I sidle to the edge of the window and put my eye close to the gauzy folds of the net curtains, watching. It’s the big black car, almost too wide for our lane but he still wiggles it round so the passenger side is closest to the kerb and Mum’s got less far to dash in the rain. Even so, he gets out and comes round, holding up a golf umbrella. I can’t see anything except the bottoms of black jeans, rolled up, and green bee-bobs, the same as mine but a different colour.
Mum gets out, scrambling and awkward, trying to put her own scootery wee brolly up as she digs around for her keys. They disappear from view under the windowsill as they come up the path, him taking long strides, ignoring the way the puddles on our crazy-paving splash up the sides of his ankles. I lean forward until my head’s against the window, sliding a bit on the net. Lynsey’s shell-covered crap shifts and I move back. She’s commandeered the whole windowsill and filled it with bowls and frames and ashtrays, all dipped in Polyfilla and studded with shells from the beach. They crumble in the damp and she’s always having to superglue the shells back on, so they get uglier and uglier. And they’re hideous to start with. I’ve given up arguing about them.
From downstairs I can hear the front door opening and the sound of Mum making a fuss about something. She’s probably offering tea and biscuits or maybe even petrol money. I wouldn’t put it past her. I can’t pick out the words as he answers but I can tell from his tone he’s saying no, trying to get away.
‘Oh, Mum,’ I say, under my breath.
‘Carmen!’ Her voice comes up the stairs like a squawk.
I freeze, my heart thumping. No way I’m going down there, not only revealing my party outfit but letting him see my hair in a scrunchie too. She won’t come up, will she? She won’t send him up? No, she wouldn’t send him up. We’re not allowed boys in our bedroom.
The front door’s opening again.
‘No, no, not at all.’ His voice is louder now as he tries to get out of Mum’s clutches. There’s a laugh in it somewhere and I can imagine him telling the rest of them when he gets home and all of them giggling. Sniggering about her. The door closes and then he’s hopping and splashing down the path again. I draw back so he won’t see my ghost face through the net. He opens the back door of the big black car and shoots the umbrella in like a javelin. And then I can see what I should have known, if I had a brain in my head. It’s not even him! It’s a totally different person. And of course it is, because he’s just going to have his sixteenth birthday and this boy’s old enough to drive a car.
‘Didn’t you hear me shouting?’ Mum’s standing in my doorway. She’s upstairs in her outdoor shoes. ‘I wanted to introduce you to one of the youngsters who’s going to be at the party. He drove me home, because of the rain. Lovely manners. Buchanan, he’s called. Buchanan Leslie.’
‘What a daft name.’
I watch her struggle for a bit but in the end the pull of gossip wins and the backward drag of politeness loses. ‘That’s nothing,’ she says. ‘There’s one called Sasha too. The birthday boy, actually.’
Sasha, I say to myself. Sasha and Carmen sound good together. And for once I’m glad to have a name that’s usually just a magnet for wind-ups. When Mum was having me she said Dad could name a girl and she would name a boy. She was sure she was having a boy and she didn’t want to call him Arnold after Grandpa, like Dad kept saying. Then when I popped out – when it turned out my auntie’s swinging pocket-watch and Mum eating pickles and treacle had been wrong – Dad said, ‘Carmen,’ and they were stuck with it. Next time it was Mum’s shot and Lynsey was Lynsey. We’re more of a Lynsey family, really. Our dog’s called Laddie, our cat was called Snowy and the goldfish are called Bit and Bob. I stick out like a sore thumb. But put me in a party in a big house, with Sasha, and I’ll finally be right at home.
‘Is sixteen too old for Airfix models, do you think?’ Mum’s saying.
‘What? Yes!’ I say. ‘Jeez, don’t make me walk in there with a toy for him, Mum.’
‘Don’t “Jeez” me,’ Mum says. ‘And don’t go talking like that at the party and showing me up. They’ve got lovely manners.’
She hasn’t got a clue, I think. But then, as it turns out, neither have I.
Chapter 4
Most of the food supplies were still sitting on the big oval table in the breakfast bit of the kitchen. Looking at them made me feel weary, and feeling weary made me feel scared. If I was tired already with three days and fourteen different food services to go I was sunk before I’d left harbour.
Or maybe I could blame the room. Why had I let my mum talk me into bottle-green wallpaper for a north-facing aspect? This was our only living space when the house was full. She had argued it was a waste of time trying to lighten such a gloomy place, with its low ceiling and its one window looking out over a few feet of cobbled yard to the sheds set into the looming bulk of the hill. She said we should embrace it and accentuate it. So the walls were nearly black and she’d chosen a black tablecloth and chair covers to match.
She was wrong. It should have been sunshine and gingham and strong lights left on all day. If we had a good late season we’d plough some cash into it during the dead time after New Year and take a second run.
At least she hadn’t tried to dictate the kitchen. I had chosen the teak worktops that would stand up to a knife, and the rubber floor, comfy underfoot. There was a good light over the stove and two sinks for different jobs. I’d added a few touches to entice the clients who wanted the house self-catering – a row of jugs and copper jelly moulds – but it had the bones of a proper cook’s kitchen.
I started poking around in the bags and boxes. Normally, I’d unwrap the good cheese and redo it in greaseproof sheets and foil, but it was only till tomorrow and it would be fine as it was. And the grapes I’d planned to dip in sugar crust and chill could go straight into the fruit bowl. Healthier as well as quicker. In fact, I thought, as I looked at the hamper sitting there, maybe I could use the foie gras, caviar, Gentleman’s Relish and smoked oysters for the hors d’oeuvres. Save myself fiddling away at cheese straws and tartlets.
Maybe it was going to be okay. I walked to the French windows that led out the side of the house to the long straight stretch that would be a croquet lawn again once we had the funds to re-turf it. That and the tennis court. A few winter-breaks and a lucky Christmas would put us close to the black and no one would care much about the garden until spring, even down here in balmy Galloway. By next June we’d have a summerhouse and brick barbecue at least. If the couple of years after that went as well as I was dreaming, there was a perfect spot for a hot-tub too. In five years at the most, we’d buy a wee cottage somewhere close by and wouldn’t have to shift out to the static caravan hidden round the back when the whole house was let self-catering.
I turned from my daydream and back to my work. This kitchen was a long way from the guests. Nipping back and forward to see they had everything they wanted was going to cut in hard to my cooking time. I glanced over at the deep shelf beside the stove where the pot of wooden spoons sat and the oven gloves were clipped to the hot pipes with magnets.
I had stared at my mum when she suggested it. I’d thought she was joking.
‘An intercom?’
‘More like a baby monitor. You’ll hear them but they won’t hear you. It’s just for this one weekend. If they’re sitting moaning about the tea being finished – hey presto, you appear with a fresh pot. They’ll be happy with the service and what they don’t know can’t hurt them.’
‘But we can’t be listening in to them!’ It was the first time my mum’s total lack of experience with face-to-face customer service had come up.
‘We’re scrubbing their toilets and changing their sheets,’ she said. ‘And I wasn’t thinking of the bedrooms. The dining room and drawing room. Just this weekend, like I said. Or I can tell the wedding fair to give it to the runner-up.’
In the end, I’d let her put in the receiver and two discreet transmitters, but I’d made
a pact with myself that I wouldn’t use them and I was determined to stick to it. I washed my hands, put a clean apron on and started the cucumber sandwiches. The freshest of fresh white bread, the best unsalted butter whipped and light, wafer thin cucumber slices cut with a mandolin and pressed between cloths. A sprinkle of pepper, a few drops of sherry vinegar to make it pop, crusts off and perfect triangles. I beamed at the plate when it was finished. The scones were cool enough to load onto another plate. Two kinds of homemade jam and I was done.
I shot another look at the baby monitor. Were they all in the drawing room? Were they ready for tea? I reached out, rummaged behind the oven gloves and flipped the switch.
‘Just light it. We can hardly ring a bell. She’s not a housemaid.’ That was probably Paul, the grumpy one. Or the one who hated service, maybe.
‘Yeah, you’re right. Why would they lay it if it wasn’t for lighting?’ That was Buck.
‘Maybe tea’s not in here.’ That was definitely Peach. ‘No point wasting a load of logs if we’re going to be sitting in the library, is there?’
I switched it off and shot along to the drawing room, with the tray of teacups.
‘Would you like a fire?’ I said, edging round the door. ‘It’s getting chilly.’
‘You’re an angel,’ said Peach. She was in one end of the smallest sofa with her furry slippers kicked off and her feet up in Buck’s lap. He had his arms folded above them.
‘A poppet, a treasure, a godsend, a brick and a boon,’ said Rosalie. She had bagged the comfiest couch and was curled up in it, still in her tight shirt and pencil skirt.
Paul was leaning against the fireplace with a whisky in his hand. He had taken his tie off and rolled up his sleeves, but he hadn’t changed either. That’s the sign of really good clothes, I always reckon. You’re not dying to shuck them as soon as you can. One day …
Ramsay looked up from his phone. He had peeled off the Gore-Tex and was down to a thin nylon top and cycle shorts. ‘How’s Jennifer?’
I opened my eyes wide. ‘I forgot to take her tea!’
‘Do her good,’ said Paul, stepping out of my way. ‘There’s never been a family gathering in the history of the Mowbray-Buchanan-Leslie clan when Jennifer didn’t come down with something invisible and inconvenient.’
‘Oh, Paul, have some pity,’ said Peach.
‘You didn’t see the “migraine” she pulled at Sasha and Kim’s wedding,’ said Rosalie.
‘I know you were in labour,’ said Buck, ‘but, honestly, Peach, if you’d come along and pushed the kid out at the reception you’d have been less of a spectacle than Jelly with a headache.’
‘Donna, ask Jennifer if she sent the hamper,’ said Ramsay. ‘Since no one else will admit to it.’
‘I’ve never bum-dialled Fortnum’s,’ Buck said. ‘Although I suppose there’s a first time for everything.’
‘Isn’t that how the KGB infiltrated dissident groups?’ said Ramsay. ‘Bugged gifts?’
I tried to laugh along but ‘bugging’ was a bit too close to what was rigged up in the kitchen.
‘Stop it, you lot,’ Rosalie said. ‘You’re making Donna uncomfortable.’ She must be pretty eagle-eyed to have seen it. I ducked my head and carried on unloading the tray.
‘I’ll light the fire,’ said Buck, heaving his sister’s feet off his lap and standing. ‘Anything to get Peach’s trotters away from my nostrils.’
‘Cheeky bastard,’ said Peach. ‘I was hoping for a foot massage.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have got divorced, then. I’m off the hook for the whole weekend when it comes to doing chores for womankind.’ He knelt on the hearthrug and reached for the box of matches.
‘Although Donna’s got you on your knees pretty quick,’ Paul said. I didn’t join in the laughter this time. I was almost out the door anyway, not sure whether I was meant to hear the joke or not. I put on a spurt to make sure I didn’t catch whatever they said next.
Back in the kitchen, the kettle was beginning to rumble. I splashed some of the water in on top of a chamomile teabag, grabbed a plate, a biscuit and one of the small trays and headed for the stairs.
Jennifer had dozed off. I stood over her, looking at the rapid darting of her eyes under her closed lids. She was dreaming about the sea, I thought. Or at least the sound of it had got into her sleep. Every time a wave crashed, her eyes fluttered.
I bent and eased the little tray onto the table at the side of the chaise. ‘Jennifer,’ I said softly.
She rose up out of sleep and out of the chaise in one movement, sending the table flying. An arc of pale yellow tea caught me from neck to knee. After one wide-eyed moment of complete blankness, she spoke. ‘Oh! It’s you. I’m. Oh, my gosh. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, pulling my shirt away from my front.
‘Has it scalded you?’
‘I’m fine,’ I repeated. I didn’t want to tell her I hadn’t made her tea with boiling water. ‘I’m sorry I gave you a fright.’
She sank down again. ‘You didn’t. I was having a bad dream.’
‘I’ll get you another cup.’ I was trying not to be annoyed that she hadn’t matched my apology with one of her own. Not a word about my white shirt or the white carpet. ‘Although, if you’re feeling better, real tea is served any minute in the drawing room. Nothing too heavy or rich.’
‘Who’s down there?’ She shrank into herself a little, as if she didn’t really want to hear. So I gave her a full answer. It let me run through the names again. Two birds, one stone.
‘Buck and Peach, Paul and Rosalie. Ramsay. We just need you to complete the welcome party for the happy couple.’
Jennifer hauled herself back to her feet. She seemed twice as heavy as the woman who had sprung from lying to standing a minute ago. ‘Sasha making a big entrance as usual,’ she said, as she picked up a briefcase and made for the door.
‘And don’t worry about this.’
‘This what? Oh, the floor, you mean?’ She gave the long stain a casual glance. ‘Surely you’ve got it Scotchgarded. I mean, a white carpet in a holiday home?’
I stuck my tongue out once she’d gone and used her big bath sheet to mop the stain. She didn’t need it to cover her modesty anyway, since she’d wangled a room of her own.
* * *
I had three changes of black and whites, but I hadn’t expected to trash a set before tea on the first day. I shrugged out of them and held my shirt up to the meagre light coming in my bedroom window. It was a goner and I threw it in the wash, but I hung the trousers on the back of the door by a belt loop. Once they dried they’d be fine again. I skipped down the back stairs.
Tea looked perfect. Snowy mounds of food and the jams sparkling like jewels. Enormous pots of tea and hot water.
I scanned the room as I entered. All there, except Rosalie. All sprawled on couches, except Jennifer, who was in the bay window with a pile of papers in front of her and a laptop open, and Buck sitting on his heels at the fire. The paper had burned away but the twigs weren’t even charred.
‘Let me take care of that,’ I said, putting out a hand to help him to his feet. He took it and leaned heavily, groaned too, as he stood.
‘Don’t let Ro-Ro see you,’ Paul said, going over to Jennifer.
‘See me marking?’ said Jennifer. ‘Does she really think a teacher can take a weekend off marking?’
‘She’s going for us handing over our devices to live like Bushmen.’
‘Bushmen?’ said Jennifer, turning and looking at Paul over the tops of her reading glasses. ‘I can’t believe you said that word.’
‘San, if you’d rather,’ said Paul. ‘Or Basarwa.!Kung in Namibia, of course. I have actually been to Africa, Jennifer. Have you?’
‘Shut up, Paul,’ said Peach.
‘Hey, look!’ said Buck, pointing out of the window. ‘Aw!’
I craned but couldn’t see over the high back of the couch. I knew what he was pointing at, though.
‘Aw, look!’ said Peach. ‘A black rabbit. Oh, it’s adorable. Is it a baby?’
The black rabbits had been nibbling the grass of the front lawn all summer. They were the first thing that had made me glad of Galloway. I still missed the otters and dolphins, the eagles most of all, but black bunny rabbits right there on the doorstep was something. In the evenings, the sinking sun shone through the long hairs on their backs so they glowed.
‘I think they’re adults,’ Ramsay said. ‘The same genes are responsible for them being small and being black. Cute, though.’
‘Do you mind us calling them black rabbits, Jennifer?’ said Buck.
‘Shut up,’ Peach told him. She went back to the couch and lifted the teapot. ‘I’ll be Mother.’
‘We’re perfectly capable of pouring our own,’ Jennifer said, joining her. She sat so heavily that a dribble of tea came out of the spout.
‘Christ’s sake, Jelly,’ said Paul. ‘If Buck can cope with being emasculated by this slip of a girl fixing his fire you can let Peach pour some tea without your ovaries shrivelling. It’s only an expression.’
I was facing the hearth, undoing the pile of twigs to put new paper in, so I didn’t have to look at any of their faces, but the silence was long and cold and broken only by a miserable sniff from Jennifer.
‘I can’t believe I agreed to come,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe I set myself up to be attacked by you all again. I mean, I’ve given up hoping for any actual gratitude…’
‘“You all”? Who all?’ said Buck. ‘I didn’t attack you. Ramsay didn’t attack you.’
‘I didn’t attack her either,’ said Paul. ‘I criticized her. She criticized me and then I criticized her. I’m sick of the way everyone bleats about being attacked and being b—’
Go to My Grave Page 4