Page 31 of Darling Girls

His gaze is already back on his file. ‘The church ladies came to your house to help out with your financial situation.’

I might have been flattered that he remembered had I not spied the words ‘church ladies/money problems’ written on the notepad in front of him, under the date of our last session.

‘That’s right . . . Well, the week after the church ladies showed up, they came back with the parish accountant, a man called John Wagner. He was there to help Mum go through the bills and get an idea of our financial situation. John was a big, tall man and he wore a shirt and slacks, which was unusual for the country. He reminded me of a schoolteacher.’ I grimaced at the memory of him. ‘He spoke very formally to my mother. He didn’t even look at me. He and Mum spent the entire day in the dining room, going through boxes of bills, and looking at statements and payments from past years. Every few hours, John would yell out, “Can we get some coffee in here?”; “Can we get some tea in here?”; “Can we get a sandwich in here?”

‘I remember being surprised. I’d never made my parents tea or coffee or lunch before. Still, if John was helping Mum, I was happy to oblige – even when he failed to thank me for my efforts.

‘After he left, Mum was more animated than usual. She heated up some soup for our dinner and, as we ate, she told me she was hopeful that, with John’s guidance, she might be able to get on top of things. I threw my arms around her when she said that, which is saying something. Mum was so surprised she almost forgot to hug me back.

‘“John was a bit weird,” I said to her when I’d resumed my seat. “He didn’t even make eye contact with me once.”

‘“Really?” Mum said, frowning. “I didn’t notice. I thought he was nice.”

‘“Oh, heisnice,” I said quickly. “Helping us with our finances out of the goodness of his heart? He doesn’t need to look at me. I’ll always be grateful.”

‘Mum looked relieved. She said, “Well . . . good. You can bring some of that gratitude with you to church tomorrow.”

‘I blinked. “Church?”

‘“It’s the least we can do after what they’ve done for us.”

‘I groaned. “Fine. As long as it doesn’t become a regular thing.”

‘But itdidbecome a regular thing. Week after week we went to church every Sunday and listened to the pastor drone on about being a good Christian. We sat in a pew with the women who’d come to the house, and afterwards we stood out the front while the members of the congregation chatted. John, who played the organ during the service, joined us, and he and Mum would stay talking long after everyone else had left. At first, I was glad to see this, hopeful that his influence would keep Mum on the path towards financial competence. But by the fourth week, when I once again found myself waiting for my mother to finish up a conversation with John, I started to feel irritated.

‘“Mum!” I whined, pulling on her arm. “You’ve been talking for ages. Let’s go.”’

‘“Donotspeak to your mother like that,” John said, so sharply that both Mum and I startled. It was, I realised, the first time he’d acknowledged my existence at all, and the rage in his eyes felt incongruent with my infraction. I was just a child.

‘“Don’t just stand there gaping,” he said. “Apologise to your mother.”

‘I looked at Mum, who appeared as surprised as me. But after a moment, she nodded. I’d never felt so betrayed.

‘“I’m sorry,” I said, looking at my shoes.

‘After that, I stood quietly while John told Mum that she’d allowed me to take advantage of my father’s death. At my age, he said, I should be doing at least as much as she did around the house, and I should be speaking to her respectfully at all times. Mum listened without contradicting him.

‘“Can you believe that guy?” I said, when the two of us were walking home. “Asking me to apologise? Who does he think he is – my father?”

‘Mum winced. “Heisvery strict,” she conceded.

‘“And then saying I’ve taken advantage of Dad’s death! That I need to do more around the house!”

‘“He doesn’t have any children of his own, so I think he’s a bit out of step with his expectations,” my mother allowed. “But I could hardly tell him that after everything he’s done for us. Better to be polite. Besides, he’s right – you could be doing a little more around the house.”

‘“I don’t like him,” I said sulkily. “Why do we have to go to church, anyway?”

‘“Because the church gave us money.”

‘“So now they own us?”

‘“No. But we need to be respectful.”

‘“To John?”

‘“Yes. To John.”

Dr Warren listens avidly as I relate this, straightening in his seat every time I mention my relationship with my mother. I wonder what it is about her that interests him so much.