We're Not Strangers Anymore

Chapter Twenty Two - The Phone Call

Irene Broomer was peeling potatoes whilst sat on a wooden stool in the kitchen, her bare feet tapping the tiled floor in a rhythmic manner. She adjusted her wide framed spectacles with a certain care and delicacy, pushing them right up to the bridge of her nose.
It was five minutes past the seventh hour, which meant that it had nearly been eight hours since the funeral service had begun.
One key thought surfaced in Irene's mind, a thought born out of observation and fear: I do hope Charlie's okay. Bit of dinner and a mug of Horlicks will see him off nicely to sleep.
She wandered mindlessly over to the fridge, which now stood next to the back door, staring straight through her soul like a big cage with eyes.
In her mind she knew that the instructions were clear - yet they seemed so foggy, so far away.
Eggs in pan. Bacon in pan. Fill kettle a quarter of the way, flick it on. Cook for about ten minutes. The boy doesn't like it "too well done." Easy stuff. Idiot could do it.
The thought that she had brought a degree of shame to the family during her brother's funeral was one that hit hard, a persistent pondering that packed all the force of a bullet, passing through a sturdy wall made entirely of human flesh. She jumped. Suddenly, the telephone rang, making her jump out of her skin once again.
'H-hello?'
There was a pause.
'Irene it's me, your mother. I just wanted to say that your actions today-'
Here we bloody well go.
'-Were actually quite moving, and a few of your cousins seem to agree.'
'Cousins?' she asked, utterly bemused by the calm tone of voice used. 'Why, were you all whispering about me?'
'Not at all dear, not at all. But the main reason for me calling is primarily for your own wellbeing. I just wanted to make sure you're okay, and that you're sober.'
'Mother,' she fired back, 'i'm not a piss head. I merely had a couple of drinks beforehand, because I was nervous. Is that okay?'
Her mother tutted sarcastically. 'Yes, beforehand in the toilet, so I hear.'
She began to speak again, a further array of stern words, but Irene had already placed the telephone back onto the receiver.
The food that had been in the pan for several minutes now was nearly finished, and the completion of this small task brought a tiny amount of self-satisfaction to Irene Broomer. She called up.
'Charlie, I've got your tea-'
The door slammed shut. As if perfectly on cue, Charlie closed the door and walked down the front garden path. He never went out without saying goodbye to his Mum, but this time he had, and Irene had no idea where he was off to.