Homes and Hearths in Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

  ‘Wow – that’s a brilliant plan. We could go tomorrow, if you’re free. I’ve taken the week off to make the most of this lovely weather.’

  ‘Perfect. Come to mine for a coffee and we can walk up together. Ten thirty? But Maxine mustn’t know anything about this till we’ve got it all organised and got the rest of the art club on board. If we present her with a fait accompli I don’t think she’ll be able to refuse to join in.’

  ‘This could really work, unless,’ said Olivia, ‘the art group go all shy about showing other people what they’ve achieved.’ She lowered her voice. ‘To be honest, my kids brought home better pictures from nursery school than one or two of the group manage to produce.’

  ‘Take it from me,’ said Heather, ‘they’ll probably be the keenest to exhibit – that sort always are.’

  *

  ‘Ice and lemon?’ asked Judith.

  ‘Mmm, both please,’ said Maxine. She watched as her sister finished making the gins and then took the drink offered to her. ‘Cheers,’ she said as they clinked glasses – very nice designer glasses. She took a sip. Wow! Judith didn’t stint on the gin in a G and T. The pair went back out of the kitchen and into Judith’s cream and pale green sitting room. Every time, in the past, when Maxine had visited with her child, she’d been terrified of the damage Abi might have wrought on the soft furnishings. Even now she worried about spilling something or having mud on her shoes. She put her drink down on a mother-of-pearl coaster.

  ‘I ordered Thai, I hope that’s OK?’ said Judith.

  ‘Frankly, Jude, as I’ve said before, if I haven’t had to cook it, I don’t care what it is and I care even less if it’s got meat in it.’

  ‘Do you cook every night?’

  ‘Yes.’ Maxine was slightly surprised by the question. ‘Don’t most people?’

  ‘God, no. I mean, I can cook a bit, but it’s such a faff, isn’t it?’

  Maxine had thought that the amount of take-away food her sister had ordered in since she’d been staying was because they had both been working really hard during the day and packing, sorting, boxing-up, dumping… It had amazed her how much two people with no kids had managed to accumulate over the years.

  ‘Have you never thought of getting rid of some of your old clothes,’ she’d asked Judith when they’d been clearing out yet another wardrobe in yet another of Judith’s spare rooms.

  ‘But they’re heirloom pieces,’ Judith had protested. ‘Some of these jackets cost a small fortune.’

  Maxine didn’t doubt it. ‘You could have eBayed them. Recouped some of the outlay. Vintage stuff does really well on the internet.’

  ‘But the effort, darling. The effort.’

  And it now transpired that cooking was too much effort too. Thinking back, Maxine realised that whenever they’d gone to stay in the past, which hadn’t been that often mainly because of her terror of what damage her child might inflict on her sister’s house, Mike had always insisted on taking them out to dinner and lunch had rarely been anything more adventurous than sandwiches or soup. Now she realised it was because Judith hadn’t been bothered to produce anything more taxing.

  ‘Actually, I quite like cooking,’ admitted Maxine.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, making something nice, listening to the radio… it’s quite calming.’

  ‘I bet Gordon isn’t thinking so,’ said Judith with a chuckle. ‘I wonder how he’s getting on?’

  ‘I dread to think.’

  *

  Gordon had the sense to grab an oven cloth as he pulled the saucepan off the stove but he didn’t think about the handle on the lid as he ripped it off. The heat from the metal handle seared his fingertips and he dropped it onto the tiled floor. His yell of pain was partly obscured by the clattering lid as smoke billowed out of the blackened pan and set off the smoke alarm.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he yelled as he switched on the cold tap and thrust the pot under it. The water sizzled and spat as it hit the scalding metal and steam joined the smoke. Gordon held his fingers under the cold water in the hope of reducing the effect of the burn. As the water cooled the damaged skin he gazed at the blackened contents in the pot. Ruined.

  Abi raced into the kitchen. ‘What the hell?’ she shouted above the insistent piercing shriek of the alarm. She opened the back door, and the window and then flapped a tea towel at the white box by the ceiling. After a while it fell silent, leaving their ears ringing from the racket.

  ‘What on earth have you done?’ she asked.

  ‘What does it look like? Burnt the spuds, burnt my hand, ruined a pan… God, I hate cooking.’

  ‘Gordon? Gordon, are you all right?’ Anthea’s imperious voice cut through from the sitting room.

  ‘Yes, Mother, I’m fine.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing, I managed to set off the smoke alarm, that’s all.’

  ‘Is that all? That’s all right then.’

  Abi and Gordon looked at the charred remains of the potatoes. ‘Supper’s going to be late,’ he said.

  ‘Jeez, Dad, you’re hopeless,’ said Abi.

  ‘Then, you do it,’ snapped Gordon. His fingertips were throbbing despite the cold water.

  ‘Keep your hair on. Why don’t we get a take-away? Bin this lot.’

  ‘Because your grandmother doesn’t approve.’

  ‘Stuff… ’Abi stopped because Anthea had appeared at the kitchen door.

  Anthea sniffed the air. ‘Have you burnt something?’ She limped further into the room and peered into the sink. ‘Can’t you even boil a potato? Really, Gordon, you are hopeless. And why weren’t you helping your father?’ she accused Abi. ‘And what don’t I approve of?’

  ‘Take-aways,’ said Abi.

  ‘Ghastly food, for ghastly, idle people.’ She glared at Abi, daring her grandchild to argue with her elders and betters. She then turned and hobbled back towards the sitting room. ‘And hurry up, I’m hungry.’

  Gordon switched off the tap and looked at his hand. A livid red line, with puffy white lumps of incipient blisters on either side of it, ran straight across three fingers and his thumb. ‘Ouch,’ he said.

  ‘And it’s your right hand,’ observed Abi. ‘Want some plasters?’

  ‘I don’t think that’ll do much good.’ He switched his attention to the pan. ‘And what are we going to do with this?’

  ‘Bin it. Get a new one.’

  Gordon picked it out of the sink, emptied out the water, scraped what he could of the blackened spuds into the compost caddy and then chucked the pan into the bin. ‘Done.’ He went to the veg rack and picked up a load of potatoes and then grabbed the peeler. He made an attempt to peel them but the burns on his fingers made him wince. ‘It’s no good, Abi, you’ll have to do these.’

  ‘If I must.’ She started scraping away. ‘What are we having to go with these?’

  ‘I made some mince, earlier. I thought I’d make a shepherd’s pie.’

  ‘I hope it’s Quorn.’

  ‘Yes, of course it is.’

  ‘I hope you’ve cooked it better than the stuff Mum put in the lasagne.’

  21

  The next day, after Olivia had had a quick coffee at Heather’s place and discussed some more details about the exhibition, the pair walked up the road, past the cricket pitch and onto the high street before plodding up the hill towards Olivia’s old house.

  ‘You must miss living in The Grange,’ said Heather.

  ‘More than you could possibly imagine. It’s mostly down to the lack of space at the new house but I miss the garden—’

  ‘Even though the old one must have been so much work.’

  ‘Yes, despite that. And I miss not being overlooked, I miss the views.’ Olivia paused. ‘But the new place is easier to look after, cheaper to run so I’ve got to look on the bright side.’

  ‘So… have you been to the house, since you moved out?’

  ‘No. But I know they had a mass of work done becaus
e Amy has told me all about it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘She suggested to me that I might like to try a bit of minimalism – less to dust, she says.’

  Heather grinned. ‘That sounds like Amy – always one eye on how to make life easier for herself.’

  ‘You can’t blame her, though. How many jobs does she hold down?’

  ‘I know, and I don’t. I do blame her for snarfing my best biscuits—’

  ‘You’re lucky it was only biscuits. She used to nick my gin!’

  ‘Indeed. But I don’t suppose she can afford many luxuries.’

  ‘Her new bloke seems sound.’

  ‘He’s a fireman, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, called Ryan. Zac’s met him and says he and Ashley get on really well.’

  ‘I’m pleased. It would be good for Ashley to have a father-figure and a fireman would be a good role model. Not that Amy hasn’t done a really good job of bringing up Ashley on her own.’

  ‘She did a better job than I did with my Zac.’

  ‘You did a fine job with Zac – he’s come good in the end. It was only a glitch.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Olivia as the pair turned onto the drive to The Grange and scrunched over the gravel. Behind the house, Miranda’s eco-friendly windmill turned slowly and gracefully in the light breeze and in the front, her rose bushes were covered in scented white blooms.

  ‘Goodness, the roses are doing well,’ said Olivia, enviously. ‘I don’t remember them ever being that good when I lived here.’

  ‘But your roses probably never had quite as much manure fed to them as these ones have.’

  Olivia snorted with laughter. ‘Of course, that “delivery” she had last Christmas.’ Some months previously, Miranda’s constant protests against the ways of the town – the church bells, the farmer’s market and other issues – had so alienated her to the locals that someone had taken it on themselves to dump a couple of tons of farmyard muck on her drive on Christmas Eve. ‘Did they ever find out who did it?’ she asked.

  ‘There were rumours it was Harry.’

  ‘Harry from the pub?’

  ‘But nothing could be proved.’ Heather rang the doorbell. ‘Anyway, it made Miranda realise she couldn’t fight a whole town.’

  The door opened and Miranda appeared in an immaculate pair of white jeans and a black silk camisole. Her fabulous emerald earrings glittered on either side of her face. Both Heather and Olivia instantly felt like frumps in their ordinary cotton summer skirts and blouses.

  ‘What a lovely surprise,’ exclaimed Miranda. ‘Come in, come in.’

  Such a difference, thought Heather, from her first visit to welcome Miranda shortly after she’d moved in. When she’d mentioned the town’s campaign to raise money to restore the bells Miranda had threatened her with legal action if they should ring again. But, as Heather had just remarked to Olivia, once Miranda realised she couldn’t fight a whole town, the nicer side of her had emerged and lots of the locals now regarded her as an asset, if not an actual friend.

  ‘Now then,’ she said, as she led them towards the state-of-the-art kitchen, ‘Can I get you tea or coffee? I’m afraid I’ve only got almond milk. I hope you can cope with that.’

  Olivia was busy staring in amazement at the transformed house. When she’d lived there it had been filled with squashy sofas and thick rugs and bookcases. Now it was all shiny white surfaces, bare floorboards, chrome and glass. It was… impressive. But Olivia didn’t think it’d be the least bit cosy in the dead of winter. On balance she’d stick to her own style and taste.

  ‘Olivia?’ asked Miranda.

  ‘Oh… coffee, please. And don’t worry about the milk. I’m happy with it black.’

  Miranda set the coffee machine on the counter going – it wouldn’t have looked out of place in Costa or Starbucks – then she turned and leaned against the work surface. ‘To what do I owe this honour? It’s lovely to see you, as I said, but I am sure there’s a reason for your visit.’

  ‘Busted,’ said Heather. She put the carrier bag she had with her on the counter and drew out a small tissue wrapped package. Carefully she peeled off the paper to reveal the little watercolour. She handed it to Miranda.

  Miranda considered it. ‘Very sweet,’ she said, after a few seconds. ‘And very competently executed.’

  ‘Oh.’ Heather felt a whoosh of disappointment. Very sweet was a rather more dismissive opinion than what she’d hoped to hear, although the competently executed qualifier made up for it a bit.

  ‘Sorry, but it’s not really my kind of thing,’ said Miranda. She pointed at the huge bold picture of stylised scarlet poppies which dominated a wall in the sitting area. ‘I mean, from what I know about art, which isn’t a great deal, I’d say this has been beautifully painted by someone good and I am sure there is a market for it, but it’s not for me.’ Miranda handed it back.

  ‘We weren’t expecting you to buy it or anything.’ Heather put the picture back on the counter. ‘We were rather hoping you might be able to help us find an expert who can evaluate it. We’re planning an art exhibition – ostensibly for the art club; a bit of a competition… best watercolour, best landscape, best abstract, that sort of thing. It would be great if we could tempt some sort of art expert to come along and judge some of the paintings and maybe advise on the sort of price they might fetch. But what we actually want to do is provide a showcase for Maxine’s work, like this picture here,’ Heather tapped it, ‘so it reaches a bigger audience.’

  ‘This is Maxine’s! I mean I knew she’d set up an art club but I had no idea she was any good.’ Miranda put her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry – that came out so badly.’

  ‘The thing is,’ said Olivia, ‘is that no one seems to appreciate just how good Maxine is – least of all her family. If the locals did, and she managed to sell some of her work then maybe it might change things a bit and perk her up and, most of all, it might stop her husband and her daughter treating her hobby as a bit of a joke.’

  ‘Oh, poor Maxine. I had no idea. Well, that’s a totally different kettle of fish. I can’t make any promises but I do know a couple of gallery owners who might be persuaded to do a spot of pro bono judging in return for a weekend in the country. Do you mind if I hang on to this and I promise I’ll have a word with them the next time I go up to London.’

  ‘Yes, sure.’

  ‘In fact,’ mused Miranda, ‘there’s a chap who used to work for a place I occasionally frequent. He’s set up on his own. Hang on…’ Miranda pushed on a flat white panel beneath the counter and a hidden drawer slid out. Unsurprisingly, the drawer was divided into compartments and was tidily organised with a place for everything and everything in its place. Heather thought about her kitchen drawers which were shambolic – utensils, bits of string, half-used books of stamps, pens, a block of Post-Its…

  ‘Ah… here we are.’ She produced a business card. ‘Dominic Harcourt,’ she read. ‘Fine art dealer. He might be the person.’

  ‘It would be ace,’ said Heather, ‘to have a proper expert give a bit of a professional critique and suggest asking prices for the exhibits but if we don’t find one, we can have the exhibition anyway.’

  ‘I’m not going to make any promises,’ said Miranda. ‘The art world is a fickle place, it’s also incredibly snobby, but I’ll have a word with this guy,’ she waved the card, ‘and report back. Now… coffee.’

  *

  Maxine was blissfully unaware that she and her art were the subject of so much of her friends’ interest as she helped Judith pack up a very beautiful and precious Royal Worcester dinner service in masses of newspaper. As they finished wrapping each piece, they placed them carefully in a box lined with bubblewrap.

  ‘Dinner service? But you don’t cook.’

  ‘No, Maxie, but caterers do.’

  God, how the other half live, thought Maxine. Not that she and Gordon had needed a dinner service for years although they occasionally had friends around for kitchen su
ppers; lasagne and salad and lashings of garlic bread – that sort of thing. Less fuss and hassle than the pretentious, showing-off dining that had been all the rage in the seventies and eighties when they had first married. Maxine almost shuddered at the thought. She still had some ‘best china’ but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d got it out. Mismatched kitchen china was all they used these days.

  Judith’s mobile buzzed on the table beside them. Maxine still had hers switched off.

  ‘Ooh, it’s Gordon,’ she announced as she picked it up. ‘Shall I answer it, and are you “in”?’

  ‘I suppose you’d better and, yes, I am.’

  ‘Gordon!’ trilled Judith. ‘How lovely to hear from you… Yes, she’s right next to me.’ Judith passed over the phone.

  ‘Hi,’ said Maxine hoping her lack of enthusiasm was obvious.

  ‘Max, darling, when are you coming home? It’s been three days now.’

  ‘I am quite aware how long it is and the answer is, I don’t know.’

  ‘But Maxine, we miss you.’

  ‘You miss what I do.’

  ‘OK, I’ll be honest, that too, but I miss you more.’

  ‘Really.’ Maxine’s ‘scepticism monitor’ red-lined.

  ‘I do,’ Gordon insisted. ‘The bed’s too big for a start.’

  ‘Then move into the box room. The one in there is only two foot six. It’ll be nice and cosy.’

  ‘Max, come back.’

  ‘No, I’m still angry.’ She winked at her sister.

  ‘Abi is really sorry. She and Marcus are going to rent a self-storage unit and clear out your studio.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Aren’t you pleased?’

  ‘They could have done that as soon as they found out the extent of the cottage’s problems.’

  ‘They’re doing it now.’

  ‘And so they should.’

  ‘You’re being harsh.’

  ‘Yes. You lot have made me so.’

  ‘We didn’t mean to.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you didn’t but the drip-drip-drip accumulation of being taken for granted by all and sundry is going to take a bit of eroding away.’