Breakfast In Bed (Fully English Sequel)

Chapter 5

On the second day of Agnes' visit, all remains well. She is fond of Wren and respectful of my mother and I, never producing too much work for us. Plates are scraped clean, she washes them herself, helps out with the cleaning and tends to Wren whenever I pop away for a few moments. On the third, there are less pleasantries and more fruitful conversations. It is as if she is a foreign cousin whom I never knew but clicked with quickly. By the fourth, she no longer smells like tobacco and cigarettes. All her clothes have been laundered and she hasn't left the house so there is no opportunity to smoke. Now, she smelt like the fabric conditioner that my mother and I wore – as though she'd become one of us. Maybe that's why Wren clung to her. Her smell had become familiar to her after all. By the fifth day, she looks like us. In the steel of the cooker, I see a reflection of her and my mother streaked with silver, sloped sideways and unclear: exuberant faces that defy the scheme of time and age. And I almost mix them up. She is wearing the dressing gown my mother lent her and liquefying my mother's command of the French language. Their conversations remain fluid and foreign as I go about my business, waiting on nothing in particular.

The seventh day however brings trauma.

A knock sounds on the door, at the break of morning and I am greeted with a white bouquet of hydrangeas at my doorstep. Beneath the ribbon that ties the stems together is a card and I pick it up, close the door and bring the flowers to the kitchen.

Congratulations, the card reads.

There is no recipient name or indication of who it is from. I set it to the side, place it in a vase and get ready for the day. Agnes wakes up soon after followed by my mother and I am preparing them breakfast. We are all eating at the dining table when the doorbell rings again. All three of us stare at the centrepiece before my mother stands up to get it.

Agnes and I look at the door expectantly but our view of the person standing there is cut off. Plus the curtains are drawn. Nonetheless, we watch my mother engage with whomever it is before closing it in their face. After her return, she says nothing to explain and neither of us pry. This sequestered life the three of us have been living is too sweet to taint. And my mother's sour expression tells me that the encounter she has just experienced isn't one of good taste. In looking at her, I want nothing more than to scrub the skin of her face clean and wash away the bitterness beneath the surface.

Our food finished, I deny Agnes' request to wash up for the umpteenth time and begin scrubbing plates. When my mother and I are alone, the ambience changes. Her sudden desire to tidy the kitchen unnerves me: placing pots away in cupboards, hanging mugs by their handles, upending glasses and placing plates in their different piles. Once everything is sorted, I realise that she is stalling.

"Is everything okay?"

I pretend as if I am polishing off ceramic to keep my hands from shaking.

"Have you checked your phone?"

Her rebuttal forces me to pat myself all over and realise it is not with me. Not that it mattered too much. For the most part, I had been without it. When at home, I wanted to be present and digital communications didn't allow for that. Plus I wasn't too fond of Wren being around radiating devices. It was better off away from me.

"It's in my bedroom probably."

My mother shakes her head.

"Negative, it is with me." She produces it from her back-pocket like a magician and I watch the screen blink on before she turns it around and begins pressing the screen. "Answer your phone baby."

I realise she is narrating a text from Reece – only he uses this metonym to speak to me.

"How long ago was that sent?"