The Age of Misadventure

I mutter, ‘He’s sticking his arms round other women. She’s stuck it for over twenty-five years. It’s time they became unstuck, Nan.’ Again, she doesn’t hear.

‘Mind you, I don’t like that Adie Carrick. I liked Terry Wood, though. He was a nice lad. Your Jade’s just like him, you know.’

I’d been fond of him, too. I breathe out and glance at my phone again. ‘Unreliable, you mean?’ No texts, no messages.

I dry my hands and go back to the lounge. She’s calling to me, her eyes on the television.

‘Good-looking, both of them, father and daughter. Fit, well made. She’s the image of him. Same violet eyes. You should have hung on to him, Georgina.’

I sit down and shrug. ‘He took off with another woman, Nan. Remember? Alison with the little rabbity face. Seriously, she even dresses like Jessica Rabbit. Tight outfits, silly posh voice. She thinks she’s sex on legs. He thinks so, too.’

‘Where did he move to?’

‘Ealing. Where the comedies come from.’

I’m looking at the back of her head. She’s still staring at the television.

‘He has a little lad now?’ she asks.

‘You know he does. He must be four years old or thereabouts.’

She turns to me and frowns.

‘He’s called Arran. Like the sweater.’

She nods and drains her tea, puts the cup back on the table and inspects the empty Guinness glass.

‘You’ll come over on Tuesday then, Georgina?’

‘Like always, Nan. I’ll bring you a few extra things.’

‘I’d like some of those double-chocolate biscuits with the white bits in them.’

‘All right, Nan.’

‘And …’ She raises the empty bottle.

‘All right, Nan.’

‘It’s the second half now. We’re playing the blue ones and they’re losing by a goal. The ones in blue are from London. There’s a nice little one though, very cute. Dark hair in a knot on top of his head. He’s about to hit the bar. Watch a minute.’

I lean on her chair and stare at the screen. After some nifty footwork, an earnest-looking little man in a blue jersey with his hair pulled back from his face cracks a shot against the post. The ball slams hard and the wood snaps like it might split. The little footballer puts his hands to his head and gazes up at the sky.

‘How did you know that was about to happen?’

She grins, her lips wet with the last of the Guinness. ‘It’s yesterday’s game. It’s a repeat. They’re showing it again. Cheap telly. You off now?’

‘Yes, Nan.’

‘I’ll see you on Tuesday, will I, Georgina? Let yourself out.’

‘Righto, Nan.’ I turn to go and she fumbles with the empty glass.

‘One more of these?’

‘You’ve had two.’

‘Another one makes three. I can still count. I’m not drunk yet, am I? Or demented.’

I shrug and go to the kitchen, wave an opener at the serrated lid and bring in a fresh bottle. I kiss the top of her woollen hat.

‘You warm enough, Nan?’

‘Just about. The heating’s expensive so I keep it on low.’ She glances up and her eyes narrow, crafty as a fox’s ‘You don’t want to worry about me, Georgina. I’m all right.’ She stares right into my eyes. ‘I’m not the only one who’s lonely, misses a bit of company.’

I shrug on the pink woollen coat, pull my boots on. ‘I’m not lonely.’

‘Get away with you,’ she chuckles. ‘I can smell it on you. You think you’re independent. But you’re getting older and you have nobody to care about you. Jade’ll be off soon enough, you mark my words. And you’ll be all by yourself, watching telly by yourself every night, cold and thinking about the past and all the opportunities you missed, with no one to talk to. You know, Georgina, what you really need is a bloody good—’

‘I’m off now. See you on Tuesday, Nan. Enjoy the football.’

‘It’s getting interesting now. The little dark-haired one is mustard. He’s got the ball again. He’s running with it. He’s a little whirlwind. He’s going to shoot. He gets a goal in a minute. We draw with them, two-all in the end.’

‘Bye, Nanny.’

I close the door behind me with a snap, put the key in my pocket and smile to myself. It’s the same every Sunday – Nan grumbling about the food and her aches and pains – and Tuesdays and Fridays aren’t much better. But she’s part of my routine and I’m used to it. I suppose I even like it. Nan’s one of those strong women, full of determination and sharp of tongue, although she’s becoming frail now. I head towards the park and check my phone but no one’s called or messaged. It’s ten past three. Nanny didn’t say thanks for lunch. But then, she never does.

Chapter Two (#ulink_901eb1c7-4ca2-5439-b3dd-30cd16c50705)

As I walk through the park, the sound of a police car siren drifts from the road. I shiver and automatically check my phone. Still no messages – I’m worried. My heart’s started to squeeze itself tight like a soft rubber ball in my chest. I give in: I press buttons with my thumb to dial. After a few seconds, Jade’s voice is loud in my ear. ‘What is it, Mum?’ I wonder why I didn’t phone her before. Of course, I know why. I don’t want another Jade tirade, accusing me of being the embarrassing smothering mother. I hear a sharp intake of breath at the other end.

She says, ‘What’s the problem?’

‘I was just wondering where you are—’

She puffs out air. Her way of telling me I’m exasperating; my maternal concern has annoyed her. ‘I’m with friends. But last night I—’

‘Last night you what?’

‘Never mind, Mum.I’ll be home later.’ There’s a pause; I’m waiting for her to tell me more. ‘Is there anything the matter?’

‘No, Jade. I just wanted to make sure you …’ I’ve already said too much.

‘Fine, I’ll see you later, okay?’

The phone clicks before I have time to reply. I’m pleased she’s all right but there’s the sinking feeling that I’ve interfered where I shouldn’t. I play back the call in my head. She’s told me nothing, except that she’s not happy that I’ve phoned and that something may have happened last night. At least I know she’s all right. I try to infer something from her words: where she was, who she might have been with, and there are no answers. Just my imagination overloading me with worrying images: Jade drinking too much; in clubs with the wrong sort of people; the wrong sort of men; the wrong man. I remind myself she’s streetwise; she’s at a friend’s, staying over, celebrating or sleeping it off. But something wriggles, niggles: mother’s instinct, perhaps, or just plain worry. I put my phone back in my pocket and try to put my fears away with it. They stay in my mind, buzzing like flies on a hot day.

I pick up my pace. I’m not far from home and, in my mind, I already have the kettle on. Maybe I’ll cook something nice for Jade, for when she comes in. I’ve decided some nourishing soup will do her good after being out on the town all night. In our house, food has always been part of the family culture: something to share, to nourish, to make with love for those we care about. My grandmother’s recipe for Scouse was passed down to my mum and to Nan. There wasn’t much money in our house, but my parents would offer a good meal to anyone who came to the door. We’d all sit round the table, chattering and laughing, and I try to keep the tradition: the family who eats together stays together. Of course, that’s no longer true in my case with Terry gone, but I try to make sure everyone who sits at my table shares food and drink and feels welcome.