‘Good! Give her my love.’
He nodded and went inside. It made her think about how time flew. There was Lisa, his wife, mother to two grown-up kids, when Winnie recalled, like it was only yesterday, how Lisa’s mother, MrsKnowles, had near yelled the house down when her labour became a little more than she could bear, and Lisa had popped into the world. But that was MrsKnowles all over: dramatic.God rest her soul...
Lawrence and Lisa were about the same age – the same year at school, certainly – but the girl was never ... what was the word? Never really the sort of person that Lawrence would be interested in. She wasn’t nasty or dumb, nothing like that, but a boy like Lawrence was always going places and a girl like Lisa ... well, Winnie didn’t want to say she knew best, but proof of the pudding was in the fact that the girl still lived next door in her mother’s house with the lovely but unambitious Marty. Marty, who worked at the sorting office and who, in her humble opinion, needed a good shave and a decent haircut. Enough said.
Not that she had anything against manual labour – good Lord no! Physical work was something she respected and understood. It just wasn’t for someone like her. And look at how far she’d come. She smiled, stooping to retrieve a wisp of grass that dared poke its head through the gravel, thinking again about the scene of extravagance in the restaurant last night, and Bernie’s speech whicheveryone had heard.Everyone.It was about as far from a life of manual labour as she could imagine. A wonderful life.
Her own father had dug ditches for a living. Yes! Ditches! Going out in all weathers with the wooden handle of a shovel in his palm that over the years wore the skin where it touched shiny and hard, until it was not like skin at all, but more a glove into which the spade fitted. As if he had evolved to accommodate the tool and not the other way around. Making him and his shovel one and the same. She’d watch him walk the front path each morning, usually before sunup, stopping at the gate to wave to her as she knelt on her bed, alerted by the sound of the front door opening, with a thick wool blanket, issued in wartime, about her shoulders to ward off the chill. She’d wipe the condensation, frost, or ice from the inside of the window and wave back, believing it might give him a lift to his day. His grey, hollow face would break into a smile as if that little wave was all the fuel he needed. Far better than any warm grub that might line his gut and help stave off the cold.
When he died young, no doubt worn out from all that digging, she’d stared at his pyjama-clad body, noticing, possibly for the first time, the frailty of it: the stoop of his spine, as if the years on the job had worn him down so much that his body had finally acquiesced and moulded itself to the shape of his temperament; the tight, hard knots of muscle sitting under his translucent skin; and the lack of fat making him look sicker than he’d felt. He was buried not a day when her mother grabbed the damn implement from the front hallway and carried it outside.
‘What are you doing?’ Patricia had asked as their mother held the spade out in front of her as if it were contaminated, dirty or both.
‘I’m going to burn it! I’m going to burn the bloody thing!’
Usually a quiet, contained woman, it was the only time they’d heard their mother cuss. At the time Winnie put it down to grief,but as the years passed, she wondered if it was nothing of the sort, but a futile hatred of the implement that had robbed her of the kind man she loved. The kind man who without the confidence to use his wits, gave his body in service of mud, so that they could eat, put coal on the fire once a day, and, at Christmas, feast on a goose so fat and a plum pudding so vast they felt like queens!
Winnie understood her mother’s hatred of that shovel, knew what it felt like to fixate on one thing that felt to blame for spoiling what should and could have been the most lovely life.
Her dad had died aged forty, but with the bones and defeated manner of a man double that age. At his funeral, Winnie could only think about two things: first, the way he’d waved to her each morning, digging just for her, her sister, and the woman he loved. And second: she was determined to make a success of her life, determined to have goose and plum pudding any day she wanted, because when you were poor, life was tough, harsh and she was not going to see any man she loved put into an early grave with the effort of it.
Turning, she took in the façade of the house next door. ‘Shabby’ was the word.
It had been a relief to hear that Lisa was well; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her. A bit of a hermit in recent times by all accounts. Cleo had mentioned she thought the girl might have depression, and that would be rotten. Winnie had read an article saying that a good walk and plenty of spinach cured depression. Maybe she’d look it up and put it in an envelope – just in case anyone might need it. Would it be too obvious to pop it next door? She only wanted to help. Plus, if Lisa’s depression got cured then maybe, just maybe, she’d find the inclination to smarten up the house – something from which they could all only benefit.
It seemed to her, though, that things like depression ran in families. Thank goodness hers was not afflicted. Not that it was asurprise; what did they have to be depressed about? They all had wonderful, happy lives. Last night and the glorious evening just spent was proof of that. Her cheese board had been a resounding success, even if Julie had returned without the chocolates that would have made serving coffee perfect. Not that she’d ever say anything, but she was fairly certain her daughter-in-law had deliberately tried to put a dent in her celebrations. Who in the world goes out to buy chocolates and then returns saying they couldn’t find a parking space or some other odd excuse? The whole thing was most peculiar. Winnie was sure Julie had been lying. But no, she wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t give Julie the satisfaction, and besides, she would never embarrass Lawrence by troubling him with it. She didn’t want to sound petty.
Making her way back inside, she let her eyes linger over the elaborate display of roses –lucky, lucky me...
With her phone in her hand and paying no heed to the early hour she fired off a text to MrPortland.
Good morning MrPortland, Winnifred Kelleway here. We live in Four Oaks, you might remember me as the lady whose son lives on Newman Road? I’d be most grateful if you could give me a call or drop by on a most urgent matter about which I need your sage advice. Many thanks, MrsKelleway.
She added her address for good measure.
Her phone pinged with the sound of a text; she was delighted by the man’s prompt reply, but closer inspection revealed it was not from MrPortland. It was in fact a message from Georgie – it took a while for her eyes to register that it was an image.
‘Oh, my goodness! Oh, will you look at that!’
Her heart flexed at the sight of the tiny baby in a little blue knitted hat that graced her screen. Underneath was written:
Hello Grandma Winnie – here I am, your new grandson! Looking forward to meeting you when Mummy and I come home later! Born just after 3 a.m. I weigh 7lb 2oz and I’m very handsome!
Feeling more than a little overcome with emotion, she leaned on the table in the hallway. Again, she studied the image of a baby boy with a squashed face and tiny, tiny fingers. He was beautiful! The newest member of the family. Instinctively she held the locket at her neck and swallowed the tears that gathered at the back of her throat.Little Louis... how she missed him still.
‘Morning, Nan.’
Spinning around towards the stairs she had almost forgotten that Cassian had stayed over.
‘Morning, darling! And what a morning it is, look at this! Look who’s arrived!’
She held out her phone and watched as Cassian took the phone into his hands and smiled.
‘Ah, that’s lovely. What’s he called?’
‘I don’t know! Probably not got a name yet or I think Georgie would have said.’
‘When was he born?’ her grandson asked, as he made his way to the kitchen and reached for a glass from the shelf.
