The Things I Know(50)
Tentatively, he walked forward and stared at her, as if unable to process that she was here, standing on the very spot, no doubt, where Reggie the murderer had stood without his shoes as the flashing blue lights filled the night sky.
‘Hurry up, boy! You’re letting all the heat out!’ Again the woman’s voice hollered from within.
‘Sorry.’ Thomasina swallowed. ‘No message about Jesus. I was just passing.’ She watched, as he reached out his fingertips and brushed the side of her face, as though he needed the contact to confirm she was real.
‘Thomasina.’ He smiled at the sound of her name, as if to utter it brought nothing but sweet relief, which again she understood. She felt a little light-headed and at the same time so happy she wanted to shout out loud!
‘The very same.’
‘Is this the point at which our two worlds cross over?’ he asked quietly, looking briefly over his shoulder, clearly wary of being heard by the shouty lady inside.
‘It would appear so. We need to talk, Grayson – we need to talk about stuff.’
‘Yes, yes, we do.’ He swallowed.
She smiled a little sheepishly, comforted by his agreement and happy that it seemed she was not going to have to employ option three and turn on her heel, mainly because, at this time of night and having climbed several flights of stairs, her foot ached far too much for an effective strut. She too now looked over his shoulder.
‘Are you going to invite me in, or do we have to do our talking out here?’
Grayson looked briefly from her back to the door, and she saw the blush of discomfort spread over his face and neck, as if making a judgement call. It made her stomach shrink.
‘Please, come in.’
He stood back and, as she passed him in the narrow corridor, the gentle brush of his thigh against her hip was intoxicating. She took in the narrow hallway, where doors painted in yellowing white gloss presumably led off to bedrooms. The carpet was patterned with black and red swirls and coats, jackets and an umbrella were slung on a row of hooks over the radiator.
‘Come and eat your bloody tea! There’s lemon meringue for afters.’
It was the first time Thomasina noticed the slur to the woman’s shouts. She popped her head around the door and looked at the lady to whom the voice belonged: a large woman with thinning hair and a florid complexion who looked a little shoehorned into her narrow seat.
Grayson’s mother.
She watched as Mrs Potts, parked in one of two chairs in front of the television, slugged the remaining liquid in her tumbler and immediately reached for the bottle sitting within reach on the floor, with the same eagerness a child might feel for its dummy. She was drunk, was possibly a drunk, and this was a surprise to Thomasina and something Grayson had only touched on briefly.
My mum’s . . . quite needy and it’s hard to break away . . . She’s not ill, but I don’t know how to describe her, really . . .
There was so much about the cramped room that drew her eye – it was hard to know what to look at first. A small Formica-topped table was pushed up against the wall with a place set for one; a plate with foil partially peeled away revealed a fillet of flaky yellow fish with some kind of pale scum on it and some rather grey-looking runner beans.
A small alcove led through to a kitchenette, while on the wall sat an electric fire with two bars glowing red. A large carriage clock took pride of place on the mantel, tick-tick-ticking loudly. Grayson folded the napkin in his hand and placed it on the table next to his plate.
Mrs Potts looked up from her chair and did a double-take. ‘What’s going on here, and who might you be?’ Her voice was gravelly and on the verge of aggressive.
Thomasina’s gut flipped and it took all her courage not to turn and trip right back out of the door. Grayson stepped forward and stood by her side and, when he spoke, she cursed the warble in his voice; it did little to give her confidence. If he was this nervous, what hope was there for her? Mrs Potts hauled herself upright in her chair, staring at her.
‘Mum, this is Thomasina. My friend.’
‘Your friend?’ Mrs Potts spoke with an underlying hint of humour, as if such a thing were not possible, pulling her head back on her shoulders before again sipping her wine.
‘Yes! We met when Grayson came to stay at my parents’ farm just outside Bristol. I’m sure he told you about it,’ Thomasina chirped, thinking it might be easier for her to jump in and try to break down any barriers. She remembered Pops’s words and figured that, by engaging with his mother, she might be able to spread the joy she carried with her like a scent, hoping at some level to rid the space of the pungent, acrid sting of cigarette smoke and milk-poached haddock.
‘Oh, you’re sure of that, are you?’
Mrs Potts eyed Thomasina suspiciously, and again she felt her confidence shrink into an icy little ball and slip down into her bowel. She could not in a million years imagine her parents greeting anyone in this way, let alone a guest. She felt pity for Grayson, sensing the unease coming off him in waves, an almost tangible thing. The atmosphere was tense, to say the least.
Grayson’s mum slurped her wine and narrowed her eyes. ‘Well, for your information, he ain’t told me nothing! Just sits there like a useless lump. Friend . . .’ She shook her head.
His mum had spoken so disparagingly and eyed her with a look so close to hatred that Thomasina now gathered herself and dusted off her armour. ‘Well, he certainly told me all about you.’