‘Kippers are so bony!’ objected Lizzie.
‘We’ll buy fillets and there are lots of us to take the bones out,’ said Meg. ‘They’re cheap.’
‘Or chicken liver?’ suggested David.
‘Fiddly to do,’ Meg objected. ‘Though delicious …’
Eventually Lizzie yawned. They couldn’t agree on what to serve for pudding. She said, ‘Well I’m off to bed. I’m going to have Sunday lunch with my parents tomorrow. Anyone want to join me?’
There were polite murmurs but no one accepted. Lizzie nodded. She understood why. ‘OK!’
‘Would you like me to drive you there, Lizzie?’ asked David. ‘You were such a trooper today at the market.’
Lizzie shook her head. ‘Easier if I go on the train, really. It’s what they’re expecting.’
She would never be able to explain David to her parents, even if he wasn’t gay. Her mother would have them down the aisle before you could say ‘hire a marquee’.
Her father picked her up from the station, as arranged, the next morning. Lizzie hugged him, which he found rather surprising although he managed to pat her back awkwardly. Lizzie hadsuddenly realised how much she was growing up – away from the confines of her family. They were suffocating and yet very precious to her.
Her mother had the roast lamb all ready, the oval table laid in the dining room for the three of them. Sunday lunch had been like this ever since Lizzie could remember. Her father carved, her mother served the vegetables and passed the gravy. Lizzie would clear the table afterwards, then make coffee for her parents and bring it through to the sitting room for them to drink.
‘It’s lovely to have you home for a little while, darling,’ said her mother when everyone was served and her father had started eating. ‘When will you come back for good after your course is finished? I’m so looking forward to having my Elizabeth with me again.’
Lizzie chewed to avoid having to answer.
‘Daddy could pick you up from where you’re staying, couldn’t you? Bring you home with all your things.’
Lizzie’s mother hadn’t actually called her husband Daddy since Lizzie was about thirteen, but she always tensed in case her mother went back to doing it. It embarrassed her, even though it was just the three of them.
‘Of course,’ said her father. ‘Anything to help get my little girl home!’
Lizzie smiled warmly. She could put off replying no longer. ‘Actually, I was thinking of staying in London. I’d like to get a job. After all, you’ve spent a lot of money having me taught how to cook; I feel I should earn something to justify the expense.’
Her parents looked at her, their mouths slightly open. Lizzie wasn’t exactly arguing but she wasn’t just nodding and smiling as she usually did.
‘But you must let me tell you what I was up to yesterday.’ Lizzie ploughed on, smile still bright. ‘I was behind an antiques stall at the Portobello Road Market! It’s famous,’ she added, wishing her parents would stop looking like startled goldfish.
Her father was the first to find his voice. ‘An antiques stall? How come?’
‘Darling,’ said her mother. ‘Are antiques people quite respectable?’
‘Oh yes! Alexandra – you remember? She came here? – has a stall with a friend. I helped them with it. I sewed on some very pretty buttons for a customer and she was delighted.’
‘You always were handy with your needle,’ said her mother.
‘And my sewing machine.’ Lizzie always had the impression that her mother would be happier if she just embroidered tray cloths and made peg bags for the sales of work her mother was so involved with.
‘Yes, you did run yourself up some pretty dresses,’ her mother acknowledged.
‘And I managed to make that coat and skirt you had look so much smarter by altering it, didn’t I? We changed the buttons on that if I remember correctly.’
‘Elizabeth, would you mind passing me the water jug?’ said her father, although she was far too far away to make this possible.
She passed the jug to her mother who passed it on. ‘Have you managed to do much in the garden yet, Daddy? Or has it been too chilly?’
‘Darling, we have Mr Edwards to do the garden now. Have you forgotten?’ Lizzie’s mother seemed disappointed by her daughter’s memory lapse.
‘Oh yes. I used to love pottering about with you in the old days, Daddy. I had my own bit of garden. Do you remember?’
