Page 43 of Waiting for a Bright New Future

“But we’ve not reached the getting married stage.”

She frowned again. “You think you haven’t but neither of you are spring chickens and I’m definitely not.”

“You take charge of the remote while I make a pot of tea.” He put his hand on the small of her back and tried to guide her out of the kitchen.

“Don’t fob me off. I’m only doolally some of the time. Right now I’m sane and you know I’m talking sense. It’s something to be considered.”

A gold star for Stuart! You definitely score more highly than Audi man with the old lady. But what do you do next?

Stuart ignored his sister and focused on distracting Lillian. “Chocolate digestive or bourbon cream?”

The old lady took a detour to the biscuit tin and loaded a plate with enough chocolate biscuit variations to feed an army, counting under her breath as she arranged them.

He wondered if he should tell Jayne about the conversation. Probably not. He needed to get his own mind clear on the getting married thing first.

“Have a biscuit.” Lillian thrust the plate under his nose. “And think about what I’ve said. And no, Jayne doesn’t know my opinion on this matter. And yes, I will have forgotten this conversation by tomorrow, which is why I had to say it now.”

The quietness of the house when he returned home the next day and the nagging knowledge that the next speakers’ meeting was looming forced Stuart to focus his mind. Lying about why he couldn’t attend, even over the phone when no one could see his body language, didn’t come naturally to him. And lying to a former pupil didn’t feel right, especially when he’d been given a space on the evening’s program and would therefore be creating a gap if he didn’t attend.

If he wrote the speech down and then read it out, word for word, perhaps he’d be able to cope with all those eyes staring at him. He’d be looking down at the paper so he wouldn’t even have to see the audience. Then he’d tell the John the truth — that he had no need to speak in public and therefore wouldn’t be coming again.

Speak about something he was passionate about, John had said. Cycling was the only thing that got him fired up. He decided on the history of cycling and started researching the old bone-shaker bikes and penny-farthings. He needed a lot of content to fill five minutes.

* * *

When he got the call to collect Florence from the station, Stuart was elated. He pulled into the car park far too early and paced up and down the platform, right down to the end where the noticeboard gave the Samaritans’ telephone number. He peered down the line, looking for a sign that the train was approaching.

According to the loudspeaker announcement, the train was nine carriages long. When it pulled in, Stuart scanned its length but the passengers were disgorged in such numbers that it was impossible to identify any individual. Then he spotted the distinctive zebra-patterned fake-fur jacket. He trotted towards her, glad she’d dropped the respectable grandma persona for the real Florence. He waved. She waved. Then Stuart hesitated. She kept turning to a man immediately behind her, as if explaining the way and encouraging him. Something cold inside him said this was Jim, Florence’s husband.

Chapter Twenty-Three

They got within speaking distance. Florence had two pet carriers, one in each hand. Her handbag was slung across her chest like a giant, schoolgirl peggy-purse. The man had Florence’s suitcase. She turned to him. “Thank you so much, I never would’ve managed without you.”

“No problem. I hope things sort themselves out.” He gave a little mock salute and followed the crowd towards the exit sign.

She put the pet carriers down and gave Stuart a peck on the cheek. “He was so kind. Jacob put me on the train but I was worried how I’d manage at this end. That man, I didn’t even ask his name — that’s bad of me — was interested in Slowcoach and Tibby and he was getting off here, so it all worked a treat.”

“Slowcoach and Tibby?”

“The children’s pets.” She pointed to the containers now on the floor at her feet. “A tortoise and a cat. You can work out which is which. Jacob’s new partner is allergic to cats and, well, the children are bored of Slowcoach — he doesn’t really do much. He’s just another thing to look after in the chaos down there.”

She picked up the containers again and Stuart took the suitcase. He led the way to the car, trying to grasp this new situation. As a child he’d had a goldfish for three months, then he’d found it floating on top of the bowl and his father had flushed it down the toilet. He and his mother had had a little cry, and then that had been that as far as pets were concerned.

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Nothing. They won’t be any bother. You don’t have to do anything. After what the children have been through, I can’t get rid of their pets. They have to know they’re safe and happy here.”

“The cat smells.”

“It was scared and weed. But there’s plenty of newspaper in there to absorb it. Don’t worry about the car.”

When they got home, Florence went in search of a cardboard box that could be made into a temporary bed for Slowcoach in the garage. Tibby refused to come out of the carrier until Florence opened one of Stuart’s tins of salmon. Then she ate the whole tin before crouching down and doing her business in the corner of the kitchen by the door.

It was a battle not to say anything critical. Florence was constantly on the defensive about the animals. “She only pooed there because we were too slow to open the door for her to go outside. What she really needs is a cat flap.” She looked at him expectantly.

“That means cutting a hole in the door.” Florence’s longed-for return was clouded by all these new demands.

“Yes.” She nodded encouragingly. “And I’ll pay for the flap.”

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