Going Home. Harriet Evans

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘last night you were so drunk you passed out for three hours. How can you be so chirpy this morning?’

      Tom handed me a mug of tea and strode to the window. He pulled back the curtains to reveal a grey, overcast day. ‘I’m right as rain. Must have slept it off. And I feel fantastic. Everyone knows. No more secrets. No more lies. Layers stripped away. Family reunited. Ho, yes.’

      I took a gulp of tea and, amazingly, felt better too. ‘I’m so glad, Tommytom.’

      Tom gazed out of the window, musing and stroking his chin. Then he stopped and picked up Flossie, my first doll, who had a tremendously exciting tulle skirt and light blue top and used to be the centre of my world but now led a nice quiet life, sitting on my windowsill next to Manfred, a boy doll with a willy it could wee through (it was French). Tom looked challengingly at Flossie, as if he expected her to give him some backchat. Her flecked-blue marble eyes rocked open as he picked her up and she gazed blankly at him. ‘I want everyone to know what it feels like to be totally honest.’ He put Flossie back on the windowsill. ‘To free yourself from the tyranny of repression.’

      ‘What?’ I said.

      Tom sighed. ‘Never mind. No more secrets and lies in this family, is all I’m saying. Come on.’ He threw me an ancient baggy jumper that my grandmother had knitted for me. I pulled it on and rolled out of bed, yawning. I felt incredibly tired.

      ‘You look knackered,’ he said.

      ‘Tom,’ I said, as I freed my hair. ‘Can I ask you something?’

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      ‘Have you…’ I stopped. ‘Have you…Sorry, this is embarrassing. But you’re right, let’s be honest. Are you seeing anyone at the moment, then? Like…a…a boy?’

      Tom shut the door again. ‘Er…no, I’m not. Thanks for asking, though.’

      ‘But,’ I persisted, ‘when did you last…So how did you…’ I trailed off. ‘Sorry, I’ll be honest again. Right. When was your last relationship? And how did you meet?’

      Tom avoided my gaze. ‘Mind your own business.’

      ‘But you just said—’

      ‘I know, but I don’t ask about your sex life so don’t you ask about mine, OK? I’m not seeing anyone, I don’t particularly want to. But if you must know, I’m not going without.’ He turned in a mini-flounce and opened the door again. ‘Come on, let’s go downstairs.’

      I opened and shut my mouth. ‘Righty-ho,’ I said. ‘Great. I’m pleased for you.’

      ‘Thanks. I’m pleased for me too.’

      ‘So now we don’t have any more secrets, do we?’

      We headed downstairs and I smelt something nice coming from the kitchen. Oh, it was lovely to be home. Even when it was more of a lunatic asylum than usual. In the light of a new day, I remembered how much I missed it when I was in London.

      Tom stopped so suddenly that I nearly bumped into him. ‘You’re so blind sometimes, Lizzy.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Nothing. Don’t worry about it. The truth is out there,’ he added. ‘It’s important to catch it while you can.’

      I scratched my head. ‘I don’t suppose you could give me an example?’

      ‘I’m going to, just you wait and see.’ He stared at me. ‘You know, you do look exhausted. Didn’t you sleep?’

      ‘No…I did,’ I said, brushing my hair out of my eyes. ‘I just had a bad dream, that’s all.’

      ‘God, that bastard David,’ said Tom. ‘I still can’t believe what he did to you.’

      I was impressed by this display of emotional intelligence, but as always when a member of my family brought up le sujet de Davide, I found myself fighting the urge to climb into the wardrobe and hide. They all loved him, damn them, and I suspected that in some obscure way they held me responsible for the end of our relationship. I gritted my teeth. ‘Thanks,’ I said, and changed the subject. ‘So you’re really feeling all right this morning, then?’

      ‘Tom’s eyes lit up for the first time in ages. He looked about fifteen again. ‘Ah sure am, Lizzy,’ he said, in a southern drawl. ‘Ah suuure am.’

      

      I sat down at the table in the side-room, yawning. Jess appeared from the kitchen and sat down next to me. I poured us both some coffee.

      From the corridor came a sound like the hoofs of a dainty pony, and there was Rosalie, with a tray of toast and butter. Tom was right; cashmere twin-set, Burberry scarf tied jauntily around the neck, tweed skirt and stilettos. Amazing.

      ‘Hello!’ she said merrily.

      ‘Lo,’ Jess and I grunted.

      ‘Mike’ll be along in a minute – he’s just finishing the eggs. They look good, I’m telling you. It’s a lovely day out there. Your parents and Chin have gone for a walk.’ It was like having our own personal CNN news roundup.

      ‘Where’s Kate?’ asked Jess. ‘Has she gone too, or is she back at the cottage?’

      Rosalie frowned. ‘Oh, of course, and Kate too. Sorry.’

      Kate and Rosalie were not destined to be best friends, I could see that. Apart from the fact that Kate was scary, and Rosalie was mad, Kate and Mike were close: they always had been, ever since Mike moved in with Kate and little Tom for about a year after Tony died. They still do things together, like go for long walks. Before all this Mike had sometimes stayed with her rather than at Keeper House. I think he sometimes found it a bit strange to stay in the house that might have been his cluttered with roller skates, wet gym gear and an endless succession of pink girls’ toys manufactured in Taiwan, it must have felt as if it was yet wasn’t his home.

      At that moment he came in, carrying a pan of scrambled eggs and wearing a paper hat. He was still in his tatty old dressing-gown, which looked much the worse for his exertions of the previous night. He was singing ‘La Donna E Mobile’ in a fruity operatic tone. It struck me that he looked more at home here this Christmas than I’d ever seen him. Although if Mike’s in a good mood and you’re one of twenty people in the same room, within ten minutes you’ll be doing the conga down the street, strangers from around the corner will be begging to join in, shops will hang out bunting and sell fireworks, and the council will declare a public holiday. I perked up at the sight of him.

      ‘Elizabetta! Mi amore. Have some eggs. Give me your plate.’

      Mike had inherited from our grandfather a gift for making perfect scrambled eggs. ‘Hold on a second,’ I said.

      ‘Come on, stop dousing that nice bit of toast in sheepdip and hand it over. How disgusting you are! Rosalie, my peach, my nectar called Renée, have you ever had Marmite?’

      ‘Yes, and it was totally gross,’ said Rosalie. ‘My first husband had a kinda fetish for it. He had it flown over from Fortnum and Mason. God, some of the memories I have stored up here. Yeuch.’

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