WATER (part II)

As she clears away the dishes he says to their daughter, "Well, I've never heard of a party in a swimming pool. Who's going to be there, anyway?"

"Just some kids from school."

"Will that Adam be there?"

"I suppose so." The girl shrugs with feigned indifference. He says, "At least you won't go out with all that make-up on, then. I suppose that's something."

Her daughter gives her a wink that says, isn't Dad an old fusspot, but she refuses to be drawn into a little female conspiracy. She is thinking of the scrap of a bikini the child will wear, and frowning. The child? She is sixteen. I cannot control her. I've no right. Let go, let go. She doesn't belong to me, and hasn't since the day she emerged from my body and took her first breath. It's no good remenbering chubby hands clinging. Her hands cling to that Adam now. Or to nobody. Better still.

She puts the dishes into the washing-up bowl. Her daughter's voice calls plaintively "Mum, Dad says I have to be back by ten thirty!" She calls back, "So?"

"But ten thirty! Everybody else is staying much later."

She smiles. She remembers that old refrain, and also the mother's stock response. Her son bursts into the kitchen.

"Mum, did you wash my football kit?"

"Yes, it's in the airing cupboard. Is it practice tonight?"

"'Course it is, it's Tuesday!" he calls from halfway up the stairs. She runs water into the washing-up bowl.

They leave together, her son and daughter, he almost as tall as she already. She watches them from the kitchen window. Pushing each other, scuffling, walking down the road, walking away, and she smiles ruefully, proudly.

Her husband says behind her, "Here, I'll wipe."

Water has insinuated itself into the rubber gloves. When she pulls them off her hands smell sour, musty. She epties the bowl. The water leaves a film of grease.

part III