Her mother huffed and tightened her fists. ‘Not ruined.’ Her eyes squeezed tightly shut then she opened them again. ‘I wanted you both. But things were never the same.’
Cynthia remembered her mother needing time alone on weekends when she was young and she never knew why. Her brother Christopher, known as Kit, would take himself off ‘exploring’ and their mother liked that, but Cynthia wasn’t allowed to do the same because she was a girl. Instead, her mother would tell her to stay in her room then she’d disappear for hours. Their father would be around sometimes, but mostly Cynthia was trusted to look after herself. It was no wonder, she realised years later, that she’d attached to Pat like a limpet when he’d made it clear that all he ever wanted was to be around her.
Now their daughter is giving Cynthia the opportunity to either be like her own mother or not. To be supportive or not – except Cynthia’s definition of support is to encourage Odette to not limit her options. When Cynthia was Odette’s age,wifeandmotherwere the main paths a young woman could take. But Odette doesn’t have to be constrained by that any more, andCynthia can’t help wanting to remind her of that. So maybe she’s not so different to her mother.
‘I know it’s your baby,’ she says to Odette. ‘But you’re stillmybaby and I want what’s best for you.’
Odette’s eyes are hard again. ‘That’s why you married Max, is it?’
‘Darling, that’s – ’
‘Leave it, Mum,’ she snaps.
‘Cyn!’ Pat calls. ‘Mussels!’
Odette gives her one last glare then goes inside.
As Cynthia follows her she imagines, for a second, that she sees her mother sitting on the couch, her hands still in fists, and feels the cold chill of family history come over her.
APRIL 1987
BEACH FLAX LILY
CHAPTER SEVEN
AnotherSunday morning has come and gone without Elizabeth making it back to church, so when she hears a knock on the front door later in the day she takes a deep breath and prepares to explain herself to Reverend Willoughby.
‘Who is it?’ Charlie says from the sitting room floor where he’s leafing through a picture book and giggling at the illustrations.
‘I don’t know, darling.’ Elizabeth pushes herself off the couch and walks slowly towards the door. ‘I’ll find out.’
‘Yoo-hoo!’ comes a decidedly not-Reverend tone from outside.
Elizabeth frowns as she peers through the pane of clouded glass that is meant to let in light but really just stops her from clearly seeing who’s on the other side of the door. She can make out two shapes, both female, one taller and darker-haired than the other. They seem harmless, so she opens the door but keeps her frown just in case she needs to ward off busybodies.
‘Hello?’ she says to a stocky-looking older woman of around five foot three wearing a T-shirt that saysPainters and Dockers, and a slender woman a few inches taller, dark hair in a bun, pearls around her neck and a pale blue linen shirt rolled up to just below her elbows.
‘Are you Elizabeth?’ the shorter one says.
She guesses they’re from the church – where else could they be from? – so she has no reason not to own up to being herself.
‘Yes,’ she replies.
‘Great.’ The shorter woman puts her foot across the threshold and Elizabeth, sensing that she’d be powerless to resist, steps back.
‘I’m Shirley,’ the woman says. ‘Call me Shirl. Everyone does.’ She jerks a thumb to the woman behind her. ‘This is Barbara. Call her Barb. Everyone does.’
Barbara glides in after Shirley. ‘Hello, dear,’ she says. ‘We’re here about your garden.’
‘Rev sent us,’ Shirley explains.
‘Who?’ Elizabeth’s forehead tightens and she realises she hasn’t stopped frowning since she heard the knock, so she forces herself to relax.
‘Rev Willoughby,’ Shirl says with a snort. ‘You know.’
‘We’re here for your garden,’ Barbara says again.
Now it clicks: the reverend said he’d send someone to help her. There was no further discussion, though. No notice. Nowarning, which Elizabeth clearly needed since these two ladies have turned up meaning business and she doesn’t even know them. She’s not been comfortable with strangers lately; they require too much work by way of politeness and small talk and explanations about Jon’s death.
