The Day Of Second Chances (14 page)

HER FORMER DAUGHTER-IN-LAW
lived with her three children in an ugly new house on an ugly commuter estate where all the roads, in some unfathomable quest for intellectual cachet, had been named after English poets. The house on Keats Way was brick and ostentatious, faux-Georgian on the exterior but entirely modern inside, the kind of house that had two cars parked in the drive, one of them invariably a Range Rover, one an Audi or BMW or Mercedes. The neighbours were all white and there were no churches or mosques or synagogues or libraries but there was a Waitrose and several chic coffee shops and florists and even a cupcake bakery in the specially-built shopping precinct.

Honor did not come here often, and when she did, she could not help inwardly reciting Keats's
Ode on a Grecian Urn.
The people who built this estate had very little, if any, sense of beauty, or truth, or irony.

‘Here we are,' said Jo cheerily. ‘Home at last!'

It wasn't home for her. Nothing would be where she could find it. Her belongings would be sparse and few. There would be children underfoot and unexpected clutter, and she would be dependent on Jo. Every move would be subject to scrutiny. She wouldn't be able to hide.

Pain flared in her hip as she lowered herself from the car onto the drive. Jo hurried to supply her cane. Lydia started unloading the boxes of books she'd packed, going ahead of them into the house. Honor's feet crunched on the gravel and her cane shifted as she moved. Her foot caught on the doorjamb and she stumbled, catching herself on the door frame.

‘Honor, are you all right?' Jo was, of course, right behind her.

‘I am fine.' She lifted her foot, exaggeratedly, over the small obstacle. Inside, the air was cool and there was a strong scent of paint.

‘Your room is straight through there, but why don't you relax in the family room for a little bit while Lydia and I unpack for you?'

‘I can unpack,' Honor said quickly.

‘But we're happy to do it, and you must be tired?'

‘I want to be able to find things.' She remembered the house well enough from her rare previous visits to know that the door to the room she had been given was straight across the hallway, past the stairs. Jo accompanied her there, talking the entire time.

‘It's got its own ensuite, and its own door to the garden. Hopefully it will be quiet for you, not too noisy from the children.'

‘You can hear everything going on in the kitchen,' Lydia told her, passing by, presumably on her way back out to the car. ‘I've been woken up every morning for the past four years by Mum putting the kettle on. Sorry.'

‘It's not that noisy, is it, surely? Oh, I'm sure Lydia is exaggerating. Anyway, we'll try to be quiet. It's certainly quiet now, with Oscar and Iris with their father.'

It might be quiet if you would stop babbling
, thought Honor.

‘Why don't you have a seat here and I'll fetch you some tea, and then we can bring things in and you can tell us where to put them.'

Honor stretched out her hand to the back of the chair Jo had pulled out for her. ‘I don't require yet more tea. Just leave the boxes and bags by the door. I'll manage.'

‘But—'

‘I will manage.'

She sat, waiting, her face turned towards the window while Jo and Lydia brought in her belongings and deposited them on the floor. ‘Well, that's the last one,' said Jo at last, slightly out of breath, her voice not as chirpy as it had been fifteen minutes before. ‘Are you sure that—'

‘I'll be fine,' said Honor, getting up from the chair and waiting by the door for Jo to go away.

‘I'll make the lunch then,' said Jo. ‘We'll have it after Richard brings the children back. Meanwhile I'll leave you to get settled in.'

‘Please do.' Then Honor shut the door firmly, turned to this new room, and took a deep breath.

The scents were unfamiliar, the sounds. The chair didn't know her body, as her chair did at home. The bed would feel strange. How long would it take her to be able to move around this house as she did her own, knowing where things were, reaching for them without having to think? Would she ever be able to do it?

It was foolish to have come here. But what was her other choice?

Honor sighed. She found a box of books and dragged it across the carpet to one of the bookcases.

Lydia had been correct: from this room, you could hear everything that was going on downstairs. Most of the ground floor was taken up by an open-plan kitchen/diner with a family room attached. Honor heard Jo pottering around it, moving saucepans, running the tap. She heard Lydia going upstairs. Slowly, Honor began to unpack her belongings, arranging them as much as possible to mirror the way she had them at home.

Her books were her friends. She felt each of them, weighed them in her hands as if she could absorb their much-read contents through touch, and then shelved them according to author. That done, she hung up her clothes, put underwear into drawers.

Shoved back in one of the drawers, she touched folded paper. She drew it out and held it up to the light: a paper crane, carefully folded. She balanced it on the top of the chest and carried on unpacking.

When she was finished, her hip and head were throbbing, so she lay down on the bed. She had a white NHS bag of pain medication in her handbag, which she tried not to think about.

The doorbell rang and she heard the deep, arrogant tones of Jo's second husband, Richard, along with the Russian accent of his new tramp girlfriend, and the high-pitched voices of the children. Their footsteps scampered all around, accompanied by squeals and bangs and laughter, and Honor thought about toys left on the floor, messes she would not be able to see, little bodies careering into her healing bone. She squeezed her eyes shut tight.

Jo knocked on Honor's door. ‘Lunchtime!' she trilled as only Jo could trill, as if Lunch were some great occasion the likes of which no one had seen before. Honor raised herself from her bed, retrieved her cane, and made her way into the hall and towards the main room, the source of all the noise and also of the scent of roasted chicken and potatoes.

Her stomach rumbled. The food at the hospital had not been good. And she rarely cooked for herself, lately.

The cane slipped on the polished wooden floor. Honor tightened her grip on it and walked in shuffling steps towards the table at the far end of the room, near the doors to the garden. Her foot struck something hard, plastic-sounding, and she recoiled, fighting for balance, anticipating pain. Against her will, she let out a small sound of fright before she managed to stop herself falling with her cane.

‘Are you all right?' Jo called, evidently from the kitchen area. ‘Oh God, it's toys on the floor.' She rushed over and picked something up. ‘Oscar, honey, you need to put your toys away, it's dangerous for Granny Honor. Honor, I'm so sorry.'

Aside from the stairs, this was considerably more hazardous than the home that Honor was not allowed to live in. She made her way to the table and took the nearest seat, the one with the light from the window full on it, but when she sat on it, it was too high.

‘That's my chair!' cried Oscar, the one who was three. And it was his chair; it was a wooden contraption, presumably adjustable. Honor manoeuvred herself out of it.

‘Honor, I've put you next to Oscar.' Jo pulled out a chair for her. On her way, Honor collided with Iris, who was chasing her brother around the table. Honor had to grab the back of the chair to stop herself falling over.

‘Iris!' said Jo. ‘Oscar! Get into your chairs now, no running around. We have to be careful of Granny Honor.'

There was no trace of anger or censure in her voice; it was as cheerful as normal. The children resumed running around, paying no attention to the mild rebuke. Honor took the opportunity to sit down safely, the toddler rushing past her again, giggling.

‘Lydia!' Jo yelled up the stairs, and resumed her clattering of pans and utensils. The smell of roasted chicken and hot fat was almost overwhelming here in the kitchen. Jo placed a platter in front of Honor; she could feel the heat on her face, hear the sizzle. Water sprang in her mouth and she had to press her lips together.

‘Lydia!' Jo yelled again, and then, closer, ‘Shall I carve, Honor, or would you like to?'

‘I don't think I can be trusted with knives,' Honor muttered, and winced as one of the children knocked against her chair again.

‘Oscar!' A small grunt, as Jo picked up the little boy and deposited him in the chair that Honor had vacated. Another as she did the same to Iris. ‘Lydia! Honestly, that girl never hears me. I will have to—'

‘Just a
minute
!' came Lydia's voice from somewhere in the vicinity of the stairs.

‘Well, we'd might as well start. Breast or leg, Honor?'

‘Breast.'

‘I want the wing, I want the wing, I want the wing, I want—'

‘Wing for you, Oscar. And Iris, some peas?'

‘No!'

‘You have to eat your vegetables, darling, to make you big and strong. Two potatoes or three, Honor?'

‘One.'

A scrape of chair, and Lydia sat across from Honor. She was strawberry lip gloss and easy-moving limbs, hair a lighter shade of red than her mother's. ‘How's it going, Granny H?' she asked, reaching across the table to grab a serving dish. ‘Settled in?'

‘Lydia, don't reach. Honor, can I get you anything else? Would you like some gravy? What about a glass of wine? I have a bottle of white chilled.'

‘I am fine, thank you.'

‘Oscar, use a fork, please. Iris, can you try some of those peas? Everyone, let's have a toast! To welcome Honor.'

They raised their glasses and beakers. Lydia leaned right across to clunk her glass with Oscar's.

‘You are really very welcome, Honor. We're pleased to have you here.'

‘With any luck, it won't be for long.' She speared food with her fork, took a bite, and chewed, hot crackling potato, soft inside. She wondered how on earth she was going to get through all the mealtimes in this house.

‘Yes, my name is Iggle Piggle,' shrilled Iris, loud enough for Honor to wince.

‘Iggle Wiggle Iggle Iggle Piggle,' joined in Oscar.

‘Have you done your homework yet, Lyddie?'

‘I'll do it later.' Lydia's phone chimed a musical note, and she pulled it out of her pocket to answer.

‘Do you have to at the table?' said Jo, and Lydia responded by getting up noisily and stomping to the other end of the room.

‘Iggle Wiggle Iggle Wiggle Woo!'

Something wet and soft struck Honor's hand. She raised it: a lump of potato, a smear of gravy.

‘Iris, don't throw your food! I'm so sorry, Honor.' Jo reached over with a napkin, and Honor pulled her hand away.

‘I can do it myself,' she said, in a voice that was meant to convey what she thought of small children out of control and singing gibberish during mealtimes, of teenagers leaving the table to answer telephone calls, of mothers who were ineffectual and who lived in houses strewn haphazardly with toys.

‘Lydia, come back to the table, please,' said Jo.

‘No, I'm going out.'

‘Lydia!'

The door slammed.

‘I want dessert, Mummy!' Oscar said.

Honor thought of Stephen. She wondered what Stephen would make of this new family. Of the way his daughter was growing up. Of the way his wife fluttered and fussed.

She raised her fork to her lips but it was empty.

I CAN'T BELIEVE
she's got off with him.

I shouldn't have gone to pick up Granny H with Mum. I should have stayed behind, so that I could have seen Avril, because if I'd been with her we'd have gone out together, and if we ran into Harry in Costa we would have just chatted to him or whatever and he would have gone away.

But Mum insisted and so I was in the car with her on the way to London when I got the text that Avril had met up with Harry. And then practically minute-by-minute updates of how they were having a coffee, and how Harry likes lemon and poppyseed muffins like she does, and how they were going to hang out in the park. And then no texts at all, for the rest of the morning. She didn't answer any of mine. Which was even worse, because then I was imagining what they were doing.

And then the awfulness of bringing Granny H back here! She was in a right strop, especially because we had to carry her back down the front stairs of her house to the car. She didn't want us to, and she tried really hard to get down the stairs, but you could see it in her face that she was in so much pain. She looked older than she ever has, like a skeleton practically.

I've been looking at my own face in the mirror trying to imagine what I will look like when I get that old. I don't even know if I want to get that old. It must be sort of horrible to feel your flesh almost melting off your bones, and have your skin go all slack and wrinkly. I wonder what she sees when she looks in the mirror – if she sees what I see when I look at her, with the wrinkles and the sunken lips and the coarse hairs on either side of her mouth that she hasn't noticed to pluck. Just like two or three of them, but still. I wonder if she sees that – what she's really like now, or if she sees a version of herself from when she was young. Because Granny H was good-looking when she was young, I've seen the pictures. Not pretty like Mum used to be and still is in a way – she was more dignified-looking. Handsome.

And now she's hardly anything more than a collection of bones. I know because Mum and I had to put her into this sort of chair-lift hold to get her down the stairs. Granny H was livid about it, but it wasn't a problem for us, she hardly weighs anything. But she held her head up, not looking at us, not looking at anything, her hands in fists, and it felt sort of embarrassing. Like she was naked, or that we'd caught her on the toilet. Her cheek was brushing against mine as I carried her, and Granny H is wrinkly but she does have really lovely soft skin, and always smells of Chanel No. 5, but I couldn't turn my head to smile at her or say something nice, because I was too embarrassed. I just helped Mum carry her down to the car and helped her in and I got in the back and listened to my music all the way home, which didn't make much difference as Granny H and Mum weren't really speaking anyway, except for those inane chirpy comments Mum kept making so that she could pretend that everyone was happy. And no text from Avril.