Smiling, like he knows something his son doesn’t as Bren puts his phone away and walks back, as calm as the wide green river he follows home.
_
Freya has dragged her kitchen table outside and pushed it next to Josie’s garden furniture – passed over the fence by Bren, presumably – so that it can comfortably seat five. There are three types of tomato salad, a basket of crusty bread. A pitcher of Pimm’s swimming with chopped fruit, the apple chunks already browning.
Friends! Freya says, when she sees them. She has never called them this before, and the peculiarity of it is not lost on them. Nora swallows. Robin touches her elbow, guides her forward; Freya outpours about the lamb she’s prepared,something from the butcher because it’s a special occasion, all of them getting together, she can’t remember the last time they did it, not that you would’ve been here, Robin, you’re new, well, newer, Josie’s idea, this whole thing, you know what she’s like, when she gets an idea in her head.
Nora tenses up, seeing her mother so nervous, like this.
Hearing her mention Josie, like that.
How’s veganism working out for you, Freya, Robin asks, with a gentle attempt at humour that Nora hasn’t heard since they’d left Devon.
Oh please, Freya says, we all know I’m about as vegan as a beefburger. Robin laughs, and it is such a good sound, and that sound thaws something in Nora as she stands there by the wobbling table, paper napkins fluttering in the breeze. She sees the relief in Freya, too, at his warmth. Thinks of his notebook, the details, the bigger picture.
I can check on it, if you like, Nora says. The lamb.
She says it to the cutlery, but still. It’s an offering, an attempt to be ordinary. Small seeds from the trees flecked on the plates as Robin seats himself at the table, and her mother looks at her for the first time; Nora feels it, but can’t yet look back.
Oh, Freya says. Could you, darl?
Tentative, like she’s not sure how to play this; not sure she can use this term of endearment, yet. But Nora nods, and Freya jumps on it like a lifeboat, says it’s probably raw, you know me, can’t cook for toffee apples; I did what the butcher said, but if you could check that would save the day, I’d imagine, and Nora looks up at her as she says this last part, knowing that in this compliment, there’s an apology, without words. Which Nora should, but can’t quite, acknowledge. So what’s new, Freya says, turning to Robin. How’s your brother. Still defending evil corporations, for a living?
In the kitchen, Nora finds that her palms are sweating. Underarms, too. Great. She checks the lamb shoulder, takes it out, rubs it with oil and mustard powder, studs it with garlic. She hears Freya laughing from outside, somehow; it feels like Nora hasn’t laughed in weeks; but then she is back outdoors and the laughing stops and Robin and Freya both look at her as she lowers herself into a chair, like someone has died, or is about to.
Looks good, is all that she says.
A miracle! Freya says. D’you want a Pimm’s?
I’m okay, thanks, Nora says, so that Freya stops, mid-pour. Puts the jug down, loosens the knot in her neck scarf. Half a minute passes. Throats cleared, a greenfly on the butter knife. But her mother, it seems, can’t help herself.
Areweokay, she says, and Nora says let’s not do this now. This is for Josie, today. I’m here for her.
Robin busies himself with separating the knives from the forks, which have been bundled into the centre of the table. He makes unnecessary noise, pairing them beside the bowls and salad tongs and clay candle holders bought at car boot sales or artist collectives, some made by Nora in primary school.
Thingsaren’tokay between us, Nora says, but we just have to get through this meal, then –
Robin drops a fork, sorry, he says, waving a hand; Nora sees him wince. A cloud moves over the sun just as she decides not to finish her sentence, because then what, she does not know. Which her mother seems to accept. Simply sits there with the Pimm’s and the fresh tomatoes sliced on a plate, Robin counting the number of cake forks left on the table, they’re one short, someone will have to have a normal fork for dessert, he’ll take the hit, he doesn’t like small forks as it is, nor big bowls with the giant rims in fancy restaurants, youknow the ones, he is mumbling, he is riffing, he rubs his head like it’s hurting him, the conflict is hurting him.
But then comes a coo-ee from over the fence and Josie appears in a summer dress and pink drawstring coat, carrying a large bowl covered in cling film. Happy Easter! she calls as she opens the gate, and all three of them rise from the table.
I brought my pasta salad! she declares. Jon’sfavourite.
Nora stiffens, Freya sighs; Josie props it on the table, and beams. Freya – this is all sopretty. I love this tablecloth. And this, here!
She gestures at the strawberries, mint and cucumber floating in the Pimm’s with such joy, it’s like Freya has made a wedding cake, instead of sliced up some fruit. And Nora, you looklovely, pet. I like your dress. And your hair.
Good journey? Robin asks, after he’s kissed her cheek.
Oh, I only live next door, dear, Josie says.
Yeah, Robin says, I was just. Yeah.
He sits back down and Josie does too, tucking her pink dress beneath her.
It’s so lovely to see you all, she says, almost breathless.
Don’t start sobbing over the tomatoes, Josephine, Freya says, pouring her a Pimm’s, though Nora thinks, with a wave of hot regret, that her mother, too, looks mournful. Get this down your neck, first.
