The Playground Read Online Free Page A

braced myself. Today’s gift was altogether more practical: a hand blender – one that she didn’t use any more – ‘great for soups,’ she said, as she looked for somewhere to put it, knowing that I’d never even attempted soup before but that now as a single mother of a small child I would jolly well have to learn.
    â€˜Milk?’ she asked, sitting again, sounding a little weary, the carton hovering over my cup. Something about this question had always irritated her. A tedious thing that had to be got through, an interruption. Or perhaps it was because it was something she should remember (does my daughter take milk in her tea?) but couldn’t seem to. And then another small irritation as she poured, her hand trembling as she tilted the carton. ‘Say when, will you? Say when.’
    â€˜Anything interesting?’ she asked, watching my fingers as they sifted through the post, ripping open each envelope. When I didn’t reply she lifted her feet off the ground and began to do small scissoring exercises. ‘I had my dancing last night. I’m pretty stiff this morning, I can tell you.’ I could see her in the evenings as she waited for the milk in the saucepan to warm, practising what she’d learnt at ballroom dancing that week with her invisible partner, slippered feet skimming across the kitchen floor.
    â€˜You should come along one evening, it’s terrific fun.’
    â€˜You know I hate dancing. I’m far too self-conscious.’
    She threw her eyes to the ceiling, bored by my vanity and lack of daring. Then her expression softened and became wistful. I could tell she was remembering her own agility at my age, seeing herself once again waltzing across a room with grace.
    â€˜So, anything from Joe?’
    â€˜No, Mum, I think I might have mentioned if I’d heard from him,’ I said, sounding repulsive. ‘Sorry, I’m just so stressed.’
    â€˜Well of course you are, pet. I mean what mother of a toddler isn’t? And you’ve just moved house, for goodness’ sake. I think you’re coping admirably.’
    â€˜I’m not really, Mum, it’s all going round and round in my head and I’m still not sleeping,’ I said, feeling my throat constrict.
    â€˜Well, what about a nice hot bath in the evenings?’
    A nice hot bath. My family’s solution to everything. An eye mask, thirty drops of Valerian washed down with Chamomile tea, soaking my pillow with lavender oil and an emergency pink Xanax at two-thirty in the morning hadn’t made the slightest difference, so I was pretty damn certain a bubble bath wasn’t going to get me through.
    â€˜And I’m lonely.’
    â€˜I know you are, sweetheart. I remember those first few months without your dad. I’m afraid you are just going to have to get on with it.’ And her expression then was exactly as it had been at my father’s funeral – eyes lowered, stoical, serene.
    His death, twenty years earlier, had given her a new lease of life. He used to drive her demented. She’d lock herself in her room in the evenings when he came home from the bank, with her
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, the Teasmade and a view of the ocean which she loved, unable to hear his rants about the meat not being hung for long enough or there being too much coal on the fire, because she’d put her ear plugs in. When he died, she found some letters inside socks that confirmed what she had always suspected: he’d had a ‘fancy woman’ in London for years.
    â€˜I’m worried that he doesn’t have a forwarding address for us – whatever about me, I really thought he’d make some effort to keep in touch with Addie.’
    â€˜Oh, Eve, we’ve been through this.’
    â€˜And I don’t know if we’ll be happy here – no one’s the slightest bit friendly. I’m starting to think we shouldn’t have