Chapter 16 #3
This is what he thinks about, as he prepares to see her again.
As he walks through the fields to the village with the bad coffee, and heads for the photograph of the old cricket team, which he actually looks at, for a period of time, without having to turn away.
That red hair, lighter than his. Kind eyes that he didn’t inherit, he doesn’t think.
And then he finds a bench and decides to jump, like he’d told Nora to, weeks ago, he is sick of waiting around and he always trusts his gut, he wants to trust in them.
Him and Nora. The way she looked at him when he showed up at her door.
Leaned into his kiss at the bus stop, didn’t buy a dress or book her venue because she feels, surely, what he feels – so he clicks into his flight app and he hits the button to pay now, to give her something she can trust in, too: him, ready and waiting for her, instead of a missed opportunity long ago.
Two tickets, for the pair of them, for a month’s time. Spinning wheel, payment processed.
Euphoria.
He looks back at the photo of his dad.
Smiling, like he knows something his son doesn’t as Bren puts his phone away and walks back, as calm as the wide green river he follows home.
_
Freya has dragged her kitchen table outside and pushed it next to Josie’s garden furniture – passed over the fence by Bren, presumably – so that it can comfortably seat five.
There are three types of tomato salad, a basket of crusty bread.
A pitcher of Pimm’s swimming with chopped fruit, the apple chunks already browning.
Friends! Freya says, when she sees them.
She has never called them this before, and the peculiarity of it is not lost on them.
Nora swallows. Robin touches her elbow, guides her forward; Freya outpours about the lamb she’s prepared, something from the butcher because it’s a special occasion, all of them getting together, she can’t remember the last time they did it, not that you would’ve been here, Robin, you’re new, well, newer, Josie’s idea, this whole thing, you know what she’s like, when she gets an idea in her head.
Nora tenses up, seeing her mother so nervous, like this.
Hearing her mention Josie, like that.
How’s veganism working out for you, Freya, Robin asks, with a gentle attempt at humour that Nora hasn’t heard since they’d left Devon.
Oh please, Freya says, we all know I’m about as vegan as a beefburger.
Robin laughs, and it is such a good sound, and that sound thaws something in Nora as she stands there by the wobbling table, paper napkins fluttering in the breeze.
She sees the relief in Freya, too, at his warmth.
Thinks of his notebook, the details, the bigger picture.
I can check on it, if you like, Nora says. The lamb.
She says it to the cutlery, but still. It’s an offering, an attempt to be ordinary. Small seeds from the trees flecked on the plates as Robin seats himself at the table, and her mother looks at her for the first time; Nora feels it, but can’t yet look back.
Oh, Freya says. Could you, darl?
Tentative, like she’s not sure how to play this; not sure she can use this term of endearment, yet.
But Nora nods, and Freya jumps on it like a lifeboat, says it’s probably raw, you know me, can’t cook for toffee apples; I did what the butcher said, but if you could check that would save the day, I’d imagine, and Nora looks up at her as she says this last part, knowing that in this compliment, there’s an apology, without words.
Which Nora should, but can’t quite, acknowledge.
So what’s new, Freya says, turning to Robin.
How’s your brother. Still defending evil corporations, for a living?
In the kitchen, Nora finds that her palms are sweating.
Underarms, too. Great. She checks the lamb shoulder, takes it out, rubs it with oil and mustard powder, studs it with garlic.
She hears Freya laughing from outside, somehow; it feels like Nora hasn’t laughed in weeks; but then she is back outdoors and the laughing stops and Robin and Freya both look at her as she lowers herself into a chair, like someone has died, or is about to.
Looks good, is all that she says.
A miracle! Freya says. D’you want a Pimm’s?
I’m okay, thanks, Nora says, so that Freya stops, mid-pour. Puts the jug down, loosens the knot in her neck scarf. Half a minute passes. Throats cleared, a greenfly on the butter knife. But her mother, it seems, can’t help herself.
Are we okay, she says, and Nora says let’s not do this now. This is for Josie, today. I’m here for her.
Robin busies himself with separating the knives from the forks, which have been bundled into the centre of the table.
He makes unnecessary noise, pairing them beside the bowls and salad tongs and clay candle holders bought at car boot sales or artist collectives, some made by Nora in primary school.
Things aren’t okay between us, Nora says, but we just have to get through this meal, then –
Robin drops a fork, sorry, he says, waving a hand; Nora sees him wince.
A cloud moves over the sun just as she decides not to finish her sentence, because then what, she does not know.
Which her mother seems to accept. Simply sits there with the Pimm’s and the fresh tomatoes sliced on a plate, Robin counting the number of cake forks left on the table, they’re one short, someone will have to have a normal fork for dessert, he’ll take the hit, he doesn’t like small forks as it is, nor big bowls with the giant rims in fancy restaurants, you know the ones, he is mumbling, he is riffing, he rubs his head like it’s hurting him, the conflict is hurting him.
But then comes a coo-ee from over the fence and Josie appears in a summer dress and pink drawstring coat, carrying a large bowl covered in cling film. Happy Easter! she calls as she opens the gate, and all three of them rise from the table.
I brought my pasta salad! she declares. Jon’s favourite.
Nora stiffens, Freya sighs; Josie props it on the table, and beams. Freya – this is all so pretty. I love this tablecloth. And this, here!
She gestures at the strawberries, mint and cucumber floating in the Pimm’s with such joy, it’s like Freya has made a wedding cake, instead of sliced up some fruit. And Nora, you look lovely, pet. I like your dress. And your hair.
Good journey? Robin asks, after he’s kissed her cheek.
Oh, I only live next door, dear, Josie says.
Yeah, Robin says, I was just. Yeah.
He sits back down and Josie does too, tucking her pink dress beneath her.
It’s so lovely to see you all, she says, almost breathless.
Don’t start sobbing over the tomatoes, Josephine, Freya says, pouring her a Pimm’s, though Nora thinks, with a wave of hot regret, that her mother, too, looks mournful. Get this down your neck, first.
I thought I might have a cup of t –
Nope, Freya says. Just sit and enjoy the booze like anyone else, on a day like today. Bit of Dutch courage. Robin, tell Josie about your antiques, will you. Nora, could you help me with the condiments?
Why would you need Dutch courage for an Easter lunch, Robin asks.
Josie coughs on her Pimm’s, and Freya breezes on, says to stomach my cooking, Robin! Although it’s not all bad. I do make a mean panzanella. Nora, she repeats, the condiments?
And because something seems off, because she doesn’t want to upset Josie who is watching, and because Freya – hard-nosed, unemotional Freya – actually seems rattled, Nora follows her into the kitchen, leaving the back door propped open, the breeze stirring the wind chimes in the hall.
What’s going on, Nora asks, once they’re inside. Why are you and Josie acting so – but Freya talks over her, says they just wanted to have a nice meal together, after everything. She opens the fridge as she speaks, so that Nora can’t see her face.
I was sure I had some mint sauce. Aha! Oh, no. That’s pesto. With a best before date of … three years ago. Is that edible, d’you think?
About as edible as your mushrooms, I’d imagine, Nora says.
Well, we’re still alive, aren’t we? Here, take the butter, and the mayonnaise. Apparently Bren likes it on his potatoes.
So Bren is coming, Nora says.
So Josie says. And I just wanted to tell you, Nora, before he arrives, that he and I had a little talk, the other day. Smoothed things over.
Freya still has her head in the fridge. Nora folds her arms, blood beating in her ears, says, eventually, how nice for you.
Don’t be so sassy.
You raised me to be sassy.
I am not going to argue with you on a day like this, Freya says. You said yourself, we’re here for Josie. Take the coleslaw, will you?
She shoves a tub, without looking, into her hands, and Nora puts it down on the side.
But I just want you to know that Bren won’t be bothering you, any more, Freya says, extracting two kinds of mustard from the shelf, and passing her those, too. I know you think I meddled in your affairs, Nora –
Poor choice of word, Nora says.
– but I made him see that it was the wrong thing, to ask you to go away with him. Not on that damn phone call, before you say it! But with whatever he said to you, the other week! So we can just put that aside, and focus on what’s important, today. Without any added drama.
Nora stares at the back of her mother’s head.
He … told you, that he asked me that?
And I told him to let you live your life.
Nora scoffs at this. Like you did, you mean?
Are we still on that?
What, you thought I’d be over it?
I thought it was an excuse to be angry with me about Jon, Freya says, and she says his name, just like that, not lowering her voice or shouldering any blame and Nora almost storms back to the garden, almost grabs Robin’s arm and says actually, let’s go home, but then Freya withdraws from the fridge and says that’s not for right now, either, is it.
Let’s get through this meal, and then we can talk about all that.
Except I don’t want to, Nora says.