‘Is it true?’ breathed Maudie, shutting her eyes and clasping her hands as if in prayer.
Imo was their absolute idol. They stalked her constantly on Instagram, and made no secret of their adoration. In fact, there’d been a little scene at the funeral as they’d fought to sit next to her. Luckily Imo had two sides, and Dad had changed places with Maudie with a grin.
I got up and handed them a black plastic sack from under the piano. ‘Here you go. Feast on that. Bags, belts, all sorts.’
‘Oh – and hats!’ Maudie exclaimed, nearly disappearing inside it. ‘And proper Levis! Jewels! Dresses – boho dresses – oh deep joy! No, Tessy, I saw that first – no!’
‘I’ll take that,’ said Helena, wrestling the bag from their hands. There was an unseemly tussle. ‘To be sorted out at home,’ she declared, but she looked flustered and I knew she’d struggle with that.
‘Maybe take it in turns to choose?’ I suggested.
‘Oh, good plan,’ agreed Helena, casting me a grateful look. This, the woman who brokered multi-million-pound contracts for a living.
‘I’ll pick first,’ Tess said firmly. ‘I’m the eldest.’
‘No – why should three and a half minutes make any—’
‘Toss for it,’ I interrupted, reaching for my handbag on the floor. I found a coin and threw it in the air, caught it, and asked Maudie to choose. She chose correctly. ‘Right. Maudie goes first.’
For a moment, everyone was silenced. I had a feeling such closure was unusual in this household. Helena seized a rare advantage.
‘Come on, girls,’ she commanded. ‘We’re off. Leave Lucy in peace.’ They got to their feet, grudgingly. Helena kissed me goodbye. ‘Bye, Luce. And give my love to Mum and Dad. Good luck with that, by the way,’ she said grimly. She hesitated and seemed about to say more, but then made her way to the front door.
‘Just until you’re better, she means,’ Maudie whispered to me, when her mother was out of earshot. ‘Co-defendants often need company, Ned says.’
‘No, he said co-dependan—’
‘Girls!’ their mother shrieked, exasperated, from the hall. ‘Come on! You’ve got homework to do!’ She reappeared, brandishing the bin bag, like bait.
‘And good luck with Daniel,’ Tess told me, as Helena disappeared again. ‘We’ve heard about him.’
‘Except we’ve already looked him up on Facebook, and oh Luce – no hair!’
‘Or not much,’ agreed Tess.
‘And if he’s a friend of Helena and Ant …’ Two pairs of sparkling hazel eyes widened meaningfully at me in pert, pretty faces. ‘Well,’ they finished sadly.
But I wasn’t really listening. I was thinking about what Maudie had said – co … what?
Their mother was calling them now from the car, gesturing madly. Getting quite pink. The girls kissed my cheeks.
‘Give her our love,’ Maudie insisted urgently. ‘Imo, I mean.’
‘And tell her we dream of New York – always!’
I smiled as they ran to the door. Imo had kindly hosted a half-term treat in New York last year, meeting them at JFK, taking them shopping, out to restaurants. They’d stayed at her apartment in downtown Manhattan. They’d never quite got over it. But my mind wasn’t on that, either. I walked slowly back to the sitting room. What was it Maudie had said? Co-something or other? I reached for my phone to google it – or take a stab at it anyway – when I saw a message. By mistake, I opened it. It was from Amanda. I prepared to recoil from her insults, but this was different.
‘I am so sorry. I am such a cow. Always bothering you, please forgive me. You’re the only true friend I’ve got. Tell me I’m forgiven and I promise I won’t bother you again.’
I tapped back. ‘Of course I forgive you, Amanda.’
She was back in an instant.
‘It’s been such a long dark tunnel and sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever come through it. But it’s not fair that you’ve been the butt of all my sorrow.’
‘It’s fine, I promise.’
‘Thanks hon. I really appreciate you understanding. You see, ever since he died …’
And then she was off. On and on she went. And on and on I answered, because, I reasoned, she wasn’t being mean now, and I was just so relieved she wasn’t insulting me.
Half an hour later, when I’d finally got rid of her and agreed to meet at some point – nothing definite, you understand, some undefined date in the future – I went down to the kitchen to make some pasta for supper. I felt a bit better. A lot better, actually. I didn’t like any unresolved aggravation with Amanda. It left me feeling anxious. As the water boiled, and I got a jar of pesto from the fridge, I tried again to recall what Maudie had said. Then I remembered. I googled it. Stared. Oh, what nonsense. I tossed my phone on the side and busied myself draining the spaghetti in the sink: a great waft of steam rose up, clouding my vision.
10
When I arrived at my parents’ house a few days later, it was not without a degree of trepidation. My breezy assurances to the rest of my family that nothing could be simpler than moving in and looking after my aged parents, transplanting my life to theirs and adapting to country living, was beginning to echo rather hollowly in my ears. Let’s just say the magnitude of what I’d done had started to dawn. As I crunched up the gravel, which boasted quite a few potholes, through the rather gloomy avenue of rhododendron bushes towards what was to be my new home, I gazed around with a critical eye, as if seeing it for the first time. The post and rails fence to the paddock beyond was broken, but then that often happened after a windy winter. The garden was overgrown, but then it had never been neat: always a rather confused and eclectic collection of low maintenance shrubs, my parents claiming to be either too busy or not terribly interested, so plus ça change there. I came to a halt some distance from the door and turned off the engine. I sat for a moment, thoughtful.
Saying goodbye to my old home had not been a problem. Pretty Fulham house though it was, I felt no sentimentality about it, and as I’d handed Josh two sets of keys I’d told him as much. I’d even given him a bright smile and said I hoped he’d be very happy there, even though I hadn’t been. He’d frowned.
‘You weren’t happy here?’
This happens to me quite a lot, recently. I think things, and then they just sail out of my mouth, unfiltered. Maybe it’s because I spend a lot of time alone and converse mainly with myself.
‘Well, only because of personal circumstances. The house itself I adored, and my garden is a triumph. I hope you’ll keep it going. Are you a gardener?’ I asked, seamlessly changing the subject.
‘Not at all,’ he said slowly, his eyes on me, thoughtful. He came to. ‘Although I suppose I could water things, if that’s what you mean?’
We were in the kitchen at the time, and he looked doubtfully out through the open French windows to the riot of tasteful late spring blossoms, mostly blue and white, bursting forth from every conceivable square inch of bed amongst a backdrop of elegant foliage. I sensed this was a man who didn’t stray outside at all ordinarily, unless to go to a library. His bookish countenance – books were practically all that he’d arrived with, in huge packing cases – and the fact that I’d discovered he was a lecturer at King’s College, plus the look of horror that came over his face as I handed him a pair of secateurs from the kitchen drawer, did nothing to dispel this.
‘Yes, watering would be great. But maybe deadhead too?’ I suggested gently.
‘Which is what, exactly?’ He looked nervous.
‘Just … snipping off … the dead heads,’ I said, hopefully not too patronizingly. Golly, a professor should surely have worked that out. ‘But not if it’s too much trouble,’ I added quickly. ‘Just a bit of watering would be perfect.’
In my mind’s eye I saw all my carefully tended exotics, my lovelies, my Madame Grégoires, my Albertines, my Constance Sprys, wilting and dead within weeks. But so what, I reasoned. I’d have another garden, a much bigger one, at my
parents’. And there was only so much I could ask of a tenant.
‘Right,’ Josh had said shortly. ‘I’ll do my best. What do I do with the heads?’
‘Well, you either gather them in an attractive distressed trug in the manner of an Edwardian lady pretending you’re in rural Gloucestershire, as I do, or you let them fall in a mess on the ground.’
‘The latter,’ he said, looking at me with curiosity. ‘Do you always live in a world of make-believe?’
‘I used to,’ I said, thinking this was rather a personal question, but on the other hand I hadn’t half invited it. ‘But not any more. Now. Dishwasher, washing machine, heating, I’ve told you about. I think the boiler is self-explanatory. Is there anything else?’
‘Don’t think so.’ He stuck his hands in his overgrown coat pockets and looked around warily. It struck me he looked a bit lost, all of a sudden. I thought of his family back in France.
‘Where have you been living up until now?’ I asked kindly.
‘Oh, with a colleague and his wife. They had a spare room so I’ve been there for a couple of months. It was rather nice, actually. Kensington.’
He looked at me, slightly competitively, I felt.
‘Oh, right. Well, I’m sorry you’re slumming it down in Sands End, but I’m sure you’ll struggle on. Now, I’ve left you with milk and bread, and the tea and coffee jars are full. Also the sugar.’
He nodded and moved towards the study as I muttered, ‘No no, my pleasure,’ to myself. He opened the door. Aside from getting Molly Maids in to clean it assiduously once I’d got the go-ahead from the police, the door was always firmly shut.
‘You worked in here?’ he asked, peering in.
‘I used to,’ I said shortly. ‘OK, I’m off. Good luck.’
‘You too.’ He shut the door and looked at me curiously. It struck me it was the first pleasant thing he’d said: a recognition of the fact that there were two of us embarking on new chapters in our lives here. But there was no way I was going to prolong the conversation and say something whimsical like that, so I just nodded and made my way out to my car.
The car itself was crammed to bursting with cases, bags, dresses, coats on hangers and bulging bin liners. Behind it was a trailer that Ant had borrowed for me, courtesy of some TV set he’d been working on. That, too, was full, the roof forced on with some effort. But an awful lot of stuff had gone to Oxfam. Not Nefertiti, or Diana, I loved them too much, but a fair amount of blue and white china, masses of clothes and books, and generally a great deal of clutter, because, as so many people told me, I didn’t need it in my life any more.
Apparently I didn’t need to hang around for legal reasons, either. The police had finally called, to apologize for their lack of progress, and when I’d explained I was decamping to the country they’d been understanding. They had asked for my parents’ address, though, in case they needed to get in touch with me again.
So now here I was, sitting in my parents’ front garden, gazing up at the brick and flint farmhouse minus the farm – that had gone long ago, before their time – in what might be described as leafy stockbroker belt, or the semi-rural, commutable Home Counties. To the left of the drive, hidden in the dark shrubbery, was the cottage. Dad had apparently got a local builder in to tart it up in readiness for me, which Helena and the children were pleased about, since it would give me some independence. I believe Helena had had no small part in initiating that, and of course I was equally pleased. No way did I want to live with Mum and Dad. I was dying to see it, but hadn’t been allowed down because Dad had wanted it to be a surprise. I realized now that I could hardly see it at all. When I was young, it had been in full view of the house, an ugly pebbledash eyesore, but over the years the shrubbery had sprung up, and all I could make out now were the gables, green and wooden and in need of some paint. That was a relief. Not that my parents were remotely nosy, quite the opposite. They were far too caught up in their own lives. But it would be refreshing to have a degree of privacy.
As I got out, my father, no doubt having heard the car, flung wide the front door, wine glass in hand.
‘Darling!’
I grinned. Anyone would think I was arriving for a party, not to care for my decrepit parents. Tall, slim, only slightly stooped as he rested on his stick, and still with a reasonable amount of silver hair swept back off a high forehead, my father looked every inch the genial host he always was. Despite the freshly laundered shirt, some strange grey tracksuit bottoms and, of course, the brown Velcro shoes from the back of the Telegraph gave him away. The shoes I was used to, the trousers I wasn’t.
‘Sorry about the horribly naff kecks,’ he said, giving me a kiss and seeing me glance. ‘It’s all I can wear with the wretched legs. And my feet are webbed now, as you know. It’s only a matter of time before I embrace galoshes.’
I grinned. ‘You look great, Dad. How’s Mum?’
‘Oh, in fine fettle, generally, but in a fearful fuss today. She’s burnt the lunch and the kitchen looks like a crematorium. But luckily, it’s only the Frobishers coming. Jeannie’s almost blind and Dickie’s taste buds are so jaded he laces his cornflakes with Tabasco, so it couldn’t matter less.’ We went inside. ‘Ah, here she is. A vision of loveliness, albeit in smoke grey.’
My mother appeared in the hall like an apparition from Hades. Dressed for Ascot, minus a hat, her face, silk dress and hair were blackened with soot.
‘Would you know I’ve had a drama?’ she asked anxiously, coming to kiss me.
‘Not remotely,’ I assured her, removing her glasses, which were filthy. ‘But you might do better by cleaning these.’ I wiped them for her. ‘Mum, they’re sunglasses.’
‘Yes, because everything is just so bright these days, isn’t it?’
‘Well, not inside, surely. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. I hear the Frobishers are coming?’
‘Yes, it should have been the Pattersons as well, but Reggie’s got a gippy tummy so they’re coming tomorrow instead, with the De Courcys. Better change this frock.’
‘Right. Do you have guests every day?’
‘No, no, just a bit of a flurry at the moment. We’ve been rather lax at entertaining. And only at lunchtime.’
‘Although we go out a fair bit,’ reflected my father. ‘But not on a Wednesday. As you know, your mother takes to her bed.’
‘I’m not surprised. I’d be on my knees. Can you cope?’ I called after her as she mounted the stairs to change.
‘Of course I can cope. I’ve coped for eighty-four years. We’re not entirely past it, you know!’
And off she went. I made my way through the sitting room and beyond to the blackened kitchen: surveyed it in dismay.
‘Why aren’t you using the Aga?’ I asked, blinking in surprise at some new, tiny electric appliance in the corner, the door hanging open.
‘Your mother’s taken against it. Says it’s too hot in the summer. Plus, it’s been on the blink a bit, recently.’
I laid my hand on it. ‘Well, it’s gone out, Dad. It’s stone cold.’
‘That’s it!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Hence the new one.’
‘Not just a case of re-lighting it?’
‘Lord, no. Nothing as simple as that.’
I made a mental note to ring the Aga man in the morning and glanced in the new oven at some black blobs on a blackened baking tray. ‘What are these?’
‘Stuffed tomatoes.’ He grinned. ‘Thoroughly stuffed, actually. Drink, darling?’
‘Um, in a mo.’ I was peering in the fridge. ‘So … what’s the main course?’
‘I believe it was a large pork pie from Waitrose with all the filling removed, re-stuffed with pigeon, tomatoes, green peppers and anchovies.’
‘And where is that?’ I glanced around, my mother’s eclectic meal plan coming as no surprise.
‘In the bin.’
‘Burnt?’
‘Tiny bit. We haven’t quite got the hang of the cooker.’
‘So what
’s on the menu now?’
‘Oh, the usual default position,’ he said brightly. ‘Surf ‘n’ Turf.’
‘Fish fingers wrapped in bacon?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Shall I rustle it up?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’ He turned. My mother had reappeared, still quite dishevelled, but in a clean floral dress. ‘Darling, you look lovely! Give us a twirl.’
Mum obliged girlishly and then dropped a shaky curtsey as Dad roared his approval. Helena and I often observed that our parents were like a couple of Italians: either at each other’s throats – well, mostly Mum at Dad’s – or deeply in love and happy. It seemed I’d happened upon the latter today, which was a blessing. When it transpired they’d been to the races a few days ago, with old friends the Gordons, and that Harold and Dad had both won a packet on the last race, which they’d celebrated with lashings of champagne, I realized why. Spirits were still high.
The Frobishers arrived madly early as old people do, so there was no time to look at the cottage or even get a suitcase out of the car. Their car purred up the drive just as I was sourcing some tinned sweetcorn, there being literally nothing else. I put some plates in a low oven and went through. Jeannie, my godmother, who I adored, a dirty diamond pinned haphazardly to her vast bosom, and Dickie, her suave, still elegant husband, with a slight limp from a polo fall, were delighted, if amazed to see me.
‘But darling – what will you do down here?’ Jeannie reached to take both my hands in hers, always tactile. ‘You’ll go mad with boredom. It’s just a short break, I take it?’
‘Er, well, no. Actually, I’m sort of here to look after them.’
She blinked. Looked astonished. ‘Them? Oh no, darling. They don’t need that.’ She laughed. ‘The very idea!’
My mother, as if on cue, sailed in with the fish fingers on a platter, followed by my father with a bowl of sweetcorn. We all filtered through to the dining room, which was freezing as usual. Aside from that, however, it was a convivial meal. I noticed Jeannie had to be gently guided to her chair by Dickie and then tapped away to find her knife and fork, and that Dickie shut his eyes for five minutes after the main course. Also that my mother ate very little but commandeered a bottle of white wine which she drank steadily, whilst Dad ate and drank heartily but remained entirely compos mentis, if extremely voluble, throughout. But other than that, it was unremarkable. And to be honest, if I hadn’t been looking for those things I might not have noticed them. It was only when Jeannie knocked her glass over and Dad went to the kitchen for a cloth that I noticed he had gloves on when he returned.
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