Waiting for Wednesday

was wrong. It’s not only the
washbasin. My blue lamp is broken. My wheelbarrow is broken because they tried to see
how many people could fit in it and still be moved – that, apparently, was your friend
Jack’s idea. How old is he? I thought he was an adult, not a toddler. And my nice
coat has disappeared, Kieran’s favourite hat he left before he went away has a
cigarette burn in the crown.’ Kieran was her mild and patient boyfriend – or
perhaps her ex. ‘The neighbours have complained about all the bottles dumped in
their gardens and the noise, and someone has peed into my ornamental orange tree in the
hall.’
    ‘I will fix the washbasin
anyway,’ said Josef. ‘And perhaps the wheelbarrow too.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Olivia,
fervently.
    ‘Don’t let him take the
washbasin away,’ said Frieda.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Is a joke,’ said Josef.
‘Is a joke against me by Frieda.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Josef, I
didn’t mean that.’ She looked at the wheelbarrow. ‘How many did it
hold?’
    Olivia gave a shaky giggle. ‘Something
ludicrous, like seven. Standing up. It’s lucky nobody got themselves
killed.’
    Although it was days later, the floor was
still sticky underfoot. Pictures hung lopsidedly on the wall. There was the sweet smell
of alcohol in the air, and Frieda saw dirty smudges on the paintwork and grime on the
stair carpets.
    ‘It’s like one of those
children’s picture books: spot the hidden object,’ said Olivia, pointing at
a glass inside a shoe. ‘I keep finding unspeakable things.’
    ‘You mean condoms?’ asked
Josef.
    ‘No! Oh, God, what happened that I
don’t know about?’
    ‘No, no, is all right. I go on
up.’ He bounded up the stairs, carrying his bag.
    ‘Let’s have something to
drink,’ said Olivia, leading the way into the kitchen. ‘Sorry! I
didn’t know you were back from school.’
    Chloë was sitting at the table, and opposite
her was a gangly, dishevelled figure: a mop of greasy, dark-blond hair, feet in trainers
with the laces undone, jeans sliding down his skinny frame. He turned his head and
Frieda saw a thin, pallid face, hollow eyes. He looked bruised and wrung-out. Ted: the
boy she had last seen retching over the toilet bowl. The boy who had just lost his
mother. He met her gaze and a hectic blush mottled his cheeks. He muttered something
incoherent and slumped further over the table with his face half hidden by one hand.
Nails bitten to the quick. A little tattoo – or probably an ink drawing – on his thin
wrist.
    ‘Hello, Frieda,’ said Chloë.
‘I wasn’t expecting you. It’s not chemistry today, you
know.’
    ‘I’m here with Josef.’
    ‘The washbasin.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘It must have been loose anyway. It
just came away.’
    ‘Because two people sat on it!’
Olivia lowered her voice. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your
friend?’
    Chloë looked embarrassed. ‘This is
Ted. Ted, my mum.’
    Ted squinted up at Olivia and managed a
hello. Olivia marched up to him, grabbed his limp, unwilling hand and shook it firmly.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ she said. ‘I keep telling Chloë
she should bring friends home. Especially handsome young men like you.’
    ‘Mum! That’s why I
don’t.’
    ‘Ted doesn’t mind. Do you,
Ted?’
    ‘And this is Frieda,’ said
Chloë, hastily. ‘She’s my aunt.’ She cast a beseeching glance at
Frieda.
    ‘Hello.’ Frieda nodded at him.
If it were possible, he turned even more crimson and stuttered something incoherent. She
could see that he wanted to run and hide from the woman who’d seen him vomiting –
weeping too.
    ‘Shall we go to my room?’ Chloë
asked Ted, and he slid off the chair, a raw-boned, awkward, self-conscious young man,
all angles and sharp edges.
    ‘I heard about your mother,’
Frieda said. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’
    She felt Olivia stiffen. Ted stared at her,
his pupils enormous. Chloë picked up one of his hands and held it between her own to
comfort him. For a moment he seemed stranded in his emotions, unable to move or
speak.
    ‘Thank you,’ he said at last.
‘It’s just … Thanks.’
    ‘I hope you’re all receiving
proper help.’
    ‘What?’ hissed Olivia, as Chloë
led Ted from the room, glancing back over her shoulder with bright eyes. ‘Is that
–’
    ‘Her friend whose mother was killed.
Yes.’
    Olivia’s hand flew to her mouth.
‘I didn’t make the connection. Poor boy. Poor, poor boy. What a dreadful
thing. He’s quite