by Freya North
‘I’m seeing him tomorrow, funnily enough.’
Jo was pleased. Stella, it seemed, was emerging from her self-imposed hibernation. At long last.
* * *
‘Mummy?’ Will called. ‘Mumma?’
Where was his rucksack? The medium-ish bluish one with the Clone Trooper design? Where had his mum put it? He looked in the usual places where she thought she tidied but really it was just moving his stuff to higher levels, to free up floor space. Well, it wasn’t in any of those places. Nor at the back of the cupboard. Nope, not under his bed either. Where was it? ‘Mummy!’ He really didn’t want to take the greenish, smallish rucksack because that had Ben 10 on and he so wasn’t into Ben 10 any more. ‘Mumm-y!’ He opened his bedroom door and stood at the top of the stairs, placed a cupped hand either side of his mouth and bellowed for her again.
There was a tap on his shoulder and Will jumped out of his skin. How did she do that? That teleporting thing? Suddenly appearing right behind him with precisely what he’d been looking for all along, and that Am-I-or-Am-I-Not-the-Best-Mum-in-the-World look on her face? She was, of course, the Best Mum Ever – and he’d bought her the birthday card with a badge that said so – but she still liked to pull that particular face all the time.
‘Why didn’t you answer me?’ Will said. ‘I was yelling and yelling. I thought you’d been taken by aliens or fallen down the loo or something.’
‘Thank you darling Mummy for my medium-ish bluish rucksack,’ said Stella.
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Mummy,’ said Stella.
‘Do I really have to be forty-five before I can just call you Mum?’
‘Absolutely. Now stuff in whatever it is you want to take to Uncle Alistair's and we’d better get going.’
Will went back into his bedroom and his mother went downstairs. ‘Remember the Stickies could choke on any small pieces of Lego,’ she called.
How did she know he was piling Lego into his bag? How did she know that? Will knew she had eyes in the back of her head – he’d known that from an early age. But how could she see through brick walls and closed doors? She said she’d tell him when he was ten – so just two years, six months and about a week of days and a zillion hours to go. He emptied out the Lego bricks and jumbled in some Bionicles pieces instead. His cousins – three-year-old Ruby and five-year-old Finn, commonly known as the Stickies on account of their constant general jamminess – were unlikely to eat Bionicles. Not once he’d explained their super powers and alarming weaponry. Anyway, his little cousins thought he was amazing in much the same way as he thought his older cousins, who he was seeing tomorrow, were incredible. And all his cousins called him Will-yum, sometimes just YumYum. Like he was delicious. And, as his mum told him he was precisely that, at least once a day, he sort of believed it too.
* * *
The Huttons were scattered over Hertfordshire; as if a handful of wild-flower seeds had been tossed from their mother’s front doorstep in Harpenden. Alistair lived with his family in a lovely 1930s semi in a good suburb of Watford just a stroll from Cassiobury Park. Robbie had settled with his tribe in St Albans, Stella had spent almost a decade just around the corner from Alistair and was now in Hertford and Sandie, their mother, still lived in the family home in Harpenden. Their father, Stuart, had a flat in Hemel Hempstead but seemed to spend most of his time with an odd woman called Magda at her bungalow near Potters Bar, though he resurfaced each Christmas and steadfastly made no mention of her. In terms of quality time, it was pretty much on a par with how much his offspring had spent with him when he’d been married to their mother. Whenever they referred to him, it was accompanied by a roll of the eyes and a quick tut – as if mention of him caused a minor tic. But it was indeed minor, Stuart having never played a major part in their lives.
The following day, Will could hardly wait for his grandma to get in the car and do her seat belt before he told her about Ruby putting the Bionicle piece up her nose yesterday, and sucking the bogeys off it before giving it an almighty chewing and denting it with her small teeth. He had to keep making the incident sound like an extraordinary happening where he’d somehow been both victim and hero, to deflect attention from the fact that everyone had said to him, Don’t Let Ruby Put Anything in Her Mouth. The grown-ups had given him responsibility. And though he’d failed, his expressive storytelling made it sound as though he’d saved Ruby and the Bionicle and he was fine about the fact that his toy was riddled with teeth marks.
His grandma was riveted. ‘Can you imagine if Ruby had swallowed it?’ She craned her neck to look aghast at Will in the back seat. ‘There’d be some poor Bionicle chap missing a vital part of his anatomy. Then how would the battles be won?’
‘Exactly,’ marvelled Will.
‘Exactly,’ Sandie concurred.
‘Mum!’ Stella protested.
‘Grandma, how old was Mummy before she could call you Mum?’
‘Twenty-eight and three-quarters,’ Sandie said, not missing a beat.
‘I have to be forty-five.’
‘That’s not very fair,’ said Sandie.
‘Twenty-seven, then,’ said Stella, glancing in the rear-view mirror at her son and giving him a wink.
‘Cool,’ said Will, looking out the car window.
Will assumed that, because of the family thing, he was genetically programmed to grow up and turn out like the Twins, teenagers Pauly and Tom, in much the same way as the Stickies would grow up to be just like him. And they’d all, one day in about a million years, turn into grown-ups like Alistair and Robbie. Apart, of course, from Sticky Ruby who’d turn out like her mum and Will’s mum and the Twins’ mum.
Much as Will felt his mother was the best, he secretly acknowledged that Aunty Juliet was the better cook, possibly the best cook in the world and, as he took his place between the Twins at the laden table he happily blocked out the boring chatter of the grown-ups, and the revolting mess of the Stickies sitting opposite him, to focus wholeheartedly on the spectacular offerings on his plate.
Stella sat by Juliet, whom she adored. Her brothers flanked their mother and Sara, Robbie’s wife, sat between her toddlers and managed in her inimitably competent way to feed herself and her children, yet be utterly present in the conversation. Stella looked around the table. It was like sitting in the best seats at the theatre waiting for the play to begin. With a surge of joy she thought this was to be her afternoon. It would linger into early evening and she was happy. She’d leave, hours later, replete in body and soul. Thank God for family. Thank God for hers. The decibel level was high yet not discordant and topics bounded between them all like the ball in a bagatelle. The tangents they veered off to, all part of the colourful ricochet of joyful banter.
‘It just goes back to what Gordon Brown said – but didn’t do,’ said Alistair.
‘That goes without saying,’ said Sandie, about something else entirely.
Sara chewed thoughtfully, picking up on an earlier thread. ‘I love the idea of supporting local businesses, shopping at the corner shop, buying books from a little independent bookshop. But when there’s Amazon and Ocado, and special offers which I can order online at silly o’clock, then it’s no contest.’
‘It was the debilitating flaw in New Labour,’ said Robbie to Alistair.
‘I think you’re probably right,’ said Sandie to any of them.
‘I have to agree,’ Juliet said, a little forlornly. She looked thoughtfully at a roast potato. ‘I bought these spuds from the farmers’ market. Ridiculously expensive, weighed a ton. I’m not entirely sure they taste any different from Waitrose. Oh, and Stella – I think I’ve found you a man.’
‘Whatsit’s brother?’ Alistair asked.
‘Miliband?’ said Robbie.
‘No – who Juliet’s talking about. For Stella.’
‘Oh! I forgot about him,’ said Juliet. ‘Two men, then,’ she told the table.
‘I have one for you too,’ said Sara.
�
��Three,’ Robbie whistled.
‘Who’s who?’ asked Sandie.
‘The chap that takes Sing-a-Song,’ said Sara. ‘The Stickies love him. He’s so – smiley.’ She paused. ‘And he only wears the spotty trousers and silly hat when he’s working. I saw him strolling through the Maltings last week. Almost didn’t recognize him – really nice and normal. We had a little chat and I managed to deduce he’s not attached, not gay and likes dogs.’
‘I don’t have a dog,’ said Stella.
‘I know,’ said Sara, ‘but it’s a type, isn’t it – if he likes dogs he must have that caring side to his nature. Plus, of course, he’s great with kids.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Stella.
‘Talking of great with kids,’ Juliet said, ‘option number one is the brother of my friend Mel. He’s older—’
‘How old?’ Robbie interjected.
‘Fifty-odd,’ said Juliet.
‘I don’t like the “odd”,’ said Sandie.
‘I don’t like the fifty,’ said Robbie.
‘All right,’ said Juliet, ‘option number two is late thirties, never been married, split up with his girlfriend over a year ago. Has his own hair, his own teeth. He’s handsome, chatty, caring and he lives in Hadley Wood, apparently.’
‘He sounds promising,’ said Sara.
‘No, thanks,’ said Stella.
‘Hadley Wood is no longer a purely middle-aged enclave,’ said Alistair. ‘You should know that, Stella – from the property market.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Stella.
‘Who is he?’ asked Robbie.
‘My gynae,’ said Juliet.
‘No, thanks,’ said Stella.
‘Stella,’ Juliet said, ‘don’t be put off by his day job.’
‘The last thing I want to do after a day at the computer screen is to come home and log on,’ said Robbie darkly.
‘Don’t be awkward,’ said Sandie.
‘It’s not his job,’ said Stella.
‘What’s his name?’ asked Sara.
‘Bryanaston.’
‘What sort of a name is Bryanaston?’ asked Sandie.
‘That’s his surname,’ said Juliet. ‘His first name is Henry.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Stella.
They looked at her with For Heaven’s Sake, Why Not? written across their faces.
She shrugged.
‘Not ready?’ Juliet said softly.
‘Not interested,’ said Stella. ‘I’m fine as I am.’
‘For the time being?’ Sandie asked her daughter, a gentle pleading edging her question like garnish.
‘For the time being,’ Stella said. ‘Did any of you watch that new serial on the Beeb on Friday?’
‘About Rembrandt?’
‘With Kevin Branagh?’ said Sandie.
‘Kenneth,’ said everyone else.
‘Yes,’ said Stella.
‘We did.’
‘Us too.’
‘Wasn’t it brilliant?’
‘You and your Rembrandt,’ Sandie said. ‘She wrote her thesis on Rembrandt, you know. She got a first.’
They all knew that, and they all knew Sandie should be allowed to proclaim the fact as often as she liked.
* * *
Stella found Alistair, later on, out in the garage with all the children – including the teenage Twins – looking on in awe as he set his Hornby model railway into action. She watched alongside them for a while, transfixed by the little trees she’d made for him when she was a kid, remembering again the smell of the particular green paint she’d dipped the tiny torn pieces of sponge into. Remembering how they’d dried them on an old cake rack before painstakingly securing them onto matchstick trunks – her first use of Super Glue, her eldest brother coaching her, encouraging her, trusting her.
‘Alistair?’ Reluctantly, he looked up from controlling the points. ‘Here.’ She passed him a brown envelope.
‘What’s this?’
‘My rent, silly,’ she said.
‘Oh.’ He looked at the envelope as if he dreaded the contents.
‘This month and last.’
‘Stella – it’s fine, you know. Juliet and I both say – it’s fine.’
Stella shook her head decisively. ‘No way. It’s your house – and you have done me the most almighty favour in letting me live there for this amount. I know what the true rental value is, you know. My new job, Alistair – it’s a lifesaver. I can make ends meet – with commission, I might even be able to tie them in a bow.’
He continued to look at the envelope. ‘Charlie?’ he asked, very quietly, glancing at Will who was engrossed in Sir Nigel Gresley belting along the tiny track trying to catch up with the Flying Scotsman.
Stella shook her head.
‘No news?’
She shook her head again.
Alistair said Bastard under his breath, not so much for Stella’s sake, but for his own.
‘Please,’ he held the envelope out to her.
‘No, thanks,’ she said. She pushed her hands defiantly into her pockets, and she placed her head gently against her brother’s shoulder. She looked forward to the day when those close to her were no longer irked by Charlie.
Chapter Four
3 Lime Grove Cottages
Tramfield Lane
Long Dansbury
Herts
Monday
Dear Lydia
I hope this finds you in good health and high spirits. I took in the view of Longbridge Hall on my early morning run – the rain had lifted, a soft mist rolled quietly just above ground level, a glint of sunshine, a hint of spring – it really was a wonderful sight. Did you know there’s an extremely nice new Belgian patisserie recently opened in Ware? How about I treat you – or perhaps a bite of lunch at Hanbury Manor? Or just a stroll around Hatfield House? Audrey and Bert send their best – and I send my fondest.
Xander
Lady Lydia Fortescue read the letter twice. First with a smile, then with her customary wry consternation. A Belgian patisserie? In Ware? Was the boy forgetting Longbridge’s own Mrs Biggins whose scones and Victoria sponge and shortbread were legendary? Why buy foreign, dear God? And lunch at Hanbury Manor – preposterous! Rumour had it that New Money went there, and frightful Hen Party girls lolled around the place at weekends. Apparently, the hotel now had one of those gym places where men and women wore ridiculous get-ups and sweated and grunted alongside each other like toiling workhorses. A walk at Hatfield? During public opening hours? Paying for the privilege when she’d often been there as a guest of the Salisburys? And he’d written ‘Audrey and Bert’ – as if, had he just said ‘my parents’, she might be prone to have forgotten who they were.
Lydia laughed – a little staccato rush of air through her nostrils. Dear Xander. She would love to see the boy. How long had it been? A month? Six weeks? Atrocious! She walked from the drawing room through the staircase hall and across the entrance hallway over to the library. At the writing bureau, she sat and rummaged through the chaotic upper drawer for one of her heavy, watermarked, monogrammed cards.
Longbridge Hall
Long Dansbury
Hertfordshire
Wednesday
My dear Xander,
A treat to hear from you. Delighted to have provided an aesthetic backdrop to your athletic endeavours. I must decline the foreign bakery, and the public liability of Hanbury or Hatfield. But do come to tea at Longbridge, dear. Shall we say Saturday next – at half past three?
Yours,
Lydia F
Rifling through another drawer, becoming a little sidetracked by a clutch of old thank-you cards sent to her after some dinner party or other an age ago, Lydia found a sheet of second-class stamps. And then she came across the estimate for the roof repairs which she’d hidden on purpose months ago. She glanced at the columns of figures – the grand total – and cast her eyes to the heavens. Only, the ceiling was in the way and, taunting her, the yellow watermark ominously circumnav
igating the cracked plaster of the ceiling rose. She buried the paperwork in an ancient copy of Country Life and set off for the postbox outside the village shop.
As Lydia walked back, she chided herself for not taking the car because she was undeniably tired. And silly – it wasn’t as if anyone would judge her, not at her age, not that she was remotely concerned with what anyone thought anyway. The driveway seemed to be so long these days and when did it develop this incline? Underfoot felt hard, uneven, despite her wearing her most comfortable slip-ons. She laughed – recalling a time when she refused to even glance at comfortable shoes, let alone buy them and wear them out in public.
Finally, she was home. And then she realized she’d forgotten her keys. No use knocking, it was Mrs Biggins’ day off. She went to the side of the house knowing the back door was unlocked because it was so tricky to lock that they’d given up years ago and just used the bolts, but she doubted it was bolted because Mrs Biggins wasn’t tall enough to shunt the topmost one across, and both she and her housekeeper were now old enough to eschew using anything one had to climb upon in order to reach something.
There were seven stone steps leading down to the door and, through the frosted glass pane, Lydia could see the comforting welcome of the lights she’d accidentally left on in the house. Down one step, two – it was really quite chilly. Three, four, five. Finally! Six and –
She fell. She wasn’t sure why. It didn’t matter why. But her shoulder bore the brunt and she took a knock to the side of her face too. It hurt, of course it hurt. But more significant than the pain was the shock. She felt frightened and that appalled her.
Mrs Biggins, damn you and your day off! Lydia stayed still for a few minutes. Was anything broken? She’d fractured various bones in hunting accidents over the years – no, she didn’t think so. Still, she felt most unsure about picking herself up. Her cheekbone was throbbing and her fingers were numb.
Hullo? Is anyone home? What a stupid question – why would there be? Mrs Biggins was probably in Bishop’s Stortford with her daughter. Mercifully, the door was indeed unlocked and Lydia finally made her way shakily inside. She checked her reflection and noted a red mark on the apple of her cheek, growing darker. Frozen peas, she thought, going into the kitchen. And then the lights flickered. Oh dear God, no. Just wait until I have the wretched peas, would you! Flickered again. And then off.