Tony: A new character/sub-plot (Pamela's mother)

“Please!  Come in!”

It was a well-furnished flat, well-seasoned with the scent of tobacco.  Pamela hung her coat on a hook in the small passageway through which she and Rushton were passing.

The voice they had heard came, presumably, from the kindly-looking woman who was rising, cigarette in hand, from the large armchair in front of a rather art deco style fireplace.

“You must be John,” she now prompted, with a smile which seemed to encompass a number of attitudes, some of which Rushton found easier to deal with than others.  It expressed a certain resignation, together with the suggestion of a burden of responsibility which circumstances had placed upon her.  Rushton was already searching the room for portraits or photographs of Pamela’s lately-departed father.  A man’s sober features were indeed gazing from a framed photograph on the small coffee table beside the armchair.  Rushton studied it discreetly.

“Would you like a cup of tea?  I’ve got some proper cigarettes too – I roll my own, I’m afraid.”

She held up, with a smile, the small device (the like of which had always fascinated Rushton) for rolling cigarettes.  A pack of Rizla papers lay on the coffee-table, near a well-filled glass ashtray.

“Still raining, is it?” she asked, casually but with a genuine concern.  “I’m sorry!” she added, “I haven’t even introduced myself!”

“But, Mummy,” Pamela intervened, in a rather peeved manner, “I haven’t introduced John either!”

The kettle was put on the stove, whilst the guest was given the rocking-chair nearest to the well-stoked fire.

It was obvious from the first that a deep and dynamic relationship held together both Pamela and her mother.  Rushton sat, absent-mindedly rocking the armchair backwards, forwards, in the midst of the to-and-fro exchanges of these two women.

They sat either side of him, the mother considerate, sometimes thoughtfully gazing down at the carpet (which Rushton noticed was in some need of repair) or else emphasizing her point with a flick of her thin cigarette towards the glass ashtray, which twinkled rather in the subdued electric light.

Pamela, on the other hand, seemed more animated than usual.  She sat well back in her chair, her cigarette (in the holder which Rushton had given her) held poised in the air.  She exhaled the smoke with an earnest intensity, her legs crossed, her shoeless feet rubbing slowly together.  She took up a magazine, flicked it through, laid it down again.

For himself, Rushton was so absorbed in listening to both of them that he forgot what the main purpose of his visit had been.  What had it been?  To introduce himself?  To communicate in some way the nature of his relationship with Pamela?  He held out a grateful hand to receive the cup of tea which her mother offered him, and ventured:

“I hope...  to become a doctor.”

She smiled again.  “So I hear...  My husband was more of an office man – he worked in chemicals.”

There was a silence.  Rushton sipped his tea carefully.