Everything to Gain. Barbara Taylor Bradford

me there was nothing to be gained in taking issue with her, or trying to present my point of view. Silence or acquiescence were the only viable weapons to use to defeat her.

      I walked over to the refrigerator and brought out the other ingredients for the potato salad, all of which I had made at six o’clock this morning, long before her arrival. There were glass bowls of hard-boiled eggs, chopped celery, chopped cornichons and chopped onions, and these I placed on a large wooden tray, along with the salt and pepper mills and a jar of mayonnaise.

      Carrying the laden tray over to the old-fashioned kitchen table, I placed it in the middle, went and got another chopping board and knife before taking the chair opposite her. I began methodically to chop an egg, avoiding her eyes. I was seething inside.

      We worked in silence for a while, and then my mother stopped slicing a large potato, put the knife down and leaned back in her chair. She sat gazing at me, studying me carefully.

      So intense was her stare, so acute her scrutiny, I found myself reacting almost angrily; she always had that effect on me when she put me under a microscope and dissected me like a bug.

      I frowned. ‘What is it, Mother?’ I demanded coldly. ‘Do I have dirt on my face or something?’

      She shook her head, exclaimed, ‘No, no, you don’t.’ There was a little pause, then she went on, ‘I’m sorry, Mal, I was staring at you far too hard. I was examining your skin, actually, gauging the elasticity of it.’ She nodded quite vigorously, as if confirming something important to herself. ‘Dr Malvern is right. Young skin does have a special kind of elasticity to it, a different kind of texture from older skin. Mmmm. Well, never mind. I can’t get the elasticity back, I’m afraid, but I can get rid of the sag.’ As she spoke she began to pat herself under her chin with the back of her hand. ‘Dr Malvern says a nip and a tuck will do it.’

      ‘Mother! For God’s sake! You don’t need another face job. Honestly you don’t. You look wonderful.’ I truly meant this. She was still a lovely-looking woman who defied her age. The face-lift she had had three years ago had helped, of course. But she was naturally well preserved. No one would have guessed that this slender, long-legged beauty with the pellucid hazel eyes, high cheekbones and the most perfect complexion, a wrinkleless complexion in fact, was actually a woman approaching her sixty-second birthday. She appeared to be much younger, easily fifteen or sixteen years younger, in my opinion. One of the few things I admired about my mother was her youthfulness and the discipline she exercised in order to achieve it.

      ‘Thank you, Mal, for those kind words, but I do think I could use just a little tuck …’ Her voice trailed off, and, continuing to stare at me, she let out several small sighs. There was an unfamiliar wistfulness about her at this moment, and it took me by surprise.

      ‘No, you don’t need it,’ I murmured in a gentler voice, a rush of love for her filling me. She suddenly seemed so open and vulnerable I felt a rare touch of sympathy for her.

      Another silence fell between us as we continued to observe each other; but we were really caught up in our own thoughts, and drifted with them for a while.

      I was thinking of her, thinking that vain and foolish though she might be, she was not a bad person. Quite the contrary, in fact. Intrinsically, my mother was a good woman and she had done her level best to be a good mother. There were times when she had been hopeless at this, others more successful. Admittedly, she had instilled in me a number of excellent values which were important to me. On the other hand, we rarely agreed about anything, and frequently she misread me, misjudged me, and treated me as if I were a witless dreamer.

      It was my mother who finally broke the silence. She said in an unusually low voice for her, ‘There’s something else I want to tell you, Mal.’

      I nodded, gave her my full attention.

      She hesitated fractionally.

      ‘Go on then,’ I muttered.

      ‘I’m going to get married,’ she told me, finally.

      ‘Married. But you are married. To my father. It might be in name only, but you’re still legally tied to him.’

      ‘I know that. I mean, after I get a divorce.’

      ‘Who are you going to marry?’ I asked, leaning forward, staring at her questioningly, riddled with curiosity.

      ‘David Nelson.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘You don’t sound very thrilled.’

      ‘Don’t be silly … I’m just taken aback, that’s all.’

      ‘Don’t you like David?’

      ‘Mother, I hardly know him.’

      ‘He’s very nice, Mal.’

      ‘I’m sure he is … he’s seemed pleasant enough, very cordial on those few occasions I’ve met him.’

      ‘I love him, Mal, and he loves me. We’re very good together, extremely compatible. I’ve been lonely. Very lonely, really, and for a very long time. And so has David, ever since his wife died seven years ago. We’ve been seeing each other fairly steadily for the past year, and when David asked me to marry him, last week, I suddenly realized how much he meant to me. There doesn’t seem to be any good reason why we shouldn’t get married.’

      Something akin to a quizzical look had slipped onto my mother’s face and her eyes now searched mine; it occurred to me that she was seeking my approval.

      I said, ‘There’s no reason at all why you shouldn’t get married, Mom. I’m glad.’ I smiled at her, asked, ‘Does David have any children?’

      ‘A son, Mark, who’s married and has one child. A boy, David, named for his grandfather. Mark and his wife Angela live in Westchester. He’s a lawyer, like David.’

      A son, that’s a blessed relief, I thought, no possessive, overly-protective daughter floating around Papa David, one likely to upset the apple cart. Now that I knew about it I was all in favour of this union, wanted it to go ahead without a hitch. I probed, ‘And when do you plan to get married, Mother?’

      ‘As soon as I can, as soon as I’m free.’

      ‘Have you started divorce proceedings?’

      ‘No, but I’m going to see Alan Fuller later this week. There won’t be a problem, considering that your father and I have been separated such a long time.’ She paused, then added, ‘Fifteen years,’ as though I didn’t know this.

      ‘Have you told Daddy?’

      ‘No, not yet.’

      ‘I see.’

      ‘Don’t look so pained, Mal. I think he might —’

      ‘I’m not looking pained,’ I protested, wondering how she could ever think such a thing. I didn’t have any pained feelings about anything. Actually, I was pleased she wasn’t living in a kind of decisionless limbo any longer.

      ‘I was going to say, before you interrupted me, that I believe your father will be relieved I’ve finally taken this step.’

      I nodded. ‘You’re right, Mother. I’m positive he will be.’

      The sound of heels clicking against the polished wood floor of the gallery immediately outside the kitchen made my mother sit up straighter. She brought her forefinger to her lips and, staring hard at me, mouthed silently, ‘It’s a secret.’

      Another swift, acquiescent nod from me.

      Diana pushed open the door and glided into the kitchen just as my mind was focusing on secrets. There were so many in our family; instantly I pushed this thought far, far away from me, as I invariably did. I never wanted to face those secrets from my childhood. Better to forget them; better still to pretend they did not exist. But they did. My childhood was constructed on secrets layered one on top of the other.