To my immense relief, he started searching amongst the picture books, slapping them this way and that as he looked for one with a monkey. By the time I’d counted down to five, Trev had arrived, holding the hand of the older boy, and the mum had managed to position herself so that she could keep feeding while cuddling Holly.
‘What’s this?’ Trev asked. ‘A book hunt?’
‘We need to find the monkey book ’fore it explodes! Help me, Hudson!’
‘I can find it quicker’n you!’ Hudson bent down next to his brother, who by process of elimination must be Harry, and joined in the hunt.
‘Here!’ Harry announced a second later, just after I’d drawn out a slow three. I breathed a whoosh of relief. I’d spent enough time in libraries to know a monkey book was a fairly safe bet, but the selection here was more limited than most. ‘I found it! Now you have to read it to us!’
I took the offered book, and felt a prickle of pleasure that it was a good one. One so good, I’d used it in adult literacy classes more than once. Without needing to open the first page, I quoted the opening line, eyebrows dancing, eyes wide with anticipation.
‘All was dark and quiet in Monkey Forest. Until, just as the wise, old owl hooted midnight, something stirred in the bushes below…’
‘What was it?’ Harry squealed, jumping up and down in excitement. Hudson, trying to pretend he wasn’t bothered, nevertheless gave me a sideways glance through his overgrown fringe.
‘Sit down and I’ll tell you. But you must be quiet! Otherwise you might scare it away…’
‘Excuse me, it’s saying my card isn’t valid again,’ a man called from the automatic checkout machine, freeing Irene from where she’d been standing at the edge of the children’s section in a frozen stupor. She took a moment to regain control of her flapping mouth before ordering us to return the children’s corner to its previous order, and heading back to deal with the growing queue.
Twenty minutes later, we’d read five stories, chosen another armful each to check out and tidied up while Trev fetched the mum, whose name was Chloe, a coffee. While Chloe fumbled in her purse for enough money for the ripped and chewed books, despite me reassuring her that she didn’t need to pay for damage on a children’s book, I nipped over to the general fiction section and found two of the lightest, brightest, most uplifting novels I could find, adding them to the pile awaiting their turn in the machine.
‘Irene, don’t you think that Hudson and Harry have done a wonderful job in tidying up?’ I asked, smiling as though I was her best friend, rather than her arch-nemesis.
Irene strode over, ducking down and peering around and desperately trying to find something we’d missed. ‘Hmph,’ was the closest she got to agreeing that yes, there wasn’t a toy or a book out of place.
‘Could you please show Hudson how to check out his books?’ I added.
‘What?’ Irene flinched.
‘Hudson needs to be shown how to use the machine.’
‘I’m sure you can do that.’
‘I’m sure I could. But I wouldn’t want to undermine your role as librarian.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Irene stiffly took Hudson through the steps, then repeated it all again at Harry’s insistence. Both of the boys were chattering about how amazing the library was and how much they loved stories and that they couldn’t wait to read these and then come back and choose some more.
‘What do you say, boys?’ Chloe prompted.
‘Thank yoooouuuuu,’ they chanted dutifully.
‘And what else do you need to say?’
‘Sorreeee.’
I suspected these boys had needed to say this once or twice before.
‘Well. Next time please remember that the library is for everyone. If you rip up all the books there’ll be none left for you to read.’ Irene sniffed.
Although, I have to say, it was a tiny bit less sniffy than usual.
11
It had been three weeks since I’d seen my mother. A fortnight since I’d spoken to her. According to Karina, she was still bitter, still grieving, but yielding to Karina’s invitation of companionship, already forming new routines involving morning yoga, afternoon trips out and crochet and Jaffa Cakes in front of gruesome detective series.
While part of me wanted to stretch out this sparkling new freedom for as long as possible, basking in the glorious, wide-open vista where my mother’s strangulating opinions and emotional issues had previously blocked the view, the more sensible part of me knew that the longer I left it, the harder it would become to break the silence.
Besides, she was my mother, and I missed her.
I phoned Aunty Linda and concocted a scrupulously managed meet-up, escape route at the ready just in case.
Late Sunday morning, I left Nesbit in the safe care of Joan and Leanne, then drove to meet Aunty Linda at the Buttonhole, which was closed on Sundays apart from occasional events such as a Crafternoon Tea or a guest workshop. After enfolding me in a much-needed hug, she started getting things ready while I made us each a drink. It would take me a good few hours to run up curtains for the bedroom and office, along with cushions in various complementary designs. Linda would be offering her expert advice and adding extra touches to the cushions like buttons, some hand embroidery and tiny felt decorations.
I filled her in on life in Bigley while we worked, and she updated me on the latest goings-on in the shop and with my cousins, who both lived in London. She was relieved and optimistic about Mum agreeing to revive her quilting course.
‘Honestly, Ollie, I think you moving out is the best thing that ever happened to her. It’s like now the worst thing has happened, she’s free from worrying about it any more. She misses you, of course, and is confused and angry, but we’ve somehow managed to convert it into a catalyst to get her enjoying things again instead of using it as an excuse to wallow. Not that she didn’t enjoy you being around, of course.’ She paused to deftly thread the tiniest of needles with gold embroidery silk. ‘But you know that subconsciously she was always playing the helpless victim to ensure you didn’t leave. She could never be too happy, in case you spotted that she didn’t need you any more.’
‘Is she really angry?’ I asked, apprehension jittering about in my stomach.
Linda looked at me. ‘I haven’t the foggiest.’
Just before six, the final cushion was zipped and plumped and loaded along with the curtains into my car, hiding in the small parking space behind the shop.
I took a shuddering breath, nodded to Linda and she made the call.
Seven minutes later, my mother burst through the Buttonhole door.
‘Ollie?’ she said, chest heaving, eyes wild until they spotted me. ‘I was halfway through my tomato and broccoli quiche.’
I could see the crumbs still sticking to her jumper.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I offered, not getting up from my seat near the back corridor that led out to my car.
‘Well, what is this? Am I allowed to give you a hug?’
After a short, stiff squeeze, I backed away and gestured to a seat.
‘Here we go.’ Linda placed a pot of tea and three slices of flapjack on the table between us.