This Is How Part 3

It's Sat.u.r.day and I've woken too early to go down to breakfast. I kill a bit of time sitting at the table under the open window, look out at the sh.o.r.e and the sea, the dead flat horizon.

A child shouts, 'Bye Dad, bye Dad,' over and over, and when the child's stopped shouting, the first bus of the morning comes past, down the esplanade, and it turns the corner out the front of the boarding house. I listen to the sound of its brakes as it pulls in to stop, the hiss of the doors opening, the moan of the engine taking the hill.

I leave the window wide open, dress, and go down.

It's only quarter past eight, but Welkin and Flindall have already taken the table under the bay window. Flindall's hair is slicked back and he's wearing a flash pinstripe suit. Welkin's got his silk-lined jacket draped across the back of his chair. All I've got on is an oily T-s.h.i.+rt and my lank brown hair hangs down over my ears.

'Morning, Patrick,' says Welkin.

I get the sense I've interrupted something.

'Sleep well?' says Flindall.

I've no choice but to sit alone at the table in the middle.

'Like a baby,' I say.

My table's set with cereal and toast and I start eating, but feel a bit daft sitting by myself.

I pour a gla.s.s of water.

'Why don't you tell us a little more about yourself,' says Flindall.

I try to think what I might say.

'Maybe Patrick's too tired to talk,' says Welkin. 'He was probably kept up half the night listening to me having the time of my life.'

'Maybe that's it,' says Flindall, like a Greek chorus.

'I was enjoying,' says Welkin, 'the ultimate satisfaction.'

I was hoping for some good chat over breakfast and now I'd like to punch Welkin in the neck.

'Good for you,' I say.

He smiles. 'Tell us about life as a mechanic.'

'There's not much to tell.'

I sound like a man of few words, not like I want a fight with them.

Bridget comes with the hot food on a tray. She's wearing a yellow frock, just down past her knees, and she's got red lipstick on.

She's a doll.

'Good morning, Patrick.'

I stand.

'Morning,' I say. 'Do you need a hand?'

'No. Not at all. Sit and eat.' She puts the tray of food down on the sideboard.

'You're paying me,' she says, 'not the other way round.'

'And it's a pretty penny, too,' says Flindall.

She folds her arms across her chest in mock anger.

'See if you can do better for less,' she says. 'I'll bet you can't.'

'She's right,' says Welkin. 'This is the best d.a.m.n seaside boarding house in town.'

'It's the only seaside boarding house in town,' says Flindall.

She laughs and gives us each a plate of rashers, eggs, tomatoes.

'Has everybody got everything they need?' she says.

We say we're happy. She leaves.

I eat my bacon and the fork hits my teeth.

I stop eating.

'How long have you both been here?' I say.

'Two months,' says Welkin.

'And me,' says Flindall. 'Two months.'

'Did you come together?'

'No,' says Welkin. 'Just a coincidence.'

Flindall moves his cigarette from one ear to the other. 'There was another man though.'

Welkin looks at Flindall. 'But he left.'

I'd like to ask them about the other man, but there's no time.

The doorbell rings and soon as the door's opened I hear that voice.

It's my mother.

I get up from the table and go out to the hallway, but it's too late. Bridget's let her in.

I stand by the staircase.

'Surprise!' says my mother.

Her dress is like a bus seat cover and it's the same kind of ugly thing she wears every day of the year.

'h.e.l.lo,' I say.

She comes to me, throws her arms open wide and the wobbly white skin spills out. She looks happy, her blue eyes bright and big, like she's ready for a picnic in the sun, and I'm glad of that, but it would've been a whole lot better if she'd warned me. I'd have met her in the town. I'd not have let her come to the house.

'Is that all the welcome I get?'

The dining room door's open and I know Welkin and Flindall can see us but I've no choice except to move closer so she can wrap her arms round. When I let go and she steps back, I get a whiff of the hot nylon off her stockings. She's probably walked all the way from the station.

'It's good to see you, Patrick.'

'You too,' I say.

There's a coin on the carpet. I bend down to pick it up.

'Come into the dining room, Mrs Oxtoby,' says Bridget. 'Have a cup of tea.'

'Thank you,' says my mother. 'I'm parched.'

Bridget goes into the dining room. My mother turns round and flashes me a quick smile.

I follow them in.

Welkin and Flindall stand and, soon as she's been introduced, my mother takes a chair and sits down at the table with them.

'I had a lovely train journey,' she says.

'You must have left home awfully early,' says Welkin.

'I stopped last night at my G.o.d-daughter's house.'

It's two hours by train, only one change, but it means she must've booked the train soon as I told her I was leaving.

'Jennifer's house in St Anne's?' I say.

'Yes,' says my mother. 'She says h.e.l.lo.'

Her handbag falls from the table. I pick it up and put it in her lap.

'I'll be back in a minute,' I say.

I go up to my room and take a pillow and get the ball peen hammer out of my toolkit. I put the pillow on the floor and put a towel over it and bash good and hard. And I count: one f.u.c.king stupid b.i.t.c.h, two f.u.c.king stupid b.i.t.c.h, three f.u.c.king stupid b.i.t.c.h, four f.u.c.king stupid b.i.t.c.h.

She's as good as followed me here and she's going to be staying not ten miles away.

I hoped when I saw her waving goodbye at the train station, that'd be the last time for a long time.

I go to the table under the window and sit, but I can't get my breath back. She'll be down there telling them her hospital stories and they'll know by now that she's head surgical nurse, one of the most experienced nurses in England. Jesus. I can already hear her laughing and she's made them laugh, too.

She's smart and, if she's worried they're not impressed enough, she'll find a way to tell them that she studied medicine for a year before her youngest son came along rather unexpectedly seven years after two miscarriages, but not unwelcome, of course, not unwelcome.

I go to the bed and lie down and close my eyes and wait for as long as I think it'll take her to tell her story and drink a few cups of tea. I'll not begrudge her the story, but I'll not sit through it either.

I go back down, stand in the dining room doorway.

'Mum?' I say.

'Yes, Patrick?'

Welkin's got a dirty smirk on his face and Flindall's sniffing at his unlit cigarette. He looks pretty amused.

'Let's go for a walk along the sea,' I say. 'It's a nice day.'

She looks at Welkin as though for his approval.

'If you're staying in town, Mrs Oxtoby,' says Bridget, 'why don't you come back here for tea?'

'That's a good idea,' says Welkin. 'Come for dinner.'

Welkin'll not have the evening meal known as tea.

'Maybe I will,' says my mother.

'You must,' says Welkin.

My mother stands and runs her hands along the front of her dress, removes the biscuit crumbs.

'We'll see you back here for dinner, then,' says Welkin.

'I very much hope so,' says my mother.

'Promise you will,' says Flindall.

They like her, have liked her instantly. She hardly needs to speak and she has everybody liking her.

'All right,' she says. 'I will.'

Bridget walks us to the door.

'Don't forget to show your mum the old pavilion,' she says. 'It's very jolly this time of year.'

I take my mother to the bus-stop, left of the boarding house, away from the sea.