‘Yes, it’s a relief to find today that your phone still works. That it hasn’t met some awful sewing machine tragedy, or been melted by a hot glue gun. Because whenever I tried to reach you on Monday it didn’t work.’
‘Yes, thanks. I get it. I’ve had this lecture from everyone already. Message received. I won’t do it again, Bluebell’s honour.’
‘Your friends were really worried about you. You’re lucky to have them. And not just for the worrying bits. You guys always looked like you were having fun.’
He is making a really big hole in the gravel now. I remember what Stevie said over fish and chips – I should have been nicer to Alex, purely as someone who knew the ins and outs of the village and him being a brand new Billy no mates.
‘Alex?’
‘Yes?’
‘Could I possibly come out now? I really am hungry.’
‘Oh yes.’ The heavy lock turns, and I’m free.
‘Have you tried Flames N Chips yet? I know it sounds dodgy but the lamb kofta is actually amazing.’
It takes a moment for him to reply. ‘Uh, um, yes. I mean, no, I haven’t but I’d like to.’
‘Right, then lock up and let’s go!’
I can’t change what’s happened. I can’t magically mend a roof with 50p and some Scotch tape. But I can keep the spirit of the Hall alive by making someone new to Hazlehurst feel like they have a friend.
Chapter 17
A kebab with Alex last night was actually not the stuff of nightmares, which really caught me off guard. His job as a financial consultant to charitable organisations has taken him to some pretty interesting places, but some heart-breaking ones too. As he put it, ‘We only have charities because people seriously need them, and charities only run out of money because there are so many people still to help.’ This might explain why his go-to demeanour is serious with a side of spreadsheet. And it’s a pretty big lesson in why I shouldn’t jump to conclusions about someone based on the fancy-pantsness of their clothes. I don’t really think he does have that much money, going on the clapped-out nature of his Ford Fiesta. The shiny thing I saw him get into the other week might be a company car, I suppose.
He began to soften a bit over a jumbo lamb kofta and a can of Fanta, once we moved off heavy work topics and moved onto the rubbish children say, the terrible music they listen to and how we have essentially defined ourselves as old by not liking what they like.
‘Although,’ Alex pointed a chip for emphasis as he spoke, ‘I caught Greg Moon humming a song from Frozen the other day. And I have to admit the soundtrack is pretty catchy.’
I had silently munched my way through a suspiciously stale slice of cucumber at that point, having only just recently learned my lesson about assuming, judging and generally not being Cool with Stuff.
‘I have three nieces!’ he spluttered in reply, when he saw my ‘no judgement’ face. ‘I can’t believe you see a group of girls every week and you don’t know all the words to ‘In Summer’. Just download it. Trust me. You’ll love it.’
So now I am sneakily listening to YouTube in the library, with my headphones plugged into the dusty old PC in the corner. As the strategically missed punchlines in the song hit me, I swallow my giggles and open a new tab. Time to take back control. Time to find a plan. Somewhere. Google search: what to do when you don’t know what to do with your life.
No, that’s just too sad sounding. Delete delete delete.
Find a new career before you’re 30.
I mean, technically, I have a few months yet. Just.
Axed caretaker seeks exciting new role. Must be local, flexible hours and ridiculously good pay.
Well, Noel Edmonds believes in Cosmic Ordering. And he has the carefully groomed facial hair of a very rich man.
I switch back to Olaf and his snowy twinkle toes, and hit replay. They should have this on loop at the job centre. It takes the edge off the gut churning search for a job when you know you’re up against a thousand other applicants and your CV was last updated when McBusted was a thing.
Searching at the library seemed a sensible choice – a few of Mum’s friends had come over with freshly baked biscuits and lots of sympathy. They know when she hits a rocky patch that she needs time and chat and support, even if it doesn’t seem to make a difference on the surface. It does, though, it really does. I can tell her sleep pattern is off from the rumbling boil of the kettle coming up through the floorboards at 2 a.m., and she’s pulled out of a few shifts at work. She keeps telling me not to worry, that she’s coming through it. But I have my eye on her, all the same.
Her mates were setting up shop in the living room with mugs of tea and a box of tissues at the ready, so I thought it best to leave them to it and do some job research down the road. But now the enforced silence of the library is feeling like so much more of a distraction than Sheila’s loud stories about her Awful Aunt Doreen or the new recycling bin day. It’s this big empty thing hanging around me, taking up all the air in the place. It’s like a rogue bouncy castle has been kicked inside the double doors and someone is sneakily and quietly inflating it around me, blocking my escape, weighing me down onto the wonky swivel chair and bouncing back at me the lame quality of my brainstorming session so far.
I could work with children? A CRB check and the ability to make hats out of newspaper does not an educator make. Besides, how would you pay to retrain and still chip in for the bills?
Maybe a museum, then, as a curator. Or tour guide. Pretty sure people have actual degrees in curating to do that. And have you seen a major museum around here lately? No, you’d have to go to a city, and leave Mum behind. You’d have to start all over again. New job, new place, new people.
I could try music journalism again. Yes, and when they ask you to describe the last gig you went to, you can say how the accordion music was tinny but at least the ribbon plaited up nicely all down the pole. Cool.
Flip said maybe I could take some of the skills from the Bunting Campaign, turn that into a job. Oh yeah. Cos that will look smashing on a CV. ‘I ran a campaign to save a building that fell apart anyway. But we did make some nice bunting. Ignore the other candidates with experience and education. Pick me!’
I turn the monitor’s volume up a few bars. Olaf can even trump an inner voice with a mean streak.
After checking Facebook every third second and taking a personality test to reveal which of the Golden Girls I was most like (Bea), and checking Facebook once more to absorb pictures of Claire’s new baby again, I had a last-minute brainwave to check the local Hazlehurst forum. Not just a place for people to vent about hedge heights or Bonfire Night starting too late in the evening (the clue’s in the name, guys), it also has some For Sale stuff and a few job ads.
Something instantly catches my eye:
Love working with children? Local person sought for flexible job.
I click through with my tongue pinched between my teeth.
Nanny needed for professional couple and their adorable son. No official qualifications required but passion and dedication a must. I’m a stay-at-home mum but due to my fashion business taking off, I need some childcare help. Also some light cooking and cleaning duties. Please call Annabel for more information and to supply references. You’ll love Alfred when you meet him!
Alfred. The name stirs an uncomfortable memory. I click the attachment and there he is – the screamer from a Funday way back when, the one who most certainly did not care for my vocal talents and dismissed me with a tone Simon Cowell would have found a bit harsh. In the background of the picture-perfect image was one of the uber-yummy mummies, frolicking with her equally yummy husband at what looked like a National Trust property.
Could I be a nanny? I can’t pretend it’s ever really been a dream of mine. But they’re local. And they look like they could pay a fair wage. And I could still be around for Mum. It’s not a boring office job. I wouldn’t end up humiliated and heartbroken. That’s something.
But I’d be one-on-one with a bab
y who isn’t exactly a bouncing bundle of joy, and pushing a Hoover around and cooking someone else risotto for their tea. A big gang of Bluebells is fun because there’s action and noise and laughter and Bieber discussions. I’m not sure Alfred is down with Now 53! just yet. Do I have it in me to be a full time Mary Poppins? She was magical, for Chrissakes, and even she moved on after a few weeks of work.
I could flip-flop on this forever, surrounded by the Dewey decimal system and the big dusty rubber tree in the corner. I’ve been soul searching on and off for months about what I should do with my life and I’m no closer to some magical epiphany. So I snatch up my phone. I need an opinion. But not Stevie’s, I know what he’ll say without saying it. And I can’t ask Susannah, just another disappointment to her and Gran. Or Flip.
So sod it. I can weigh it up later, when I’m presenting my references. I quickly dash out a text to the number before I can let any more wibbles into my head.
With most of ‘In Summer’ committed to memory, I figure I should let someone else use the prehistoric PC for their important work (printing out Sudukos and directions to the nearest Harvester by the look of the printer). So I head home, ready to supply Mum with her fifteenth cup of tea and absorb the damage of her morning’s heart-to-hearts.
But instead of Mum folding herself into the corner of the sofa in her dressing gown, I find her upstairs, packing an overnight bag. There’s a warm glow to her cheeks as she lays some pants and vests into her little red hold-all. ‘Hello love!’
‘Hello. Um, are you off somewhere?’
Mum moves behind me to get to her wardrobe doors. ‘Yes, it’s all a bit last minute. But Sheila’s brother has this place in Devon. Lovely house, ten minutes from the sea. So, he’s broken his leg.’
‘Hang on, what?’
She puts a Jojo Moyes paperback down on top of her neatly pressed jeans. ‘He needs a hand getting about for a while and Sheila said, why don’t I come with her? Get some sea air. I’m not down for any shifts till Tuesday. And once she said it, I thought Yes. That’s what I need. Some new scenery. So you’ve got the house to yourself, isn’t that nice?’ She nudges me in the ribs gently. ‘You could have people round. You never do that. Or you could have a weekend away. See some friends. We both need some distractions, hey?’ For just a minute she lays her head on my shoulder and squeezes me round the middle. ‘Sometimes I worry that you do too much, Connie, love. For me, I mean, since Gran’s been gone.’
I open my mouth, ready to match my frown with an objection in words, but she quickly keeps going.
‘Don’t get me wrong, when you came home then you were the one face I wanted to see. You are, you have always been my sunshine.’ She smoothes my bob down on one side and tries to curl the ends up with her fingers. ‘But what makes you happy? Who makes you happy? Someone just for you, to be your sunshine. That’s what I want for you, darling. You shouldn’t worry about the clouds in my sky, love. They clear away, they always do.’
I study the greying laces on my Converse and shuffle my feet about on Mum’s purple throw rug.
She sighs. ‘I don’t know if I said as much back then, but that Manchester bloke was just a total pillock, scuse my French. And not only did he dare to break your heart but he told you you weren’t good enough for the job. Pfft.’ She lets out a snort that causes her chestnut-brown fringe to fluff up in the air. ‘You can do anything. I’ve always known that. Everything you achieved with Bluebell Hall shows that.’
I feel this might not be the time to tell Mum I’m considering being an au pair at 29.
Mum smiles broadly and then she’s off again, putting Elizabeth Arden perfume and breath mints into her bag. ‘I hope we get some nice spring sun!’
‘Yes,’ I flop down onto her bed, ‘me too.’
* * *
A completely quiet house is an eerie thing. I mean, I can be home on my own really happily but it’s usually just before Mum’s coming in or I’m about to go out. It’s a temporary thing. But this new quiet is starting to feel like the library again. Permanent. Like a new rule I’m going to have to live by. I put the telly on to fill the air. A Grand Designs repeat. Some things fall apart and some things go wrong, but you can always count on Kevin McCloud in a nice jumper, looking at some weathered copper sheeting in 2003. But when he starts pulling sceptical faces at the roof, I get a heavy feeling in my stomach and flashbacks of wet shoes and flapping pigeons, so I switch it off again.
Who can I get round? Or who could I go and visit? The thought of yet another conversation about why I shouldn’t give up on Bluebell Hall puts me off getting the Bunting guys round. And I don’t want to eat into Stevie and Luce’s quality time more than I do; they’re always working so hard and doing so much with Abel.
Maybe I should get away. Maybe being far from the Hall would be pretty healthy for a few days. And Mum’s clearly sorted – she’ll be dusting crutches and digging in the sand before the day’s out. I have been meaning to catch up with my old Manchester flatmates – Claire especially, I didn’t even see her while she was pregnant and now little Freddie is two months old.
I tap out a WhatsApp message to her:
Fancy a very tidy houseguest for the weekend? I can bring wine and Doritos. Also can do nappies if gloves are provided.
I didn’t expect a reply right away but one pops up:
Yes! Ork.
Must be a typo for OK but I’ll take it. I tell her that I’ll be there tonight and go off in search of the spare keys for Mum’s car and my toothbrush. Catching up with a great mate is exactly the kind of soothing balm my life needs right now, like itch relief cream when you’ve been attacked by mozzies on holiday. Claire is a great listener, a great advice giver, and more importantly she doesn’t hog the Doritos.
Chapter 18
When I reach Claire’s terraced house, I squeeze into a parking space on my eighth attempt and clamber to her front door, wine bottles clinking in a carrier bag hanging from my wrist. But it’s not the soothing, listening, calm friend of my Manchester days who opens the door. It’s her horror movie evil twin, who’s clearly been locked in the attic with no access to a shower, clean clothes or a comfy bed.
The hair on one side of her head is matted and stiff, while grease makes the other side droopy and lank. I may have been her mate through the terrible hair gems trend of the 00s but this is something else. I try to bite back the shock at her egg-stained joggers (Claire works as a fashion buyer, so I usually count on her for a style injection). I can’t really make out what she’s wearing on her top half as there’s a funny tangle of fabric going around her middle and her back, then over her shoulders. She’s also bouncing on the spot, which is pretty distracting.
‘Connieeeeeee!’ she whispers excitedly. ‘I would hug and scream but the Ork has only just fallen asleep. And if I stop bouncing he’ll wake up and kill me.’ She nods like this is a totally normal thing to say about a newborn. All I can see of him is two little chocolate-coloured feet swaying in time to the bounces, at her waist. ‘But thank god you’re here!’
I think she is lunging forward to greet me, but instead she yanks the bag so forcefully off my wrist that she scrapes some of my skin with it.
‘God, I can’t remember when I last ate. Come in, come in!’
She bounces on her toes as she leads me down the hallway, giving me an only just audible tour of the place. ‘Living room. Downstairs loo. And here’s the kitchen. This is where I live now.’
If I had been in any doubt that this couldn’t be the Claire I’d known, the kitchen definitely brought back uni nostalgia by the bucket-load. Big bucket-load of washing up, that is. The two of us could never keep so much as a side plate clean, and in the end our parents had cracked and shared the cost of a weekly cleaner. This was back in the days before either of us had any shame.
She holds up one hand, like a policeman stopping traffic. ‘Now, don’t you dare offer to clean this up for me. Just don’t. I know it’s a state, but the Ork really doesn’t leave me mu
ch time between jiggling and feeding and poo explosions and weight checks. Occasionally I get to brush my teeth,’ she half-laughs, half-whispers but I think we both know it’s pretty close to reality. ‘Just, please, don’t offer.’
I hadn’t planned on any such thing but by the way she’s repeating it, I think I know what I need to do.
Pulling on a pair of marigolds I spot poking out of the Kitchen Aid bowl, I shake my head. ‘You just do your bouncing there, hun, I’ll get some suds going and you can tell me all about it.’
Over a very stubborn lasagne crust that I think might be older than Freddie, Claire lovingly explains his nickname. ‘You know Anton is just a massive Lord of the Rings nut? We had those Elf ears for everyone at the wedding, remember? Well, when he saw Freddie come out – and I mean actually come out – he said with all the white goo and screaming, he looked like an Ork being pulled out of the mud by Saruman. And since then, he’s not really disappointed on the human-hating, destructive side.’
‘Awww.’ I scrub at some welded-on bechamel.
Claire’s hands flap above her messy head. ‘I mean I LOVE him, I do. I LOVE the fuzzy hair on his shoulders and the way he burps. I cannot get enough of the smell of his neck. But you start to have mixed feelings about anyone who screams at you in the dark every two hours. And with Anton having to go to the States for work at the last minute, it was like fate that you messaged me. Thank you. I know I look a state.’
‘You do not.’
‘I do. But I appreciate that you would lie to my face like this. That’s true friendship. But, man, where has the time gone? It seems like yesterday we were all in Wainwright Road, playing guess the mystery meat from the Shangri-La Kebab House. Staying up till the wee hours to smash our Mario Kart records. And now I would kill for a digestive and an 8 p.m. bedtime. I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch. What with the preggy puking and getting ready to go on leave… and now being dominated by a person smaller than a house cat. I’ve been a rubbish friend.’
The Bluebell Bunting Society Page 16