Page 62 of Jenny James Is Not a Disaster
My parents need me too, I know. They are aging, and my dad has his heart operation coming up, and I have already missed too much. I want to be here to spend time with him, and also to help my mum. She would never admit it, but I know she’s struggling. We will have to work hard at staying patient with each other, but I am sure it can be done. We both seem filled with regret at things said and done in the past, and I believe we can work through it—we can be in each other’s lives again. That tableau I enjoyed so much outside doesn’t need to be a one-off. I can stay here, and find work nearby, and rebuild, I tell myself. I won’t feel trapped; I will feel content—I will feel useful. The road trip, the blog, even my friendship with Luke, maybe that was all just a precursor—maybe that was just what it took to get me back here. To get me home. To the place where, I really hope, I will actually find my joy.
I repeat these things to myself as I get ready for dinner, drying my hair and putting on a freshly washed sundress and even stealing a little of Shannon’s discarded lip gloss. I still only have the choice between flip-flops and sneakers, but I can live with that.
By the time I make my way downstairs again, everyone is mooching around in the big dining room, chatting and drinking. It is a grand room, with high ceilings and ornate plasterwork, a huge picture window framing the sweeping coastal views. When I was growing up, we called it the Museum—because we rarely used it, and when we did, it was for formal occasions, and we had to be very careful not to knock over a vase or kick a chair leg or scuff the old oak parquet.
It still looks like the Museum as I walk in, with its framed oil paintings on plain painted walls and its velvet curtains, but the rules have clearly been loosened. The three teenagers are sitting on the floor playing cards, and Betty and Frank are curled up together on the deep burgundy chaise longue. Richard doesn’t even have any shoes on, which makes me feel better about the flip-flops.
My mum has, of course, changed for dinner—because while she might be less demanding about other people’s standards these days, hers remain rigidly high. Her hair is a shining silver bob, and her makeup is subtle, and I can smell her Chanel No. 5 from across the room. Dad is pouring drinks from the cabinet, and Luke is chatting to him, waiting to pass around glasses. He sees me come into the room and flashes me a smile. He has swapped out his usual rock-related tops for a navy blue polo shirt, which, by his standards, is pretty much a tuxedo.
I walk over to them, say hi to my dad.
“What’s your poison, love?” he asks, gesturing at the cabinet. I swear some of the drinks in there are exactly the same bottles I used to pinch measures from as a teenager, sneakily refilling them with water. “You used to be partial to an illicit vodka, I seem to recall...”
I find myself blushing, embarrassed even as a totally grown-up woman that my dad had sussed me out all those years ago. Maybe I wasn’t as sneaky as I thought. “We knew what you were up to,” he adds, grinning. “Richard had done the same, of course. When we realized, we started watering it down ourselves, in advance of you pinching it.”
“So all those times I thought I was being wild and rebellious and drunk on vodka, I was actually just drunk on tap water?”
“Yep—we’re not so dumb as we look! What about now? I think you’re old enough for the hard stuff...”
“Anything at all, Dad,” I say, realizing at the look of glee that crosses his face that I may have made a mistake.
“Go on,” he says, waving his hands at us, “off you scoot, you two. I’ll bring it over when it’s done.”
“You look nice,” Luke says as we make our way toward the table.
My mother glances at us, and I wonder if we are breaching some of her etiquette—in fact, I am amazed she hasn’t put out name cards.
“So do you,” I reply, raising my eyebrows at him in what I hope is an amusingly saucy fashion. “You scrub up well.”
“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “I’ve been told I’m pretty hot for an old man.”
I see my dad lurching toward us holding a glass of bright green liquid decorated with a swizzle stick and a jazzy little umbrella on a cocktail stick. “My own invention,” he declares, placing it down in front of me. “Gin, crème de menthe, a few secret ingredients... enjoy!”
I thank him and wait until he’s gone to tell Luke he made a solid choice by sticking with a glass of red.
Before long, Mum ushers everyone toward the table and gets the youngsters to help her bring the food through. It is quite the feast—roast chicken, thickly sliced ham, big bowls of crisp roasted potatoes, salad, heaps of steaming veg, boats of rich gravy. I toy with the idea of claiming to be a vegan these days, but it seems too cruel. I do like a cheap laugh, but now might not be the right time.
“This is a lot grander than I’m used to,” murmurs Luke, as Mum starts to dish up and pass around plates.
“It’s not that grand. At least she didn’t use the dinner gong.”
“There’s an actual dinner gong?”
“Oh yes. To be fair, they picked it up at a jumble sale and used to use it for a laugh, but it makes a hell of a noise!”
Before long, all eight of us are busy eating and talking and drinking, the conversation flowing quite well, everyone seeming to be in a good mood. By the time we reach dessert—homemade raspberry cheesecake and cream from the organic dairy next door—there are more lulls, more pockets of silence as we all sit and quietly contemplate the fact that we have eaten so much that we may require wheelbarrows to ever leave the room.
“So, Luke,” pipes up Richard from his end of the table, “quite a monster, that motorhome of yours. I saw the antenna—on-board Wi-Fi?”
“Yep, works well,” replies Luke. “Better than I expected.”
“Have you ever thought about solar panels?” Richard continues.
I am uncertain as to why my brother is so interested, or knows so much about motorhomes, but I do not give that thought a voice. The obvious answer is that I have been away for a very long time, and I really have no idea where his interests lie.
They chat about it for a while, my dad pitching in to ask a few questions, my mum taking a polite interest as she delicately sips her small glass of wine, until Richard asks: “So, big rig like that, Luke, must have set you back a bit—got to be what, 200K, 300K?”
There is a pause, and my mother uses her very best headteacher voice as she says: “That is not appropriate conversation for the dinner table, Richard!”
