The House We Called Home. Jenny Oliver
of her time trying to fathom his moods. Instead she had made herself a peppermint tea in her newly washed-up Prince George mug and considered how much cheaper it was getting Sonny to stay as a way of piquing Graham’s interest than knocking down the entire ground floor.
Now, just the thought of Graham made her furious. Made her wipe down the rose marble with frustrated vigour. Made her slam the window shut, annoyed with the bloody jasmine and its sickly overpowering smell. She thought of him sitting on that sofa barely moving except to come and sit silent and grumpy at the dinner table and chew infuriatingly loudly, scoff at the newspaper, or sigh at building costs and plumbers’ estimates. For the last two years they’d lived under a grey cloud – longer than that if she was honest – and then suddenly he ups sticks and disappears.
Furious was an understatement. In Moira’s opinion he’d gone missing in order to be missed. She paused in her wiping and stared out at the giant hydrangea that lined the gravel drive – pink when she’d have preferred blue, someone once advised she plant a rusty nail in the soil to make it change colour, fat lot of good that had done – and wondered if they could just not find him. If he was old enough to leave, he was old enough to find his way home.
Wouldn’t that teach him a lesson, she thought as she went over and started cleaning the hob, for taking something that for the first time in her life was hers, taking it and stealing it for himself.
It was too hot. Moira walked over to the dining room area and threw open the big French windows, welcoming the deafening sounds of the sea and the unfailingly calming view out over the cliff to the beach.
There was a glimmer of a breeze. Moira fanned herself with her hand considering how, before she had discovered Graham’s note the previous afternoon, she had spent most of the week – rehearsing as she lay in Stella’s old bedroom where she now slept – plucking up the courage to tell Stella when she arrived, ‘I’m leaving your father. I’m starting a new life.’
But Graham had beaten her to it. Stolen her thunder. Kept her firmly where she was, unable to leave while he was missing. Hence why the thought of ignoring his little sojourn teased her so, danced around in her head like an excited imp too wily to catch.
As she stood there smiling, behind her came a great yawn from the sofa. She turned to see Frank Sinatra – the dog – stretch and look up, eyes knowingly guilty as he nestled comfortably in Graham’s usually off-limits seat. Moira watched with no intention of turfing him off. Instead she went over and gave him a little scratch behind the ears.
Frank Sinatra was hers. He had absolutely no interest in Graham. Christened by its previous owner, it was a ridiculous name for a dog. In the past she would never have had a dog, let alone one that made her feel like a fool calling him on the beach. But in retrospect it felt like a symbol. As her friend Mitch said, if she could hold her head up high and shout, ‘Frank Sinatra, come here boy, here!’ she could do anything.
She wondered what Mitch would make of all this. Then she shuddered at the idea of Stella meeting Mitch. She would think him a cliché.
But Moira didn’t have time to dwell on the thought because the sound of gravel crunched outside and there they were, a big black Nissan Qashqai cruising in like a stag beetle.
Moira took a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth.
She’d started doing a yoga class at the church hall. Her breath was meant to ground her.
She went over to the window and watched Stella get out of the car, lift her sunglasses up a fraction, narrow her eyes out towards the sea, then put the sunglasses back on again.
Moira felt a shiver of nerves coupled with the gentle fizz of adrenaline. She itched to present her new more confident self but was all too aware of how easily one simple glance from Stella could shatter it to the ground.
What would Mitch say, she wondered. Probably something about taking strength from the grounding force of Mother Nature. Moira looked dubiously down at the Ronseal varnished floorboards.
Sonny appeared beside her at the window, his hair swept heavy across his forehead, his eyes narrowed to the same slits as Stella’s.
‘All right?’ Moira asked him, placing her hand on his shoulder, wondering perhaps if she could take strength from him.
But Sonny just shrugged in a gesture as much to get rid of her hand as an answer.
Moira straightened up, smoothing down her new skinny jeans she wished suddenly that she’d stuck to her old slacks then berated herself for such immediate loss of courage. Doing one more yoga breath, she walked solidly round to the front door, clicked the old metal latch and the wood creaked open.
Stella stood in the driveway, tired and hot. The house towered above her, grey and imperious, like an old teacher from school unexpectedly soothing in their authority. Usually she barely gave it a passing glance, distracted by the dread of the stay, too busy unloading the car, chivvying in the kids, listening to her mother wittering on about such and such’s nephew’s horrendous journey down from London the previous day that had taken a million and one hours and weren’t they lucky that wasn’t them. Today, however, she almost drank in the view: the great solid stone slabs, the white jasmine dancing over the windows, the bright red door cheery as a smile, the seagull squawking on the chimney, its mate squawking back from the wide green lawn. The Little Shop of Horrors giant gunnera was just visible between the house and the old garage that looked more dilapidated than ever but was still standing, the black weather vane stuck permanently on south. The neat little almond tree next to the cherry, the two wind-ravaged palms, and the rusty bench a few metres back from the cliff edge with an uninterrupted view out across the blanket of sea.
Somehow the sight made her father going seem less free-floating, tethered the whole debacle to reality, to familiar bricks and mortar. Looking back to the house it was a relief to know that not everything had changed.
But then the front door opened and Stella was momentarily baffled by the sight of her mother standing in the porch. She’d never in her life seen her wear a pair of jeans let alone this skin-tight pair with a trail of embroidered ivy down one leg. She’d had her hair done as well and seemed to have had lessons in exquisitely flawless make-up.
Her mother looked completely different. Why hadn’t Stella noticed a fortnight ago when she’d dropped off Sonny? Because it had been pouring, she realised. Moira had had her cagoule buttoned up tight, and Sonny had refused to go inside for them all to have a coffee, storming away to slump in the passenger seat of her mother’s Volvo.
Looking at Moira now, Stella didn’t quite know what to do, how to greet her. She tried to think about what she usually did but came up short, realising how little notice she usually took of her. How much her mother normally just blended in like the white noise of her chat.
In the end it was Moira who took the lead. Crossing the gravel drive to give Stella a little squeeze on the arm and a kiss on the cheek. She smelt of something expensive and zesty. No more quick spritz of whatever from the Avon catalogue. ‘Hello darling. How was the journey?’
‘OK in the end,’ Stella said. Then, looking her mother up and down, added, ‘You look very well. New jeans?’
Moira’s cheeks flushed pink as she replied. ‘Well, just – you know. They’re a bit of fun.’
‘Any news about Dad?’ Stella asked.
Moira shook her head, flame-red highlights bobbing. ‘Nothing more than I said on the phone.’
Stella was on the verge of asking why her mother didn’t seem more worried when she caught sight of Sonny hovering in the shadow of the doorway, head down. She swallowed. He looked up, pushing his overly long fringe out of the way. Stella took a couple of steps forward and pulled off her sunglasses to get a better look. Sonny’s eyes were all pinched and worried-looking, his skin ashen.
She got up level with him, ‘Are you all right?’