by Ellen Berry
‘Are you sure you have time to take on another regular job?’ he asked. ‘I’m looking for a visit every weekday, and on occasional weekends too, if I can’t manage to get over and see Dad.’
‘I prefer my life to be busy,’ she said, ‘and I like a lot of variety rather than being tied to one thing.’
‘D’you live locally?’ he asked.
‘Couple of miles outside the village. I was married,’ she added, which astounded him – although why shouldn’t she have been? He already knew she was twenty-nine, although with her fresh, pink-cheeked complexion, she looked even younger. ‘It didn’t work out,’ she continued, ‘but I liked it so much here I decided to stay. It’s so friendly, so warm.’
‘It is, yes,’ he said. ‘So, um, how about meeting my dad and seeing how you get along?’
‘I’d love to,’ she said.
Happily, she was still as keen after he had admitted that his father could be ‘challenging’, and had told her about the sandwich hoard. It seemed that nothing fazed her as he drove them up to his father’s house.
He marvelled at how Rikke greeted him in such a cheery manner that Kenny couldn’t help but be charmed by her. He was astounded at how friendly she was to his dad’s cats, even though they had never struck James as particularly amenable to humans or even to each other. Yet there she sat in his father’s overstuffed living room, happily chit-chatting with Kenny, with Horace plonked on her lap like a hairy ginger cushion, and seemingly not minding when James’s father asked, ‘So is it true your Danish sandwiches never have tops on? Isn’t that a bit of a rip-off?’
James felt his back teeth jamming together. ‘It’s not compulsory,’ she said with a smile, ‘but, you know, they are more about the filling than the bread. I could make some for you, if you’d like to try them?’
‘Is it all cold pickled fish?’ Kenny asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously, although James could tell he was enjoying himself now.
‘Again, it’s not compulsory, Mr Halsall,’ Rikke replied.
‘Oh, call me Kenny—’
Rikke smiled warmly. ‘Yes, herring is pretty popular. That and rye bread.’
‘Actually, I do enjoy a herring,’ Kenny conceded, and so the conversation turned to favoured Danish fare. Soon Rikke was promising to bring Kenny some of her own salt-cured salmon, and by the time they said goodbye, it had been agreed that she would start the following week when James returned to Liverpool.
As he drove her home, she chatted happily about the children at Rosemary Cottage. ‘They’re such a joy,’ she said, ‘even after everything they’ve been through. It’s incredible how much children can cope with – but then, their mum’s amazing too.’
‘It must’ve been dreadful for all of them,’ James murmured, wondering why on earth he’d been feeling as if the weight of the world had been pressing down on his shoulders when others had it so much worse. Yes, he still had to somehow persuade his father to see his GP or a specialist, and deal with his denial – or even wrath – if he was diagnosed with something like dementia. And God knows what else they would face, further down the line. But for now, at least, his dad would be looked after.
James glanced at Rikke as the narrow lane snaked down towards the village. ‘So, are you absolutely sure about taking this on?’ he asked. ‘Working for my father, I mean?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied. ‘He’s a lovely man.’
James couldn’t help chuckling at that. ‘I’m glad you two got along. He can be, you know, a little tricky.’
‘It’ll be fine – honestly,’ she said firmly, ‘and, like you said, you’re only a text or a phone call away.’
He nodded, realising that he was no longer annoyed that his brother had swished off to some Alpine resort with a mysterious woman. Perhaps it was for the best, in that it had highlighted how urgent the situation here had become. Anyway, Rikke Svendsen would be a match for his father, he was sure of it. Kenny had actually seemed keen to impress her, and James had barely been able to keep a straight face as the two of them had rattled on about the delights of the Danish smorgasbord. His father was terribly set in his dietary ways, and James knew for a fact that he detested pickled fish.
Chapter Twelve
During those few months last year, Lucy had become used to managing family life by herself while Ivan worked in Manchester. However, being entirely alone was a different matter. These days the house could feel stifling, and she was immensely grateful whenever Marnie and Sam were whisked off for an outing or playdate for a few hours. It wasn’t that she was trying to palm them off. However, her energies were severely diminished and she hated to think of them missing out. Three months on from the accident, Lucy was still overwhelmed by the kindness of her friends in the village.
There had been a monumental ‘rallying round’ with a slew of provisions brought to her door: curries and casseroles, soups and risottos and towering Victoria sponges that even the children had struggled to plough through. There were foil-covered pies and a tsunami of Tupperware. Lucy didn’t like to admit that, most days, all she could manage were a few slices of toast. She was aware of the difference between good and bad weight loss, and her new, angular frame was a result of the latter. She was pale and gaunt, her long dark hair drab, her eyes dull and haunted. However, after weeks of insomnia at least she was finally managing to fall into a deep, exhausted sleep each night, and wake when the new day came rather than at something like four a.m.
Homework was now being done and school-related events attended once more. Lucy had emerged from what had felt like madness, when she could barely get it together to dress herself, and was now beginning to at least function on a basic, day-to-day level. After all, everyone needed fresh milk and clean clothes, and she started to think: of course, Ivan would want her to be on top of things, to be clean and appropriately dressed and not slumped in a puddle of wine.
As daffodils sprang into life in her garden, she started to venture out and cut some to bring a splash of brightness inside. When Della happened to mention that her bookshop’s window could do with a refresh, Lucy offered to create a display for her. The resulting confection of cherry blossom, narcissi and delicate greenery lifted Lucy’s spirits a little every time she walked past the shop.
As the days warmed and lengthened, Sam and Marnie seemed to have become a little more settled too. Of course, they still had their moments; on several occasions Lucy had had to rush to school to pick up one – or both – of them when they had become inconsolable or, more likely, developed a sudden and apparently symptomless illness, requiring cuddles and buttered crumpets at home. Mealtimes could still be difficult, as that was when they tended to bicker, and every nuance of their moods was clearly on display.
One particularly fraught tea time, some insignificant spat saw Sam grabbing the glass bottle of ketchup and flinging it across the kitchen where it smashed into the fridge door before shattering all over the floor. The resulting mess seemed to shock him as much as it did Lucy and his sister. He sobbed fervently and demanded to be allowed to clear it all up himself, becoming even more distraught when Lucy wouldn’t let him handle the broken glass. So, yes, there were occasional dramas – but, for the most part, the three of them seemed to be coping. The kitchen calendar was once again smattered with reminders for after-school gymnastics in the village hall, plus football, Brownies and the occasional party and school trip.
Ivan had gone, but birthdays still happened and, now and again, Lucy found herself having to choose a present for a seven-year-old who wasn’t hers. Clearly, her instincts on such matters were somewhat impaired these days, and she would stare at the racks of games and gizmos in her favoured toyshop in Heathfield, like someone who was entirely unfamiliar with children and the stuff they enjoyed. In fear of making a terrible gaffe, she took to upscaling her level of gift-giving and, on more than one occasion, was aware of the recipient’s look of startled delight when they unwrapped the kind of Lego kit that might normally be given by grandparen
ts at Christmas.
‘Lucy, that’s way too generous!’ was uttered by a shocked parent on more than one occasion.
Some days she even managed to force herself to social events in the village. There was the odd barbecue and party, a PTA fundraiser and a gathering of the primary school mums in the pub. Occasionally, when Lucy couldn’t face going out, one of her friends would send a thoughtful text, asking if she’d like them to pop round for coffee and a chat.
Carys worked part-time at an estate agent’s in Heathfield, and on the days she was at home she and Lucy fell into a pattern of spending time together. They had become friends almost instantly when they’d first met at the school gates; it had always amused Ivan how easily Lucy chatted to strangers. However, since his death they had become even closer. They would walk Bramble, Carys’s spaniel, up in the hills, or hang out in her kitchen together. She lived in an old stone cottage on the edge of the village that reminded Lucy a little of her great-aunt and uncle’s place – except, whereas George and Babs’s house had been crammed with a lifetime’s worth of porcelain ornaments, Carys’s was pleasingly clutter-free.
‘It’s the only way I can function,’ she’d told Lucy, the first time she’d gone round there, when Ivan was still alive. ‘Can you imagine how it’d be, with just me and the kids if I let things get out of control?’ It had occurred to Lucy that Noah and Amber were incredibly grown up and helpful for their ages. Even at five and seven they had been making their own beds, putting toys away and – mind-bogglingly – washing up without flooding the kitchen. Lucy had always adopted an ‘easier to do it myself’ approach, which she was starting to regret. It was just the three of them now, and they would need to pull together somehow. She found herself trying to almost inhale the serenity of Carys’s surroundings and take it back home with her.
In contrast, Rosemary Cottage now seemed oppressive, and the thought of sorting through Ivan’s possessions was still too awful for Lucy to contemplate. An entire wardrobe and chest of drawers were still full of his clothes. If she couldn’t bring herself to send so much as his raggedy old paperback thrillers to charity, how would she deal with the grey cable-knit sweater that hung over the back of a chair in their bedroom, and still smelt of his skin? What about his wellies that sat at the back door, his waxed jacket that hung from a hook alongside the children’s coats, and his toiletries in the bathroom?
Everything was there, just as he’d left it. His car had been written off, so that was no longer around, but the lawnmower felt as if it had been ‘his’, and to her shame, Lucy had never attempted to get the thing started. It was unwieldy and ancient, and had been here when they’d bought the house, strewn with cobwebs and smattered with rust. Ivan had conceded that it was ‘bloody temperamental, but once it’s going it’s fantastic. It’ll probably outlive us all.’
One bright, sunny Sunday at the end of March, Lucy ventured out to the ramshackle wooden garage, which they used only to store tools, camping furniture and the mower. As spring had been particularly warm and showery so far, the lawn was already crying out for its first cut. Lucy knew it didn’t matter really, and that no one would judge her if the garden looked a little unruly this year. It wasn’t even visible from the main road. However, the lawn issue had started to build in her mind as something she must attend to without delay, in order to prove something – she wasn’t entirely sure what that was – to herself.
As Rikke had taken the children out on a walk, it was the ideal opportunity to do it. She dragged the contraption out onto the lawn and swore as she yanked its starter cable. Of course nothing happened. She tugged on it several more times, then stood back and glared at the mower as if it were deliberately refusing to cooperate with her.
‘Bloody useless thing,’ she muttered, pushing a lank strand of dark hair from her face. She pulled the cable again and gave the mower a sharp kick when it failed to respond, then realised she was being watched.
Her neighbour Irene had stopped at the garden gate. Lucy leapt away from the mower as if it were a small animal she’d been caught abusing. ‘Hi, Irene!’ she chirped with a quick wave. These days, Lucy was no longer adept at making casual chit-chat, especially when caught unawares. She preferred at least twenty-four hours’ notice before being expected to have a proper adult conversation with anyone.
‘Hi, love,’ Irene said with a kind smile. ‘Need some help with that?’
‘Oh, no, it’s fine, thanks …’
Irene stood there at the gate, watching her. Lucy sensed her own smile setting as she willed her neighbour to leave her alone and move on, even though she often gave Sam and Marnie free sweets in her shop and had been one of the prime movers in the bring-hot-food-to-Lucy movement, supplying weekly shepherd’s pies throughout January. Irene was also one of those sturdy rural women who could probably push-start a tractor if required – but still, Lucy would not ask for help.
‘Those old mowers are a real bugger to get going,’ she remarked.
‘Yes, they are,’ Lucy said with a bemused eye-roll, as if they were discussing an endearingly headstrong toddler.
‘You can borrow mine if you like,’ she added, and now Lucy was reminded of Ivan’s remark: I’m sure they’re keeping a dossier about us, Luce. They seem terribly interested in what we’re up to …
‘I’ll be fine with this one, thanks,’ Lucy said, more firmly now.
‘Mine’s very lightweight. It’s as easy as dragging a carpet sweeper around.’
‘A carpet sweeper?’ Lucy repeated, thinking for a moment that she meant a person – like a road sweeper, but for indoors.
Irene jerked an arm back and forth like a piston, to mime hoovering. ‘You know – those manual vacuum things. Don’t think I’ve seen one for years, mind you. I wonder why they went out of favour when they’re so easy and you don’t have to plug them in?’
What on earth was she blathering on about?
‘Anyway,’ Irene concluded, crossing her arms across her grey polo-necked sweater, ‘my little mower’s no more bother than that.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Lucy said, adding, ‘’S’cuse me, Irene – but I’ve got to dash in. I’ve left something bubbling away on the hob.’
‘Oh, don’t let me keep you.’ Lucy flashed another quick grin as she strode purposefully back into the house, finding herself in the ridiculous position of having to skulk about indoors now, until she could safely assume that Irene had moved on.
A few minutes later, back at the lawnmower, she told herself sternly that Ivan wasn’t going to materialise magically; she would just have to man up and deal with this ruddy thing by herself.
She pulled the cord again, then remembered him once mentioning the throttle and wondered where the hell that was. Could there be an instruction book kicking about in the garage? She had a quick look, but of course there wasn’t; this wasn’t a newly bought Argos sandwich toaster but a hulking contraption built in something like 1952. Back in the garden she wondered if in fact there was any petrol in it – or maybe it was horse powered? She screwed off a grubby plastic cap and put her eye up against it, but there was no way of telling what was in there, if anything at all. She replaced the cap and rubbed at her face, the task of mowing the lawn feeling insurmountable now to the point where she wondered if, actually, she would be better hacking at it with shears.
Why had she allowed Ivan to take charge of so many of the ‘man jobs’ about the place? As well as mowing the lawn he’d maintained both of their cars and cut the hedge with his big, manly trimmer. He’d been the one to hang pictures, put up shelves, fix bicycle punctures and assemble flat-pack furniture with minimal fuss: basically, anything that required a tool rather than a utensil. Since she’d met him, Lucy couldn’t remember one occasion when she had used a screwdriver, apart from to get the back off the controller for Sam’s toy helicopter when the batteries needed to be changed. Even then, a tiny screw had pinged off to be lost forever.
It was appalling, really, how she had allowed this to
happen, even though she had been perfectly capable of tackling the odd home maintenance job when she’d been single. She had unblocked several U-bends and fixed a washing machine by accessing its inner workings and fishing out a tangle of bra underwires. But then she’d met Ivan, and unwittingly turned into a feeble lady who couldn’t contemplate so much as changing the head on her electric toothbrush without bleating for assistance from her strong and capable male. Until she’d lost him, it had never occurred to Lucy how traditional their roles had become. What kind of example was she setting for her own daughter? Now, as she stood there helplessly in her garden, Lucy felt at once abandoned by her husband – and furious with herself.
She was furious with Ivan, too, because surely, the accident would never have happened if he’d been driving with due care and attention that wet December night? Driving was one area where she had retained control in their relationship. She preferred being behind the wheel rather than sitting there as a passenger, partly due to Ivan’s tendency to speed, which had always made her nervous. And she was pretty certain he’d have been driving too fast that Friday evening, having just finished work for the festive period. He’d have been eager to get home to her and the kids, to kick off his shoes, crack open the wine and start his holidays. Or would he? Perhaps he’d had something else on his mind, some kind of distraction that had caused him to take that bend in the road too fast?
The fact that Ivan hadn’t been taking his normal route home was something that still niggled Lucy. For those first few weeks, it been on her mind pretty much constantly, and once the almighty shock and devastation had flattened out into a plateau of grief, she had been determined to find out why he’d been going that way. It didn’t seem as if there had been any road closures or detours that night. She had spent hours online, studying local news reports, and had even phoned the police and the council’s highways department to check. Still no explanation. So where had Ivan been going when, only that lunchtime, he had called from his Manchester office to say how desperate he’d been to finish work and hurry home?