And if a small part of her warned that she should have been more cautious about being so open with a stranger, she ignored it.
Was that why Kathleen had suddenly backed off?
“Are you wishing you’d never told me that personal stuff?” Martha held the car door open for Kathleen. “Because you don’t need to worry. I’m chatty, but I’m not a gossip. There’s a difference.”
“I’m aware of the distinction. And I have no regrets.”
“I know you only did it because you were trying to make me feel better. And it did.” Martha closed the door, sprinted round the car and slid into the driver’s seat.
“I’m nowhere near as kindly and unselfish as you seem to believe.” Kathleen secured her seat belt. Her hands were still elegant, even though the skin was wrinkled and darkened in places from overexposure to the sun. “I don’t fully understand why I shared my own experience. It was an impulse.”
Martha adjusted her mirror. “That’s what you said when you ordered the bacon.”
“Generally I find food impulses to have fewer immediate consequences than those of an emotional type. I do hope you’ll heed my advice and not let your lamentable experience with Scoundrel Steven influence the choices you make for the rest of your life.”
Martha hesitated. “Like you did?”
“We have done enough talking about me.” Kathleen slid her sunglasses onto her nose. “Shall we drive? That way we might stand a chance of arriving in California before I reach my hundredth decade.”
Martha snorted with laughter. “You’re so funny.”
“Your entertainment is high on my priority list, so I count that as excellent news. Drive, Martha!”
Martha discovered that the driver’s seat felt a more comfortable place than previously. She no longer felt as if it might eject her as an imposter at any moment. She was in charge, not the car. “You don’t like talking about yourself, do you?”
“I’ve already given an extensive account of my travels.”
“That, yes.” Martha checked the traffic and pulled onto the road. “But I mean emotional stuff. You don’t like talking about emotional stuff. I can tell. It’s hard for you.”
“You are perceptive.”
“I’m good at reading people. And everyone is different, aren’t they? And that’s okay. Nanna used to say that a person had to be allowed to be the way they wanted to be. Some people are chatty, some people are quiet. You can’t change that. Take me for example—” she increased her speed as they headed out of town, shifting the focus of the conversation to herself to give Kathleen some space “—my school reports were all Martha needs to concentrate more and talk less, but what no one gets is that it’s really hard for me to talk less.”
“As I am discovering.”
Martha laughed. “People never tell a quiet person to be noisier—have you ever noticed that? They never say talk more. Or why can’t you be more chatty. But for some reason people have always felt the right to tell me how I could improve myself. It’s annoying, actually.”
“I can imagine the frustration.”
“The weird thing is, I don’t chat that much at home. It’s mostly arguing about who is doing what chores.” She thought about her mother and sister. “I have a lot to say, and no one to say it to. All I get is shut up, Martha. That’s another reason I need to move out. I’m not allowed to be me.”
“You not being you would indeed be a loss to the world.”
Martha felt herself blush and glanced at her companion. “Do you mean that?”
“I may, on occasion, withhold information, but I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean. The point of speech is to communicate clearly.”
Martha focused on the road. “Well, I know I communicate more frequently than the average person, so if you want me to be quiet, say so. Say, Martha, enough! I won’t be offended.”
“Your good nature is a remarkable quality, and it is my good fortune to be traveling with you.”
An expert on identifying sarcasm thanks to long experience with her family, Martha decided that Kathleen meant what she said. A feeling of contentment settled around her. She was used to spending her time around people who constantly tore her down and this was a refreshing change. “Well, I feel lucky to be traveling with you. Go me, I say! Most of my friends are busy this summer—holidays, jobs and stuff—so I was bracing myself for a lonely, miserable summer until I saw your ad for this job.” And her friends had been impressed when she’d told them about it. Less so her family, who seemed incapable of being impressed by anything she did.
“I cannot imagine you being miserable, Martha. And I’m sure someone like you has more friends than there are hours in the day to connect with them.”
Was that true? “Well, I know a lot of people—but friendship is a weird thing, isn’t it? There are friends who would drop everything to help you in a crisis—they’re like gold dust. And then friends who you meet in the pub and you chat about your week but they don’t really have a clue what’s going on in your head, or in your life. I’m not saying that’s not friendship, but it’s a different type of friendship, isn’t it? A good friend can feel like family.” In her case, better than family, but admittedly it was a pretty low bar.
“Yes. A true friend can indeed be like family.” The wistful note in Kathleen’s voice made Martha wonder.
She had a feeling that for all her reticence, Kathleen did want to talk about it. Just because you didn’t find talking easy, didn’t mean you didn’t want to do it. Like everything, it took practice.
She tried a little encouragement, promising herself she’d back off at the first sign of retreat on Kathleen’s part. “After the affair—you and Ruth lost touch?”
Kathleen shifted in her seat. “She wrote to me, but I never opened her letters.”
“I get that. You wanted to keep it in the past. Move on. Not look back. I mean, that’s human. I wish Steven was in the past.” Martha frowned. “But Ruth was your friend, so that had to be tough.”
“It was indeed a trial.” Kathleen’s voice was faint.
“I bet you missed her. But at the same time wanted to kill her. It’s hard when emotions get all mixed up like that. You don’t know what you’re supposed to feel. It’s all wrong, like—like—someone pouring chocolate sauce onto spaghetti Bolognaise. I mean, what even is that? Or like when Nanna dropped her knitting—hard to unravel the mess.”
“I prefer the knitting analogy. I don’t love having my food tampered with.”