by Kate Forster
‘Nearly everything,’ he said, and she wanted to ask what it didn’t have but she knew she was blushing.
‘Do you promise not to storm out again?’ he asked.
‘I promise,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I am sorry about that. I was thinking about something else at the time and misunderstood what you were saying.’
‘Then tell me about it at dinner?’
‘I will try.’
She took a bath in the claw-foot bath. She lay in the foamy bubbles and washed the gardening dirt and sweat away then dressed with more care than usual. So far Henry had only seen her in jeans and some horrible sweatpants that she had been gardening in today.
The air was still warm, almost muggy, so she slipped into a red sundress that she had once worn in holiday in Spain with Giles and Judy. She wondered now if that was where the affair had started. She had food poisoning and told them to enjoy the time together while she was sick in the room for three days. It was after those few days things had changed. Where once her boyfriend and best friend had seemed to hate each other, then they had private jokes and a need to say Spanish words as though they were in an Almodóvar movie.
Then three months later the traitors were holding hands while Clara set fire to the dinner table and threw a breadstick at Giles’s head.
And then he had the nerve to text her. It made her furious to think about and she sprayed extra perfume and put on a slick of red lipstick as a sort of revenge moment.
Too much? She wondered as she looked in the tiny bathroom mirror.
Who cares? she heard her mum’s voice in her head. Who cares if the boys like you? Who cares if you want to wear the pink stockings and red shoes? You be you, Clara Maxwell. When did she forget how to be herself? She knew when and she didn’t want to remember. Only for a short time had she been herself when she was a child. That was when they left in the night, her mother with two suitcases and her father passed out on the floor.
Clara pushed the memories away and went downstairs and out of the cottage. Henry’s van was lit up and the door was open.
He was leaning against the door as Pansy was skipping in the summer twilight, singing a rhyme as she jumped the rope.
‘Robin Hood, dressed so good, got as many kisses as he could. How many kisses did he get?’
She started to count as she jumped the rope.
‘One, two, three, four.’
Clara looked at Henry who was smiling at Pansy.
‘Henry Garnett, wish he’d stay, he could take as many kisses as he may,’ she whispered to herself.
‘Clara, watch me skip,’ called Pansy.
Clara saw Henry look up at her and his eyes sweep over her in the sundress. She held it out and did a small curtsey, knowing she was blushing.
He did a silly bow but she didn’t feel it was too much; it was just enough. He was more than enough.
She walked towards Pansy, clapping her as she made it to ten without stopping and then starting again.
It was thirty-six steps to Henry’s van – she counted. She smiled as she looked up at him.
She wasn’t going to excuse the dress or try and make it less than it was.
She hated when women made excuses for looking nice. She never heard men do the same. ‘I just felt like dressing up tonight. No reason other than needing to remember I like nice dresses.’
‘That dress suits you,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Clara, feeling a knot of pleasure in her stomach.
‘Clara, watch me,’ demanded Pansy. So, she watched as Pansy struggled with the rope, flicking it over her head.
The close proximity of Henry made her skin burn with need and she wondered if she was just projecting onto the first single man since Piles or if she was really as into Henry as her body was telling her right now.
‘Wine?’ asked Henry and she heard his throat catch.
‘Yes please.’ Henry almost automatically handed her a glass.
‘The service is wonderful here.’ She laughed, turning her head to him, over her shoulder.
Henry laughed back but seemed flustered. Was she flirting? Was it too much?
He was hired to fix her cottage, not to take her to bed, she reminded herself.
Pansy walked towards them, panting dramatically, ‘I am knackered from that skipping,’ she said.
‘Come inside and you can have a sit-down while I run a bath for Miss Foulmouth.’
‘You have a bath?’ Clara shook her head. ‘This van is like Mary Poppins’s bag. It seems to have more room in it than meets the eye.’
‘Come and see,’ said Henry. She went inside and behind a nondescript-looking door, was a little bathroom complete with a half-sized claw-foot bath, and subway tiles. Ferns swung from macramé holders and a basket of bath toys was next to a sink and a toilet.
‘There is everything here, isn’t there?’ Clara looked in amazement at the quality of the workmanship on the panelling of the walls and the tiling; even the macramé was beautifully done.
‘Nearly everything,’ said Henry as he turned on the bath and put in some rose-scented bubble liquid.
‘Where is the water coming from?’ she asked.
‘I have a water tank on top and a small water heater,’ he said, as his hand stirred up the bubbles as the tub quickly filled.
‘Pansy,’ he called and she came running.
‘Go away, I’m going to be in the bath,’ she said, shoving a laughing Clara out of the way.
Clara waited in the van, adjusting her dress and trying to be casual. Why was she treating this like a date? It was just a simple early dinner with a man and his kid, nothing more.
Henry came into the space and sat opposite her and raised his glass. ‘To Acorn Cottage and its beautiful and clever owner, Clara Maxwell. May you find exactly what you want in this lovely spot of the world, and may you find the peace you need in your mind and forgiveness in your heart.’
Clara raised her glass to his and they touched them and then sipped the wine.
‘Thank you,’ she said and, from that moment, Clara wondered if Henry would ever find someone to share his life with. It seemed an enormous waste to have him all alone in the world.
19
Clara – aged 13
The first time she and Mum left was after Dad had hit Clara. It was an accident, he said. She’d got in the way. But Clara had screamed at him that he shouldn’t have been hitting anyone and this time he hit her on purpose. A smack across the face that spun her into the wall and while she was clutching the side of her head, he grabbed Mum by the throat and held her up against the wall.
‘Never, ever argue with me about money. I decide where it goes. I make it, you don’t. Understand?’
Clara had seen Mum nod, while gasping for breath. Dad had stopped her from working, even though they didn’t have enough money. He said the money wasn’t worth it and she needed to do a better job around the house.
Now he was talking about Clara leaving school in a few years and working to help around the house.
After his suggestion, Mum had a look on her face that Clara hadn’t seen before. For the past few months, Mum had been doing more ironing than usual for the ladies up the road. But Clara knew not to say anything and Dad was so stupid he didn’t realise she was being paid.
She had seen Mum put the money into a coffee tin and bury it around the side of the house and again, Clara knew not to say anything.
And one night, when Dad was out at the pub, and Clara was doing her homework, Mum came to her with two suitcases packed. She had told Clara she had only ever used the suitcases once before, on her honeymoon with Dad to the seaside. Now she was using them again.
‘Get your school things – we’re going,’ said Mum.
Clara could see the fading yellow bruise on her mum’s neck. Last time Dad had held her against the wall, she had blacked out and that’s when Clara knew she hated her father.
Clara swept her things into her bag and ran into her room and saw i
t was cleared out of nearly everything personal and she came out to Mum again, excited and scared about what Mum was finally doing for them. For herself most of all.
‘Your grandmother’s house,’ said Mum, not looking at Clara.
‘My grandmother?’
Clara had never heard she had a grandmother, and she wondered what she was like but knew not to ask any questions yet.
Knowing when to speak and when not to speak was a skill that Clara had learned from her father. And as they shut the door behind them, Clara crossed her fingers that Dad wouldn’t come home from the pub early and see them at the bus stop.
20
The next morning, Henry woke earlier than usual. He was looking forward to the work ahead for the day. New roofing reed was coming and then he, Clara and Pansy were travelling into Chippenham to look for bookshelves and get paint samples for the inside and outside of the cottage. But most of all, he was looking forward to seeing Clara.
She had made him laugh so much over dinner, telling stories of loan applications for bizarre things at the bank she used to work at. She had coloured in a fairy book with Pansy and took Pansy’s bossy instruction about which colours to put where with good grace. And she looked so beautiful in her red dress with her dark hair that shone under the lamplight.
The strap of her dress fell from her shoulders periodically and it was all he could do not to gently lift it back, wanting to feel her skin with his fingers.
But he didn’t. He kept himself busy, serving, cleaning, pottering and when Pansy was in bed, they took their wine outside with his outdoor chairs and sat in the semidarkness telling stories about themselves.
He lay back in his bed now, remembering her closeness to him, the stars bright above them.
He had told her about Naomi’s death. She listened. She asked questions about Naomi people had never asked him.
What was her favourite film? Who did she hate? What was she most grateful for in life?
He knew all the answers.
The Great Race.
People who used religion as an excuse for being cruel to others.
She was most grateful her Mum had time to say goodbye instead of her death being swift and sudden, leaving loved ones bewildered and in shock.
He told her he thought he would die when Naomi died but the morning after she died, Pansy asked for pancakes and he made them because there was no one else and they ate pancakes and got on with living because that’s what Naomi would have wanted.
And she told him about her mum.
She was eleven when they left the first time. The beatings and drinking were too much. Then she was thirteen when they left again. And then fourteen. And then finally they left for good when she was fifteen.
Her mother had to learn how to do everything again as Clara’s father had controlled the money, the food, even what to wear.
No wonder Clara felt compelled to help Rachel escape her mother.
Henry showered and then changed into his work clothes and checked his phone.
Pansy is here, eating rabbit cake for breakfast.
He laughed and walked over to the cottage. He found Clara and Pansy sitting in their pyjamas eating cake and drinking tea.
‘Have a look at you two,’ he said. ‘You look like absolute old women nattering and too lazy to get dressed.’
Pansy ignored him, but he noticed Clara blushed. She looked gorgeous in her flowery PJs and messy hair.
Stop, Henry, he reminded himself. She’s a client. You’re lonely, that’s all. Having a crush on your boss isn’t going to help anything, especially when it’s not reciprocated.
He hadn’t dated at all since Naomi had died, it wasn’t even a consideration, but Clara made him wonder if he was ready. Except he didn’t want to date anyone. He just wanted to kiss Clara. He realised she was all he thought about now, which was a nice change but it made him feel like a teenager again and he hadn’t enjoyed his teen years once, so he definitely didn’t want to go through it again.
‘What time are we heading off?’ asked Clara, pouring him tea and pushing a mug reading Keep Calm and STFU at him.
‘When you’re ready,’ he said, sitting down and taking some cake and raising his mug in a toast with Pansy.
‘What does your mug say?’ asked Pansy.
‘God, sorry, I shouldn’t have given you that,’ said Clara.
Henry glanced at the cup and then at Pansy, ‘Keep calm and eat your crusts.’
‘It does not,’ said Pansy, looking at him suspiciously.
‘It does so,’ said Henry.
Clara laughed. ‘I’m going to get changed.’ Clara left the kitchen and he heard her running upstairs.
Clara seemed to rush everywhere. She had more energy than Pansy at times, and never complained about tiredness. He wasn’t sure if her energy was contagious but he felt alive when he was around her, more alive than he had felt since Naomi died.
Perhaps part of him died with Naomi but with Clara a new part of himself had been born. He was excited and laughed more easily and was always thinking about the next day instead of getting through the current one.
He washed up the teacups and hummed a song he wasn’t sure how he knew or what the name of it was.
‘If you marry Clara, then I can stay here and go to school and we can get a dog,’ said Pansy leaning on her hands and peering at him.
‘Oh really?’ He laughed. ‘Clara might have other ideas.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Pansy. ‘She asks a lot of questions about you.’
‘Does she?’ Henry felt pleased and confused and like that dammed teenager again.
‘What sort of questions?’ He tried to play it cool.
‘About our house and about me going to school and about if you have a girlfriend and if you liked medium steak or something.’
Henry tried to stifle a laugh and failed.
‘Maybe she’s just trying to get to know me through you – I mean you know me better than anyone.’
‘I wasn’t sure if you liked steak, but I told her you like sausages and so do I. I think I will have to know you better also, Daddy.’
He looked at his serious little daughter and he was filled with such love for her. He leaned down and kissed her curly head.
‘That’s okay, we have plenty of time to get to know each other. Now, go and get dressed and we’ll head off for the day.’
Pansy ran out to the van while he finished the dishes and washed them and put them in the drying rack.
‘I’m ready,’ he heard, and turned to see Clara in jeans and a white shirt and pink blazer. She put a foot up to show her silver sneakers. ‘I have my sensible footwear on, so we can go traipsing through the shops.’
‘Excellent,’ he said, feeling awkward. ‘I did the dishes.’ Why did he say that? Was he wanting praise? What a stupid thing to say. She can see you did the dishes, you idiot.
‘Thank you,’ Clara said. They stared at each other for a long moment.
‘Clara,’ he began to say.
‘Yes?’ she answered quickly almost, breathlessly.
‘I’m ready,’ yelled Pansy, jumping through the door in a party dress, gumboots and fairy wings.
‘Perfect shopping attire,’ said Clara as she held Pansy’s hand and twirled her. ‘Let’s go and show Chippenham how the cool people dress for shopping.’
*
The drive to Chippenham was lovely. Pansy chatted in the car and then fell asleep, and he and Clara sat in comfortable silence, occasionally commenting on a cottage they passed or a farm or a lovely view. The countryside seemed greener and brighter than Henry had remembered it before.
The music on the radio played softly and sometimes he and Clara would sing along as though to themselves but not really. They could hear each other and there was no self-consciousness. They were just in complete unison.
When they arrived in Chippenham, Henry took them straight to the paint shop.
‘We need to find the perfect pink for the outsi
de,’ he said. He was holding Pansy, who was still dozing, her head on his shoulder.
Clara picked up a selection of pink cards. He stood close to her, as she shuffled through them. He could feel her shoulder against his arm and it made his heart beat faster.
She leaned against him slightly or was he imagining it? He wasn’t sure. Pansy was heavy in his arms, but he couldn’t put her down. She was anchoring him, because being this close to Clara made him feel like he would float away.
‘Kiss me,’ he heard Clara say and he felt dizzy.
‘Sorry?’ he said to her.
‘The paint, this colour, it’s called Kiss Me. Do you like it?’ she asked.
‘Perfect,’ he said trying to get his thoughts straight. ‘Absolutely perfect.’
And he wondered why he felt like he was cheating on Naomi.
21
Once Rachel had hated the bakery and the tearooms, seeing them as a prison from which she couldn’t escape. Mother was the warden and the daily baking was a punishment, but now Rachel was ready to go earlier than ever and she had so much energy and so many ideas.
Now the bakery opened at eight in the morning and the tearooms at ten, because Clara and Henry said people wanted morning tea and an early lunch and they were right. It was only half past nine and the bakery was humming with customers wanting their fill of Rachel’s baked items.
Today she had filled the glass cabinet with fondant fancies iced like a deck of major arcana Tarot cards that Tassie McIver had left for her, thinking she might like them.
Rachel didn’t understand the cards but she liked the drawings on them: the Sun, the Moon, the Lovers, Justice, The Chariot.
It was fun to ice them when she was awake before the sun was up. Joe called in with some lovely lambs’ kidneys and she showed him her work.
‘That’s very clever – you could be an artist,’ he said seriously. He looked at Rachel as though she truly was an artist and she knew she blushed at his words.
It had been so long since Rachel had received a compliment she wasn’t sure what to say but somewhere she remembered Tassie McIver telling her years before to not brush away good energy and to say thank you because if you disagreed with the person, they might think you think them stupid.