‘Now then,’ said Olivia in a brief lull between boxes, ‘we need to get you involved in the town. That’s the best way to make friends and get integrated.’
‘I’m not being funny,’ said Bex, ‘but to be honest, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now; too much to consider anything else. Getting “integrated” isn’t that high on my list of priorities.’
Olivia ripped off the tape from the top of another full box. ‘You can’t unpack and try and get straight every minute of every day. And even if you do, you’ll finish eventually and you’ll need to start to join in then.’
‘Really? So, what do you suggest?’
Olivia refused to be daunted by the lack of enthusiasm in Bex’s voice. ‘The WI is a must.’
‘The WI?!’
‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking you’re not old enough for that but believe me it’s the perfect way of meeting people; people like you and me.’
‘I don’t know...’
‘You’d love it.’
Bex shook her head. ‘But I couldn’t. I’d need a babysitter.’
‘Couldn’t Megan look after your boys?’
‘Olivia, she’s in a big new house, in a strange town, having recently lost her dad. I don’t think abandoning her while I go off gallivanting is appropriate.’
That was no excuse in Olivia’s book, but she could hardly frogmarch this new inhabitant into the function room of the pub. She sniffed. ‘As you wish.’
They carried on unpacking in silence for a few minutes – Olivia lifting items out of the box, unwrapping them from their newspaper cocoons before handing them to Bex to stack or put away.
‘Amy would babysit.’
‘Amy?’
‘My cleaner.’
‘I don’t know, Olivia. I know nothing about this Amy woman.’
‘She’s utterly reliable, I’ve known her for years, she works in the post office and she cleans for me, the vicar’s wife and a few others in the town. Her son and mine are friends.’
‘I’m sorry but that doesn’t mean she’s suitable. I’m not saying she might be a modern day Myra Hindley—’
‘Oh really!’
‘—but it doesn’t give her a green light to look after other people’s kids. I’m a qualified nanny and I know about the rules and regulations and, trust me, I’ve no intention of breaking them and certainly not where my own children are concerned.’
‘Ask Heather, the vicar’s wife. She’ll tell you what a gem Amy is.’
‘Look, I know you mean well, Olivia, but I only arrived in the town yesterday.’
‘You need to strike while the iron is hot.’
‘Let’s leave it for a bit.’
Olivia saw that she’d met her match. ‘I shall hold you to that.’
The unpacking continued in silence again while both of them simmered down.
‘You said you were a nanny,’ said Olivia after a few minutes. ‘How lovely.’
‘It was a wonderful job. I adored it.’
‘And it must be wonderful for your children – just think, a real life Mary Poppins as a mother.’
‘I wish. Sadly, I can’t click my fingers to get things done. I still have to slog at things the hard way.’ Bex looked significantly at the diminishing pile of packing cases in the corner.
Finally, the pair emptied the last box, and Olivia stripped the tape off the bottom, folded it flat and put it in the corner with the rest of the packing materials, ready to be taken to the dump.
‘There,’ she said. She looked at the kitchen. No, not perfect but not bad, not too bad at all. Better than it would have been without her intervention, she thought.
Bex picked up the bottle. ‘Top up?’
‘Love one.’ Olivia pulled out a chair and plumped down on to it. ‘And then, as soon as I’ve had this, I’ll be off. You must be shattered.’ She glanced at the timer on the microwave. It was almost nine thirty. Definitely time to leave her new friend in peace.
‘I’ve had less stressful days,’ agreed Bex as she poured wine into Olivia’s glass and then refilled her own. She sat down too and leaned her elbows on the big kitchen table. ‘And thanks for the help. I wouldn’t have managed nearly so much on my own. To be honest I was on the verge of giving up for today so thank you for spurring me on to finish.’ She smiled gratefully at Olivia.
‘If you feel the need to get away from the unpacking you must come up to mine. Just give me a ring first, to make sure I’m home – I’m quite busy. On lots of committees, lots of voluntary work... you know, that sort of thing. Here...’ Olivia got up from the table and picked her handbag up from where she’d dumped it on a window sill. She rummaged in it for a second or two before producing a business card. ‘All the contact details are on that. And the house, the barn conversion, is almost bang opposite the primary school – you can’t miss it.’
Bex took the card and put it on a counter. ‘Let’s hope I don’t lose it.’
Ten minutes later Olivia had drained her glass. She said her goodbyes then walked up the hill to The Grange. As she approached the front door she could hear the row going on. Zac and her husband were at daggers drawn – again. She wondered what had caused the altercation this time? What with Nigel’s touchiness and Zac’s hormones the house was a powder keg of emotions, although she didn’t stop to consider that none of her other children had been prone to quite such violent mood swings. With a sigh she let herself in and shut the door behind her. And as for Nigel... he’d been a nightmare to live with for some months now. Touchy as anything. She’d tried asking him if there was anything wrong but he always said things were fine. Mid-life crisis, she supposed.
She walked down to the kitchen area of the vast space that was the central living room of the barn conversion. Zac and her husband were so busy yelling at each other, they were oblivious to her reappearance until she was right beside them.
‘What does it matter?’ shouted Zac. ‘It’s what we have Amy for.’
‘Amy is not paid by your mother to clean up after you.’
‘Then why do we pay her? What is she, a charity case?’
‘I won’t have you speak to me like that.’
‘Or what?’ sneered Zac.
‘Stop it, the pair of you,’ said Olivia, stepping between them. She hated them rowing and, if she could, she usually tried to head Zac off before he actually locked horns. But today it was too late. ‘Just stop it.’
‘Keep out of this, Oli,’ said Nigel. He tried to push her out of the way.
But Olivia – how she loathed Nigel calling her Oli, although now was not the moment to mention it – didn’t budge. ‘What’s Zac done?’ she demanded.
‘Look,’ said Nigel, pointing to the worktop on which was the detritus left from some mid-evening snack that Zac had made for himself. There was a dirty plate, crumbs everywhere, to say nothing of a couple of dollops of jam and a loaf left on the breadboard. Nigel had a point, it was a mess and Olivia knew, when she’d gone out earlier, she certainly hadn’t left the kitchen in such a state, but it could be swiftly put right. She went to the sink and picked up the dishcloth and wrung it out.
‘Don’t you dare,’ snapped Nigel. ‘I’ve told Zac to clear it up.’
But Olivia began to use the cloth to sweep the crumbs into her hand.
‘I said stop!’
She stopped and turned to face him. ‘It’s just a few crumbs, Nigel.’
‘And I’ve told Zac to clear them up.’
‘It’ll only take me a second.’
Nigel reached forward and snatched the dishcloth off her, scattering crumbs onto the floor.
‘Oh, Nigel,’ said Olivia. She’d have to get the dustpan out now.
‘This is Zac’s mess, I’ve told him to clear it up and I will not have you undermining me.’
Olivia realised she’d gone too far. ‘Sorry, Nigel. Zac – do as your father says.’
Zac, now he had both parents against him, realised that he had no choice. ‘Oh, for
fuck’s sake,’ he snarled as he picked up the plate, opened the dishwasher door and almost threw it in.
Nigel grabbed his son’s arm. ‘What did you say?’
Zac straightened up and glowered at his dad. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered.
‘Apologise to your mother this instant. I will not have you using that sort of language in front of her.’
There was a pause and for a second Olivia wondered if the two were actually going to exchange blows. And then Zac mumbled an apology of sorts before he carried on tidying up. Olivia relaxed a fraction.
‘And make sure you do it properly,’ said Nigel.
‘Jesus, Dad, I’m doing it, aren’t I?’
Olivia was on guard again, ready for it to kick off once more, but thankfully Nigel only responded with a gruff ‘good’ before he left his son to it.
God Almighty, thought Olivia, feeling exhausted by the incident. She’d only been out for a few hours but, without her there to keep the peace, all hell had broken loose. Men! There were occasions when she didn’t much like her family. On the other hand, at least Zac had some spirit, unlike that child of Bex’s. Megan, was it? Olivia didn’t give much for her chances of surviving in a melting pot like the comp – not given that she didn’t seem to have any backbone and wouldn’t say boo to a goose. On balance she’d rather have Zac – at least he stood up for himself.
‘You’ve got to get a grip of Zac,’ said Nigel after he’d finished tidying and thumped upstairs, making as much noise as was humanly possible.
‘Me?’
‘You indulge him, you make excuses. He’s got to be made to take responsibility for his actions.’
‘He’s at that difficult age.’
‘You see, you’re doing it again. His brother and sisters weren’t like this.’
Nigel had a point. Zac was either so laid-back he was almost catatonic or his temper was on a hair-trigger. Olivia admitted to herself that she did tend to tiptoe round him to avoid upsetting him but she had enough going on in her life without having constant rows with her son.
‘Maybe if you didn’t work such long hours...’ She regretted it almost as soon as the words were out.
‘Jesus, Oli, have you any idea about the size of this mortgage? What it costs to keep this place running? And that’s before I get on to what it cost to educate the kids, paying off their gap-year debts, helping out with their rents in London, your cleaner... Shit, do you think I like working all the hours God sends?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
Nigel glared at her. ‘And if you stopped being Lady Fucking Bountiful and got a job, I might be able to ease off.’
‘Yes, dear,’ she said, hoping that would placate him, because she had absolutely no plans whatsoever to go back to work. Besides, she’d been out of the job market ever since Mike, her eldest, had been born and he was nearly thirty. Anyway, Nigel earned pots of money – more than enough to keep them in this lifestyle. She didn’t know why he was making such an issue of it now. He never had in the past.
*
After Olivia had taken her leave Bex poured another glass of wine. Stuff it – she deserved it – and then leant back in the chair. She felt utterly exhausted. Olivia was lovely but she did seem to be quite... Bex searched for the right word. Energetic? Bossy? Opinionated? Yes, she was certainly all that. Bex sighed and sipped her wine.
Olivia had been right, of course; she did need to join in sometime soon, find things to do, find new friends, because she was under no illusions about what would happen to the friends she’d left behind in London. One or two might make the trek out to the countryside in the first year or so – especially as the children would like to see some of their old school chums, but the visits would get less frequent until they petered out entirely. Then all that would be left was an exchange of Christmas cards until that too eventually fell by the wayside.
No, she needed to make new friends here if she was going to move on and Olivia was a start – even if Bex didn’t think that they were destined to become bosom buddies. Still, with two boys at primary school there would be ample opportunity to meet other mums and Bex was sure they’d soon slot in to the local community. There was also Olivia’s suggestion of joining some of the local groups and societies. There was, according to Olivia, a comprehensive list on the town hall notice board. Bex resolved to go and have a look the next morning – although she was sure that Olivia must have covered pretty much everything. She finished her wine, thought about finishing the bottle but decided against it, and took the cork off the corkscrew before slapping it firmly back in the neck. She’d save the rest for tomorrow.
Despite the fact that it was only about ten, Bex went upstairs to her room, got ready for bed and then slipped under the covers. She put her hand under her pillow and dragged out an old T-shirt. She put it to her nose and inhaled the smell – the scent of her husband; the merest whiff that still remained of his aftershave and a hint of his sweat. Exhausted by the day, she was asleep before she cried – as she had almost every other night since his death.
7
Megan was woken by a strange scrabbling noise and for a while she couldn’t work out what the hell was going on. Rats? Then she realised it was a bird hopping about on the skylight above her head. She could see a large feathery bum and pink feet – a wood pigeon. Then she heard it cooing and the sound was rather pleasant and comforting. Above the pigeon she could see the branches of the beeches that gave the house its name. Was she imagining it or was there a mist of green around the twigs? Was spring really springing – as her dad used to say. She sighed. Why did he have to go and get himself killed? If only that hadn’t happened none of the rest of it would... if only, if only...
Megan rolled onto her side and gave in to self-pity. Things might have gone horribly wrong when they lived in London but at least she knew everybody. She didn’t know a soul here and she dreaded going to the new school. She didn’t want to be the new kid. She’d seen how new kids got treated at her old school – hanging around on the edges of the gangs of the popular pupils, trying to join in, being ignored, ending up with the losers... Once she’d been in the popular group – or at least she thought she had. Then it turned out that her ‘friends’ weren’t friends at all, not really. Not when push came to shove.
Megan threw back her duvet and got out of bed. She wandered over to the window and looked down into the garden. The two boys were already up and running about again. It didn’t take much to make them happy, she thought, and they probably weren’t the least bit worried about a new school. Alfie certainly wouldn’t be – he’d only been at his old one for a couple of terms – and Lewis was the sort of kid who took most things in his stride. Of course the death of his dad had knocked him for six. Megan remembered how awful he’d been for weeks afterwards; not sleeping, throwing tantrums, fighting in the school playground, being moody and clingy. For months he’d been a total pain in the arse. Thank God he seemed to be over it. And Alfie... he was too young to understand it all, too young to remember Daddy. Megan wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or not. Maybe things were easier if you couldn’t remember.
She put on her dressing gown and pattered downstairs. The rest of the house was silent; maybe Bex was showering. She got herself some bread and butter and a glass of milk and took it all back up to her bedroom. As she got to the top of the main stairs she could hear Bex humming in her room and the sound of drawers opening and shutting. More unpacking. Which reminded her – her own room needed doing. She climbed back into her attic and surveyed the pile of boxes as she chewed on her bread. Standing looking at it isn’t going to get it done, she heard her dad say in her head.
She finished her breakfast, threw off her dressing gown and reached into the shower stall to turn on the tap. In a minute, steam was fogging the mirror over the basin and Megan stepped into the hot jet. The water washed away her anxieties. Bliss. Bigger bliss was that this was her space. She didn’t have to share. She revelled in the warm water, luxuriating in knowing t
hat no one might come hammering on the door, wanting the loo – as had happened all too often at the London house. Finally she switched off the tap and got out, wrapping herself in the towel before drifting into her room and flicking open her case containing essentials that hadn’t been packed on the van. Minutes later, dry and dressed, she looked at the first of the cartons with ‘Meg’s room’ written in thick marker pen on the side. She pulled the tape off the top and flipped open the flaps. A glance inside told her that it contained the contents of her chest of drawers. Now then, how did she want her furniture arranged? At the moment it was all pushed against one wall. Megan stood in the middle of the floor and worked out where she wanted everything to be and then dragged her chest, her dressing table and her bookcase into position. Finally she shunted her desk over the carpet and under the window. It’d be nice to be able to look out over the garden to the street when she was doing her homework.
She pulled the open box across the floor to the chest and began putting the clothes into the drawers, in the same places they had lived before. It didn’t take long to empty that box and so she started on another. She found she quite enjoyed sorting her stuff out; deciding where everything should go; finding homes for her possessions on the shelves that had been left by the previous owners, putting her clothes and shoes in the built-in wardrobe. Her books took longer to arrange and she got distracted when she found an old favourite and began to reread it. In fact, she was so absorbed in her book that she forgot the time and was surprised when Bex yelled up the stairs to say she’d made sandwiches and it was lunchtime.
*
‘Brian, darling,’ said Heather, dipping her spoon into her soup. She and Brian were eating their lunch of home-made vegetable soup at one end of the dining room table – the other end being covered in the church accounts which Brian had been going through. ‘Do you think it would be a good idea if I visited the new people?’
‘Hmmm?’ Brian didn’t look up from the Guardian.
‘The new people... should I visit them?’
Little Woodford Page 6