funny with their puddings.
If there’s anything I miss about my old job at the bistro, it’s trying funny things with puddings. But I don’t like to dwell too much on the past. The restaurant doesn’t even exist anymore. It went up in a puff of smoke, along with my restaurant chef career.
This is more stable work anyway, and even though it’s a madhouse when the families visit, I do enjoy the extra buzz.
Not that it’s God’s Waiting Room on the other days. Between the activities calendar, Nick’s occupational therapy sessions and Sophie’s Zumba classes, these women have more of a social life than I do. Plus, they get trips out in the town and all the dramas you might expect from twenty-two independent-minded women living together.
But it’s at the end of the week that the grandchildren come, and that gives the home a special vibe. It puts everyone in a good mood.
Well, nearly everyone.
Terence is still glowering from the shrubbery.
Technically, as he’s not in our garden, he’s doing nothing wrong. He’s right on the border, taunting us. I just know he’s going to do something. He always does. We never know what, so we have to play cat-and-mouse until he makes his move. And then we try to head him off.
June’s watching him too. ‘If that dirty old bloke gets his todger out again, I’m ringing the police this time. We’ve been way too easy on him lately.’
As the head of HR (as well as office manager, accountant and unofficial Agony Aunt), she takes things like harassment seriously. There was a real ding-dong between her and Max a couple of months ago when he tried to convince her to go easy on Terence. Sometimes I do feel sorry for Max. He’s an incompetent twit, but he doesn’t deserve a father like that.
‘I had hoped the hospital stay might mellow him out,’ Nick says. When Terence came down with pneumonia last year, it was touch-and-go for a bit. He ended up in Critical Care on a respirator. You’d think a thing like that might make him mend his ways. But no. He’s worse than ever.
‘I hoped it would kill him,’ says June. With an impatient swipe, she brushes her blonde curls away from her face. It’s as much a nervous habit as because the wind has picked up. Clouds are scuttling across the sky now. We might have to serve lunch inside after all. ‘But he’s too mean to die.’ Then she glances at me. ‘Sorry, that was probably insensitive, with your mum and all.’
I shake my head to let her know I’m not offended. My emotions have been all over the place since Mum died, but they’re not the ones I expected. I can’t seem to find a manual about how to grieve properly for her. And I need one because I’m doing it all wrong.
Everything I read online says I should let myself feel sad. That would be fine, except that I’m not feeling sadness as much as rage. And it’s not normal grieving anger, either. It would be normal to be furious with Mum for dying and leaving us. Or for not taking care of herself enough to stay alive.
I’m livid with her because she’s not here to be livid with in person.
That doesn’t seem right.
June has been my rock throughout everything. Well, that’s what best friends are for, right? Even so, I really appreciate it. Some people get too uncomfortable about death or sadness to get down and dirty in the emotions with you. Like my dad, for instance.
I worried constantly about him after the funeral. Which is why I may have rung him more than usual. He started avoiding my calls. He’s not being malicious. He’s just tired of me asking how he is, which makes him think about Mum and then he gets sad (he claims, though I’ve still not seen very much evidence). Dad’s always been a stiff upper lip person.
Dad did actually answer my call this morning. Only because June showed me how to block Caller ID. I’ve sunk to stalking my own father.
‘Has Will been to see you?’ I’d asked, even though I knew the answer.
‘Your brother is very busy with work,’ Dad said.
‘Well, so am I, and I’m happy to come see you whenever you like. He could find the time, you know.’ Will works in a bank, not sequencing the human genome or curing cancer. But he’s always thought the world revolved around him, and our parents didn’t help.
‘Your brother is successful, Phoebe,’ Dad explained, like that was any excuse for ignoring your parents. ‘It stands to reason that he’d be married to his job. That comes first.’
‘And that’s okay with you? It’s a double standard, by the way.’
‘No, it’s not,’ he said.
‘Oh, really. I’m successful. I run my own kitchen, I’ve won awards. Yet you don’t expect me to be married to my job.’
‘That’s because yours is an unsuitable match.’
It was like my mother had come back from the dead to insult me. It’s not fair. She shouldn’t still be able to upset me by proxy. ‘I was just checking that you’re all right,’ I murmured. ‘Tell your son to visit you. He owes you for putting him through uni.’
June and Nick are clearly worried by my silence. ‘It’s okay,’ I tell them. Nick is rubbing my arm, sending tingles all up and down. That shoves all thoughts of my parents from my head. ‘I thought maybe Max would move his dad somewhere else when he got out. He’s really not all there anymore. He should probably be in a home. He’s always at his worst on visiting day.’ And he’s no picnic the rest of the time.
But the sun is still shining, so far, and the tables that the waitresses have dotted all over the lawn look gorgeous and very stately-homey.
That’s one of the best things about this place for the women: the space they get without having to be alone. Most of them could live pretty well on their own, as long as they had someone to check in on them, and maybe help with some cooking and cleaning. But if they didn’t live here, then they’d either be tripping over themselves in a one-bedroom flat or, maybe worse, be rambling around their family house with nothing but memories for company. My gran got terribly lonely after Grandad died, even though she lived near Mum and Dad and they visited a lot. Her whole world shrank to Mum’s visits. If I’m lucky enough to live into old age, I just hope the Happy Home for Ladies is still here for me.
We all go back inside to finish getting ready for the visitors. The women are always excited on Saturdays, even when it’s not their own family who’ll be stopping by. They’ve been living together for so long that, in a way, they’ve pooled their loved ones together. Anyone can dip into the mix of visitors and come up with a friendly face to enjoy.
I’m just getting the warming trays out for the buffet when Davey arrives with our Morrison’s delivery.
What can I tell you about Davey so you can picture him but not think he’s a prat? If you saw a photo of him, you’d probably think he was fit, and he is. His hair isn’t as dark as Nick’s, but it’s wavy like his, and he uses some kind of wax or putty to make it stand up all over. He’s got a nice smile and pretty green eyes, and he is in good shape from lifting delivery boxes all day long. The problem is when he speaks. Aside from what comes out of his mouth, he’s got this weird way of shimmying his head, like the dog from the Churchill advert. It makes everything he says seem like an innuendo. So, imagine an okay-looking shimmy-headed guy with muscly
