‘Yes! I don’t like to be late, so I tend to go the other way. Sorry.’ She wasn’t sure if this required an apology but figured there was no harm in offering one.
‘How old are you?’
Tina felt her cheeks blush. ‘I’m thirty-four.’
‘You look younger,’ Miss Potterton replied, in a way that left Tina unsure as to whether that was a good thing or not.
‘You’re not one of those ghastly women who lie about their age to suit the circumstances, are you? Adding some years in their extreme youth and then removing them later on? I think that’s the absolute height of vanity!’
‘No, no. I’ve just got good genes.’ Tina was confused by the woman’s behaviour.
‘Lucky you.’ Her reply was curt.
‘How old are you?’ Tina stood as tall as she possibly could.
‘What?’
‘I was wondering how old you are, if we’re going down that route.’
Miss Potterton opened the door a little wider. ‘I am ninety-three,’ she offered matter-of-factly, in a tone that, unusually, was not intended to elicit either wonder or praise.
‘You look younger.’ Tina spoke the truth.
‘Good genes,’ Miss Potterton replied.
The two women stared at each other, each wondering what the next move might be.
‘You’re very skinny.’ Miss Potterton appraised her tiny form.
Tina laughed. This felt like a wind-up. She half expected Digsy and Marley to come jumping out of a bush and high-five the posh old lady.
‘Yes I am, always have been, but it’s not through lack of trying. I eat like a horse, and if you’re worried about my ability to do the job, don’t be. I have three other permanent clients and can get first-class references. I think I’m skinny cos I’m always on the go. You know, if I’m not working, then I’m cleaning up at home or racing round the supermarket.’
‘You have a family?’
‘Well, yes, just one boy. My son. He’s eighteen.’
‘Good Lord! And you are only thirty-four?’
‘Yes.’ Tina held Miss Potterton’s stare, unwilling at this juncture in her life to be judged by her or anyone, especially for a predicament she had found herself in nearly two decades ago. The happiest, best predicament of all. ‘What about you? Any family?’
‘All dead.’ She said this without sentiment. ‘Bar a nephew and his frightful child – I forget her name, something ridiculous – and an equally frightful wife. A social climber with a meanness of spirit, the worst kind. The sort of woman who would find it hard to take joy in other people’s good fortune.’
They hovered for a second. Tina wondered who exactly this lady had lost. Parents? Definitely. Husband, kids? Possibly. ‘Shall I come in then?’
‘Yes. Do.’ Miss Potterton turned her back.
Tina followed her inside and up the hallway.
‘Wow!’ She let her eyes rove over the walls, which were packed with gilt-framed oil paintings, black and white photographs of people and places, and even a tapestry of a grand-looking palace on the edge of an inviting beach, complete with palm trees.
The parquet floor was barely visible beneath a vast mahogany bureau stuffed with letters, magazines, balls of string and a dusty, pot-bound cheese plant. A brass umbrella-stand bulged with ivory-topped umbrellas, a couple of parasols with aged fabric shades and a clutch of walking sticks with a variety of handles.
No shortage of things to dust, is there? Tina noted, but she caught herself just in time and refrained from sharing this with her new boss.
The sitting room was just as full. French windows at the back of the room opened out onto a pretty walled courtyard, where tubs, pots, milk churns and any number of other receptacles fought for space. Some of them held flourishing ivy plants that climbed and clung, their variegated tendrils reaching this way and that towards the light. But there was plenty of room for some more cheerful plants, Tina found herself thinking. A chance to experiment with some of those flowering shrubs she was always admiring at the superstore, perhaps.
In the room itself, wide-armed leather chairs that would have looked more at home in a gentleman’s smoking room circa 1930 sat next to side tables that listed under heavy glass paperweights, a bronze statuette of a lion, and books. There were books everywhere! But no TV.
As in the hallway, the walls here were so busy that only minute patches of the faded sepia water silk were visible. Tina’s eyes became fixed on a framed piece of antique Chinese calligraphy and then on a photo of two young women standing on an immaculate lawn waving Union flags. They were wearing Land Girl uniforms – sensible, dun-coloured corduroy breeches and pullovers – and smiling broadly.
‘Is that you?’ she asked, pointing at the taller of the women. ‘Doing your bit for the war effort? You and your sister?’
‘It is. Me... and my friend,’ came the clipped reply.
Heavy, fringed, plum-coloured velvet drapes sat at the windows and over the French doors, sun faded at the edges where the fabric met the gold braid and twists of tassel. In front of the doors was a round dining table with six pale-wood, ladder-back chairs whose seats were made of intricately woven bamboo.
‘This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen!’ Tina turned a full three-sixty, looking up at the crystal-drop chandeliers that hung at either end of the room and the ornate plaster coving and ceiling roses. ‘It’s like a museum! It’s incredible!’
Miss Potterton was clearly delighted by her reaction. ‘Well, yes, it’s quite a collection. Most of it was my father’s. It was spread over the whole house at one point, but it all got a bit too much, so the house was divided into flats and I live here in the basement. It’s the space I wanted. I couldn’t bear to have given up the courtyard.’
‘I can see why. It’s lovely! I love flowers and gardens. I don’t have one myself, but one day.’
‘It is particularly lovely in the summer. I take my breakfast out there and I do like to leave the doors open and feel the breeze. There’s something quite wonderful about the warm London air rushing in as night falls.’
‘I live in a flat too, but not like this. It’s in a block, an ugly square block of concrete, and I daren’t even leave my door unlocked, let alone open. It’s a bit rough.’ Tina laughed. ‘But it’s our little haven and that’s all that counts, right?’
‘We are not immune from crime here, you know.’ Miss Potterton nodded.
‘Do you have a panic alarm or MedicAlert or anything? My nan had one and it gave her peace of mind.’
‘Quite. No, I have something much better than that.’
Tina tried to guess. ‘Oh, what, a dog?’
‘No. A gun,’ Miss Potterton said levelly.
Tina laughed out loud.
9
The two women fell into a steady routine over the following months. Miss Potterton gave Tina a key so she could come and go as she liked, and Tina insisted that Miss Potterton keep her telephone number next to her big-buttoned phone in case of emergencies. Miss Potterton had pooh-poohed the very idea, but, later that evening, when she was alone, she held the slip of paper in her fingers and smiled, sleeping more soundly that night than she had in quite a while.
Tina whipped the duster around the bookshelves, lifting the objets d’art one by one, wiping them with the soft cloth and replacing them.
‘Don’t drop anything,’ Miss Potterton called from her chair.
‘I’ll try not to.’ Tina smiled.
‘You are absurdly upbeat. Do you ever sit in a darkened room and howl?’ Miss Potterton enquired.
‘No, I haven’t done that for a long while. I’ve learnt to be happy.’
‘Oh God, you sound very much like someone who has found the love of Jesus. You’re not going to lecture me, are you?’
Tina chuckled. ‘No. It’s much simpler than that. I was pushed around my whole life. My dad was a bit of a bully and Marley’s dad was a shit, really. Oh, sorry!’ She remembered who she was talking to, but Miss Po
tterton didn’t seem to notice. ‘One day, when my son was little, I was watching him playing and he picked up a dolly and shouted at it, “Get back in that kitchen, stupid girl!” And I realised that I had to set a different example for him, I had to be a better mum, a stronger mum, or he was going to turn out just like his dad and I was never going to get the respect I deserved and neither would any women that came into his life. So I learnt to respect myself and that made me happy.’
‘And what did the boy’s father think of this new-found confidence?’
‘Oh, he’d already left by then – not that he was ever really there permanently. His visits have always been sporadic and are only ever if he is passing, which usually means he needs something, usually money.’ She tutted. ‘But Marley speaks to his nan, Lavender, once a week. It’s a nice connection for him.’
‘What does your son think of his father? Are they close?’
‘I keep a lot of it from him; he doesn’t know the half of it. And he’s a different kettle of fish, wants to study the body and things. He’s smart and who knows where that will take him?’
‘You are proud of him.’
‘I am.’ Tina nodded. ‘It’s his birthday in a couple of weeks and he just wants books!’
‘It’s mine in four and I want books too!’ Miss Potterton gave an uncharacteristic laugh.
‘Oh wow! Ninety-four! That’s quite an achievement. You should celebrate.’
‘Do you think so?’ Her tone was back to dismissive.
‘Yes! Absolutely. You could have a tea party. I’d be happy to do it for you. When’s the last time you had a birthday party?’
‘Oh, good God!’ She considered her answer. ‘I think it was probably about thirty years ago, maybe longer.’
‘What? That’s shocking!’
‘Not really. There are many more important things to be shocked about, like the amount of hunger in the world, and the number of wars currently being waged, that kind of thing.’ She picked up her magnifying glass and stared pointedly at the headlines in her copy of the Telegraph.
‘Well, yeah, I know, but still, you should have a tea party at least, it’d be lovely!’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Miss Potterton conceded.
‘Or maybe just go out for a nice meal. There are some lovely places around here. You could go to Gordon Ramsay’s.’
‘Don’t tell me you want to discuss fine-dining, Tina! Not given your penchant for family-sized buckets of nasty fried chicken. And you think all fish comes shaped as a finger.’ She breathed onto her magnifying glass and wiped it clean with the corner of her cardigan. ‘Besides, what would be the point of you going to eat chez Mr Ramsay when you’d struggle to find a babysitter for Marley?’
‘I wasn’t asking to come with you!’ Tina ignored the insults, and she wasn’t about to apologise to anyone for her love of fried food. She wiped her duster over the mahogany mask that hung on the wall. ‘And anyway, even if I did want to go out, he’s a big boy, as I said. Doesn’t need a babysitter. But if he did, I would leave him with you. Wish I’d known you a long time ago!’ she sang.
Miss Potterton lowered her magnifying class. The crossword could wait. ‘You’d... you’d have left him with me?’
‘Yes, of course! You’d get on like a house on fire. I’ll bring him to meet you one day. He’s good company, likes to nose through people’s book collections, and he’d weed your courtyard in exchange for biscuits.’
Miss Potterton tensed her jaw. ‘Does he know you are thinking of bringing him to meet a cantankerous witch like me?’
‘Oh, Miss Potterton, you know I’d never say that!’
‘Well, bless you, dear.’ She coughed.
‘No, I mean “cantankerous” isn’t one of my words. I told him you were a miserable old cow.’
Miss Potterton raised the Telegraph until her face was obscured, keen to hide the wide smile that had spread across her face. ‘Maybe it would be nice to have a party, but I’d have to give you strict instructions on food, etiquette, the guest list and so on. I can only imagine what would happen if it were all left to you. You’d probably just throw Mr Tyson-Blaine a packet of Garibaldis.’ She winced.
‘Ooh, I just might. And you can’t have a tea party without a plate full of Fondant Fancies – they are a must. Do you know them? Little square cakes that are either brown, yellow or pink, and so sweet, they make your toes curl!’
‘Oh, please, no! I could not entertain having such common, shop-bought confections on my antique table!’ She gave a shiver of revulsion.
Tina smiled. ‘And I was thinking I’d get them party blowers that make a little trumpet noise, and some pointy hats on elastic. I’ll throw a few sausage rolls on a plate and maybe do cheese and pineapple on sticks.’ She winked.
‘Oh, dear God!’ Miss Potterton fanned herself with the newspaper.
10
Helen’s departure from the family home in Tunbridge Wells had left their solid Victorian villa feeling quite empty. It wasn’t just the gaps on the wall, until recently occupied by her favourite pictures, or the space on the worktop where the microwave used to live, or even the two empty wardrobes where the empty hangers now clanged together like wind chimes, whispering into the breeze, She’s gone! Run away with Julio and his penis... It wasn’t even the deafening silence. No, it was more than that. It was as if the heart had gone from the house.
Ian dreaded coming back to the echoey hallway and its dusty staircase. He had to steel himself before going into their gloomy bedroom, where the pillow still smelt of her perfume and her toothbrush was missing from the pot that usually held two. He even missed her nagging, and her secret whispered calls to a certain Spanish lothario.
Above all, he missed getting Arraminta’s news. Minty used to call regularly to speak to her mum, because Mum was fun and interesting and knew the names of her friends as well as all the answers to everything. He found it odd how Helen, who was very strict with Minty, had always been obsessed with her grades, and was pushy and often mean, seemed to receive the lion’s share of their daughter’s love, whereas he, who had only ever wanted her to be happy, was seen as weak. How did that work?
He stepped over the threshold and shut the front door behind him, considering whether a glass of wine might be the answer right now and deciding that in fact several glasses would be better. He could crack open that bottle of ridiculously expensive Valpolicella he’d bought yesterday, the one he’d read about in the Decanter magazine he’d snaffled from the surgery waiting room. He wouldn’t be drinking Spanish wine for a good while anyway, that was for sure.
Dropping his briefcase on the hall floor, he bent to gather the mail, discarding the pizza flyer, taxi cards and parish newsletter in favour of the pale cream envelope addressed in an elegant if slightly shaky script, handwritten in navy ink. Sliding his finger under the flap, he carefully removed the stiff, gilt-edged card and read that he had been invited to his Aunt Cordelia’s birthday party.
It was months since he’d last been in touch with his aunt, but he had many fond memories of the old lady. As a teenager, he used to enjoy going to her flat in Kensington. There’d always been something a bit unconventional about her, even racy, and though she’d never married, she was far from being a boring spinster. She used to like a flutter on the horses, he remembered. And when she’d been on the sherry, she’d tell risqué stories about the artists and writers she’d fraternised with in the 50s and 60s. He pictured his aunt and his mother, who was much younger, playing croquet in his youth, heard the satisfying thud of mallet against boxwood and the sound of their bickering over a point. To his acute embarrassment, he slid down until his bottom was on the welcome mat and with his back against the front door he cried. It had been years, decades, since he had sobbed like this and for the first time since his teenage years, he desperately wished he could see his mum.
*
Three weeks later, he was on the phone and about to hang up, when his call was finally answered.
&n
bsp; ‘Yup?’
‘Oh, Helen, it’s me.’ It was strange to feel so nervous when talking to the woman with whom he had exchanged vows and parented a child.
‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘I have caller ID. I think I might have mentioned it.’
He decided to ignore the comment. ‘There’s a lot of mail here for Minty and at least one in a brown envelope, probably another fine. I’ve left her a message, but if you speak to her…’
‘Righto.’
‘I’m driving up to London. Aunt Cordelia—’
‘Finally croaked, has she?’ Helen interrupted.
He drew breath. ‘Actually, no, she’s having a birthday party.’
There was a silent pause while she wondered why on earth he thought she might want or need to know this and he wondered exactly the same.
‘Well…’ She tittered. ‘Enjoy!’
‘Do you know, Helen…’ He looked at the space where the microwave used to live. ‘I was the only one who used the microwave, it’s how I made my porridge every morning. But you know that.’
‘You called to tell me you miss the microwave?’ Her voice went up an octave, clearly amused.
‘No, I don’t know why I called, actually. Probably habit, and that basic human desire to know that someone is worrying about you while you travel, that someone might be concerned if you don’t pick up the phone or make contact. It makes you feel connected, loved.’
‘Christ, have you been on the cooking sherry, Ian?’
‘Not yet, no. And I’m sorry I called, interrupted whatever you were doing. I feel sad, Helen you know, disappointed.’ His heart hammered in his chest.
‘Oh God, is this about the microwave again?’
‘No.’ He felt a wave of anger towards this woman who thought she held all the cards, who was making all the decisions, making him feel like shit. ‘It’s about the fact that I feel you have treated me quite unfairly, I only ever tried to make you and Minty happy, I feel embarrassed that my very best efforts weren’t good enough. And as much as I dislike Juan, I hope your interest in him doesn’t wane as it did with me, because let me tell you, it is the very worst way to live. The worst.’
Stories From The Heart Page 27