A Cupboard Full of Coats by Yvvette Edwards Read Free Book Online Page B

though it were the first time he’d ever had the opportunity to study the clarity of vodka at leisure. It wound me up that he dared to look relaxed when my life was breaking down around me. Then I realized that whatever he did would wind me up because it wasn’t the things he did that pissed me off so badly, it was him. Why had I asked him to stay? I had succumbed to a moment of weakness, a desire to confess the unspeakable, had believed that somehow this man could deliver me, as if such a thing was possible, as if life had not already taught me that the only person I could ever truly depend on was me, and I felt as angry with myself as I did with him, that I had been stupid enough to believe that anything good could ever come from bringing history into my home. It was as much my fault as it was his, and not talking to him was childish and ridiculous. This knowledge, though obvious, instead of making me behave differently however, simply increased my resentment.
    I carried my drink into the living room and he followed. I sat on the settee and he sat down beside me. I shifted over a bit towards the end, so we were further apart. He reached over and switched the telly off. When he turned around to face me, I could tell from his expression he intended to stall no longer and I began gathering a few openly hostile responses in my mind to bring to any discussion concerning me or anything I considered to be My Business.
    ‘You know I’va son, don’t you?’ he said.
    ‘Yes,’ I answered.
    ‘You know how long I never see him?’
    ‘Nope.’
    ‘Guess.’
    ‘I’m not really in the mood for guessing games…’
    ‘Thirty-two years,’ he said. ‘From the day me and Mavis
    came to England till the day I took her back home to get bury. Left him behind with Mavis’ sister, the oldest one. She was still living with Mavis’ mum. There was plenty space for the boy to run round, ’nough people to watch over him. Was only supposed to be for a year or two, now here we are.’
    He sighed, as though he had finished talking. I waited for what felt like a long while before saying, ‘I’m assuming there is actually going to be more, that you were actually endeavouring to make a point?’
    ‘I wrote to him, after Mavis pass,’ he said, his tone neutral, as though he hadn’t heard me speak and was continuing of his own accord. ‘First letter I ever write him. Mavis used to write all the time, think sometimes two, three letters a month. We never had no more kids after we come here, and well, I wasn’t around much, working working working, come night-time out with me friends, as you know. Think she was probably bored most the time. And lonely. But she never said a word. Never said, “’Isn’t it ’bout time you start stay in?” or nothing. Can’t remember her complaining about a thing, all the years we was married, ’cept the cold of course, always the cold. Never could get used to it, no matter how long we live here. Couldn’t stand it at all. Anyway.
    ‘Though I was never one for writing and such like, I wrote him when she died. He moved to the States ’bout ten years ago. New York. Married an American woman out there. You might think it strange I never just ring but after all the years I never ring when she was alive, was a habit hard to suddenly break after she pass. So I wrote him, told him ’bout the funeral arrangements, etcetera. Mavis always say she never wanted to be bury here in the cold ground for all eternity, so I took her back home, like she wanted. Wrote and tell the boy the date and time. He came over on the day. Never brung the wife but he came – thirty-two years I never seen him till then – and he brung the grandkids.’
    He put down his glass and ran his palms over his trousers as though trying to smooth out any creases. I had seen people do this in the undertakers, occupying their hands as if doing so straightened out the thoughts in their minds and made it possible for them to say things they