‘Has TV reversed the passage of time?’ asks Miriam.
‘It has for Phillip Schofield,’ says Rollo.
‘I also need to set the record straight about Helena, who was our dear friend and who never did anything – never would have done anything – to hurt anyone. The lies about her have been astounding, with devastating consequences.’
‘What a heartthrob,’ says Rollo.
‘The start of his TV career,’ says Miriam. They are standing in front of the television in the pretence they are not stopping, but they both are mesmerised, like babies in front of their first cartoon.
‘Actually, I could see him presenting The One Show, or one of those nature programmes like Countryfile, that sort of thing,’ says Rollo.
‘Yes, but he’s so boring,’ says Miriam. ‘Look, even Holly’s suppressing a yawn – did you see that? Her mouth went all tight.’
Rollo is looking at his mother. ‘I thought it was The Tedium That Dare Not Speak Its Name.’
‘I can admit it now.’
‘Well, I admire him for going out to bat for Edith and Helena.’
‘Darling Rollo,’ says Miriam, hugging him, then looking at her watch over his broad shoulder. ‘Oh gosh, I’m late for Julie.’
‘Need your fix,’ says Rollo, and she can hear the disapproval in his voice as she leaves the room in search of her handbag.
Manon
She strides the white expanse of King’s Cross, dancing a weave through the frowning throng with their bags and newspapers, paper cups of coffee too hot to sip, and every face, almost without exception, fixed downwards on a tiny screen in hand.
Manon takes out her own phone and finds Harriet’s number. She will never avoid a person who has been bereaved; never put her own embarrassment before their loss, because she’s been on the receiving end; has seen people cross the street to sidestep the conversation when her mother died. And yet she fears Harriet’s state of mind.
She strides over the newly laid honey pavements, inset with solar lights, to St Pancras to board the Thameslink to Cricklewood, the phone pressed to her ear.
‘Turns out I’m rich,’ Harriet says. ‘Elsie had twenty grand’s worth of granny bonds and she’s left it all to me.’
‘That’s something,’ says Manon. ‘How are you holding up?’
‘Oh, you know.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Where are you?’ asks Harriet.
‘London. I’ve come to check on Fly.’
‘Good for you.’
‘When are you coming back?’
‘Oh, I dunno. There’s a lot of clearing out to do, y’know – her stuff, things to organise. Monday, probably.’
In body, perhaps, but not in spirit. Manon knows what lies beneath; how people can seem normal and yet grief swirls about like an unseen tide working against the currents of life, the mourner wrong-footed by its undertow. The bereaved should wear signs, she thinks, saying: Grief in Progress – for at least a couple of years.
The wind roughs her up on the walk down Cricklewood Lane to the Broadway, making the tops of the trees sway, noisy as high surf. She is meeting Fly at the Brazilian café where she’ll settle her bill with the owner, Neuza Lima.
She steps in, relieved to be out of the tumble of the weather, her hair falling at last.
‘Hello, Neuza,’ she says.
‘Sergeant,’ she says, kissing Manon on each cheek.
‘How’s it been with Fly?’
‘He is lovely, lovely boy. Gentle boy.’
Fly has pushed the door open, sniffing in that way he has, and Manon smiles broadly at him, though he is reserved – a wan hello and then he embraces Neuza, and Manon is surprised to feel put out.
‘Ola,’ he says to Neuza.
‘Olá, meu querido,’ says Neuza, hugging him to her broad bosom. ‘Bem-vindo, both of you! Take a seat – nice one in the window. I bring you, what? Coffee? Eggs?’
The window is full of the buses rumbling up and down Cricklewood Broadway and sharp shadows in confusion with the gleam of the glass.
‘How’s things?’ asks Manon.
He looks well. Neuza’s food has filled out his cheeks and made his eyes shine, yet they are full of sadness still.
‘Mum’s real sick,’ he says. ‘Can’t get out of bed, can’t keep anything down. Doctors say it won’t be long.’
‘Oh, Fly.’
‘She been offered a place in a hospice in Hampstead – Marie Curie place – when the pain gets too much, when I can’t …’
‘Do you know what you’ll do when that happens?’
‘I’ll need to stay with someone. Social worker says it has to be someone good, a good person, a grown-up – otherwise they put me in care.’
He looks into Manon’s face, waiting. The room is filled with the sound of sputtering milk and Portuguese TV and Manon turns to look for Neuza, wondering where her coffee has got to.
‘Have you got a friend you could stay with – someone from school, maybe?’
‘Thought you was my friend,’ he says. She is grateful for the approach of her latte and his juice.
‘I live in Huntingdon, Fly. It’s really important you stay at your school, isn’t it?’