‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ She looks horrified. ‘Can you imagine … ?’
Changing the subject, she asks about Izzy’s Organics. She seems genuinely interested for once, which I find hugely ironic considering I’ll be giving it up soon.
When I fail to be forthcoming and upbeat about it, she frowns at me. ‘What’s wrong? Are you worried about Jamie? Because you’ve no need to be.’
‘How do you know that?’
She shrugs and gets up to fetch the teapot. ‘It will all blow over. These things usually do.’
I throw her a cynical look.
‘I wish you’d talk to me, Isobel,’ she says, pouring tea and slopping some on the table. ‘I’m your mother but you hardly ever tell me anything about your life. You know what I’d like? The sort of relationship that Sylvia has with her daughter. They went to New York together. They go on shopping trips and have lunch. They talk. All the normal things mothers and daughters do.’
I stare at her, trying to picture us gossiping over coffee and sharing girly confidences. It’s a bit of a stretch to say the least. But this, apparently, is what she’s always wanted?
‘You’ve got to start trusting me, Isobel. Then maybe I can help you.’
I sigh inwardly. She’s lecturing me, the way she always does, convinced that she is right and I’m the one who needs to change.
To confide in someone, there needs to be a certain closeness, which is not something my mother and I have in abundance.
I stare at her mutinously.
She purses her lips. ‘Look, I know I fall way short of being the “perfect parent”. But do you know how hard it was knowing you’d probably rather have had Midge for a mother instead of me? Not able to share your private jokes. Seeing you so excited about going down to that bloody place for the school holidays?’
I stare at her. My mother never swears. She says ‘sugar’ instead of ‘shit’.
‘That bloody place just happens to be my home,’ I mutter. ‘And of course I wanted to go down there. Midge always made me feel like I mattered.’
‘And I didn’t?’
She stares at me, looking genuinely upset, and I feel terrible.
She’s right. I do keep things from her. But it’s partly because I know she’ll look for the negative in anything I tell her. She hardly ever praises me and I can’t remember her ever saying I make her proud. I know it’s pathetic but it stings.
I take a big slug of tea. ‘OK, well, I’ve got some good news for you.’
Her eyes light up. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘I’ve decided to sell the house and give up the business.’ This will cheer her up, for sure. ‘I probably could have made it work but with Jamie demanding money which I don’t have, really the only solution is to sell up and—’
She grabs my arm. ‘Hang on. Sell the house?’
She’s looking at me like I’ve just said I enjoy the occasional spot of dogging in my spare time.
‘What’s wrong?’ I’m confused. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me to do for months?’
She sighs and shakes her head. ‘You can’t give up Izzy’s Organics. Not after you’ve worked so hard to build it up.’
I stare at her, amazed.
Talk about contrary!
When I was trying to make a go of it, she thought I was a lunatic. And now I’m giving it up, she still thinks I’m insane.
‘Izzy, do not give it up!’ she says, still clutching my arm. ‘And don’t you dare sell the house!’
‘My, you’ve changed your tune. A while ago it actually embarrassed you to have a door-to-door saleswoman for a daughter.’
She smiles sheepishly. ‘Yes, but that was before I came to your summer fayre and saw what a huge success you’d made of it. I had my eyes opened that day, I can tell you. You’ve built something amazing there, Izzy. You absolutely mustn’t give it up now.’
I stare into my mug, tears pricking at my eyes. ‘I can’t do it anymore.’
She sighs. ‘But think of all those people who rely on you. It would be such a shame to let them down.’
I give a harsh laugh. ‘I’m sure they can get their organic sprouts somewhere else. I’m not the only purveyor of fruit and veg in the south of England.’
‘Yes, but after all your effort? Don’t you think you should try a little bit harder to make it work? You’ve got the perfect set-up there at Farthing Cottage.’
‘Try harder? What do you think I’ve been doing for the past year?’ I shake my head. ‘No, I’m all done with trying harder. In the end, it makes no difference at all. Especially when you’ve got the likes of Jamie Bugger Evans braying for blood. And money.’
There’s a pause then she says, ‘He might have had a change of heart. You never know. Miracles can happen.’
I shake my head. ‘You don’t get a solicitor involved unless you mean business. He won’t change his mind.’
She shrugs. ‘OK, OK. I’m just saying you shouldn’t give up at the first hurdle, that’s all.’
I glare at her. She has absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. She knows nothing about the dawn starts and the late nights pulling my hair out trying to make the books balance and the endless worries over making ends meet …
I swallow hard on the big lump in my throat.
I should be used to her criticism by now.
‘I can’t believe you’re attacking me for giving up,’ I mutter. ‘Have you studied yourself recently? Because you gave up long ago. On life.’
She frowns. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You live in the past, Mum. You’re full of bitterness over Dad and yet you still wear your bloody wedding ring. What’s that all about? Isn’t it time you moved on and got yourself a life?’
Colour rises in her cheeks but she says nothing so I plough on.
‘Dad’s moved on. He moved on a long time ago. He’s found the sort of happiness with Gloria that he never had with you, probably because she’s nice and relaxed and doesn’t nag him half to death all the time.’
‘She’s welcome to him.’ This through gritted teeth.
‘You really can’t forgive him for being happy, can you?’
She stares at me for a second, her lips pressed together. ‘You have no idea what went on in our marriage, Isobel. No idea at all.’
‘What went on was you nagging Dad until he got sick of his life and left.’
She swallows and looks away. Then she says softly, ‘I know you blame me for your dad leaving, but there are … things you don’t know.’
‘What, like Dad never helped enough around the house and was always forgetting to take his shoes off at the door?’
‘No, Izzy.’ She turns, her eyes blazing with emotion. ‘Like your dad started an affair a year into our marriage. And I forgave him, like the stupid woman I am, only to realise he’d lied about giving her up.’ She scrapes her chair back and goes to the sink, staring out of the window at the blackness beyond.
In the shocked silence that follows, a car’s engine roars and Trixie barks.
‘Dad would never do that,’ I say at last.
‘You think not?’ She still has her back to me. ‘Try asking Gloria.’
‘Gloria? What would she know? Dad only met her when he moved out.’
‘That’s what he wanted you to think,’ she says softly. ‘And I let you believe it because I knew how much you adored your dad. Gloria was a widow. She lived along the road from us. She worked in the baker’s and made fancy party cakes as a sideline. We were friends, she and I. Until I found out your dad was up to all sorts with her.’ She laughs. ‘He was literally having his cake and eating it!’
My head is spinning.
She’s lying. She must be.
There’s no way my lovely, caring dad would have done something as sordid as this.
‘He denied it at first, of course.’ She turns and smiles grimly, her face flushed. ‘But I went on and on at him until he admitted it. And he swore he’
d end it with Gloria.’ Her laugh is bitter. ‘But over the years, it was obvious they were still in touch. I became very good at spotting the signs.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I tell her. ‘You’re making it all up.’
Caught up in her agitation, she doesn’t seem to hear me. She picks up a tea towel and winds it round in her hands.
‘He sometimes stayed away for days at a time. Don’t you remember?’
‘Yes, of course I do,’ I snap. ‘He had to go away to business meetings and conferences.’
‘Isobel.’ She throws me a severe look. ‘He was an accountant for a small local firm, for God’s sake. The job was office-based. There were no business conferences.’
This shocks me for a second. Until I realise she’s twisting things round to suit her, like she always does. Making Dad the one to blame for her sad little life.
‘He had the bloody cheek to bring one of Gloria’s party cakes home once for your birthday. I remember thinking she’d gone totally crazy with the red food colouring.’
‘You’re lying.’ Tears well up but I brush them away. ‘He left us because he’d had it up to here’ – I slice the air above my head – ‘with your constant whinging and nagging.
‘I’m going to bed,’ I say, scraping back my chair.
‘Oh, Isobel, wait—’
But I’m already in my room and slamming the door.
I get back into bed, determined to fall asleep and forget all her stupid lies about Dad.
But an hour later, I’m still wide awake.
I still don’t believe Dad was a cheat but why would she make up such an elaborate story?
Perhaps he had a fancy for Gloria but never actually acted on it until he walked out on Mum. Yes, that must be it. And she’s twisting the truth to make out that she’s the victim.
I manage to fall asleep but less than an hour later, I’m awake again, feeling like death. I look at the clock. It’s 5 a.m.
I’ve been here less than twelve hours, and Mum and I have already been at it, hammer and tongs. Merry bloody Christmas to us.
I groan and pull the duvet over my head.
And right at that moment, a memory slides into my head: my mother is lying in bed, pulling the sheet over her head and telling me she’s not feeling well. Dad has gone away and Mum has taken to her bed.
It’s the time I went out to the ice-cream van and bought one of everything because I couldn’t make up my mind. Then ate the lot.
Eventually Dad came back that time. But where had he been?
Chapter Forty
By the time I get up, Mum’s out dog-walking and the house is empty.
I stand for ages in the shower, trying to revive my battered spirits.
I’m feeling bad about last night.
I had no idea my mother envied the relationship I had with Midge. And as for Dad … he’s now been added to my ever-increasing list of things to avoid thinking about.
Downstairs, I tune in to some Christmas songs on the radio and start peeling sprouts. I put little crosses in the ends, the way my mother likes it done.
When they return, Trixie yaps round my ankles until my mother – looking peaky, her mascara smudged – gets cross and shuts him in the utility room.
We grin sheepishly at each other.
Then she says, ‘Come on. Let’s open the presents.’
We sit in the living room by the log-burner and she hands me a lavishly wrapped box that turns out to be a really lovely desk tidy, made of solid oak, with an engraving on a brass plate that reads, Izzy’s Organics.
She gives me a sad smile when I thank her. ‘It was hand-made by a fellow in Cheshire. I do hope you use it.’
I hold it up to admire it, and she says, ‘There’s this, too.’
Something in her tone makes me look up at once.
She hands me a small box. It’s old and worn, made of red leather. Curious, I fumble with the catch.
And I gasp.
There, nestling on a lining of beige silk, is a brooch made of dark blue glass with a pattern of daisies.
Midge’s brooch.
I pick it up and stare at it, my eyes swimming with tears. Midge always loved wild flowers best of all – and daisies were her favourite.
I glance at my mother. ‘But where did you … ?’
She smiles. Her eyes, too, looks suspiciously moist. ‘I was clearing out a cupboard that hadn’t been touched for years and I found a bag with Millicent’s effects from the hospital. And that box was inside.’
I smile at her use of Midge’s ‘Sunday name’.
‘She always meant for you to have the brooch. But I was so upset after she died, I pushed the bag with her belongings out of sight in that cupboard because I couldn’t bear to look at what was inside.’
I open the clasp and she comes over and fastens it on my blouse for me.
‘I’m so sorry I didn’t find it before.’ She pats the brooch with a regretful smile.
I shake my head. ‘I’ve got it now. That’s all that matters.’
Later, we go into the kitchen and start preparing the goose for the oven.
It’s all very companionable. Mum even joins in when I sing along to The Pogues.
This is fine, I think briskly. The day will take care of itself. We’ll open some champagne and eat lunch. Then we’ll sink in front of the TV and let the Christmas specials do the talking.
I won’t even think about Dad.
And I definitely won’t think about how Christmas is unfolding at Parsons Farm.
Oh, God, Dan …
A huge wave of longing rips through me.
And right on cue, that Irish warbler, Dana, starts singing, ‘It’s going to be a cold, cold Christmas without you.’ Within seconds, my eyes are blurry with tears and I have to put down the knife before I chop off more than the carrot tops.
‘Are you all right?’ My mother’s beady eye is upon me.
‘Great.’ I turn my back on her to rinse the carrots. ‘Wonderful.’
‘Good. I was just thinking about that lovely man you work with. Dan? Is that his name? The tall, handsome one.’
‘Er, yes. Dan Parsons.’
‘I was chatting to him at the fayre,’ she says dreamily. ‘So charismatic. Don’t you think so?’
I grit my teeth.
A drink.
I need a drink.
I don’t care what she thinks, today I’m starting early.
I fetch an opened bottle of white from the fridge.
Her eyebrows rise. ‘Already?’
I’m about to get defensive when she heaves an enormous sigh and slumps against the worktop. ‘Get me one as well, will you?’
After that, the day goes by quite pleasantly.
Somewhere between the pre-lunch sweet sherry and the cream liqueur on ice, she confesses she’s thought a lot about what I said the previous night, and she’s decided to ask Jim Over the Road out to dinner.
I stare at her, completely speechless.
‘Nothing heavy,’ she slurs, sloshing more liqueur into my glass. ‘Just a bit of fun.’
I smile encouragingly. ‘You go, girl!’
I never imagined my mother and I could go out shopping for clothes together and actually enjoy ourselves.
It seems she’s taking this ‘grabbing life by the throat’ thing seriously.
She propositioned Jim Over the Road on Boxing Day, and now – three days later – we’re out trying to find her something appropriate to wear on a dinner date.
There’s something oddly reassuring about all of this. If my mother can find the gumption to get her life in gear, anyone can.
Even me.
Except I don’t really believe it.
Every time I think of driving back to Fieldstone, a feeling of mild panic grips me.
What will I do there, once Farthing Cottage is no longer mine?
I keep trying to picture how it will be – living in a rented flat in Guildford, maybe, and looking for a job? It’s the nights
I worry about. With Anna and Jess all loved-up, I can’t expect them to be there for me on demand.
Whenever I’m alone and unable to stop thinking about Dan …
‘What about this?’ Mum holds up a blue shift dress.
I screw up my nose. ‘Too matronly. Try that one.’
She whisks back into the changing room with the pale green wrap-around.
‘I expect Dan’s got a lovely house,’ she calls, apropos of nothing. ‘Is it quite traditional inside?’
I make a face at the curtain, wondering why the sudden obsession with a man she barely knows. ‘Er, yes, it’s nice.’
‘But is it to your taste?’
‘What?’
‘Keep your hair on, dear. I was just wondering.’
She comes out and does a little twirl. The green dress looks good on her.
Her excitement is contagious and we spend the drive home speculating on where Jim will take her on their date.
Later, when we’re at home watching TV, Anna phones with a startling announcement.
She’s planning to move in with Peter.
I’m eating some millionaire’s shortbread and a bit of it gets lodged in my throat, making me cough so hard, I’m convinced my time on this earth is up.
As I contort and wheeze – and my mother slaps me energetically on the back – I imagine the headlines in the local newspaper: Shack-Up Shocker Kills Best Friend.
I tell Anna I’m over the moon for them (which I am) but that she is never to break news like that again unless she’s standing by with a paramedic.
The days pass pleasantly enough as we count down to New Year. My mother is true to her word and won’t let me lift a finger round the house. She buys me glossy magazines and quality chocolates and insists I do nothing but lie around and get my strength back.
I’m unusually obedient. To be truthful, I can’t summon up the energy to argue. And also, I rather like her looking after me. It feels like being a child again, when I was ill in bed with chicken pox or measles and Mum would fuss around, reading Enid Blyton books to me and feeding me my favourite tomato soup.
The problem is, I feel as if she’s cocooning me from the real world.
I will have to get back to it some time.
We get through New Year, popping a bottle of champagne, chatting about her date with Jim in a few days’ time. She’s trying to pretend she’s taking it all in her stride. But I can tell she’s nervous.
Green Beans and Summer Dreams Page 32