Chapter Three

At Jane Harvie’s small semi near Blackford Hill, her husband Neal was producing order out of the trail of chaos that always followed their family while, in the kitchen, Jane concentrated on getting a meal together and directing from the sidelines.

‘Come on, Ian,’ she urged her youngest, ‘you know you have to wash up the pans you use when you’re baking. Here, get these rinsed.’

She scoured out the last remains of his baking experiment and consigned them to the bin, then stacked the bowls and whisks, spoons and muffin tins next to the sink. Ian was still only eight and she didn’t know yet how he would develop or where his true passions might lie. One day he wanted to be a pastry chef, the next a marine scientist. She still felt the need to protect him, although if she was honest with herself, Ian was like his father in his general cheerfulness and sailed through life with an ease she envied.

Her middle child, Ross – thirteen and already inhabiting his teenage years as though he owned them – said, ‘Can I nick one?’, reaching to the plate where Ian had stacked his raspberry and fudge muffins.

‘No! They’re for Granny,’ Ian yelped crossly, up to his elbows in suds.

‘So? There’s plenty.’

Ross ignored his small brother and helped himself anyway.

‘Mum! Tell him,’ Ian cried, furious.

Exerting control over Ross was getting ever more difficult. Jane thought, I have to learn to grow with him, he’s no longer my baby. Already he was edging away from her. He was embarrassed if she tried to cuddle him even at home and a hug in public was certainly taboo. She remembered with wistfulness the baby he’d once been – the clarity of his skin and the way his hair had curled in a long, soft strand down the nape of his neck, blond and downy. It was scraped to the skull now, and no longer blond but mousey and brown. He would probably darken further, like her and Neal.

Emily, a week or two short of sixteen and all legs and arms, walked into the kitchen and yanked open the fridge. She had just finished her cello practice, something she never needed to be nagged about. Soon she’d be taking her Grade Eight examination, which Jane was confident she would pass with distinction. Pride bubbled in her head when she thought about Emily’s musicality, but why, why, why the cello? The old question brought with it the familiar counterweight of sheer, desperate panic – controllable now, but still there, even after all these years.

Emily’s voice brought her back.

‘There’s no lemon yoggie, Mum.’

‘You don’t need yogurt now, Emily. Gran’ll be here in a minute and supper’s almost ready.’

Emily was scowling. When she’d started the cello, she’d been such a sweet, docile child.

‘I’ve bagged the strawberry,’ said Ian from the sink. He had learned toughness in the hard school of sibling rivalry.

‘I’m having the strawberry,’ Emily said, extracting it. ‘You can have the toffee.’

‘I hate toffee.’

‘Me too. That’s why I’m having the strawberry.’

‘Mum – tell her she can’t.’

‘Can.’

‘Can’t.’

Jane sighed. ‘Do stop bickering. Emily, put that back in the fridge. Now.’

Neal came in from the hall, sized up the situation, took the yogurt from his daughter and returned it to the fridge, the muffin from Ross and replaced it on the plate, and a saucepan from where Ian was waving the dripping pan uncertainly in the air because the draining rack was full.

‘I’ll dry this one. Emily, get the table set please. Ross, you can get out pasta bowls. No, no arguing.’ He held up a hand in warning. ‘Jane, your mother’s just arrived, we should get going.’

Jane looked around at the untidy kitchen and her bickering children. The prospect of escape was enticing.

‘Hi Mum. Will you be all right?’

‘Fine. You just go and enjoy yourselves.’

One day she would have to take care of her mother, and when she did, Jane hoped she would do it with the same unshakeable willingness her mother showed when taking care of the grandchildren.

‘We won’t be late. Thanks for this, Mum. You’re a star. Supper’s all ready and Ian has baked a treat for afters. Ross has eaten half his share already.’

‘Mum—’

Neal pulled the front door behind them, smiling.

‘Rare to be out like this mid-week.’

‘Yes. Quite fun.’

Looking back later, it seemed an odd thing to say – and, as it turned out, horribly wrong.