She hadn’t felt lovely, that day. She’d hardly slept. She’d felt that she looked haggard. The service had been a total embarrassment. So much was said. So much wasn’t said. The Revd Dominic Otley had spoken without conviction. The funerals of people who have killed themselves are hell.

And Alice. She had been lovely. She had grown into a really lovely woman, a proud mother of two lovely little boys. It was lovely that she had such lovely photos of them, and if perhaps she showed them slightly too often, well, it was good at a funeral to dwell on things that cheered, it would be wrong to criticize her for that. No, the only thing that had disappointed her about Alice was the thing she hadn’t said. She hadn’t suggested that Sally move to New Zealand. She understood why, it made sense. She had her own life. She had the boys. She didn’t know whether, if Alice had asked her, she would have gone. Some people said New Zealand was a paradise. Others said it was boring. Perhaps it was in the ineluctable nature of things that paradises were boring. No, she didn’t know if she would have gone, but it would have been nice to have been asked.

Sam hadn’t sung the praises of Barnet, either.

She took one more look at the roofs of her home town, at a faint sheen from the emerging sun on the one tiny glimpse she could get of the Potherthwaite Arm of the Rackstraw and Sladfield Canal.

Beyond and above the canal and the Quays, on the moor at the other side of the valley, Potherthwaite Hall stood arrogant guard over the town. It had only occurred to her well after Barry’s death that this year they hadn’t been invited to Councillor Stratton’s party.

She set off at last, slowly wheeling her two suitcases to the northern end of the footbridge. She pressed for the lift. It arrived slowly. ‘Footbridge level,’ exclaimed the bossy lady. Sally manoeuvred her cases into the lift. ‘Going down.’ She went down.

She wheeled her cases towards the ramshackle buffet, then hesitated. She didn’t want to go into the buffet, in case Long Raincoat would be there.

But there was another reason too. She didn’t need a vat of tea or a cauldron of coffee. She didn’t need a Danish pastry or a slice of fruit cake.

She didn’t need anything. She was going south, to the Land of Plenty.

TEN

A small flat in Barnet

Beth’s lasagne wasn’t exactly bad. She was an inexperienced cook – they lived mainly on ready meals and takeaways – but it was clear to Sally that Sam had told her that his mother would expect real cooking. She wished he hadn’t done that. She had quite lost her appetite since Barry’s death, and she knew that she had to eat up all her lasagne. It was a neat reversal of her relationship with her son. She had spent hours getting him to eat up, in the happy years.

‘The happy years’! What did she mean? Hadn’t she been happy throughout her marriage? She had thought that Barry had been too, but … consulting a psychoanalyst? Killing himself? And why oh why had he not left her a suicide note? To go, to hurt her so, without a word.

This was awful. This was not why she had come to stay with Sam and Beth. She had come to begin to recover from her trauma. She had come, with Barry dead and Alice in New Zealand, to find some family feeling, some family warmth.

‘Lovely.’

‘Do you mean that?’ asked Beth naively.

‘It’s very good.’

‘It is, Beth,’ said Sam. ‘Really. Beth has no confidence, Mum.’

Beth gave Sam a glare, which she turned into a comedy glare to try to hide the fact that it was a real glare. She wasn’t unattractive, but you couldn’t say she was beautiful. She’s a bit like her lasagne, thought Sally, and then she wished that she hadn’t, but you can’t unthink a thought.

She was ashamed of herself for wishing that her son had found somebody more glamorous. She was ashamed of herself for wishing that he had got a better degree from a better university and had a better job.

They were sitting on wooden chairs at a square, battered table in a corner of the small lounge/diner of their tiny rented flat in a street of small pre-war houses in Barnet. There were two round marks on the tabletop, where hot mugs had been put down without protection. Sally found herself wondering which of them had left the careless marks. She hoped it wasn’t her son, he had been well brought up.

She calculated that she was now more than halfway through her lasagne. She could make it through to the end. And there came to her at that moment a sudden memory of Potherthwaite, the last thing she wanted to remember. Hadn’t she in part come here to forget? Marigold had suggested, at the funeral wake of all places, that they go out to lunch together, damsels in distress, to cheer themselves up. There was a special Pensioners’ Lunch Offer at the Weavers’ Arms on Thursdays, and they had decided to cheer themselves up by going there and perhaps being the youngest people in the room.

Seated at the next table had been Jill and Arnold Buss, with their new neighbours, Olive and Harry Patterson. Jill, who knew Sally, had introduced Olive and Harry. At the end of the meal, Harry and Arnold had gone to the bar to dissect the bill, Jill had gone to the loo, and Sally and Olive had met at the coats, and as Sally had helped Olive on with her coat, she had praised the beef casserole, and Olive had told her about having to finish the beef casserole at Jill and Arnold’s when it was too spicy for her. ‘I shouldn’t have told you. They were very kind. Please don’t mention it,’ Olive had said hastily as the men returned. Sally had thought this a very trivial story, but now she was beginning to sympathize with Olive.

Thinking back to Potherthwaite led her inexorably back to Barry. Oh God, she missed him. Had he not known, how could he not have known, how much she would miss him? How could he do it to her?

‘Really lovely.’

It would have been better not to say that. It would draw their attention to the slow speed of her consumption, the almost desperate working of her jaw.

She felt guilty about wishing that Sam didn’t look so pale and thin. It made him look too tall, a beanpole. It made his nose look too long and too serious. She felt uneasy about being so disappointed that Beth wasn’t taller, and had such heavy breasts. She told herself that it was unreasonable of her to hope that they would soon move to somewhere more exciting than Barnet. Poor Barnet, how could it live up to her picture of ‘The South’, that mythical place she had missed so badly for twenty-four years? Every now and then she made some kind of reply to some kind of remark, but afterwards she couldn’t remember what they had talked about, she could only remember what she had thought. It wasn’t that Barnet was ugly exactly, it was just … commonplace. Ordinary. Rather like Beth and the lasagne, really.

Beth had left the lasagne in the oven too long, perhaps less than two minutes too long. But that was the trouble with pasta, leave it a smidgen too long and it went heavy, solid, stolid. As she chewed, she saw Olive chewing, and she was back in Potherthwaite again. This was terrible. Oh, why hadn’t he left a note?

Each mouthful was a hurdle, but now she was in the final straight. Chomp chomp. Finished! Good girl! She’s eaten all her dinner! Who’s a clever Sally?

‘Delicious.’

She longed for something sweet. How humiliating to long so much for something so unimportant.

Sam was clearing up, and soon Beth rose to help.

‘I’m afraid we don’t do desserts,’ said Sam.

‘We’ve turned our backs on sugar,’ said Beth.

‘That’s fine,’ lied Sally. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to eat another mouthful anyway.’

They refused to let her into the kitchen to help. It was too small.

‘You go and sit down and relax,’ said Sam.

Relax!

It wasn’t only the kitchen that was too small. So was the lounge/diner, and her bedroom, and the bathroom. She longed to leave, and she was committed to staying for four whole days. She couldn’t leave early. Sam was her son.

She felt at a loss, having no fire to sit by. There were just two armchairs, depressingly dark green and past their best. They were arranged facing the television set, the open fire of modern living. The central heating made the flat warm, almost stuffily so, but it wasn’t the same as a fire. How spoilt she had been with her nice house in the best road in Potherthwaite. How could she not have fully appreciated it until she was on the point of losing it? She hadn’t had a bad life, until Barry’s death of course, but it had been … ordinary.

Rather like Barnet. And Beth. And the lasagne.

When they had washed up, Sam and Beth joined her. Sam plonked himself into the other armchair. Beth pulled a wooden chair over and sat between them. Sally wished she sat more gracefully. She also wished that her son had been more polite.

‘Is there anything you want to watch?’ asked Sam hopefully.

Yes. The movement of the hands of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece as it leads me slowly but reliably towards the moment in four days’ time when I can leave this prison. Sally, that is not worthy of you. Pull yourself together – isn’t that what this trip is all about?

‘Not really, thank you. I’m not a great telly watcher.’

‘I’ll open another bottle of wine,’ said Sam, standing up.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Beth hastily.

Beth didn’t want to be alone with her! Come on, Sally. Be bright and friendly. Let Beth in.

‘Nice of you to bring all that wine, Mum.’

I brought it for myself, in case I needed it, but we don’t need to go into motive, do we?

‘I want us to be cheery, Sam. I want us to start to get over what’s happened together. We need each other.’

Beth brought the wine and they all made an effort and really the conversation wasn’t too bad at all, but all the time Sally was aware of Sam’s anxiety.

Then Beth stood up.

‘I’m a bit tired,’ she said. ‘I’m off to bed.’

She kissed Sam. Sally moved to stand up but Beth said ‘Don’t get up’ and bent down and kissed her. Sally realized that Beth wanted to say something. What could it be? ‘It’s great to have you here’? ‘Sam and I both hope you’ll move down near us’? ‘Let’s have a lovely four days’?

‘I’ve put you two towels and there’s a glass of water by your bed,’ said Beth.

When Beth had gone, Sally asked, ‘Is she being tactful?’

‘What?’

‘Going to bed early. Leaving us alone together.’

‘Ah. Oh, I see. No, no. Beth always goes to bed early.’

‘Right. Well, anyway, Sam … um … we may as well kill this bottle.’

‘Oh. Right. Yes.’

Sam poured and they clinked glasses.

‘Good to have you here, Mum.’

‘Thanks. Good to be here. Sam?’

‘Yes?’ said Sam warily.

‘Um … I hope I’m not going to put my foot in it …’

‘You couldn’t, Mum.’

‘No, but seriously, I must ask you … I know you, you can’t hide things from me. Something’s worrying you, and that worries me. Is there anything … is there something … on your mind?’

‘Well … I mean … Mum, I’m twenty-three, you’ve had a terrible experience, I don’t want to burden you with my worries.’

‘I want you to burden me, Sam. It’s what I’m for.’

‘OK. OK. They say every problem is about sex or money.’

He paused.

‘Go on.’

‘You don’t need to be Einstein to know that my problem’s money. I’m sorry you’ve noticed, I’ve really tried not to show it, but … I’m scared shitless, Mum.’

‘Right, so … why are you … scared shitless?’

‘I’m a fairly junior accountant, Beth’s a dentist’s receptionist and she isn’t the pushy type, so neither of us is very well paid, our degrees haven’t been much of a passport to anything, and at this moment of time we owe between us a small matter of sixty-eight thousand pounds.’

‘Oh my God. That’s awful. You poor boy. Poor Beth.’ She turned angry. ‘It’s a scandal that young people have this enormous pressure. Doesn’t this nation value education?’

‘Not enough, obviously. Beth knows two girls with violent anorexia because of their worries, and a bloke I knew at Keele topped … Oh God, I’m sorry, Mum. Mum, I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten, and I’m sorry too. Poor bloke.’

‘No, but that phrase, it’s …’

‘It’s what people say. Words don’t hurt compared to … what’s happened.’

‘No. Sorry.’

‘What did Beth take her degree in?’

Sam blushed slightly. He looked better when he had a bit of colour.

‘Conservation.’

‘I see.’

‘Mum, this is going to sound awful, but … now that we’ve started … I don’t know how to put it … I’m embarrassed.’

‘Don’t be.’

‘Well … I mean, don’t think Beth and I have ever been wildly extravagant.’

Sally couldn’t avoid taking a little look around the room. The walls were bare except for two posters.

‘I’ve never thought that.’

‘Good. But … I hope in a way this is a compliment, but … we’ve regarded you as a kind of a safety net.’

‘Always be here to help, you mean?’

‘Well, yes. In a way. I mean, you seemed to have plenty of money. Dad a lawyer.’

‘Sadly, not all lawyers are rich.’

‘Not rich, but Dad’s always been scrupulously fair about things, and you’ve always been very generous, you’ve been absolutely marvellous, and …’

‘Could you repeat that?’

‘What?’

‘That I’ve been absolutely marvellous.’

‘Well, of course you have. Didn’t you know that?’

‘Not really, no. So I’d like … it would just be nice to hear it again.’

‘Right. Right. Mum, you’ve always … Sorry. I can’t do it. Not … on request. I mean, of course I mean it, but it just slipped out, I can’t just … sorry.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

But it did.

‘Beth is scared shitless too.’

‘Well, at least I’ll be able to use the lavatory whenever I want to.’

‘What?’

‘You won’t need it. You’re both scared shitless.’

‘Mum!’

‘Just trying to lighten things, Sam. Just trying to show I’m not a stuffy old has-been, failed utterly but so what? Is there a drop more?’

‘Just a bit. You have it.’

‘No, no.’

‘I insist.’

‘OK.’

Sam drained the bottle into Sally’s glass. There were no dregs. The days of affording wines with dregs were over.

‘You’re trying to find out, very tactfully, how much I’m still going to be good for.’

‘Mum!’

‘No. You are. And I don’t blame you. And nothing about your dad upsets me more than this. He’s left me unable to help you. To any extent. Meaningfully.’

‘I see. Well, I think I sort of knew.’

‘It humiliates me.’

‘No, Mum. It shouldn’t. You shouldn’t have to. Anyway, enough of that. We’ll get by.’

There was silence for a couple of minutes. A bus roared by, then all was silence again. They stared into the non-existent fire.

‘What exactly is your position, Mum?’

‘Your father left me debts of roughly three hundred and fifty thousand, as far as we can ascertain, though it may change.’

‘God!’

‘The house is in joint ownership and is on the market for four hundred and fifty thousand, but we won’t get it.’

‘No? It’s a nice house.’

‘It’s a nice house in Potherthwaite. I reckon that, by the time all fees are paid, I will be lucky to have fifty thousand.’

‘What’ll you do?’

‘Don’t know. Get by. I think … I actually think … something I didn’t realize … deep down your mother’s a pretty tough old bird.’

‘I’ll say.’

Sally reflected that the nearest Sam could get to a compliment was ‘I’ll say’, and to say was exactly what he couldn’t do.

She finished her drink and stood up.

‘I’m glad I got that off my chest,’ he said.

‘Good. Sleep well.’

‘I will. You too.’

‘I will.’

Neither of them would. Sally didn’t know what would keep Sam awake. He might have got that subject off his chest, but she could see that he was far from fully relieved.

There was something else, something that was worrying him even more than money.

Worrying about what it was would keep her awake.

ELEVEN

Sam’s worry

She only found out what Sam’s great worry was on the last evening, after Beth had gone to bed.

The days had passed pleasantly enough. They had made trips to Covent Garden, and St Albans, and the Great Bed of Ware, which had led Sally back to Potherthwaite yet again. How perfect it would have been for Ellie.

The evening meals had raised no problems. Sally had eaten sparingly during the day, so that she’d be hungry enough to manage, and even enjoy, Beth’s cautious cooking.

It had been after Beth had gone to bed that things had got more difficult, as mother and son had sat in their dark green chairs, in front of the blank television, trying not very successfully to sip their wine more slowly as the evenings passed. Sally could see that there was still some subject that Sam was desperately wanting to broach. But he wasn’t a broacher, and he had a haunted look, and she was haunted by his haunted look.

On the second evening, Sally had tested the ground over the question of where she intended to live. Was that the issue?

‘It was good, despite the circumstances, having all that time with Alice,’ she had said. ‘We got pretty close. It’s a shame she lives so far away.’

This had prompted Sam to test the ground himself.

‘Would you ever consider going to live in New Zealand?’

‘I don’t know if Alice would welcome that. She certainly didn’t mention it. No, I don’t think I’d want to go that far.’

‘But would you consider coming back south?’

‘I don’t know. I might. They always say you shouldn’t rush anything.’

‘No. Well, there’s no rush, is there?’

‘Would you be happy if I came to live near you?’

‘I think it would be great. And you could be very useful. You could babysit.’

‘Oh, so you’re planning to have children.’

‘I presume so.’

‘You presume you’re planning. Surely you either are planning or you aren’t?’

‘I presume we’ll have babies. We haven’t planned anything. You’re jumping the gun a bit, aren’t you, Mum? We aren’t even married or engaged or anything.’

There had been quite a long silence then. Sally had realized that where she might live wasn’t Sam’s great worry, but it still was a bit of a concern. When he next spoke it was warily.

‘The only thing is, Mum … you know, about you coming to live near us … we aren’t settled here, neither of us likes our job very much, we might move.’

‘Well, I realize that. Sam, don’t worry, I’m not coming to live near you. I might go and live near Judith, that’s different.’

‘Why is it different?’

‘You’re still discovering your way of life. You don’t want your mother poking in. I’d be tempted to give advice all the time, and you’d come to hate me. My sister has her way of life. No advice. No hate.’

That second night she had slept better, but still not deeply. In the morning she had heard Sam and Beth talking earnestly, even urgently, in those ominous low voices.

On the third evening, over the wine, she had done a bit more broaching, while Beth washed up.

‘Don’t think I’m interfering, Sam …’

‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

‘No, no, it’s nothing, it’s just … are you and Beth … you know …?’

‘No, I don’t know, Mum.’

‘Is everything … you know … all right … between you? You know … in bed?’

‘Mum!’

‘I know. But … you know … well, no, you don’t know, but … your father and I … in later years … it just stopped. You’re young, and I shouldn’t be saying this, but in this flat … it’s so compact, the walls are so thin you hear everything.’

‘What on earth can you possibly have heard, Mum?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all. That’s what worried me.’

‘Mum. You’re right about the walls. The soundproofing is disgraceful. We’ve complained, but what can you do? We’re helpless. But with these walls, Mum, and you right next to us, we wouldn’t dream of making love while you’re here. You’d hear every creak … every groan … every moan. Beth wouldn’t even contemplate it. Basically she’s quite shy about … those things. Her dad was a vicar.’

‘But … um … no.’

‘What?’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean, “no”? No what?’

‘Well … no.’

‘Oh, Mum. Now you’ve got me wondering what on earth you were going to say.’

‘Well, all right. I suppose it’s not that important, anyway. It’s just … well. Beth goes to bed early and you said she’s always asleep when you go to bed and I couldn’t help wondering … you know … when you … you know … make love.’

‘Right. Well basically, Mum, the timetable is as follows. We don’t make love at night because our bedtimes are so different. We make love when we get home from work. On Mondays and Thursdays.’

Sally felt uneasy at what she took to be her son’s mockery.

‘I’m at night school on Tuesdays, and Beth is at night school on Wednesdays. It’s a pity they’re on different nights …’

Then she felt, if anything, even more uneasy. She realized that he wasn’t mocking at all. He was deadly serious.

‘… but it’s the subjects. And on Fridays we meet some friends in a pub and go for – I know it’s extravagant in view of the debt hanging over us, but you’ve got to live – a curry. Occasionally we just feel like it and might pop into bed at the weekend.’

‘Oh, good. I’m glad there’s some spontaneity.’

‘Mum!’

‘Sorry.’

‘Young people lead busy, stressful lives. We live with the knowledge that if we lose our job there are probably more than a thousand people waiting to take it. Those carefree youthful days, Mum, they’re a thing of the past.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘We’re all right. So stop worrying.’

‘I will. I will. Sorry. I won’t drink so much tomorrow.’

‘Good.’

‘May as well finish the bottle now, though.’

It’s amazing how quickly a little routine can set itself up, particularly when you know that you can afford to indulge the routine, because it will cease. Even in hospital, you can start to enjoy the routine, if you know that you’re going to be discharged fairly soon. Sally had actually found that, despite the tension, she was looking forward to that last evening’s chat with her son in the dark green armchairs with the wine bottle on a little severely distressed table between them. They might never have these little chats again.

One look at his face took away all the promise of enjoyment. He was even more severely distressed than the table.

Beth popped her head round the kitchen door.

‘I know it’s your last night, Sally,’ she said awkwardly, ‘but … I know it’s pathetic, but I’m no use at all if I don’t get my beau— my sleep, and I’m no use at work if I’m tired. It’s been great having you, Sally, though of course we wish it hadn’t been in these circumstances, and I’ll be a better cook next time because I’m doing cookery at night school. So, anyway, I’ll see you in the morning and I’ll say goodbye properly then, and thanks for all the wine, and … well, I’ll go along to bed then.’

‘Thanks, Beth, it’s all been great and I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well,’ said Sally.

At the door, Beth turned and gave Sam a fierce stare. Sally’s heart sank. Whatever it was, it was coming.

Sam sighed, and Sally waited.

She waited quite a while.

‘Um …’ he began.

He paused again.

‘Mum?’ he continued.

He paused again.

At last he managed a sentence.

‘Beth has pleaded with me not to do this.’

‘I’ve heard you talking in low voices.’

‘Oh God, have you?’