Exhausted after dancing in the aisles at Asda, Moira fell asleep before they joined the motorway. Lily glanced over, watching her mother’s head resting on her chest, hoping the van’s poor suspension wouldn’t jolt her awake again too soon. She kept thinking back to the laughter all around them in the supermarket, the scorn on the faces of most of the other shoppers. Didn’t those people have elderly relatives who weren’t quite as lucid as they had once been? Did none of them know how painful it was to watch somebody you loved beginning a slow decline into a world that was foggy and unfamiliar? Surely many other people would have been through something similar, and would have understood the horror of the situation. But they weren’t the ones standing around, watching, laughing and taking photos on their mobiles. The people who knew what Lily and Moira were going through would have turned and walked away, anxious not to aggravate an already distressing situation.
Earlier, when Moira handed her the scrap of paper on which she’d written down Oliver’s address, Lily had put the postcode into the Google Maps app on her phone; now it was telling her they were an hour away from their destination.
Who on earth was this man? She kept racking her brains and trying to remember whether either of her parents had ever spoken about him, but she came up with nothing. Maybe he had been a work colleague of her dad’s? If so, it was possible he and Moira had kept in touch after Ken died, nearly twenty years ago now, even if it was just through the occasional Christmas card. In that case, part of the reason Moira was telling her so little about him was because she didn’t know much herself. She may have only met Oliver a few times, many years previously. If so, why had she decided to include him on this road trip? It was useful, Lily acknowledged that much, because it meant they weren’t having to pay for another hotel this evening. She just hoped that, whoever Oliver was, he had actually been told they were on their way – and that he’d have some food ready for them; she hadn’t eaten since they’d shared that slice of lemon drizzle in Chepstow and, even above the noise of the VW engine, she could hear her stomach rumbling.
Moira woke just as Lily was reversing the van into a space outside a row of terraced brick cottages.
‘Where are we?’
‘I think we’re at Oliver’s, but I can’t see a house number. How are you feeling, Mum? A bit better after that sleep?’
‘I’m feeling fine, why wouldn’t I?’
‘I just meant, after what happened in Asda.’
Moira turned and stared at her. ‘Lily, what are you talking about? What happened in Asda? You do say the strangest things sometimes.’
Lily sighed, it wasn’t worth pursuing. She edged the van forward a few feet and they both peered over the top of the wooden gate. ‘What does that sign say, beside the door?’
‘Beware of the dog,’ read Moira. ‘I hope he hasn’t got something big and jumpy, like a Great Dane.’
‘Look, there’s a number 12 on the house next door, so this one must be 11,’ said Lily. ‘We’re definitely in the right place.’
They sat staring at the little cottage, neither of them making a move.
‘Do you know,’ said Moira. ‘I’m a bit nervous?’
‘I’m not surprised. You haven’t seen him in such a long time.’
‘What if he’s disappointed?’ asked Moira. ‘What if he looks at me and sees a wizened old bat, who’s nothing like the woman he remembers?’
‘Well, don’t take this the wrong way,’ said Lily. ‘But you are seventy-nine. I’m not for one minute suggesting you’re a wizened old bat, but you’re no spring chicken. On the other hand, unless he’s had extensive plastic surgery, he won’t be much of a catch either.’
Moira took a deep breath in. ‘You’re right. Come on then, in we go.’
They got out and walked up the path to the front door. There was no reply at first, and Moira had to ring the bell again. Then, from inside came the sound of footsteps, followed by a clattering as bolts were drawn back. Then a crash that made them both jump.
‘Fuck!’ bellowed a voice.
The door was flung open. The man standing in front of them had one hand on the door, the other grasped around a bunch of half-dead carnations, water dripping down his arm from the stems.
‘Mind the glass,’ he said, indicating the shattered pieces on the floor at his feet. ‘Stupid place to put a vase of flowers.’ He turned and walked away from them down the passageway. Lily looked at her mother, whose mouth was hanging open.
‘Oliver?’ Moira called after the man. ‘Oliver, is that you?’
‘Of course it’s bloody me,’ he yelled over his shoulder.
The kitchen at the back of the house was large, with a dining table at one end and an old wooden dresser running along most of one wall. Every surface was taken up: pots, pans, piles of dirty plates, half empty glasses, crumpled newspapers, boxes of cereal, opened tins of food. Even the chairs around the table were covered with discarded jumpers and books. There were also empty bottles. Lots of empty bottles. On the dining table alone, there were green, brown and clear bottles that had once held wine, beer, gin, vodka and whisky.
‘Sit, sit!’ ordered Oliver, waving his hand towards the table. Then, realising there was nowhere to sit, he dumped the flowers in the sink and began to sweep debris from chairs.
‘Sorry, wasn’t expecting you today,’ he said.
‘But I did say Sunday?’ said Moira, lowering herself into a chair and running her palm across the table in front of her, brushing bits of decayed food onto the floor.
‘Yes, but that’s tomorrow,’ said the man, putting his hand to his forehead and frowning. He was hugely overweight, the distended belly sticking over the belt of his trousers looked solid enough to belong to a woman on the point of going into labour. His face was fleshy and blotchy, and his white hair, which he was now sweeping back across his forehead in jerky, awkward movements, was badly in need of a trim.
‘It’s Sunday today,’ said Moira, quietly. Lily noticed her mother’s hands, as she laid them on the table, were trembling.
‘Oh, really? That’s strange, must have lost a day. Hah! Oh dear. Anyway, tea? Coffee? Or how about something stronger? I’ve got gin or whisky. Or maybe you ladies would like some sparkling wine?’
‘Tea would be lovely,’ said Lily. ‘Just normal tea.’ It wasn’t even four o’clock, so she couldn’t face the idea of a drink just yet. She sat down beside Moira, who was sitting ramrod-straight in her chair. She put her fingers on top of her mother’s hands, squeezing them gently. ‘Can I help at all, Oliver? I’m Lily, by the way, Moira’s daughter.’
‘Jolly good,’ he muttered, holding open a cupboard door and peering into it. ‘I’ve got Darjeeling, whatever the bloody hell that is.’
Moira turned to look at Lily, her lips pinched together. She raised her eyebrows.
‘So how long is it since the two of you saw each other,’ said Lily. She could hear the enforced jollity in her own voice, but Oliver wouldn’t know the difference and her mother was too shaken to care. ‘It must have been back in the eighties, is that right, Mum?’
Moira nodded.
‘This is a lovely house, Oliver,’ Lily persevered. ‘When did you move here? I bet it’s got a beautiful garden.’
He was throwing teabags into a giant brown teapot and boiling a filthy grey kettle that looked as if it might once have been silver.
‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘Milk. Not got any fucking milk. Won’t be long.’
He turned and marched out of the kitchen, his tread heavy as he went down the passageway; after the front door slammed behind him, the silence rang in their ears.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Moira. ‘I can’t quite believe this.’
She looked as if she was going to cry, and Lily put out her arm and hugged her, aware of the sharp ridges of her shoulder bones.
‘I’m guessing,’ she said. ‘That he’s changed a bit in the last forty-odd years?’
The two women looked at each other and Moira shook her head in disbelief. ‘He’s got so fat! And I can’t believe how rude he is. He hasn’t even properly said hello to me, yet.’
There was a row of framed photographs on the dresser and Lily got up and went over to look at them. They were all faded, the glass covered in dust, and most had been taken many decades ago. The same young man featured in several of them, and she presumed that was Oliver in his prime. He was tall and skinny, with cheekbones that jutted from his face with artistic perfection; his blond hair went below his ears and looked bouffant enough to have been expensively blow-dried in a London salon. He wasn’t Lily’s type, but she could see he had been handsome – in an old-fashioned sort of way.
‘Is this him?’ she asked, passing one of the photos to Moira.
‘Oh yes.’ She peered at it closely. ‘That’s definitely him. That’s the Oliver I remember. He was such a good-looking man.’
‘He hasn’t aged well,’ said Lily.
‘I was a little in love with him,’ Moira said suddenly, still staring at the photo. ‘He was such a wild boy, so free. Nothing like your dad – although that was a good thing, of course. Oliver wasn’t the sort of man you would have married.’
‘But you were already married to Dad, when you met him?’ Lily asked.
‘Yes, of course. I didn’t mean that. Just that he was so dynamic and such fun to be with.’
‘Did he have a wife?’
‘No, although there were regular girlfriends, none of whom ever seemed good enough for him, in my opinion. They were all beautiful young things, but they didn’t have many brain cells between them.’
Lily looked at her mother, still studying the photo. ‘Mum, you sound jealous,’ she teased.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Moira snapped. ‘Anyway, your father saw much more of him than I did, the men all drank in the pub together.’ She put the photo frame onto the table in front of her. ‘At least I don’t have to worry about him thinking I’m a wizened old bat. That man has really let himself go.’
‘He has,’ said Lily. ‘In spectacular fashion.’
By the time Oliver got back, Lily had scrubbed the kettle, stacked all the dirty plates and bowls at the far end of the worktop, near the sink, and had discovered some bin liners, into which she had thrown as many of the empty bottles as possible. She had also found another vase and put the wilting carnations back onto the hall table. Now she was unsuccessfully trying to sweep the floor with a broom whose bristles were full of fluff and dead insects, while Moira ran a cloth across the surfaces.
‘Ah,’ he said, standing in the doorway. ‘Domesticity. Marvellous. Should have asked you over years ago.’
When the tea was made, they sat down at the table and sipped from their mugs.
‘So, Oliver,’ said Moira. ‘How have you been?’
He shrugged and put his head on one side, as if pondering the answer to a much more complicated question. ‘Pretty good,’ he said, eventually. ‘Can’t complain.’
‘Are you working?’ asked Moira.
Another shrug, and this time he leant back in his chair and tilted his face towards the ceiling before answering. ‘You could say that.’
‘Oliver was an artist,’ Moira told Lily. ‘He did the most fantastic portraits. All black and white, charcoal, weren’t they?’
He nodded.
‘He could really capture someone’s personality,’ Moira continued.
‘Did one of you, once,’ said Oliver, staring at the ceiling.
Lily looked at her mother and saw shock register on her face. For a moment no one spoke.
‘Really?’ asked Moira at last. A flush was spreading up her neck and across her cheeks. She looked embarrassed, but gratified at the same time. ‘A portrait of me?’
Oliver nodded again and took a noisy slurp of his tea.
‘Have you still got it?’ asked Lily. ‘I’d love to see that.’
He put out his bottom lip and shook his head. ‘Gave it to Ken, just before you moved away,’ he said. ‘Thought your old man might want to get it framed or something, give it to you as a present.’
Moira’s brow was furrowed and Lily could see she was trying to work all of this out. ‘But he never said anything? I didn’t know he had it. I wonder why he didn’t tell me?’
Oliver finally turned towards her and shrugged again. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said. ‘He was a funny fish, your Ken. Bit protective.’ He turned to Lily. ‘Husbands didn’t always like me,’ he said. The comment could have sounded seedy – even arrogant – but it just struck Lily as sad.
‘Food!’ he announced suddenly, getting up so fast that the wooden chair tipped over behind him and crashed onto the floor. ‘Let’s have something to eat.’
It turned out there wasn’t much in the house and, on his fifteen-minute round trip to the local shop, Oliver hadn’t thought to buy anything other than milk. He stood helplessly in the middle of the kitchen, running his hands through his hair and looking confused, until Lily stepped in.
‘I’ll sort something out,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you both go and take a look at the garden while it’s still light and have a chat.’ They made their way out through the back door, and Lily heard Oliver swear loudly as he carried a couple of faded deckchairs around from the side of the house and tried to set them up.
‘They’re no better than fucking hammocks!’ he yelled, as there was a crash and the first chair collapsed.
‘Bloody idiot,’ said Moira. ‘You’re not doing it properly.’
Lily rummaged in sticky shelved cupboards and found unopened tins of tuna, sweetcorn and button mushrooms. There were eggs in the fridge and a lump of cheese that looked surprisingly fresh. It would have to do.
As she whisked the eggs, she stared out of the kitchen window at the elderly couple. It was getting dark, and certainly wasn’t warm outside, but they were both lying back in the deckchairs, facing the house rather than looking at the garden. Moira was talking to Oliver, gesticulating with her hands, explaining something that was making him frown with confusion. Although, whatever it was didn’t need to be particularly complicated. Lily noticed that, while her mother was still sipping from her mug of Darjeeling, Oliver had somehow smuggled a bottle of wine outside, and was working his way through it, splashing red liquid into his empty mug and knocking it back in deep gulps.
What the hell had gone on between these two? The passing of time hadn’t been kind to either of them, but four decades ago they had obviously been an attractive couple. Although they hadn’t been a couple – as Moira had been quick to point out.
There was nothing remotely attractive about Oliver now, but in his day he had been a catch – a good-looking rogue. Her own father, Ken, had been entirely different: shorter, dapper, unfailingly polite, a mild-mannered man and a lover of cricket, who drank in moderation. Had Ken known all there was to know about handsome Oliver? Not that it mattered now, her father had been dead for such a long time. But there was something about this man that made Lily uneasy. She brushed the thought aside. She was overthinking it all; he was just a blast from the past, and there was nothing wrong with that. It was what this entire trip should be about.
They ate omelettes at the kitchen table, and by early evening Lily could see Moira was flagging. She had kept up a show for the last couple of hours, chatting brightly, telling Oliver stories about Brighton and their lives there, asking him questions that elicited increasingly slurred, senseless answers. But it had clearly been a huge effort.
‘Come on,’ Lily said. ‘I think we’re all in need of some sleep.’
Oliver insisted they went to bed and left him to clear up so, after fetching the suitcases from the van, Lily carried them upstairs and helped her mother settle into one of the spare bedrooms.
Later, curled up on a lumpy single mattress, from which she’d had to remove further piles of clothing and books before she could lie down, Lily listened to Moira singing softly to herself through the thin dividing wall. She was finally drifting off, dreamlike thoughts about castles and motorways chasing her towards sleep, when there was an almighty crash from downstairs.
‘Fuck!’ yelled Oliver. ‘Stupid place to put a vase of flowers.’