I was thirty-five and still couldn’t imagine a world without my mum, who – thank God – had agreed to help me with lunch. She barrelled in just as the entire Farinelli family were gathering at the gate to walk up the hill to the graveyard. She clucked through the group, exclaiming about the gorgeousness of Sandro, how much he’d grown, the chill in the February air, Francesca’s lack of gloves – trying and failing to foist her own fingerless mittens on her. She didn’t care that they all stood around like skittles braced against a bowling ball; she just rattled on, admiring the white roses Francesca was holding, patting Sandro’s head, pressing toffees into his hands.
From what I’d seen of Lara, she’d be swapping those sweeties for some cacao nibs or unsulphured apricots as soon as Mum’s back was turned. That poor boy trussed up in a collared shirt and jumper. My neck itched just looking at him, skulking along half-entangled in Lara’s mohair poncho. They both pressed themselves into the hedge as a teenage boy came past with an Alsatian pulling on its lead.
Sandro looked so pale and cold. He was only five when Caitlin died. He’d barely remember her. I’d offered to look after him while everyone else went to the cemetery but before Lara could answer, Anna had burst in with ‘No, he’s coming with us; it’s a family day,’ as though there were log flumes and spinning teacups to look forward to instead of a black granite headstone and a swarm of sad emotions ricocheting around the group. I had the uncharitable thought that Anna used their collective grief as another way of excluding me.
It was a relief when Mum bustled in through the front door and I could shut out the Farinellis and the complex tensions cobwebbing between them. She flung her arms around me. ‘Funny being here and not going up them stairs to see Caitlin.’
I shrugged off my irritation that even Mum found it odd that Caitlin wasn’t here.
I helped her off with her coat, wondering whether a Mongolian goat herder was shivering somewhere without his shaggy sheepskin. As she turned to see Sam shouting, ‘Nan!’ from the top of the stairs, I quietly hung it up in the cloakroom. Sam nearly knocked Mum over as he launched himself from the last step. My heart twisted at his unselfconscious hug for her. She immediately conjured a Twix out of her handbag.
‘Missed your old Nan, have you?’
Sam nodded before whisking Mum away to see his bedroom.
When she came down, she said, ‘I’ve always said this house was like a fancy hotel. You should think about taking in guests. That’s a lovely spare room with an en suite. I could come in every morning and cook the breakfasts.’
Mum saw money-making opportunities everywhere she looked. Mend, make, sell, swap… it was how she survived, often finding things in skips to ‘sell at a car boot’. Unfortunately, as one old sewing machine found a new home, a three-legged stool, deckchair or furry cushion crowded into the flat to take its place.
‘I’d love to see Anna’s face if we started running a B&B. Are you managing all right for money now we’ve moved out? I’ve got a bit put by if you need it.’
‘Get off with you, lovey. I don’t need your cash. Got a new job looking after some poor old soul who thinks the Germans are coming for her and keeps hiding all her jewellery in the porridge. Nearly blew up the microwave the other morning because her earrings were in the bowl.’
God bless my mum. She always had a little story, an adventure to recount. Word of mouth kept her employed, with grateful families taking her on to help out with relatives that they didn’t have time to look after.
‘How’s Nico? Have you got used to being a wife yet? Has he got used to having another one?’ Mum started to laugh, with a Benson and Hedges cough rushing to join the party.
I filled her in on what Anna had said to me.
‘Bloody old bag. Forced him to marry you, my arse. He’s lucky to have you. I hope you told her that you come from three generations of single mothers. Never mind the frigging Farinelli family in their ‘avenue’, the Parkers have lived on Mulberry Towers council estate for over sixty years without the need for a husband.’
She sat back victoriously as though she’d just proved, beyond any argument, that Anna was a total fool. You had to hand it to Mum. Her arguments always had been a triumph of illogical conviction.
I had to laugh. ‘I don’t think parading our family’s historical failure to blag a husband is going to win Anna round.’
Mum’s face softened. ‘I’m glad you did find a husband though, love. Nico is a nice lad. A bit fancy with his food, but not bad for an Eyetie.’