Raymond nodded. To his credit, he looked slightly ashamed, and only a tiny bit disappointed.
He really isn’t prurient, unlike most other people. After this chat, he still asked questions,
but they were normal questions that anyone would ask about their friend’s mother
(friend! I’ve got a friend!)—how she was, whether we’d spoken recently.
I asked him the same questions back. It was normal. I didn’t tell him most of what Mummy said during our chats, of course—
it was too painful to repeat, embarrassing and humiliating.
I was sure Raymond was already acutely aware of my many physical and character defects,
and so there was no need to remind him of them by relating Mummy’s bon mots.
Sometimes, he made me stop and think. We’d been talking about holidays, about how he planned to go traveling when he retired,
so that he would have enough money to do it in style. “Mummy’s seen so much of the world, lived in so many different places,” I said.
I reeled a few off. Raymond, surprisingly, looked distinctly unimpressed.
“How old is your mum?” he said. I was taken aback. How old was she? I started to work it out.
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