Beyond Black: A Novel

longitude and twelve noon, like some bucking bronco, or a sad mutt with no pedigree. She did call his mum, one evening when she’d had a half bottle of wine and was feeling perverse.

“Renee, is that you?” she said.

Renee said, “How did you get my name?”

“It’s me,” she said, and Renee replied. “I’ve got replacement windows, and replacement doors. I’ve got a conservatory and the loft conversion’s coming next week. I never give to charity, thank you, and I’ve planned my holiday for this year, and I had a new kitchen when you were last in my area.”

“It’s about Gavin,” she said. “It’s me, Colette. I need to know when he was born.”

“Take my name off your list,” her mother-in-law said. “And if you must call me, could you not call during my programme? It’s one of my few remaining pleasures.” There was a pause, as if she were going to put the receiver down. Then she spoke again. “Not that I need any others. I’ve had my suite recovered. I have a spa bath already. And a case of vintage wine. And a stair lift to help me keep my independence. Have you got that? Are you taking notice? Bugger off.”

Click.

Colette held the phone. Daughter-in-law of fourteen months, spurned by his mother. She replaced the receiver, and walked into the kitchen. She stood by the double sink, mastering herself. “Gavin,” she called, “do you want peas or green beans?”

There was no answer. She stalked into the sitting room. Gavin, his bare feet on the sofa arm, was reading What Car?

“Peas or green beans?” she asked.

No reply.

“Gavin!” she said.

“With wot?”

“Cutlets.”

“What’s that?”

“Lamb. Lamb chops.”

“Okay,” he said. “Whatever. Both.”

“You can’t.” Her voice shook. “Two green veg, you can’t.”

“Who says?”

“Your mother,” she said; she felt she could say anything, as he never listened.

“When?”

“Just now on the phone.”

“My mother was on the phone?”

“Just now.”

“Bloody amazing.” He shook his head and flicked over a page.

“Why? Why should it be?”

“Because she’s dead.”

“What? Renee?” Colette sat down on the sofa arm: later, when she told the story, she would say, well, at that point, my legs went from under me. But she would never be able to recapture the sudden fright, the weakness that ran through her body, her anger, her indignation, the violent exasperation that possessed her. She said, “What the hell do you mean, she’s dead?”

“It happened this morning. My sis rang. Carole.”

“Is this a joke? I need to know. Is this a joke? Because if it is, Gavin, I’ll kneecap you.”

Gavin raised his eyebrows, as if to say, why would it be funny?

“I didn’t suggest it was,” she said at once: why wait for him to speak? “I asked if it was your idea of a joke.”

“God help anybody who made a joke around here.”

Colette laid her hand on her rib cage, behind which something persistently fluttered. She stood up. She walked into the kitchen. She stared at the ceiling. She took a deep breath. She came back. “Gavin?”

“Mm?”

“She’s really dead?”

“Mm.”

She wanted to hit him. “How?”

“Heart.”

“Oh, God! Have you no feeling? You can sit there, going peas or beans—”

“You went that,” he said reasonably.

“Weren’t you going to tell me? If I hadn’t said, your mother was on the phone—”