I just lay there all night, she goes on. Couldn’t wait for morning.
And yet we went to bed ten minutes after my arrival, he thinks, but does not say. Old confusion, like a knot in his stomach.
His mother has turned back to the sausages now. Bren swallows, says ah, that’s nice. Thinking, this changes nothing. This sentiment expressed in this kitchen: it’ll change nothing.
She butters his bread for him like he’s a child. Squirts ketchup on the side of his plate. He finishes making the tea – gets it wrong, probably, too much or not enough milk – and they carry it all through to the dining room, same table, same upholstered chairs. Bren does not look at the one at the head of the table as he sits, takes the napkin his mother hands him and tucks it into his neckline, for jokes. Meat juice, sweet tang of sauce. Josie watching him as he eats, as if awaiting his review.
Delicious, he tells her, and she beams again. You not having one?
Oh, no. I had my porridge, first thing.
Water and salt?
You remember!
Course, he says. She tells him she has it with a drop of almond milk, now, though. Good for her gut health, apparently. Although Freya is aghast because of the air miles, importing all the almonds. It’s impossible to get organic ones from Europe, so if she asks, don’t tell her, all right? As far as Freya knows, it’s just water and salt, like before.
I’ve not even seen Freya to say hi yet, Bren says, thinking of Nora’s mad-haired mother; the way she’d let him spend hours next door, when his own mother was frantic, or elsenot speaking – existing, as though he didn’t. But if and when the topic of almond milk arises? he ventures. Your secret is safe with me.
Josie doesn’t chuckle at this, like he’d hoped; just nods, blows on her tea. The clock thunks loudly, a wooden grandfather clock that had, in fact, belonged to his mother’s grandfather. Muscle memory of meals spent at this table, scanning for something, anything, to say. She has not asked him about his travels, or his flight, his life or his heart or his reasons for being home, after all this time. Which would’ve hurt, when he was younger. The lack of questions about school or his friends or his feelings. Not now, though. Nope. Another bite of his sandwich. Thick swallow of bread. Long drink of his hot tea, eyes down on the tablecloth, which is starched. Pristine.
So, Josie says. How was Nora’s last night?
Small cough, then, caught in his throat.
Presumably that’s what you came back for, she says. Bren drinks another mouthful, then puts down his cup. Gives a one-shouldered shrug, lifts his sandwich to his mouth.
Was she thrilled to see you?
Thrilled, he says, after he’s chewed. Not sure I’d say that.
Surprised, then?
Definitely surprised.
Josie watches him eat, something gathering in her face.
You didn’t tell her, she says.
I didn’t think it would be a big deal, he says, and when his mother raises an eyebrow, he says, well, I knew it would besomething, but thought it would be better, in some ways, to just show up. This was her … engagement, after all. I figured if I made it about me coming back, that would steal the limelight. And I didn’t want to do that.
Pause, then, his mother’s cup in her bony, birdlike hand.
I think, Josie says, coming home like this will have stolen the limelight anyway.
She starts to fiddle with the lace of the tablecloth. Worrying. And Bren eats his sandwich and hates it, the fact that he might have caused her to worry, because worry is where it starts, something small and insignificant and then –
Why don’t I take you out, he says to her; leaving the Nora stuff behind. She looks thin and frail and like she needs to eat something hearty, a good steak, maybe. Pie with mash and a load of greens. He’s missed pub food, himself, too. Proper gravy, hot chips.
Out, Josie repeats.
Somewhere for dinner, he says, to celebrate my homecoming. Tonight, maybe?
Oh, she says. That’s lovely of you, Bren.
The clock ticks between them. Thunk of the pendulum. Teaspoon in her cup, one stir, then two.
We don’t have to, he says.
