Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine полностью

The train interior had been more like a bus than the Orient Express, replete with hard-wearing fabrics in stain-concealing colours and grey plastic fittings. The worst thing, apart from the other travellers – my goodness, the hoi polloi do get about these days, and they eat and drink in public with very few inhibitions – was the incessant noise from the loudspeakers. It seemed there was an announcement every five minutes from the mythical conductor, imparting sagacious gems such as large items should be placed in the overhead luggage racks, or that passengers should report any unattended items to the train crew as soon as possible. I wondered at whom these pearls of wisdom were aimed; some passing extraterrestrial, perhaps, or a yak herder from Ulan Bator who had trekked across the steppes, sailed the North Sea, and found himself on the Glasgow–Edinburgh service with literally no prior experience of mechanized transport to call upon?

The special occasion outfit was, I realized, somewhat outmoded now. Lemon was not a colour that suited me particularly well – fine for nightgowns, worn in the privacy of my bedroom, but hardly suitable for a sophisticated gathering. I’d go to the shops tomorrow and purchase something new; I’d be able to wear it again when I was out at a restaurant or at the theatre with my true love, so the money would not be wasted. Feeling happy with this decision, I made my usual pasta con pesto and listened to The Archers. There was a convoluted storyline involving a very unconvincing Glaswegian milkman, and I did not particularly enjoy the episode. I’d washed up and settled down with a book about pineapples. It was surprisingly interesting. I like to read as widely as possible for many reasons, not least in order to broaden my vocabulary to assist with crossword solving. Then the silence was very rudely interrupted.

‘Hello?’ I said, somewhat tentatively.

‘Oh, so it’s “Hello”, is it? “Hello” – that’s all you’ve got to say to me? And where the hell were you last night, lady? Hmm?’ She was playing to the gallery again.

‘Mummy,’ I said. ‘How are you?’ I tried my best to steady myself.

‘Never mind how I am. Where were you?’

‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ I said, trying to keep my voice even. ‘I was … I was with a friend, visiting another friend in hospital, actually.’

‘Oh, Eleanor,’ she said, her voice oozingly oleaginous, ‘you don’t have friends, darling. Now come on, tell me where you really were, and I want the truth this time. Were you doing something naughty? Tell Mummy, there’s a good girl.’

‘Honestly, Mummy, I was out with Raymond’ – there was a snort – ‘visiting this nice old man in hospital. He fell in the street and we helped him and—’

‘SHUT YOUR LYING LITTLE CAKEHOLE!’ I flinched, dropped the book, picked it up again.

‘You know what happens to liars, don’t you, Eleanor? You remember?’ Her voice was back to sickly sweet. ‘I don’t mind how bad the truth is, but I won’t tolerate lies, Eleanor. You of all people should know that, even after all this time.’

‘Mummy, I’m sorry if you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Raymond and I went to hospital to visit a man we’d helped when he had an accident. It’s true, I swear it!’

‘Really?’ she drawled. ‘Well, that’s just delightful, isn’t it? You can’t be bothered to talk to your own mother, and yet you spend your Wednesday evenings visiting some geriatric, accident-prone stranger? Charming.’

‘Please, Mummy, let’s not fight. How are you? Have you had a good day?’

‘I don’t want to talk about me, Eleanor. I already know all about me. I want to talk about you. How is your project coming along? Any news for Mummy?’

I might have known she’d remember. How much should I tell her? Everything, I supposed.

‘I went to his house, Mummy,’ I said. I heard the click of a lighter and then a long exhaled breath. I could almost smell the smoke from her Sobranie.

‘Oooh,’ she said. ‘Interesting.’ She took in another lungful and expelled it with a sigh. ‘Who’s this “he”?’

‘He’s a musician, Mummy.’ I didn’t want to tell her his name quite yet – there is a power in naming things, and I wasn’t quite ready to cede it to her yet, to hear those precious syllables rolled in her mouth, for her to spit them out again. ‘And he’s handsome and clever and, well, I think he’s the perfect man for me, really. I knew it as soon as I saw him.’

‘That all sounds rather marvellous, darling. And you went to his house, did you? Tell me, what did you find there?’

I sniffed. ‘The thing is, Mummy … I didn’t actually … go inside.’ This wasn’t going to be easy. She liked doing bad things, and I didn’t. It was as simple as that. I spoke quickly, hoping to head off the inevitable criticism. ‘I just wanted to have a quick look, make sure he lived somewhere app … appropriate,’ I said, stumbling over the words in my haste to get them out.