by Rosie Blake
Clara grimaced, hoping her dad wouldn’t google the word when he got home.
The man didn’t notice her expression, giving her a grin as he paid for a train carriage. ‘Great display. You’ve got a real eye for detail.’
Clara found herself strangely shy as she caught his gaze. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled, forgetting all about Roz.
‘Amber loves it. Don’t you, Amber?’ he asked. Amber was already holding out her hand for the carriage, wriggling and bucking to get down.
The man deposited her on the ground and ruffled her hair, the same light brown as his own. ‘Totally overexcited. If only her mum could see her…’ He tailed off, sighing out loud, so that Clara found herself tilting her head to one side in sympathy. ‘Still,’ he said, clapping his hands together, ‘this has cheered us up.’ He grinned, light reflecting off his glasses.
‘I’m glad,’ Clara said, wanting to talk more but aware of another customer standing behind him.
The man gave her a sloping smile and waved a hand. ‘Well, see you round,’ he said.
‘You too,’ Clara replied, watching him take his daughter’s hand and lead her out of the shop. Was it her imagination or did he pause at the door to look back at her?
The next customer cut across her musings. ‘Excuse me, what does the large wooden number four mean in the corner of the window?’
‘The four…?’ Clara blinked, still thinking back to the lone father and child. ‘The four,’ she repeated. ‘It means four days to go.’
‘To go till what?’ the woman asked. Her son was staring up at Clara, waiting for her response.
Clara pulled herself together, bending down to his eye level. ‘Until the next display. Four days, and then overnight it will transform into something else.’
‘Like magic,’ the boy said, his eyes bulging.
‘Exactly. When I wake up and come downstairs, I find it is completely different.’
‘Elves,’ the boy whispered.
Clara nodded solemnly. ‘Very likely,’ she agreed.
The mother broke into a smile. ‘Well, Lucas, we’ll have to come back and see that, won’t we?’
‘In four days,’ Lucas repeated, as if his mother were an imbecile.
‘Exactly. Four comes after…?’ she asked him.
‘Two,’ he replied solemnly.
The woman looked at Clara and grimaced. ‘He’s not entirely wrong.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But I might have a word with the nursery. Right,’ she said more loudly, ‘we’ll see this nice lady in four days then. Say thank you.’
The boy was too busy staring at the box he was carrying.
‘Nankoo.’
‘That’ll do.’
What do you mean, you hated my Chocolate Surprise? You told me at the time that it was a ground-breaking dessert. I shall never believe another word that passes your lips. Is Sense and Sensibility really your favourite Emma Thompson film, and do you really find Noel Edmonds loathsome too? You see, I am now second-guessing everything you’ve ever told me.
It rained for two days on the trot in Madrid so I took a coach to Valencia. The journey itself was utterly hideous but it’s lovely to be on the coast and looking out on the Mediterranean. The sun has decided to welcome me here and I’ve been out exploring. It’s a strange place; some parts look like the set of a sci-fi movie, all large white buildings and shallow turquoise pools. I keep expecting chaps in white helmets to appear on the horizon.
I’ve cycled just about everywhere today. The old river has dried up so they’ve transformed it into green parks and cycle paths; it’s all rather lovely. My shins ache now though so I’ve retired to the rooftop of the hotel which has a hot tub looking out over the beach. It is terribly hard, Gavin, being such an intrepid explorer. I have had to drink a great deal of sangria to ensure that I’m really soaking up the Spanish culture. Maybe you should do a Spanish-themed evening in the pub? Serve paella and sangria and hire someone to do flamenco. I watched a woman in a small bar in the city doing it, she was just incredible. Stamping her feet so fast they were a blur, body twisting impossibly, ruffled skirts flying – it was breathtaking. I think back to my energetic efforts when the Macarena comes on the jukebox and feel horribly inept. Do think about it, it would be such fun. Although I’m not sure where one finds an authentic flamenco dancer in Suffolk.
There’s a quarter-final of something tennis-related on tomorrow at L’Àgora, an enormous strange-looking building that looks like a monster mussel coming out of the ground, and Andy Murray is playing so I’ve booked tickets to watch him. I’m going to go dressed in a Union Jack flag and paint my face like one of those fanatical types at Wimbledon and see if I get on television. If the tennis is on Sky, be sure to check in; I imagine they’re bound to feature me. My sign will say ‘GO ANDY’ because everyone uses tennis players’ first names. Do you remember when we all called Henman ‘Tim’ as if he was a favourite son? It’s very strange. I wouldn’t dream of calling Rooney ‘Wayne’. How are Man U getting on? I do miss watching Match of the Day with you, I learnt such a lot. I still shake my fist when I see Ronaldo on the back pages of the papers here because I remember you don’t like him.
Will you send Roddy and Lady CaCa my very biggest kisses and tell Clara she is an absolute saint? I did like her face, so it’s nice to know I was right about her – she has the most fabulous skin, doesn’t she? As if she’ll never see a line in her life. I imagine in Denmark she just eats raw eggs and red cabbage; do you mind asking her for any tips? I keep forgetting to use my night cream so it’s no wonder I look like something that was dragged up from the ocean.
I’ve been avoiding Joe’s calls all week, is that terrible? He just sounds so cross with me on the answerphone and I do hate it when he’s cross with me.
Oh, and I did like the way you attached all your letters to my word. TO and AT were acceptable but don’t think I didn’t notice JE, and the J on the double letter, which seems incredibly unfair when you can’t possibly tell me what it means. If you talked in your Words with Friends language no one would understand a word you say. Still, I will soon catch up. I have a couple of rather fabulous letters up my sleeve.
Chapter 10
‘Mum, MUM?’ He hung up again, crossing the lobby of his building, his shoes clacking on the marble surface, the sound echoing round the cavernous space. He pushed through the revolving doors, pressing her name again.
The Mercedes was waiting, engine running, in the bay outside. Joe didn’t recognise the driver, but he wasn’t one for chatting with the chauffeurs the firm used, often working in the back of the car. He had already told the man the destination when he’d booked it, so there was no need to do anything but try his mother for the tenth time that hour.
She’d been running around a harbour in Valencia looking for a boat when she’d suddenly disappeared.
‘DARLING, thank goodness. Do you keep going through tunnels?’
‘No, I think it’s you. I’m just in the car, heading home.’
‘But it’s so early.’
‘I stayed all night.’ Joe rubbed at his face with one hand, the conversation already making him weary.
‘Gosh, you are so diligent. Is the job going well? Everyone keeps asking me all about you and I always struggle to pin down exactly what you do. Isn’t that awful? After so many years. But I just say M and As in a very knowledgeable sort of way, as I know that means mergers and acquisitions, and darling, they are ALWAYS impressed, always. Then I get a bit bogged down in the details. What are you again? Your title? I know it’s something presidential; it always makes me giddy with how important you sound…’
‘Mum…’ Joe’s head had been aching on and off since midnight, and now with this whirlwind of chatter he found he just couldn’t think. He needed to talk to her, seriously, about just what she was up to.
‘… senior vice president or deputy president or something. I know it’s American…’
‘MUM,’ he said, making the driver look at him with wide eyes in
the rear-view mirror. Joe thought of cupping a hand over the phone and explaining, but what would he say? He ignored the look.
‘Did you want to speak for long, as I really need to find Pedro. He’s on one of these boats, but there seem to be dozens of them. And they all look the same to me…’
‘I want to discuss you leaving Yulethorpe, the shop an —’ Joe said, trying to cut across her.
‘… I’m booking a jet ski for this afternoon. I met Pedro in a bar last night and he’s organised a fabulous deal for me. Two hours for twenty euros, an absolute bargain, don’t you think, darling? And I’ve never jet-skied before. It looks thrilling. I was completely put off water-skiing in my twenties when your father made me do it in choppy water off the Isle of Wight. I swallowed half the sea and got smacked in the face by one of the skis. I still think I might have fractured my nose. The bottom half of it has always been angled slightly to the left since then.’
The rare mention of his father had stopped Joe from responding. He was suddenly a young boy again, desperate for more stories about his dad, not wanting to ask his mum, who always seemed to get angry or tearful when he did. He imagined his father teaching his stepsister and brother how to water-ski. Joe had never tried. Why did it still sting?
‘I think jet-skiing will be just my cup of tea. I’m going to have to wear a wetsuit, though, can you imagine? Me squeezing into neoprene? Horrific. I’m so worried Pedro will laugh. Not that he’d be interested in someone ancient like me. He’s very young. I think he might be homosexual. Not sure…’
‘Mum. Can you just sit still for five minutes while we talk about you upping and leaving.’
‘… it was just a fleeting thought I had. And you can’t really ask, can you?’
Joe had started to suspect his mother was avoiding things. He let her continue for a few moments, leaning his head back against the seat and closing his eyes. There was something wonderful about her voice that transported him back through the years, nestled in the crook of her arm on a sofa or bed as she made up fantastical stories for him. She had always been a great story-teller and now she was in her element, embellishing details of her night in the bar, Pedro’s clothing, his accent. Joe felt his head tip to the side, the driver pulling up outside his block.
He jerked upright, realising he was drifting off, the night’s work catching up on him. His mouth was dry as he waited for the driver to open the door. He stepped out onto the pavement, thanked the man and placed the mobile back to his ear, his mother not noticing anything had changed.
‘… Everyone wears leather trousers. I’m thinking of buying some. But do you think it’s a bit mutton dressed as? I remember Gavin saying he’d always had a crush on Olivia Newton-John, and she looked sensational in them at the end of Grease, do you remember? But then she was about fifty years younger than me and much, much thinner…’
Joe had made it up to the top floor of the block, the lift opening out into his penthouse suite. The floor-to-ceiling windows opposite were spotless, every surface wiped down, his belongings tidied away, hung up or shut inside cupboards. He’d never been one for hoarding, but for a second even he was shocked by how stark it all looked. He should contact that interior designer again, see what she could do.
‘Mum,’ he said, falling onto the beige leather sofa, resting his head back. ‘Focus. What happened?’
The direct question ended her soliloquy. There was silence from the other end of the line. Joe could make out a seagull’s caw, some distant shouts. He pictured the harbour: bronzed Spaniards moving from boat to boat, hauling up buckets of glistening fish, his mother standing, skirt billowing, as she stared at her mobile.
‘Mum,’ he repeated, his voice softer. ‘Come on, what happened? You just left.’
He didn’t want to say ‘again’. He wondered if she realised he was thinking back to those years when they’d travelled around the country together, never settling, staying in some places only for a matter of weeks. Joe had lost track of the number of schools he was enrolled in and then removed from partway through the year. He’d stopped making friends in the last few, knowing they’d be off again, searching for what, he’d never been sure. Was Mum doing the same now? He’d thought she was happy, settled, and this scared him, as if the years had fallen away and she was back to the same broken woman she’d been after his dad had walked out on them, leaving overnight, a letter propped up on her dressing table. He’d never even said goodbye to Joe.
They’d moved out of their house and she’d talked about an exciting new start by the sea. Joe had loved the idea – what eight-year-old wouldn’t want to spend their days on the beach, chasing waves, exploring rock pools, making sandcastles with moats, digging holes? The village by the sea had lasted less than eight weeks. They’d left that for the city, a new city, Manchester, to be closer to Granny, who always smelled of pipe smoke and mustard. He’d been teased for his posh voice in that school, learnt to keep quiet in the playground to stop them from standing there exaggerating all their vowels, making him want to be swallowed up by a hole in the ground. They’d moved around like that for over four years before finally settling in Yulethorpe.
Was she doing the same out in Spain? Running from another hurt? Had something happened? Was it more than the shop? He wished he could ask her directly. She had always shared things with him, but in recent years he’d struggled to ask her questions, talk properly about things. He’d assumed she was happy. Suddenly he was full of the same worry that had gnawed away at the insides of his eight-year-old self. When he’d sat at the top of the stairs waiting for her to come back from nights out, waiting for the click of the door, her heels on the tiled hallway floor. The relief that she hadn’t left him too.
‘It was so depressing, darling,’ she started, her voice barely louder than a whisper. ‘People had just stopped coming in.’
‘To the shop?’
‘To our shop,’ she corrected. ‘I was thinking back all those years to when we first opened. People would drive for miles to visit us. Do you remember?’
Joe found himself nodding, unable to speak.
‘It was a wonderful place, the pulsing heart of the village, but recently it’s just felt like someone has come along and pulled the plug on the whole place. It’s a ghost town. If it wasn’t for G – friends, I would have left years ago.’
‘So what do you want to do now, Mum?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I just couldn’t stay any longer.’
‘Do you want to travel for a while? Do you want me to handle the shop?’
Her tone changed and Joe could tell he was losing her again. ‘Oh darling, I don’t know what I want. This is all very serious and I’m in a spin still. Ooh, I think I see Pedro… no, no, it’s just a man with very snaky hips… Honestly, I’ve been wandering around here for hours…’
‘Mum, really, let me help,’ Joe said, desperately trying to get back to the conversation, to help her. ‘I could get you quotes. I could put it on the market if you want to release the capital from it. I want you to be comfortable, not to have to worry in your retirement.’
‘I know you do, darling – you’re so good. Now let’s not talk about depressing things any more, I really can’t face it. Tell me about London. Do you have a girlfriend? Not that I’m pressuring you. I’m not desperate for grandchildren. I’m a dreadful knitter anyway, so I’d make a questionable grandma…’
She was off again. He knew the conversation had come to a close, that she didn’t want to talk any more about serious things. He needed to go to sleep – he had to be back in the office in a few hours – but it was great to hear her on the other end of the phone. He let her carry on, her voice washing over and through him as he closed his eyes on the leather sofa and drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 11
By the end of the week, Clara felt exhausted. She needed a søndagshygge, a lazy Sunday, so she spent the day taking long walks, cooking a stew, a bolognese and more treats for the freezer from
the enormous online order that had arrived, lighting the woodburner with the new logs.