The House We Called Home. Jenny Oliver
nodded again.
She had missed him over the last fortnight but now as they stood in front of one another she wasn’t sure what to do. Whether to apologise for sending him away, whether to demand an apology from him, whether to hug him or to stand as she was, fearing rejection. She knew after all these years that that was the bit a parent was meant to rise above. There could be no external show of fear regarding a shrugging-off from one’s child – they could sense it, like horses. So she forced herself to wade through it, to not care, and putting her arm round his shoulders she pulled his cardboard-rigid frame into her side and kissed his greasy-haired head. ‘Hello, you idiot.’
He grunted.
He didn’t pull away.
He reached his hand up and touched her arm. Gave it a quick pat.
Then he pulled away.
It was enough for Stella, for the moment. ‘Why do you look so pale?’ she asked.
‘I’m worried. About Grandpa,’ he said, like she was a fool not to realise.
‘Oh.’ She was taken aback that he would have such a reaction. Stella was pretty certain the only thing Sonny had been emotionally wrought about in the last year or so was when Rosie trod on his iPhone and the screen cracked.
She looked up to see Jack watching, all the bags he could possibly carry weighing him down like a packhorse. He kept moving as soon as he saw her see him, and said, ‘Give us a hand with these, Sonny.’
Sonny took the biggest bag, then could barely lift it.
Jack and Stella shared a look, as if asking how they had managed to raise such a nincompoop, then kissing Moira on the cheek as he went past, Jack said, ‘You look well, Moira. Sorry to hear about Graham.’
‘Hello, Jack darling. Yes, it is a nuisance. How are you? Work going well?’
‘Same as always. Can’t complain,’ Jack said, straining under the weight of luggage.
‘Let me help you with some of these bags.’
‘No, no.’ Jack waved the fingers of his hand holding the suitcase handle, refusing to let her take one. ‘I can manage.’
‘He likes to feel the weight of burden,’ Stella joked.
Jack didn’t find it as funny as she thought he would and walked away with a simple raise of his brow.
‘I was only joking,’ Stella muttered, and went back to the car with her mum to get Rosie who was still sitting strapped in, glued to the iPad, oblivious to their arrival.
‘They must be a godsend for a long journey,’ her mother said, gesturing towards the iPad.
Stella nodded, thinking how she would have killed for a similar distraction in the car growing up. Stuck in the back of their maroon Vauxhall Cavalier trundling all over Europe, banned from asking, ‘Are we nearly there yet?’
The engine overheated one time just outside Madrid, the bonnet getting stuck, her dad ranting, and Stella unpeeling her skin from the hot plastic seat and going to sit on the grassy verge with the midday heat beating down in an attempt to escape his furious tirade. She’d ended up with sunstroke, making him even madder and them even later for a race he was determined not to miss. Growing up, their holidays always coincided with wherever the World or European Swimming Championships were, depending on which athletes her dad, ex-Olympic swimmer and GB Team coach, was training. Not a weekend or a holiday went by without it having something to do with swimming. ‘If there’s 365 days in the year, that’s 365 training days.’ And so to spend any time with him, they would go with him, even though he was always busy and in a bad mood for most of it. When his athletes would moan about being over-trained and tired he’d glance up with his infamous mocking, hooded gaze and say, ‘Sleeping is cheating.’ Which, as a kid, Stella always secretly wanted to say back to him when he packed her off to bed of an evening. She could still feel the childish rush of adrenaline at the idea of ever saying it, the punishment never worth the risk of such liberating impertinence.
Above them now the afternoon sun disappeared behind a stripe of cloud in the otherwise blue sky. Stella could hear the drone of bees in the lavender and a tractor thundering down the lane as she wondered what it was that had kicked off such reminiscence of her childhood. A time she tried to give very little thought. She could blame it on the heat of the car combined with the scent of sweets for the journey and the faint whiff of stale sick, but she knew it was simply the strangeness that her dad wasn’t there. His absence, the element of wrongness, forcing Stella to pause.
It made her uncomfortable. The last thing she needed was the distraction of unwanted memories. ‘Rosie!’ she said, a little too snappily.
Rosie looked up from the iPad screen, almost surprised to see that they had arrived. ‘Granny!’ she yelped, unclicking her belt and launching herself across the seat into a giant hug with Moira. For a second, Stella envied Rosie’s ability to take everything at face value, to throw herself carefree into people’s arms and assume they would hug her back. She watched them trot together towards the house, Rosie’s hand in Moira’s as she said, ‘My Barbie has jeans like those, Granny.’
Stella stifled a laugh as she watched Moira blush again. The outfit fascinated her. Her mother’s black and white striped blouse was definitely still Marks & Spencer but it looked like she might have ventured out of Per Una and into the Autograph section. There was a ruffle around the collar and the silk hung heavy and expensive. This was no sale-rail purchase. And her hair, still red but now somehow even redder. Sparkling. Stella tried to inspect it as she followed her back into the house. The sun picked out various shades of copper highlight – it was no Nice’n Easy, head over the bath dye-job. It was hard to imagine her mother handing over what she’d deem ludicrous money for a cut and colour. Yes, Stella had seen her mother be lavish but only at times Moira considered appropriate – a swanky new dress for her annual summer party, a sapphire ring for her big birthday. Things that, if she were ever stopped in the street and questioned about, her mother would feel she could justify. Hair, clothes, and make-up would usually fall into the spendthrift category. The price of a lipstick in a department store elicited a disapproving click of Moira’s tongue.
And it wasn’t because she didn’t have the money. In Stella’s opinion her mother notched up things to disapprove of in order to give herself something to do.
It was only when Stella stepped inside the front door that she realised the makeover extended beyond her mother’s wardrobe. Gazing incredulously at the newly knocked-through ground floor, she began to wonder if it was more a case of what hadn’t changed. ‘Wow!’ she said, taking in all the space from where she stood – the point which had previously been the door of the kitchen. ‘I knew you were having this done, but I don’t think I realised it would be quite like this.’ In front of her was the living room with its wooden ceiling beams now exposed and a flash log burner in place of the open fire. The walls which had once been magenta and Harrods green had been given the Farrow & Ball treatment, licked with Elephant’s Breath. Light flooded in from the wall of windows that lined the old dining room, no longer obscured by heavy velvet drapes but a flutter of white muslin and a wraparound sea view.
Moira frowned. ‘But I sent you pictures?’
Stella nodded. ‘Yeah, I know.’ Had she even looked at them? Messages from her mother were so easy to ignore.
Stella looked down at the floor. The cream ‘no red wine in here, please!’ carpets had gone to reveal beautifully varnished floorboards overlaid with a huge sisal rug. And next to her the old pine kitchen cupboards had been given a Shaker-style makeover alongside some slightly garish marble surfaces. It was all achingly on-Country-Living-trend. Certainly the image of her father sitting silently in his seat staring at the snooker on the muted TV felt a touch outmoded.
‘Sonny!’ Rosie squealed, letting go of Granny’s hand to hurl herself at her brother who was standing in the centre of the living room, head down on his phone, the baggy cuffs of his hoody yanked out of shape. He took the hit like one of those wobbly toys that refuses