I’ve got a blinding headache, Robin says. I’ve got to go.
Then I’ll come with you. I’ll –
No, Nora. I need some space.
She reaches for his sleeve, but he says no again, in a voice so angry, so unlike him, she backs off. I’ve got to go, he repeats. I don’trecogniseyou, Nora.
And this breaks her right open, and she has to go after him, has to ask him something, her stupid, surprise plan be damned, but as she steps out of the porch three things happen at once: Bren grabshersleeve, this time, saying Nora, don’t; she spins round so fast that her elbow cracks hard into his nose; and a song they both know, both avoid, begins to float through from the garden, and it is confusing, it is a blur of three, four, five seconds, but when she turns to look back, Robin is gone; the bus already pulling away.
SEVENTEEN
Nora stands in the driveway near the porch door, breathing hard. The mothers are still in the garden, that song is still playing, and Bren is behind her, his nose bleeding. Asking her if she’s okay.
Don’t, Bren. Don’t pretend you care.
Of course I care.
You were no help back there, she says, rounding on him. Why didn’t you tell him there was nothing going on between us?
And without waiting for an answer, I need to go, she says, I need to go after him.
But the song has been turned up loud on Freya’s radio, and she can’t think straight. In confusion, she looks past Bren, his top lip glistening red, eyes unreadable, into the house. And then Freya’s voice carries towards them, what are you all doing, out here? Her own eyes widening as she comes through the hall.
Fudge on acupcake, she says, when she sees that Bren is bleeding, and Robin is gone. Nora says it’s not what it looks like.
Nora decked me, Bren says, and without missing a beat, Freya says she’s sure he deserved it. Come inside, she says, as the song ends, and begins again; playing, it seems, on repeat.
Nora looks back at the empty green, the bus-less road, wondering once more what is going on, here. Why they’re playing the song from Jon’s funeral.
Don’t get blood on my rug, Bren, Freya is saying as Nora, in spite of herself, follows them inside. I came in for more Pimm’s, she says, steering Bren into the kitchen, his nose tipped upwards. But I think at this point I’ll crack out the whiskey.
I’m leaving, Nora says, in the doorway. I need to go after Robin.
He’s a big boy, Nora, Bren says, just as Josie – who is indoors now too, has carried the stereo with her – says you can’t leave! Freya is pulling old tea towels out of a drawer, passing them to Bren, and that song is playing too loudly; Nora wishes they would turn it down. Whathappened? Josie asks, seeing Bren’s blood, and Freya says never mind that, Jose. Just tell them what we’re here to do. It’s time.
But, Josie says, I was going to explain over lunch.
Explain what? Bren says.
And maybe now isn’t the right time, after all, Josie says, as if she’s not heard his question. She is speaking to Freya, wide-eyed and worried. I think, she whispers, emotions are running a little too high.
Which is what you want, for an occasion like this, Freya says. All four of us in a room, at last. Everyone ready and raw.
I think it’s too soon, Josie says, but Freya says twelve years toolate, more like.
What’s going on, Nora asks, feeling torn. She wants to leave, to go after Robin; wants to not be in a room with these two women and Bren and that song, stirring up something inside of her, but at the same time, she can’t not know. Josie glances at her, says nothing, pet, with a fluttering hand. That they’ll do it some other time.
When? Freya says. In another decade, when Bren’s home again, and Nora’s still not speaking to me?
Oh, don’t! Josie says, wringing her hands. Bren is pale, frowning at his mother over the tea towel pressed to his nose.
Josie, Nora says. What’s going on?
And it’s saying her name, rather than repeating the question, that does it. That seems to root Josie in place, stop the twisting of her hands. She exhales, puts the stereo on the kitchen side, says okay. Well. As you know, this is a … special day, for me.
The song ends. Fades out, comes back in.
I’d planned it for a reason, Josie says, as Freya turns down the volume slightly. I’d had this idea, ever since Bren got home. Because your fatherlovedEaster weekend, didn’t he, she says, glancing at Bren, who is still watching his mother over his blood-soaked towel.
