by Jenny Colgan
The children shrugged lethargically, and Zoe felt cross with him all over again.
‘So. Help me and you get the internet back.’
‘That’s against my human rights,’ said Shackleton.
‘Also, I don’t know why you’re teaching him to cook – he’s already too fat,’ said Mary.
‘We don’t talk like that,’ said Zoe. ‘Not about your brother, not about anyone.’
Mary rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, in made-up land.’
‘No, in real-life world. Land,’ said Zoe somewhat awkwardly. ‘You may have to catch up with the outside world a little.’
‘Why?’ said Mary. ‘It’s horrible!’
Zoe opened her mouth and then shut it again as she wasn’t exactly sure she could argue with that.
‘Right,’ she said, raising up the basket. ‘We have fresh eggs. Can you make an omelette?’
Shackleton looked at her and tutted.
‘Does that mean yes or no?’
‘It means he doesn’t know what an omelette is,’ piped up Patrick.
‘Shut up!’ said Shackleton.
‘That can’t be true,’ said Zoe. The children looked back at her blankly.
‘Oh lord. Have you got any cheese?’
‘We’ve got the triangles,’ said Patrick.
‘Yeah, okay, any cheese that doesn’t have a picture of a cow on it?’
The children looked dubious. Zoe investigated the fridge carefully and dug up an old piece of blue cheese. Well. She would have to assume it was mouldy in the first place, that was the point of blue cheese, wasn’t it? It wouldn’t kill them, would it? Would it? She could google it. Oh, except she couldn’t because she’d pulled the internet out and wasn’t a hundred per cent sure that just plugging it in again would make it work and it would also completely defeat the point of the entire exercise.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘What else have you got?’
‘Peanut butter,’ said Patrick.
‘Hmmm.’
She pulled the normal butter out and wiped it round a heavy black pan, then dug around until she found a whisk that looked older than she was and started whisking the eggs together with salt and pepper. There wasn’t a herb to be seen. She couldn’t imagine what Mrs MacGlone was thinking. Then she thought about the miles of ancient carpet that needed hoovering, the endless shelves that needed dusting, the house that once upon a time would have had a raft of servants cleaning and polishing, and now had one faithful retainer with dodgy knees, and it began to make more sense.
But why didn’t their dad feed them? Perhaps he didn’t eat either.
‘Okay,’ she said, handing the bowl and whisk to Shackleton, who stared at it as if she’d just handed him a dog’s tail. ‘Go on, move your arm around.’
He shoogled the whisk up and down a little.
‘You can remember to make omelettes and scrambled eggs differently by remembering omelettes om-it the milk, omelettes, omit the milk, you see?’
She looked at them. They did not see. In fact, they were all still quite surprised by the way she’d cracked the eggs.
‘We’ll get to scrambled eggs later,’ she said. ‘Keep whisking, Shackleton! Try and make it frothy!’
Patrick crept up and stuck his nose over the side of the bowl.
‘Eggs!’ he said in amazement. ‘Can I crack some, Nanny Seven?’
Zoe glanced back at the basket. There were a few left over.
‘You may all have a shot at cracking them in a bowl,’ she said. ‘Just one each though.’
Naturally Patrick made a catastrophe of his and bits of shell and yolk ended up half on the bowl and half on the floor. However his bewildered face turned delighted when, out of nowhere, Porteous shot in through the left-open kitchen door, panting, with his tongue out, and neatly scooped up every last piece of egg, shell and all. It was so fast and unexpected, they all burst out laughing, even, just for the tiniest instant, Mary who, as soon as she saw Zoe looking at her, immediately clammed up and reassumed her habitual sulky expression.
Hari, Zoe was pleased to see, moved forward with his little hand out, as if to stroke the huge creature, who immediately lurched round and knocked him straight off his feet.
There was that quiet moment when a small child falls down and everyone – including the infant – has to gauge how dramatic the fallout is going to be.
The room was briefly silent. Then Hari let out a curious gurgle, which sounded almost like a giggle, and Patrick dashed over.
‘SO FUNNY!’ he shouted. ‘He knocked you over! Hahahahahaha!’
Hari himself blinked several times, clearing the tears that were threatening to form, then Patrick helped the little boy to his feet and the two of them immediately started trying to crack another egg to repeat the experience.
‘Oi!’ said Zoe. ‘No wasting eggs! Anyway –’ She took a sly glance to the right. ‘– it’s Mary’s turn.’
Mary had been sitting at the table, torn between refusing to engage, in however small a way, with whatever Zoe was doing, and an obvious interest in what was happening. The butter was sizzling on the pan and letting off a delicious smell – Zoe realised suddenly she hadn’t had any lunch and was absolutely starving.
Once again treating Mary like a nervous wild creature, Zoe held out the whisk. The girl looked at it. Then, with just a tiny movement, she shook her head.
Zoe didn’t take it as rejection. She took it for what it was: Mary recognising her existence without being aggressive towards her.
‘Okay, Patrick,’ she said. ‘Your turn.’
And she sat him up on the counter. Hari instantly looked so downhearted she put him up too, and they companionably moved the whisk together, while Zoe shooed out Porteous, who good-naturedly shuffled back to the gardener’s house.
‘Okay,’ said Zoe finally, when the mixture was extremely frothy. ‘Stand back . . .’
She poured the first batch into the pan as everyone watched her with rather more attention than she’d expected. Patrick ooed as the mixture hissed and popped.
‘Right,’ she said, as she spread it around with an ancient blackened spatula. ‘Cheese!’
She pulled out the blue cheese.
‘That smells bad bad bad,’ muttered Patrick and Hari put his hand on his nose and they both laughed and Zoe laughed too, and just for a moment – just for a tiny moment – it felt like a normal kitchen. And upstairs, even though he had Wagner blaring as usual, Ramsay stopped what he was doing, just for a second, turned down the music, and listened for the echo of the distant, chiming laughing sound he hadn’t heard for so long, like a long-lost whisper of bells.
Chapter Twenty-five
The weather was coming in in earnest. Zoe had been reasonably confident that it was going to go to crap every single day. All she knew about Scotland was that it was freezing and full of drug addicts that only ate deep-fried Mars bars. She was explaining this to Lennox, who was thoughtfully bringing in large boxes of books she couldn’t lift up at the farmyard. She filleted them quickly, Lennox blinking in confusion. He’d honestly thought Nina was the only person in the world who could do that with books. His ex had been able to do it with shoes.
‘How do you do it?’ he said.
‘It’s easy,’ said Zoe. She picked up and discarded books rapidly. ‘Look! Obviously a knock-off. Trying to pretend to be someone else with the font. Has a small creepy girl on front.’
‘What’s wrong with books with a small creepy girl on front?’
‘They’re all terrible,’ said Zoe stoutly. ‘Except for Flowers in the Attic, and we’re not allowed to stock that any more.’
Lennox blinked.
‘Why not?’
‘You don’t want to know,’ said Zoe with a shiver. ‘It’s not all bad you never read as a child.’
She efficiently tipped out the rest and gathered what she wanted.
‘Only the best,’ she said, checking where the books fell open.
‘What are you doing now?’ said L
ennox.
‘Checking for dirty bits,’ she said.
‘Oh.’ Lennox screwed up his face. ‘You want those or you don’t?’
‘You have to read the customer.’ Zoe sighed. ‘Of course that’s where I have trouble. I don’t know anyone. Here.’
She handed Lennox a book.
‘Anne of Green Gables?’ he said, looking puzzled.
‘For Nina,’ she said. She added an Agatha Christie, The Hotel New Hampshire, the short stories of Saki, a Peanuts treasury and a collection of David Sedaris essays.
‘Comfort reading. Send her my love.’
Lennox nodded and picked the books up.
‘Oh, and ask her if she can’t make a full list of characteristics and quirks of every single person in the village,’ Zoe shouted after him, but he’d gone, nodding gravely to Hari, whom he liked immensely.
But going on in the little bus, there was still a lot of curiosity disguised as concern, and not a lot of book buying. When Zoe timidly introduced the subject and tried to direct people to new things, there was a bit of a tendency to look at her and say, ‘Well, the thing is, Nina knows exactly what I like’ as if Nina had magical powers that she, Zoe, in no way could possess. Also, there wasn’t much point in asking people straight out what they liked, as sometimes they would lie, or they simply didn’t know.
In short, she wasn’t selling many books. Not many at all. People asked her whether she was bringing children’s storybook hour back, and she supposed she’d have a go, but when? She could barely get it together as it was; barely had a second to plan anything. Adding something new at the moment felt like a push too far. She didn’t realise – and Nina had a lot on her mind so we can’t really blame her for not mentioning it – that Tuesday morning children’s story time was vitally important: all the mothers on the whole would buy the books after the reading, and spend time chatting them over with the children. It was a real boost to the shop’s income for the price of a quiet half-hour on the cushions, a few cheap cups of coffee and a variety biscuit box.
Instead, she dusted, tidied and pushed out the new hardbacks, but in vain. It wasn’t taking. Not hanging around at the nursery probably didn’t help; she could see all the mothers standing outside it, chatting, but she couldn’t join in, she was always in such a rush. And she had to pluck up the courage. When she went there or into the local shop, everyone fell silent and she felt more of a stranger than ever. It was odd: when she had started work, she’d thought she’d be less lonely, getting out of the house, meeting people in a small community. But apart from Lennox, who treated her with the same quiet politeness he treated everyone, it was very hard to meet people.
‘How do people meet people around here?’ she’d finally asked Lennox awkwardly. He’d simply stared at the question. People requiring a social life was a mystery to Lennox.
She’d even asked Mrs MacGlone of all people, who sniffed and said everyone round here was awful and to steer well clear, and not to talk about the big house, that’s all they wanted to know, sticking their nose in everyone’s business and Zoe had said, well, it was just as well she didn’t know anybody’s business then and Mrs MacGlone had sniffed once more and said, well, quite, wasn’t that what she was always saying, and she had mothballs to stitch. And Zoe had been about to say, had she heard anything odd round the house – she kept feeling not quite alone in her room, she couldn’t understand it at all – but she didn’t. It was just so strange.
‘So,’ Zoe had said as casually as she dared. ‘You know how there’s millions of huge bedrooms here and mine is tiny?’
Mrs MacGlone had fixed her with a look.
‘Yours,’ she’d said, ‘is a staff bedroom. You’re no’ a guest.’
And she’d stalked off witheringly, and Zoe couldn’t find the words to say that she knew she wasn’t a guest – she was just slightly concerned she had an uninvited one.
Chapter Twenty-six
One Sunday, Zoe woke early, wondering what on earth to do. Mrs MacGlone wasn’t in, and neither was Ramsay: it was just her, and the children and Hari, all day.
She was in a strange place and she had very little money. She should go and see Nina, but she assumed on a Sunday, correctly, that she’d have a lot of visitors and so decided to leave it to a quieter day.
It was sunny and chilly outside, but nobody was stirring. Downstairs on her own, she found herself looking at the long hallway with its chandelier, festooned with spiderwebs, and suddenly found herself overcome by a longing to do something; to make a change.
She heard Mrs MacGlone every day; running the old cranky twin-tub washing machine, using the old hoover, washing plates and dishes by hand and vanishing on far-flung jobs in the depths of the house. It wasn’t that she didn’t work hard: she did. But the sheer amount there was to do for one person was simply terrifying. The house ran, but only just.
Zoe went up to the huge main front door. The thick old wood towered above her, and she inspected the two bolts and a snib with a rusty old key left in the lock. She drew back the incredibly stiff bolts, which hadn’t been oiled in for ever, and twisted the key with some difficulty using her entire weight. The old key protested and finally gave way, Zoe worrying briefly that she might have broken it and it might be some old chieftain’s key and she’d owe Scotland a billion dollars for ever kind of thing.
Hari was standing behind her suddenly. She was used to him creeping up silently; she knew other people found it startling. He was still wearing his little fireman sleep suit with the feet that he was getting too big for – normally she’d just cut off the feet, but she’d rather hoped that her circumstances might change enough that she wouldn’t need do that. He couldn’t have grown in the short time they’d been there. Surely not.
He was clutching, she noticed, an old bear made of stiff-looking hair. It looked older than Zoe herself.
‘Where did you get that?’ she said, going towards him for a cuddle. The thing was ancient; an antique. It smelled of old wooden boxes and sawdust and horses, for some reason. Its eyes were real glass and it wore a faded tartan ribbon around its neck. Any label had long gone.
Hari pointed upstairs, unhelpfully.
‘I’m not sure that’s yours,’ she said in a gentle tone of voice. ‘I think we’d better check with Patrick’s daddy that it’s okay for you to play with that.’
Hari eyed her fixedly and shook his head, then cuddled the bear closer as if to show how vehemently he didn’t agree with her take on things.
‘It’s not ours,’ said Zoe, sighing. ‘Nothing here is ours, sweetheart.’ Hari blinked, then turned away, hiding the bear from her. Zoe bit her lip.
‘Well, you can hold on to it for now,’ she said. ‘While we’re in the house. Just . . . don’t forget: it’s not your bear.’
Surely if it was a priceless family heirloom, Mrs MacGlone would point that fact out in about five seconds. Until then, she’d just have to keep half an eye on them both. And he did look very cute, like a little Christopher Robin with an original Pooh Bear.
Using both hands, Zoe pulled open the great door, which made a vast creaking sound on its hinges.
It was a revelation. Cold bright light streamed in from outside. Birds were singing and chattering; the trees were blowing in the stiff breeze on the other side of the gravel driveway. It was dazzling.
It showed up the old hallway in all its shabbiness, but also the beauty of its ancient wood panelling and the good quality of the dark twentieth-century oil paintings and even the stag’s head – which Hari hadn’t noticed before and made him jump – and the elaborately carved banisters of the main staircase.
Wanting to see more of the house, Zoe opened the door to the downstairs sitting room with its old piano she’d glimpsed on the first day, the shelves crammed with books, and opened the old shutters and the heavy curtains there too. More and more light fell into the room, revealing heavy old maps and piles of paper everywhere, dust swirling in the air, and odd bowls and vases that didn’t seem
to have a place.
‘Right,’ said Zoe cheerfully. There was nobody here to judge or forbid her to do anything. The children still weren’t up. She went through into the kitchen and found an ancient, flour-spattered old radio and moved it around the house until she found a signal. She just needed something jolly and uplifting, and sure enough found a rusty poppy channel that was playing the kind of music that fitted her mood.
Under the huge old butler sink in the kitchen were acres of cleaning materials and polish, and she put on Mrs MacGlone’s big old apron and brought them all through and started to go through everything in the overstuffed room. She filled black bags with what was patently rubbish – old envelopes, year-old junk mail and broken plastic spoons and old rags. She found an empty drawer and started putting things she thought you might need into that drawer, then got caught up and started emptying all the drawers.
It was mindless, busy and satisfying work, and Zoe didn’t realise how loudly and cheerfully she was going at it and bustling around, the sun blazing in, the music at top volume, spraying and cleaning and packing and moving, Hari dancing and ‘helping’, until she got the sense of movement behind her and turned around to see all three children standing on the landing of the staircase, gazing at her. Mary was wearing the lion T-shirt.
‘See?’ Patrick was saying. ‘She has gone quite absolutely mad.’
Zoe stood up, annoyed that she felt guilty and caught out. She was the one who’d been dumped here and told to get on with things. What right did they have to be judging her on trying to make their environment nicer?
The music was still blaring. Shackleton went down and turned it off. Mary stepped forwards. She was utterly pale and shaking with rage.
‘What are you doing?’ she said.
Zoe glanced around. The entire place was so much better already: it smelled fresh with the wind blowing through it, and the windows and shelves were gleaming. The umbrella bucket now had every umbrella she could find in the house in it, rather than them being scattered on every available surface. She’d made it through to the boot room to the left as you came in, which now had shoes and wellingtons neatly arranged in a row, and all the hats – some with feathers, some from the last century; many completely mad – lined up on the rack or piled neatly on a shelf built for that purpose. The mirror in the room had been cleaned, and the curtains opened, so you could actually see what you were wearing.