Sea Music. Sara MacDonald

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      Barnaby laughs and takes his father’s arm. ‘It is indeed. Mrs Biddulph, thank you so much. Will we see you tomorrow?’

      ‘I can’t really say. Mrs Thomas has taken on new staff. Young girls won’t stay five minutes,’ Mrs Biddulph says scathingly. ‘I’m surprised she didn’t ring and tell you.’

      Barnaby prays there is not going to be a stream of indifferent girls to confuse Martha even further. Mrs Thomas, who runs the Loving Care Agency Barnaby uses, is universally unpopular with her staff.

      ‘She pays crap, expects the earth and buggers everybody around,’ Barnaby was told by an efficient, purple-haired girl who lasted a week.

      Once indoors Barnaby closes the French windows. Mrs Biddulph puts on her shapeless wool coat, a garment she wears winter and summer.

      ‘I might see you tomorrow or I might not, Vicar. Good night all.’ Mrs Biddulph departs at speed, already thinking about Mr Biddulph’s tea, the bus, and getting home in time for the Antiques Roadshow.

      Barnaby gathers both parents up, herds them into the sitting room and pours whisky into their familiar heavy tumblers. They watch him like expectant children and take their glasses greedily.

      ‘Thank you, darling.’ His mother raises her glass to him and smiles her sweet vacant smile.

      ‘You having one, old chap?’ his father asks.

      ‘Indeed I am.’ Barnaby sits tiredly in the armchair and looks at his parents fondly. All so normal. All calm and Sunday eveningish. If he closes his eyes for a moment he can almost believe he is twenty again and spending another soporific weekend with his parents, comforted by routine but restless to be away.

      ‘What’s Hattie cooking for supper, I wonder.’ Martha’s voice wavers against his closed eyelids. He opens them. His father is staring at his mother.

      ‘Hattie isn’t here any more. She died, didn’t she?’

      Martha’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Oh dear, shouldn’t we have gone to the funeral? Shouldn’t we have sent flowers?’

      Barnaby takes a long deep drink from his whisky glass. ‘Mum, Hattie retired about ten years ago, then sadly she died. You did send flowers, and you did go to the funeral, so that’s all right, isn’t it?’

      ‘Oh, yes, darling. Sometimes I forget things. How silly.’

      ‘I’m going to finish this drink, then I’ll start your supper. Cheers! Here’s to summer.’

      ‘Cheers, darling.’

      ‘Cheers, old chap.’

      There is silence as they drink and watch him. A blackbird sets up a squawking in the cherry tree, which is about to explode into blossom.

      ‘Naughty, naughty Eric cat,’ Martha murmurs, and Barnaby smiles and begins to relax.

      His mother gets up and wanders round the room. ‘I’m rather hungry, darling. I’ll just go out to the kitchen and tell Hattie to do us all an omelette.’

      Barnaby sighs, gives up and gets to his feet. ‘I’ve just told you, Mum, Hattie is no longer here. It’s just me tonight. You’d like an omelette?’

      ‘Why isn’t she here? I didn’t give her the day off. It’s too bad.’

      Moving to the door, Barnaby hears his voice rising, although he is trying hard not to let it. ‘Hattie is dead, Mother. Look, I’ll put the television on for you. I think it’s the Antiques Roadshow. Sit and watch that with Dad, and I’ll be back in a minute with your supper.’

      As he closes the door he hears his mother say, ‘I didn’t know Hattie was dead, darling. When did she die?’

      ‘Oh, ages ago, M., ages ago,’ his father says. ‘Think I might have another drink.’

      Barnaby stares into the middle of the fridge, fighting an aching tiredness. He cannot see any eggs and an overpowering depression suddenly overtakes him. He hears the front door open, then the glass inner door shut with a bang that makes him wince.

      ‘Hi, Barnes, it’s me,’ Lucy calls out unnecessarily. He hears her making a run for the kitchen to see him alone before Martha hears her and dances out of the sitting room to see her beloved granddaughter

      ‘Help me, Lucy. What on earth can I give them for supper? The fridge seems empty.’

      Lucy claps her hands over her mouth. ‘Oh, bugger, I forgot. I told Mrs Biddulph I would do the shopping. She will get things she likes and Gran and Grandpa hate.’

      She opens the door of the freezer and pulls out fishfingers and chips with a flourish. ‘Here we are! Gran loves them.’

      Barnaby looks doubtful. ‘She seems to live on them. I’m not sure your grandfather is so keen.’

      ‘Darling Barnes,’ Lucy says briskly, ‘they both ate a huge roast lunch. I keep telling you, honestly, they don’t need two cooked meals a day. You just make work for yourself.’

      ‘I know, bossyboots, but food is their one comfort and distraction. Look, there is some cheese at the back of the fridge; that will do for Fred.’

      ‘I’ll eat chips with Gran.’

      Barnaby raises his eyebrows. ‘If I remember rightly, you too had a large Sunday lunch, or was I seeing things?’

      Before Lucy can answer Martha flies in. ‘Lucy, Lucy, how lovely …’ She lifts her cheek up for her gangly granddaughter to kiss and Lucy hugs her.

      ‘Hi, Gran. I’m about to cook you fishfingers and chips. I’m going to pig out on the chips with you.’

      ‘Darling child, how lovely!’

      Barnaby lays four trays out three times. Martha, longing to be helpful, promptly puts them away three times.

      ‘How can I help, darling?’ she keeps saying to Lucy. Lucy brings her alive in a way even I cannot do, Barnaby thinks, in a way the young spark the old with their energy and cheerfulness.

      They have supper on their knees in the sitting room. Barnaby sits next to Fred and shares his cheese and biscuits.

      ‘Barnaby and Gramps are both going to dream their heads off, darling, whereas you and I are merely going to get porky,’ Lucy whispers to Martha.

      From across the room Fred looks at his tiny wife and his tall, skinny granddaughter sitting beside each other on the sofa.

      ‘I am extremely concerned,’ he says drily, ‘that my antique sofa is going to give way under all that weight.’

      He regards them so seriously from over his half-moon glasses that they all burst out laughing.

      Glimpses, Barnaby thinks, small, joyous glimpses of people you love, swinging back.

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