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‘He wishes. Sorry to disappoint but your father’s still driving his trusty van.’
Courtney’s brow furrowed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I think I’d know.’
‘Must have been tripping then,’ said Courtney.
Shay reared. ‘Please tell me you aren’t on drugs.’
‘Back in your box, Mum.’ Courtney laughed. ‘I’m hardly Keith Richards.’
‘Courtn—’
‘God Mum, really, I’m winding you up. Tell Dad I said hello, but don’t tell him I borrowed any money.’
‘I will and I won’t in that order,’ said Shay, and stood on the step until her daughter had gone, waving while wondering if she’d ever cease being the compressed filling in the family sandwich.
Chapter 13
Roberta was delighted to see Shay call in that Monday morning bringing a coffee and walnut cake with her. That flavour made her think of Sunny for some reason, maybe it was his favourite. It frustrated her that she didn’t know why coffee and walnut and Sunny were together under the same bracket, in the same way that she couldn’t remember why that gaudy, buckled skip on next door’s drive held a significance. It perturbed her, poked something long buried in her head, something that sat like an unexploded bomb couched in thick padding but never relinquishing its potential to maim and destroy.
The house was dark because she’d had to close her back curtains so the builders couldn’t see in. Masonry dust had blown all over her usually immaculate front windows after she’d just had them cleaned. The sight out of them was best occluded anyway: a massive white builder’s van blocking her usually lovely view of the green and, to the side on next door’s drive, the Sharif’s skip. For the first time, her home felt more like a prison than a sanctuary.
So when not only her daughter but her grandson rockedup Roberta’s spirits took a well-needed soar upwards. Shay knew he’d arrived as she heard her mother’s shriek while she was in the kitchen hanging a few bits of washing on the airer; it was too dusty outside to put them on the line.
‘Shay, look, it’s Sunny.’ The delight in her voice was as evident as the Prodigal Son’s father’s must have been when he turned up on the doorstep. Well, there was no fatted calf, but there was a coffee and walnut cake ready sliced.
Shay tried not to run into the lounge but to no avail.
‘Hello darling,’ she said, half-launching herself at him, filling her arms with him. He felt different, too lean.
Never one for subtlety, Roberta said, ‘There’s nothing of you, Sunny. Are you eating?’
‘Yes, Gran,’ he said with an embarrassed smile.
‘It’ll be the wedding,’ Roberta diagnosed. ‘Dagmara’s ordered me an outfit from a catalogue on the computer which should be here any day now. I can try it on and if it’s not right we can send it back. Dress, coat, hat and some shoes. I’ll be resplendent in violet.’
‘Sit down and talk to your gran. I’ll bring the tea in,’ said Shay, fighting the urge to hug him again. In the kitchen she loaded a tray and brought it through. Her mother was in full flow, filling in Sunny with the escapades of next door.
‘… He calls himself Drew but his real name is Andrew, because Dagmara gets his post all the time. Your mum is going to get the building work stopped. I have to laugh sometimes when I see them putting bricks up because I know they’ll be coming down before long.’
Oh God,thought Shay.
Roberta was holding Sunny’s hand and the smile on her face was that of a small child who had just been given a monster bag of sweets.
‘Here, Mum, take a breath and have some cake.’ Shay pushed a plate into her hand. Then she passed her son a plate too. She wanted to take him home and fatten him up.
‘It’s so lovely to see you, Sunny.’ Roberta sighed. ‘I wish I could see you a bit more.’
‘I’m sorry, Gran,’ said Sunny.
‘Oh Mum, don’t guilt-trip him. He’s busy,’ Shay admonished her, feeling a hypocrite because inside she was thinking exactly the same as her mum.
‘Busy painting you mean? You should bring me one of them up so I can put it on my wall.’
‘I work in an office, Gran. I don’t do any painting these days.’
Roberta’s fork stopped before it got to her mouth and she looked from Sunny to Shay for clarification. They’d had this conversation before and each time, Roberta was astounded anew. Shay moved on quickly on before her mother gave Sunny a lecture about it. He was a grown man capable of making his own decisions and she’d had to step back and accept that, bite down hard on the question that wanted to leave her lips every time she thought of him doing that job: ‘Why would someone with your obvious talent for art not be throwing everything you have at it, son?’ How could he have lost his love for it when it was all he’d wanted to do, ever since he’d been big enough to hold a coloured pencil in his hand?
