Snowdrops on Rosemary Lane

by Ellen Berry

  ‘Oh, our guests come from all over the place,’ Lucy replied cheerfully. D’you know, some of them have even encountered granola!

  ‘Well, I never imagined we’d see Ivan living in a place like this,’ Nigel had announced, the implication being that Lucy had bound his beloved son tightly with rope and dragged him away from the city to play at country living with her.

  Of course, all of that was in the past now. Penny hadn’t looked angry, Lucy’s friends had reassured her; no one thought anything bad of her. How could they?

  Because she’d been the one to come up with the scheme of buying Rosemary Cottage and running a B&B. It had been her stupid dream, and if they’d stayed in Manchester, she would still have her husband and Marnie and Sam would have their dad.

  Although Penny and Nigel headed straight back to London after the service, Lucy’s mother had announced that she would stay on in Burley Bridge ‘for the time being’, to help out. Lucy’s father was sent home in the meantime to look after Tilly, their flatulent miniature schnauzer, and would return to pick up Anna when summoned.

  ‘I think you should all come back and stay with us,’ her mother remarked one evening, after the children had gone to bed. ‘I know you’re not up to moving, love, but we could find you somewhere eventually. And in the meantime, you could stay with us.’

  ‘Mum, I can’t make any decisions like that right now,’ Lucy replied.

  Her mother scanned the living room. There were no flowers now, not so much as a wisp of fresh greenery, and the numerous sympathy cards had been stashed away. They had been lovely to receive, and occasionally Lucy browsed through them, but she didn’t want them all lined up on show, like Christmas cards. ‘But this house is full of memories,’ Anna remarked.

  ‘We’ve only been here for a year,’ Lucy reminded her, although her mother was right; Ivan’s things were everywhere, as was the evidence of his hard work in finishing off the house.

  ‘We just wish you were closer to us.’

  ‘You’re only an hour away, Mum.’

  Anna pursed her lips. ‘You’re not going to do B&B anymore, are you, darling?’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ Lucy said firmly. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I mean, ever. You can’t, can you, on your own—’

  ‘Mum,’ she cut in, then paused. ‘Please, can we not discuss this right now? I’m not being evasive. I just don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  It was true; Lucy hadn’t even started to consider what her future might hold. It was only late January – a month since she’d lost Ivan. It seemed incomprehensible that a few weeks ago, she had been tossing crepes, whipping up berry compotes and arranging vases of lush, glossy foliage snipped from the garden. Surely it can’t have been her who’d been chatting so easily with guests as she’d brought out fresh coffee to the breakfast table?

  Back then, a glowing comment in the visitors’ book would make her heart soar:

  A lovely cottage, and Lucy was so welcoming!

  The best breakfast we can ever remember having at a B&B.

  Rosemary Cottage is our new fave in the area. We can’t wait to come back!

  Well, sorry, Lucy thought bitterly whenever she reread those words – but they would have to find somewhere else to stay for the time being. These days, Lucy was barely capable of boiling an egg, and more often than not, the kitchen smelt of burnt toast and stress.

  As the weeks went on, she barely ventured into the garden she’d loved so much last year. She just marched through it, head bent down, barely able to glance at the shed where Ivan and the children had whiled away so many hours together, or the wrought-iron gate he’d painted cornflower blue as a surprise, knowing it was her favourite colour. Rikke still popped in to see Lucy and the children, and brushed off Lucy’s apologies over being unable to offer her regular working hours at the moment. ‘That doesn’t matter,’ she’d said kindly. ‘I just like to see you all as friends. Please let me know if I can help.’

  Meanwhile, Lucy had put a blunt message on the B&B website explaining that they would be closed until further notice. Incredibly to her, Ivan had no life insurance – she felt guilty even thinking of such things – as he’d been notoriously disorganised when it came to admin and finance, those tedious matters that had never seemed important until now. Anna had expressed surprise too, but Lucy had dismissed the matter. She certainly wasn’t prepared to have a conversation that might have shown Ivan as even slightly thoughtless or irresponsible. After all, they had arranged the mortgage together, so it had been her responsibility too. Anyway, money wasn’t an issue, Anna kept insisting; she mustn’t worry about a thing.

  Gradually, Marnie and Sam started back at school – a couple of hours at first, then half-days, to ease them in gently. They seemed stunned and bewildered by what had happened, but would then amaze Lucy by playing happily together with Sam’s farm for an entire afternoon – the one they had built with Ivan in the shed, with the wooden enclosures, a farmhouse and a milking shed. It was almost as if, for the duration of a game, they were capable of forgetting what had happened. Then it would all come crashing down upon them and there’d be a squabble, and tears, and hails of tiny plastic animals flung at each other.

  At night, Sam started wetting the bed again (previously, there hadn’t been any mishaps since he was three) and Marnie would wake up crying about a robber in her room, some kind of animal’s paw at her bedroom window, all kinds of nightmarish stuff. They went through phases of being shouty and demanding, then barely speaking at all; of shunning the meals she’d cooked then nagging for sweets, crisps and copious amounts of junk food. Lucy found herself doing her utmost to accommodate their whims – because how could she possibly enforce petty rules when their dad had died?

  Once upon a time, she had gone to great lengths to conceal vegetables in their food. Now, if they begged for chips from the village chippie – well, they got chips. ‘It won’t do them any harm,’ Anna agreed. Lucy was grateful to her mother for just being there, happy to tackle the laundry or read bedtime stories when Lucy simply didn’t have the energy.

  But having her around had its downside too.

  It was now early February, and Lucy had turned forty-two, having allowed her mother to put on a small tea party to mark the occasion, even though the last thing she felt like doing was celebrating it (‘Please, love,’ Anna had cajoled her, ‘even if it’s only for the kids’). Now that was over, Lucy was starting to crave her own space. Any suggestions that Anna might like to think about going home soon were brushed off. ‘Oh, I’m quite happy here!’ she trilled, dusting and hoovering as if her life depended on it. An unstoppable force, Anna set about deep-cleaning and reorganising the kitchen without being asked, exclaiming, ‘There – that’s much better now.’ As if they had been living in squat-like conditions until Anna had arrived as a one-woman taskforce to sort things out.

  There’s an awful lot of guilt around death, Lucy noticed. Guilt about sometimes not answering the door when friends came around, because she just wasn’t in the mood for coffee and chat – and guilt about really wanting her mother to go home now.

  And guilt about Ivan, of course. Lucy wondered if that would ever go away.

  ‘There! Now you’ll be able to find things,’ Anna announced proudly one Friday evening when – once again, without prior consultation – she had pulled out everything from the linen cupboard and put it all back, according to her own, supposedly superior system.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ Lucy said flatly, blinking at the neatly ordered shelves.

  ‘See, I organised it in colours rather than—’

  ‘Yes, I can see that – it’s totally brilliant.’ Lucy felt a twinge in her jaw as her mother frowned at her.

  ‘I just thought it’d be easier if—’

  ‘Mum, it’s fine!’ Lucy snapped.

  Anna stared at her, her cheeks flushing pink. ‘Don’t you think it looks better this way?’

  ‘I, I don’t know. I mean, yes. It looks great.
I’m sorry, I just …’ I don’t give a stuff how our duvet covers and pillowcases are stored, she thought, sensing the tears welling up.

  Anna blinked at her. ‘I could put everything back the way it was, if you like?’

  Oh, for heaven’s sake! From then on, they stepped carefully around each other, with Anna asking permission before she did virtually anything: ‘I was going to peel some potatoes for dinner; is that okay, love?’ And: ‘Is it all right if I throw out this banana? I think it’s past its best …’

  It felt to Lucy as if the cottage’s walls were closing in on her, and late that Sunday night, she sat with her mother at the fireside and explained, ‘I think we just need a bit of time alone now, Mum. Me and the kids, I mean. We’re so grateful to you for spending all this time with us, but—’

  ‘You mean, you want me to go home?’ Anna’s finely plucked brows shot up.

  ‘I don’t mean it like that,’ Lucy said quickly. ‘It’s just – we’ll have to get used to managing on our own at some point, won’t we? And Dad must be really missing you …’

  ‘He’s fine! He’s probably enjoying the peace.’

  ‘I just feel sorry for him, though, being alone. It’s been over a month, Mum.’

  ‘He’s not alone, is he? He has Tilly …’ Anna picked at her dark red nail polish. ‘Is this because of the linen cupboard?’

  ‘No – of course it’s not,’ Lucy exclaimed. ‘No, Mum. You’ve been an amazing help to us …’

  ‘I just think I should be with you at the moment.’

  Lucy inhaled. ‘We’ll all be coming to you really soon, in the Easter holidays.’

  ‘Oh, I hope so,’ Anna said. ‘But that does seem like a terribly long time away …’

  ‘It’s only a few weeks.’ Lucy leaned over and squeezed her hand.

  ‘I’ll go tomorrow, then. I’ll call your dad and ask him to come.’

  ‘Okay, Mum.’ Lucy knew she had hurt her feelings, and she was being punished with a crashing wave of guilt.

  Anna looked up at her, her grey eyes moist. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve got on your nerves, love. I was only trying to help.’

  Chapter Eleven

  James had made a decision. Pretty soon, he would have to return to Liverpool to pick up his own life again. However, during the past few weeks it had become clear that Kenny needed some kind of help around the house – someone to keep an eye on him in between James’s visits, and report back if anything untoward was going on. The challenge now was to persuade his dad to accept any kind of assistance at all.

  James had already contacted social services to see if a carer could be provided. Well, of course they couldn’t. Even if Kenny had been diagnosed, it wasn’t as simple as a kindly person turning up and taking care of everything. He had also filled in those GP registration forms and returned to the doctor’s in Heathfield, where his buddy, the hostile receptionist, informed him that he still couldn’t register if he already had a GP in Liverpool (as if he was a two-timing rat, but with doctors). It was all he could do not to rip out his hair in frustration and shout, ‘Why are you being so obstructive? I am only trying to help my dad!’ But of course, she was just doing her job, and at least she hinted that a GP’s home visit might be possible, if his father were to consent to it.

  ‘How should I put that to him?’ James wanted to ask. ‘“Dad, would you be okay with the doctor coming to your house and performing various mind tests on you?”’ He had looked up the standard tests online and could imagine his father’s response when quizzed about who the Prime Minister was, or asked to draw a cube. He feared for any medical professional who expected any kind of compliance on that score. Meanwhile, since Christmas, James had been dashing back on the odd quick visit to Liverpool, to see Spike and squeeze in a bit of work whenever he could. But it was far from ideal and certainly wasn’t sustainable.

  Then a breakthrough happened, and Kenny finally agreed to James advertising for what they were loosely terming a ‘home help’. It felt like a small miracle. James had outlined his plan to try an old-school-style advert – more like a plea for help, if truth be known – in the general store’s window in the village, and Kenny was reasonably okay about this, ‘as long as it’s no more than a couple of hours a day. I s’pose the place has been getting a bit out of hand,’ he conceded. ‘But I don’t want someone constantly flitting about and bothering me. I’m not an invalid, okay?’

  As his father had also demanded to check the ad’s wording, James was approaching it with extreme care. On a small white card, he wrote: Daily home help/companion required for a local man in his 70s.

  Was that enough detail, he wondered? Deliberately, he had shied away from using the word ‘carer’, aware that it might suggest duties of a personal nature when really, he just needed someone to keep an eye on his dad, and to contact him immediately if he had been repeat-purchasing perishable food items or exhibiting any other worrying behaviours.

  Of course, what he really meant was: Spy wanted for confused and often ill-tempered old man. But obviously, that would have attracted zero applicants, and Kenny would have vetoed it anyway. Around 2 hours per day, James added, but can be flexible for the right person. In other words: please, for crying out loud, somebody help.

  The ad was duly placed in the shop window, and a handful of respondents got in touch. However, James had underestimated his father’s notoriety in the area. In a village like Burley Bridge, everyone seemed to know everyone, albeit vaguely – and once Kenny’s identity had been confirmed, the interested parties suddenly became rather less keen.

  ‘You’re Kenny Halsall’s son?’ remarked one woman with a deep, gravelly voice. ‘Moved away a long time ago, didn’t you?’

  ‘Erm, yes, but I’m back and forth a lot these days.’ He kept his tone bright to try and convey that this was an entirely convivial situation.

  ‘Um. Well, look – I was just curious about your ad, but I don’t think it’s the job for me.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know your dad,’ another, extremely well-spoken woman remarked. ‘We used to buy our Christmas trees from him. Still living up there by the woods, is he? Wow. Well, um, thanks for clarifying. I might get back in touch.’ James soon realised that this meant, ‘You will never hear from me again.’

  A couple of weeks came and went, and James suggested to his father that they should increase the proposed hourly rate to a level that would make it irresistible. Although Kenny had agreed to pay for the help, James was more than willing to chip in, if that would clinch it. Hell, he’d do whatever it took, he reasoned to himself. However, his father’s thriftiness was legendary, and he was adamant that the rate they were offering was fair. James should have known. Kenny hadn’t reacted well when he had inadvertently dumped a returnable lemonade bottle into the recycling bin instead of taking it back to the shop and reclaiming his father’s 10p. James hadn’t even realised that returning bottles was a thing people did anymore. He’d assumed it had gone the way of children reading The Beano, playing with catapults and stealing berries from Kitty Cartwright’s garden.

  Those were the days, he mused occasionally when he happened to glimpse the gable end of her cottage from the main road (as it was tucked away down a lane, he had no reason to actually pass it). When James looked back, his childhood had been mainly happy, despite what had happened to his family.

  He thought of it often, now he was back in the village so frequently, and could hardly believe he had once been so carefree.

  On a bitingly cold February afternoon, he found himself sitting across a table in the village pub discussing his father’s situation with an impressively confident Danish woman who happened to have been working for the family who now lived in Rosemary Cottage.

  ‘I started helping out with the children,’ Rikke said, ‘when the dad was working away during the week. They were running it as a B&B.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ James said. ‘I noticed the sign by the garden wall.’

  Rikke nodded. ‘Only …’ She winced. �
�The dad was killed in a road accident just before Christmas. Maybe you heard about that?’

  ‘No.’ James shook his head and frowned. ‘No, I didn’t. I’ve been pretty much wrapped up with Dad, really. But, God – that’s terrible.’

  ‘Lately, I’ve just been visiting and keeping in touch.’ She paused and sipped her tomato juice. ‘I do a few shifts a week in Della’s bookshop,’ she added. ‘Do you know Della?’

  ‘Um, yes, a little …’ James only knew of her, really, but he didn’t want to seem totally oblivious to village life. He was aware that she was one of the three Cartwright kids – Kitty’s children – but she was older than him, and their paths hadn’t really crossed.

  ‘And I teach swimming at the pool in Heathfield,’ Rikke went on, ‘and do the occasional wedding too.’ She beamed a bright, white smile. ‘I play the harp,’ she added. ‘Do you know Lorna and Rory Macklin – she works at the hair salon, and he helps Len at the garage …’

  ‘Er, I think so,’ he fibbed.

  ‘Well, I played at their wedding.’

  ‘This is all very impressive,’ James said, wondering how on earth this young woman had become so entrenched in village life when these days, he felt quite out of touch with the place. Naturally, people recognised him from time to time, and said hello when he was out and about in the village. However, the place had changed dramatically and there were lots of new faces too.

  ‘I suppose none of that’s terribly relevant,’ Rikke went on, ‘to the kind of job you’re looking to fill. But I’m hard-working, I drive and I’m good with people.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ James said.

  ‘If you need references, I could ask Della at the shop. It might not be the right time to talk to Lucy at Rosemary Cottage but—’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not,’ James said quickly. In fact, Rikke seemed so infinitely capable that he really wanted to say, ‘The job’s yours,’ without further questioning. However, sensing that he should at least find out a little more about her, he went to fetch more drinks from the bar – he was sticking to Coke – and then pressed on.