The Death of Mrs. Westaway(29)

Her mother looked at her, and I saw a flicker of something pass over her face—a desire to thwart, mixed with the knowledge that one day she is going to push Maud too far, and that if Maud defied her, there would be nothing she could do in the end.

“You . . . may,” she said at last, though the last word was dragged out. But then as Maud stood, she added, “when you have finished your fish.”

“I can’t eat it,” Maud said. She threw her napkin on the table. “Nor can Maggie. Look at it—it’s disgusting. Nothing but bones and tasteless white shit.”

I saw the tip of my aunt’s nose go white, as it always does when she is furious.

“You will not speak about the food in this house that way,” she said.

“I won’t lie about it either—God knows there are enough lies in this house already!”

“What does that mean?”

Her mother stood now too, and they faced each other, so alike, and yet so different—Maud is hot where her mother is cold, passionate where her mother is contained, but the bitterness and anger in each face made them look more alike than I ever realised before.

“You know what it means.”

With that, Maud picked up the flaccid piece of cod with her fingers and crammed it into her mouth. I thought I heard the bones crunch as she chewed, and I felt the nausea rise up in my throat, making me sweat with the effort of containing it.

“Happy?” Maud said, though the word was barely comprehensible through the suffocating mouthful.

Then, without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel and left, slamming the dining room door behind her so that the china rattled on the table.

I bent my head over my plate, and trying not to let my shaking hands show, I speared a potato on my fork and put it into my mouth, my eyes blurring.

Don’t look at me, I thought desperately, knowing how my aunt’s white-cold anger could redirect onto whoever was unlucky enough to catch her attention. Don’t look at me.

But she didn’t. Instead I heard the screech of her chair legs on the parquet, and the slam of the door on the other side of the room, and when I looked up I was blessedly, entirely alone.

? ? ?

It was much later that Maud came to my room. I was sitting in bed in my dressing gown, a hot-water bottle at my feet, sorting my cards. I heard feet on the stairs, and at first my stomach clenched, not sure who it was, but then there came a tap on the wooden door, and I knew.

“Maud?”

“Yes, it’s me.” Her voice was low, and I could tell she didn’t want anyone to hear. “Can I come in?”

“Yes,” I whispered back, and the handle turned, and she came into the room, ducking her head beneath the low attic doorway. She was wrapped in a huge cardigan, and her feet were bare. “God, aren’t you freezing?” I asked, and she nodded, her teeth chattering. Without speaking I pushed over in the narrow bed and patted the pillow beside me, and she climbed in, her feet like ice as she slid them down past my legs.

“I hate her,” was all she said. “I hate her so much. How can you stand to be here?”

I have no other choice, was what I thought, but I knew that I had as many choices as Maud, maybe more.

“She acts like it’s the 1950s,” Maud said bitterly. “No TV, you and me shut up here like fucking nuns, Mrs Warren toiling away in the kitchen—does she realise people don’t live like this any more? Other people our age are out there going to gigs, getting drunk, screwing each other—don’t you care that we’re shut up here in Mother’s post-war fantasyland?”

I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t tell her that I had never wanted to get drunk or go to gigs. That I never had—even when I had the chance.

“Maybe I fit in with it better than you,” I said at last. “Mum always said I was an old-fashioned little thing.”

“Tell me about your mum,” she said quietly, and I felt a lump rise in my throat—thinking of Mum as she always is in my mind’s eye—digging in the garden, with Dad alongside her, humming along to Paul Simon, hoeing the onions or planting bulbs. I tried not to think of those last nightmare months—Mum gasping her last on a ventilator, and Dad’s heart attack a few weeks later.

“What’s to tell?” I said, trying not to sound as bitter as I felt. “She’s dead. They’re both dead. End of.”

The unfairness of it still makes me gasp—but there’s a kind of rightness in it too, that’s what I’ve realised. I was the child of two people completely in love. They were meant to be together—in life, and in death. I just wish that that death hadn’t come so soon.

“I want to understand . . .” Maud said, her voice very low. “I want to understand what it must be like not . . . not to hate your mother.”

This time, it wasn’t the chill of her feet, but the venom in her voice that made me shiver.

My aunt isn’t an easy woman—I know that—I knew that before I even came to live here. The fact that she had managed to fight with my father told me everything I needed to know. He was the most mild-mannered man you can imagine. But nothing had prepared me for the reality of what I found here.

“I wish I could get away,” she spoke with quiet venom, into her knees. “She let him go.”

She didn’t say who—she didn’t have to say. We both knew who she was talking about. Ezra, away at boarding school. He had escaped.