‘Absolutely not. Everything is done.’
So Jake and I take our seats at a dark wood dining table. The room faces her beautiful back garden full of flowers and fruit trees. His mother then disappears from the room and returns with a trolley.
‘Be careful, the plates are hot,’ she warns, setting our plates of a lamb chop, peas, carrots and potatoes in front of us. She places a basket of bread rolls and a gravy boat in the middle of the table and sits herself.
‘May it do you good,’ she says.
‘May we all be together at the same time next year,’ Jake says.
An expression of alarm crosses her face.
‘Bon appétit,’ I say.
Jake picks up his knife and fork.
His mother turns toward me. There is something in her eyes. For a second I think it is envy, the normal envy a mother feels for her son’s chosen mate, and then I realize it is not envy. It is fear. She finds me terrifying. I am still staring at her in shock when her eyes slide away. She busies herself with tearing at a piece of bread, which she then lays down on the plate.
I turn to look at Jake. He has missed it all. He is cutting into a piece of meat. He catches my eyes as he carries it to his lips.
‘What?’ he asks
‘Nothing.’
I look down at my plate. She wants to rub me out. Like a pencil mark that has been made in error. She cannot know who or what I really am, but some instinct is driving her. Telling her I am not to be trusted. Not to be taken into her family.
The meal is a disaster. Both his mother and I hardly eat. As soon as Jake puts his knife and fork down, his mother turns to him. ‘I need more ice. Will you get a bag from the freezer, Jake?’
‘Sure.’ Jake gets up and makes for the kitchen.
‘Can you get it from the big freezer in the shed?’ she says.
‘Would you also like me to walk back very slowly?’ he asks with a grin.
‘That would be nice,’ his mother replies, but there is no mischief in her voice. Only worry and trepidation.
As soon as the door closes she says, ‘I’ve always preferred sketches to paintings. Paintings are closed, finished things that hide layers of lies. Sketches are the bones of what will be. They are more honest. They haven’t learned to lie. What do you prefer?’
‘If we are truly talking about sketches and paintings, then I prefer paintings. I know the finished product is a series of accidents, but I appreciate that the grand design of life allows accidents to become beautiful.’
She frowns. ‘I want to have grandchildren. I want them to think of me as the old woman who wears shawls and silly hats and reads tea leaves. Are you the woman to give me that?’
I swallow. ‘Look, Jake and I have just met. It’s too early. It’s not on the cards.’
‘What do you want from my son, then?’
I shift uncomfortably. ‘Did you ask this of all women he brought home?’
‘He has never brought a woman home before.’
My mouth drops open.
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I don’t want anything from your son. We’re just in a relationship.’
‘Liar,’ she says very softly.