‘Oh, Mum, you know I’m not. That was just what they wanted me to talk about so I went along with it. But, anyway, why shouldn’t I if the right person came along?’ She ignored her mother’s raised eyebrow.
‘I’m not sure I liked everything else you talked about.’ Maureen was lemon-lipped as she sat down, smoothing flat her tight catalogue yoga pants as she did so. ‘Flatulence!’ She could hardly say the word.
Ted laughed. ‘Nothing wrong with the occasional farty wallah, Maureen.’
Maureen, pink, continued, ‘Or S-E-X.’
‘Nothing wrong with that either.’
‘Ted, I think that’s enough. It’s only half past three.’ Then she turned back to Christie. ‘Alice and Joan left as soon as it had ended. I didn’t really know what to say to them.’
‘But did you think I was all right?’ Christie could wait no longer, dying to hear that she had been, that her mother was proud of her. As the distance between her and the Tart Talk studio had grown, she had begun to piece together snippets of the show, remembering that, as the audience listened to her and laughed with her, her confidence had grown until she had become as opinionated and outspoken as the others. Being in front of a live audience was a quite different experience from recording her prepared or OB pieces for MarketForce. What was more, she had loved the whole experience of throwing round opinions with like-minded women and, for the first time in a long time, being herself. Not just mum, daughter, sister, widow.
‘Well, yes. But you could do so much better.’
‘For God’s sake, Mum!’ Christie experienced an overwhelming urge to smash one of her mother’s precious collection of Lladro figurines into the immaculate tiled fireplace piled with artificial coal. ‘What’s happened to you? You’ve got so narrow-minded. These are the sort of subjects that should be talked about openly. Mourning, dating, farting and drinking.’
Maureen visibly recoiled.
‘Weird mix, I grant you. But we all do them.’
‘I’m not sure everyone in the village would agree with you, dear.’
‘Of course they wouldn’t. They’re stuck in the dark ages.’
‘Will you be on again?’ Ted asked, his eyes slightly unfocused as he lay back in the neat chintz-upholstered sofa that, like him, had seen better days.
‘Oh, Ted! I think Christine’s destined for higher things, don’t you?’
‘You’re impossible, Mum. I came round hoping you’d have enjoyed the show – or that at least you’d say you had. And I’ve no idea whether I’ll be asked on again. Probably not, if they felt the same about my lipstick as you did!’ Christie stood up and crossed the room, dodging the occasional tables with their coasters and empty teacups, the only reminders of the disapproving audience of Alice and Joan.
‘Now, Christine. Please don’t show off in front of Ted.’ Maureen’s reprimand turned to alarm as she realised Christie was making for the door. ‘Where are you going? Have you had anything to eat?’
Her mother always grabbed any opportunity to press food on her visitors. That was her raison d’être, and didn’t Ted know it, Christie thought, glancing at the checked waistcoat that pulled across his rotund stomach – currently filled with Maureen’s ‘tiffin’, as former ex-pat Ted liked to call it – then feeling ashamed of her lack of charity. They made each other happy in their own way and that was what mattered.
‘Home. And I’m not hungry, thanks. I’ve got to get there before Fred and Libby get back from school. I’ll let myself out. ’Bye.’
As she climbed into her car, Christie was fuming. However hard she tried to please Maureen, she never quite managed to reach the high standards expected of her, the elder child. But a word or two of encouragement wasn’t asking much, was it? That was something her father had never failed to give either her or Mel. Maureen had always been harder to please. She must realise that being asked to appear on Tart Talk was a positive step forward from writing for the Daily News, a paper with a dwindling circulation and a new slash-and-burn editor. But Maureen’s horizons had been limited by living in the sticks. Christie shuddered as she foresaw the same thing happening to her. Like mother, like daughter? Not if she could help it. She retuned the car radio to Radio 1.
As she turned into her driveway, singing loudly to the Kaiser Chiefs’ ‘Ruby’ she stopped the car and looked at her home: a proper double-fronted house, its bricks a warm red in the spring sunshine, its windows glinting, especially the large ox-eye above the front door that let light flood onto the landing upstairs. She remembered the day they’d arrived, when she had felt so angry with Nick for not being alive to help her with the move, the fuse boxes, the over-excited children and the bloody DVD player. That night, after Libby and Fred had gone to bed, she had opened a bottle of wine, poured the first glass and sobbed. The next day, she had woken up, ignored the booze-induced headache and unpacked the silver frame with her favourite photo of Nick. In it, he stood squinting slightly into the sun, with the campo of Siena behind him. With the children to help, she had chosen to put him in pride of place on a side table in the sitting room where they would see him every day.
As she parked, she made a mental note to re-pot last year’s pansies and geraniums that were straggly and half dead by the front door. Letting herself in, she dumped her bag on the hall chair and marched into the long kitchen. This was the one room on which she had splashed the money she’d had left over from buying the house, knowing it would be the heart of the home where the three of them would spend most time together. She’d had the grimy old kitchen units replaced with neat off-white cupboards, oak worktops, a heavy porcelain sink. The chimney-breast had been taken out to make space for the second-hand Aga, something Christie had always lusted after, its blue echoed in the check curtains. In the centre, an island provided an extra work area, with a two-ring gas hob for emergencies.
At the opposite end of the room a battered old sofa sat under an old school clock, but it was the long oak refectory table she had bought at auction that dominated. This was where everything and anything got done, be it eating, drinking, homework, painting, making things, chatting or good old family arguing. The windows and french windows on the long wall opposite the Aga gave onto the well-stocked if increasingly disordered garden. Whenever she came into the kitchen, looked at the kids’ pictures framed on the walls, heard the thrum of the Aga and the hum of the large fridge (second-hand again), Christie always experienced a frisson of pleasure. This was home, and Nick would have loved it.
The clock told her she had half an hour before the kids were dropped by the school bus at the end of the drive: half an hour in which to put the kettle on for a cup of tea before getting supper on the go. Still infuriated by the way Maureen had managed to pour cold water on her mood and her achievement, she began to sort out the recyclable rubbish for collection. To hell with it! With a savage pleasure, she hurled the lot into one bag and dumped it outside the back door, delighting in the knowledge of how outraged Maureen would be if she found out. Going back inside, she sneaked a packet of blue Silk Cut from the glasses cupboard on the wall above the worktop, pulled one out and put it between her lips. Flicking the gas lighter for the hob, she lit it and took a drag. She opened the french windows and blew the smoke into the warm spring air. Loathing but relishing every last puff, her head swam as she pictured her mother’s disgusted face. Tough shit. This is the new Christie Lynch: fearless, hard-working and top mum.
Expecting food, Mrs Harbord and Mrs Shrager, her two speckled Sussex chickens, ran to greet her. She had given in to the children’s pleas and bought them as Easter presents. They watched her for a second, their busy button eyes reminding her of Maureen’s. Disappointed when no grub was forthcoming, they walked very precisely over to the flowerbed, looking as if they were wearing new shoes and didn’t want to get chewing gum stuck to the soles. They wiggled down into a dust bath, sending