Lifesaving for Beginners

broke up – before he left me – Thomas had infiltrated the tradition of our family Sunday lunches the same way he had infiltrated everything else: without my noticing until it was too late. So there he was, squashing himself into my father’s chair at the head of the dining-room table. BAM!
    Today, I just don’t have the stomach for it. I say, ‘He’s at work.’
    This catches Mum’s attention and she looks up from her notebook. She says, ‘I thought you two broke up?’
    I look at Ed, but he’s gone back to reading Soap Watch and isn’t listening.
    I say, ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s not at work.’
    She nods and returns to her notebook. I don’t mind. Not really. She can be vague, is all. It takes her longer than normal people to focus on the real world as opposed to the fictional one in her head.
    Ed puts down his magazine. He says, ‘Thomas can come next Sunday, if he doesn’t have to work on the farm, can’t he, Kat?’
    I say, ‘Who’s for wine? I got a lovely bottle of Côtes du Rhône in Fiztpatrick’s yesterday.’ I stick my head into the sideboard and rummage around for the biggest wine glasses I can find.
    When I return to the table. Ed is waiting for me. ‘Thomas can come next Sunday, if he doesn’t have to work on the farm, can’t he, Kat?’
    I look at Mum, who is scribbling something in her notebook. Then at Dad, who looks at the leg of lamb on the plate in front of him with distrust, as if it is about to jump up and reattach itself to its previous owner at any moment.
    I look at Ed. ‘I don’t think so, Ed. I’m sorry.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Thomas and I broke up. After the accident, remember?’
    Ed nods and smiles. ‘Yeah, but you can get back together, Kat,’ he tells me. ‘That’s what me and Sophie do. We get back together. All the time.’
    Mum says, ‘It’s Sophie and I.’
    It’s like a reflex with Mum. I don’t think she’s even aware of it. Today, I can’t let it go. ‘Jesus, can you just stop correcting him? For once? What difference does it make? Me and Sophie? Sophie and I? Who cares? You get the picture. You know what he means. Don’t you?’
    She doesn’t respond.
    ‘Is there anything else to eat?’ I say. ‘Apart from the lamb, I mean.’ It’s not that I’m hungry. I just want to get the meal over and done with so I can get out of here.
    Mum looks up from her notebook. ‘Of course there’re other things to eat,’ she says, looking around. ‘Aren’t there, Kenneth?’
    My father’s name is not Kenneth. It’s Leonard. But when he first introduced himself to my mother, she thought he said Kenneth. Of course, he was too polite to correct her. And a little awestruck, to be honest. He presumed that a woman like Mum would never be interested in a man like him, so the mistake was inconsequential. When she decided that she wanted to see him again, he agreed. She only found out, by accident, months later that his name was actually Leonard. And by then it was too late. She said it was too late. It would feel odd, she said. To call him anything other than Kenneth. In fact, lots of people call him Kenneth now. He says he doesn’t mind.
    I get up from the table and walk into the kitchen. In the oven there is a dish of roast vegetables and a bowl of mashed potatoes. I get oven gloves, carry the dishes into the dining room, set them on the table. In that time, Dad has managed to carve two slices of meat. Mum is still scribbling in her notebook and Ed takes a sip of wine from a glass and tries not to wince. He doesn’t really like wine. He likes the idea of liking wine.
    I keep up a kind of chatter that could best be described as idle.
    ‘You’ll have two scoops of spud, Ed.’
    ‘And there’s some roast pumpkin for you, Mum. I know you’re partial to roast pumpkin.’
    ‘Don’t worry, Dad, none of your vegetables have been anywhere near the aubergine. I made sure.’ Dad doesn’t like aubergine. I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say he hates it but his displeasure at the leathery purple skin of the vegetable is fairly acute. And because he so rarely voices an opinion, especially a negative one, everybody goes out of their way to ensure that aubergine never crosses his path, Monday to Saturday. An exception is made on Sunday because of Ed and Mum, who love it. As for me, I’m pretty non-committal.
    I sit down. Mum closes her notebook, pats the bun of hair at the back of her head, like she’s making sure it’s still there.