Here we are

So here we are, the three of us, in a picturesque cottage by the sea
enjoying an Easter break. Enjoying is perhaps too strong a word and yet
enduring does not suit either.

It is Easter Sunday and my mother has cooked. The time has come to
present each other with eggs.

The idea was that we would give each other something small, a token
gift. And here we are now each of us sitting with a large carrier bag
full of chocolate beside us ready to swap.

My mother starts. Her bags are coloured gold and silver, she has padded
them with pink tissue paper. Tiny wrapped chocolate eggs nestle between
the leaves and two large chocolate chickens sit on top, one for each of
us.
'It's nothing much' she says lifting the large shiny bags over the
remains of the dinner.
'Thanks' we say.
We, or rather, I, am genuinely touched and slightly embarrassed. At the
age of thirty six I feel that I should somehow be beyond or above the
pleasures of Easter eggs.
'It's my turn' I say and hand over my eggs.
Mine are in Safeway carrier bags. One for each of them.

My sister is beaming and has already unwrapped one of the small foiled
eggs from the first bag. My mother is on her second. They both entreat
me to try one, as they are particularly delicious. I do so.

My sister is reaching down beside her chair and lifting up two bags,
also Safeway's, also groaning with eggs in different sizes and
wrappings.

We all start laughing. The table is piled high with chocolate, the
number of discarded wrappers growing by the minute.
'Honestly' my mother says 'we're all too old for this really.'
Her face is glowing with pleasure.
'It's as bad as Christmas.'
We laugh again, agreeing.

I stand up to clear the table, popping a small cr?me egg into my mouth
as I do so.

As I reach the kitchen both my mother's and my sister's phones
ring.
Half-listening I continue to clear the table and scrape the
plates.

They have both scuttled into corners, my mother by the window my sister
at the foot of the stairs. I can hear from the strained hellos that one
caller is my father and the other my sisters ex boyfriend. But
boyfriend is an inadequate term and partner makes them sound like
lawyers. Long term boyfriend I suppose is the best I can do.

Although no longer long term he is still in our consciousness as her
companion, friend, lover, potential husband, whatever.

My mother comes into the kitchen, hand outstretched, virtually
assaulting me with her phone.
'Your father wants a word' she says,
the post egg giving glow now gone from her face. I take the phone and
she leaves me alone to talk to him.

'So are you having fun?'
And I tell him, in detail because that's how he likes to hear it, what
we have been doing down here by the sea, who has been to visit, what we
have seen, where we have been to eat and yes we are all getting
along.

He tells me, in less detail, what he has been doing, carefully omitting
details of who with or simply brushing past names, careful not to place
too much emphasis on the other people in his life.

I am suddenly self - conscious. I feel as if I should be somewhere
else, with different people, doing different things.

I hear my sister's voice rising in the other room, it is trembling and
torn around the edges.

I don't want my father to hear it and tell him that I have to go. He
says good bye and sounds lighter than he did when he said hello. I
imagine him feeling relieved, his head full of images of us, all girls
together, having fun, windswept walks and jolly hockey sticks.

Walking back into the sitting room I see my sister sitting on the
stairs her ear pressed to the phone, muttering 'yes' or 'no' every so
often. My mother is standing by the table eating a cr?me egg. There is
a pile of wrappers by her and her hand reaches into the bag for another
as she swallows the last mouthful.
'So how was your father?'
The second cr?me egg is unwrapped.
'Ok. He seems ok.'
'Did he say what he had been doing?'
'Not much I don't think.'

I reach for a small truffle egg and we stand there, my mother and I,
eating and trying not to listen to my sister.

After one last ' yes. Ok' she puts down the phone and comes to join us
by the table.
'That was Mark.'
We nod.
'Who was that?' she indicates my mother.
'It was your father.'
'How was he?
'Ok. He seems ok.'

My sister walks over to the window ledge, picks out a chocolate chicken
from her gold coloured bag and smashes it hard onto the table.
Splinters of the finest Swiss chocolate shower us.

I pick out a good-sized shard from a fold in my jumper and pop it into
my mouth.

My mother is torn between fussing over the mess or rescuing a large
portion of the chicken's head from the edge of the table where it
teeters uncertainly. She goes for the chicken's head.

As she puts it into her mouth my sister is gathering up all the tiny
splinters that are scattered on the table and brushing them into her
cupped hand. When her hand is almost full she tips her head back and
shovels them into her open mouth.

I smile at her. She chucks me the other part of the chicken's head,
which landed beside her. Breaking it in half I give one part to my
mother. We look at each other, mouths bulging, Pieces of chocolate
chicken scattered around us.

My mother starts laughing.

'So', I say, 'Where shall we go for dinner?'