Free Beyond Black: A Novel by Hilary Mantel Page B

do you?” she said. “I could ring your mum.”
    “I very much doubt,” he’d said, “that my mother would have retained that piece of useless information, her brain being somewhat overburdened in my opinion with things like where is my plastic washball for my Persil, and what is the latest development in bloody  EastEnders .”
    The astrologer was unfazed by her ignorance. “Round it up,” he said, “round it down. Twelve noon is what we use. We always do it for animals.”
    “For animals?” she’d said. “They have their horoscope done, do they?”
    “Oh, certainly. It’s a valuable service, you see, for the caring owner who has a problem with a pet. Imagine, for instance, if you kept falling off your horse. You’d need to know, is this an ideal pairing? It could be a matter of life or death.”
    “And do people know when their horse was born?”
    “Frankly, no. That’s why we have a strategy to approximate. And as for your partner—if we say noon that’s fine, but we then need latitude and longitude—so where do we imagine Hubby first saw the light of day?”
    Colette sniffed. “He won’t say.”
    “Probably a Scorpio ascendant there. Controls by disinformation. Or could be Pisces. Makes mysteries where none needed. Just joking! Relax and think back for me. His mummy must have dropped a hint at some point. Where exactly did the dear chap pop out, into this breathing world scarce half made up?”
    “He grew up in Uxbridge. But you know, she might have had him in hospital.”
    “So it could have been anywhere along the A40?”
    “Could we just say, London?”
    “We’ll put him on the meridian. Always a wise choice.”
    After this incident, she found it difficult to regard Gavin as fully human. He was standardized on zero degrees longitude and twelve noon, like some bucking bronco, or a sad mutt with no pedigree. She did call his mum, one evening when she’d had a half bottle of wine and was feeling perverse.
    “Renee, is that you?” she said.
    Renee said, “How did you get my name?”
    “It’s me,” she said, and Renee replied. “I’ve got replacement windows, and replacement doors. I’ve got a conservatory and the loft conversion’s coming next week. I never give to charity, thank you, and I’ve planned my holiday for this year, and I had a new kitchen when you were last in my area.”
    “It’s about Gavin,” she said. “It’s me, Colette. I need to know when he was born.”
    “Take my name off your list,” her mother-in-law said. “And if you must call me, could you not call during my programme? It’s one of my few remaining pleasures.” There was a pause, as if she were going to put the receiver down. Then she spoke again. “Not that I need any others. I’ve had my suite recovered. I have a spa bath already. And a case of vintage wine. And a stair lift to help me keep my independence. Have you got that? Are you taking notice? Bugger off.”
    Click.
    Colette held the phone. Daughter-in-law of fourteen months, spurned by  his  mother. She replaced the receiver, and walked into the kitchen. She stood by the double sink, mastering herself. “Gavin,” she called, “do you want peas or green beans?”
    There was no answer. She stalked into the sitting room. Gavin, his bare feet on the sofa arm, was reading What Car?
    “Peas or green beans?” she asked.
    No reply.
    “ Gavin !” she said.
    “With wot?”
    “Cutlets.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Lamb. Lamb chops.”
    “Okay,” he said. “Whatever. Both.”
    “You can’t.” Her voice shook. “Two green veg, you can’t.”
    “Who says?”
    “Your mother,” she said; she felt she could say anything, as he never listened.
    “When?”
    “Just now on the phone.”
    “My mother was on the phone?”
    “Just now.”
    “Bloody amazing.” He shook his head and flicked over a page.
    “Why? Why should it be?”
    “Because she’s dead.”
    “What? Renee?” Colette sat down on the sofa arm: later, when she