Hot Stew by Fiona Mozley (most interesting books to read .TXT) 📕

But perhaps this was all a fabrication. When Valerie speaks about them, they lose their hideous aspect and become unexceptional, almost normal. This frightens Agatha even more: the thought that, when she sees them, she might not know them. They could fall into step beside her, brush against her in the crowd, their eyes meeting her own, and there would be no recognition. Either way, she will try her best to avoid them—go in quickly, give her evidence, leave. She will be on her yacht by evening, then sailing into international waters.

A Choir of Sighs

Precious holds the baby, one hand beneath the child’s bottom and another beneath her head. She is three days old and her parents can’t decide what to call her. Precious tells them not to rush, the name will come to them in time. “It’s better to get it right than to do it immediately,” she says. “She’ll have that name her whole life.” The baby is met with a choir of sighs each time she opens her eyes or flexes the joints in her tiny hands. Currently, she is asleep. She has a soft round head, a little nose, scrunched-up eyes and a serious mouth that twitches as she sleeps, as if she is skeptical about the content of her dreams. Her thin film of dark hair looks like it is held in place by static electricity.

Precious places the baby in the washing basket among folded bedsheets, fresh from the line, smelling of sunshine. She begins to unbutton her blouse.

Nicky and Marcus have a number of colorful wraps that they are using to wear the baby, and it works best if skin is next to skin.

Precious didn’t do this with either of her boys though she had older cousins and extended family members who wore their babies in this way. Nicky tried to show her how to fix the wrap, but Precious stopped her gently, saying, “I know how to do it. I watched women wrapping babies like that for years.” It was only saying this that she realized she did truly remember. It was as if the image had been tucked away when she left her family behind, and now it comes back, as she takes off her top and bra and puts her baby granddaughter against her chest, wrapping the bright fabric around the pair of them like she’s grafting a cutting to a tree.

The baby searches for a nipple, her mouth opening and closing like a cod. “There’s nothing for you there,” Precious croons, “but I’ve got something else until your mummy comes out of the bath.”

She sticks out her little finger and the baby begins to chew, surprising Precious, as babies always do, with the strength of her jaws and the little tongue she keeps between them.

With the child settled around her finger, Precious is unable to continue folding the dry laundry into the basket. She leaves the last couple of pillowcases to swing in the breeze and instead potters from one side of the patio to the other, inspecting the plants. Most are in a bad way. She leans over and pulls out weeds with her free hand, snapping the stalks that have died. Precious has encouraged Marcus and Nicky to begin from scratch—to pull everything up, empty out the pots, and buy new bulbs and seedlings from the garden center, but they haven’t taken her advice. She might surprise them and remodel the patio herself. It could be more than this: a little square of life, rather than just a place to hang the washing, and store the rusty gas barbecue they never use.

Being a grandmother suits Precious better than being a mother ever did. There are fewer details, more grand plans. It has more to do with artistry and enthusiasm and less to do with following a strict routine of feeding, burping, changing, washing, sleeping, playing, educating. She wasn’t—isn’t—a bad mother, but it has never felt like her natural role, rather a part in which she was cast against type. She loves her sons and has done her best for them, but when they were small she found them very tiring and, when they got older, they became more difficult to manage. As teenagers, they got into a lot of trouble at school, and they hung around on street corners with people who were no good at all. It was around this time that they went to live with their paternal grandmother in Crystal Palace. Precious moved in with Tabitha in Soho.

The boys had more space with Ondine—she had a little semi-detached with a garden and parks nearby, and the change of schools did them good too. They started to apply themselves. Neither of them would have got any qualifications at all if they’d stayed where they were. Precious sent Ondine money so didn’t feel too bad about leaving the boys with her. And Ondine bloody well ought to have atoned for bringing up that prick of a son who left Precious with a one-year-old while she was pregnant with their second. Now and again, Precious wonders if the boys had been angry with her; angrier than they had let on at the time. But if she hadn’t made that decision, she wouldn’t be in the secure financial position she is in now. She definitely wouldn’t have been able to give Marcus and Nicky the deposit for this flat, with the same amount stored safely in the bank for when Ashley gets to that stage. Marcus and Nicky don’t know anyone of their age who has been able to buy a place of their own—all of their friends will be renting well into their forties. Precious feels a huge amount of pride when they tell her this.

It has been three months since she and Tabitha moved in. Though among family, both women feel uncomfortable. Marcus and Nicky have been accommodating, but the house is small, and having two additional adults in it has made things cramped. Nicky