‘That’s what the young people say.’
‘And they’re right.’ Marion rubbed her wrist. ‘I’m too old anyway. I can’t date. I’ve got aches and pains. Too many.’
‘That’s it, though.’
‘What?’
‘This. Getting old. More and more aches.’
Marion scowled. ‘And trying to fix everything.’
‘Does it work?’
‘What?’
‘The trying to fix?’
‘Not really. I have four children, Hortensia. Three I haven’t spoken to in almost a year. I never see them. Marelena, my oldest daughter, she calls, but I always get the sense, when we speak, that she’s holding a gun to my head. And that I’m holding one to hers.’
Hortensia set her needles aside.
‘No, the fixing doesn’t work. I’m a terrible mother. There’s no fixing that.’
‘Why is it like that? Like a death sentence?’
Marion tried to find a way to explain. She had teeth in her heart. Marion knew they shouldn’t be there, but there they were: teeth in her heart.
‘I wasn’t happy as a child. I know that sounds so pat but … I think I was angry with my parents.’
‘Why?’
‘I wanted them to be different. Be stronger. Which is crazy, because I wasn’t any of those things. When the time came with my own children, I wasn’t those things.’
Hortensia picked up her needles again. Marion played with her fingernails, she felt exposed.
‘You think I’m ridiculous.’
‘No, it’s not that. It’s just: what are you so scared of? Face your children. Face them!’
Marion shook her head.
‘What?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Just that … you’re lecturing me on family. You?’
‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’
‘Come on, Hortensia. You’re hardly the person to tell anyone anything about family.’
Hortensia had never slapped anyone and now, over eighty, she had discovered how adept she was at it. After the whack, Marion’s two hands – one atop the other – stayed against the cheek. As if she was holding the pain of it in, or maybe keeping it at bay, Hortensia couldn’t figure out which.
Marion left the lounge and, under half an hour later, she dragged her small suitcase down and let herself out the front door. Hortensia marvelled at herself, at her sense of offence that Marion had not even bothered to say thank you and goodbye.
EIGHTEEN
NO MATTER HOW much rage Hortensia had felt in her life, she did not know herself as someone who wrought violence. Whatever it was, Hortensia – a woman who had frightened many many people in her life – had finally succeeded in scaring herself. It was enough, she thought. It was done.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, is that Esme Weathers? Ms Esme Weathers?’
‘Yes, this is she.’
‘Good evening, Ms Weathers. My name is Hortensia James. I am the widow of Peter James.’
‘Oh.’
‘Perhaps you know who that is. I don’t know, and I’m sorry to call you like this. The circumstances require it.’
‘Okay.’
‘Peter died almost two months ago and he wanted me to contact you. He left a will and … I didn’t know you existed, he wanted us to … know about each other.’
Hortensia gave the girl some seconds to comprehend everything.
‘I’m sorry to pressure you, but his estate is being concluded. It’s rather,’ she wanted to say ‘vindictive’ but understood that was inappropriate, ‘… particular, but he’s included a return ticket. His last wishes were that we meet.’
Having made the call, Hortensia now fussed: how would it be to meet Peter’s child? Trudy came by and brought a cane. Mama was back from his trip, he phoned and it was nice to hear his voice. Marion was living next door, she supposed, far away, somehow, and unreachable.
‘Ma’am,’ Bassey came to stand in the hallway as Hortensia tested out the stick. It was made from a strong but indeterminate wood, varnished dark and gleaming.
‘What do you think, Bassey?’
‘Agnes is sick.’
‘Oh dear. Is it bad?’
‘Cancer.’