Free Another Mother's Son by Janet Davey Page B

Hertfordshire in utter silence. The house that up to that point had been a single entity became a series of doors, floors, ceilings and stairs. They kept to their rooms in a more studied way and with greater secrecy, as if they were ghosts of past inhabitants, former lodgers who turned keys in the locks, undid their collar studs and loosened their braces. We were, in a sense, back to what we had once been. Mother with children at home. Two of them – and then three when Ewan returned from Warwick for the Christmas vacation. Although I went to work every day, I was the old retainer. There was a bleak simplicity to our life and, when the evenings and weekends came, no sign of father. I worried for us all in our state of isolation. The thought that the atmosphere might have been different with daughters – or with another set of sons – brought no comfort. These were my sons and I could not change them.
    My inclination to relax the rules was immediately thwarted. I had to put back the middle leaf that I had removed from the dining-room table and drag the sofa to its original position, facing the bay window. I was told not to play Shostakovich loudly, or Janis Joplin at all, and my suggestion that we might buy a pet was greeted with derision. It was as if they needed to experience our predicament in a pure state, unsoftened by adjustments. Home ritual that had previously hummed along in the background like an innocuous but essential item of domestic machinery exposed itself as the dark rhythm we dance to.
    Here he is again, though, solid and faintly menacing in his new tight cord trousers.
    â€˜Let’s go and sit in the other room,’ I say.
    We walk down the passage and into the living room. I carry the tea. Whereas in our married days I would have flopped down next to Randal on the sofa, now I take the armchair. He places his phone beside him.
    â€˜Unusual tea. What is it?’ Randal sniffs at the mug.
    â€˜Holy basil with jasmine. “Take a sip of ancient Wisdom”.’
    â€˜It’s weird. Smells of turps.’ Randal takes a gulp. ‘He was on the phone when I went up.’
    â€˜On the phone?’
    â€˜Yes, walking about and talking. I admit he was under the duvet when I came in December but the boiler had packed up, hadn’t it? I really don’t think you were right, Lorna.’
    I take a deep breath. ‘Let’s forget it, can we?’
    â€˜To be honest, it was one of the weirdest things I’ve ever heard anyone say.’
    â€˜It. Was. A. Joke.’
    I have never learned not to expose mental speculation to Randal. He wants to establish facts when there are none and like a militant atheist, as long as there is a single believer left in the world he cannot leave the thing alone.
    He rubs the lower half of his face and then picks up his phone and checks it for messages. One reason I find my father’s company restful is that he fiddles only with unresponsive objects, his reading glasses or a biro, and although he might polish the glasses with his handkerchief, or make a note to himself with the biro, these items give him no feedback. I do not say that he gives me his full attention. He has never been flooded with fascination for me – I would be appalled if he changed in this respect – but no other presence intervenes. When we are together it is just him and me and a few everyday distractions.
    Over the course of minutes in which I watch Randal and wait, I bottle up anger. Bottling up need not take years. It is equally effective in the short term.
    â€˜Are you losing interest, Randal?’ I say in an offhand kind of way.
    â€˜Interest in what?’ as he composes a reply.
    â€˜Ewan. There is still a problem. It hasn’t been solved.’
    He lays the phone down. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lorna.’
    â€˜I wondered whether he had become like a …’ I pretend to search for a word. ‘Calendar?’
    Randal looks at