6. Carly
Chapter 6
Carly
‘ G ot yourself a nice young man yet?’ Mum looks up from her crossword as I let myself in through the back door, as I do most Saturday mornings, and head for the kettle.
‘Mum! A hello first might be nice.’
‘Hello, Carly. Got yourself a nice young man yet?’ She puts her pen down and I can see that she’s teasing me, but underneath the banter I’m pretty sure she means it. A single Carly is a disappointing Carly, as far as she’s concerned.
‘There’s more to life than men, and you know it. Now, do you want tea or shall I just go straight out again?’
‘Don’t be silly, love. When have you ever known me to say no to a cuppa? And your brother will be back from the allotment soon. I know he’ll want to see you.’
I drop teabags into two cups, add three sugars to hers and pour the water on. ‘Got any biscuits?’
‘Of course. Not that I should be encouraging you. We don’t want you putting on too much weight, do we? All that sugar…’
‘Says the woman who has three spoons of it in her tea.’
‘Ah, but I don’t have to think about my figure so much these days. Now that your father’s gone… not that he was bothered by things like that. Had more interest in the size of his beetroots than the size of my waistline.’ She forces a laugh but it doesn’t hide the loss I can still see in her eyes, even now, almost six years after he died of cancer, in his mid-fifties. He was far too young to die, and she’s far too young to be a widow, I think. They should be enjoying their life together now, going on cruises and holding hands on some foreign beach, now that the two of us are grown-up and can take care of ourselves, but instead she’s diverting all her romantic aspirations in my direction. Nice young man, indeed!
I locate the biscuit tin, bypassing the Rich Teas and helping myself to two chocolate-chip cookies.
‘How’s work?’ she says.
‘Okay. The usual.’ An image of Jack Doherty flashes into my mind, reminding me that things are suddenly far from usual, but I push it away.
‘And the flat? Is Frances behaving herself?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m not sure I’d want to share with a stranger.’
‘Fran is hardly a stranger, Mum. She’s Suze’s sister.’
‘Not family though. I still don’t understand why you moved out, love. Your brother’s happy enough to stop here.’
‘Of course he is. He’s twenty-three. You cook all his meals and do all his washing!’ I smile to myself. What had I just been thinking about the two of us looking after ourselves these days? In my little brother Sam’s case, that level of independent living only kicks in when Mum goes away somewhere for a day or two and he really has no other choice.
‘And I’d happily do the same for you, if you’d let me. Your bedroom here is so much nicer than that pokey little flat, and you don’t even have a garden.’
‘When I want to sit outside, I go to the park. Or come here!’
‘And all that rent you’re paying! You could be saving it up, for your future. Your wedding…’
I laugh at that. ‘What wedding?’
‘Well, it will happen one day, and they don’t come cheap, you know. If you came back home, you could be building up a nice little nest egg by now.’
‘And if I did, I’d probably spend it on a nice little car, not a fancy wedding dress and a set of posh dinner plates,’ I tease her, shaking my head. ‘Anyway, what’s with all the financial advice all of a sudden? I thought Dad was the bank manager in this family, not you!’
‘Well, he’s not here anymore, is he? And there’s nothing wrong with thinking about money, Carly. Or the future. And, besides, I have no idea why you’d want to spend your money on a car when you can’t even drive.’
‘I’m thinking of learning.’
‘I could teach you. I’m a bit out of practice, I admit, since we sold your dad’s Rover, but it’s not something you ever really forget, is it? Like riding a bike. And it would save you paying for all those expensive lessons. And, as for rent, I’ve only ever asked you for enough to cover your keep, you know that.’
‘I’ve seen your driving, Mum! And I don’t want to be kept . I like living closer to work, making my own meals, coming and going without you waiting up for me and looking at your watch if I’m not back by midnight. Anyone would think I’m going to turn into a pumpkin or something.’
‘It’s that Frances of yours who’s turning into a pumpkin, Carly,’ she says, giving up on the pleas for me to come home and changing the subject. ‘The size of that girl! It’s all very well looking after yourselves, but not if that means living on cream cakes and doughnuts.’
‘Crunchies, actually.’
‘What?’
‘She works in a sweet shop, Mum, and she likes to sample the stock.’
‘Well, thank God you work in an office then, and not the McVities factory, the way you’re putting those cookies away. At least the only samples you’re likely to take home from work are a few nicked pens from the stationery cupboard.’
She can be very blunt, my mum. And a bit too judgemental.
‘Fran’s all right. And she can eat what she likes. I’m not her keeper.’
‘I can’t imagine what her mother must think.’
‘About what?’
‘Letting herself go like that. She’s got quite a pretty face too. But what man is going to look twice while she’s so huge? It’s such a shame…’
I try not to let her get to me, but she always does.
‘I don’t think she’s particularly bothered. About catching a man, I mean. In fact, I suspect her interests might lie in the other direction.’
Mum tilts her head and peers at me inquisitively. ‘What direction? I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.’
‘Girls, Mum. She’s never actually said it out loud, not to me anyway, but I think Fran likes girls.’
I watch her face contort as she lets this information slowly sink in. ‘You mean she’s… a lesbian?’
I nod and the room falls silent. Mum takes a sip of her tea and stares into the space in front of her. ‘Well, I’m not sure she’ll catch one of those either unless she loses a bit of weight. A lot of weight, in fact. Now, where’s Sam? If he’s managed to pick us a few nice tomatoes, we’ll have them with our lunch. Help to counteract all those calories you’ve been stuffing.’
When my brother comes in his boots are covered in mud. He nods at me, says ‘Hi, Carls. All right?’ in his usual monosyllabic way, and then Mum makes a big fuss about him taking the boots off and leaving them on a sheet of old newspaper and scrubbing his hands clean before he’s allowed to step across her clean floor or come anywhere near her, or me.
I like the fact that Sam has taken over Dad’s old allotment. There’s a kind of continuity about it somehow. The same routines, the same old moans about the mess from Mum, the same line-up of misshapen vegetables which, in Sam’s less expert care, always seem to have a lot more nibble holes in them than in Dad’s day.
‘What have you two been chatting about then?’ he asks, dropping a carrier bag of his latest crop onto the counter, clicking the kettle back on until it boils and making himself a mug of instant coffee.
‘Nothing,’ we both say in unison.
He laughs. ‘Ah, it’s like stereo in here. Or an echo! You two are so alike.’
I close my eyes and sigh. Alike? Me and Mum? God, I do hope not.
‘I hope you’re going to clean those, Sam,’ she says, nodding towards whatever he’s got in the bag. ‘I don’t want another caterpillar crawling across my plate. Especially as we have a guest for lunch.’
‘I’m hardly a guest, Mum,’ I say, grinning at Sam, who’s inspecting a lettuce at close range and making little creepy-crawly movements with his fingers behind Mum’s back.
‘Oh, I don’t mean you, Carly, love. I mean a proper guest. And he should be here any minute, so I’d go and run a comb through that messy hair of yours if I were you. First impressions are so important and we want you looking your best, don’t we?’
‘Who is it?’ It will be one of her cronies from the bridge club probably, some elderly widower in need of a home-cooked meal. ‘Anyone I know?’
‘Not yet, Carly, but you’ll like him, I’m sure.’
I’m just about to ask her who he is and where he’s come from when the doorbell rings and she’s up out of her chair, whipping her apron off and moving down the hall, pushing me towards the downstairs cloakroom with a hissed ‘There’s a comb in there. Sort out your hair, and then come and meet him. We’ll be in the dining room. His name’s Anthony. With an H that you’re supposed to pronounce, apparently.’
That’s when the penny drops. She’s doing her best Emma Woodhouse impression and matchmaking again. Trying to fix me up with whoever it is she thinks is going to be good for me. Someone probably horribly unsuitable. Old, or ugly, or… well, not Jack, basically. Trapped behind her as she opens the front door, I am only too aware that, no matter how gruesome this Anthony with an H turns out to be, I’m going to have to grin and bear it. There is no escape.