by Kris Pearson
“Benji—come,” she called, and his eyebrows quivered when she unhitched his red tartan lead from its hook. He capered across, toenails clicking on the tiles. Mary clipped the lead onto his collar and eyed the after-dinner pikelets.
Benji gave two sharp yaps.
“Yes, you’re right,” she agreed, covering them with a clean teacloth. Why take the dog for a walk in the hope of losing weight if she ate the rest as well?
She leaned into the dining room and grabbed her shoulder bag from the chair where it had found a permanent home. ‘So lazy these days,’ she muttered as she dashed lipstick onto her buttery lips.
Benji barked again, much more vigorously, just before the door knocker beat out Trudie’s familiar tattoo.
Mary grabbed the tartan lead and opened the door to find not only Trudie, but a tall and most attractive dark-haired man. Her spirits plummeted. Another attempt at matchmaking? She hoped not.
The tall and most attractive man sniffed the cooking aromas. “Home baking? Someone’s lucky.”
Trudie tucked her hand into his elbow in a proprietary manner. “Wait until you try my cupcakes, Roland,” she suggested.
Mary smiled. Good—Roland was taken. And the day Trudie attempted real cupcakes, pigs would zoom over the village like the Red Arrows.
“Mary, this is Roland Jameson,” Trudie added. “I thought you wouldn’t mind if he joined us. Might make us walk a bit further and faster.”
Handshakes were exchanged. Mary eyed Roland’s bulging calves and expensive-looking sports shoes, and privately thought Trudie had bitten off more than she could chew.
Roland inhaled again. “Rock cakes? I remember wonderful rock cakes. With preserved ginger as well as currants.”
“Pikelets,” Mary replied. “Nice and quick to make. Shall I grab some for us to eat as we walk?”
She handed the end of Benji’s lead to Trudie, silently cursing herself for giving away her after-dinner treat. Soon they were companionably munching as they strode along, much faster than usual thanks to Roland’s grippy shoes and strong legs.
“Goodness,” Trudie protested. “Poor little Benji will have trouble keeping up.”
Mary grinned. Benji was frisking ahead, hauling on his lead.
“Do you make scones?” Roland asked over his shoulder.
“Date, cheese…” Mary tried not to puff.
“Can’t beat a good scone.” Roland wasn’t puffing at all.
“I’ll bake you a chocolate cake,” Trudie suggested, quite pink in the face now.
When had Trudie ever attempted chocolate cake? Mary bit the inside of her cheek.
“Gingerbread,” Roland continued, keeping up his steady pace. “Danish pastries with almonds. Ever made those?”
“There’s always a first time,” Trudie replied gamely.
Behind them, Mary snorted. In front of her, Benji’s lively trot slowed as the ground became steeper.
“Our mother used to bake,” Roland reminisced, striding around a bend as though he was on rails. “I grew up thinking all women did. No longer the case, I fear.”
“I think we’re the exception rather than the rule,” Mary said, kindly including Trudie in her comment. If Trudie wanted him, best of luck to her. This wasn’t Mary’s idea of a walk. In fact she’d be perfectly pleased if they turned back right now. Surely the calories in the pikelets had already been incinerated?
“We could go out with your brother for dinner one evening,” Trudie suggested, stopping to ‘re-tie’ a shoelace that hadn’t come undone, breathing rapidly and wiping at her perspiring forehead as Roland jogged on the spot.
His brother? So she’d been right when she suspected Trudie of match-making. “If you cook the main, I’ll bring dessert,” Mary offered by way of punishment.
Trudie straightened, eyes round, jaw slack.
“Can’t beat a nice roast of beef and Yorkshires,” Roland enthused.
“I do… a very good… Spaghetti Bolognaise,” Trudie panted.
Mary knew what that entailed; ten minutes of boiling the pasta, two minutes of microwaving Mama Dolcina’s authentic Italian-style sauce, and a sprinkle of grated Parmesan cheese from the packet in the fridge.
The corners of Roland’s mouth turned down. Plainly Spag Bol wouldn’t snare him.
*
On Sunday night they sat down to a roasted, pre-stuffed chicken, passable chunks of rosemary baked potato, parsnip sprinkled with lemon pepper, and boiled frozen peas. Trudie looked shattered from the effort, Roland seemed reasonably impressed, and his brother, David, apologised for bringing red wine instead of white.
Mary quite liked the brother. To her relief he exhibited no signs of being a fitness freak. He had a trim, straight body with no discernible waist, and she was interested enough to wonder naughtily how his grey twill trousers stayed up. His pale blue shirt hinted at a nice chest, and his salt and pepper hair was well cut and thicker than Roland’s.
Roland was definitely more outgoing; divorced, two children at good boarding schools which he let them know about rather too proudly, and managing director of a company which packed products in aerosol cans. David was quieter, a book illustrator with a dry sense of humour and twinkling grey eyes. Mary paid close attention to his conversation, but he mentioned no wife or girlfriend.
She sipped her wine. “Delicious,” she assured him. “And it’ll be especially good with my dessert. Black Forest Gateau—because when we were out walking the other day, chocolate cake was mentioned.”
David smiled at her kind comment about his wine. “Can’t wait to taste that, then.” He glanced across at Benji, curled in his bed by Trudie’s hearth. “Is he lucky enough to get your leftovers?”
“Not the Black Forest Gateau! But you’re good on scones and muffins, aren’t you, Benji?”
Benji heard his name, raised his head, and wuffed.
“He’s a nice little lad,” David said. “I could use him in a children’s book I’m working on. Would you be interested in bringing him around for a couple of sittings?”
Mary felt herself blushing. “Benji—did you hear that? You’ll be famous.”
Benji, finding no food coming his way, sighed and dropped his chin back onto the wicker edge of his bed.
She nodded. “We’d love to. I work until noon each day, but after that?”
David leaned back in his chair. “Tomorrow?”
“Shall I bring some sultana scones for a late lunch?” Her Eric had loved those.
*
Mary sniffed the pink and yellow roses as she led Benji up David’s front path. Benji happily snuffled at everything lower down. The studio proved to be a long sunny room at the back of the house. David had set up a box with a blanket on top and Benji jumped up when invited.
“This is lovely,” Mary said, handing over her basket of scones and crossing the room to gaze at the willows bordering a stream.
Behind her, David quietly took several photos with his cellphone and set it aside. “We could eat lunch out there a little later. There’s a bench and a table.”
She sat near Benji as David started to sketch. They talked and laughed as though they’d been friends for years. Eventually, indicating the adjacent kitchen, she said, “Shall I make tea?”
When she came back she found him tapping at the computer in the corner. “With you in a minute,” he said as the printer whirred. “The table’s around to the right.”
The three of them enjoyed the sun and then returned to the studio for another hour. “We could go for a walk,” Mary suggested. “It’s a gorgeous day.”
*
On Tuesday she took banana muffins to the studio. “How’s it looking?” she asked.
“No sneak previews,” he grinned, barring her from seeing. “I’ll show you when it’s finished.”
The next day was date and nut loaf. David painted. Mary talked. Benji dozed.
Thursday they ate cheese and bacon pinwheels. And enjoyed a much slower walk up the reservoir path. She held D
avid’s arm over the roughest pieces. He covered her hand with his so she couldn’t retrieve it.
Friday was apple shortcake. And dinner at the pub by the river. As they sat on over coffee she said wistfully, “You must be almost finished his portrait by now.” She didn’t want it finished. It had been a lovely week.
David’s enigmatic gaze held hers. “Come back to the house and see it?”
Mary’s spirits fell. So it was done. “Why didn’t you show me earlier?” she asked, trying to sound breezy.
His lips twitched. “Because I’m enjoying your company, and want to keep you longer.”
Her breath whooshed out in a long happy sigh.
*
After dinner they returned to the studio. David removed the cloth from his easel. Clamped to one corner was the photo of Benji sitting up and looking alert. And the painting was identical—nothing like the dog who’d spent the week snoozing on the blanket.
“You didn’t need him here at all,” Mary said, biting her lip and trying not to smile.
“No—not him,” David confessed. “But I’ve loved having you here. I hope you’ll still come and see me? Maybe with less baking or we’ll have to do more walking.”
“That or… something else,” she said, smile finally breaking free as she reached over and pulled him close for a hug.
***
DREAMBOATS
Yesterday I walked arm-in-arm with Grand-dad in the late summer dusk. His arms are so soft now. I could feel his lovely old skin rubbing like velvet against my forearm as we progressed slowly across the lawn. At eighty-seven he finally allows his great-grandson—my son Rob—to mow it for him. Rob is seventeen; too tall, too thin, and he’s going to be gorgeous once he fills out. Right now he’s like a puppy—huge feet and no co-ordination. But just you wait a couple of years...
Grand-dad and I stopped to admire his apple tree, outrageously loaded with fruit. He has it trussed up with a huge mess of stakes and poles and Nan’s old stockings. The apple-smell wafted all around us in the warm air.
“You really should get rid of the old boat, you know,” I suggested (not for the first time) as I glanced across to the other side of the yard. The ramshackle once-white runabout on its rusty trailer has crouched behind the garage for as long as I can remember—I suppose since Grand-dad retired from the shop. Underneath, where Rob can’t reach with the mower, the grass and weeds grow rank and green in the shade.
Long before I was Rob’s age I used to watch Grand-dad scraping and sanding the curved planks... dabbing some sort of special marine paint on the exposed timber... filling a red oil-drum with water from the garden hose and making the propeller whiz wildly around while Nan tsk-tsked from the kitchen window.
The boat was already old when he bought it. Peeling and flaking. Awash with a couple of inches of rainwater and slimy leaves. It boasted an enormous black outboard motor, always covered with a khaki tarpaulin unless it was time for the back-yard tests.
Over the years there was talk of fishing expeditions... summer trips with friends... boating with great-grandchildren. Somehow these things had never eventuated, for which my sister and I were secretly hugely relieved. Would we trust our precious kids to an elderly ex-grocer with a moribund motor-boat? I don’t think so!
But Seaspray lurked on in the corner of the tidy back yard like a huge pale wedge of mouldy cheese, ‘almost’ ready to put to sea.
As time passed, Nan became less worried about Grand-dad falling overboard and drowning, and more agitated about the eyesore in her otherwise pristine garden. The stubborn old boy wouldn’t consider building a trellis and letting Nan hide the boat with a clematis vine or a climbing jasmine. And despite his occasional forays with a paintbrush, his pride and joy never quite lost its patchy, disreputable air.
“So will you?” I asked again after no reply was forthcoming. “Will you get rid of the boat? You’ll never go sailing in it now.”
“I go sailing in her most nights in my dreams,” Grand-dad said with surprising firmness. “Harry Ridgeway and I go out towards Cape Kidnappers and catch Blue Cod. There are still plenty left if you know the good spots. And sometimes I set a crayfish pot or two.”
“Harry Ridgeway’s dead,” I muttered.
Grand-dad’s selective deafness deserted him. He tapped his temple. “Not in here, Jenny,” he said, sending me a small sad smile. “Harry was a good mate. Still is.”
“But you don’t need the actual boat for that. Nan would love to get rid of it.”
“And replace it with some flowering shrubs. I know, I know,” he nodded. He stopped walking for a moment and patted my hand. Eventually he straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Come and sit where your Nan can’t hear us,” he surprised me by saying.
We progressed past the kitchen window. The scent of roast chicken and sage-and-onion stuffing wafted out around us. Nobody cooks it like my Nan.
“Smells like dinner’s almost ready,” he said, lifting his head and sniffing like an eager terrier. “But there should be time for my story.”
He sank down on the lichen covered bench under the maple tree and stared ahead, unseeing for a short time.
“Your Nan—my Emily—was the most beautiful girl I’d ever set eyes on,” he finally continued. “Curly dark hair and huge brown eyes. Thin. I used to joke she needed fattening up. I met her a while before the war. She was living at home of course—young ladies didn’t go flatting in those days. And they certainly didn’t live with their boyfriends.”
“Like Abby?” I know my grandparents disapprove of my daughter’s living arrangements.
“Like Abby,” he agreed. “There was none of that. A bit of cuddling in the bus shelter, but not much more. Not for the nice girls.”
“And Nan was a nice girl, I’m sure.”
“The nicest you could ever hope to meet. Certainly the nicest I was ever likely to. And she needed rescuing.”
I glanced sideways, surprised. Now he was much more truculent bulldog than terrier.
“Bloody Tom Hannigan!” he exclaimed.
That was enough to make me jump with shock—my Grand-dad never ever swears. I’ve seen him hit his thumb with a hammer, mutter a quiet ‘damn’ and then apologise even for such mild language. ‘Bloody’ was huge for him.
“Tom Hannigan,” he repeated in a somewhat calmer tone. “Em’s step-father. Your great-grandmother married again after her first husband was killed in the Great War. It was probably that or starve, way back then. So she married Tom, who had several children and a wife dead in childbirth. Convenient all round I suppose, but hardly happy for anyone.”
“I don’t remember him.” The name rang no bells, brought no face to mind.
“Dead long before you were born, Jenny. Dead of drink. He was a nasty piece of work.”
“I’ve never heard Nan talk about him.”
“She’d have no reason to. Needed to forget him. I did the best I could to get her away from him. But by then her own mother was far from well, and Tom was drunk most of the time, and he expected your Nan to look after them both. The older stepsisters were already married and out of it.”
“Poor Nan,” I murmured.
Grand-dad produced a large handkerchief and made a great production of blowing his nose, so I poked at the various lichens on the seat until he got back to his story. There’s never been any point in trying to hurry him, and I was learning things I could maybe include in a little family history I’m trying to write for the kids.
At last he drew a deep experimental breath through his wide hairy nostrils and pushed the handkerchief back into the pocket of his khaki twill trousers. “He’d really knocked the stuffing out of my little Em. Had her well under his thumb. I know he took to them all with his belt when the children were younger. No-one thought much of it then, of course.”
“Of course,” I echoed, flinching at the idea of anyone trying to thrash Abby or Rob.
The old boy cleared his throat. He was plainly uncomfortable talk
ing about such a topic. “And I think Tom was still either hitting her or at least threatening to. I had the devil of a job to persuade Emily to ever leave her mother alone with him.”
“But she did leave, Grand-dad. She left for you. She must have loved you very much.”
He gave a painful little bark of laughter, grabbed my hand, and squeezed it too tightly. “We’ll never know the answer to that one, will we? With his usual awful timing Tom staggered off a bridge and drowned, right after Emily had finally given in and said ‘yes’ to me. It set everyone free I suppose. Your great-grandmother had the house until she died. She passed on only a few months after Tom. Then his children inherited it of course—that was the way of things back then.”
I saw his mouth pull down in disapproval that there’d been no share for Nan.
“So I got Emily after all. I couldn’t believe my luck. But I always knew that if Tom had died sooner, Em might not have agreed to marry me.”
“Oh nonsense—Nan was rescued by her knight in shining armour,” I said, hating the forced brightness I could hear in my voice, and wishing he hadn’t told me.
“Maybe.” He was silent for a while. The sound of clattering plates and saucepans drifted from the open kitchen window around the corner.
“I should help Nan,” I said, sensing an escape, and starting to rise.
Grand-dad’s bony hand tightened around mine and I sat again, surprised by his insistence. “Just a bit longer, Jenny. Your Nan does things the way she wants and doesn’t welcome help. I did that much for her anyway.”
“You rescued her and gave her confidence?”
“I gave her everything she’d never had. I gave her total choice, because I could. She’d never had that luxury.”
“Choice of what?” I asked curiously.
“Choice of everything. Choice of house, of wallpaper, the vegetables we planted, how many children we had. And I think I did all right by her. I made her my life’s work, you see.”
I squeezed his gnarled old hand in return. “You did a good job, Grand-dad,” I said. “I’ve never thought of her as timid or unassertive. She’s quite a stroppy old biddy.”