Snowdrops on Rosemary Lane

by Ellen Berry

  ‘Don’t worry about that. He was just upset.’ There was still a briskness to her tone, but at least they were communicating more normally.

  They said goodnight, and Lucy watched TV for an hour or so but couldn’t settle to anything. She hardly watched it at all these days. She and Ivan had had their shows they loved, the off-beat comedies and Scandi dramas, but she would never have dreamed of continuing to watch them on her own. She would never know how these lengthy dramas would end and she no longer cared. There were so many activities she associated with Ivan; even watching TV came under that category. Not walking, though, or collecting all those natural things, the bits of bark and dried berries and feathers. That was something she and the children had learned to love without him. Damn her mother, throwing away Sam’s museum …

  Guilt needled at her again, and she quickly pushed it away.

  At eleven-thirty Lucy made a mug of tea and took it upstairs, the Spike issue turning over in her mind. She would love to meet him, and in fact she was intrigued as to how he and her children would get along. She knew James brought him over occasionally to see his granddad, but she’d either been busy, or away at her parents’, on his last couple of visits. But James had mooted that he’d like her to meet him, and she hoped it would happen soon.

  All was quiet as Lucy made her way along the landing to the main bathroom. As she passed Sam’s room, she heard Noah’s voice: ‘What d’you think’ll happen to that dead mouse?’

  ‘It’ll rot away, I ’spose,’ Sam replied.

  Lucy looked down. A chink of light shone from beneath the bedroom door; torches were on, even though the boys had been asked to go to sleep an hour ago. But they were having a sleepover, and only talking in murmurs – her guests were at the other end of the house – so she wasn’t going to nag at them now.

  ‘Yeah,’ Noah said. ‘The flesh’ll decay – the fur and insides and all that. Bugs’ll eat it. That’s what happened to Benjy before we got Bramble. He got buried in the garden and rotted away.’

  ‘Aw,’ Sam murmured.

  ‘It’s natural,’ Noah went on. ‘They go back into the ground and that helps other things grow, like fertiliser. When we’d buried Benjy I wanted to see what he was like after, I dunno, a year or something. But Mum said no, he’d just be a skeleton and it’d be horrible.’ The boys fell silent. Lucy was standing there with a hand on the bathroom door handle, knowing she shouldn’t be listening in.

  Then: ‘Did your dad get buried?’

  Oh, Christ …

  ‘No, he wasn’t buried,’ Sam replied carefully. ‘He was cremated.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Her back teeth were jammed together now, and she felt oddly weightless.

  ‘It means the person gets burned,’ Sam said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Oh.’ A pause while Noah digested this. ‘D’you think that’s better?’

  ‘Better than what?’

  ‘Being buried.’

  ‘Um …’ Another lull. ‘I think cremation’s better,’ Sam said finally, ‘’cause if you’re buried you need space for the coffin, and if you’re cremated you turn into dust that goes in a little pot.’

  Lucy braced herself for the next question, which she was certain would be: Is your dad in a little pot? Yes, he was – on a shelf in her bedroom. But it wasn’t.

  ‘Has your mum got a boyfriend?’ Noah asked.

  She inhaled sharply and touched her face. Her cheek felt warm and tight from the sun; she’d been so busy ensuring that the kids applied sunscreen, she’d forgotten to put any on herself.

  ‘Uh?’ Sam sounded surprised.

  ‘The man who helped us bury the mouse. Is that her boyfriend?’

  Lucy placed a hand on the cold porcelain bathroom door handle. It was clearly an innocent line of questioning, with no other intent than mild curiosity. She knew what kids were like. But was that what people thought of her – that she and James were more than platonic friends? When her mother had hinted at the idea, she’d convinced herself that no one else would see it that way. But perhaps they did. Maybe gossip was flying around: Her husband’s only been gone for eighteen months and she’s seeing someone already …

  Was she being talked about like this – not by Carys, or the other mums she knew well, but by peripheral people? This was a village, after all, and she was a single woman now, and James was a single man. People liked to talk, and it was likely that they had put two and two together …

  ‘I’m sure they’re keeping a dossier on us, Luce,’ Ivan had said once. ‘They seem terribly interested in what we’re up to around here.’ An hour ago she’d felt happy that Marnie’s party had gone so well, and lucky to have so many lovely supportive friends, and now she felt … well, Lucy didn’t know what she felt as she shut the bathroom door and perched on the edge of the bath.

  Putting her head in her hands, she groaned audibly as she exhaled. She didn’t hear Sam say, ‘Don’t be stupid, Noah. That really is stupid. James isn’t her boyfriend – he’s just her friend.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘Could we meet up to go over your thoughts please, Lucy?’ It was just before dinner on a rain-lashed Monday, and Phyllida was on the phone. Lucy had been trying to catch up with her accounts and updates to the B&B website. Josh, the boy who had mocked Sam’s museum, now seemed to be firmly in favour as he was here again, hammering away on an old xylophone the boys had found in a box of forgotten toys that hadn’t seen the light of day since they’d moved here.

  ‘Of course, Phyllida,’ Lucy replied, clicking into what she hoped was a professional tone.

  ‘It would be helpful to know your colour scheme so we can tie in the table settings and canapés, you know?’

  Bang-bang went the wooden hammer on the battered old instrument. At eight years old, Sam had mostly passed the stage of wanting to make a god-awful racket just for the hell of it. Shouldn’t Josh be past that too? ‘Josh, please,’ she said with a quick smile. ‘D’you mind …’

  As he carried on bashing, Lucy marched out with the phone to the hall. ‘Sorry. Summer holidays,’ she said wryly.

  ‘Ha, yes …’

  ‘Erm, I can come over to talk things through,’ Lucy added, ‘no problem.’

  ‘Great,’ Phyllida said briskly. ‘I wanted to mention, the wedding is being featured in Country Style magazine so they’ll be sending a photographer along.’

  Holy cow. ‘Oh, that’s lovely.’

  ‘Not that I want you to feel pressurised,’ Phyllida chuckled. ‘We’re a family who doesn’t like fuss.’ Lucy grimaced. She had already gathered that ‘doesn’t like fuss’ meant ‘we expect a tremendous palaver’. ‘Could you pop over in the morning?’ Phyllida asked. ‘My daughter and her fiancé are visiting to go through the last-minute arrangements and I know they’d love to talk things over with you.’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine …’

  ‘Great. So, we’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early. We’re so looking forward to seeing your ideas!’ With that, Phyllida rang off.

  That evening, with panic mounting now, Lucy combed her own garden, taking photographs, making notes and pulling together a doable plan in her mind. She had already assessed the land behind Irene’s house, and while there were abundant shrubs there, she realised now that she would have to venture further afield in order to amass enough fresh greenery that was in peak condition to combine with her own garden flowers.

  She thought about calling James to ask if it would be okay to venture onto his father’s land and see what she could find in the woods. He’d fallen into a habit of texting to let her know when he would next be visiting his father, and she loved that. She found him so easy to be with. However, now she looked down at the phone in her hand, and instead of texting him, she called Rikke to ask if she could look after the children for an hour or so next morning. Arrangements made, she pushed her phone back into her bag and decided to leave it for now.

  Perhaps she had been seeing too much of James lately. If a
visiting eight-year-old boy had imagined that there might be something between them, then it was probably better to give each other some space. After all, the last thing she wanted was for Marnie and Sam to worry, even for an instant, that she would ever consider replacing their dad.

  Next morning Phyllida was at the front door of Fordell House before Lucy had even knocked. She beckoned her in, calling out, ‘Emma, our florist is here!’

  ‘Oh, hello there,’ beamed the reed-slim blonde woman in a pink sweater and jeans as she trotted downstairs. She was closely followed by a young man – presumably her fiancé – in a pale denim shirt, black jeans and sunglasses.

  ‘Lucy, this is Emma and Dylan,’ Phyllida announced, then cried out: ‘Davide!’ In rushed the short, slim man with a neat beard whom Lucy had met on her last visit. ‘Davide, I think we’re ready for our coffees now,’ Phyllida added with a quick smile.

  Lucy watched the butler scuttling off in his russet corduroys and a moss-coloured sweater, his polished shoes clacking against the wooden floor. Phyllida led them all to the drawing room where they had discussed wedding plans on her first visit. He returned within minutes with a tray laden with tiny pastries and coffee for the four of them. ‘Do tuck in,’ Phyllida said as a hovering Davide poured the coffees. ‘Don’t we have any of those pains au chocolat?’ she asked with a small frown. ‘You know Emma loves them.’

  ‘Mum, it’s fine,’ Emma said, with the kind of impatience Lucy recognised from her recent exchanges with her own mother. She smiled apologetically at Lucy. ‘Thanks so much for coming out here today. I’m sure you’re terribly busy. We could have discussed it by phone.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ Lucy said quickly, and they all tucked into the pastries as Lucy started to outline her plans. When they’d finished, and everything had been whisked away by Davide – Lucy was the only one to thank him, which she did profusely – she brought out her sketchbook and showed Emma and Dylan her copious ideas.

  ‘So, what I like to do at this time of year is a mixture of fresh garden flowers,’ she explained. ‘I’m thinking of freesias, hollyhocks, sweetpeas, that kind of thing. Fresh, pretty colours with lots of greenery to offset them. It’ll all look quite loose and cottagey, nothing too structured.’

  Emma nodded politely, but her hand had wound around Dylan’s – he was jammed up close at her side – and Lucy suspected that perhaps this couple, whom she guessed were in their early thirties, weren’t terribly interested in the specifics of what she planned to do.

  ‘It all sounds great,’ she said in a whisper when her mother had disappeared from the room, ‘and we’re happy for you to do whatever you think best.’ Emma glanced at Dylan and smiled. ‘But to be honest, this wedding is actually Mum’s project and we decided to just let her run with it. Left to us, we’d have had it in a pie and mash shop in Hackney.’

  The couple laughed, and Lucy sensed herself relaxing finally. ‘But don’t tell Phyllida,’ Dylan offered, finally removing his shades and pulling a mock-horrified face. He was classically handsome with sculpted cheekbones and clear blue eyes edged by long dark lashes.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Lucy said with a grin.

  ‘Also, you must come to the wedding,’ Emma added, touching her hand.

  ‘Oh, um – you really don’t need to ask me,’ she said hastily. ‘I’m very happy to put everything in place and then leave …’

  ‘No, we’d really love you to come,’ Emma insisted. ‘Lots of people from the village are invited. We just want to make it a fun event for everyone.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure?’ Lucy asked hesitantly. Christ – she wasn’t sure if she was up to attending a wedding yet. Managing run-of-the-mill social occasions had been enough of a challenge over the past eighteen months.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Emma said. ‘D’you have children?’

  ‘Yes, er – two.’

  ‘Bring them along too. There’ll be lots of kids there. Bring your partner too—’

  ‘Um, it’s just me actually,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Bring a friend, then.’ Emma beamed at her. ‘Please, it’s just a buffet, very informal, and lots of people from the village are coming. You’ll know them, I’m sure.’ She looked at Dylan. ‘We can’t believe that magazine photographer’s coming.’

  Dylan shuddered dramatically. ‘Nothing to do with me!’

  ‘Oh, you know what Mum’s like—’ Emma broke off as Phyllida reappeared.

  ‘I told Davide that next time we must have those pains au chocolat.’

  ‘Please stop going on about them,’ Emma said quickly. ‘Poor Davide.’

  ‘Poor Davide?’ Phyllida laughed hollowly, then turned to the kitchen and called out: ‘Davide, darling! Come here please.’

  Lucy’s mouth fell open as he hurried back into the room. ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘Please tell Emma where we’re going for your birthday next weekend.’

  He beamed at her – this dapper, much younger Frenchman who, Lucy could see it now, clearly adored her. ‘We are going to Vienna for coffee and cakes.’

  Phyllida smiled and reached out to squeeze his hand – but still he didn’t sit down and join the gathering. Perhaps he wasn’t allowed, Lucy mused.

  ‘We’re very much looking forward to it, aren’t we?’ she asked, as if he were a child.

  ‘Yes, darling,’ he said, and in a gesture that seemed so sweet and affectionate, he reached out and smoothed down a stray strand of Phyllida’s fine silvery hair. The older woman smiled too, despite his faux pas with the pastries, and it occurred to Lucy that before Ivan died, she might not have even registered such a tiny thing. But it occurred to her now that Ivan used to do things like that all the time: touching her hair and face, picking a hair off her sweater or wandering over and rubbing her shoulders gently while she read.

  She pushed the memories away quickly, thanking Emma and Dylan again for the wedding invitation – hoping it sounded as if she was thrilled to be asked – and wondered what the heck she was thinking, agreeing to take this on when her focus should be on getting through the days, one at a time, keeping family life intact.

  But still, she’d done it now.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  So much for creating a little distance between her and James. Pressure was mounting to start assembling her wedding displays, and when he dropped by next day, en route to his dad’s, it would have felt ridiculous not to invite him in for a coffee.

  ‘Did you get my text yesterday?’ he asked as she filled his mug. ‘I didn’t want to pester you but I was worried you weren’t okay.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry, I forgot to reply,’ she said vaguely.

  She filled his mug and he perched on the edge of the kitchen table. ‘So, how’re you getting on with those wedding flowers?’ Of course, as he and Kenny were attending as guests, James was well aware of her pressing deadline.

  Lucy pulled a face. ‘I have to admit, it feels like a heck of a lot to pull together.’

  ‘Can I help at all?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so …’

  James laughed, his dark eyes sparkling. ‘I didn’t mean with the actual arranging, though I guess I could follow instructions—’

  ‘Actually, you could help,’ Lucy cut in, aware of a sense of relief now. ‘Would you mind asking your dad if it’d be okay to take some bits and pieces from the woods? I wouldn’t decimate it, just a few sprigs …’

  James was beaming now. ‘Lucy, you could fill your car ten times over with what you plundered from there and no one would notice. Just let me know when’s a good time and I’ll meet you, okay?’

  So, next morning, after dropping off the children at holiday club, Lucy drove towards James’s father’s forest. The narrow lane climbed steeply away from the village, cutting through a dense wood before emerging again into open fields. She pulled up at the tumbledown hut at the roadside where James was waiting for her. ‘Hi,’ he said, greeting her with a brief hug.

  ‘Hi.�
�� She smiled. ‘Thanks for doing this. I hope it’s not terribly dull for you.’

  ‘What else d’you think I’d be doing?’ he asked. ‘No, actually I’ve always loved it around here. The woods, I mean. This was the centre of Dad’s Christmas tree empire, believe it or not.’

  ‘Really?’ She looked around at the tall pines that bordered both sides of the road, and the badly rotting shed. ‘So, this was your shop?’

  He nodded. ‘It didn’t look much better then than it does now, but no one seemed to care about that. C’mon – if we head through the forest there’s a clearing. I think you’ll find what you need there.’

  Lucy looked at James. He was all rangy and tanned in a roomy grey T-shirt, faded jeans and battered old walking boots. As he marched on it became clear that he knew these woods as if they were part of him. ‘Was your dad’s business really successful?’ she asked as they followed a shady path through the trees.

  ‘Yes, amazingly,’ he replied. ‘It was the only thing he did that ever made decent money and he took it pretty seriously – by his standards, anyway. Of course, at thirteen years old I thought I knew much better than he did. One time, I persuaded him to drive me and my brother to a couple of garden centres so we could assess the competition.’ He chuckled. ‘I thought it might persuade him that we could up our game a bit.’

  Lucy smiled. She had already decided she had over-reacted to Noah questioning Sam about her relationship to James, and to her mother’s quizzings too. It had just been a little too much, too close together, and it had touched a nerve. But since when had she based her life choices on what other people thought of her?

  ‘So, what did you have in mind?’ she asked. ‘For your dad’s business, I mean?’

  ‘Oh, you know – I thought we could build a shop, sell all kinds of Christmas paraphernalia seeing as people were coming from all over to buy our trees anyway.’ He grinned at her. ‘I had an idea that we might be a sort of festive superstore.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with ambition. So what happened?’ They had emerged from the woods into a wide clearing, filled with clear sunshine on this cool, bright morning. It was the kind of secret glade she’d have delighted in finding as a child.