Anjali Joseph - The Living

And then?

There was all that stuff at home, I said. And at the same time your Uncle Jim was moving away. And I was moving into Nan’s. My mother wasn’t speaking to me, but she was speaking about me, a lot. It was like war had broken out. My dad didn’t want me to leave, but he had nothing to say to her.

Jason nodded.

I moved the grass plait out of sight. Somewhere in the middle of it, I said, I had the feeling that Pete might not be around that much longer. Everything changed when — it wasn’t the same. We couldn’t be on our own, we couldn’t be us any more. I think he thought for a bit that he’d do something, make it better. But instead all this other stuff started happening. The grown-ups stepped in. His parents weren’t happy. Didn’t want him to ruin — didn’t want him to change his plans.

Jason was pulling out blades of grass.

I breathed out. In a way, I said, I’m only putting this together now. I was so sad about it, forever. And so angry. I half believed a lot of what other people said. And Pete and I seemed so grown up. I couldn’t believe he’d just go. Even though I had the feeling –

What? Jason said. His eyes met mine.

I had the feeling he wouldn’t stay, I said. It’s like with his room, the way he lived. He was good at being him, good at making something nice and fun and special out of wherever he was. But he also had this instinct not to weigh himself down. I thought for ages, told myself, if he’d loved me he would have stayed. If he left it’s because he never loved me.

I looked at Jason for a second. His face was stony. I looked at next door’s tree, a branch hanging over our wall, afternoon sun on a ruddy apple.

But now I don’t know if I think that, I went on. It’s like you. I look at you now and you’re almost the same age. I can’t imagine you with a baby and a girlfriend in a council flat, can you? I think he just knew it wasn’t the right time, he wasn’t ready. He probably thought it was for the best when he stopped keeping in touch, that we’d both be able to move on. I looked down at the grass marks on my feet.

But I wouldn’t be like that, Jason said. If I–I wouldn’t. I’d take responsibility.

I know, I said. You’re different people. I don’t think he did the best thing, but it was the best he could do. Jason!

What?

You’re not — I mean you haven’t — have you? Is there — do you? Is there a girl?

He grinned at me. No, Mum. I mean — no.

How do you mean?

Mum, he said. He picked up the bottle, poured some into my glass, emptied the rest into his and drank it. Don’t worry, Mum, he said. You don’t have to think about anything like that.

Jesus, I said. I hope not. That’d be the last –

I’d make a better job of it, though.

I laughed. You would, but — not now. God, I’ve got a headache.

My son got up, tall against the sun. I’m going to take a shower, he said.

Okay, I said. I watched him go into the house.

We went on the same as before. Jason went to work, and out with his friends. He left his clothes in a mountain at the end of his bed. I went in to get them. I went to work. I walked home. I thought about Damian. It hadn’t finished hurting but it had to take a rest. I couldn’t think about it right now.

I phoned my mum, got Alison, and said I’d go round to see Mum on Friday after work. Alison said that’d be a good time because she, Alison, would be at work, and she didn’t like leaving Mum alone too much, as it was a sensitive time.

Right, I said.

I thought about it, and about odd things like my bedroom, and how it used to be — the lampshade I’d painted, the rag rug, whether the hall smelled the same, whether I’d go in the back door or the front door, what to wear. In the end I nearly got late for work. The morning was mad busy, checking orders for three new-season shoes.

Walking along, I realised I’d forgotten the names of some of the roads. My feet knew the way, like in a dream. I kept putting my hand in my pocket as I walked, as though to see if I had my old back-door key.

Be calm, I told myself. There’s nothing to lose now. When I stood outside the front door, which I’d never used when I lived there, and rang the doorbell, I felt strange and detached.

An old woman answered, and peered through the crack. Hello, she said suspiciously.

Mum, I said.

Ah, come in, she said. She opened the door wider and smiled a sort of smile. I gave her an awkward kiss on the cheek and followed her into the kitchen.

I’ll put the kettle on, she said. When it was hissing she put a tin on the table. I made these yesterday, she said. You used to like them.

The tin was filled with chocolate cornflake cakes in little paper cases. Oh, I said. I still like them. I got one out and started to eat it: the same sticky crunch. I could have been ten years old, back from school.

She poured hot water in the mugs and spent a while harassing the tea bags with a spoon. Before I could say anything, she’d put sugar in one mug and given it to me. It was sweet — after all these years.

How are you? I asked.

She sat down slowly, with a sigh. People have been sending cards, she said.

I’d noticed them, some on the table, some on the side.

That’s nice, I said, for something to say.

In the end though, she said, you’re on your own, aren’t you?

I sneaked a glance at her face, bitterness settled into its soft white folds. She’s been preparing for this most of her life. In the end you’re on your own, so I’ll act now as if I’m on my own. I’ll go around behaving as selfishly as possible and complaining about everyone else.

Hold on, I told myself. Stop it. Just stop. I stopped.

Alison’s been very good, hasn’t she? I said.

My mother made a face. She has, she said. Of course it’s family you really want.

I blinked. Let’s see, I said. How long have they been together now?

I knew how long. It was about the time I got pregnant. Paul is five years older than me, and Alison was his friend’s girlfriend. Trevor dumped her, and Paul was there.

And how are you, Claire? she said. Her hands palms up on the table, face direct. Nothing to pretend about any more.

I’m fine, I said. We’re both fine.

She nodded. Jason came to see us, she said.

I know, I said.

He would have loved to see you, you know, she said. Your dad. He kept asking me if I thought you’d come and see him. I said I didn’t know. I told him we’d done what we could. I said if she wants to see us she’ll come and see us, it’s up to her now, there’s nothing else we can do.

Don’t react, I told myself, don’t say anything. But I was also wondering, maybe you’re overdoing it? She’s an old woman, she’s lost her husband. Yes, she was a terrible mother. Or was she really that bad? Maybe it was your fault. But then she threw me out. Yes, but maybe — And this was familiar, it always went like this, me reasoning things through, questioning myself.

It’s like when your Granddad was in the hospital, she said. Before he went, and he asked to see all of you — Stephen and Eric and Jim and Paul and you.

I nodded. I remembered rushing home from school that afternoon, his weak papery hand, and the bright lights in the ward.

Though really I expect he meant Jim and Paul, she said.

What? I said.

You know, she said, because Paul’s the eldest and he and Jim were close.

I was still confused. Why wouldn’t he mean me? I asked. He said me, didn’t he?

Yes, Mum said. She wrapped her hand around her mug again, and let it go. I know, she said. Her voice was calm, completely reasonable. I just mean that he probably meant Paul and Jim, that’s all.