‘I’m on call tonight, that do you?’
‘Fine. It shouldn’t take that long.’
‘Half-eight?’
‘Yes.’
I knew that could mean any time from half-eight till half eleven. Moira always intended to be on time and made precise arrangements, never acknowledging that the demands of-her practice frequently played havoc with her social plans.
‘Need any books? What’s the general area?’
‘Geriatrics, Alzheimer’s, that sort of thing.’
‘OK.’
‘Oh, and drugs, stuff about side effects.’
‘Hah!’ she snorted. ‘Give me a few weeks. Later.’
‘Later’ was Moira’s version of goodbye.
I fried onion, cumin and ginger, chilli, coriander and turmeric. While the spices sizzled I set the table. I added the veg and a tin of tomatoes to the pan and stirred the lot. Left it to cook.
Ray got in just as I was draining the rice. Digger emerged from under the table and went apeshit for a few minutes. Ray joined in. Prancing about and grabbing folds of the dog’s loose coat and wriggling it about, letting the animal lap at his moustache with his broad pink tongue. Greeting ritual over, Digger slunk back under the table.
‘It’s ready,’ I said. ‘Tell the kids.’
Teatime was relatively peaceful, an inkling of what might emerge as the kids matured. But at five and four respectively Maddie and Tom were still barely civilised at the table. All too often food became an area for defiance. I’d long since given up trying to get Maddie to eat a balanced diet. As long as she treated what was on the plate as something to eat rather than modelling clay, ammunition or paint I was happy.
Ray takes the same tack with Tom. We’re both single parents and we have to agree on ground rules for the kids to avoid their playing us off against each other. Ray and I share the house and the childcare but never a bed. Some people seem to find it hard to believe; I don’t know whether it’s the shared childcare or the asexual relationship that gives them the most trouble. It’s the latter as far as Ray’s mother is concerned. She thinks we’re lying about it.
By eight o’clock the children were asleep, the pots washed and the kitchen clear. I sat in the old overstuffed armchair by the bay window, feet up on a chair, and browsed through the evening paper. ‘Council Freezes Repairs’, ‘Triple Wedding at Hacienda’, ‘School Will Sell Land’, ‘Man Held in Shooting’. My head nodded as I settled in. I jerked awake to the sound of the doorbell. Quarter to nine. Not bad.
Moira’s tall, spindly frame filled the doorway. She came in hugging her doctor’s case and a Tesco carrier bag, and followed me through into the kitchen.