Lydia was mixing a cake. She mixed at a leisurely pace as if tomorrow would do, which it would. The mother of the Bradwell family was not a methodical housewife. If she took it in mind to bake a cake, that is what she would do. Yesterday’s feast had not included a homemade cake. But today the bowl on the shelf had managed to catch her attention, and there were still eggs left in the fridge.
Her long, fair hair was pulled back severely to protect the cooking from unwanted strands. The slim hand that held the wooden spoon moved to the rhythm of the tune she was humming under her breath. The face inside her soul was very delicate and beautiful. The face she showed the world was heavy-jawed and quite plain, made plainer by the drawn-back hair and the lips that were closely sealed in tuneful thought.
Jacob looked at his mother, seeing only the face of her soul. Young as he was, he knew she was vulnerable and felt that somehow she needed protection.
How did you come to marry my father?
This was the question he wanted to ask, but couldn’t. There was always a reticence, a fear of saying something that would hurt too much.
Lydia looked across at him. He was sitting on a high stool beside the breakfast bar. She was standing by the table that was the pride of her kitchen, a scrubbable table with a top made of planks of plain, white wood. She smiled.
Beneath the smile there was the expectation that her son would have something to say. He had seemed even more withdrawn than usual when he and his father returned from their walk the night before. But, being Lydia, she would not press for any confidence. Reticence was part of her code and deeply rooted in her character.
‘I make wonderful cakes,’ she said quite simply. ‘This one will be really special.’
Jacob returned the smile with a grin that hid what he was feeling.
‘We fed well yesterday,’ he said. ‘Is this getting to be a habit?’
‘Cheeky!’ said Lydia. ‘If you’re not careful I won’t let you scrape the bowl!’
Was now the moment to ask the question?
How did you come to marry my father?
No, thought Jacob, now was definitely not the time. There never would be a time when the question could be asked. The mystery of how this shy, retiring Earthling, comfortable only within the confines of her own home, came to be the wife of an alien would never be resolved.
Jacob watched her in silence as she carefully turned the cake mixture into the greased tin.
‘Do you never think of doing other things, of being different?’ he asked. This was as near as he could come to approaching the subject nearest to his heart at that moment.
‘I am happy as I am,’ said Lydia. ‘This is the life of my choosing. I was lucky to be given the choice.’
She turned to open the oven door and over her shoulder she added, ‘And the main ingredient in this cake is love. That’s what makes it taste so good.’
There was nothing more to be said. How much did she know? How much had she guessed? How much was just buried deep in her heart? Jacob longed to know, but asking was impossible.
Beth and Josie came into the kitchen together, bouncing noisily through a door more suited to one than to two.
‘Can we help Kerry this morning?’
‘Can we go with her to walk the dog?’
‘She’s got another dog. It’s called Mitsubishi.’
‘I don’t know how Mrs McKinley manages with all those animals!’ said Lydia. Their neighbours had two or maybe three cats, a parrot, and two brown rabbits. Their old dog, Leonora, had recently died. The twins were clearly excited about the new one.
‘Mitsubishi wants us to go. He’s real fun and sometimes he gets away on the heath and Kerry has to catch him. And we can help. He’s just a puppy.’
‘When he grows up, he might be a giraffe.’
‘Ye-es?’ said their mother, pausing in the act of cleaning the wooden spoon.
‘Well, that’s what Kerry says!’
‘And is there nothing else you should be doing?’ said Lydia. ‘You don’t want to leave all your homework till the last minute.’
‘I finished all of mine in bed, Mum. I have no more left to do.’
‘You didn’t,’ said her twin. ‘I finished it – you just copied what I wrote.’
‘I understood it, anyway,’ said the other. ‘That’s the main thing. If Mrs Potts wants to know about-’
‘Hush!’ said their mother, her hands conducting their sound into silence. ‘You’ll spoil my cake. It is there in the oven trying hard to be beautiful. If it hears you two it will probably collapse in the middle!’
The twins gave each other a look. No one they knew talked quite like their mother. And often it didn’t make sense.
Jacob had been sitting quietly scraping the mixture from the bowl. Now he spoke. ‘Mitsubishi’s a daft name for a dog,’ he said.
‘No it’s not,’ said his sisters delightedly. ‘Do you want to know why he’s called Mitsubishi?’
‘All right,’ said Jacob, aware that a weak joke must be coming. ‘Let’s have a groan. Why is the dog called Mitsubishi?’
‘Because,’ said the girls in unison, ‘there are already too many dogs called Rover.’
‘My poor cake,’ said Lydia in mock despair. ‘What is it going to make of all this?’
‘So we can go now?’
‘Yes, you can go. Be back by half twelve. And put on your boots – the grass is sure to be wet.’
After they’d gone, Lydia got out the ironing board.
‘I think I’ll iron some shirts,’ she said, pulling out the blue basket from under the table. ‘That way I’ll be on hand and won’t forget there’s a cake in the oven. It would be sad if I spoilt it after putting so much effort in!’
Without being asked, Jacob got up and fixed the clotheshorse ready to receive the ironed washing.
‘Thanks,’ said Lydia. ‘Now I can have a nice warm morning in my nice warm kitchen listening to the radio.’
‘And I think I’ll go and see what Dad’s doing. I heard him go up to the computer room,’ said Jacob.
So he left without making a single reference to aliens, without finding out any more than he already knew.
Lydia plugged in the iron and stood it on its heel while she arranged a shirt on the ironing board. She switched on the radio, which had its usual Saturday mix of familiar music. This was the heart of the home. Stories took over her mind; memories drifted in and out.