‘Wakey wakey, rise and shine,’ Mum cooed, as she brought me a cup of tea in bed the next morning. ‘We’ve just had a little walk to the paper shop. Oh, and I’ve put the washing machine on, seeing as the pixies seem to have left a load of T-shirts and things in it last night.’ She raised an eyebrow at me.
‘Aw thanks, Mum. I was going to do it as soon as I got up,’ I said, guiltily. I’d forgotten to say anything about it last night.
‘Don’t worry,’ she waved it away with her free hand. ‘It’s a lovely day, so it’ll dry quickly on the line. Full English in half an hour? I expect my new boyfriend will join us, but he’ll only want a sausage!’
‘Very funny, Mum,’ I groaned, wishing I hadn’t told her about my misinterpretation of her note.
‘Fried eggs or scrambled?’ She put my cup and saucer down on the bedside table.
‘Scrambled, please,’ I yawned. Nobody made scrambled eggs like my mum, all creamy and peppery and … I snuggled back under the floral duvet and then realised what she’d just said about the dog. ‘Don’t give Rex any sausage,’ I shouted, as she was closing the bedroom door behind her – I’d thought she was joking last night, when she told me that was what she’d called him. I wondered how many Andrex puppies there were out there called Rex.
‘All right. I’ll just give him some bacon,’ I heard her chuckle. She knew how to wind me up.
Damn! I was wide awake now. I’d have to have a lie in tomorrow – I certainly wouldn’t be getting one on Monday. This weekend was going to turn into a busman’s holiday if I wasn’t careful.
Sitting up and reaching for my tea, the full daylight horror of the newly decorated guest room battered my senses. It felt as if I’d been hit around the head with the entire Diary of an Edwardian Lady catalogue from my childhood, while being kidnapped and held hostage in the floral fabrics department of Liberty’s. There were enough cabbage roses, sprigs of honeysuckle, and big green leaves to give an agoraphobic nightmares. It was a bedroom that Hyacinth Bucket woman would have been proud of – and what a sad indictment of my television viewing over the years, that I knew that. It had been bad enough last night, by bedside lamplight, but in the harsh light of day it was extraordinarily claustrophobic.
I gave an involuntary shudder, took a sip of my hot tea and nipped along to the bathroom, nearly tripping over he who was not to be given bacon or sausages.
‘How do you fancy a little trip along Oxford Street today?’ Mum asked as she put my overloaded plate down in front of me. Two rashers of bacon – rind on. She’s the only person I know who can still find that in the shops. Two sausages, a creamy cloud of scrambled eggs, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms to complete the meal and, just in case a square inch of plate should still be visible, a Daddy Bear-sized spoon of baked beans. This was a breakfast fit for a well-built workman who’d been doing manual labour since the crack of dawn. And it was the most beautiful thing I’d seen or smelled since … well … probably since last time I came home for a visit. My stomach rumbled in both anticipation and appreciation and I could feel myself salivating. Rex was salivating too, all over my feet, but he was wasting his time doing the puppy dog eyes thing with me. They reminded me of Alex’s eyes, huge, soulful, the colour of dark chocolate.
‘I don’t know, Mum,’ I hedged. ‘I’ve done an awful lot of walking this week. Even more than usual.’ Which was true if you added being dragged round Wintertown Park by Wendell to my usual dog walks. The last thing I wanted to do was wander round the shops. If I didn’t buy anything myself then she’d buy something for me, and I was already keeping my entire wardrobe in the back of my Sitting Pretty car. It didn’t need anything else adding to it or the suspension would go, and I’d have fun explaining the contents of my boot to Davina.
‘They’ve got some lovely things in the sale in Debenhams at the moment,’ Mum slotted the toast rack in front of me, between the salt and pepper and the butter, and sat down. ‘And the Christmas mayhem hasn’t started yet so you can still actually put one foot in front of the other without treading on somebody’s toes. I thought we could pop in to the bistro and have a spot of lunch.’
‘Mum, after this plateful I don’t think I’ll have room for any lunch.’ I noticed she was only having scrambled eggs, mushrooms, and tomatoes.
‘Well then, by the time we’ve done a bit of shopping we’ll be in perfect time for afternoon tea there,’ she smiled, a cajoling tone in her voice. How could I make her understand how much I didn’t even want to set foot outside the front door until I had to on Monday morning without telling her why?
‘We could do some baking and have our own afternoon tea,’ I suggested. ‘I was thinking,’ I carried on, warming to my theme, ‘about making you a nice lasagne or shepherds’ pie for dinner tonight anyway,’ I white-lied. ‘We could make your gorgeous chocolate cake and some scones and little sandwiches?’
‘I don’t think I have all the ingredients. We’d need to pop out and buy some bits.’ That thought seemed to perk her up. ‘We’ll make a list straight after breakfast. Now eat up!’
My idea of a quick food shop in this area involved one of us nipping along to Morrisons on Chalk Farm Road, blitzing the shopping list, and getting back in the time it took the kettle to boil. But Mum had other ideas. I wasn’t in a position to argue too much as she insisted on paying, and I didn’t want to spoil her fun so, eco-friendly carrier bags in hand – more than I thought we could possibly need, which worried me, knowing my mother – I followed her into Whole Foods Market on Parkway. I noticed a few bits of multi-coloured tinsel and other festive bits and pieces were already starting to appear in odd windows. We were never going to be nipping in and out quickly.
‘Ooh, look at these gorgeous raspberries.’ Mum sniffed the punnet she was holding up and sighed. ‘They really smell like raspberries. They’re cheaper if you get two. Let’s make a Pavlova!’ Two punnets of properly-smelling raspberries went into the trolley. They were not on the list.
‘OK, Mum, we need,’ I consulted the list, ‘cocoa …’
‘Don’t those fresh corn on the cobs look delicious, too!’
‘They won’t go with lasagne, Mum …’
And so it went on, me following Mum round the shop like a parent chasing a toddler round a sweetshop. She really was determined to give us both a workout, lugging bulging bags of produce home. I was beginning to wonder if my mother was developing a shopping problem. Maybe I should buy her one of Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic books. Or maybe not – if I was right, she’d probably end up going out and buying the whole set.
The kitchen looked like Mary Berry, Nigella, and the remaining Fat Lady had had a food fight in it by the time Mum and I had finished our Great Chalk Farm Bake Off. On the positive side, Mum had produced a stunning looking Pavlova, and fruit scones which would look at home served in the finest of cream teas. Slightly less positive were my efforts.
We’d forgotten the fresh lasagne sheets even though they were on the list, and my cottage pie had been cooked at too high a heat, so was a bit crisp round the edges. And my attempt at Mum’s chocolate cake recipe felt like it could make a good door stop. I might just have got the plain and self-rising flour mixed up there. Mum insisted, however, that a good layer of butter cream slathered in the middle and on top, would solve all its problems. If only a good slathering of butter and icing sugar would sort my life out.
Out of nowhere, a wave of sadness about Alex had washed over me while I was mashing the potatoes for the pie. He’d always teased me about my lumpy mash. Mind you, his mother used to faff about, shoving hers through a sieve, so I’d always thought, like most Greek sons, he’d been a little bit spoilt. It took me by surprise to find a teeny tiny traitorous part of me couldn’t help wishing he was here to tease me again.
If Mum had noticed anything she hadn’t said. In fact, she’d barely mentioned him at all, much to my relief. She’d never been one of those mothers who asked a lot of questions, but had always encouraged me to come to her if there was anything I wanted to tell her. Growing up, my school friends had all been envious of her easy-going approach, but now it made me feel guilty that there were important things I should be telling her that I wasn’t. She’d be horrified to know my recent sleeping arrangements, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her. You’d think I was eight, not twenty-eight.
‘What do you fancy in the sandwiches?’ Mum asked over the top of the fridge door. ‘We’ve got that lovely piece of Double Gloucestershire with the chives in it. And the breaded ham. I could boil up some eggs and do egg mayonnaise, and I’ve got a nice tin of sardines somewhere …’
‘Mum! There’s only two of us,’ I chuckled, making her smile too. ‘Two types of sandwiches will be just fine. Let’s have one round of cheese and one of ham.’
Instead of sitting at the dining table, we laid everything out on the coffee table and watched Mamma Mia on DVD, knees tucked under us on the sofa, while we scoffed our sandwiches, scones, and cake. The cake actually wasn’t too bad now I’d stuck the one-inch-thick layers of dense sponge together with half an inch of filling and plastered a further half an inch over the top.
We sang along between mouthfuls of food and swigs of tea, Mum with some very interesting variations on the lyrics. Benny and Bjorn would be horrified if they could hear her version of Does Your Mother Know? I know I was.