Home Truths. Freya North

she didn’t leave a tip. And she didn’t go again the following week.

      But she did return the week after that. And she felt her eyes smart at the bright sweetness of the welcome Juliette gave her. Fountains, she decided, was better than any support group. ‘Hey stranger, you missed out on Chuckle Berry last week. Gloria will give you a taste. You sitting?’

      Penny sat. She managed to make the sundae last an hour and at any opportunity, she passed the time with the waitresses about the weather, or about ice cream. Then she ordered coffee. And a refill. She was obviously lingering but no one, herself included, was quite sure for what.

      ‘My father passed,’ Juliette told her, when she accepted a second refill.

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ Penny said, genuinely shocked. She’d practically forgotten that grief could befall other people. ‘Can you sit awhile?’ Penny asked. Juliette glanced around the parlour, raised her eyebrow at Gloria who gave her a nod. ‘When?’

      ‘Coming up to a year and I need to tell you that I think death is a great thing. He was a rotten drunk and he hurt me and my mom. So I guess I envy you a little,’ Juliette said with a reluctant smile. ‘Not your pain, not the longing that must weave the minutes into the hours and drag your hours into these dark days right now. But I envy you the fact that your loss is so great because your love itself was so great. I never had that.’

      Penny didn’t know where to put herself. For the first time she experienced the guilt that she assumed her own friends were feeling. The guilt at one’s own good fortune. She put her hand over Juliette’s wrist because she was lost for words. She didn’t know what to say because recently Bob was all she really talked about. Just then, though, she wasn’t actually thinking about him at all.

Road Kill

      Pip butters toast, Zac is skim-reading the Financial Times and the Today programme drifts sedately through the kitchen; not loud enough to be an active part of breakfast but audible enough to be an integral component in their morning routine. Pip knows to savour these few minutes before Tom breaches the peace.

      And here he is. Hastily dressed for school. His nine-year-old physique spurting in fits and starts; just recently his feet have apparently doubled in length yet the softness of his peachy cheeks remains unchanged from when he was a toddler. His fingernails exhibit the indelible grubbiness commensurate with a boy of his age but the pale pitch of his voice seems so pure and clean. His hair truly has an energy of its own and Tom is not yet of an age to exhibit much interest in styling or even basic control. Consequently, it tufts itself into increasingly haphazard configurations, caused as much by spasmodic keratin production as by the freedom of such deep sleep. Today, it resembles something that the forefathers of punk rock spent hours trying to achieve.

      ‘Happy St David’s Day,’ Tom announces. ‘We’re doing it in school today.’

      ‘Good Lord,’ Pip declares, ‘it’s the mad March hair.’

      Zac looks up from his paper. ‘Or the mad March heir,’ he quips though neither Pip nor Tom cotton on to the pun. It’s too early to hear silent ‘h’s. It’s too early to have to explain, thinks Zac, returning to the pink pages.

      Pip attempts to smooth down Tom’s hair with her hand. He shirks away and ruffles up Pip’s meddling. ‘Toast?’ she asks.

      ‘Yep,’ Tom says. Zac glances over his paper. ‘Please,’ Tom adds with a sigh.

      ‘Do you want to go through your piece?’ Pip asks.

      Tom looks alarmed. ‘My piece?’

      ‘For assembly this morning? On the patron saints of the British Isles. Aren’t you St George?’

      ‘Oh. That. I thought you meant my piece of toast,’ says Tom. ‘Digby says that the dragon is a metaphor. But he doesn’t even know what a metaphor is.’

      ‘And do you?’

      ‘No,’ says Tom, ‘but it sounds boring, like something Miss Balcombe would go on about. And on and on. Yawns-ville.’

      ‘Well, would you like to go through your piece about St George?’ Pip asks.

      ‘I know it off by heart,’ Tom says proudly, and launches into a fast, monotone delivery. Pip can see the Financial Times quivering. She surreptitiously kicks Zac under the table. Tom finishes his recitation to applause from the table and the 8 a.m. GMT pips from the radio.

      ‘If babies are such a great thing, if they’re such a miracle and stuff – why do they make their mums so poorly and so mega grumpy?’

      Pip wasn’t prepared for this. Usually when she walked Tom to school she was entertained with a diatribe of the personal hygiene habits and physiognomic misfortunes of his teachers, which merely required tuts of her disapproval whilst she bit back laughter.

      ‘Seems a bit stupid to me,’ Tom continued darkly. Pip wasn’t sure what to say. Was Tom about to probe for the facts of life? She felt uneasy, having not yet discussed with Zac the information and terminology he was prepared to give his son. ‘Did I do that to her, to my mum, do you think? When she was having me, did I make her puke like mad and be a grumpy old moo?’

      Tom was asking Pip about something on which she had actually no authority to answer. ‘Perhaps,’ she answered cautiously, having never actually discussed the vagaries of June’s first pregnancy, ‘but excuse me, young man, your mum is not an old moo.’

      ‘But she is grumpy,’ Tom muttered. ‘I thought she would be chuffed about having a baby but all she does is grumble and puke.’ He allowed Pip to take his wrist as they made to cross the road. ‘There’s going to be buckets of blood too, of course, when the baby comes. And do you think Mum’ll scream her head off – like that woman on Holby City last week?’

      Pip couldn’t really answer that one, not knowing June’s take on epidurals.

      ‘I can see why you don’t want all that madness,’ Tom said darkly, with much sage nodding.

      ‘Pardon?’

      ‘You and Dad,’ Tom shrugged. ‘Don’t tell my mum I said stuff like that about her and stuff.’

      Pip and Tom were about to step off the kerb when they saw the squirrel. Tom was still young enough to point and declare ‘Hey! Squirrel!’ as it bolted into the road. And then came the car at the same time and they both foresaw the death of the squirrel by a second or so.

      ‘Oh God,’ Pip gasped, helpless not to be transfixed by the spatter of guts, the barb of torn limbs, the stark stare of sudden death.

      ‘Gross!’ Tom said, not quite sure if he was thrilled or distraught.

      ‘We’ll cross the road further down,’ Pip said.

      ‘Do you think it’s really dead?’ asked Tom.

      ‘Yes,’ said Pip, ‘I do.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘Poor little thing.’

      ‘Poor little thing. Do you think it was a boy or a girl?’

      They crossed the road and Pip began to gamely tell Tom that babies didn’t cause their mums to feel poorly and be grumpy, all that was down to chemicals causing a lady’s body to be able to grow and carry a baby. And anyway, mums and dads so want to have babies that a bit of yukkiness now and then didn’t matter at all in the long run.

      ‘Tom?’

      Tom was quietly sobbing though the school gates were in sight.

      ‘Your mum is fine – please don’t you worry about her. She doesn’t mean to be grumpy and she can’t help feeling a bit yuk.’ Pip gave Tom a hug. ‘Do you want your dad to talk to her? I promise you she can’t wait to give you a little baby brother or sister.’