Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(29)

“You don’t have the accent, though?” she said, framing it as another question.

“I spent my early childhood down south,” I said, “but I moved to Scotland when I was ten.”

“Ah,” she said, “that explains it.” She seemed happy with this. I’ve noticed that most Scottish people don’t inquire beyond “down south,” and I can only assume that this description encapsulates some sort of generic Englandshire for them, boat races and bowler hats, as though Liverpool and Cornwall were the same sorts of places, inhabited by the same sorts of people. Conversely, they are always adamant that every part of their own country is unique and special. I’m not sure why.

Raymond returned with the tea things and a packet of Wagon Wheels on a garish plastic tray.

“Raymond!” his mother said. “You might have put the milk into a jug, for heaven’s sake! We’ve got a guest!”

“It’s only Eleanor, Mum,” he said, then looked at me. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I always use the carton at home too. It’s merely a vessel from which to convey the liquid into the cup; in fact, it’s probably more hygienic than using an uncovered jug, I would have thought.”

I reached forward for a Wagon Wheel. Raymond was already chewing on his. The pair of them chatted about inconsequential matters and I settled into the sofa. Neither of them had particularly strident voices, and I listened to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece tick loudly. It was warm, just on the right side of oppressively hot. One of the cats, lying on its side in front of the fire, stretched out to its full length with a shudder, and then went back to sleep. There was a photograph next to the clock, the colors muted with age. A man, obviously Raymond’s father, grinned broadly at the camera, holding up a champagne flute in a toast.

“That’s Raymond’s dad,” his mother said, noticing. She smiled. “That was taken the day Raymond got his exam results.” She looked at him with obvious pride. “Our Raymond was the first one in the family to go to university,” she said. “His dad was pleased as punch. I only wish he could have been there for your graduation. What a day that was, eh, Raymond son?” Raymond smiled, nodded.

“He had a heart attack not long after I started uni,” he explained to me.

“Never got to enjoy his retirement,” his mother said. “It often happens that way.” They both sat quietly for a moment.

“What did he do for a living?” I asked. I wasn’t interested, but I felt it was appropriate.

“Gas engineer,” Raymond said.

His mother nodded. “He worked hard all his days,” she said, “and we never wanted for anything, did we, Raymond? We had a holiday every year, and a nice wee car. At least he got to see our Denise married, anyway—that’s something.”

I must have looked puzzled.

“My sister,” Raymond explained.

“Och, for goodness’ sake, Raymond. Too busy talking about football and computers, no doubt, and I don’t suppose she wants to hear about that sort of thing anyway. Boys, eh, Eleanor?” She shook her head at me, smiling.

This was puzzling. How on earth could you forget that you had a sister? He hadn’t forgotten, I supposed—he’d simply taken his sibling for granted: an unchanging, unremarkable fact of life, not even worthy of mention. It was impossible for me to imagine such a scenario, alone as I was. Only Mummy and I inhabit the Oliphant world.

His mother was still talking. “Denise was eleven when Raymond came along—a wee surprise and a blessing, so he was.”

She looked at him with so much love that I had to turn away. At least I know what love looks like, I told myself. That’s something. No one had ever looked at me like that, but I’d be able to recognize it if they ever did.

“Here, son, get the album out. I’ll show Eleanor those photos of that first holiday in Alicante, the summer before you started school. He got stuck in a revolving door at the airport,” she said, sotto voce, leaning toward me confidentially.

I laughed out loud at the look of utter horror on Raymond’s face.

“Mum, Eleanor doesn’t want to be bored to death looking at our old photos,” he said, blushing in a way that I supposed some people might consider charming. I thought for a moment about insisting that I’d love to see them, but he looked so miserable that I couldn’t do it. Conveniently, my stomach gave a loud rumble. I’d only had the Wagon Wheel since my lunchtime repast of spaghetti hoops on toast. She coughed politely.

“You’ll stay for your tea, won’t you, Eleanor? It’s nothing fancy, but you’re very welcome.”

I looked at my watch. It was only five thirty—an odd time to eat, but I was hungry, and it would still allow me time to go to Tesco on the way home.

“I’d be delighted, Mrs. Gibbons,” I said.

We sat around the small table in the kitchen. The soup was delicious; she said she’d used a pork knuckle to make stock, and then shredded the meat through the soup, which was also full of vegetables from the garden. There was bread and butter and cheese, and afterward we had a cup of tea and a cream cake. All the while, Mrs. Gibbons regaled us with tales of her neighbors’ various eccentricities and illnesses, along with updates on the activities of their extended family, which seemed to be of as little relevance to Raymond as they were to me, judging by his expression. He teased his mother frequently and affectionately, and she responded with mock annoyance, gently slapping him on the arm or chiding him for his rudeness. I was warm and full and comfortable in a way I couldn’t remember feeling before.