Paul laughs under his breath, backing away. ‘Um . . . yes . . . well . . .’ He stutters and stammers all over his words, and my frown lines deepen with each confusing second that passes.
There’s a sudden burst of activity behind him, and someone crashes into his back, sending him staggering forward a few steps. ‘What is it, Paul? What’s going on?’
I don’t need a nanosecond to place that voice.
Mum.
‘It’s okay, Mary,’ Paul soothes, calming my alarmed mother.
She’s pulling in the sides of her dressing gown, her eyes darting, alarmed. Then she finds me standing by the front door, mouth hanging open. I’m blank.
‘Eleanor!’ she squeals and dives forward, ready to tackle-hug me. I’m not sure if she suddenly comprehends that something is amiss here, or whether my face tells her so, but she skids to a stop before she makes it to me. Then she takes hold of the wall next to her. ‘Oh . . .’ she breathes, her eyes widening.
Oh? I can feel my face muscles twisting, yet I find myself chuckling. I don’t know why. ‘What’s Paul doing here, Mum?’ I already know. Something close to an explanation is developing in my tired mind and I seriously do not like what I’m coming up with. Or maybe my mind is playing games with me. Please say my mind is playing games with me!
Mum starts chuckling, too. It’s a nervous laugh. Just like mine. ‘You never said you were coming home, darling.’ She takes a step back and collides with Paul’s naked pot belly, and his hand comes up and rests on my mum’s arm, steadying her.
My eyes root to his hold of her and don’t move when I answer my mother’s wary question. ‘Thought I’d surprise you,’ I say quietly, watching as Paul’s hand releases her. I look up at him. He’s evading my questioning stare. The explanation that was developing in my tired mind is suddenly complete. My eyes drift across to my mother. ‘Mum?’
Her lips straighten, and she exhales. ‘I’ve wanted to tell you for months.’
‘Months?’ I cry, my mouth dropping open. ‘But . . . how?’ I’m at a loss. ‘Months?’
Her whole body deflates before my eyes, and Paul’s hand is back on her arm, this time offering support of another form. ‘Yes, months,’ she sighs. ‘I didn’t want to upset you.’
‘Upset me?’ I ask, my fingertips coming up to my head and pushing into my temples. I start laughing hysterically as I stand before my mother and her . . . whatever he is, and study them shifting and squirming before me.
‘Tea?’ Mum asks, a little high-pitched as she points to the kitchen, backing away.
‘I’ll leave you girls to it,’ Paul says. ‘Just as soon as I’m dressed.’ He disappears up the stairs, and my misplaced bout of laughter dries up.
I follow Mum into the comfortable kitchen and rest my bum on one of the ancient wooden chairs, watching as she flies into action, busying herself by preparing a pot of tea. My clasped hands rest on the table, my back straight, unable to relax. What do I say to her? What will she say to me? I start to nibble on the inside of my cheek as I contemplate it all. Paul? I can’t make any sense of it amid the fog of crazy that’s clouding my mind right now. ‘How long, Mum?’
She stands still across the kitchen, and a few lingering seconds of silence falls. ‘Five months,’ she says quietly, turning to face me.
I let out a stunned exhale of air. ‘Wow,’ I say, wondering how I missed it. I only left for London a couple of months ago. This was going on while I lived here?
Her lips purse and the sparkle in her eyes dulls a little as she glances away. I can’t understand why I’m disappointed to see the glimmer of happiness disappear. It’s guilt. More guilt added to the guilt I feel where my dead father is concerned.
She takes a seat, an unsure smile on her face. ‘You know your father was hardly an attentive husband, Eleanor,’ she says, waiting for me to confirm it. I can’t. I’d feel like a traitor. ‘He had a love affair with his shop.’
‘I know,’ I whisper. He used to caress the old furniture he restored like he was caressing a woman’s body. Except he wasn’t, God love him.
‘I never ever betrayed him,’ Mum says resolutely. ‘You have to know that. Not once in our forty years of marriage. I was devastated when he passed, Eleanor. Broken.’ She reaches across the table and takes my hand, squeezing gently. ‘I’ll never stop loving your father, darling. But I can have room in my heart for another love.’
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to reason with myself, and in my darkness, I see that sparkle in my mum’s eyes. Because it is that bright. Almost blinding. She’s happy. Who the hell am I to take that away from her? She was a good wife. Dutiful. She accepted that Dad’s passion was his worthless treasure. She accepted that she came second to that.
‘I felt so guilty,’ she says quietly. ‘Felt bad for feeling happy.’
‘Mum, stop.’ I shake my head, cursing myself. I know how that feels. ‘You don’t have to explain.’
‘But I need you to know, Eleanor. I need you to understand.’
‘I understand,’ I say softly, fighting to appreciate just how content she is. She might be my mother, but she’s still a woman. A beautiful one, who was never really made to feel that way.
‘Thank you,’ Mum says, spiking even more guilt. ‘Paul’s really a very lovely man. Big, strong, sociable.’
It doesn’t escape my notice that my father was none of those things. Paul is the polar opposite to him. ‘It’s nice to see you smile.’ I force the words through my inner turmoil – more turmoil, different situation – striving to sound as sincere as possible.
She blushes. In my twenty-eight years of life, I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother blush. It takes a decade off her sixty-three years. I also notice now that her hair is different. More shaped and with lots of swishing layers, and it might be morning, but she has make-up on. She’s like a new woman. Reborn. ‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘What are you doing home? You never said.’
I clam up automatically. ‘I was homesick.’ I grimace and mentally kick myself for not thinking of a more feasible reason. I’ve spoken to her often and never once given any indication of missing home. Add the minor fact that I couldn’t wait to get out of Helston, she’s quickly all over me with a questioning look. She’s also picked up on my stiffness. Her constricting hold of my hand tells me so.
‘Homesick?’ she repeats, watching me closely.
‘I missed you.’ I try again.
‘You missed me?’
‘Yes.’