’s true that she has blonde curls, but her hair is nothing like Dot’s was. Hers is straight at the roots and then wavy, the way all the young girls seem to have their hair done now, whereas Dot had big bouncing curls that you got from rollers, except hers were natural. I get an image of her, standing at the bus shelter holding a red lipstick in one hand and a powder compact in the other, her mouth in a pout. Our dads didn’t like us wearing makeup so we used to improvise on the way, Bill and Arthur standing around smoking, telling us we didn’t need it anyway.
‘Hold on,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a photo.’
I haven’t put the photo albums away; they’re still on the dining table. I fetch the one with the picture of the four of us and pass it to them.
‘This is her?’ Kirsty asks, pointing.
‘Yes.’
‘Wow, she’s so beautiful. And this, Mabel, is this other girl you?’ She flicks her eyes back and forth from the photograph to me, as if she can hardly believe it.
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh Mabel, what a lovely photo. Is one of these men your husband?’
I point to Arthur, and then say that Bill was my brother. And I must warn them with my eyes not to ask what happened to him, that or perhaps they remember I said I had nobody left, because they say nothing. Kirsty takes the photo out of the plastic and I want to tell her to be careful with it, but I can see that she is, and when she turns it over, there’s writing on the back that I don’t remember seeing before.
‘Bill, Dot, Mabel and Arthur, June 1957,’ she reads aloud.
I get up and gesture for her to pass it over to me. It’s Mother’s handwriting, and seeing it again is like seeing a ghost. She had a peculiar way of curling her Ls. I’d know it anywhere. And then I feel I catch her scent in the air, roses and cream and cut grass. It must be the perfume one of them is wearing.
‘I’d better get going,’ Kirsty says, finishing off her drink. ‘Ben’s off to a stag do in London in a couple of hours. Shall I take Olly for a quick walk now, Mabel? I’ve got half an hour.’
I say that would be great, and Patricia says she’ll go with her, that she doesn’t get enough exercise since her granddaughters moved out and she doesn’t have to chase them around the park any more. And it’s not until they’ve gone and I’m back in my armchair that I realise I wasn’t ready for them to go. That I wanted them to stay a bit longer.
Arthur used to tease me about how I was with guests. How I never invited any, and how I was desperate to get rid of anyone he asked round. He was one for a committee, Arthur, loved being part of a team. Neighbourhood Watch, Bowls Club, all that. And he loved to host, too. But he said I was always hovering, waiting for people to go, practically shooing them out the door with my feather duster. And it’s true that I didn’t like having a load of near-strangers traipsing in and out, not wiping their feet properly and putting their greasy hands all over the arms of my sofa.
So what’s different now, with Patricia and Kirsty? And Julie, come to think of it. Sometimes she says it’s time for her to get going and I can’t believe it, it only feels like twenty minutes since she came, and I want to ask her to stay for another cup of tea, but I know it’s a job for her and she has some other old person’s house to get to.
I just sit, looking out of the window, until I see them coming back. As they round the corner, the wind whips Kirsty’s hair and it covers her face and then she’s passing Olly’s lead to Patricia and trying to push it out of the way and they’re both laughing, and I feel almost a part of it. The doorbell goes a minute or so later and I take my time getting up. Don’t want them to think I’ve been waiting for them, that I’ve got nothing better to do.
‘How was he?’ I ask.
‘Oh, he was a darling,’ Kirsty says, passing the lead to me across the threshold. ‘Shall I come for him tomorrow? Would ten o’clock be all right?’
I’m slow to get going in the mornings. Sometimes I’m not up and ready by ten, but I don’t want to say that. I know what these young mums are like. She’s probably had her breakfast and done a couple of loads of washing by that time.
‘That’s fine,’ I say.
She’s turning to go, Patricia on her heels, when I say her name again.
‘What is it, Mabel? Have I forgotten something?’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ She makes a gesture with her hand, a sort of swipe.
‘It’s not,’ I say, surprising myself. ‘It’s not nothing. And I want you to know I appreciate it.’
She comes forward, then, and gives me a quick hug. She smells of spring fields, and her hair is soft against the skin of my neck. And then she’s gone, waving and blowing kisses to Olly, calling that she’ll see us tomorrow. And it feels nice, knowing she’ll be back. It feels like her youth and energy have unleashed something in the house, and perhaps in me, too.
15
‘I don’t think anyone meets in real life these days,’ Kirsty says.
‘How on earth do they meet then?’ I ask.
‘Apps. Online dating.’ She waves her telephone at me.
Julie comes in with a tray of tea and slices of the carrot cake Patricia baked. They’re all here, in my front room, and I can’t quite believe it. It’s become a fairly regular occurrence. Julie comes every day, of course, and Kirsty comes to pick up Olly and drop him off, and often stays for a cup of tea and a chat, and Patricia often calls round with a cake or to ask if I want any shopping doing. When they all coincide like this, I’d have thought I’d find it overwhelming, but I don’t.
Julie’s been saying that she wants to meet someone to show her ex what he’s missing, and Kirsty has pounced on it.
‘Let’s get you set up,’ Kirsty says, taking Julie’s telephone out of her hand. ‘Mind if I go through your photos?’
Julie shakes her head, but she looks a bit unsure. I want to say something, to say any man on any of those app things would be lucky to go on a date with her, but I’m not sure how to word it.
‘Have you done it? Online dating?’ Julie turns to Patricia.
‘No, but then I’ve barely done any dating.’ She laughs but it’s hollow. ‘That’s how my daughter Sarah met her new guy, of course. Speaking of which, she phoned this morning and it sounds like the honeymoon period is over.’
‘Oh, how so?’ Julie asks.
‘Well, this Geoff’s never lived with a partner before…’
‘And he’s in his forties? That’s a definite red flag,’ Kirsty says.
I don’t know what a red flag is but I can guess, so I just keep listening. I’m learning all sorts.