‘Hello, Gary,’ I said. ‘I’ve brought a few more groceries.’
The bag was plucked from my hand. Lola took it to the worktop by the overflowing sink and delved inside. Next to her, an electric kettle hissed as it heated up.
‘There are a few other things in there as well,’ I said, as she pulled out the chicken.
‘I can see that,’ she snapped, pausing to inhale the greasy foil wrapper before setting it aside. I had to hide a smile as she continued to forage in the brown paper bag, as engrossed as a child at Christmas. Poached salmon, a wedge of farmhouse Cheddar and a pork pie all joined the chicken on the worktop. It wasn’t the sort of food a dietician would approve of, or that I’d have advised when I worked as a GP. But Lola and her son looked like they could do with a treat. Sometimes the soul needed feeding as well as the body.
I watched as Lola unwrapped the warm chicken and tore off a piece of skin with her fingers. She gave a little grunt of pleasure when she put it in her mouth, actually closing her eyes for a second as she chewed. I looked back at her son, wondering if he’d be able to enjoy it as well. He might not be able to eat solids, and I couldn’t see anything like a food processor where his meals could be liquidized. Perhaps that was something else that needed looking at.
The kettle began to bubble on the worktop, mercifully drowning out the tinny piano music. Lola crammed another piece of meat into her mouth before wrapping up the chicken again. Sucking the grease from her fingers, she wiped them on her cardigan before turning to regard me.
‘What’re you after?’
You’re welcome. ‘I’m not after anything.’
‘I’m not stupid. You didn’t bring all this for no reason. If I was younger, I’d think you were trying to get in my knickers.’
‘Well, I’m not.’
I kept a straight face, wondering what her son was making of the conversation. Lola made a wheezing noise, as though she was clearing her chest. I realized she was laughing.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not blind either.’ The laughter died, as though switched off. ‘I told you before, I don’t want charity.’
‘It isn’t charity. I just thought you and your son might enjoy it.’
For some reason that was the wrong thing to say. Her face hardened. Behind her, the kettle switched itself off with a clunk. Lola stared at me a moment longer, then turned back to the kettle.
‘You might as well sit down now you’re here. Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk,’ I said, taken by surprise.
The trilling piano music fought with the clock as I went to the small kitchen table. I was conscious of Gary’s eyes on me as I pulled out a chair and sat down.
‘You going back there again today?’ Lola asked, pouring boiling water into mugs.
My mind went blank. ‘Where?’
‘St Jude’s, where do you think?’ She gave me a crafty look. ‘I told you, I’m not stupid. I can tell you’re not local, and there’s no other reason you’d be hanging around this place.’
I’d ducked her questions before, when I’d seen her at the ruined church. But there didn’t seem much point in being evasive any more.
‘No, I’m not going there today.’
‘You’re not police, though.’
There was a calculation in the way she said it, as though she wanted it confirming. ‘No.’
‘So what are you? One of them forensic types? CSIs, or whatever?’
‘Something like that.’
She nodded, satisfied. ‘Thought so. You’ve got that look about you.’
I didn’t know what sort of look she meant, but didn’t ask. ‘How about you?’
‘What do you mean?’
The suspicion was back. ‘You were collecting litter in the woods. Is that something you do regularly?’
‘Not when the weather’s like this. My sciatica’s bad enough without falling in there.’ She mashed the teabags against the sides of the mugs with a spoon. ‘I like it in there, though. It’s a change of scenery. You could be miles away.’
I knew what she meant. Surrounded by the mature woodland, the ancient church ruins seemed a long way from these run-down streets.
‘So how long were you a nurse for?’ I asked, hoping to steer the conversation to one of the reasons I’d gone there.
‘Long enough.’
‘Where did you work? You said it wasn’t St Jude’s.’
She glared at me. ‘Why are you so interested?’
‘I’m just making conversation.’
Lola favoured me with a dark look before spooning three heaped sugars into one of the mugs. ‘I worked all over. You married?’
The abrupt change of subject caught me off guard. ‘No.’
‘You should be, man your age. Something wrong with you?’
I didn’t want to get into my personal life, but I’d just been quizzing Lola about hers. ‘I’m a widower.’
It’s a sentence that can elicit all types of response, from embarrassment to sympathy. Lola’s was none of them.
‘How’d she die?’
Her tone was as disinterested as when she’d asked if I took milk in my tea. But at least I could answer without having to worry about it being awkward.
‘It was a car accident,’ I said, feeling the usual sense of unreality about it even now. ‘What about you? Are you married?’
‘I was. Still am, I suppose.’ She gave a contemptuous shrug. ‘My husband slung his hook years ago. Good riddance. Worked in the merchant navy so he was hardly here anyway, and when he was he was filthy drunk. Rotten bastard. He was a sod to my Gary sober, and when he’d had a drink he was even worse. We were better off without him.’
It was the most I’d heard her say. There was a stiffness about her actions as she took a container of milk from the fridge, as though she was self-conscious after her outburst.
‘You got any kids?’ she asked, pouring the milk.
‘We had a daughter. She was in the car with my wife.’
Lola turned to look at me, the milk container poised in her hand. Then she set it down and began stirring the tea.
‘You know what it’s like, then. You put all your life and soul into them. Do your best, try to protect them. Then something happens, and that’s it. All gone.’
She threw the teabags into the sink with a wet slap. I glanced over at her son, uneasy at having this conversation in front of him. His mouth worked feebly as he watched us. Right then I couldn’t have said if I felt worse for him or for his mother.
‘Don’t mind him, I’m not saying anything he doesn’t know,’ Lola said. She turned to him. ‘He knows what’s what. Don’t you?’
Her son stared at her.
‘When did the stroke happen?’ I asked, including her son in the question as Lola brought over the teas.
‘It must have been… no, hang on.’ She frowned, setting down the mugs on the table. The rim of mine was chipped and stained brown with old tannin and a film of grease glinted on the tea’s surface. ‘Must be eighteen months ago now. Came right out of the blue. No warning. One minute he was fine, the next…’
She went to the cabinet and picked up the largest of the framed photographs. It showed her and her son on a windswept seafront, hair streaming sideways with their coats buttoned up to the neck.
‘This is my favourite. He was fifteen when that was taken. Southend,’ she said, holding it out to show me. ‘You can see what a big lad he was. Strong as an ox, my Gary. Always liked physical work. He could turn his hand to anything. Did all this kitchen himself. Plumbing, joinery, you name it.’
I studied the photograph to conceal the effect of her words. Her son stood with his eyes downcast, a large, overweight teenager with crooked teeth. His shy smile verged on apologetic. Next to him, his mother stared at the camera with a pride that was almost defiant.