Page 44 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
His mother opened the door before he’d even paid the taxi, Romeo framed between her legs. The dog was peering out at the falling rain, ears flat against his head, no doubt hoping this wasas close to the deluge the welcoming committee was expected to get. Mark ran to the front door, his jacket held over his head. As if joined together like a pantomime horse, his mother and the dog moved backwards.
‘Not very nice out, is it, boyo?’ she chortled, shaking his jacket before hanging it, still dripping, from the newel post.
Mark sucked in a deep breath. His mother had aged. She was smiling, but standing lopsided, with one hip raised and her foot off the ground like a large flamingo. Her face was pallid and drawn. It was chilly for June. Would a blast of sun help?
He hugged her, squeezing some of her love into him, inhaling the smell of freshly baked bread and scones clinging to her housecoat, that yeasty sweet smell that made him feel cocooned and safe, like a child tucked up in bed while a storm raged outside. She didn’t wear expensive perfume like Emily; this was her scent, and he loved it.
‘Mum, are you unwell?’ he spoke into her housecoat, before releasing her.
She pushed him upright, smiling. ‘Mustn’t grumble, lad. Romeo has been a bit of a pest, playing his Houdini games.’
‘Where do you want me, Mum? Front room, or kitchen?’
‘Front room. Romeo and I will get you a beer to start with, then we’ll eat in the kitchen. We’ll be there in a minute now.’ His mother limped off, the corgi trotting in her footsteps like a four-legged shadow.
He left his case at the foot of the stairs and, holding the bouquet he’d picked up from the station florist, crossed to the doorway of the hallowed room and the painting he’d known all his life, a salutary reminder of the fate that awaited him if he didn’t study hard. He may not have ended up down the pit, but he had been determined to escape the life his mother lived, housed by the council, fitting in jobs around childcare, waiting for her feckless husband to call. Mark gave a curt nod at thepicture, as if thanking it for reminding him that his lifestyle was worth fighting for. His plan would work. Devon was due to exchange contracts – committing the purchaser – by the end of the month, and Ovington Square was now under offer. By September, the Ellis bank account would be swelled by millions of pounds, and he could start sleeping through the night again, instead of staring at the overhead fan, fretting about a bank balance that seemed to be in freefall.
He glanced along the corridor. His mother was shuffling awkwardly towards the kitchen, her right leg swinging oddly each time she used it. He heard a peculiar noise and held his breath, his mind spinning, trying to identify the sound. It was a wheezing noise – since when had his mother become asthmatic? At the kitchen door, Romeo shot a glance in Mark’s direction, then trotted into the room after his mistress. The door shut.
Stealthily reopening the kitchen door, Mark caught a whiff of home cooking, a mixture of fried onions and baking pastry. He was already salivating. On the table was a plate of griddled Welsh cakes, the pastries speckled with dark currants like blots of ink. He sidled over and snatched up a cake, biting into it and letting the crumbly creamy texture coat his tongue.
‘Yum,’ he said.
‘Ready for that beer?’ she asked.
Mark was used to his mother whizzing around the kitchen, and he winced as she limped about familiar tasks.
‘Let’s go private on that hip, Mum. You’re obviously in pain.’
‘Save your money, boyo. My turn will soon come. I can’t be doing with queue-jumping – it’s not right.’
‘I don’t like to see you in pain. Let me sort this out.’ He held up the bouquet. ‘I got you these.’
She took the flowers, dipped her head into the blooms and sniffed, then ran water into the sink and pushed the stems in.
‘You should listen to young Alex,’ she said. ‘I can’t be doingwith this privatization of the NHS. Before you know it, we’ll be back to my parents’ days when you couldn’t afford to see a doctor unless you were rich.’
He ignored the comment. ‘Are you on painkillers?’
His mother rubbed her hip with one hand, gripping the side of the sink with the other for support. Slowly, using the edge of the counter, she moved to the cooker and bent down to peek through the oven door. Mark thought she was ignoring him, then she stood up, and patted her hip. ‘Popping them like sweeties, boyo. Now, onion gravy, peas and sweetcorn?’
He wasn’t giving up at the first hurdle. ‘Have you been given a date for the operation?’
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Beer’s in the fridge. Help yourself. You know where the glasses are.’
He opened a beer and poured the contents carefully into a tall, slim glass, keeping one eye on his mother as she dragged herself about the room, draining vegetables, piling them onto plates and adding butter.
The game continued: ‘You have to badger them.’
‘I’ve told you, I’m under the doctor, and he says it’ll be seen to. That’s the end of it. Now sit yourself down, else the batter will sink and that would be a shame when it’s risen so well, wouldn’t it?’
A plate appeared in front of him, and he was engulfed with love for his mother, seeing her grinning face as a stream of thick, brown gravy speckled with streaks of white onion smothered his vegetables. She avoided the batter, knowing he preferred it crisp.
Mark looked up from his plate of sweet-smelling food and examined his mother closely. Her face was pale, drawn. He reached out and grasped her hand as she lowered herself into the chair opposite him, her right leg sticking out in front of her as if glued into position.
‘Why don’t you come out to Portugal and get a bit of sun?Emily would love to see you.’ If they could shut the B&B for Mary and Charles, they could certainly do it for his mother!
As he stroked her hand, her face softened. She picked up her knife and fork and shook her head. ‘No, lad, I don’t want to leave Romeo, and I can’t be eating strange food – gives me indigestion. Now tuck in, we don’t want it going cold, do we?’
