Page 25 of Little Wing
Lovely man – I’m not sure I’d want to take it further.
Why not! they’d demand.
Because he was so dull I wanted to stick my fork into his hand just to see if he had any other expressions.
Because he only asked me one direct question: which route I’d taken, before telling me which route I should have taken, turn by turn.
Because I don’t want the mess of anything with anyone.
And actually, fundamentally, because I just couldn’t imagine kissing him.
Heading for home at half past two under the hastily contrived excuse of needing to feed her neighbour’s cat, Nell pulled into a lay-by, rested her head on the steering wheel and groaned. She sat where she was, looking out at what had been fly-tipped: bathroom tiles in bright blue that someone must have chosen originally and now someone else had rejected, a builders’ bag with polystyrene spilling out, a bin bag tied up concealing an indefinable mass, a doll’s pushchair, a scatter of beer bottles depressingly close to the bottle bank. She glanced away from it all, looked at the road sign instead. She had a missed call from Debbie who was probably phoning to chastise her for not giving it a proper try, for leaving so soon it was rude, for lying about a cat. Or maybe Debbie simply wanted to see how she was. But Nell didn’t want to speak to her. And she didn’t want to go home just yet. She flipped open her phone and made the call. If she’d messed up Tobes’s date and Debbie’s best efforts, she might as well perform a good deed with what was left of the afternoon.
When Nell was young her Aunt Em had intrigued and terrified her in equal measure. She was her mother’s older sister but she seemed to inhabit a different time altogether. Tall and formidably straight, even now in her late sixties, always in a well-cut and sober skirt or trousers, blouse ironed starchily, a V-necked cardigan, buttoned, and not a hair awry in her immaculate bob. It was one of the consistencies of Nell’s life, that Aunt Em never changed and nor did the sensation for Nell of being peered at judgementally. From under that severe fringe and over those rectangular tortoiseshell specs, Nell had been assessed and categorized over the years by those steely eyes. Her aunt was always sharp, pointedly so. She was all about order and control; she had a fiercely active brain and no time for nonsense. She could not be more different from her sister.
Her aunt’s spotless Nissan Micra was precision-parked outside, with straight wheels three inches from the kerb. Nell rapped the door, brushed herself down, retied her ponytail and it felt like waiting to see the headmistress.
‘Well!’ said her aunt, answering the door. ‘Now this is a surprise.’ Navy-blue skirt, tan tights, navy shoes with a modest heel, pale blue shirt with white dots, a blue cardigan around her shoulders. Nell felt herself being scanned from head to toe.
The house was straightforward and neutrally decorated, the green twist carpet showing the satisfying swathes from daily vacuuming. Somewhere, a clock tocked, even and low. There was the pervasive scent of cleaning products and coffee. Nell took off her jacket and put it over the newel post where it was swiftly removed and hung on a hanger, placed in the coat cupboard.
‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Go through to the sitting room.’
‘Can I help?’
‘Go through – dear – to the sitting room.’
Nell did as she was told, and sat carefully on the edge of a velvet-upholstered chair, her hands politely in her lap. She looked around; she hadn’t visited for a long time. There was an oil painting above the fireplace she didn’t remember, a traditional village scene where raucous peasants were being ignored astutely by a fancy couple taking a stroll. There were five paperweights on the windowsill, each placed an even distance from the next. And had the curtains always been that colour? Her aunt had lived here for decades, new curtains were not unreasonable.
When was Nell last here? Christmas had been in a hotel restaurant the last few years and though Nell phoned every once in a while, she appeased her conscience because her aunt was staunchly independent and always so busy; still teaching occasionally at Cambridge, still writing papers on whatever sciencey thing it was that was her calling.
Tea was brought in on a tray, cups and saucers and a plate of digestives. Paper napkins. Milk in a jug, sugar in a lidded pot, two teaspoons. ‘Well, this I was not expecting.’
Unsure whether this was a reproach, a slight on poor manners, Nell changed tack. ‘Thank you so much for visiting Mum the other week.’
‘She told you?’
‘No, Sylvie – the bubbly one.’
‘It was a good visit – one of the better days, I should imagine.’
‘Lucky you,’ Nell said into her tea. They busied themselves with biscuits.
‘And what are you doing these days, Nell?’
‘I’m still at the café, I’m manager now,’ Nell said cheerily. ‘I love my work.’
‘It’s hardlywork– it’s ajob. And yet you had such a good brain on you.’ Her aunt sighed. ‘Who knows where you’d be now, had more care been taken with your education.’ The tea was replenished. ‘You know I did suggest boarding school to your mum – you’d have sailed a scholarship.’
‘I couldn’t have left Mum!’ Nell said. ‘Anyway, I like my work – it’s challenging and stimulating, and I make a difference and an OK wage.’ Nell couldn’t read her aunt’s expression. ‘How’s – your world?’
‘Oh, they won’t let me truly retire!’ her aunt exclaimed. ‘But I only lecture twice a week now – which means my research has so much more of my attention these days.’
Nell nodded enthusiastically. She feared that if she asked for details her dumbness would be amplified. ‘Good for you,’ she said instead. ‘Good for you.’
