February #5
I put the vase on the table and my birthday card from Anna on the mantelpiece. I felt a chill and sighed at the fireplace, which, like the one in our bedroom, was purely decorative.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked, as I walked back towards him, lifted his arm away from his side and slipped in between.
When I couldn’t figure out why it wouldn’t be, I smiled and said, ‘Of course.’
‘Are you sure? You look very deep in thought.’
‘I’m sure.’
Almost a foot taller than me, he kissed me on my crown, and began to push the rice around the pan.
The following week, I was due to meet my mother for our rearranged lunch. Same time, same place. I’d texted her the night before to remind her, and she’d replied telling me she’d already booked her train ticket and couldn’t wait to see me.
In the museum café, the same table I’d been sitting at the week before was free, so I took it again – hoping that was where the déjà vu would end.
My eyes were moving towards the clock when they landed on my mother, wrapped in a winter coat the shade of stewed plums and a velvet scarf I’d always liked.
She smiled at me, and I smiled back, my heart rate quickening the way it did whenever I hadn’t seen her for a few weeks.
‘Cathy, darling.’
I was up and about to slide out from behind the table when she leant across it and enveloped me in a hug, her hair, thin and wispy like feathers, tickling the side of my face.
Her looks were another thing I’d inherited from her : we had the same dark eyebrows, straight nose, and big eyes that I’d always felt were slightly on the googly side.
Dimples that revealed themselves as we spoke.
Other than the fact that she wore more make-up than I did, the only physical differences between us were those wrought by time.
‘I’m sorry again,’ she said, still holding onto my arms.
‘About what?’
Finally letting go, she reached into her bag and pulled out a neatly wrapped present. ‘Your birthday.’
I felt my forgotten disappointment rise, then noticed the glisten in her eyes, hazel with fewer flecks of green than mine. ‘Oh, honestly, don’t worry about it, Mum. As I said to Noah, it wasn’t exactly an important one.’
‘Tsk, every birthday is important.’
I liked the way they agreed on things. If he’d been here, they would have exchanged knowing glances, maybe touched hands.
‘I just got caught up in all that windfarm business,’ she said, shedding layers and sitting down opposite me. She rolled up her too-long sleeves to reveal two bony wrists. ‘Peggy’s been telling me that I need to take a step back, trust people will come to their senses.’
Peggy was more a friend than a cleaner. She lived next door to my mother, who still paid her to tidy the house once a week, and was often around when I phoned, the pair of them sharing a pot of tea.
When I was a child, she would pick me up from school when neither of my parents could.
She kept a packet of fruity sweets in the glove compartment of her car, and on our way home we would see who could make one last the longest. When my mother said her name, I ran my tongue over my teeth, remembering the sugary feeling that would settle on them during the winding journey.
She shook her head, her beaded earrings, which matched her glasses chain, rattling against her lobes. ‘Anyway, never again.’
I smiled. ‘Never again.’
‘Well, go on, open it!’
I started with the envelope. On the front of the card was a black-and-white photo of a little girl standing in front of a candled cake, her eyes closed, her cheeks puffed as she prepared to blow them out.
I thanked my mother and turned my attention to the violet wrapping paper.
Inside : a sketchbook. The same gift every year.
‘I hope you like it,’ she said, reaching out to graze the black leather cover with her fingertips. ‘You must say if you ever want something different.’
I flicked through the blank pages, full of promise. ‘I love it.’
She smiled at me from across the table.
‘So, glass of wine? Salmon sandwich?’ I asked.
‘I’ll go,’ she said, reaching back into her bag for her purse. ‘This one’s on me, remember.’
‘I do – thanks, Mum.’ As I waited, I wrote my name in the front of the sketchbook, the black ink stark against the creamy white page, the start of something.
She returned with our usual, plus a piece of Victoria sponge to share. ‘We can’t have you going without cake.’
‘Mm, if you insist.’
‘Tell me what’s going on with you,’ she said, as we started tucking in.
Between mouthfuls, I told her about Hendrick and the beach scene, and my birthday dinner with Noah. After a brief pause, I also told her about Anna.
‘What wonderful news.’ She held my gaze while tilting her head, aware of my reflex to compare my own life with that of my best friend.
I smiled and nodded. I was happy for her.
She did the same.
After we’d finished eating, I walked her through the shop towards the permanent collection, the pair of us turning back and waving to one another, more than once, before making my way back to work.