I actually find myself blushing and sputter out: “Nothing! He’s not ‘my’ dishy flanker. He’s... his own dishy flanker! Nothing going on at all!”
“Yes. I can see that,” she replies, narrowing her eyes at me. “Totally innocent reaction on your part there, dear. So this is how he gets through life, is it? Traveling in his motorhome? How does he pay the bills?”
“That’s not really any of your business, Mum, is it? He’s a good man.”
“I wasn’t suggesting anything other!” she snaps back, and I see that we are yet again on a cliff edge. “I was merely asking a question. Forgive me for being interested; you tend to have afew questions when your daughter walks through the door after eighteen years of absence!”
I close my eyes, take a deep breath. This isn’t what either of us needs. This is how we used to be, and that did not end well. I am not seventeen anymore, and I need to stop overreacting to everything she says.
“I know,” I say slowly. “I’m sorry. But this is hard for me as well, and I’m doing my best. Let’s call a truce, shall we? I haven’t seen you for so long, I don’t want to argue with you.”
She nods, and I see her also try to calm herself.
“I don’t want that either,” she replies, “and I’m sorry too. I don’t know, Jenny, maybe we have eighteen years’ worth of bickering stored up as well as everything else? I see how Shannon and Rebecca wind each other up, how easily they fall into sniping, and it looks horribly familiar to me. Mothers and daughters, eh? Perhaps it was ever thus.”
She might, of course, be right—but we are both grown women, and should be capable of acting like it if we try our very hardest.
“We’ll be okay,” I say, holding her hand on the kitchen table. “We’ll adjust. Do you have anything I can take out to Luke for breakfast? We didn’t get the chance to stop off for supplies on the way here.”
This is a complete lie, but its intentions are good—we both need a break, and giving her something to do, something to organize, will restore her balance, make her feel more capable and in control. It will also give me time to well and truly bury some of the snarky one-liners that my seventeen-year-old self still seems to want to throw at her—number one being to ask her not to call the cops on Luke just for not having a job.
It does the trick, and she bustles about making toast and assembling it on the tray with little ramekins of jam and marmalade. I cantell from the jars that it’s all homemade, and smile at the thought. The kitchen might be new, but some things haven’t changed—she used to spend days on her preserves, hated waste of any kind.
“I made extra,” she says, indicating the laden tray. “For you as well... I thought perhaps you’d like to take your breakfast with Luke this morning.”
It is a peace offering, and I accept it as such, smiling and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.
Frank appears at my heels again as I go to open the back kitchen door, which leads me out to the side of the house. Here, I see other signs of change—a greenhouse and a rainwater butt have appeared. I pause and wonder what doesn’t feel right, and realize that it is the quiet. Farms are noisy places, even in the morning—but now that the milking shed is no more, it is eerily calm out here.
I curse my feet for making so much noise on the gravel, unsure of whether Luke is even awake yet, and not wanting to disturb him if he isn’t.
Frank has no such qualms, of course, and runs straight to Joy’s steps. He scratches at the door and woofs, and I hear Betty bark frantically in return. No way anyone is sleeping through this racket.
I balance the tray on one knee, knock gently, and open the door, carefully climbing up the steps.
As I walk in, Luke is emerging from the shower, a white towel tied around his waist, his skin still glistening with water. I gasp and wonder if we should have named the shower Adonis.
“Sorry!” I mutter, looking away, busying myself putting the tray down on the table. “Didn’t mean to intrude!”
“It’s okay,” he says, amusement in his voice. “Give me a minute.”
I soon discover that having a young springer spaniel in a motorhome is entirely less manageable than having a well-behaveddachshund in a motorhome, and leave the door open so they can go and play. They disappear in a flurry of fur, and I hope Betty doesn’t decide that alpacas are her mortal enemy.
Luke emerges from his room in his traditional baggy shorts and T-shirt, fully respectable. The damage has been done, though, and I know that I won’t forget that particular image for a while.
“I brought you breakfast,” I say, gesturing to the table.
“I see that. Thank you. Will you join me?”
We both settle into our usual spots and tuck in. “Wow,” he says, wiping his mouth, “this jam is something else.”
“Yes. She’s something of a jam guru, my mother.”
“How’s it going?” he asks, meeting my eyes. “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” I reply, sighing. “Maybe it’s going as well as it can. It’s all so complicated, though, isn’t it? So many years away, so much has changed. It’s like dipping back into a TV show after decades of not watching it, and wondering why everyone looks older... I’m sure it’s the same for them. I mean, I turned up with a child in tow!”
“Plus a layabout drifter who lives in a motorhome and doesn’t even have a job.”
