I sighed, cleared away my plate and went out into the garden, the big beautiful garden, and launched myself into activity. There were still flowers on the sweet peas even though the foliage was powdery with mould. I picked a handful and there were enough buds to leave the plants for another few days. I cut back the worst of the dead perennials, leaving the ornamental grasses, the mint and honesty for the frost to decorate. I piled the twigs up for a bonfire. There were two clumps of Michaelmas daisies still blooming, their puce flowers vibrant against the wall. I picked an armful. Gaudy, cheerful. I put them in a vase on the kitchen table.
The dark sky had passed over, holding onto its rain. I set off for school. Someone else had been busy: I could smell woodsmoke. Strictly not allowed – we live in a smoke free zone. I know bonfires are supposed to be terrible for the air but a bonfire once or twice a year is so good for the soul.
Maddie; my daughter, and Tom; Ray’s son, are like chalk and cheese. Maddie, aged six, is sensitive, imaginative and fearful of all sorts of things. She’s also temperamental, but I would think that because being her mother means I’m on the receiving end when she throws a wobbler. Tom, aged five, is fearless, he hurls himself at the world and remains on an even keel much of the time. His grandmother, who is known as Nana ‘Tello, short for Costello, is Italian and both Ray and Tom have inherited an olive skin and glossy dark curls from her. Maddie, by contrast, is pale-skinned and has light brown hair. They squabbled lightly most of the way home and collapsed in front of the television when we got in. I started cooking tea for the three of us. Ray would be late back and Sheila, who rents our attic flat, caters for herself.
Half-an-hour later we sat down to veggie-sausages, mashed potatoes and broccoli. Broccoli is just about the only green vegetable that both Tom and Maddie eat. It seems to have something to do with its resemblance to a tree, or to lots of little trees if you separate the florets. Maddie was constructing a forested landscape when she dropped one of her sausages. Digger the dog, sentinel beneath the table, snapped it up. Tom chortled. Maddie tried to be philosophical. “I’m not bothered, I’ve gone off those sausages. They’re horrible.”
“Can I have that one, then?” said Tom.
“No.”
“You said you’ve gone off them.”
They bickered on until I intervened. “When Maddie’s finished, if she doesn’t eat her sausage, you can have it”
