The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (22 page)

‘Well the Volvo won’t go on forever, but I think you do need a car where you live. I mean, how else would you do the shopping?’

‘I suppose. Apparently you can do food shopping on “
the line
” these days,’ she says, wiggling her fingers to indicate quotes.

‘Online? Oh, you can. You can buy pretty much anything on the internet now.’

‘Yes, but I had a go and it was taking me four times as long as actually
going
to Waitrose.’

‘Yeah. I found that too.’

My mother laughs at this. ‘Well, that’s reassuring. I thought it was just me being an oldie.’

‘So how was Morocco?’

‘Oh lovely. As always. The food didn’t seem as good this year . . . We all kind of had the feeling that they were making cutbacks in that department. But, no, I had a lovely time. Fred and Jean were there again – the people from last winter – and they’re always good fun. Though I do think Fred drinks too much.’

‘A lot of people do these days,’ I say.

‘But we got out more this time too. We went on some lovely walks.’

‘That surprises me,’ I say. ‘I never really think of you as a walker.’

‘Well, we’re all full of surprises, aren’t we? I have some photos in my bag. I’ll show you later. Anyway, how are you?’

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Same old, same old.’

‘Nothing new at all then?’

I know that she’s hoping for some man-news, but I side-step the question. ‘I went to New York,’ I say. ‘That was fun.’

‘On your own?’

‘Yes, well, it was work, Mum.’

‘Oh, right. So you couldn’t really take anyone anyway.’

‘Look, I know what you’re getting at and, yes, I’m still single.’

‘I wasn’t “
getting
” at anything dear, but, seeing as you brought the subject up, I must say that I don’t understand why – a lovely girl like you.’

‘Well, I’m not sure I understand myself,’ I tell her. ‘Maybe I’m not as lovely as you and I seem to think.’

‘Rubbish,’ she says. ‘There’s someone for everyone. You just have to find the right person, that’s all.’

‘Well, it’s not for want of looking, Mum. I can promise you that.’

‘Maybe you should travel more.’

‘I think there are probably as many men in London as anywhere else, don’t you? It’s just that all the good ones seem to be taken. Or gay.’

At the G word, she exhales sharply through her nostrils. Any mention of the subject always produces the same response. I expect it reminds her of someone she just doesn’t want to think about: I expect it reminds her of Waiine.

‘Anyway,’ I say, moving quickly on. ‘As I said, I was in New York last week. And I went to Nice recently for a weekend.’

‘I’d very much like to go to New York myself,’ she says.
I frown. ‘You?’ I say. ‘You never mentioned it before.’

‘Well,’ she says. ‘I suppose you get to a certain age and start realising that there’s a whole world you haven’t seen.’

Trainers, walking, travel . . . I wonder if my mother has had some kind of brain transplant. I turn my attention to the map. ‘You know,’ I say, ‘looking at this map, the only place I can see to eat is where we came in.’

‘Oh, should we turn back, do you think?’ she asks, pausing to peer back down the path.

‘Well, this is the Palm House on the left here . . . so . . .’

‘Shall we have a peep in there first and then go back and eat?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘At least it’s out of the rain.’

We turn down towards the Palm House and as we walk, I continue to study the map. ‘Actually there is another one . . . oh,
and
another. The White Peaks Café and the Orangery.’

‘The Orangery sounds nice,’ she says.

‘Yeah, it looks nicest.’

Inside the Palm House it is hot and humid. A surprising number of people are sheltering from the rain, including a large number of shrieking children. The place sounds like a public swimming pool on a Saturday morning.

‘Do you remember when we brought you here?’ Mum asks, predictably.

It’s one of
those
stories – of which she seems to have about ten. They are so few, and so often repeated, I wonder sometimes if she was there for my childhood at all, or if someone just gave her a crib sheet. ‘No, Mum, I don’t. I was two or something.’

‘You were
five
,’ she says. ‘And Waiine was seven. He put . . .’

‘He put a plant in my pocket,’ I say. ‘I know.’

‘Yes, he wanted to steal one of those carnivorous plants. And he got you to carry it home for him.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘You just said you didn’t remember,’ she says, tetchily.

‘I don’t remember coming here. But I remember the story.’

‘Fine,’ she says. But then, as ever, she can’t resist finishing it. ‘You killed it though by prising the jaws open to feed it cheese.’

‘Did I?’ I ask, looking away and rolling my eyes.

I watch the kids tearing around, and think, as Mum clearly is in the process of doing, about Waiine. It seems almost surreal now, the idea that I once had a brother . . . a naughty tearaway brother who stuffed stolen Venus Flytraps in my pockets. It’s a bit as if the stories have been told so many times that I can’t remember any of the events first-hand any more. We weren’t close towards the end . . . I was at college being all studious and Waiine was working in clubs in London and going to rave parties and popping pills . . .

I don’t really
miss
Waiine any more. I just sort of wonder what it would have been like. I suppose we could have been best mates, the way I am with Mark and Darren . . . then again, you can never really know. The dynamics of
family
relationships are so much more complex than with
framily
. The story of Waiine and me is as if I read half a novel and then accidentally left the book on a train. So now I shall never know how it was supposed to end. Perhaps it was just a shorter novel than I was expecting. Waiine. My brother. My novella.

‘Of course there are huge palm trees in Agadir,’ my mother is saying.

‘I bet.’

‘You should come and visit one winter. I’m sure you’d like it.’

‘Right,’ I say. Now I
know
something is wrong. ‘You’re not ill or anything, are you, Mum?’ I ask, suddenly concerned.

Mum frowns at me. ‘No, why? Do I
look
ill?’

‘No, you look positively tanned and bouncy,’ I say.

‘Well there you go,’ she says with a little laugh. ‘You are funny sometimes!’

Mum rejects the White Peaks as a bit British Home Storesey and we plump for the Orangery. Which, in truth, were it not in such a beautiful building would look a bit like a BHS cafeteria as well. Perhaps I’m just spoilt after my weekend in Nice.

We both choose the lasagne and side salads and then by a stroke of luck a table comes free in front of one of the big windows. ‘And today, through the arched window,’ I laugh, as we take our seats and shuck our plastic macs.

‘Gosh,
Blue Peter
,’ Mum says. ‘That’s still going. It’s not the same of course, not without John Noakes and Valerie Singleton.’

I brace myself for another cliché from my childhood. ‘Do you remember when—’

‘I met Valerie Singleton?’ I say. ‘Yes, Mum.’

‘You interviewed her. Really you did. “Why are you in Brighton today? Are you enjoying it?”’

‘Yes, I remember you telling me.’

‘She was with a Sunshine bus of disadvantaged kids.’

‘Yeah. I love big windows,’ I say, glancing outside and changing the subject. ‘Even when the weather’s horrible, it’s lovely to sit and watch.’

‘Yes,’ she replies, following my gaze.

‘They had a huge window in the hotel I was in in Nice,’ I tell her. ‘Overlooking the Med. That sea is such a crazy colour. Next time I move I want huge windows that let in loads of light.’

‘I know what you mean,’ my mother says. ‘Especially in winter . . . light is important.’

‘I sometimes wonder if I don’t suffer from that SAD syndrome,’ I say. ‘Like people in Sweden.’

‘I think that as well,’ she says. ‘It’s funny really, because everyone says the same thing these days. And everyone wants windows and light. I wonder why?’

‘I think it’s just natural really, isn’t it?’

‘But when I was a girl, we all had tiny windows – because of the cold. We didn’t have double glazing then, and windows were cold and draughty. But no one ever gave a second thought to light. I wonder what happened to make us so sensitive to the light levels.’

‘Maybe it’s the Prozac in the tap water,’ I say.

‘Yes, I read about that in the
Sunday Telegraph
.’

‘Though I suppose that should help really – the Prozac. My place is as dark as a coal-mine now.’

‘Still that tree business?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Mrs P’s Leylandii.’

‘You should get a tree surgeon to come and prune it,’ she says.

‘I wasn’t sure if you
could
prune a tree.’

‘Of course you can! Why ever not? Plus, any branches overhanging your land, you can do whatever you want. Legally, it’s as if they were yours.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I
was
married to a barrister for twenty years, dear.’

‘Yes. Of course,’ I say, unconvinced. Being married to a barrister has left my mother
believing
that, through some kind of osmosis, she has absorbed Dad’s legal knowledge. In reality, her judicial opinions rarely stand close inspection. ‘Anyway, I don’t really want to fall out with Mrs P,’ I say.

‘Well,’ my mother says. ‘I suppose it’s like everything. At some point you’ll just have to choose. Mrs P, or sunlight.’

‘I certainly need to do something,’ I say. ‘Even the lawn is dying.’

But the second I have said it, I know it’s a mistake. I groan internally as she raises one eyebrow and says, ‘Well, you know what I think about that.’

Paving over my tiny lawn is one of Mum’s many obsessions. Why the simple fact that I don’t
want
to pave my back garden isn’t sufficient to end that particular discussion once and for all, I’ll never know. Waiine used to say Mum was
Psycho-rigid
. I have no idea whether that is a medical term or one he made up, but it’s certainly a good description.

‘All that mowing and watering, and all for a bit of scrubby green,’ she continues, for the hundredth time. ‘
And
there’s a water shortage. Worldwide. They say it’s going to get worse and worse too.’

‘You have far more lawn than I do,’ I point out.

‘Yes, but my lawn is big enough to be worthwhile. Yours is just a lot of heartache for nothing.’

‘I’d hardly say it gives me
heartache
,’ I say.

‘You know what I mean. It’s a lot of work for nothing.’

‘Well, I like my lawn.’

‘Not that you can
call
it a lawn,’ she says. ‘A patch of dying grass is more like it. Now, some nice paving stones, something ochre, or limestone. It would look so much better . . .’

When we have finished eating, my mother produces her Morocco snaps. They are pretty much as expected – lots of oldies with sunburn sitting around horrible-looking hotel terraces. But I’m slightly surprised to see my mother looking so happy. It can’t be easy travelling alone at sixty-seven. Hell, it isn’t easy travelling alone at thirty-nine. With such concrete visual evidence of the new life she has, I’m realising, built for herself, I can’t help but be impressed by her resilience.

‘There seem to be lots of women,’ I comment. I have been keeping an eye out for a potential love interest, but other than a couple of photos showing specific couples, the group looks resolutely feminine.

‘Well, the men all die so young,’ my mother says, taking one of the group photos and rotating it halfway towards me. She points a fingernail at the photo, and then lists the women. ‘That’s Anne – her husband had a heart attack two years ago. That’s Sheila. Another heart attack, but a long time ago I think. Marian. Some sort of cancer. Jenny – she’s actually divorced, but I think he’s ill with something anyway. Fred and Ethel. He’s still very much alive, though quite how – the way he drinks – is beyond me.

‘Eek,’ I say. ‘If I do find a new man I need to take him for a check-up first by the sounds of it.’

‘Or go for a younger model,’ Mum says. ‘One that’s too young to die.’

‘So who are these people?’ I ask, pointing at a group of adolescent locals hiding in the corner of the photo.

‘They’re the staff,’ she says. ‘Waiters, guides, what-have-you.’

‘They look happy too,’ I say.

My mother shrugs. ‘I think they’re a very happy people. And these ones obviously have jobs, so . . .’

‘Who is this one with the big grin?’ I ask.

‘Oh, yes, he’s the group guide.’

‘The guy that got you the phone card?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

I smirk at my own silliness.

‘What?’ my mother asks.

‘Oh, nothing,’ I say.

‘No, go on?’

‘Oh, just me being silly. I suspected you of having a holiday romance with him, but that’s clearly ridiculous!’

‘Really,’ she says flatly, scooping the photos suddenly back into the sachet. ‘So, shall we finish our walk?’

‘We haven’t had coffee yet, Mum,’ I point out.

‘I don’t think I fancy it any more.’

‘But we already paid,’ I say, pushing one of the coffee tokens towards her across the table.

‘No,’ she says. ‘No coffee. Come on.’

I lean down and peer up at her in an attempt at making eye contact. ‘Mum?’ I say. ‘Are you sure there isn’t something you wanted to talk to me about?’

‘No, dear, I don’t think so,’ she says.

‘OK . . . So can
I
get a coffee?’

‘Do what you want,’ she says. ‘You always do.’

I shake my head. ‘This is silly,’ I say, standing. ‘You’re sure you don’t want one?’

‘Certain,’ she says.

But when I return with my coffee my mother has vanished and a family have already squatted our table.

‘I’m sorry, this table’s taken,’ I say.

‘Yeah, by us,’ the mother, who looks and sounds a bit like Tracey Emin, says.

I glance around the room looking for my mother.

‘Your friend’s outside,’ the woman says with a nod at the window.