Elizabeth Buchan: Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman

‘I don’t want to be a trouble.’ Ianthe grasped the crocodile bag on her knee. ‘You come in when you can. I don’t want anybody making a fuss. I don’t want anybody fretting.’

This was bit like instructing a snowflake not to melt in the sun but I leant over and kissed her. I summoned every ounce of self-control and said, ‘It’ll go fine, and you’ll be out in a trice.’

‘Your father was hopeless with illness.’ The dreamy little smile that always appeared when she talked about him played on her lips. Taney, for a doctor.’

‘Doctors know too much.’

Ianthe smiled at me. ‘I’m glad it’s you taking me in. He’d have been no good at all.’

That was the best compliment my mother could ever have paid me. I swallowed hard. ‘Mum, you go in, I’ll follow with the stuff.’

Ianthe got out. I went round to the boot and pulled out her case. There she was, framed in the hospital doors, which swooshed back. Handbag swinging over her arm, Ianthe stepped inside, and the doors closed behind her.

The streets of the city were filled with young women as I drove back through the warm evening. Bright, glossy, anticipating, they wore short skirts, cropped tops and strappy high heels. They had slender feet and rainbow nails. In the eyes and eager expressions were reflected lust, energy and greed. No grief yet. Or they hid it well. They ranted in groups, or glided singly along the pavements with rustling supermarket bags, rucksacks and shoulder-bags. Some sucked bottles of beer, some bottles of water.

The sun dipped in the sky and sweat gathered on my top lip. I thought of bitter black coffee and music. Of reading books and the glimmer of white roses in the dusk. I thought of deep, tearing sorrow, then remembered – and anticipated – the exhaustion after a night of lovemaking. I thought of grief and its fallout, and the beauty of lit candles. I thought of Parsley, and the part of my life that was over. I thought of how it was possible both to shrink and unfold, how I had experienced both, and how the unfolding at forty-eight was both joyous and unexpected. And would continue for a long time.

I thought, most vividly and longingly, of my children. That first glimpse of Sam. Still confused from pain and the outrage of giving birth, I had accepted without interest the bundle placed in my arms. At first, neither of us registered the other. Then, quiet before the adventure of his life got under way, the baby fixed on my face. In those wide, calm eyes were surprise and astonishment at the prospect of the new world he had entered. A gaze that took me back to the beginning, ready to start again.

When I got back to Lakey Street, the answerphone was flashing. ‘Mum,’ Sam sounded happy, ‘can we come over for supper? Jilly and I have sorted our plans and we want to talk them over.’

‘Rose,’ Timon clipped in, ‘I forgot. I owe you lunch at the Caprice…’

‘Mother,’ this was an indignant Poppy, ‘where have you been? I’ve been calling and calling. I need your advice, so hit the phone.’

‘Rose,’ Vee was harassed, ‘I’ve got something that needs doing yesterday. Call pronto .’

Next was Nathan. He sounded very far away. ‘Rose, all set for moving next week. There are a couple of things we need to clear up. Could you possibly give me a call in the office? Jean will patch you through.’

Finally, there was Hal, sounding much closer: ‘Rose, there’s a return air ticket to Pisa for you in the post. No questions, I’m paying. I owe it to you. I’ll meet you there on the Thursday. Good luck with the move.’

When I had been packing Lakey Street the last thing I had tackled was a box of discarded books in the cupboard under the stairs. Right at the bottom, covered in dust, was the paperback on South American politics that Nathan had been reading on the plane when I met him.

He had told me then that he didn’t rate the author, but when I opened the book, now yellow and brittle, it was covered in ticks as well as notes in his handwriting. I could only conclude that he had lied. Perhaps that tiny white lie had been told to impress me. It had worked: I had been impressed.

I put the book into the shelf in the sitting room where it belonged.

After my belongings had been taken away to Clapham by the removal men, I let myself through the french windows into the garden. The Solanum was in danger of throttling the Iceberg, a delphinium required staking, and the grass needed a good cut.

I walked round the forty-five feet that had, once, required taming and, no doubt, would need it again in the future. Irrevocably the garden would change. Neither Minty nor Nathan would pay it any attention.

I knelt by the little mound under the lilac and pulled out the tendrils of bindweed that had crept over it. ‘Sleep well, Parsley.’

The olive tree had been taken away, and my last task was to clean out the fountain. One or two leaves had fallen into it, so I sifted them out and dumped them on the compost heap. Then I gave the pump an extra thorough clean, refilled the fountain with fresh water and switched it on to test it.

The water splashed out into the pool. Always changing, yet never changing.

I turned it off, and the fountain was silent.

I went indoors, closed the french windows and locked them behind me.

Three days later, I stepped out of a car on to a hillside and into an explosion of light, warmth and fragrance. Blossom foamed over stones, the olive trees danced and shimmered, and there was a waterfall of leaf and plant – jasmine, roses and lilies. Morning glory, bougainvillaea, geranium and lavender. Colours that, in the sunlight, were bright and strong.

I felt myself swimming up towards the light, a fluid sun-filled moment of release and pleasure.

Elizabeth Buchan is the author of ten novels, including the bestselling Consider the Lily, The Good Wife and That Certain Age , all of which received rave reviews. She lives in London with her husband and children.