Chapter Five – Sunday Lunch

Sunday 5^th November

Catherine was a traditionalist at heart.  During the week, she didn’t mind too much if the kids ate their evening meals on trays in front of the TV or in their rooms, but Sunday lunch was set out on the table with a clean cloth, proper china and, while there was still some in the larder, a bottle of wine.

‘It’s ready!’

She had shouted the five minute warning up the stairs ten minutes earlier but neither of her daughters had yet appeared.

‘Kirsty!  Alex!’

‘Coming!’

Kirsty’s footsteps, disproportionately loud and stomping for a slightly-built thirteen-year old, thundered down the stairs.

‘What is it?’ she asked, peering into the kitchen.

‘Dinner time.’

‘I know, duh!  I mean, what are we having to eat?’

‘Roast chicken’

‘We had that last week.’

‘I thought you liked it?’

‘I do, but not every Sunday!’

‘I’ve done sweet potato roasties too.’  Catherine slipped a pair of oven gloves onto her younger daughter’s hands and, wearing her own, passed her the dish of vegetables.

‘Cool!’

Kirsty, who could be a picky eater, loved sweet potatoes.  If Alex didn’t get down to dinner soon, she would miss out on those.

‘Alex!  Dinner!’

Catherine carried her daughters’ plates to the table before going back for hers.  There were only a couple of thin slices of chicken breast on it.  By using the bird sparingly, she could get another couple of meals out of it.

‘Alexandra!’

‘Alright!’ 

More footsteps clattered down the stairs before fifteen-year-old Alex took a seat opposite her sister and picked up her cutlery.  Although the elder of the two, there was always something more child-like about her demeanour than her sister’s.

‘Any wine, girls?’  Catherine took a continental approach when it came to the girls and alcohol.  They were allowed wine with sit-down meals, to signal that it was nothing too special but not taboo either.  She hoped that would encourage them to be responsible about their use of it as they got older.  She had always picked relatively light, low alcohol wines for sharing with the girls, however, even before she’d had to budget carefully.

‘Yes please,’ said Alex.

‘Thanks mum,’ said Kirsty.

Catherine poured their drinks.  She noticed Alex scrutinising her sister’s plate and the vegetable dish in turn.

‘You’ve got too many!’

‘But I like them and I hate carrots!  You can have the carrots instead.’

‘That’s not fair!  Mum, make her share the sweet potatoes!’

‘Kirsty…’

‘She doesn’t need any more.  She’s fat already!’

‘I am not fat!’

‘She isn’t fat, Kirsty!’  Catherine was keen to stamp this out.  That particular F-word was becoming her younger daughter’s weapon of choice in her quarrels with her sister.  ‘If you speak to your sister like that again, I’ll ask you to leave the table and let her eat the lot of them.’

‘Then she’ll be even fatter!’

‘At least I don’t have spots.’  Alex picked up her phone.  ‘Your face looks like the full moon, only with more craters.’

‘Enough!  No phones, Alex.  You know the rules.’  Catherine moved the vegetable dish away from her younger daughter and disarmed her of the serving spoon.  ‘You have the sweet potato wedges that are left.  I’ll eat the carrots instead, if Kirsty hates them so much.’

‘What’s the green stuff?’ asked Alex.

‘It’s Swiss chard.  I grew it on our allotment.’

‘It tastes like soap,’ said Kirsty.

‘It’s good for you.  It’s got loads of vitamins in that are good for your skin, and lots of iron.’

Alex looked interested.

‘Why does everything that’s good for you suck?’ asked Kirsty.

‘I like it,’ said Alex, trying a forkful.  ‘It’s the best!’

Catherine was initially certain her elder daughter had based this on nothing more than her younger sister’s distaste, although she helped herself to a generous serving and had finished it by the end of the meal.

‘Can you grow sweet potatoes on the allotment?’ asked Kirsty.

‘No.’

‘Could dad grow them?’

‘No.  He couldn’t grow them either.’  Catherine explained nobody could grow them, at least not outdoors, because they needed a warmer climate.

‘You’ll have to come down and see what we can grow – not that there’s a lot to see now.  If it’s dry after lunch, I’m going to plant some garlic.  You could help me.’

‘I’ve got homework.’

‘Me too,’ Alex glanced at her sister.  ‘Anyway, if we come with you, you won’t be able to flirt with Ralph!’

Both girls started sniggering.

Catherine sat up straight and put her cutlery down. 

‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, laughing as if she found the very idea ridiculous.

‘You do fancy him,’ said Alex.

‘I do not!’  Catherine picked up her knife and fork and started cutting up her small chicken portion, the better to make it last.

‘We don’t mind.  He’s alright.’

‘You don’t know anything about him.’

‘He helped you dig all those potatoes up.’

‘So did Lionel.  And Bernie.  And Lucas.  And Sally.’ 

It had been something of a team effort.  Catherine had taken the advice of the old-timers to plant potatoes to clear the ground on the neglected plot and ended up with rather more to lift than she had anticipated.  The girls had reluctantly donned wellies and gardening gloves and come to help but, typically, spent more time taking selfies posing with their forks than digging with them.  Catherine had a lot to learn about growing vegetables.  It was her first season managing the allotment single-handed; she hadn’t spent much time down there when it had been Will’s domain.

‘Yeah, but Lionel’s old,’ said Kirsten.  ‘And he grows weird stuff.  Like that oki-thing.’

‘Okra,’ said Catherine.  ‘He likes trying new things, from all around the world.’

‘Lucas is married to Mrs Davies, my chemistry teacher, so he’s a swipe left,’ Alex explained knowingly.  ‘And he’s too young for you.  You can’t have a toy boy.  That would be gross!’

‘And even if that Sally’s gay, you aren’t,’ Kirsten reminded her.

‘She isn’t.  She got married a little while ago.’

‘No way!  I thought you said she was a builder?  That’s so not straight girl’s work!’  Alex fixed her sister with a sneer.  ‘There’s hope for you yet, then, pizza face!’

‘I’m warning you, Alex!’

The need to restore dining table civility had ended the awkward conversation about allotment flirtations.  They finished the meal in silence.

‘Apple crumble and ice cream, anyone?’ Catherine asked.

Alex declined.  Catherine was cross; she had a feeling Kirsty’s snarky comments about her sister’s weight were behind it.  She knew better than to force the issue, however.  The thought of either of her daughters falling prey to an eating disorder terrified her.  She took their empty plates out to the kitchen with the left-over vegetables and loaded the dishwasher, before returning with dessert for Kirsty and herself.

‘Anything special needed for school this week?’ she asked, hoping to avoid the usual last-minute demands for new kit, emergency laundry or large sums of money.

Kirsty was fine, although she reminded her mother that she would need a new swimming costume soon, as the elasticity of her old one was failing fast. 

‘What about this one?’  The girl’s phone came out.

‘That’s not really suitable for school, is it?’

‘Why not?’

‘You know what the rules are.  It’s too high in the leg and too low at the top.’

It was also too expensive.

‘It only looks that way because of how the model’s standing.  It’s not tarty really.  Olivia’s got one like it and she hasn’t been in trouble.’

‘That’s because she’s got no boobs,’ Alex explained.  ‘Like you.’

‘Yours aren’t boobs, they’re just f…’

‘Enough!’  Catherine slammed the table with her hand, making both girls jump.  She took a deep breath.  ‘We’ll have a look online together tonight.  I’m sure we can find a nicer one.’

Kirsty’s face tensed, as if she were readying herself to argue.  Wisely, she seemed to think better of it.

‘What about you Alex?’

‘It’s the last week to take the deposit money in, if I’m going on that trip.’

‘By Friday?’

‘Yeah.  By Friday.’  Alex looked towards her hopefully.  ‘Haven’t you got another interview before then?’

‘On Tuesday.’

‘Brilliant!’ 

‘Don’t get too excited.  I’m not very optimistic about my chances.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m just being realistic.’  Catherine collected the empty dessert bowls.

‘Why didn’t you get the job you went for last Thursday?’ asked Kirsty.

‘I made a bit of a mess of one of the questions.’

‘You should be allowed to get one wrong!’

‘You are,’ said Catherine.  ‘As long as everyone else gets two wrong, or more.  It’s not an exam, with a pass mark; it’s a race – but with no medal if you don’t come first.’

‘You must have done okay, if they want you to go there as a volunteer.’

Catherine had told her girls about the call she’d had from Hilary Carrington on Friday morning.  She still hadn’t decided what to do about that offer.  Her initial reaction had been to agree with Alex, that if they weren’t willing to pay her she wouldn’t work at their skanky advice centre for nothing.  However, there was some sense in taking up the offer, not least that it would put some up to date work on her cv.

‘You’re not going to, are you?’ Alex said.  ‘You need a proper job, with money!’

‘I know I need a proper job with money,’ Catherine answered, acutely aware that more than her daughter’s skiing trip was at stake.  ‘But, sometimes, the best way to get a proper job with money is to do a proper job without money for a little while.’

‘But, if you’re working there, you won’t have time to look for other jobs.’

‘I won’t be full time.  I’ll do a couple of days, at most.  That’ll still leave me plenty of time to look for paid posts, especially now there’s not a lot to do on the allotment.  Which reminds me, I want to get that garlic in before it gets dark.’  She screwed the top back onto the half-empty bottle of wine.  ‘Don’t put the dishwasher on until after tea.  It’s not full yet.’

She left the girls sitting opposite each other at the table with their phones out, catching up their friends’ pressing news from the last half hour.  The left-over roast chicken was almost cold, so she carefully removed the legs and put them into a freezer bag, before systematically picking through the wings and the remainder of the carcass until she had a piles of scraps to bag up large enough to make a stew or curry, for two at least.  The bones, skin and other scraps went into the slow cooker, along with the vegetable left-overs, half a litre of water and a stock cube.

‘Souppe du jour!’ she muttered sardonically. 

That stock, padded out with onions or, more likely, some of her vast potato store, would be lunch most of the week.  The bagged-up chicken portions would see her girls all right for a couple of dinners but she needed to shop for more.  Apart from the two drawers packed with frozen fresh and cooked fruit, some from her own plot and some from her friends, the freezer was low.  Having heard somewhere that they were more efficient full, even if you put in plastic bottles of water, Catherine took the empty milk bottle from breakfast out of the recycling, filled it about three-quarters full and put it in the empty tray below the chicken.

‘I’ll be back before it’s dark,’ she called.

There was no response.  Catherine took her scruffy coat down from the rack in the hall and put her head around the living room door.

‘See you later, girls!’

Kirsty was still at the table, texting.  Alex had gone back up to her room.

‘Say hi to Ralph!’ said her youngest.

‘You could say hi to him yourself, if he’s there.’

He wasn’t usually on a Sunday.  She was more likely to see him about during the week, though probably not now the nights were drawing in.

‘I’ve done my nails.’  She brandished pink talons at her mother.

‘I’m sure that’s not allowed at school.’

‘Nobody cares, as long as you’re wearing uniform.’

‘I’m surprised to hear that.  They would, if I was in charge.’  Catherine was old-fashioned enough to think make-up at school should be banned and was minded to think Kirsty was lying too.

As she stepped back into the hall, Kirsty called her back.

‘If you say one more thing about Ralph, young lady…!’

‘I wasn’t going to.  It was about work.’

‘Work?’

‘That place you were going to volunteer for.  It says on their webpage that they do benefits advice.’

‘That is what they do.  That’s what I’d be doing.’

‘Oh.’  She seemed disappointed.

‘There’s nothing wrong with advising people about their rights, Kirsty.’  Catherine said, a little sharply. 

‘I didn’t say there was,’ Kirsty answered fiercely.  ‘I just wondered if they could help us with ours.’

Catherine was shocked to see that her daughter was on the verge of tears.  She drew up a chair beside her and put her arm around her shoulder.

‘Whatever is the matter, sweetie?’ 

‘I don’t want to move house!’

‘You don’t have to, sweetheart.’

‘But we do.  It was in the letter.’

‘Which letter was that?’  Catherine had a very good idea which letter she meant.  It was almost certainly the one from their landlord with the Notice of Seeking Possession in it.  She had put it away in the drawer of her computer desk now but suspected it had been tampered with between its arrival and its opening.  ‘I won’t be cross,’ she continued.  ‘Do you mean the one from Mr Stephens?’

Kirsty nodded.

‘Does Alex know about it?’

Kirsty nodded again.  ‘She showed me.’

That probably explained why the lobbying for the skiing trip money had been unusually low-key.  Alex was usually much more assertive.

‘You mustn’t worry about that, either of you,’ said Catherine, in the most reassuring tone she could muster.

‘But he’s going to take us to Court!’ Kirsty sobbed.

‘No, he’s not,’ Catherine insisted.  ‘He was going to, when we owed him two months’ rent, but now we don’t, he isn’t.’

‘Why hadn’t you paid the rent?’

‘Because I didn’t have enough money to, when my job finished.  It took a long time for our benefit money to start.’

‘It’s alright now, though?’

Catherine couldn’t answer that honestly with a straight yes.  ‘I’m being paid on time now, while I look for a new job.’

‘So we don’t have to move?’

‘No, we don’t.’

That seemed to settle Kirsty.  Catherine kissed the top of her head, then put her purse and keys in her coat pocket and set off for her allotment.  She might get an hour in down there, although it was starting to cloud over and it was getting cold.  She had missed the best of the day.