‘Our Christmas was quite fun. Remember I told you David and I went to the New Forest to see my folks? Claire’s moved my mum and dad into the barn they converted, so now her, Martin and the kids have the old house. I thought I wouldn’t mind but it was pretty weird. The house we grew up in but with someone else’s stuff. Anyway, David thought my folks seemed pleased with the set-up and that’s the most important thing, of course.’
The plan had been hatched and carefully executed by my sister, Claire. Younger than me by just eighteen months, Claire decreed it was ridiculous our parents were rattling around in the four-bedroomed Georgian house we grew up in when she and her family were squeezed into a three-bed rental. An annex conversion was designed by my architect husband David and hastily constructed in just six months from the old black-stained barn. My parents gathered up their bird books, their mugs and the old oak table that still has ‘Alice Taylor’ engraved with a compass on the long edge and, in their usual quiet way, shuffled across the drive to their new home. Claire hired a skip for everything else.
Frank waits for me to start talking to him again.
I shift in my seat.
‘The kids were sweet. Harry, Claire’s five-year-old, had head lice recently and realised my name spells A-Lice so he called me ‘Auntie Lice’ or ‘A-Lice’ all Christmas. David thought it was hilarious. I sort of hinted that Martin might want to tell him to stop but either he didn’t get the hint or he couldn’t be bothered to do anything. I never can tell with Martin.’
The jury was still out on my languid, shoulder-shrugging brother-in-law. I thought he was either a quiet genius or not at all bright. David just thinks he’s figured out how to have an easy life, which, if true, makes him a genius in my book, considering he’s married to my sister.
‘Claire and I didn’t piss each other off too much, thankfully, but, oh god, there was one thing on Christmas Day.’ I lean in towards Frank. I can’t tell stories about the kids to most people, so I’m going to enjoy this. ‘I’d just given Harry a bath and went down to the kitchen and caught Claire peeling grapes for Elsa … peeling grapes, for god’s sake! I mean I get it for a baby but a three-year-old? I think Claire knew what I was thinking, and immediately said Elsa wouldn’t eat them with the skin on. David came in though, thank god, and stopped me from having a go at her.’
This last bit wasn’t strictly true; David’s presence stopped a full-blown argument erupting but I hadn’t been able to stop myself from muttering, ‘You are wrapped around her finger’, at the sight of Claire bowed over their new kitchen table, chipping away at the grape skin with her nail while Elsa had sat in her booster seat, kicking the side of the table like a tiny dictator.
Claire had snapped up from her work. ‘What did you say, Ali?’
Elsa had stopped kicking the table to look at me, her cheeks flushed red, rashy, glistening with grape juice. She’d looked affronted by my interruption when she’d had things working so nicely.
‘Oh, come on, Claire. You’re seriously still peeling grapes for her?’
Claire had finished the grape she’d been working on and handed it to Elsa who, without shifting her gaze from me, had snatched it from her mum and steered it greedily into her mouth with her podgy fist.
‘I just want her to have more fruit and this is the only way,’ Claire had said with forced restraint. Elsa had started sucking the grape, trying to get her teeth to grips with its slippery, skinless surface. Claire had taken a swig of wine before saying, ‘Just leave me to it, OK, Alice?’, the subtext being, ‘You don’t have kids, so how could you possibly understand?’ That’s when David had come in, perfectly timed as always, his paper hat torn at the seams, his prematurely grey hair poking out at strange angles. He’d known I had been drunk and tired enough to pursue a petty row.
‘Come on, Alice; come and help your dad and me beat Martin and your mum.’ They’d been playing board games in the sitting room while I’d helped Claire with the kids. David can’t bear rows so I’d sidestepped around Elsa’s seat and had gone to play Trivial Pursuit. As I’d walked away, I’d seen something like a light-green eyeball pop out of Elsa’s little mouth. Later David had stepped on the peeled grape and I’d apologised to Claire and the two of us had laughed at the grape trail David had smeared all over the slate tiles.
It would be at this point in my story that a therapist might ask, ‘And how did your sister’s comment make you feel?’ But not Frank, it’s not his style.
I pressed on. ‘Everything else was fine really. Mum and Dad were sweet and quiet as normal. Still completely obsessed with Harry and Elsa; they love having them so close. I guess it’s like how families used to be: grandparents mucking in, teaching their grandkids things, telling them what it was like when they were children, all that stuff.’ I pause, swallow, unsure how I fit into this wholesome family picture. I wonder if Frank notices how quickly I change the subject.
‘We had Simon, David’s dad, to stay for a few days and then we went to our friends Jess and Tim’s for New Year’s – they’re the local friends I told you about – so it was pretty low-key, more board games and wine.’ I shrug, ‘It was nice.’ A widower for five years, since David’s mum Marjorie died from breast cancer, Simon has found love again with golf. He seems content enough. I can’t think of anything else to say. I sense Frank knows there’s something I’m not telling him, a promise I’ve made that I keep trying to bat away like a persistent fly.
I sit back in the visitor’s chair. Frank hasn’t changed during the break. His cadaverous head rests heavy on the pillow. He is partly obscured by breathing apparatus; his tracheotomy is attached to a great blue plastic tube like an octopus tentacle, which runs cruelly from the middle of his throat. His body is shrivelled, like a line drawing, but his head is as hard and heavy as a marble carving. The respirator and monitor screens behind him click and beep away endless seconds. They seem louder, more intrusive than I remember.
Lucy, Frank’s daughter, once told me he has a broad West Country accent. I love accents. It’s a pity I may never hear him talk. I look down at his face; it’s a tired suggestion of the Frank I’ve seen in photos. Like some over-loved old teddy, his skin is sallow from hospital air and his hair is white and spidery like frayed cotton.