by Maeve Haran
‘Love the look,’ Claudia commented, still half asleep. ‘Can’t think why Jamie Oliver doesn’t adopt it.’
‘He hasn’t got my body,’ Don put one hand on his hip and posed in a parody of Mr Universe.
‘Luckily for him,’ Claudia countered, ducking under the covers as Don threatened to remove his pinny and join her.
‘I’m making one of my famous fry-ups if you fancy it,’ he replied, pretending to look wounded.
‘Bacon and egg’s fine but no sausage for me.’ She lifted up his pinny in emphasis.
‘I know you don’t want sausage. You’ve gone off sausage ever since your dad got ill. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’
‘Oh dear, have I?’ Claudia replied guiltily. ‘Why don’t you come back to bed?’
‘No dice.’ He shook his head. ‘I only like sausage when it’s spontaneous.’
‘You might have to wait a while then.’
‘I’d noticed, Claudia.’ He walked towards the bathroom. ‘Believe me, I’d noticed.’
Claudia sipped her tea and thought about how ridiculous it was that Sal was two minutes’ drive away and she wasn’t going to see her. It would be the most natural thing in the world for her and Don to nip in for lunch in the bar as they often did, sometimes taking her parents along too. But she’d promised not to. How was Sal getting on? she wondered.
Sal, as it happened, was also contemplating bacon and egg, though the Igden Manor chef was disappointingly fully clothed.
‘So, what shall we do today?’ Lou asked. He had already been up and swum fifty lengths of the outdoor pool. ‘Did you by any chance bring walking boots?’
Sal raised a telling eyebrow. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Sneakers?’
‘I don’t possess any sneakers.’
Lou laughed. ‘I’m impressed. Is that because you only walk from the kerb to a cab?’
‘I always think exercise is overrated. I do have some deck shoes, though,’ Sal conceded.
‘Halleluia. So at least a gentle stroll is on the cards.’
‘How was the baby? Your newest grandchild?’ Sal changed the subject.
‘Round face. Snub nose. Two legs. Two arms. Regular issue.’
‘Lou! What happened to the vaunted grandparental passion?’
Lou helped himself to what seemed to Sal to be his sixth slice of toast and slathered it with butter and marmalade. ‘Great British invention, marmalade. Do you know we don’t have this stuff in the US? Well, maybe Boston Brahmins do, but not us everyday folks.’
The idea of Lou as one of the everyday folks made Sal burst out laughing.
‘Okay, the baby’s gorgeous, you just don’t get quite so excited when he’s number nine.’
‘Tell me about your wives,’ Sal asked boldly. Somehow she felt with Lou you could ask him anything and he wouldn’t be offended.
Lou took another bite of toast. ‘Number one, Natalie. Jewish like me. When you’re Jewish you always marry your mother first time round. It’s in the Torah. We stayed married eight years. Had three children. I was a big disappointment to her. I hadn’t yet figured out a way of getting rich. Number two, Melody. Melody was hippie dippy; she even sang at the Troubadour. Three more children and she left me for her yoga guru. Number three, Joyce. Joyce was a journalist and even more of a workaholic than I was. She was a grown-up though, forty when I met her. We only had time for two children.’
‘And why did she leave you?’
‘She died as a matter of fact. Joyce was an alpha like me and I can’t convey how angry she was about getting ill.’
‘Oh, Lou, I’m so sorry.’ Sal reached out a hand to him, furious that she of all people could be so crass.
‘Yeah. Tough call. The kids had to put up with me, but there was one upside no one tells you about. I became a better father. I’d hardly spent any time with my kids till then and suddenly I had to get to know them. Have you seen that movie Kramer versus Kramer where the couple are getting divorced? Dustin Hoffman starts off as a selfish shit and becomes such a good dad he offers to give the kid back to its mom if that’s what he wants? That makes me cry every time. And it helped with my other kids too. Now we’re one big happy family.’
Sal sipped her coffee. The scenario Lou was describing couldn’t have been more of a polar opposite to her own life, without husband or family, when she’d battled cancer alone. Except for the joy of finding lovely Lara.
‘How about you?’ Lou asked, realizing what she must be thinking. ‘Your story about your long-lost daughter makes me cry as well.’ This time it was Lou who leaned over and took her hand. ‘It has to be said, I’m a big crier. Horses refusing to jump. Little kids singing, I’m gone.’
‘Yes, Lara’s wonderful. And I have three grandchildren too.’
Lou grinned. ‘The pleasures of later life. Especially handing ’em back to their parents. Now, what else are we going to do today? I fancy lunch in one of your English pubs.’
‘Stop talking like a hick American.’
‘Maybe I am a hick American.’
‘You are the most experienced world traveller I’ve ever met. You know places in London even I don’t know. And I’m a Londoner. Like that hotel of yours. And I bet you’ve already decided which pub.’
Lou grinned. ‘As a matter of fact, I have. It’s called The Laden Ox. I love that name. It gets great reviews and it’s only a gentle hike from here. Even in deck shoes.’
‘I’ll go and put them on.’
‘There’s also a fascinating old priory we can go and look at after.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Sal grinned.
‘Extend your cultural range from senior fashion and online dating for oldies,’ he winked.
Sal took herself off to her room, smiling ludicrously and looking round her at the peaceful unchanging surroundings. She suddenly realized she was happy and it was such a shock that she stood still for a moment, taken aback. Happiness wasn’t a familiar emotion. And of course it was all down to being here with Lou.
She wondered again why he’d invited her.
Don’t spoil it, she told herself sternly. Live in the moment. Go with the flow. Get into all that mindfulness crap.
And for the first time Sal, who had always rigorously controlled everything in her life, including who she allowed to know about her cancer, mentally began to say Om . . . and relax.
It was a blissfully unfamiliar feeling.
Ella went to fetch her car from its usual parking spot at the far end of the row of riverside cottages. Another glorious day. She’d promised to take Laura to see a couple more flats in case the first one fell through. It was definitely hot enough to put the roof down.
She waved at a small child who was standing mesmerised by the way her roof dropped down into the boot of the car in just a few seconds. It was quite impressive to her too, and she was sixtysomething.
Laura was upstairs getting ready when she arrived. Unlike Ella who was always up even before the lark – who said larks got up early anyway? – Laura liked a lie-in. The door was opened by a completely strange Indian lady dressed up to the nines in an outfit Ella instantly recognized as by Catherine Walker. Ella had indulged in the odd Catherine Walker herself when she’d been coining it at the Bar and knew just how much they cost.
‘Mrs Lalita Lal,’ the unknown lady informed her grandly. ‘I am a guest of Mrs Minchin. She is an employee of my daughter and son-in-law.’
‘At LateExpress?’ Ella held out her hand. ‘I’m Ella Thompson, an old friend of Laura’s. As a matter of fact, we met at university.’
Mrs Lal stood back to let her in.
‘May I offer you some coffee?’
‘Thank you. And may I say what a great outfit that is? Is it Catherine Walker?’
Mrs Lal’s rather cold and haughty manner instantly softened. ‘Do you like her also? I used to wear the clothes of Mr Norman Hartnell, couturier to the Queen, but then I discovered Catherine Walker instead.’ She made it sound as if they were bosom buddies. ‘You
know she designed the dress Princess Diana wore to her grave?’
Ella blinked, lost for words at this startling revelation.
‘Her butler, Mr Paul Burrell, telephoned Catherine,’ Mrs Lal continued in the same confidential tone, ‘to ask how the princess should be dressed in her coffin, and that was what Catherine advised.’
‘Goodness,’ was all that Ella could think of to say. She knew it was true that Diana had worn a Catherine Walker dress to be buried in but as for phoning Paul Burrell, it sounded wildly far-fetched to her. In fact, just the sort of nonsense they dredged up on the internet. But who knew? She was relieved of the necessity for more chat by the sight of Laura’s son Sam, who dashed down the stairs, holding by the hand the most ravishingly rumpled girl, before they both dashed wordlessly out of the front door, Ella suspected to avoid the eagle-eyed attentions of Mrs Lal.
‘Ella!’ called Laura from upstairs. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Won’t be a mo.’
‘And where are you both off to?’ enquired Mrs Lal. Ella strongly suspected she hated being excluded from anything, even if she was otherwise engaged.
‘To look at some flats for Laura.’ She wondered how much the lady knew about Laura’s current situation. ‘As you probably know, Laura is getting divorced and is going to have to move out of the home she’s lived in for twenty-five years.’
Mrs Lal shook her head in disapproval just as Laura herself appeared. Out of the blue she grabbed Laura’s hand.
‘Look at it like this, Mrs Minchin,’ she advised in her caressingly confidential manner. ‘You had him when he was double cream. Now he is an old yoghurt, put him in the bin and forget about him. He probably isn’t even worth recycling.’ She looked out of the window. ‘Where has that hopeless son-in-law of mine got to?’ she went on seamlessly. ‘He should have been here half an hour ago.’
Laura and Ella were in fits by the time they got into Ella’s car.
‘I love her. She’s priceless. But why is she staying with you?’
‘She hated the hotel lovely Mr A, her hopeless son-in-law, booked her into and I felt so sorry for them I offered to have her here. I’m hoping it won’t be for long.’
‘No indeed. Though you’d certainly learn all about Catherine Walker’s client list. I understand she also dressed Queen Noor of Jordan. Though not, as far as I know, for her grave. I’m not sure she’s right about Simon not being worth recycling, though. To us he’s an ancient old two-timer with a paunch, but the sad fact is, some lovely young thing with a father complex will take him on before you can say decree absolute. Whether it’s divorce or death, men are only single for a year, quite often a lot shorter. Women turn to their friends for support, men just get another woman in. It’s the way of the world.’
‘I feel another of your blogs coming on,’ Laura accused, her eyes narrowing. ‘Or worse, now you’re in print. Hands off my old yoghurt!’
Ella laughed and got out the details of the first flat they were due to see.
They’d been driving and chatting for ten minutes when Ella pulled up to a sharp halt. ‘Sorry,’ she apologized, ‘forgot to do up my seat belt.’
‘Ella.’ Laura looked at her as if she’d gone totally mad. ‘You’re already wearing it! It would have beeped if you weren’t.’
Ella glanced down. Oh Jesus, her memory lapses were getting worse.
‘Silly me, so I am. Now, this place is just round the corner.’
Sal and Lou wandered at a gentle pace through the hotel’s lovely gardens, passing two ponds and a small building which was once a dovecot.
‘Okay, Mr History Man,’ Sal teased. ‘I bet you didn’t know that they didn’t have dovecots just because they looked pretty or even to stick spare guests in if they were over-booked in the manor. Pigeon poo was so highly prized as fertilizer that it was actually taxed by the king!’
‘Ms Grainger, I’m impressed. Where did you glean this important historical knowledge?’
‘Actually, it was in the hotel brochure,’ Sal confessed.
They paused to watch a peacock spread his amazing feathered tail in an attempt to interest a bored-looking peahen.
‘’Twas ever thus,’ sighed Lou. ‘The male risking rejection as he abases himself before the dismissive female.’
‘If he’s anything like the men I know, I’ve got a good idea what he’s thinking.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘What do you mean NO?’
‘And what gives you such a jaundiced view of masculine vanity, Ms Grainger?’ Lou demanded.
‘Experience,’ Sal replied promptly.
They had reached a small country lane leading towards the village and made their way down it. It was barely a ten-minute walk to The Laden Ox. A large white van delivering craft beer was parked near it, masking the pretty painted sign declaring it to be Little Minsley.
‘What will you have to drink?’ Lou enquired. ‘I thought I might brave a pint of your warm bitter beer.’
Sal thought. In a village pub champagne would be over the top even for her. ‘Half of cider, please. A still one if they have it.’
‘Right. I’ll collect some menus at the same time.’
He returned five minutes later with a pint of beer and a long-stemmed glass of fizz. ‘I didn’t think you really wanted cider. I’ll take it back if you did, though it’d be a pity as they opened a new bottle. ‘Don’t get much call for it round here, as the landlord informed me.’
‘I’d better force myself to drink it then,’ Sal smiled, studying the menu. The first thing she noted was the pub’s name at the top. The Laden Ox, Little Minsley. ‘Oh my God, don’t say we’re actually in Little Minsley!’
‘Why, do you have something against the place? Did it collaborate during the war? Was it a plague village where the whole population’s buried under the pub in a pit?’
‘No, no,’ Sal spluttered into her champagne. ‘It’s just this is the village where my great friend Claudia lives, the one who wants to start the mad anti-retirement community! And the incredible thing is, she had Igden Manor, the hotel where we happen to be staying, earmarked as the place where it would actually be happening.’
‘Why don’t we drop in on her after lunch then?’ Lou beamed. ‘You know I always wanted to hear more about it. Madly impractical old hippie ideas are right up my street. Don’t forget I married a Melody.’
After they’d finished the meal Sal realized that if they took the same lane back to the hotel, they had to actually pass Claudia’s house. She’d been so engrossed with talking to Lou that she hadn’t noticed on the way there. Now that she was aware of it, she felt too guilty not to at least say hello.
Eight
Sal found she was half hoping that Claudia would be out, but no such luck.
As soon as Claudia saw her friend walking up her garden path with a small man with the build of a bear and a hundred-and-fifty-watt smile, Claudia rushed out to greet them.
‘Sal! How amazing! It’s so great to see you! It’s been driving me mad to know you’re up at Igden Manor and I couldn’t drop in and show you round, but obviously I respect your privacy and right to a –’ she had been going to say ‘romantic weekend’ but something in Sal’s demeanour made her check herself – ‘few days of peace. Come in! Come in! How are you finding the place?’
‘Absolutely gorgeous. Though at the price they charge for the rooms I’m not surprised it’s closing down.’
‘You didn’t tell me that!’ Lou looked as startled as a pheasant who’s just worked out the shooting season’s begun. ‘I’m Lou Maynard, by the way.’ He held out a hand to Claudia, who had rarely felt such a strong grip. ‘Sally and I work together.’
‘Sorry, but I thought it would have sounded a bit rude,’ Sal explained to Lou, ‘to announce that the lovely hotel you’d booked was going bankrupt.’
‘Too right. I would have probably freaked. So what’s the story? Headless horsemen driving away the clients?’
‘Nothing so exciting,’ Claudia
laughed. ‘It’s all very British. The actual owner is an old aristo called Lord Binns and he’s terrified of it being bought up by some – sorry’ – she grinned at Lou – ‘faceless American hotel chain so he’s only prepared to grant a thirty-year lease. That means no one who takes it on will be prepared to spend any money on it. On top of that the current lot did try to open a spa and pool in one of the barns but the planning permission was refused so they’re throwing in the towel.’
‘Sal tells me you’d like to take it over yourself and all live there together,’ Lou prompted.
‘Shh, don’t let my husband Don hear you,’ Claudia whispered. ‘He’d think you were encouraging me!’
‘I take it he’s not so keen on the idea himself then?’
‘As turkeys are on Christmas. He’s just grateful we’d never get the money.’
Lou grinned. He had a very engaging smile, Claudia decided. ‘Money’s never the problem if the idea’s good. You’d be surprised. Indian banks. Russian banks. Maybe Chinese banks. They all love lending money to Brits.’
‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that. We might get our legs broken.’
‘As a matter of fact we’re on our way back to the hotel now? Why don’t you come too? I’d love to hear your scheme for the place.’
Sal looked horrified.
‘It’s more a dream than a scheme to be honest,’ Claudia confessed. ‘My husband thinks it would be hell on earth. Sal thinks I’m off my head, don’t you, Sal?’
Sal nodded vigorously.
‘Yeah, well, she might change her mind if she was as old as me,’ Lou pointed out with another of his endearing grins.
‘Or if she had parents like mine,’ Claudia sighed. ‘My mum’s in her eighties and my dad’s in his nineties and I’m not sure how long they’ll be okay on their own. Especially my dad.’
‘I thought you’d hired a carer?’ Sal asked.
‘We have. But she and my mum have become joined at the hip and she’s completely neglecting my father, even though it was him we hired the bloody woman to look after. The funny thing is, he’s perfectly happy, much prefers my mother being occupied and out. There’s just one problem – apart from wanting to kill the carer.’