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Even at a young age Liza had wondered why her mother’s needs took precedence over everyone else’s, and she’d wondered what it was exactly that her mother did need, but she hadn’t felt able to ask. She’d noticed that her father drank more and smoked more when Kathleen was away. As a father, he had been practical, but economical in his parenting. He’d make sure that she was safe, but spent long days in his study or in the school where he was head of the English department.
She’d never understood her parents’ relationship and had never delved for answers. They seemed happy together and that was all that mattered.
Liza had thought about her mother exploring the desert in Tunisia on the back of a camel and wondered why she needed her world to be so large, and why it needed to exclude her family.
Was it those constant absences that had turned Liza into such a home lover? She’d chosen teaching as a career because the hours and holidays fitted with having a family. When her own children were young she’d stayed home, taking a break from her career. When they’d started school she’d matched her hours to theirs, taking pleasure and pride in the fact that she took them to school and met them at the end of the day. She’d been determined that her children wouldn’t have to endure the endless goodbyes that she’d had as a child. She’d prided herself on connecting with them, and encouraging conversations about feelings, although these days those conversations were less successful. You can’t possibly understand, Mum, as if Liza hadn’t once been young herself.
Still, no one could accuse her of not being attentive, another reason she was feeling uneasy right now.
Sean was chatting to her mother, the pair of them making tea together as if this was a regular visit.
Liza glanced around her, dealing with the dawning realization that clearing out this house would be a monumental task. Over the years her mother had filled it with memorabilia and souvenirs from her travels, from seashells to tribal masks. There were maps everywhere—on the walls and piled high in all the rooms. Her mother’s diaries and other writing filled two dozen large boxes in the small room she’d used as an office, and her photograph albums were crushed onto shelves in the living room.
When her father had died, five years before, Liza had suggested clearing a few of his things but her mother had refused. I want everything to stay as it is. A home should be an adventure. You never know what forgotten treasure you might stumble over.
Stumble over and break an ankle, Liza had thought in despair. It was an interesting way of reframing “mess”.
Before her mother could sell this place it would need to be cleared, and no doubt Liza would be the one to do it.
When was the right time to broach the subject? Not yet. They’d only just walked through the door. She needed to keep the conversation neutral.
“The garden is looking pretty.”
The French doors in the kitchen opened onto the patio, where the borders were filled with tumbling flowers. Pots filled with herbs crowded around the back door. Scented spikes of rosemary nestled alongside the variegated sage which her mother sprinkled over roast pork every Sunday—the only dish she ever produced with enthusiasm. The flagstone path was dappled by sunlight and led to the well-stocked vegetable patch, and then to a pond guarded by bulrushes. Beyond the garden were fields, and then the sea.
It was so tranquil and peaceful that for a moment Liza longed for a different life—one that didn’t involve rushing around, ticking off items from her endless to-do list. She just wanted to sit.
Her quiet fantasy of one day living near the sea had all but died. There had been a time early in their relationship when she and Sean had discuss
ed it regularly, but then real life had squeezed out those youthful dreams. Living on the coast wasn’t practical. Sean’s work was based in London. So was hers. Although teaching was more flexible, of course.
Sean brought the food in from the car and Liza unpacked it into the fridge.
“I had a casserole in the freezer, so I brought that,” she said. “And some veg.”
“I’m capable of making food,” said her mother.
“Your idea of food is bacon and cereal. You’re not eating properly.” She filled a bowl with fresh fruit. “I assumed you weren’t set up for an invasion of people.”
“Can two people be an invasion?” Her mother’s tone was light, but she gripped the edge of the kitchen table and carefully lowered herself into a chair.
Liza was by her side in a moment. “Maybe I should take a look at your head.”
“No one else is touching my head, thank you. It already hurts quite enough. The young doctor who stitched me up warned me that it would leave a scar. As if I’m bothered by things like that at my age.”
Age.
Was this the moment to mention that it was time to consider a change?
Across the kitchen, Sean was pouring the tea.
Liza paused, nervous about disturbing the atmosphere.
She tried again to encourage a deeper conversation. “You must have been frightened.”
“I was more worried about Popeye. You know how he dislikes strangers. He must have escaped through the open door and I haven’t seen him since.”
Liza gave up. If her mother wanted to talk about the cat, then they’d talk about the cat. “He’s always been a bit of a wanderer.”
