Dark Mirrors by Siobhain Bunni Read Free Book Online Page B

crossing her face.
    “Jesus, Esmée, what do you mean? Left who?” The question was obviously rhetorical as she continued to interrogate. “Moved out! Where? Why?”
    Words failed Esmée. She simply didn’t have the vocabulary to explain it properly, the answers being far more complex than their corresponding simply presented questions. It was just too hard, probably impossible, to find a concise way of telling her mother that she had just had enough. And was that reason enough? Could she communicate this to her mother efficiently without it sounding childish, trivial or naïve – or, worse, all three? All she could do was shake her head slowly, lowering it to look at the thinning hands that covered her own, observing the translucency of the ever-loosening skin and avoiding the obvious disappointment and grief that glazed her mother’s face.
    “My God, Esmée, I knew things weren’t good between you and Philip but I never imagined for one minute they were this bad.”
    “How did you know?” Esmée shot back, astonished by her mother’s perceptive comment, forgetting for a moment the drama of her position.
    “I’m your mother, Esmée, and I know these things.”
    Esmée once again found herself in a closed and emotional embrace and, joined together across their knees, they sat in silence for some time letting the information stew and thicken and, for now, there were no more tears.
    The clock ticked on the wall and time slowly drifted by, tick after tock, until ultimately it was her mother who withdrew first.
    “Ahh look, the tea’s cold now. Let me make a fresh pot.” Sylvia’s words were solid and safe as she stood up with great conviction to once again go about creating the age-old medicinal brew.
    Esmée rested her elbows on the table, held her face in her hands and wiped the moisture from her cheeks while watching her mother go through the ritual. Scalding the pot first before pouring the steaming water on top of generous heaped spoons of fresh breakfast tea leaves, she then laid the table with full-fat milk, white sugar, a plate full of Jersey creams, a china cup and a large blue mug. Esmée found her mother’s activity soothing and felt her pulse slow down in rhythm to the precise and deliberate movements, and the need to weep temporarily passed. Neither woman spoke, each lost in her own thoughts, as the silver strainer was placed over the mug and the amber liquid poured through its pores. Adding milk and two spoons of sugar, Sylvia handed it to Esmée with a warm smile and a biscuit. That was the wonderful thing about her mum, Esmée thought while taking the first sip of her sweet tea – her mum always knew exactly what to do, seeming to understand almost immediately that Esmée needed time to calm down, to gather her thoughts and straighten things out in her own head before attempting to vocalise them. And Esmée knew that, although they never really discussed it, for her mother the sanctity of marriage was all-encompassing and she too was using this moment of silence to absorb the devastating and morally controversial news.
    With her own delicate china cup supported protectively between both hands, Sylvia sat down opposite her daughter.
    Esmée was immediately struck by the intense look of worry, cloaked by the encouraging smile, in the depths of her mother’s piercing but sympathetic grey eyes. A look so profound that, no matter how well suppressed, it still managed to work its way through the shine of concern and affection.
    “Why didn’t you come to me before this? Has he hit you?”
    “No, Mum, it’s not like that. It’s hard to explain.”
    “Well, try . . . what has he done?” She was gingerly seeking an explanation of whatever monstrous act that resulted in this exceptional outcome. And it had better be good.
    Esmée tried to ignore the poorly veiled disappointment in her mother’s tone and, unable to hold her stare, looked up uneasily at the light that hung over the table. Watching