5

June 2018

IT WAS ONLY WHEN Mark arrived in from work and wondered if he’d have time for a shower ‘before we have to leave’ that I remembered we were due at his parents’ house at seven. Susie and Tom Stedman, matriarch and patriarch of the eight-strong Stedman family, and the last people I want to see tonight.

But now we’re here, sitting on their back patio, drinks in hand, and Susie is giving a running commentary on everything they’ve had done with the garden.

‘You need to hire a gardener for your new house as soon as possible,’ she says to Mark. ‘Shouldn’t they, Tom?’

Tom nods. ‘What you need is a good strong fellow from Eastern Europe. They’re the ones to get for the gardens.’

Mark and I exchange a glance. But there’s no point in saying anything. Tom thinks we’re all far too politically correct these days.

‘Yes,’ Susie says. ‘I have a man you can borrow. I’ll bring his details when we come over for the housewarming tomorrow night.’

I quite like our unruly flower beds and we can’t afford a gardener, but I leave it to Mark to respond. When it comes to Susie’s unsolicited advice, it is always easier to let Mark do the talking. This is why she likes me so much and has no idea what’s going on inside my head.

‘Mum, you can’t really say “I have a man you can borrow” – it sounds a bit … like you own him?’

‘Pah. Don’t be silly. Joanna understands, don’t you, Joanna?’

I nod and smile, and sip my gin.

‘I’m sure you had a whole team of gardeners when you were little,’ she continues, glancing down as she crosses one delicate ankle over the other. Susie is very fond of her delicate ankles. ‘The upkeep on those grounds would have been extraordinary. Am I right?’

Oh God, here we go.

‘Well, I wouldn’t say a whole team …’ Her face drops in disappointment. ‘But yes, we definitely needed a gardener,’ I add, to make her happy.

‘There you go!’ Triumphant. ‘Now, I know this garden isn’t anything like what you were used to as a child, Joanna, but even so, it’s worth making the effort. Did your parents garden much themselves?’

Mark tenses beside me. He rarely brings up my parents. Susie, though, did some kind of psychology course ten years ago and believes in confronting sensitive topics at every opportunity.

‘Not really. They both worked a lot and when they weren’t working, they were travelling or hosting parties. Not much time left for gardening, I’m afraid.’

‘It must have been so glamorous.’ Susie sounds wistful. ‘I can just imagine the parties and London society life.’ She shakes her head. ‘Nothing like that around here. Dublin in the eighties – well, we were a little drab.’

‘I can’t imagine you were ever drab!’ I tell her, because it’s what she wants to hear but also because it’s true. I’ve seen the photos. 1960s Susie with long, dark lashes and Brigitte Bardot hair. 1970s Susie with feathery layers and huge floppy sunhats. 1980s Susie with a smart blonde bob and brood of children. She was a chameleon to each decade, and she was never drab.