Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(80)

“I mean, if you added up all the things she said she’d done, wouldn’t it cover a longer period than thirty years? Unless she did it all before you were born and she was still a teenager. And if she did . . . well, I’m wondering . . . where did she get the money from, to do all that traveling, and wasn’t she a bit young to be going to places like that on her own at that age? What about your dad? Where did she meet him?”

I looked away. These were important questions that I couldn’t answer. Questions I wasn’t sure I wanted to answer. But really, why hadn’t I ever thought about them before?



This conversation with Raymond came back to me the next time I spoke to her.

“Hello, darling,” she said. I thought I heard a hiss of static, or perhaps the malign buzz of strip lighting and another noise, something that sounded a bit like the clanging of bolts being drawn.

“Hello, Mummy,” I whispered. I could hear chewing.

“Are you eating?” I said. She exhaled, and then there was an awful honking sound, like a cat trying to cough up a furball, followed by a moist splat.

“Chewing tobacco,” she said dismissively. “Ghastly stuff—I’d advise against it, darling.”

“Mummy, I’m hardly likely to try chewing tobacco, am I?”

“I suppose not,” she said. “You never were very adventurous. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, though. I indulged in some paan now and again, back when I lived in Lahore.”

As I’d told Raymond, Mummy has lived in Mumbai, Tashkent, S?o Paulo and Taipei. She’s trekked in the Sarawak jungle and climbed Mount Toubkal. She’s had an audience with the Dalai Lama in Kathmandu and taken afternoon tea with a maharaja in Jaipur. And that’s just for starters.

There was some more throat clearing—the chewing tobacco had clearly taken its toll. I took advantage of the opening.

“Mummy, I wanted to ask you something. How . . . how old were you when you had me?”

She laughed, unamused.

“I was thirteen . . . no, wait . . . I was forty-nine. Whatever. Why do you care? What’s it to you, daughter mine?”

“I was just wondering . . .” I said.

She sighed. “I have actually told you all this before, Eleanor,” she said briskly, “I do wish you would listen.” There was a pause.

“I was twenty,” she said calmly. “From an evolutionary point of view, that’s actually the peak time for a woman to give birth, you know. Everything just springs back into place. Why, even now, I still have the pert, firm breasts of an early-career supermodel . . .”

“Mummy, please!” I said. She cackled.

“What’s wrong, Eleanor? Am I embarrassing you? What a strange child you are! You always were. Hard to love, that’s what you are. Very hard to love.”

Her laughter trailed off into a long, painful-sounding cough.

“Christ,” she said. “I’m starting to fall apart.”

For the first time I could remember, I heard a note of sadness in her voice.

“Aren’t you well, Mummy?” I asked.

She sighed.

“Oh, I’m fine, Eleanor,” she said. “Talking to you always revitalizes me.”

I looked at the wall, waiting for the onslaught. I could almost feel her gathering herself, ready to strike.

“All alone, aren’t you? No one to talk to, no one to play with. And it’s all your own fault. Strange, sad little Eleanor. Too bright for your own good, aren’t you? You always were. And yet . . . in so many ways, you’re incredibly, spectacularly stupid. You can’t see what’s right in front of your nose. Or should I say who . . .”

She coughed again. I did not dare to breathe, waiting for what would come next.

“Oh, I’m so, so tired of talking. It’s your turn, Eleanor. If you had even a modicum of social savoir-faire, you’d know that conversation is supposed to be a to-and-fro, a game of verbal tennis. Don’t you remember me teaching you that? So, come on, tell me—what have you been doing this week?”

I said nothing. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to speak.

“I must say,” she went on, “I was surprised when you told me you’d been promoted at work. You’ve always been more of a follower than a leader, haven’t you, darling?”

Should I tell her that I’d been signed off sick? I had managed to avoid any talk of work recently, but she’d raised the topic now. Did she already know about my absence, and was this therefore a trap? I tried to think on my feet, but that’s something I’ve never been good at. Too slow, Eleanor, too late . . .

“Mummy, I . . . I’ve been unwell. I’m off work at the moment. I’m on sick leave for a while.” I heard a deep breath. Was she shocked? Concerned? The same breath rushed out of her, down the phone and into my ear, heavy and fast.

“That’s better,” she said, sighing happily. “Why on earth would you chew tobacco when you could smoke a lovely, delicious Sobranie?”

She took another deep drag on her cigarette and spoke again, sounding, if anything, even more bored than before.

“Look, I haven’t got long,” she said, “so let’s keep it brief. What’s so wrong with you that you’re skiving off work? Is it serious? Life threatening? Terminal?”