by Erica James
‘Nothing’s going on.’
‘Give me a clue: trouble at work, or at home?’
‘Neither. I told you, I’m fine.’
‘Is it anything I can help you with?’
‘Lizzie, are you listening to anything I’m saying?’
‘It’s what you’re not saying that I’m listening to. And don’t forget, we’re twins, so I always know what you’re thinking.’
‘If that’s true, why don’t you tell me what’s supposed to be bothering me?’
Twin or not, Lizzie couldn’t say with any great certainty what she thought was the matter, but knowing that her brother had always taken work in his stride and had never once to her knowledge got anxious about it, she took a wild stab in the dark, or perhaps not so wild as she knew what the two things were that really mattered to Luke. And since she knew that Freddie was perfectly all right at home with Mum and Dad, she opted for the only choice left. ‘It’s Ingrid, isn’t it?’
‘Actually, no,’ he said after a long pause, ‘it’s not Ingrid. It’s everybody else.’
Once more she heard the unfamiliar ring of defensiveness in his voice. ‘When you say everybody else, could you narrow it down a touch?’
Her request was met with another silence from Luke, during which she could hear the sound of traffic, then to make matters worse, the connection started to break up. While she waited for him to move into an area where the signal was better, she had a sudden and appalling thought that all was not well between her brother and Ingrid; that maybe their marriage was in trouble. From there it was but a short hop to the awful scenario in her mind of poor Freddie being shunted between warring parents, of Luke only seeing his precious son for alternate weekends and her, Mum and Dad being pushed out of Freddie’s life. Lizzie felt the pain of her imaginings so keenly she wished she hadn’t pushed things, that she’d just kept her stupid big mouth shut.
But if there was a problem, wasn’t it better that Luke shared it with her? Yet what would her advice be? She could hardly say that she had always found Ingrid to be a bit too prickly and aloof for her liking, and that invariably felt she had nothing to say to her sister-in-law who, with her ferocious intelligence, probably viewed Lizzie as an idiot who couldn’t be trusted to blow her own nose, never mind be a responsible and loving aunt to Freddie.
‘Are you still there, Luke?’ she asked anxiously.
A moment passed and then she heard Luke’s voice as clear as a bell. ‘That corner in the road is always a signal black spot,’ he said.
‘Would you rather we had this conversation another time?’ she asked.
‘There’s not much to say,’ he said, ‘forget I said anything.’
‘I can’t, Luke, I’ve got myself all worried that you and Ingrid aren’t happy, that—’
‘Ingrid and I are okay,’ he said, ‘but since you’ve raised the subject, can I ask you something?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Do you actually like Ingrid?’
‘Honest answer?’
‘Why else would I have asked?’
‘I’m scared of her, if you really want to know. And I don’t think she likes me very much.’
‘So you tolerate her because she’s my wife?’
‘No, it’s not like that; you mustn’t think that. I think the problem is that we don’t feel as if we know her any better than when you first brought her home.’
‘Are you speaking on behalf of Mum and Dad?’
‘I suppose I am. But would you say that’s a fair comment I’ve made?’
‘Yes, I guess so,’ he said simply.
She steeled herself. ‘Are you having problems, Luke?’
‘No more than the average couple with a child and busy work commitments. I just wish that Ingrid felt more comfortable around you and Mum and Dad. You know she’s always thought that as a family we never say what we’re really feeling, that we shove anything unpleasant or awkward under the carpet.’
‘That pretty much describes most families, doesn’t it?’ A thought occurred to Lizzie. ‘Exactly what unpleasant or awkward things does Ingrid think we shove under the carpet? And come to think of it, aren’t I usually told I blurt things out a bit too readily?’
‘I think it’s Mum and Dad she’s referring to, in the main.’
‘But they’re as open as the day is long!’
‘Are they? Are they really?’
‘As open as they need to be, I reckon,’ Lizzie said. Loyalty to their parents forbade any kind of admission about their little glitch this week to her brother. She couldn’t bring herself to give Ingrid’s observation of them as a family an ounce of credence. ‘What exactly does Ingrid want from us all?’ she went on.
‘Transparency, I think.’
‘That’s a dangerous commodity, Luke; isn’t that what causes most families to self-combust? Isn’t a degree of well-meant deception essential for the sake of family accord?’
‘That depends on what the deception revolves around and what lengths those involved are prepared to go to.’
Lizzie frowned. ‘This is beginning to sound like a whole can of worms best not approached, never mind opened.’
‘You’re right,’ Luke said with a sigh. ‘Forget everything I’ve said. Go home and celebrate landing your new job. I shouldn’t have got all serious and spoilt the mood for you.’
Lizzie drove out of Bury St Edmunds unable to do as her brother said. How could she forget what he’d said? Especially as she strongly suspected he’d been holding out on her. Which was ironic when he’d just been saying that Ingrid wanted more honesty from them.
Home wasn’t her destination, not yet at any rate. She was on her way to Woodside. She hoped Jed would still be there; she wanted to thank him for putting in a good word for her with Ricky. For how else could she have been so lucky to be offered the job on the spot?
Luck, she thought, as she slowed to let a taxi pull out from a side street, was she finally, at long last, in for a small share of it? She hardly dared to hope it was true, but certainly Ricky had been very enthusiastic about her joining the radio station. Before he’d given her a tour of the studio, he’d asked a classic interview question – what did she think her personal contribution to the station would be? Thinking fast, she had surprised herself by pitching him an idea about introducing an item into his show about hidden lives, about seemingly ordinary people doing extraordinary things. ‘Tell me more,’ he’d said, leaning back in his chair and nodding his head.
Before she knew what she was doing, Lizzie had told him about Woodside and Mrs Dallimore, and the German airman she’d captured single-handedly during the war. ‘She just looks like any normal, sweet old lady you’ve ever come across,’ Lizzie had explained, ‘yet the reality is, she’s this amazing woman who’s done all these amazing things. Stories like hers need to be told, before they’re lost forever.’
Smiling, Ricky had readily agreed with her. She couldn’t help but think that maybe it was a combination of Jed putting in a good word for her, and her story about Mrs Dallimore, that had led to her being offered the job. If so, she owed Mrs Dallimore a massive thank you.
As to Lizzie’s confession about her regrettable affair with Curt and subsequent dismissal – her face could not have been redder as she briefly gave her explanation – Ricky had all but passed over it. ‘We’ve all made errors of judgement,’ he’d said, ‘but thank you for being so honest, I admire your courage.’
During the tour round the studio, he had introduced her to a number of people, and it was when they were in the small staff room that her eye caught a note on the noticeboard – Lodger wanted to share two-bedroomed terraced house a short walk from Abbey Crescent. At the time it had seemed presumptuous to ask for any more details, but Lizzie had discreetly made a note of the phone number.
At Woodside she left Mum’s car in the staff
car park and, after changing into her tabard, she hurried out of the staff room and promptly collided with Jennifer, who was on her way to the medical wing.
‘How did the interview go at Skylark Radio?’
‘They’ve offered me the job,’ Lizzie said, ‘but it seems only sensible to wait until I’ve received the official offer before I get too excited.’
‘I’ll keep my congratulations until then, in that case. But I shall be sorry to lose you; you’ve fitted in here very well, the residents will miss you. It’s not everyone who has the gift you have, you know.’
‘What gift is that?’ asked Lizzie, bemused.
‘The ability to listen to people, to listen properly and show that you care.’
Lizzie smiled. ‘Maybe I’m just nosy and like listening to other people’s stories.’
‘To which I’d say you were being disingenuous. When do you think you’ll be leaving us?’
‘I’m not sure. I know this might seem odd, but when I do leave, will it be all right for me to come back and visit Mrs Dallimore?’
‘Of course. And don’t forget Mr Sheridan, and Mr Jenkins, I know they’ll be only too delighted to see you, as would many of the others. By the way, you did a great job in the library; I don’t think I’ve ever seen it looking so good.’
Unable to remember the last time so much praise had been heaped on her, Lizzie went outside to the garden to round up people for dinner.
‘Here she is!’ shouted Mr Sheridan, when Lizzie approached the terrace where half a dozen residents were sitting at the larger tables. Mrs Dallimore was there too.
‘Well,’ enquired Mr Sheridan, ‘can we uncross our fingers now?’
Everyone around the table, including Mrs Dallimore, held up their hands to show their crossed fingers.
At the sight of poor Mr Jenkins’ trembling hands, Lizzie’s throat tightened with a knot of profound sadness. She was going to miss this remarkable group of people and the warmth of their friendship.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Tom rarely had the chance to spend any time alone with Luke, but on Friday evening when his son came to take Freddie home for the weekend, he suggested he didn’t rush off straight away but that they walked down to the Bell for a quick beer. Tom had rather stage-managed things, in that he’d put the idea into his grandson’s head that he had to have a bath before leaving, so that ensured Tess was busy. Lizzie was also conveniently out of the way.
It was Lizzie who had tipped him off that maybe some dad-and-son time together might be good. As had often happened down the years, Tom and Tess had been so preoccupied with Lizzie they were guilty of overlooking their son. That was the trouble with Luke: such was his steady and easy-going temperament, he had never given them cause for concern. But after Lizzie had told him of a worrying conversation she’d had the other day with Luke, Tom was determined now to pay more attention to his son.
Their beers bought and the two of them seated at a table in the beer garden of the pub, Tom adopted what he thought was his most casual tone and asked his son how work was going.
Luke lowered his beer glass and looked at him hard. ‘What’s Lizzie been saying?’
‘Why on earth would you ask that?’ asked Tom, disappointed that he had given himself away so easily.
‘Because we’re having a drink here,’ Luke said, ‘and not at home. Because it’s just the two of us, and you’re asking about my work.’
Tom tried to shrug his shoulders in a gesture of innocence. ‘I thought it might be nice, you and me having a chinwag on our own. When was the last time we did that?’
‘Good question. And mine remains: what’s Lizzie been saying?’
Tom capitulated. He’d never been good at subterfuge. ‘Don’t be cross,’ he said, ‘but Lizzie mentioned you didn’t seem your usual self. I’d say she’s right, you do seem a bit on edge.’
Luke frowned. ‘I wish she hadn’t said anything, you and Mum have enough on your plate as it is.’
‘Not at all, and anyway, we would never be so busy we couldn’t help you, you must never think that. Is there something wrong?’
‘How much did Lizzie tell you?’
‘Very little, just that she thought you and Ingrid were a bit snowed under right now with one thing and another.’
Luke’s frown deepened. ‘She said just that, or more? Knowing Lizzie, I find it hard to believe she didn’t give you the full story. And a lot more besides.’
Tom knew what Luke meant, but in this instance, and despite Tom having tried to get Lizzie to expand, she had refused point-blank to do so. ‘Let’s forget about Lizzie for the moment,’ he said. ‘All I know from your sister is that she’s worried about you and Ingrid. Which means now I’m concerned. What can I do to help?’
‘I’m not sure you can. And I’m not convinced I want to talk about Ingrid behind her back – it doesn’t feel right.’
‘I’d feel the same way talking about your mother,’ Tom said. ‘But Luke, whatever you say will stay between us, if that’s what you want.’
Luke didn’t look convinced. ‘I’m worried that if I say what I really think, it’ll be like letting the genie out of the bottle: impossible to get back in.’
‘But would bottling up something make it worse for you? Is that what you’ve been doing?’
‘Sort of, I suppose.’ Luke took a long swallow of beer, as did Tom as he waited patiently for his son to continue. His patience was rewarded.
‘Ingrid and I don’t seem to have the same closeness that we used to have. And – and I think part of the problem is that she resents the fact that I have you and Mum and Lizzie.’
‘You mean she’s jealous?’
‘Yes. It’s probably all to do with the way she was brought up, she didn’t have the same kind of family life we did.’
‘But in that case, surely she’d welcome being part of our family, wouldn’t she?’
Luke shook his head. ‘It doesn’t seem to work like that, Dad. I reckon that you helping us out this summer by looking after Freddie highlights all that she never had when she was a child. It’s like she doesn’t know how to be a member of a real family.’
Tom thought about this. He and Tess knew very little of their daughter-in-law’s parents; just enough to know the ties had all but been cut between Ingrid and them. Out of respect to Ingrid it was not a subject they had liked to delve into too much. Had that been a mistake on their part? Had their discretion been misinterpreted in some way? Did Ingrid see them as horribly smug, constantly reminding her of their happy marriage and happy family life? ‘Have we ever given Ingrid cause to think we’ve been less than welcoming to her?’ he asked anxiously.
‘No,’ said Luke vehemently. ‘It’s almost as if the more welcoming and helpful you are, the more she resents it. She’s so independent; she hates to think she can’t be on top of everything and that you and Mum have to pitch in. I think she sees it as weakness. To my knowledge, she’s never once asked for help from her own parents.’
‘Poor Ingrid,’ Tom said. It was a sentiment he was ashamed to acknowledge he had never before imagined saying about his cool and unapproachable daughter-in-law. ‘What can we do to help her feel more at ease around us as a family?’ he asked.
‘I wish I knew. I really do. I—’ Luke broke off; his gaze suddenly caught by something over Tom’s right shoulder.
‘What is it?’ asked Tom.
‘It’s Keith. And Simon.’
Tom turned in the direction Luke was looking. Keith spotted him at the same time and Tom automatically waved his hand in recognition. He was tired of the stand-off caused by Lizzie splitting from Simon. Moreover, he missed Keith; he missed their convivial chats at the pub when, and with complete impunity, they could have a grumble about whatever was bothering them, or better still, enjoy an inappropriate laugh over something neither of their wives would find f
unny.
To Tom’s relief, Keith raised his hand in return. Simon did the same.
‘Why don’t we invite them to join us?’ suggested Luke.
‘Why not?’ said Tom. ‘Let’s see if four reasonably intelligent men can’t mend a few bridges over a drink.’
‘Shouldn’t that be fences?’
Tom smiled. ‘Those too.’
Lizzie had offered to help that Friday evening at Woodside and was assisting with serving supper.
While she helped Mr Jenkins with his soup – it was the first time he had asked for her assistance – Lizzie listened to Mr Sheridan holding court at the table. He was regaling them with an amusing tale of when he worked for the Foreign Office and how his limited Mandarin had had him very nearly arrested and thrown into prison in Hong Kong. Everybody seemed in a good mood, apart from Mrs Lennox who still continued to look down her nose at everybody else, as well as reminding them she would soon be moving somewhere more to her liking.
It was two days since Lizzie had gone for her interview with Skylark Radio, and in the post that morning she had received the official job offer, though a start date had yet to be decided. In those two days she had scarcely had time to speak properly with Mrs Dallimore, but today the old lady had proposed that when supper was over and Lizzie had helped clear the tables she might like to come to her room for a chat and a cup of tea. Eager to hear another instalment of Mrs Dallimore’s wartime experiences, Lizzie had agreed only too readily.
With everything cleared away and most of the residents now in the sitting room or the library, Lizzie checked there wasn’t anything else that needed doing before making a pot of tea and knocking on Mrs Dallimore’s door.
The old lady was sitting in her armchair with a photograph album on her lap and a faraway look in her eye. She looked at Lizzie as if seeing straight through her, and once again Lizzie was troubled that the old lady didn’t know who she was, even though they had spoken not half an hour ago. ‘I’ve brought you some tea,’ she said brightly, ‘tea to go with our chat, just as you requested.’ When still the old lady seemed not to know her, just stared at her with hauntingly blank eyes, she felt compelled to add: ‘Mrs Dallimore, it’s me, Lizzie. Are you okay?’