Love, Lies and Linguine

by Hilary Spiers

  ‘No! I didn’t mean . . . Hetty, it’s not that I don’t want to tell you, simply that I don’t want to set hares running unnecessarily.’

  ‘As I did, you mean.’

  Harriet snaps. ‘Hetty, once and for all, will you stop it! This isn’t you: self-pitying, self-regarding. You got it wrong. Okay! Live with it. Whatever’s happened, it’s over, you hear me? Over.’

  Hester looks at her sister in astonishment; an astonishment that swiftly turns to pique, if not anger. Hasn’t she just apologised? Since when did Harriet get so self-righteous—

  ‘I do hope I’m not interrupting?’

  Hester spins around, intent on sending whoever has had the temerity to interrupt a private conversation packing. What confronts her is Lionel, who has somehow managed to emerge from the terrace’s foliage without either of them noticing. He carries two large glasses of wine. His expression is anxious.

  ‘I thought perhaps . . . a refill?’

  The Ribbleswell girls were well taught by their exacting parents, particularly the major. That there is nothing more reprehensible than the laundering of private matters in public had been drummed into them from infancy. Hester swallows the compulsion to dismiss Lionel peremptorily and send him scurrying back to the hotel; Harriet with effort steadies her breathing, takes a deep breath and manages to conjure a smile. ‘How kind.’

  Lionel’s tense muscles relax a fraction. He had waited in the bar as long as he could bear, but finally his innate curiosity and his genuine concern for Hester had overridden his fears of a rebuff. He so wants Hetty to realise how worried he is about her . . . He hovers hopefully.

  ‘Please . . .’ says Hester, indicating a chair, avoiding Harriet’s gaze.

  Lionel swiftly sits, eyes darting cautiously from sister to sister. A rather uncomfortable silence falls. Lionel shreds a desiccated leaf between his fingers in unwitting echo of Hester’s earlier destruction.

  The two women reach forward simultaneously to sip the fresh wine, which is palatable, if somewhat lacking in body.

  Lionel hurries to explain, covering himself. ‘It was someone’s birthday . . . he stood everyone a glass. Is it—’ he gropes through the new vocabulary Hester has taught him over the past week for the right word; fails ‘—okay?’ Much as he has enjoyed the different wines he has sampled under Hester’s tutelage over the past days, and much as he has learnt about vintages, regions, terroirs, he is at heart and knows he will ever be a beer man, though he is careful to conceal his predilection from Hester lest it adversely colour her opinion of him.

  ‘Hmm,’ says Hester with mild but unmistakable distaste. ‘Perfectly acceptable. If you like this sort of thing. What do you think, Harriet?’ Everyone notes the Harriet. Hester stares challengingly at her sister, who has no option but to continue the banalities.

  ‘Very refreshing. Perhaps a trifle thin, but for an aperitif . . .’ Harriet remembers her manners. ‘Thank you, Lionel. Very thoughtful.’ Not that you had to pay for it, she thinks, instantly chastising herself for her mean-spiritedness. He’s a pleasant chap; if only he weren’t so . . . ubiquitous.

  Silence descends again, this time a deadening pall that repels conversation. The three people around the table nurse their individual grievances: Hester still smarting from Harriet’s censure, Lionel put out by the indifferent response to his gesture, and Harriet irritated by his insensitivity. Can’t he see they don’t want to be interrupted? She wants to clear the air with her sister after the weeks of subterfuge and deceit, to restore the equilibrium that characterised their shared lives until Hester, for reasons still not properly explained, set in train the disastrous events that have brought them to this juncture.

  But Lionel sits on, apparently oblivious. Harriet’s indignation hardens. Can he really be this obtuse? She glances at Hester, but sees from the set of her face and her averted profile that there is no help to be had from that quarter. The thought of sitting over dinner making polite, stilted conversation is more than she can bear. Perhaps she could ask for a tray in her room, pleading a not wholly fictitious fatigue.

  She gets to her feet.

  ‘Oh!’ says Lionel, suddenly animated. ‘Are you going? Don’t say I’ve driven you away!’

  It is with a considerable effort that Harriet presses her palms down hard on the table and contrives a smile. ‘Not at all,’ she manages. ‘I need to . . . avail myself of the facilities.’

  She hears across the table an infinitesimal intake of breath that anyone else might have taken for relief. It is not. It is Hester wordlessly fulminating at her sister’s deliberate use of a phrase that she abhors, a phrase much employed by Peggy Verndale, whose propensity for euphemism is a perennial source of guilty mirth between them.

  ‘See you at dinner!’ calls Lionel after her as she hurries up the steps towards the hotel.

  Two more evenings, Harriet thinks. Just two more evenings until Saturday and he goes home. I can do it.

  FRIDAY

  CHAPTER 28

  ‘Hello?’

  Ben, key halfway to the lock, freezes.

  ‘I say, hello? It’s Bill, isn’t it?’

  Ben turns slowly. Peggy Verndale, face aquiver with curiosity, is peering over the top of the hedge. He sidles swiftly in front of the carrier bag containing two six-packs of lager beside him on the step.

  ‘Ben,’ he says.

  ‘Ben! Of course. Silly me. The Flower Pot Men,’ trills Peggy, to Ben’s utter mystification. ‘Before your time, no doubt. The nephew?’ There is a flurry of movement, some growling, a yippy bark and she disappears from view momentarily. ‘Stop it, Seth! Behave! Gideon, get off him!’ Her face, somewhat redder, reappears. ‘These wretched dogs. Worse than the grandchildren. Are they back then? I thought they said—’

  ‘Monday,’ says Ben quickly, still frozen on the doorstep.

  ‘That’s what I thought. I had to get a couple of the girls to fill in for them on Monday morning, that’s how I know.’

  ‘Fill in?’

  ‘What? Oh, bridge.’ She looks up at the windows. ‘Why are all the curtains drawn?’

  ‘Sun,’ says Ben.

  ‘Sun?’

  ‘Yes. Protect the furniture.’

  ‘The—? Good Lord,’ says Peggy, clearly picturing, like Ben, the dilapidated decor of The Laurels: saggy-bottomed sofas, wonky chairs and tables whose acquaintance with wax or even spray polish, until Daria’s arrival, has been slight. ‘Well . . . I suppose . . .’ Peggy, forthright as ever, cuts to the chase. ‘What are you doing here, then?’ The question sounds to Ben’s guilty ears extremely accusatory.

  ‘I . . . they . . . Aunt Hester . . .’ he scrabbles, ‘asked me to . . . yes, clean out the fridge.’

  ‘Clean out the—?’ Understanding dawns. ‘Of course, you’re the cooking boy, aren’t you?’

  ‘S’pose,’ says Ben, offended.

  ‘Marvellous! Too many young people these days . . . I must say I’m surprised Hester didn’t think to do that before they left. I always clear mine top to bottom before we go away. Mind you . . .’ The image of festering food hangs in the air. ‘Some people are not quite so particular, I suppose.’ Seth or Gideon barks impatiently. ‘All right! Walkies in a minute.’

  Would she never go?

  ‘Don’t let me hold you up.’ Peggy waits. Ben reluctantly inserts the key and turns, trying to slip through the tiniest of gaps and shield the cottage’s interior from view. Peggy, gimlet-eyed, still manages to peer past him. She recoils. ‘Where’s all the furniture? The hall table? That dreadful old chair with the needlepoint seat?’

  Fuck.

  Peggy’s hand is on the gate, the dogs’ heads pushing eagerly through the slats. She reaches for the latch.

  Ben swivels in the doorway. ‘Carpets.’ Genius!

  Peggy has her head down, trying to unlatch the gate. ‘Carpets?’

  ‘Yes! They’ve just been cleaned.’

  ‘Cleaned?’ repeats Peggy, unable to disguise her astonishment. She has finally m
anaged to raise the latch; she hovers at the bottom of the path. ‘What, with a—?’

  ‘Yeah. Daria, like, shampooed them last night. With one of them—you know. We had to move all the stuff into the kitchen. Took us forever, especially the sofa,’ says Ben, the memory of the event still vivid. ‘That is well heavy, I gotta tell you.’

  Peggy, frowning, takes a step forward, the dogs straining on their leashes.

  ‘No! You can’t come in! They’re still a bit damp—the carpets,’ says Ben desperately, swiftly heeling off his Converses. ‘Daria’s coming over this afternoon to hoover them. Long as they’re dry. Then we’ll move everything back, me and Daria. And Artem. Nice and tidy. Clean as a . . .’ He snatches up the carrier, waggles it in her direction. ‘More cleaning things!’ He starts to tiptoe backwards in an exaggerated fashion in his socks towards the kitchen, then realises his error and just as carefully moves back towards the front door, miming as best he can a person squelching across a damp floor. ‘Nice seeing you, Mrs . . . er . . . Bye!’

  He pushes the door shut, sliding down it into a relieved heap on the coir mat, hugging the lager, ears straining for the sound of Peggy’s retreat, the snick of the gate and the diminishing yelps of the dogs as she continues up the lane. Racing into the sitting room, he eases the curtain aside to watch her disappearing around the bend in the lane, his heart jumping painfully. This frigging party had better be worth it, the grief it’s causing him.

  An hour later Ben is reflecting that he is nothing if not his culinary aunt’s nephew (although he vaguely recalls a thoroughly confusing lecture from Aunt Harriet one evening to the effect that neither sister is actually his aunt, nor is he truly their nephew, but WTF) as he magics some cheese scones out of soured milk and a rind of parmesan and then concocts three different flans, one out of frazzled bacon and a handful of sorry-looking mushrooms in a just-the-right-side-of-rancid cream cheese filling, one from eggs and chives, topped with tomatoes, and one—his most ambitious—from the unrotten end of a large courgette mouldering in the vegetable drawer, a tin of shrimps and a thick hollandaise sauce. Eat your heart out, Delia, he thinks happily as the kitchen fills with delicious aromas. He finds half a very stale loaf in the bread bin, soaks it for an hour or so, then revels in mixing a spicy bread pudding rich with dried fruit and bitter marmalade with his bare hands, the mixture slithering in a most satisfactory way through his fingers. Aunt Hester would never miss a few store cupboard ingredients and, anyway, he’s doing her a favour making use of things that would otherwise get binned; he knows how she loathes waste. By the time he’s finished, cleared everything away, popped the scones, quiches and bread pudding in the larder out of sight and disinfected the entire fridge, he’s feeling almost virtuous. If people want to order in pizza, let them, but he’s betting they won’t be able to resist his homemade food.

  The numerous messages he’s received throughout the day from his mates, as well as the lengthy text from his mother reassuring him of their safe arrival, the loveliness of their room, his father’s delight at the leaf-clogged pool, Aunt Lynn’s ecstatic reception of the pineapple tarte tatin (he imagines a sour, grudging smile) and the repetition of the maternal injunction to be sure to have something to eat, get an early night and thank Daria for putting him up and Ralph Pickerlees most especially for his kindness, have almost entirely assuaged any lingering worries about the coming party. He stows the booze out of sight, checks the rooms once more and, light of heart and wallet, jumps on his bike to cycle round to Jez in the hope he will have finally found a way to extricate himself from his duties at the barn dance.

  No such luck. Jez is morosely picking at a limp salad (cooking not featuring among Deirdre Nairstrom’s many talents) that seems to comprise packet ham and rock-hard tomatoes dotted in a landscape of undressed leaves. Ben filches a flabby crust from a white loaf and, unable to locate any butter, liberally smears it with hydrogenated vegetable fat masquerading as a cholesterol-busting miracle spread. It is disgusting.

  ‘Got any jam?’

  ‘Jam?’

  ‘Yeah. Fruit boiled in sugar not the punk rock band.’

  ‘Ha fucking ha.’

  Ben ferrets among the various jars in the cupboard and finally, in the absence of anything vaguely sweet, settles on Marmite. ‘I’m guessing you’re still playing waiters.’

  Jez grunts and turns over a forkful of vegetation.

  ‘Be able to do a runner when it’s finished?’

  ‘What’s the point? Be all over by then.’

  ‘Hope not! Jesus, the thing finishes at eleven. That’s when I’m expecting Daria and Artem back.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Jez mournfully, ‘but then the bastard’ll expect me to collect glasses and wash up and all that shit.’ He stabs a slab of wet ham despondently.

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Bet you.’

  The two boys reflect in silence on the iniquities of parents. ‘Least you got rid of yours,’ says Jez eventually. ‘Least you get a couple of nights off.’

  ‘What’s that, darling?’ says his mother, sashaying in silently on cork-soled mules, wearing a diaphanous kaftan; Deirdre Nairstrom possesses a spooky knack of appearing without warning as though borne, witch-like, on the wind.

  The boys hurriedly review their conversation for anything incriminating: neither knows how long she’s been in the vicinity, but they do know she can sniff out a conspiracy as unerringly as a police dog.

  ‘Who’s got a couple of nights off? Ben?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Ben, immediately on his guard. ‘My folks are away for the weekend.’

  ‘They surely haven’t left you all by yourself? You poor lamb, you must stay here—we’ve plenty of room. Come to think of it, you could give Jeremy a hand this evening at the do. I’m sure he’d enjoy the company. It’d be fun, wouldn’t it, Jeremy?’

  Jez stares at his mother, dumbstruck, fork and its meat cargo aloft.

  ‘Thanks all the same, Mrs N,’ gabbles Ben, ‘but I’m babysitting tonight and staying over.’

  ‘Babysitting! You hear that, Jeremy? Glad to hear someone has the nous to earn some pocket money rather than sponging off their parents. Perhaps tomorrow night, Ben?’

  ‘I’m staying over then too.’ Could it get any worse? First the Verndale nightmare and now ball-breaker Mrs N on his case. He makes his excuses and flees, the Marmite and pappy bread like ashes in his mouth.

  CHAPTER 29

  ‘She’s avoiding me.’

  Lionel glances up at the dining room clock—ten to nine—then girds his loins. ‘We ought to be getting across, Hetty. He warned us not to be late.’

  Hester sniffs. ‘As we’re paying for the privilege of cooking the wretched meal this evening, I hardly think he’s in any position to order us about.’

  Lionel, who feels Franco has done little else but order them about all week, keeps his counsel. He’s learnt very quickly to keep his head down when Hester is verging on the splenetic. Yesterday’s uneasy truce between the sisters doesn’t seem to be holding very well. Harriet had pleaded fatigue immediately after a dinner of awkward pauses and forced conversation and retired to her room, taking with her, he noted, a generously replenished glass of the very good Lacrima di Morro d’Alba that he had ordered (on the sisters’ advice) in an attempt to smooth the pair’s still clearly very ruffled plumage. It had had little effect except to add a hefty sum to his hitherto modest bar bill. He is in truth torn: much as he wants to support Hetty, and prickly as Harriet can sometimes be, he can’t help feeling that she has been done a grave injustice by her sister and that a little more, well, humility on Hetty’s part might not go amiss. Wisely, he does not articulate this, judging by the set of his companion’s features that, as far as she is concerned, yesterday’s fractious confrontation in the garden is behind her and resolved, and she is in no mood for contrition today.

  ‘I said I was sorry!’ she says for the third time.

  The clock now reads eight fifty-three. Lionel makes a decision and r
ises. ‘I’m just going to—’

  ‘Please don’t!’ barks Hester.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Lionel, conscious of several heads swivelling in their direction, reddens.

  ‘Don’t,’ says Hester, in a slightly lower but nevertheless still penetrating voice, ‘say you are going to see a man about a dog, use the facilities or other such nonsense. If you mean lavatory, then just say it, for heaven’s sake!’

  Someone sniggers on the far side of the room. Lionel, beet-red, gathers his tattered dignity and, leaning across the table, says quietly, ‘I was going to say, clean my teeth,’ then weaves his way swiftly through the tables towards his room.

  Hester, mortified, watches his retreating figure for a second or two then grabs her bag and hurries out of the garden door in the direction of the outbuildings. Were a hairshirt to hand, she would don it in an instant. That she has merely been condemned to a day of pudding-making seems poor penance for her seemingly ungovernable ill humour.

  Harriet wakes late. That is, she rises late, having lain for hours as dawn strengthens into day, reviewing recent events, longing to be at home, in her own bed, the familiar creaks and groans of The Laurels about her. After last night’s disagreeable meal, she simply cannot face Hester and Lionel across the damask this morning. I am such a coward, she thinks, watching the hands of her alarm clock inch round to nine thirty, by which time she is confident that Hester and her shadow will be busy on their course. Sunlight courses through the window as she folds back the shutters; despite herself she feels her spirits lift as she raises her face to its warmth. She is just trying to find her phone to ring Daria when a text arrives with a picture: Milo standing triumphantly, hanging on to a stool, nappy sagging.

  ‘Hello!’ yells Daria seconds later. ‘You got picture? Little soneyka, he is on his feet! I am washing the clothes, I turn round and he is standing. I say, clever boy, we must show the babulki, they will be so proud. You are having good time? Hester is loving the cooking? Yes, of course! Oh! No, no, Milo, not that! Sorry, Harriet, I must go—he is trying to open—oh! Nyagodnik, no! See you soon. Bye!’