In a Country Garden

by Maeve Haran

  ‘Has good rating on Trip Advisor,’ Mr A insisted.

  ‘That’s excellent then,’ Laura replied hopefully and went to sticker the past-their-sell-by-date sandwiches. She could already see one of their regulars, a colourful old man in dungarees and a beret with a Salvador Dali moustache, who seemed to entirely subsist on LateExpress price-slashed chicken wraps.

  ‘So what is it that makes Mrs A’s mother famous?’ she enquired in a low voice when she took over the till from the proprietor.

  ‘She is a matchmaker,’ he announced reverently. ‘She wants to come here to expand her sphere of influence to all sad singles in UK who have no culture or religion.’

  ‘Goodness!’ Laura commented, taken aback. ‘She must be very dynamic.’

  ‘She is tornado,’ sighed Mr A.

  ‘And how should I address this tornado if I meet her?’ Laura asked, fascinated. ‘Or should I just curtsey?’

  ‘Her name is Mrs Lal. She does not think the name is distinguished enough and never forgave Mr Lal for possessing it.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Does she have a Christian name?’ Laura suddenly laughed at the thought of the word ‘Christian’ applying to the culture of India. ‘Sorry, that’s probably totally inappropriate.’

  ‘Her name is Lalita which means playful or charming.’ He smiled secretly to himself, but whether this was because his mother-in-law was or wasn’t playful or charming, Laura couldn’t tell.

  ‘I’m really looking forward to meeting her.’

  ‘Mrs Minchin.’ Mr A bowed. ‘It is sometimes better to travel hopefully than to arrive.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Laura noticed his newly despondent spouse bearing down upon them, and wondered how long the peace and sanctuary she’d enjoyed so much at the little supermarket were likely to last.

  Sal sat at her desk pondering two things. Whether to ask Ella to come with her to her scan and if she wanted to tell Claudia about her imminent visit to Surrey. This might seem stupid to an outsider – of course she should – but Claudia might well take it as encouragement for this crazy scheme of hers about them all living together.

  The first problem was solved because Ella rang her, full of ideas for her new column. After she’d listened, impressed at Ella’s boundless energy and enthusiasm, she broached the question.

  ‘That sounds terrific. Now I’ve got a favour to ask. You gave me a bollocking because I wanted to face this fucking cancer alone. Well, honeybun, now I’m giving you a chance to dip into cancerworld. Aren’t you the lucky girl?’

  ‘Sal.’ Ella tried to follow the logic of this outburst. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’ve got my follow-up scan tomorrow. I’d planned to go alone but then I thought maybe I’d give you the pleasure of accompanying me.’

  Under the flip tone that had so irritated her daughter Lara, Ella could detect a hidden seam of fear and panic.

  ‘I’d be delighted. Where and what time?’ Ella’s usual brisk tone was more comforting than Sal could ever tell her.

  ‘Four o’clock tomorrow at the Princess Mary Hospital.’

  ‘Shall I see you there? I assume, knowing you, you’ll be pretending it’s a lunch engagement instead of a breast cancer follow-up.’

  ‘Am I that transparent?’

  ‘Sal, remember how long I’ve known you.’

  ‘Right,’ Sal replied, feeling stung. ‘Maybe I’ll tell Rose.’

  ‘I think that’s an excellent idea, then we can go and celebrate afterwards if it’s good news.’

  There was a pause on Sal’s end of the line. ‘Or commiserate if it isn’t.’

  ‘Come on. Positive thinking! Remember those cancer blogs.’

  Sal couldn’t help laughing. ‘I know. Such a hoot. I mean, I bet you’re really jealous of me that you haven’t had breast cancer.’

  ‘Now, now. It doesn’t mean I haven’t got anything else.’

  Sal put the phone down and mulled over Ella’s strange remark. Surely Ella wasn’t keeping some dark health secret from them all? It just wasn’t her style.

  She moved on to the second task on her list.

  ‘Hello, Claudia,’ she greeted her other old friend. ‘Bit of a surprise for you. I’m coming down to Surrey this weekend. Staying in a hotel called Igden Manor. Have you ever heard of it? You know me and the country, so I bloody well hope it’s good.’

  Six

  ‘Did you say Igden Manor?’ Claudia squeaked.

  ‘Yes, why, do you know it?’

  ‘Why on earth are you of all people coming to stay at Igden Manor?’

  Sal toyed with the idea of trying to keep Claudia off the scent and plead a conference about the role of social media in women’s magazines and decided she’d see through it in a millisecond.

  ‘Yes. Well. I might as well make a clean breast of it.’ The unfortunate choice of words made her go off in fits of laughter.

  ‘Come on, Sal, be serious. Why the hell are you coming down here and to Igden of all places?’

  ‘My new American friend suggested it. His daughter lives near, one of his many children, you understand, and she’s just had a baby and apparently thought Lou would prefer to stay in the kind of hotel you get in Agatha Christie rather than with her. And he invited me.’

  So many questions occurred to Claudia that she didn’t know which to ask first.

  She started with the most pressing. ‘And you said yes! Sal, that’s amazing. He must like you a lot to ask you for a weekend when you’ve only just met. But how long’s he planning on staying? Igden Manor isn’t going to be open for much longer.’

  ‘What? Why on earth? I wonder why Lou’s daughter booked it then. The bailiffs’ll probably arrive while we’re in the middle of dinner!’

  ‘I don’t think it’s common knowledge yet. My mother wormed it out of the receptionist. But, Sal, the really crazy thing is Igden Manor is the place I imagined us all living! It’s absolutely perfect. The main building is beautiful but it isn’t really old, it’s just a copy, so you can do what you want with it. And the almshouses all round it have already been converted into cottage suites.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Even Sal was lost for words. ‘You mean I have voluntarily booked myself into your daft anti-retirement community!’

  ‘Hardly. It’s a four-star hotel at the moment. But it could be with a little adapting. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am.’ Claudia’s voice was breathy with excitement. ‘In fact, I’ll pop over and show you round while you’re there. And anyway, why don’t you come over to us for Sunday lunch?’

  Oh Christ. Sal began to feel panicked. Could she back out, having already accepted Lou’s invitation? Make some excuse about her health after the check-up?

  ‘I’m not sure . . .’ she began.

  ‘Sal! Stop it,’ Claudia insisted. ‘I won’t come over if it’s a problem and you don’t have to come to lunch. Just enjoy yourself with lovely Lou.’

  Sal took a deep breath even though she hated sodding mindfulness. Why was she getting so het up? She wasn’t ready for retirement and anyway, she hadn’t got any money to buy into Claudia’s mad scheme. Besides, she was as urban as brunch in Borough Market.

  ‘Okay, thanks, Claudia. I’ll talk it over with him. He’s really going down there to see his new grandson.’

  ‘Of course. How selfish of me. Have fun. Igden Manor is absolutely beautiful. Don’t forget to pack your swimsuit. There’s a lovely little outdoor pool with sunbeds where you can stretch out if the sun comes out.’

  ‘Thanks, Clo.’ Sal began to relax. ‘That sounds right up my alley.’

  Laura had hardly got in her front door when the phone went. She ran to it, hoping it might be Calum.

  It was the smarmy estate agent. ‘Good news, Mrs Minchin.’ Was that a touch of malice she could detect in his tone? ‘We’ve had an offer. For the full asking price.’

  Despite the lecture she’d been giving herself that she wanted to move on, Laura’s heart plummeted. ‘Excellent.’ She didn’t e
ven want to think which couple had made the offer. ‘They’ll want to do a survey.’

  ‘Exactly. Would next Tuesday at 10 a.m. be agreeable?’

  She was actually working then and almost said no it wasn’t, but she knew Mr A would be more than willing to let her change her shift. ‘Absolutely. Do I have to be here?’

  ‘It helps in case there are any questions.’ His tone was veering towards the suspicious.

  ‘Fine.’ She put the phone down. She’d had enough of this Stu and his hopes of three sales. She certainly wasn’t going to buy a place from him herself.

  Laura found herself wandering round the house, the hub of her world for so long, the home she’d treasured and loved and polished and had thought to be a place of safety.

  So much for that. She paused at the octagonal table she’d bought in an auction and been delighted with. It was covered with framed photographs. She picked them up one by one. Her wedding to Simon. Bella as a baby – even then Bella had a special quality. A family holiday in Puglia standing in front of one of those funny little houses with cone-shaped roofs like medieval helmets. Their third anniversary when Simon had treated them to a minibreak in Wells-next-the-Sea. The birth of baby Sam.

  Without warning she found herself dissolving into tears. Had it all been the most monumental mistake? If she’d chosen someone other than Simon, would she be standing here happy and looking forward to the years ahead?

  A sound behind her made her turn.

  It was her son Sam.

  ‘Come on, Mum,’ he said gently. ‘I know what you’re thinking and the answer’s no, it wasn’t a waste. There wouldn’t have been me or Bella for a start. You just have to remember the good times. Accentuate the positive, as the Americans say.’

  Laura smiled mistily through her tears. ‘I bet my mascara’s run.’

  ‘Yep. Black tramlines down both cheeks. And remember this. Neither me nor Bella is talking to him. The woman he ran off with has gone back to her mum. I imagine his colleagues at work take quite a dim view of his behaviour. Frankly, I wouldn’t want to be Dad.’ He grinned, his long fair hair falling over his face. ‘We’ll be okay. All of us. It’s not as if we’re kids.’

  Laura smiled, bowled over by the maturity of her son’s response. She obviously needed to grow up too.

  ‘Come on, what you need is a nice glass of wine, a takeaway pizza – the posh kind – and something on the telly that reminds you of the essential goodness of mankind. How about some Freddy Krueger?’

  ‘A nightmare figure who never dies? Sounds perfect.’

  ‘Come on, we’ll watch it together. Give me your credit card and I’ll order the pizza.’

  Laura sat down on the sofa. She had a vague feeling she was the one who ought to be doing the comforting, but what the hell? Sam seemed to be doing a pretty brilliant job on his own.

  Sal waited for Ella on the steps of the Princess Mary Hospital, watching with fascination the row of patients in wheelchairs still puffing away at their fags. Still, who was she to disapprove? She’d hardly led a healthy life herself. No fags – she’d given them up before she was thirty – but plenty of booze. Stop that, she told herself. She loathed the guilt police who made people blame themselves for their cancer.

  As she glanced round for Ella, Sal realized how nervous she was feeling. On the surface she’d been all ballsy insouciance, especially at work, but underneath it all she was terrified. And this was what it would always be like. You were never ‘cured’, just hopeful your cancer wouldn’t ever come back.

  ‘Sal.’ Ella arrived at a brisk run. ‘So sorry. I was looking at flats for Laura on the internet and forgot the time. We’re not late, are we?’

  Sal shook her head. She led the way to Surgical Outpatients. ‘Might be a bit of a wait. Have you got something to read?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I can go back to browsing flats.’

  ‘On your phone? Aren’t they too small?’ Sal, despite her job in magazines, wasn’t really part of the generation that did everything on their phones.

  ‘Do you want a coffee or anything?’ Ella asked. ‘Or aren’t you allowed to eat?’

  ‘I’m not having an operation,’ Sal laughed, glad to release her tension. ‘Just a check-up.’

  As it turned out, Sal needed to have a mammogram on her remaining breast. Ella tried to distract her by laughing at the cubicle they went into which led from the waiting room via a tiny changing area straight into radiology. ‘Just like a priest hole. The Elizabethans would have been really impressed.’

  And then another wait before they were summoned by the surgeon.

  ‘Good morning, Ms Grainger, and how are we today?’ Sal contemplated the plump shirt-sleeve-clad consultant, brimming with confidence and bonhomie, and wondered where they found these guys. They seemed to be born to be consultants, probably wearing pin-striped Babygros and handing out diagnoses to all the other babies.

  ‘Fine, thank you. This is my friend Ella Thompson. She’s a lawyer so watch out.’

  The consultant smiled a little less jovially. ‘Your mammogram is clear, which is excellent. Time to talk about reconstruction, I think. Have you given it any thought?’

  Only a man could ask such a stupid question. As a matter of fact, she’d spent days browsing all the different takes on the question.

  ‘In the end it really comes down to two real choices, rather like vanilla or chocolate ice cream. Either an implant or a flap when we take tissue from somewhere else in your body.’

  Ella and Sal exchanged glances at his extraordinary choice of wording.

  ‘Or doing nothing at all,’ corrected Sal. ‘I see some surveys say over forty per cent of women opt for that.’

  ‘Going flat?’

  ‘You make it sound like a puncture,’ Sal pronounced acidly.

  ‘Ha ha. Very good.’

  ‘So, if I were going for reconstruction, which do you recommend?’

  ‘They both have advantages and disadvantages.’

  ‘Just like life,’ sighed Sal.

  ‘Implants are more straightforward but we find the flap can give less trouble in the long run.’

  ‘And where would you take the tissue from?’

  ‘That depends. Your belly?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Or possibly your back or thigh.’

  ‘What about my nipple? Will I get that back? I was rather fond of my nipple.’ Suddenly Sal thought of Lou Maynard and a tsunami of sadness welled over her that she should be feeling this for a man when she was so maimed.

  Your timing never was very good, she reminded herself.

  ‘I think I’ll pass on the reconstruction and stick with being an Amazon. They were strong women who didn’t take any shit from anyone.’

  The surgeon suddenly smiled. ‘Ms Grainger, I think if anyone can carry it proudly, you can.’

  She felt Ella’s hand reaching out for hers as they got up to leave.

  ‘And don’t sue me,’ he announced with a grin as they were about to go out the door. ‘That last was purely a personal view by the way. And anyway, you can change your mind any time. There’s no statute of limitations on breast reconstruction.’

  ‘What do you think, Ella?’ Sal asked as they made their way towards the lifts.

  ‘You mean what would I do in your position?’ Ella grinned. ‘The proper answer is that only you can know, but what the hell, I’d probably go for the full Dolly Parton. I’ve always hated having small boobs. I’d opt for new ones. Possibly double D.’

  ‘Mine are so flat you’d hardly notice the difference. Fried eggs on a plate. I think I’ll stick with the one. Sunny side up.’

  ‘Sal.’ Ella hugged her, ignoring the glances from the harassed-looking medical staff all round them. ‘You’re a wonderful woman and I love you.’

  Sal had to rush off to a meeting and Ella, who’d assumed Sal would need her for the whole day, suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to drop in on her friends at the allotment who would be busy planting, d
igging or simply admiring their handiwork before she went home.

  She was right. Bill, Stevie and Les were there, sat in a row having a cup of tea looking like the three wise monkeys. They were all retired and spent most of their lives here.

  ‘Ella,’ they chorused, jumping up, ‘come and join us for a cuppa!’

  She breathed in the river air which seemed surprisingly fresh. Not at all the ‘thrilling-sweet and rotten’ river smell of Rupert Brooke’s famous poem.

  ‘So you can’t keep away from us,’ teased Stevie.

  ‘Something like that,’ Ella agreed. ‘Actually, I’ve just been on a follow-up appointment with my friend who’s been ill and hospitals depress the hell out of me. I needed cheering up so what better than visiting you lot?’

  ‘What indeed?’ echoed Les.

  ‘Go on, Les,’ commanded Bill, the unacknowledged leader of the pack, ‘get the kettle on. And none of your gnat’s piss for the lady. She needs a good strong reviving cuppa.’

  ‘That would be perfect,’ she thanked them.

  They all sat in a row and surveyed the scene. It seemed reassuringly busy even though the growing year obviously changed. She sighed with satisfaction. Everyone here looked hard at work and happy. No depression or moping in front of the telly, just a feeling of busy productivity. There was nothing like being outdoors feeling you were creating something from nothing. You planted a seed and if you tended it properly and protected it from slugs and marauding birds, you could watch it grow into something wonderful like a marrow or a brussels sprout plant, which when she was six her daughter Cory had always said reminded her of a little tree. Some of her friends had tried to point out that surely it would be easier and cheaper to buy your veg in the supermarket but Ella had just laughed.

  She tried not to look at the allotment she’d so enjoyed tending.

  ‘You should get on with a bit of planting of your own, Ella,’ Bill, noticing and understanding, commented gently.

  This was, of course, what her daughter Julia had told her, but somehow, though she loved the cottage, it only had a tiny garden and what she really missed was the companionship.

  Stevie appeared with a cup of treacly-brown tea and a trug filled with glossy vegetables. ‘I ran them under the tap,’ he informed her proudly. ‘You don’t want them all muddy.’