They were waiting a long time. The waitress returned repeatedly – the menu was absolutely gigantic, with all manner of things to order: roast beef side; knishes; pastrami on rye and lots of other things that made no sense at all to Issy, who was already slightly shocked at the state of the banquettes and the slovenliness of the waitress. She wouldn’t want to run her fingers across the top of the pictures.
After twenty minutes, as Issy fiddled with her phone and wished she’d brought a book, and Darny ate his way stoically through the root beer float until he looked like he was turning green, the door slammed open dramatically, bringing in with it a noisy gust of wind. A tall, imperious woman dressed in old-fashioned, very plain hand-made clothes and a large and rather elaborate hat swept in.
‘Isabel!’ she declaimed loudly, in an American accent.
‘Mum,’ said Issy.
Darny looked up for the first time that day.
Marian swanned across to their table. The elderly waitress was over in the blink of an eye, but Marian waved her away.
‘Beverly!’ she cried. ‘Not until I’ve said hello to my precious daughter, whom I haven’t seen in an age. Look at her, isn’t she lovely?’
Marian wobbled Issy’s cheeks up and down. Issy tried not to mind and hugged her mother back.
‘And who’s this? Have you had a child and not told me?’
‘No,’ said Issy and Darny simultaneously.
Marian sat down and waved away the laminated menu. ‘We’ll have pastrami on rye three times, no pickles. And three root beer floats.’
‘No thank you,’ said Darny, looking slightly queasy.
‘Two root beer floats. You have to try these,’ said Marian.
‘OK,’ said Issy.
Their drinks appeared in record time, while Marian was still looking her up and down.
‘I haven’t seen you since …’
‘Gramps’ funeral,’ said Issy. She’d put a notice in the Manchester Evening News, and had been stunned by the response. Over two hundred people who had remembered her grandfather – worked with him or eaten his wares over the years – had contacted her, and his funeral was full to the rafters. It had been rather daunting. Her mother had wafted around gathering compliments and looking artistic and brave whilst Issy had attempted to cater for an endless parade of well-wishers and mourners, many of whom were kind enough to say that she had inherited his talent.
There had been so many stories. Credit given when the man of the house was out of work; an apprentice taken on out of prison; a thief rapped sharply on the knuckles and sent off with a stiff lecture, never to offend again. There were stories of wedding cakes; christening cakes; warm doughnuts for cold hands off to school; growing up with the scent of fresh bread always in the nostrils. He had touched a lot of lives, and people wanted her to know that, and she was grateful to hear it.
She was glad to be busy too, all through the funeral and the sorting things out; there was always something to do and she had her hands full. It was when everything was tidied away and she’d returned to London that she’d spent her nights crying into Austin’s shirts. He had been very good about it. He’d understood, perhaps better than anyone else could.
There had been a little money – not much. Issy was glad about that. Her grandfather had worked hard his entire life, and she had spent it all on the nicest home and the nicest people she could find to make sure he was as comfortable and happy as possible. She didn’t grudge a penny of it. She had used her share to extend her lease and pay off some of her mortgage. Her mother had used hers to go to an ashram, whatever that was, and complain about all the inaccuracies in Eat Pray Love.
And here she was again, large as life, in a coffee shop in New York. It felt very strange.
‘Hey,’ said Issy.
‘Well,’ said her mother. ‘Tell me everything.’
But before she could begin, Marian was looking over for the waitress.
‘You know,’ she confided, ‘I shouldn’t really be eating this. I went all raw food at the ashram. Apparently I have a very sensitive system and I can’t process refined flour. But oy vey, as we say.’
‘Mum,’ said Issy. She looked at the sandwich in front of her. It was piled higher than her mouth could possibly open. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was meant to do with it or how she should eat it. ‘Are you Jewish now?’
Marian looked solemn. ‘Well, I think on a very real level, every one of us is Jewish.’
Issy nodded. ‘Except we’re Church of England.’
‘It’s the Judaeo-Christian tradition, though,’ said Marian. ‘Anyway, I’m changing my name.’
‘Not again!’ groaned Issy. ‘Come on. Remember the fuss you had with the bank when you tried to change back from “Feather”?’
‘No,’ said Marian. ‘Anyway, it’s not hard to remember. I’m going to be Miriam.’
‘Why bother changing your name from Marian to Miriam? It’s practically the same.’
‘Except one honours the mother of Jesus, a great prophet to be sure, and one is the sister of Moses who led the Chosen People to the Promised Land.’
Issy had learned long ago not to take her mother up logically on any of her latest crazes. Instead she smiled resignedly.
‘It’s good to see you,’ she said. ‘Are you enjoying living here?’
‘It’s the most wonderful place on earth,’ said Marian. ‘You must come visit the kibbutz.’
‘You’re in a kibbutz?’
‘Of course! We’re trying to live as authentically as possible. Saturdays are difficult, but apart from that …’
‘Why are Saturdays difficult?’ It was the first time Darny had spoken of his own accord all day.
Marian turned her attention towards him.
‘And who are you?’ she asked bluntly.
‘I’m Darny Tyler,’ he replied, his face heading back down towards his sandwich again.
‘And how do you fit into all this? Is my daughter being nice to you?’
Darny shrugged.
‘Yes, I am!’ said Issy, cross. ‘I’m nice to everyone.’
‘You’re too nice,’ said Marian. ‘Always trying to please people, that’s your problem.’
Darny nodded his agreement. ‘She always wants everyone to like her, all the teachers and stuff.’