‘You’re working,’ I point out. ‘How can you look after Joe while you’re at work?’
‘It’s okay, I’ve got it covered.’
‘Not Darcy.’ The ground feels like it’s shifting beneath my feet. I place the flat of my hand on the wall to steady myself and bend forward to take a breath. There’s no way that bloody woman is going to be looking after my child. And I’m certainly not having Joe forced to play with her bully of a son. ‘Anyone but her, Jared. For God’s sake, the woman’s set me up for murder! And Tyler is a little bully – he’s been pinching Joe and getting him into trouble. Ask him. Ask Joe. He’ll tell you.’
‘Calm down, Lou,’ he says. ‘It’ll just be for a little while. Just till you get back on your feet again.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No way. Joe can stay with me at Beth’s.’
‘You need a break, Lou. You need peace and quiet.’
‘Beth has a four-year-old, in case you’d forgotten. I’m hardly going to get peace and quiet with Megan in the house. Anyway, Beth and Carys will help me – not that I need helping. I’m perfectly capable of looking after my own son.’ I glare at my husband for his insensitivity and lack of support. I thought we were stronger than this. That he would take my side, no matter what.
He’s shaking his head, but I can tell he’s going to relent. There’s no way on earth I would allow Darcy to look after Joe, and I can’t believe Jared’s even suggesting it.
‘Okay,’ Jared says. ‘But Joe stays with me at weekends.’
‘Fine,’ I snap. ‘I’ll pack a bag, shall I?’
Twenty-Five
Winter 2005
‘You’re a treasure,’ he said, reaching up for the delicate china cup of tea with a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand.
‘It’s my pleasure, Arthur,’ she replied in the overly loud voice she always had to use with the partially deaf octogenarian.
‘Did you leave the teabag in?’ he asked. ‘You know I don’t like it when it’s weak as dishwater.’
‘Yes. Teabag’s in there, Arthur.’
‘Lovely.’ He brought the cup up to his lips and took a loud slurp. ‘Nice and hot, too,’ he said approvingly. ‘You make a good cup of tea, Nicole.’
‘Would you like a couple of biscuits with that?’
‘Custard creams?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Let me go and check what you’ve got in the cupboard.’ Nicole left the sitting room and made her way down the narrow hallway – with its flowered wallpaper and framed prints of the countryside – to the kitchen. This room was where you really felt like time had jumped back several decades, with its ugly brown wall tiles and sludge-green Formica kitchen units. The whole place was dingy. Probably hadn’t been decorated since 1972.
She opened the larder door and shuddered as a family of silverfish scuttled beneath the floorboards to hide from the unexpected shaft of daylight. The biscuit tin sat on the third shelf up – a faded red and black metal box with a picture of a man in a kilt playing the bagpipes, which had once, long ago, contained Highland shortbread. Prising open the scratched lid, she saw that Arthur was in luck as the last carer had bought a selection of the old man’s favourites – custard creams, jammy dodgers and bourbon biscuits.
Nicole scooped out a couple of the creams, replaced the lid and stuck the tin back on the shelf. Then she closed the larder door and opened one of the kitchen units, selecting a rose-patterned china plate. When she’d first started working here, six months ago, she hadn’t known how particular Arthur was about having his tea and biscuits out of the right cup and plate. Apparently, his wife had always insisted on proper china, and now he did it to honour her memory. Nicole thought it was a load of sentimental crap. His wife was dead and couldn’t give two shits whether he ate off bone china, or stuck his face directly into the biscuit tin.
‘Here you go,’ she said brightly, plastering a smile on her face as she returned to the sitting room. ‘Custard creams.’
‘Wonderful.’ He smiled and patted her hand as she set the plate down next to him on the lace-doily which adorned the wooden side table. ‘Sit down,’ he said, pointing to the faded flowery armchair opposite him.
Nicole sat gingerly on the edge of the musty chair. Why were all old people obsessed with flowers? Flowered cups, plates, carpets, tiles, wallpaper, furniture – everything was covered in frigging flowers. It was depressing.
‘Have you got yourself a cup of tea and some biscuits, too?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want to sit here eating and drinking while you go without. You look like a skinny, young thing, what I can see of you. You could do with feeding up.’
‘Thanks, but no. I had a late lunch, Arthur.’ She patted her stomach to show how full up she was, momentarily forgetting that he was registered blind and probably couldn’t see her anyway.
‘Did I ever tell you about my Margaret’s homemade biscuits?’ he said.
Only about five thousand times.‘She liked to bake did she?’
‘Best biscuits you ever tasted,’ he said. ‘Not like the shop-bought rubbish you get nowadays.’
