A Question of Guilt(10)

‘Well – go and see Marion Jennings,’ I said. ‘Get her side of it. If I can persuade Dad to lend me his car, or someone else to give me a lift . . .’ I cast her a sneaky sideways look and grinned pleadingly.

The corners of Mum’s mouth twitched.

‘Oh, I expect you’ll get lucky one way or another.’

‘I don’t want to let this go, Mum,’ I said, serious again. ‘It’s so good to have something to get my teeth into. You and Dad have been great, but to be honest, I’ve been going quietly mad.’

‘Understandably! Two old fogies like us . . .’

‘You are not old fogies!’

‘That’s a matter of opinion. But seriously, Sally, you’ve had a pretty rough time. And that boyfriend of yours has been no help at all.’

‘It’s difficult for him, with his job . . .’ I didn’t really know why I was making excuses for Tim.

It was, of course, perfectly true that the demands of being a pilot meant strange working hours and periods of being out of the country, but that in turn meant he often had several days off at a stretch. Yet in all the time I’d been at Stoke Compton he’d only been to stay two or three times and made a few fleeting visits. Recently, when he’d arranged to come over something always seemed to crop up at the last moment to prevent him from coming. An unexpected call to duty, a problem with his car, a heavy cold or flu.

Given that prior to my accident the gilt had gone off the gingerbread where our relationship was concerned and I’d begun to wonder if Tim was the one for me, I’d been ridiculously upset by his inattention. Looking back now I can see that it was probably all part of the depression that had slowly but surely closed in around me. I was isolated – some days I saw no one but Mum, Dad, and old Sam, Dad’s pretty well monosyllabic farm hand – incapacitated, and bereft of all the things that used to make up my busy life. Apart from visits from my oldest friend, Rachel Parsons, who still lived in Stoke Compton, seeing Tim was about the only thing I had to look forward to. He was my link to the world beyond the comfortable but boring and predictable hours that my days now consisted of. It was the only explanation for me desperately hanging on to a relationship that I knew in my heart had run its course, and probably the reason I was making excuses for him now, to Mum – and to myself.

‘It’s a long way for him to come and see me,’ I said now, lamely. ‘Thirty miles each way . . . when he has start times in the middle of the night . . . I can’t expect him to do it.’

‘Hmm.’ Mum’s lips made a tight line.

‘What?’

‘If he thought anything of you he’d find a way. I’m sorry, Sally, I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s my opinion you deserve better. You should kick him into the long grass once and for all and find someone who treats you properly.’

I pulled a wry face.

‘Easier said than done. I’m not twenty any more – or even thirty. Most of the eligible men out there have been snapped up, and the ones of my age come with a lot of baggage.’

‘You’re a lovely girl, Sally!’

‘You would say that. You’re my mother.’

‘It’s no more than the truth. You’re pretty . . .’

‘Have you noticed the crow’s feet round my eyes?’

‘You’re bright and kind,’ she went on as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘Don’t try to tell me that there isn’t someone out there who would treat you a whole lot better than Tim does.’

‘Oh Mum . . .’

‘’I’m saying no more on the subject.’ Mum checked her mirror, overtook a removals van that was taking up most of our side of the road. ‘Just don’t put all your eggs in one basket, is my advice.’

‘Did you say that it was one of the girls who lived in the flat who has a café now in what used to be the electricals shop?’ I asked, anxious to change the subject.

‘That’s right,’ Mum confirmed.

‘Do you know which one? No – hang on, I think I can answer that myself. The one Brian Jennings was stalking worked in an estate agent’s office, but her flatmate was apparently a chef.’ I flicked open my note book, checking. ‘Lisa Curry.’

‘I really wouldn’t know,’ Mum said. ‘I’m not one for stopping for a cup of coffee and a bun in the middle of my shopping.’

‘No.’ I smiled. Socializing in High Street cafes wasn’t Mum’s style, and in any case the cake tins at home were always full of delicious cakes she’d baked herself. Mum’s Victoria sandwiches and rich fruit cakes were to die for.