he asks. I just don’t know if I can trust him.’
‘Hmm,’ says my mum, one finger on her cheek as if consider ing this point seriously, and I remember the times I’d ask her when she’d be back home from a party or dinner with friends. ‘Hmm . . .’ she’d say, finger on cheek, and after a long pause, ‘not late, darling. Not too late.’ And then, when I’d final y got to sleep, worn out by being terrified by noises inside the flat that I thought were rats or sinister intruders, and of being terrified by noises outside the flat that I knew were masked robbers or deranged psychopaths, in the dark stil hours of the early morning I’d hear the creak of the door and the soft tap on the parquet floor as she crept past my room to her bed. ‘Hmm . . . I’m just not sure.’
‘I am,’ I say. ‘I can’t trust him. I can’t have him back if I don’t trust him.’
‘He’s your husband, and he looks after you, and you don’t have to worry about anything,’ Mum says sharply. ‘I think you need to look at it like that instead, Natasha. I mean, he didn’t
‘What?’ I am momentarily stunned, as though this is a modern-day version of
She stares at me defiantly. ‘Sometimes, darling, I think you just don’t get it at al . I’m just saying it’s hard, being on your own.’
I can’t answer this, as I know she’s right, but I can’t agree with her without hurting her feelings. ‘I just don’t know, Mum,’ I say. ‘I look at our life together and I—’
She interrupts me. ‘Relationships aren’t perfect,’ she says. ‘They’re not. You have to work at them. You were the first of your friends to get married, weren’t you?’ This is true, and I’m surprised she’s aware of it. ‘Perhaps you just don’t see your other friends in the same situations as you.
And I’ve certainly not been much of a role model in that direction, have I?’ She grimaces, blinking rapidly.
‘He slept with someone, Mum. He didn’t forget our anniversary. It’s a bit different.’
‘Like I say. People make mistakes.’ She pauses. ‘Your grandparents are a good example. But they got over it.’
‘How? What do you mean?’
‘I mean –’ Mum begins, and then she stops. Her mouth is open, as though she’s not sure how to continue, and then we hear a noise.
‘Hel o?’ someone cal s from upstairs. ‘Hel o? I think your grandfather needs help.’ I push open the swinging kitchen door. An old lady is standing at the top of the stairs, peering out of the dark. ‘I just came up here to use the lavatory and I heard him . . . he’s cal ing for someone.’
I see Louisa breaking away from her husband and Guy and hurrying towards the hal . I step out.
‘I’l go,’ I say suddenly, watching my mother’s face. I can hear Arvind’s voice, growing louder.
‘Someone needs to come up here!’ he is squeaking. ‘Immediately!’
‘Thanks,’ I say to the old lady, who is waiting at the bend in the staircase. ‘See you later, Mum,’ I say, and I run up the stairs, my hands running along the smooth, dark wood of the banisters.
‘I do hope he’s al right,’ the old lady says, looking anxiously towards the closed bedroom door. I push it open and go in.
Chapter Nine
‘Hel o, Natasha,’ Arvind says. He is sitting up in bed, smal as a child, bald as a baby, his hands wrinkled and lying on the crisp white sheets. The wheelchair is parked neatly in the corner; a metal stand is next to the bed. They don’t go with the room, these metal hospital items. They don’t match.
I love this room, perhaps more than any other in the house. But here on this dark February evening the heavy brocade curtains are drawn, and it is gloomy, with only the light from a lamp on Arvind’s side of the bed. On Granny’s side the sheets are smooth, and the bedside table is empty except for a blue plastic beaker; there’s stil water in it. I wonder how long it would take for it to evaporate al away.
‘What’s up, Arvind?’ I say. ‘Are you al right?’
‘I was bored,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to sleep. I wanted to put some music on, but I was prevented by your wel -meaning relative.’ He nods. His teeth are on the side, in a jar. His voice is muffled.
‘Music?’ I say, trying not to smile. ‘I like Charles Trenet, so does your grandmother. When is a better time than at her funeral to play a compact disc of Charles Trenet? But that is not important.’ He taps the sheets with his fingers. They are etiolated and dry, dead twigs scraping the smooth linen. His mind is working away though, looking at me. He screws up his face. ‘Sit down.’
I sit down on the edge of the bed. ‘Do you know what the col ective noun for rooks is?’ Arvind asks.
‘What?’ I say.
‘The col ective noun for rooks. It has been annoying me. Al day.’
‘No idea, sorry,’ I say. ‘A rookery?’
‘No.’ He glares at me in annoyance. ‘I would ask your grandmother. She would know.’
‘She would,’ I say. I glance at him. ‘It is sad,’ my grandfather says. His hands work away at the sheet. He stares up at the ceiling. ‘So, how is the atmosphere downstairs? I must admit I was not sorry to have to retire. I was finding it rather exhausting.’
‘Most people have gone,’ I say. ‘But there’s stil a hard-core group left.’
‘Your grandmother was a very popular woman,’ Arvind says. ‘She had a lot of admirers. The house used to be ful of them. Long time ago.’
I say, trying to keep my voice light, ‘Wel , you may find a couple of them sleeping on the sofas tomorrow
