by Maeve Haran
‘Indeed. Providing all the documentation is ready. It’s all moving along most satisfactorily.’
‘It may be for you, you slimy bastard, with your three sales from every divorce!’ Laura wanted to yell.
Instead she put on her chilliest voice to reply. ‘Tell your clients that I will let them know as soon as I have talked to my son and daughter. This is their family home after all.’ She didn’t need to tell him that Sam was quite happy to move in with a friend and Bella had already gone months ago.
‘Besides which, I have a friend of the family living with me. An elderly lady from India.’ Mrs Lal might as well come in useful for once.
‘Of course, but I’d advise you to give them a date soon.’ A touch of concern that Laura was going to morph into a divorce resister after all had crept into his smarmy voice. ‘You don’t want a deal like this slipping through your fingers.’
You mean, you don’t, you arsehole! Laura would love to see his face if pretty-in-pastel Mrs Minchin actually said what she was thinking.
‘I’ll get back to you.’
She put down the phone and sat on the sofa, fighting back tears. This was it. The official end of her marriage, more real even than divorce. A sudden sound made her sit up. She’d thought she was alone but she could definitely hear music coming from Sam’s bedroom. What’s more, it wasn’t the usual music he listened to, baleful, soul-searching singer-songwriters; this was bouncy and exotic and upbeat and . . . Indian!
Laura abandoned the sofa and went upstairs. It was definitely coming from Sam’s bedroom. Her knock was drowned out by the thrumming base line from an electric guitar. She opened the door to find Sam and Mrs Lal sitting on the bed with TomTom the cat between them like a prim chaperone.
‘Mum, hi,’ Sam greeted her with a smile. ‘Isn’t this music great? It’s Bhangra. Lalita has it on her iPhone. It’s traditional Indian folk music with electric guitar and keyboards. I’d heard of it, obviously, but never really listened to it before.’
‘My daughter introduced me to it,’ Mrs Lal explained. ‘She used to play it around the house.’
Laura couldn’t imagine the formidable Mrs A bopping to the Bhangra beat but was glad that Sam seemed so cheerful.
‘Are you all right?’ Sam was always so intuitive it amazed Laura.
‘That was the estate agent. The buyers want us to move out in three weeks.’
Sam heard the catch in her voice and jumped up. ‘Shit, that’s soon. Will you be all right?’
‘I should be asking you that,’ Laura grinned.
‘In India,’ Mrs Lal commented, ‘people get thrown out of their homes with no notice at all. It is quite common.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Lal,’ Laura replied waspishly. ‘I’ll bear that in mind when I have to leave the home I’ve lived in ever since I was married.’
‘Now you are divorced,’ Mrs Lal replied, refusing to be offended, ‘you need a nice man and a new home.’
‘Yes, Mum.’ Sam put a protective arm round her. ‘You should let Lalita find you someone. She’s arranged two thousand marriages in India.’
‘I’ve already found a nice man. His name’s Calum.’
Mrs Lal raised a sceptical eyebrow at the very moment it struck Laura that it had been a curiously long time since she’d heard from the man she’d begun to think of as her boyfriend.
Downstairs, away from the blaring Bhangra, Laura rang her daughter Bella. Bella at least would surely have regrets about leaving her childhood home.
‘The sooner the better, Mum,’ was Bella’s instant reply. ‘It’d be much better for you to move on. Find a nice ground-floor flat to grow old in. Preferably with a spare bedroom so I can come and stay with Nigel and Noah.’
Ella discreetly hired a carpet cleaner and set about rescuing her brand-new pale carpet from the effects of the flood. The smell of damp wool took her back to childhood holidays in Wales when it was so wet even the sheep booked into a B&B.
Her daughter Julia had advised her against getting a beige carpet. Why didn’t she choose something practical instead – sludge possibly or taupe? But Ella didn’t like sludge and blamed taupe for rendering countless colourful rooms she’d loved dull as ditchwater (come to think of it, ditchwater was just the sort of name they gave to paints nowadays). Julia had been right as usual because now her carpet was sludge-coloured anyway.
Two hours of hard slog were beginning to pay off. Apart from the last few feet where the water had pooled, the carpet was looking almost restored. She’d have to get a rug to cover the bit at the bottom, which was beyond rescue, but at least it would look engagingly boho.
In the end a lot of the lasting damage had been to her dignity. How could she have gone out leaving the bath tap running? And as for that bloody plumber who hadn’t put in the overflow pipe, she might well sue him.
And at least Julia didn’t know. Apart from the weird smell the disaster was now almost undetectable. Ella let out a long breath of satisfaction and took the steam cleaner up to the bathroom to empty.
The basin was under the riverside window so Ella could watch the river flowing as she brushed her teeth. But the sight that met her eyes was worse than the threat of rising flood waters.
It was Julia deep in earnest conversation with her neighbour Mrs Gregory who, eager to relive her and Bert’s moment of glory, was clearly recounting every gruesome detail of Ella’s incompetence to her daughter.
There was only one thing to do: pretend to be out. Ella tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen, grateful that the cottage was the middle of a terraced row so Julia couldn’t find her way round the back and that she had resisted – much to her daughter’s indignation – to give her a key despite Julia’s insistence that Ella might fall or be taken ill. ‘I’m in my sixties, not my eighties!’ she had protested.
Julia rapped on the door. Ella ignored it, and the call to her mobile that followed, and then the further call to her landline. That wretched Mrs Gregory. No doubt she would have told Julia that Ella was in.
What would she do if she was in one of those Scandi noir box sets Julia loved so much? Feeling ingenious, Ella texted her daughter that she had gone into town to meet Laura. She might not believe it but at least she wouldn’t dial 999 and get the police and ambulance service down here telling them her mother was inside and might be lying on the wet carpet suffering a stroke.
From the bathroom window she watched Julia read the text and look disbelievingly up at the cottage.
That was when Ella got the giggles, wondering how long Julia would stand outside staring up for evidence of her delinquent mother.
If she knew Julia, it would be quite a long time.
Sal and the rest of the staff watched, stunned, at the speed and efficiency with which Rose’s nephew proceeded to close down the magazine. Sal might have chosen the word ‘insensitivity’ were it not that Justin did everything with such apparent tact and good humour.
In her own mind, and privately to Lou, she dubbed him ‘the smiling assassin’. He had done his homework and respected the letter of the law in what was owed to the staff in terms of payoffs and pensions, but gave not a penny more.
Within a month or so New Grey had been sold to a Canadian company he had done business with before. The Canadians were big on retirement, apparently.
Already the leaving parties were being planned. To Sal they seemed more like wakes.
‘Come on, what’s happened to my brave Mustang Sally?’ Lou prompted, seeing her looking dismal.
Sal didn’t want to recite her woes again, though it was very tempting. She’d never had a man to be really honest with, but if she was, surely she’d frighten him off? And sometimes it seemed to her he was the only thing in her life that was really good at the moment.
Lou put his arms round her. ‘Scared, huh? I know you loved your job.’
The sympathy in his tone undid her. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘I am scared. No pension and anyone with a lick of sense would at least own their property, so t
hey’d have that as a buffer. Muggins here stuck to renting.’
Lou, sitting perched on the side of the bed, looked thoughtful, making Sal giggle.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.
‘You. You look like Rodin’s Thinker.’
‘I’ll have you know I’m thinking on your behalf.’
Sal sat down next to him and laid her head on his shoulder. ‘I know,’ she said in a small non-Sal-like voice. ‘Thank you.’
‘I know a lot about leases, here as well as in the US. I have to. How long have you been here?’
He whistled when Sal answered. ‘That long? And what do you pay in rental?’
He laughed out loud when Sal told him. ‘That’s a pretty damn good deal.’
‘The flat was in bad condition when I took it on. I’ve spent quite a lot on decorating it,’ she grinned at him. ‘Giving it the Grainger touch.’
‘Your landlord might be prepared to buy you out. It happens with very long lets. The area has changed, got more valuable. They might be able to double the rent with a new tenant.’
‘But then I’d have to move,’ Sal replied, an edge of panic in her voice.
‘True. But you might get a lump sum that made it worth it. I’ll draft a letter to your landlord and we’ll see how they take it.’
Sal put her arms round him. It wasn’t exactly an offer to go and live in Brooklyn, but just having his presence in her life felt like going to bed with a hot water bottle and a goosedown duvet on a cold winter’s night.
The phone by Laura’s bed rang so early that it made her jump and instantly wonder what the emergency was. Not something to do with her daughter Bella or baby Noah?
To her surprise it was Claudia.
‘Sorry to wake you. My alarm goes off at six.’
‘Bloody hell. Actually, it’s good you rang. I’ve got to get up for work.’
‘It’s about Ella,’ Claudia explained. ‘I’m worried about her. She rang me last night and went on and on about not being able to remember anything and then burst into tears. Ella! She’s always been the efficient one!’
‘I know. She left the tap on in her house and flooded the place. She’s desperately hoping Julia doesn’t find out or she’ll start saying Ella’s got dementia.’
‘Oh my God! You don’t think she has, do you? Has she seen her doctor?’
‘She doesn’t want to. In case it turns out to be true.’
‘God, Laura, that’s awful!’
‘Yes.’ Laura realized she hadn’t even faced the suspicion herself.
‘And how about you?’
‘I’m okay.’ She tried to keep calm and not admit that she was absolutely bloody terrified of moving out of her home and not knowing where she’d go. Images of Cathy Come Home and the homeless people under Waterloo underpass kept invading her consciousness. ‘Except that I may have to move out in a few weeks.’
‘Laura! Where to?’
‘Well, that’s the problem. I haven’t found anywhere yet.’
‘Come here!’ Claudia offered impulsively. ‘We’ve got a spare room for the moment and you can store your stuff in our garage. We’re too lazy to use it and always park in the driveway. You can stay as long as you like.’
Suddenly the thought of being in a place full of thatched cottages with bright geraniums in window boxes seemed overwhelmingly appealing to Laura. It would be like Thrush Green, the village in the novels by Miss Read she’d loved as a child. It could be a kind of holiday till she decided what to do next.
‘Are you sure? What about Don? Won’t he mind being invaded?’
‘He’ll enjoy the distraction. He’s always liked you. He thinks you’re the least bossy of my friends.’
‘In that case, I’d love to.’
As she put the phone down a wave of relief swept over Laura. She didn’t have to worry, at least in the short term. She’d go in today and explain the situation to Mr A at LateExpress. In fact, she felt such a burden lifted off her shoulders that she didn’t even mind if Mrs Lal stayed on till she moved.
She got up and dressed in her favourite pale yellow cardigan even though she was going to work.
And then she remembered Ella. Was something serious the matter with her or was it just a bad case of forgetfulness?
Ella looked out of the window at the beautiful day outside. The sun shimmered on the river like shot silk. Four swans glided past, the water sparkling in their wake. Geese honked gaily as they flew overhead. It was a day for gardening. It would have been perfect weather for going to the allotment except for some reason she wasn’t feeling too brilliant. Besides, Ella had another, far less pleasant task in mind.
She sat down at the little table by the window which served as desk and dressing table and got out her laptop. It was time she faced up to things. She put ‘Signs of dementia’ into her browser and realized she was holding her breath. There is no definitive test for dementia, she read. The only way for a definitive diagnosis is an autopsy of the brain after death. Oh great. Two thirds of people with dementia, the article continued, are female.
Bloody hell! Ella fumed. How utterly outrageous!
She clicked again until she found what she was looking for: the kind of test her GP would use if she braved going to see her, which she had no intention of doing. This was between her and her brain.
1) What year is it? Well, that was simple enough.
2) What month is it? That was easy too. She could certainly manage that.
3) Now there was a bit of a rub; at this point her GP would give her a name and address to remember. Ella decided to make one up.
4) What time is it – to the nearest hour? To her irritation Ella got this wrong, opting for ten o’clock when it was nearer nine.
5) Count backwards from twenty to one. Easy peasy.
6) Name the months of the year in reverse order. No problem.
7) Tell me the name and address of the person named earlier. Ella did so.
Ella found she’d lost three points overall which put her in the No Memory Problem area; between eight and nine she should see her GP; between ten and twenty-eight would mean clear memory impairment that should be investigated.
Ella almost skipped downstairs to make herself a coffee, but stopped on the threshold of the kitchen. The room was full of smoke from a milk pan she had put on and forgotten. Why hadn’t the sodding smoke alarm gone off? And then she remembered it had been beeping the other day because it needed a new battery.
And Ella, who had survived the loss of her beloved husband in a train crash and not crumbled, sat down at the kitchen counter and wept.
Claudia sat looking at the letter in front of her. She got few letters these days and never one that looked like this. The paper was so thick it almost seemed like parchment, and the address was embossed in gold letters across the top as if it were an uber-posh wedding invitation. But the contents were even more startling.
Lord Murdo Binns, eccentric aristocrat and owner of Igden Manor, stated that he would be prepared to consider their proposal – on one condition.
That Miss Rose McGill should be one of the tenants.
Claudia was pulled in two directions. Elated that his response had been so positive but at a loss to know what to do next. No point approaching Sal, since Sal thought the whole project was bonkers, so she supposed it would have to be Lou Maynard. He at least was positive about the idea, though the Lord alone knew why. But how would she get hold of him? Then she remembered he’d left his mobile number.
Claudia rang it.
‘Lou,’ she began, ‘you’re not going to believe this!’
‘The old bean said yes?’ Lou sounded surprisingly unfazed. ‘I thought he might. He’s got more money than he knows what to do with. He’s old. And he wants to have some fun.’
‘But there was one really strange condition.’
‘Concerning Rose?’
‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘I saw his reaction. I suspect he’s been thinking about Ro
se for fifty years.’
‘And he’d sell us the manor cheap just to have her near him?’ Claudia marvelled. ‘That’s amazing.’
‘Oh, he’s probably got other reasons as well. I suspect that old Murdo’s quite smart under that Bertie Wooster exterior of his. I quite like the cove, as Bertie might say.’
‘How do you think she’ll react? Is there any chance she might be interested?’
‘Sal and I are taking her down to a convalescent home tomorrow, cannily selected to be near to Igden Manor, so who knows.’
‘You know, Lou, you are a bit of a magician.’
‘Thank you, Claudia. Once Rose is settled in maybe we should bring her over.’
‘That sounds brilliant. And Lou . . .’
‘Yep?’
‘Thank you for Hiro. He and my dad are firm favourites in the local pub. Except for one thing. Hiro keeps beating the locals at dominoes.’
‘I’m glad it’s only dominoes and not Blackjack,’ Lou responded.
Claudia couldn’t help laughing. She liked Lou a lot. If he really did intend to live at Igden Manor, he would be a huge asset. And surely he could persuade Sal to come too? The thought of Ella and her worrying forgetfulness broke into Claudia’s thoughts.
Lou was smiling broadly when he broke the news to Sal about Lord Binns’ stipulation.
‘Oh my God,’ was Sal’s appalled reaction. ‘Do you mean this completely nutty scheme might actually be going to happen?’
‘Only if we can persuade Rose that living in a thatched commune is what she’s been longing for all her life!’
Laura put on her hideous LateExpress tabard and wondered if her horrible ex Simon would venture in to buy sandwiches. This had been the place he bought them every day until Laura had started to work here – expressly to embarrass him, according to Simon. Maybe she’d put rat poison in them.
Or maybe not. Laura was feeling a lot more cheerful now that she wasn’t going to be homeless. At least not for the moment.
‘Mr A, can I have a word?’ she asked her employer.
Mr A looked instantly hounded. ‘Is it about my mother-in-law Mrs Lal? It is terrible that you have been exploited so badly. But the problem is . . .’