‘Oh.’ I actually wince. Acatch-up means Nina wants to berate me for wasting my career chances by not being a social media guru. My agent in London, the old school gentleman, Paddy Ashmore, is much kinder. I think Nina is angling for his job. As if. Paddy is a great agent because he’s brilliant, understands the business and charms people. Nina is super clever but devoid of charm.
‘I wish you could do more of the social media stuff for me,’ I plead at Lorraine, a bit like Teddy when she’s looking for moreice-cream.
‘It has to come from you, be your voice,’ says Lorraine. ‘Believe me, I’d do more if I could. I upload everything I can but your voice is so funny. Although, you don’t take beautiful pictures, it has to be said.’
‘Ah well, I know a photographer who could help with that,’ I say back. ‘Arty, moody shots are right up his street ...’
We both laugh.
‘See you at twelve. Send directions.’
That night, I phone Maura and we discuss our rota over helping Mum.
‘I’m just joining up some African flower crochet octagons,’ she says, sounding harassed at the interruption.
Maura is a crafting person. She is always knitting, crocheting, sewing or embroidering things. She never finishes anything, mind you.
‘I’m too busy,’ she tells anyone who wants to know what she actually makes.
Privately, she tells me it makes her happy to sit in front of the TV and make roundy crochet bits and bobs.
She has lots of what crafting people call UFOs in the house. This means Unfinished Objects. Oh, yes, and lots of wool. She buys wool like I buy shoes.
‘You finished that scarf for me and one for each of the girls,’ I point out loyally.
‘Never again,’ says Maura. ‘That wool was so thin. It was murder and I had to pay attention instead of watchingMadam Secretaryproperly.’
She has now got involved in something called the slow sewing movement, which is what all my attempts at sewing have always been. Slow sewing, she explains, is when you enjoyably stick stitches into bits and bobs of fabric, attaching bits, buttons, designs, whatever floats your boat. You do not have to make anything. This is what she likes best about slow sewing – you aren’tsupposedto be actually making anything.
‘I think they come round and remove all your crafting supplies if you actually finish a project,’ she said joyfully, when she told me about it.
But tonight’s conversation is evidence that the slow sewing is now boring her and she’s back on the crochet.
I avoid the subject of what she’s making because, obviously, she isn’t making anything.
‘I can go tomorrow in your place because Lexi starts herfirst-year summer exams the day after and I have to pick her up from school, can we swap?’
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Talk tomorrow. I have to join this bloody yoke up.’
10
The happiest people know they have to work at happiness
My mother’s house should resemble a cottage hospital, containing as it does three people who can be classed as invalids, one a severely disabled person, but it is not.
It is awash with colour and crafts. Maura inherited my mother’s ability to make things, although my mother actually finishes them. The red gingham curtains in the kitchen and the adorablekitchen-themed bunting: she made them.
The tapestry cushions – mainly animals but a few interesting flowers from kits from the immensely talented textile designer, Kaffe Fassett – she made them too.
Thesunflower-yellow knitted throw on the couch that Bridget’s cat, another elderly inhabitant, thinks is her own, was knitted by my mother over one cold winter and it’s like a spot of sunshine in the room. Thehand-stitched star quilt in corals and pale blues hanging on one wall: yes, another work of art by my mother.
In short, lack of money has never stopped my mother from making her home beautiful.
‘Mum,’ I say loudly as I let myself in. I don’t want to scare her, although with Granddad beetling around all the time clutching one of his encyclopedias or worse, hisGuinness Book of Recordsand asking does anyone know where the deepest lake in the world is, she is used to constant interruptions.
Granny is easier to hear because even though she is a pixie of a thing, she does have the walker she uses at home, which bashes a bit. The skirting boards and the doors all suffer.
My mother is in the kitchen, over the stove, stirring something that smells delicious.
