from the passenger seat, summons up all his powers of concentration, and steps out of the car.
‘What a ridiculous machine,’ tuts his father.
‘Well you don’t have to drive it, do you?’ Dexter takes comfort from the ease of the old routine, his father stern and square, the son irresponsible and cocky.
‘Don’t think I’d fit in it anyway. Toys for boys. We were expecting you some time ago.’
‘How are you, old man?’ says Dexter, feeling a sudden swell of affection for his dear old dad, and instinctively he loops his arms around his father’s back, rubs it and then, excruciatingly, kisses his father’s cheek.
They freeze.
Somehow Dexter has developed a kiss reflex. He has made the ‘mmmmoi’ noise in his father’s tufted ear. Some unconscious part of him thinks that he is back under the railway arches with Gibbsy and Tara and Spex. He can feel the saliva, wet on his lip and he can see the consternation on his father’s face as he looks down at his son, an Old Testament look. Sons kissing fathers — a law of nature has been broken. Not yet through the front door and already the illusion of sobriety has shattered. His father sniffs — either with distaste or because he is sniffing his son’s breath, and Dexter is not sure which is worse.
‘Your mother is in the garden. She’s been waiting for you all morning.’
‘How is she?’ he asks. Perhaps he’ll say ‘much better’.
‘Go and see. I’ll put the kettle on.’
The hallway is dark and cool after the sun’s glare. His older sister Cassie is entering from the back garden, a tray in her hands, her face aglow with competence, commonsense and piety. At thirty-four she has settled into the role of stern hospital matron, and the part suits her. Half smile, half scowl, she touches her cheek against his. ‘The prodigal returns!’
Dexter’s mind is not so addled that he can’t recognise a dig, but he ignores the remark and glances at the tray. A bowl of grey brown cereal dissolved in milk, the spoon by its side, unused. ‘How is she?’ he asks. Perhaps she’ll say ‘much improved’.
‘Go and find out,’ says Cassie, and he squeezes past and wonders: Why will no-one tell me how she is?
From the doorway he watches her. She is sitting in an old-fashioned wing-backed chair that has been carried out to face the view across the fields and woods, Oxford a grey hazy smudge in the distance. From this angle, her face is obscured by a large sunhat and sunglasses — the light hurts her eyes these days — but he can tell by the slender arms and the way her hand lolls on the padded arm of the chair that she has changed a great deal in the three weeks since he last came to see her. He has a sudden urge to cry. He wants to curl up like a child and feel her put her arms around him, and he also wants to run from here as fast as he can, but neither are possible, so instead he trots down the steps, an artificially buoyant jog, a chat-show host.
‘Hellooo there!’
She smiles as if smiling itself has become an effort. He stoops beneath the brim of her hat to kiss her, the skin of her cheek disconcertingly cool, taut and shiny. A headscarf is tied beneath her hat to disguise her hair loss, but he tries not to scrutinise her face too closely as he quickly reaches for a rusting metal garden chair. Noisily, he pulls it close and arranges it outwards so that they are both facing the view, but he can feel her eyes on him.
‘You’re sweating,’ she says.
‘Well it’s a hot day.’ She looks unconvinced. Not good enough. Concentrate. Remember who you’re talking to.
‘You’re soaked through’
‘It’s this shirt. Artificial fibre.’
She reaches across and touches his shirt with the back of her hand. Her nose wrinkles with distaste. ‘Where from?’
‘Prada.’
‘Expensive.’
‘Only the best,’ then keen to change the subject he retrieves the parcel from the rockery wall. ‘Present for you.’
‘How lovely.’
‘Not from me, from Emma.’
‘I can tell, from the wrapping.’ Carefully she undoes the ribbon. ‘Yours come in taped-up bin bags. .’
‘That’s not true. .’ he smiles, keeping things light-hearted.
‘. . when they come at all.’
He’s finding it harder to maintain this smile, but thankfully her eyes are on the parcel as she carefully folds the paper back, revealing a pile of paperback books: Edith Wharton, some Raymond Chandler, F. Scott Fitzgerald. ‘How kind of her. Will you thank her for me? Lovely Emma Morley.’ She looks at the cover of the Fitzgerald. ‘
‘But which is which?’ he says without thinking, but thankfully she doesn’t seem to have heard. Instead she’s reading the back of the postcard, a black and white agit-prop collage from ’82; ‘Thatcher Out!’ She laughs. ‘Such a kind girl. So funny.’ She takes the novel and measures its thickness between finger and thumb. ‘A little optimistic maybe. You might want to push her towards short stories in future.’
Dexter smiles and sniffs obediently but he hates this type of thing, gallows humour. It’s meant to show pluck, to lift the spirits, but he finds it boring and stupid. He would prefer the unsayable to be left unsaid. ‘How is Emma anyway?’
‘Very good, I think. She’s a fully qualified teacher now. Job interview today.’
‘Now there’s a profession.’ She turns her head to look at him. ‘Weren’t you going to be a teacher once? What happened there?’
He recognises the dig. ‘Didn’t suit me.’
‘No’ is all she says. There is a silence and he feels the day slip from his control once more. Dexter had been led to believe, by TV, by films, that the only up-side of sickness was that it brought people closer, that there would be an opening-up, an effortless understanding between them. But they have always been close, always been open, and their habitual understanding has instead been replaced by bitterness, resentment, a rage on both their parts at what is happening. Meetings that should be fond and comforting descend into bickering and recrimination. Eight hours ago he was telling complete strangers his most intimate secrets, and now he can’t talk to his mother. Something isn’t right.
‘So. I saw
‘Did you?’
She is silent, so he’s forced to add, ‘What did you think?’
‘I think you’re very good. Very natural. You look very nice on the screen. As I’ve said before, I don’t care for the programme very much.’
‘Well it’s not really meant for people like you, is it?’
She bridles at the phrase, and turns her head imperiously. ‘What do you mean, people like me?’
Flustered, he continues, ‘I mean, it’s just a silly, late-night programme, that’s all. It’s post-pub—’
‘You mean I wasn’t
‘No—’
‘I’m not a prude either, I don’t mind vulgarity, I just don’t understand why it’s suddenly necessary to humiliate people all the time—’
‘No-one’s humiliated, not really, it’s fun—’
‘You have competitions to find Britain’s ugliest girlfriend. You don’t think that’s humiliating?’
‘Not really, no—’
‘Asking men to send in photos of their ugly girlfriends. .’
‘It’s fun, the whole point is the guys love them even though they’re. . not conventionally attractive, that’s the whole point, it’s fun!’
‘You keep saying it’s fun, are you trying to convince me, or yourself?’
‘Let’s just not talk about it, shall we?’
‘And do you think they find it fun, the girlfriends, the “mingers”—’
‘Mum, I just introduce the bands, that’s all. I just ask pop stars about their exciting new video, that’s my job. It’s a means to an end.’
‘But to
