Homes and Hearths in Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

  She sighed as she pushed up the sleeves of her shirt. Staring at the chaos wasn’t going to get anything done but she felt utterly daunted. Where on earth did she start? Randomly she picked up a vegetable dish and lid off the dining table and put it in the sideboard, then a pile of plates followed by the gravy boat and the soup bowls. Half an hour later her best china and glassware had been sorted and the dining table was almost clear. She made herself a gin and tonic as a reward and then started on her kitchen equipment – not that there was much but she still needed to think about where best to store her pots and pans, her everyday china, where her coffee machine should live, where to stash the cleaning cloths, the bin bags… the minutiae of ordinary, everyday living. That done she had a go at her books. She didn’t have that many so they were quickly squared away leaving an empty packing case which she set about filling with all the packing detritus that was strewn over the surfaces and floors. She’d just about filled it to capacity when she noticed her gin, virtually untouched, on the mantelpiece. The ice had melted and the fizz had gone from the tonic but she took a slurp regardless as she slumped onto the sofa, still partly covered in yet more polythene, and let out a deep sigh. She hadn’t felt this tired for as long as she could remember. Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a push if Maxine had been bothered to help her, but she’d cited Anthea, Gordon’s absence and a need to prepare for her wretched art club as reasons why she couldn’t. Wouldn’t, more like.

  ‘Come off it, Jude. I’ve just spent days packing up your old house. I don’t remember you helping Gordon and me when we first moved here.’

  ‘Maybe because, back then, I was still a schoolgirl.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘Anyway, I can’t help today so that’s that. Gordon and I’ll come over at the weekend and give you a hand then. He’s back home from Anthea’s place this afternoon, all things being equal, but he’ll have had a long drive and he won’t want to start lugging furniture around.’

  Judith had had to accept that was the best offer she was going to get, but the knowledge of future assistance didn’t help with how tired she felt right now.

  She looked at her little ladies Rolex. Good grief, nearly eight. It had been a long day but she hadn’t realised quite how long. If she’d been back in her old house, she’d have picked up her phone and speed-dialled her favourite take-away but she hadn’t acquainted herself with any of the ones on offer around Little Woodford. It would have to be the pub. For a second, she thought about ringing Maxine and Gordon and asking if they wanted to join her – the last thing she wanted was to eat alone but then she remembered Maxine’s sodding club. Bugger. No chance of having some company. Instead she downed the rest of her gin, armed herself with her Kindle, grabbed her handbag and got herself ready to leave her new house. Out of habit she checked her appearance in the mirror in the downstairs loo before she left. Jeez – she looked like Lady Macbeth after a long night on the battlements. She dragged a comb through her hair, pinned it up into a make-shift bun and momentarily considered trudging upstairs to put on some make-up but then decided she really was too dog-tired to bother even with that. She made sure she had the new bunch of keys, shut the front door and walked the hundred yards along the high street to the Talbot.

  When she pushed open the door, she was pleased to see it was comfortably busy but not rammed and that there was a small table squashed into a corner that was free. Perfect for a singleton. She ordered a large glass of red wine and the slow roasted pork and mash before she took a seat. As she did, she looked back to the bar where the very attractive barmaid, was chatting to the locals. Or was that ‘chatting up’? She was certainly flirting, although, why shouldn’t she? thought Judith. She contemplated the woman and quickly came to the conclusion that they were of a similar age. It’s the neck, thought Judith – always the giveaway. She rubbed hers. Despite the lotions and potions she smoothed on, she knew she had a touch of the old turkey neck herself, but not quite as noticeable as the barmaid’s, she thought smugly, before admitting that the barmaid probably couldn’t afford the sort of products she could.

  She settled herself more comfortably at the table, switched on her Kindle and began to engross herself in the latest exploits of Jack Ryan – now that was a real man – as she took the occasional sip of her wine.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Judith looked up to see the barmaid proffering a plate of food in her direction. Quickly she moved her bits and pieces off the table and pushed her now-empty glass to one side to leave space for her supper. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And another glass of Merlot, please. Sorry, and your name is…?’

  ‘Ella.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you, Ella. I’m Judith – I’ve just moved here and I think there’s every possibility this might become my local.’

  ‘That’s nice. I’ll bring your wine right over, Judith.’

  ‘Cheers, sweetie.’ Judith tucked in with gusto before the woman came back with her drink. The food was delicious but she made herself eat it slowly, alternating mouthfuls of pork with pages of text and sips of wine. She was in no hurry to go home where there wouldn’t be much else to do but go to bed – unless she fancied doing more unpacking. It was as she reached for her glass some fifteen minutes later, as she swallowed the last mouthful of pork, that she heard a voice she recognised drift into her psyche. Gordon! How nice to have a bit of real company to interact with. A book was all very well but not the same as a proper conversation. She looked over to where he was standing at the bar and froze. She mightn’t have a slew of A levels or a university degree but she was top of the class when it came to body language and what was going on between him and the pretty barmaid couldn’t have been more blatant if there had been a neon sign pinned to him flashing ‘Phwoar’. And what was worse, the barmaid was the same. Her light flirting with the other pub goers had shifted up several gears into take me I’m yours territory.

  Fucking hell, she thought, swiftly followed by, now what?

  26

  Maxine arrived home from her art club, unloaded the car and dumped everything in the hall before she went to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine. Generally, she came home from her art club feeling energised but not this evening; she still felt completely weighed down and browbeaten by the events that had happened earlier, before she’d left home. Even the club’s excitement about the prospective art exhibition hadn’t bucked her up. She leaned against the counter and necked most of the glass – sod what Abi said about her drinking – before she refilled it and carried it through to the sitting room.

  ‘You’re back,’ observed Anthea, switching off the television as Maxine joined her.

  ‘I am.’ Max hoped the TV going off wasn’t a precursor to Anthea wanting to rehash what had happened shortly before supper. ‘Where’s Gordon?’

  ‘Where do you think?’ Her tone was terse. ‘Running away from reality.’

  Maxine could hardly blame him. She’d run away from reality too if she had the chance but she had nowhere to run. And there was no escaping that what he’d told his mother, when he’d arrived back from her old home late that afternoon, was reality. It might have been an unpalatable reality but it was pretty much the only option; Anthea would have to sell up and move into something more appropriate. It was that, or live with them for months and months, while planning permission was sought, her home got converted, while her health might well deteriorate further and while she’d be shelling out tens of thousands of pounds for a house that, in all likelihood, she would only continue to live in for a few years at the very most. Financially it made no sense whatsoever. Her reaction had been one of a blank refusal to believe him, followed by an accusation that he was exaggerating the situation to make her sell for his own benefit.

  ‘You want your inheritance early!’ she’d accused. ‘You’ve been after it for years, ever since you wanted me to sign that dreadful power of attorney document.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous, Mothe
r. Why? Why would I want your money? This house is paid for, I’ve got a pension, we’re comfortably off…’ He’d spluttered to an indignant halt before he’d regained his momentum and shouted, ‘We simply don’t need it.’

  ‘You’re taking advantage of me because I’m old and alone,’ she’d shouted back.

  The pair eyeballed each other angrily. If they’d been cats, their tails would have been fluffed up like bottle brushes. Gordon dropped his gaze first.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he’d muttered quietly, but not quietly enough.

  ‘Don’t you dare use that language to me.’

  For a second Maxine thought he was going to swear at his mother again but he turned and headed for the back door.

  ‘I’m going into the garden,’ he’d said as he slammed it behind him.

  When Maxine had served up a mushroom risotto fifteen minutes later, he’d insisted he was too busy to come in and that he’d rather eat in her studio.

  ‘That’s petty,’ she’d told him.

  ‘I’m not going to sit there and be accused of trying to fiddle her out of her money.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Maxine had felt too weary to try to dissuade him.

  Supper had been eaten by the rest of them in an uncomfortable silence and Maxine had been glad of the excuse to flee to her art club leaving Abi and Marcus to clear up. Thankfully, with everyone tiptoeing around in embarrassment after the earlier row, Abi hadn’t made the least fuss.

  Now, sitting on the sofa, Maxine became aware of Anthea staring at her. God, she didn’t want another set-to. She took a large gulp of her wine and then considered following Gordon to the pub. Had she not been quite so tired it would have been an extremely tempting idea. She decided to try and move away from the subject of her husband onto safer ground. ‘Were you watching anything nice?’

  ‘Moving wallpaper,’ was the response. It seemed Anthea was in no mood to discuss her evening’s viewing. ‘And some woman called while you were out.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘No idea. She didn’t stay. It was all very clandestine if you ask me.’

  ‘Really?’

  Maxine would have asked for more details but Anthea spoke again. ‘Look, Maxine, next week the cast comes off my arm and, all being well, my ankle will be given a clean bill of health too, so there is no reason on this earth for me not to move back home.’ She saw Maxine open her mouth but she overrode her, imperiously. ‘No, I don’t care what you have to say; I am an adult, I have all my marbles and I have lived in that house for decades without mishap. What happened was an unfortunate accident and it won’t happen again.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ said Maxine.

  ‘You seem to be implying that I make a habit of falling over. As I rarely drink – unlike some people,’ she stared hard at Maxine’s wine glass, ‘I think the chances of that happening are vanishingly small.’

  Maxine leant forward, picked up her glass and drained what was left. ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I hardly drank at all until recently but given the circumstances of my life right now I think it’s surprising I don’t drink even more than I do. And,’ she added, ‘I really don’t think that how much I drink is anyone’s business but my own. Not yours, not my daughter’s, no one’s.’

  ‘If you say so, Maxine. Although, call me old-fashioned, but do you really want your nearest and dearest to think of you as a drunk?’

  ‘I don’t see you having a go at your son about how much he drinks.’

  ‘He’s a man, it’s different.’

  Maxine was lost for words so she stamped into the kitchen and defiantly refilled her glass.

  ‘Typical,’ said Anthea when she returned.

  ‘Do you know, maybe you’re right. Maybe you should move out before either of us does or says something we both might regret.’

  ‘I think,’ said Anthea coldly, ‘that particular ship has sailed. It’s obvious you’ve had enough of me.’ She held up her hand and added, ‘And don’t argue. I may be old but I’m not stupid.’ She sounded breathless. Maybe the effort of being so vitriolic was tiring her.

  Maxine almost laughed. Arguing about having had enough of her mother-in-law was the last thing she’d been about to do.

  Anthea pulled at the neck of her blouse. ‘If this house wasn’t so hot, I could catch my breath.’

  ‘Are you too warm?’ asked Maxine.

  ‘Aren’t you? Although I’m so tired I probably won’t have trouble sleeping. Where is Pearl? I’m exhausted and I want my bed.’

  ‘She’ll be here in a minute.’

  ‘Good.’ She plucked at her blouse again. ‘The heat,’ she muttered weakly. ‘I can’t breathe.’

  ‘Would you like a cold drink?’

  ‘And risk needing the lav in the night? Absolutely not. And don’t change the subject.’

  Maxine took another slug of her wine. She didn’t think it was she who had changed the subject but Anthea, talking about being hot and tired and breathless. She sighed – as always, everything was her fault. As calmly as possible she said, ‘I’m afraid the issue of whether you go home or not is between you and Gordon. I’m not getting involved.’ Although, what she was actually thinking was, I don’t care how you do it but I wish you’d just go. Get out of our lives. Leave us. I’ve had enough.

  Did Anthea mutter coward?

  She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Nine thirty. Thank God, almost time for Pearl to come round and help put Anthea to bed and high time Gordon was back from the pub. Given the awfulness of Anthea’s earlier accusations and the ghastliness of the row, she’d thought about softening her attitude towards Gordon and moving back into the double bed. She felt they could both do with a sympathetic cuddle. On the other hand, she felt exhausted by the day’s events and, as he’d been down the pub most of the evening, she wasn’t sure she wanted her sleep to be disturbed by his snoring. Maybe tomorrow.

  The pair lapsed into a sullen silence.

  Five minutes later Pearl rang the bell then let herself in almost immediately exuding good humour and energy.

  ‘Evening, ladies. I trust you all had a good day. Come on now, Anthea, my dear, let’s get you up the stairs.’ She must have sensed the atmosphere because her smile and her bonhomie shrivelled.

  ‘Thank you, Pearl for asking but no, it was a simply awful day. And tell my daughter-in-law that I am almost capable of fending for myself again in my own home.’

  Pearl glanced nervously between her charge and Maxine. ‘I think it’s a bit late in the evening for that sort of discussion,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Dear God, another coward,’ said Anthea, loudly enough to be really heard this time.

  ‘A decision like that is way above my pay grade,’ said Pearl, supporting Anthea as she got her out of the armchair. Despite her support, Anthea stumbled. ‘Steady now,’ said Pearl.

  ‘It’s all right. Don’t fuss, I can manage.’

  Pearl shot a look over her head to Maxine who responded with a sympathetic smile. Anthea was being even more difficult than usual.

  ‘But you must have an opinion,’ insisted Anthea. She seemed to be breathing heavily again.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to hear it.’

  Anthea looked deflated. ‘Then I shall have to fight my battles on my own.’ She leaned on Pearl. ‘It’s been a long day and I feel quite tired. Never,’ she panted, ‘have I felt quite so glad to be going to bed.’ She did look tired – exhausted.

  Pearl led Anthea towards the door and the stairs. ‘Let’s not worry about things like that now. Let’s get you washed and sorted and tucked up.’

  The pair left the room. No wonder Anthea felt knackered, Maxine thought, she did too. Maybe it was the weather. On the other hand, it wasn’t that hot. She slumped back in her chair and listened to Anthea and her carer make their ponderous way up the stairs.

  Maxine sipped her wine and tried to work out how they could move Anthea out of their house if returning her to her own home was out of the question – which i
t was – when there was an almighty crash from upstairs followed by a cry of help from Pearl.

  ‘Maxine, Maxine, come quickly, Anthea’s collapsed.’

  Maxine thumped her glass down and shot up the stairs to find Anthea, grey-faced, clutching her head and struggling for breath, lying across the bed. Beside the bed the lamp was lying on the floor, the china base shattered. She was moaning softly.

  ‘It hurts,’ she whimpered. ‘My head hurts.’ And her face was oddly misshapen as though one side had got too close to a candle and had melted.

  ‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ said Maxine, diving across the corridor to the main bedroom to grab the phone by the bed.

  ‘Yes, ambulance,’ she gabbled as the call-handler picked up and asked which service? ‘I think my mother-in-law’s just had a stroke.’

  *

  Judith waited for Ella to be busy serving another customer at the other end of the bar before she made her way to the counter and feigned, she hoped, convincing astonishment at seeing her brother-in-law leaning against it, nursing a half-empty Guinness.

  ‘Gordon! How long have you been here?’ He jumped. Who’s got a guilty conscience? she thought.

  ‘Judith? What on earth…?’

  ‘I know! Surprise! I didn’t see you come in.’ Which was true, although she didn’t tell him she’d been keeping an eye on him from the moment she had clocked him.

  ‘But…? I mean…? Of course,’ he remembered. ‘You moved today, didn’t you?’

  ‘Top of the class, Gordon. And I couldn’t face cooking so I came here.’ She yawned. ‘It’s been a long old day.’

  ‘Yes, it would have been.’ He still looked slightly shifty and uncomfortable.

  ‘And you thought you’d nip out for a sneaky pint while Maxine’s busy with her art club. Yes?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Don’t blame you.’ She smiled at him. ‘I don’t know how you and Maxie are coping now you’ve got half your family living with you. It would drive me demented.’