‘Is Ivy all right?’ I said at last.
‘She’ll be down in a minute.’ Overhead the floorboards creaked. ‘There you are, she’s coming down now. I expect she’s in her best pyjamas in your honour.’
What? What? Had I walked unknowingly into something weird?
A few seconds later the door opened and a little girl came in.
‘Come and say hello,’ Joe said holding out an arm to her. ‘This is my daughter Ivy.’
Chapter Seven
Ivy ran into his embrace and looked over at me shyly. She was perhaps about seven, small and neat with the sort of flawless prettiness that deserves to be captured forever in a watercolour portrait.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Are you Louisa?’ Ivy said. ‘The one who had a flat tyre?’
‘Yes. Are you feeling better?’
‘No.’ She leaned her head in towards her father so that her dark hair fell across her face. ‘I’ve got a headache.’
Joe hugged her. ‘I’ll get you your next dose of Calpol and some hot chocolate. That always makes you feel better doesn’t it?’
Ivy nodded and Joe put his glass down and went out. Ivy slipped back into Joe’s chair and looked at me.
‘There’s a girl called Louisa in my class.’
‘My little sister couldn’t say it. She could only say Lu.’
‘What’s your sister called?’
‘Jassy. Her real name is Jasmine.’
‘Where is she?’
‘At home in London.’
Ivy gave a heavy sigh and rested her head on her hand. The log in the fireplace shifted and crackled.
‘I’d like a sister,’ Ivy said.
All sorts of ideas went round my mind at this point. The principal of course was where was Ivy’s mother? Was she somewhere in the house? In the attic perhaps like a mad Mrs Rochester? Or had she left with Alan the shearer? Before I could ask the little girl some leading questions, Joe returned.
‘Come on, my lovely, let’s get you up to bed. I’ve got your hot chocolate and your medicine upstairs. You do feel rather hot.’ He put a hand to her forehead. ‘Come on, say goodnight.’
Ivy looked over at me from her position under Joe’s arm.
‘Night.’
‘I hope you’re feeling better soon,’ I said.
‘Thank you.’
Secretly, I was a bit relieved. She seemed a sweet little girl but I’ve not really had anything to do with children. I’ve certainly never wanted any of my own and now I’m nearly forty I suppose the possibility is receding fast. Oh well.
I sat and sipped my wine, enjoying the comfort of my place by the fire. Outside there was a sudden blast of wind against the window; evidently the weather was no better. It was nice to be somewhere that felt so – so safe. That was a strange word to come up with.
Joe returned, closing the door softly behind him.
‘Is she all right?’ I said.
‘Yes, just a bit of a cold I think. Every time they go back to school they bring home a load of new germs.’
‘What a ghastly thought!’
He settled back into his chair and looked over at me. ‘I’m guessing you don’t have children, Louisa?’
‘No.’
Why did I suddenly feel uneasy, as though I had to explain myself to him? I didn’t have to tell him that I’d never met any man I would have been happy entrusting with my genetic future. I’d dated a string of highly intelligent, well-heeled and ultimately unsuitable men of which Benedict was the latest.
A sudden realisation struck me.
Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t really that upset that I’d found him with another woman. Because Tess had been my get out of jail free card. I didn’t have to do that awful thing my friends talked about: going to the next stage.
When you’d found out everything you wanted to know about the other person there would always come a night when you ran out of things to talk about and so did they. If you weren’t careful one of you would ask the world’s most horrible question. What are you thinking about? Perhaps the only acceptable thing left to say – to fill the yawning silence – was I love you.
Then, when the novelty of saying that wore off and you got fed up of telling each other how wonderful you were, you got engaged.
Then there would be a complicated wedding to plan together, an expensive honeymoon in Dubai or the Maldives when at least one of you would get food poisoning or sunstroke and then a few weeks or months later the proud announcement of a pregnancy. That would effectively signal the end of carefree nights out with the Gang in the latest bistro and the start of one partner’s complaints about the other’s parenting involvement, arguments about money and a bitter stalemate would exist until eventually the poor kid would be shuttled between divorcing parents.
‘What was all that about?’ he said, laughing.
I looked across at him, aware I’d been silent for quite some time.
‘Sorry? What?’
‘Your face was a picture! I don’t know what you were thinking but it looked very complicated.’
‘Sorry, I suppose I was miles away. I wasn’t thinking anything important.’
‘Come and have something to eat,’ he said. ‘Bring your wine.’
We went through to a room that was everything a house hunter seeking a country kitchen could possibly want but it wasn’t a designer image like Sally’s. There was a built-in dresser laden with mismatched plates and bowls and a cream Aga nestling in an inglenook – the sort of Aga that was well used, chipped around the edges and had tea towels on the rail and socks drying on the top. On the floor in front of it the two sheepdogs were stretched out with a tabby cat curled up on one of them. The table was in the middle of the room and was solid and marked with countless scratches and grooves from years of wear. There was a pile of books and catalogues at the far end and a child’s school bag and lunchbox. Two wooden benches stood on either side and there was a carver chair at the head.
‘Oh God, this is gorgeous!’ I said, and I meant it. It made my kitchen in London look sterile and dull, and even Sally’s kitchen in Barracane House with all its designer touches and matching everything seemed faintly embarrassing in comparison.
‘It’s a bit of a shambles,’ Joe said with a rueful expression, ‘but it works.’
We sat down and he served up a hearty beef stew and dumplings. The meal was probably six trillion calories per serving but it was superb. I had a second helping and he asked me some more about my writing and I asked him about sheep although most of the time I didn’t actually listen to his answers. I was fascinated by the shape and strength of his hands, and the way his hair fell over his forehead. I don’t think I had talked quite so much for a very long time. And he actually listened and wanted to know about me.
‘So how many books have you sold?’
‘I don’t actually know, lots.’
‘Hundreds? Thousands?’
‘Hundreds of thousands.’
‘So why are you here? Why is someone like you here?’
I bristled. ‘Someone like me? What does that mean?’
He leaned back in his chair and looked at me. Then he shook his head and smiled.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘You mean a city type like me? Why am I here in the back of beyond playing at the country life?’
‘I didn’t say that but yes, I suppose so.’
‘I don’t really know, but I like it here for some reason. And I wanted some peace. I wanted to get away from … from a situation. This seemed the best way. I’m planning on going back on Saturday.’
‘A man?’
‘Partly.’
‘It’s fine, it’s none of my business.’ He stood up and began clearing away the plates.
No it wasn’t.
It was odd; I didn’t want to discuss Benedict. He had no place here. He didn’t compare with Joe any more than the two sheepdogs dozing in front of the Aga were like my friend’s designer dog with i
ts popping eyes and ridiculous little outfits. Does that dog enjoy being dressed up as Santa at Christmas, Uncle Sam on the Fourth of July or Batman at Halloween? I’m not convinced.
‘I haven’t done anything for pudding, but we could take some cheese into the sitting room and sit by the fire?’
‘That would be nice; I really don’t need any more to eat though. That was a great meal. You’re a good cook.’
Tell me about Ivy. Where is her mother?
‘Well I’ve had to learn. I’m not one to live on ready meals and I’ve got Ivy to think of.’
We went back into the sitting room and he put some more wood on the fire making it crackle and spit behind the guard. Then he came to sit next to me; not so close as to make me feel uncomfortable but close enough to be interesting.
‘Tell me about Ivy,’ I said.
‘She’s my daughter, pony mad, determined, very sweet and seven going on fifteen sometimes.’
‘So Ellie was talking about a pony for her? I think I was a bit in the way.’
Joe shook his head. ‘You weren’t in the way at all. Ellie is an old friend. I’ve known her most of my life. I went to school with her brother. We were in the Young Farmers Club together. She’s just always been there. I’m sure you have friends like that?’
I thought about it.
Well no actually. Not many.
‘A few but most of my friends are people I’ve known for five minutes in comparison. People who live the same sort of life I do: fun and frivolous. Parties, book launches, exhibitions. That sort of thing. A couple of celebrities, one TV chef famous for his healthy, gluten-free vegetarian recipes but who is in fact obsessed with sausage sandwiches and Haribo. And no I can’t divulge his name! Some are writers. A couple are old school friends. Once a month we gather like a flock of starlings wittering on about writer’s block and Sunday Times rankings while taking up a large table at Julie’s restaurant and knocking back wine like there is no tomorrow. But friends I have known all my life? No not really. Apart from Jassy, I suppose. Does one’s irritating younger sister count as a friend?’
‘She should,’ he said.
‘Then Jassy is a friend. She’s just been reunited with her husband, Ralphie Sutton. They got married last year with an archway of cricket bats as they came out of the church – most of the England team were there – and miniature cricket balls on the wedding cake. They were all over the papers. You will have heard of him if you follow cricket. He’s a commentator for the BBC. He’s just got back from the West Indies tour.’
‘Nope, never heard of him.’
I laughed. ‘Don’t ever tell him that, he would be mortified.’
He laughed. ‘If I ever meet him I’ll do my best to pretend.’
The chances of Ralphie Sutton meeting Joe Field were unlikely. Ralphie was a high-class metrosexual man with the grooming products to prove it. It was impossible to imagine him in the middle of the country unless he was doing some fancy fashion shoot for country tweeds and complicated watches and there was a five-star hotel stay involved. He was the sort of person who bought the Countryfile calendar as his contribution towards Children in Need and thought that qualified him as ecologically involved. I felt a sudden twitch of annoyance.
‘More wine?’ Joe topped up our glasses and raised his in a toast to me. ‘The roads will be cleared in the next day or so. I had a message from a chap who farms not far from here. He’s got his snowplough out and he’s already started clearing the road. You’ll get back to safety.’
‘I suppose.’
‘But—’ He stopped talking suddenly as there was a thump from upstairs and the sound of running feet.
He looked up at the ceiling. ‘That’s not like her. I’ll just go and check Ivy’s okay. Don’t go away.’
He put his glass down on the table and went upstairs. I took off my shoes and curled my feet under me. Don’t go away? How would I? Why would I? The fire was perfect, the flames glowing and flickering. I wondered what the snow was like outside.
I closed my eyes. What it would be like to live here? Would it be wonderful and fulfilling? Or was I being unrealistically fanciful? It was probably a life of hard work and a lot of mud. If it were that great everyone would be doing it wouldn’t they? Chickens in the gardens and village fetes. No big cities, or chic wine bars. Farmers’ markets and local pubs. No massive museums and exhibition halls. No V&A, no Harvey Nicks. No independent boutiques and bookstores. Community shops and greengrocers. I couldn’t quite imagine it. But even so …
I heard Joe coming back downstairs. He’d taken his sweater off and rolled up his sleeves.
‘She’s really not well. She’s just thrown up everywhere. I’m just going to tidy her up, take her a drink of cold water.’
I stood up. ‘Can I help?’
What could I do? I’m hopeless when I’m ill, I’m even worse with other people. We’ve already established I’d have made a terrible nurse. And someone else’s vomit? I don’t think so. The thought of a load of child’s bedclothes covered in sick was too horrible to contemplate.
‘No, you stay there. I’ll get her sorted out. I’m sure she’ll settle down.’
He went off upstairs and I sat back down, resting my head against the cushions and almost drifting off for a moment. Poor Ivy, I’m not particularly maternal but no one wants to see a child ill.
Joe came back a few minutes later.
‘She’s got a really high temperature.’ He looked worried. ‘Perhaps I should phone the doctor.’
‘Why not?’ I said. Although in Notting Hill, it would have been just as much use to send up a smoke signal or shout out of the window.
‘Louisa, will you come and tell me what you think?’ he said.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said.
What possible use would I be?
I followed him up the staircase, which was unbelievable: wooden and carved into a thousand plants and leaves. It would have been worth a fortune in some London shop. And yet here it was just so right; a part of the house and the history it held.
He led me into Ivy’s bedroom. It was very warm, the sort of warmth that was unexpected until I realised the heat was coming from the little girl in the bed. The curtains were closed and there was a light on the bedside table that was covered by a pale green shade painted with gambolling ponies. Along the wall under the window was a built-in bookcase filled with paperbacks and untidy sheaves of paper. The edge of each shelf was edged with silk rosettes of several different colours – red, green, blue and gold – that had been attached with drawing pins.
At first glance it looked as though Ivy was asleep. There was a sour, hot smell in the room that seemed all wrong. She opened her eyes as Joe went to sit on the chair next to her bed.
‘Daddy?’
‘Hello, sweetheart, I’m here.’
‘I’ve got a bad head. I don’t feel very well.’
‘Would you like some water?’
Ivy shook her head. ‘Can you turn the light out? It hurts my eyes.’
‘In a minute.’
Joe put one hand across his daughter’s forehead.
‘There’s been a nasty bug going round the school, hasn’t there? I thought we had got away with it. Maybe not.’
I stood at the foot of Ivy’s bed gnawing at a thumbnail, wondering what to do. ‘Perhaps we could sponge her with a cool, damp cloth?’
I remembered this from The Angel in Ward B. There had been someone with a high temperature and only devoted attention from my heroine had saved the day.
‘Good idea,’ Joe said.
He went into the bathroom and came back with a wet flannel. He held it to his daughter’s forehead. After a moment he looked up at me, his blue eyes clouded with worry.
‘She’s so hot, Louisa. I’m worried. It’s even worse than when she had chicken pox.’
I ran downstairs and fetched a bowl from the kitchen filled with iced water. And then Joe rinsed out the flannel and sponged Ivy’s throat and arms. She was w
earing clean cotton pyjamas with pictures of birds on them. She looked tiny, lying in her single bed.
We stayed there for a few minutes rinsing out the cloth and sponging her forehead. Something was definitely not right.
‘Can you carry on doing this? I’m going to phone the doctor,’ he said, handing me the flannel.
Oh bloody hell.
I took the cloth and carried on dabbing the cold water onto Ivy’s forehead and throat. She opened her eyes and looked at me. ‘Where’s Daddy?’
‘Downstairs, he’ll be back in a minute.’
‘I don’t feel very well.’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’
‘Can you turn the light out? It hurts my eyes.’
‘Okay, in a minute.’
I sponged her neck and moved the neck of her birdy pyjamas so they didn’t get wet. There was a mark like a small red splotch just below her collarbone and when I looked there were several others on her arm.
Something about this triggered a memory and I went into the bathroom where I found a glass. I took it back and pressed it against the mark. I wouldn’t have known what this indicated but one of my creations – Staff Nurse Emma Bannock in The Darkest Hour – certainly did.
Joe came back into the room. ‘Is she okay?’
‘No. You need an ambulance.’
‘You think she’s that bad?’
‘Look at this rash. I think it could be meningitis.’
Joe watched as I pressed the glass against the mark again.
‘Christ, I think you’re right.’ He put his hand on his daughter’s head.
He raced downstairs and I could hear his voice, low and urgent as he spoke to someone.
‘Okay, we are lucky; the main road has been cleared and gritted and there’s a four by four rapid response team who were working nearby. Someone had fallen over and broken an ankle. They’ll be on the way in a few minutes. But I’ve got to get her downstairs.’
Chapter Eight
The rest of the night was a blur. About twenty minutes later we saw the lights of a vehicle coming slowly up the lane. It looked like a cross between an ambulance and an armoured truck. There were two paramedics inside, high-vis jackets luminous in the moonlight, and they came into the house with all sorts of paraphernalia, oxygen and a load of tubes and bags. They were marvellous.
The Mini-Break Page 7