four

April, 1969

It was one of those cold, bright spring Sundays that’s perfect for pushing the mower back and forth, working up a glow, then going into the house smelling fresh, like the grass. But we were at Mum’s, for tea.

Mum handed round a cake she’d made. She spent every Sunday morning baking, ready for our arrival.

‘It’s too dry,’ she said as she cut into it with her silver cake knife. ‘I know it’s too dry.’

It was coconut, and there was a coating of that chewy desiccated stuff on the top. As I picked a piece up a lot of crumbs fell back onto my red spotted plate.

‘It’s lovely, Mum,’ I said.

‘Bless you, Howard, for your charity. It’s the coconut. Difficult not to make it too dry.’

We were sitting in the living room. In front of Mum was the second largest of her nest of tables, upon which was the coconut cake, and the silver cake knife that was part of Mum’s set of Good Cutlery. That knife came out every Sunday, but I had never seen any other item in the set of Good Cutlery.

Mum poured the tea into the iris-patterned cups. ‘I love irises,’ she said. ‘I think blue is my favourite colour. For flowers.’

Kathryn had been quiet all day. I could tell she felt cold because she had her hands clasped around her knees and was hunched forward. Mum tended not to have more than one electric bar on unless it was completely necessary.

Mum eyed Kathryn’s posture. ‘Is she cold?’ she mouthed to me.

‘I’m fine,’ said Kathryn.

Mum took a bite of cake, chewed and swallowed. ‘Isn’t Kathryn having any?’ She waved a plate in my wife’s direction. ‘Come on, tell us what you think, Kathryn. I think it’s better than shop bought, at any rate.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ I said.

Kathryn bit into the cake.

‘Of course, not everyone has time for baking,’ said Mum. ‘I’m one of the lucky ones.’

I looked over at my wife. She put her plate down on the arm of her chair.

‘It is a little dry.’ She spoke very quietly, hunching her shoulders up higher and fixing her gaze on the corner of the table.

Mum’s cuckoo clock ticked loudly.

As she put her cup and saucer down, Mum’s eyebrow began to twitch. She shifted in her seat and said, ‘Well. Well. Well.’ Then she stood, nearly toppling the second largest of the nest of tables, swooped an arm down to pick up Kathryn’s plate, and marched into the kitchen, pleated skirt swirling behind, plate held out in front.

I looked at Kathryn. ‘What did you say that for?’

‘She’s the one who said it, Howard. I was just agreeing with her.’

‘She always says that, though. She always says those things.’

‘What do I always say?’ Mum had re-entered the room and was standing behind me with a big plate of Gingernuts in her hand and an even bigger smile on her face. ‘I thought Kathryn might prefer a biscuit. Seeing as she doesn’t care for cake.’