Page 31 of Weekends with the Sunshine Gardening Society
She pushes herself up from the deep couch, her thighs telling her that they’re still recovering from Saturday squatting in Von’s garden. No one told her that gardening could be so physical, although if she’d given it a second’s thought she probably would have realised.
Pat kisses her cheek; today he smells like salt water and Imperial Leather.
‘Good to see you,’ he says. ‘Shall I make us a cuppa?’
Cynthia knows she should be the one suggesting that, but these days he’s more familiar with this house than she is.
‘That would be nice,’ she says, and follows him into the kitchen.
He moves between kettle and cupboard, extracting mugs and a teapot, boiling water and pouring it over leaves, while he makes small talk about the waves and the tides. Subjects he’s aware she has no interest in, and that’s when she knows he must want to talk about something serious. He’s softening her up.
He nods towards the living room. ‘Let’s sit.’
They arrange their mugs on the coffee table, and Cynthia stays perched on the edge of the couch while Pat sits back.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Odette.’
‘Mm?’ Cynthia raises the mug to her lips even though she knows the tea is too hot yet to sip.
‘You still haven’t had a proper chat.’
It’s not a question. Obviously Odette has been talking to him. Cynthia still isn’t used to the fact that her daughter prefers Pat as a confidant.
‘Me and Odette?’
‘Yeah. Since you got back. You haven’t spent any time alone.’
‘I’ve called her a few times,’ Cynthia says, terse. ‘But given how quickly she’s got off the phone – if I get to talk to her at all – I’ve had the distinct feeling she doesn’t want to talk to me.’
Pat registers surprise. ‘That’s not true,’ he says, his face softening.
‘No?’ Cynthia attempts a sip of tea to stall for time – wondering if this is some kind of ambush by her ex-husband to tell her she’s a bad mother – and burns her tongue as a reward. She winces and puts the mug down.
‘She wants nothing more than to talk to you, Cyn.’
Now Pat puts his mug on the side table and slides to the front of the couch, angling his body towards hers. For a second Cynthia thinks he’s going to take her hand and she’s surprised to realise that she wouldn’t mind.
‘But she’s so …angrywith me.’ She almost gasps at the truth of it.
‘She’s not. She’s … confused.’ He shrugs. ‘A bit scared. She thought you’d judge her.’
‘Me?’ Cynthia’s laugh is bitter. ‘Me?Of all people?’
‘Yeah, that’s what I said.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘I said you and I wouldn’t judge. That we understand. But I guess she needs to hear it from you more than she needs to hear it from me.’
‘I don’t judge her,’ she says. ‘I’m just worried for her. Because I know …’ She exhales and it’s ragged, and she has to watch herself here because she doesn’t want to say anything to offend Pat.
Now he really does take her hand and it’s as warm as she remembers.
‘You know how hard it is to be a young mother,’ he says, and squeezes. ‘I remember. I was there.’
‘Because you were responsible for it,’ she says, taking back her hand, irritated that he’s speaking like an observer instead of a very active participant.
‘I remember that too.’ He smiles benevolently, like he forgives her for being irritated, which is, of course, even more irritating.
‘Look, Odette just wants to make her own decisions and be supported by us,’ he continues. ‘She knows you love her. She’s just not sure if you approve of her.’
‘Well, of course I do! She’s wonderful!’
