Change of Life by Anne Stormont Page B

explained the admission procedure again. I managed to remain calm enough to scribble down the main points of what she told me.
    Then, slightly later than planned, I drove to Evelyn’s. Tom’s mother lived near Haddington, about ten miles inland from Gullane. Haddington was the old county town of East Lothian and is a very pretty, well to do place. Holdfast Cottage was a traditional Scottish, one and a half-storey, white-rendered, stone building. Surrounded by a walled garden, it sat well back off the road. As I was expected, the large, solid, wooden gates stood open. My heart lifted as the car rolled up the gravel driveway. I loved the solid, thick-walled, old house where Tom spent the later part of his childhood and I loved my motherin-law.
    She was at the front of the house doing some weeding when I arrived and came to meet me as I got out of the car. She was dressed in slim-fitting grey trousers and a blue and white striped cotton shirt, worn with the collar up and the sleeves rolled back. Her silver hair was, as always, in an immaculate French roll. The blue of her shirt matched her eyes perfectly and she had little pearl studs in her ears. She took off her gardening gloves as she approached.
    “Rosie, it’s so nice to see you. Your call was a lovely surprise.” She held her arms open to me. And she smiled her lovely smile – so like Tom’s. We hugged each other and I breathed in the scent of Chanel No. 5, a fragrance I always associated with her. It felt good to be embraced by this woman. It felt safe. She was taller than me, and in spite of being well into her seventies, she still stood strong and straight backed. Dr Evelyn McAllister was no little old lady.
    She stepped back and looked me up and down. “You’ve lost weight my girl, and you look tired.”
    “Yes,” was all I could say before those treacherous tears started. I’d promised myself I’d be strong, that I’d calmly relate what had happened and ask for Evelyn’s advice.
    “Oh my dear girl – come on, come through.” She put her arm round my shoulders and guided me inside.
    Having installed me in one of the comfy, chintzy, old armchairs in her sitting room, with a box of tissues at my side, she went off through to the kitchen to make us some tea. She left me with the instruction to cry my eyes out as it would make me feel better.
    Evelyn’s two elderly spaniels were curled up on one of the faded, floral patterned rugs, snoozing in the warmth of the sun coming through the French windows. They’d barely looked up when we came in to the room. The windows stood slightly open, and the fragrance of Evelyn’s gorgeous Gertrude Jekyll roses drifted inside. Birdsong came from every corner of the cottage garden, and many little birds flitted from the trees and hedges to the feeders hanging all around. I curled up in the chair and, as the clock on the mantelpiece ticked quietly, I wept once more. I wept with grief for Heather and with sorrow for Robbie and for what Tom had done. I wept with shame for hurting my beloved Adam. But mostly I wept with sheer self-pity and fear. And then I could cry no more.
    “I expect you’ll be ready for this now.” Evelyn reappeared with a tray of tea and cherry cake. She set it down on a large footstool in front of the fireplace. Then she poured the tea into pretty china teacups decorated with little pink roses. As she sat down on the sofa opposite and I settled back with my tea, she said, “Now, tell me what’s wrong, Rosie.”
    So, once more, I related the events of the last couple of days. Lucy and Kirsty had been great listeners and had offered their support. Telling them had made it all seem a bit easier to bear. But telling it to Evelyn was cathartic. Even though Tom was her son, she didn’t jump to his defence, not even when I told her about my suspicions that he might be Robbie’s father - but neither did she condemn him. She listened in much the same way Lucy had, but with even greater attention. I