by Gil McNeil
‘Thanks, Martin. Archie, stop doing that. If you throw any more potatoes you’ll have to go back inside the house.’
‘I’m only playing.’
‘Archie.’
‘Okay, okay, keep your hair on. That’s what Marco says, sometimes, to his mum.’
‘He does not.’
Martin tries not to smile.
‘I’ll just put these in the bin.’
Tina’s standing laughing as I collect up a few more plates.
‘Just look at my Graham. He usually gets really twitchy round bonfires. We’ve got so many smoke alarms in our house, whenever I do him a steak the whole house goes off. It’s terrible. But he doesn’t seem bothered tonight; it’s probably the dog, he’s always saying we should get one.’
‘Well have a word with Mr Pallfrey, and I’m sure he’ll let you borrow Trevor any time you want.’
‘No thanks. I got bitten by my Aunty May’s Jack Russell when I was little and it put me right off. But look at my Travis, he’s loving it. And I meant to say, Jo, thanks for asking him today. He was so pleased, getting his own invitation. He made me put it up on his bedroom wall you know. Not that many people ask him to parties.’
‘He’s been lovely.’
‘That’s why I came with him. He gets a bit overexcited sometimes.’
Archie runs past us, waving a toffee apple and a sausage, and joins the back of the sparkler queue.
‘They all do, Tina.’
She smiles.
Jack comes over, looking very happy.
‘I love it in our new house, it’s much better than stupid old London. Can I have a party like this one next year, Mum?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Are there any more sparklers, because we’re nearly running out?’
‘I think I’ve got a few more packets. I’ll go and get them.’
‘Well hurry up, because I want another go.’
He gives me a hug. ‘This is my best day ever, Mum.’
I walk round to the garage and open the boot of the car, where I’ve stashed the extra sparklers, feeling a weird mixture of relief and exhaustion; I always get a bit maudlin at some point on their birthdays, Nick used to call it my Flash Forward Panic Button. One minute they’re tiny and you’re trying to work out how to get their vests over their heads without pulling, and suddenly they’re telling you about their Best Days Ever, like those depressing ads for mortgages where you see the young couple going into their first flat and then five seconds later they’re playing with their grandchildren in a sunlit garden. It all goes so bloody quickly. Nick would have loved seeing them today, happy with all their new friends; he’d have really loved it.
I’m closing the boot of the car when I realise I’m crying, with no warning at all, and I can’t seem to stop. I don’t want anyone to hear me so I stand with my hand over my mouth, which only makes it worse. Oh God. There’s the sound of footsteps as someone walks past the garage door, and then stops. Damn. Please let it be Connie or Gran, and not one of the kids.
It’s Angela Prentice.
‘Are you all right, dear? I’m so sorry, I was just leaving, I didn’t mean to intrude.’
‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me. It’s just …’ Oh God, it’s getting worse.
She puts her arms round me.
‘My dear, I’m so sorry. You’ve been so brave.’
I try to wipe my face.
‘Not really. It’s just Nick would have loved this, so much.’
I’m off again. Christ, I’ve got to get a grip, and preferably sooner rather than later. I try to smile, but I don’t think either of us is convinced.
‘I’m very proud of my daughter too, I really am, and her partner, Sally. They’ve been so brave about finding a clinic’
Bingo. I appear to have stopped crying.
‘And now the baby’s nearly here. It’s very important to tell people how proud you are of them, isn’t it? I listen at the meetings every week, and you’re all always showing your children how much you love them and how proud you are of them, I hear it all the time in the way you talk about them, all of you. I seem to have let Peter get in the way of that over the years. But it’s never too late, dear, is it?’
‘No, it’s never too late.’
‘Because things happen, don’t they, dear?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s nobody’s fault, they just happen.’
‘Yes.’
She hugs me.
‘Are you sure you’re all right now? I can stay with you, or go and find your grandmother.’
‘I’m fine now, I think. But thanks, Angela.’
She smiles.
‘No, thank you. You can’t imagine what a difference it’s made to me, coming along every week.’
‘I’m so glad.’
‘I’d better let you get back to your guests, but thank you, it’s been a lovely party.’
I walk her to the gate and then go back up the path, holding the packets of sparklers. I wonder if Penny’s already heard the good news that her mum is undergoing something of a transformation. It’ll be just what she needs when she has the baby. How lovely. I bet Angela’s going to make a lovely gran.
The final sparklers get a rapturous reception, and then parents start arriving to collect their children, and things start to calm down, thank God. Even Trevor’s having a nice little lie-down.
Linda gives me a kiss as she’s leaving. ‘Best party I’ve been to in ages.’
‘If that’s true you probably need to get out more.’
She laughs. ‘No, it was. Fun, lovely food, and nobody having a fight. Perfect. Night, love.’
It’s nearly half past ten by the time everyone’s finally gone, and Archie’s fast asleep on the sofa. The last time I tried to carry him up the stairs I nearly collapsed halfway up, so I walk him up half asleep.
‘Thunderbirds are Go.’
‘Into bed, darling.’
‘I’m too tired to be in my bed tonight, Mum.’
I know the feeling.
‘Can I be in your bed?’
‘All right. But just for tonight.’
Jack follows us in, and climbs into bed.
‘Ooh, the sheets are all lovely and warm.’
I check the electric blanket, which is on. And I didn’t put it on. So Gran must have sneaked up and done it earlier.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes?’
‘This has been my best day ever.’
‘That’s good. Sleep time now, love.’
‘Has it been your best day?’
There’s mud all over the floor downstairs, and I’ve got a feeling we’ll be finding bits of sausage and toffee apple in all sorts of unusual places in the next few days, but yes, on balance, I think we can safely say it’s been one of my better days.
‘Yes. Go to sleep, love.’
He smiles.
‘Soon it’ll be Bonfire Night and then it’ll be Christmas, won’t it?’
‘Yes.’
Christmas. God, I’d forgotten about Christmas.
Archie turns over and mutters, ‘Thunderbirds are Go.’
I know just how he feels.
Chapter Seven
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star
It’s half past ten on a Monday morning, and my Christmas shopping list is getting longer by the minute. Gran’s just called to recite the list of things she’s packing on her cruise for the umpteenth time, if only she could find the perfect suitcase; we’re off to Bluewater on Thursday, and if she can’t find one I’ll get one of those old-fashioned steamer trunks and lock her inside it until it’s time for her to leave, because if we have one more conversation about whether it might be chilly in the evenings and how many cardigans she should take with her I think I’m going to scream. And once we’ve addressed the Luggage Issue I’ve still got to buy Christmas presents for practically everyone and their dog – literally, in the case of Mr Pallfrey. I’m thinking a high-powered rifle and some tranqui
lliser darts might be good, but the boys want to get him a squeaky toy.
I’ve made a start on the packing for Venice so there are piles of clothes all over the spare bed, and Mum keeps texting me lists of extra things she’d like me to bring over, which is Vin’s fault because he should never have taught her how to text in the first place. But at least he realises what an epic mistake he’s made, because she’s currently got him on a mission to find Gentleman’s Relish, and some special kind of crackers which come in a pale yellow box, only she can’t remember the name, which given that he’s still on a boat somewhere off the coast of Australia might be something of a challenge.
I’m in the shop doing a quick stock check with Elsie, before I go to the supermarket to try to find Dad’s favourite brand of marmalade, which mum thinks is called Extra Chunky Orange, only she’s not sure, when the door opens and Annabel Morgan walks in, with Gina Preston, who’s secretary of the PTA and always wears her hair up in a bun. They look around and smile at each other, in a superior kind of way, which has Elsie bristling before they’ve even put their bags down.
‘Such lovely colours, and your window display is so sweet.’
I think Annabel’s probably being sarcastic. I’ve got to admit I’ve gone rather overboard with the Christmas window, what with Elsie’s knitted Christmas tree, and the Nativity scene and the knitted Advent calendar, surrounded by cotton wool and swathes of net and Lurex, which all took ages to arrange, with the boys helping me by sprinkling large amounts of glitter everywhere, including inside my handbag. But the new fairy lights are lovely, and we’ve sold stacks of wool to people wanting to make their own Advent calendars, so I don’t really care what snooty people like Annabel think.
She gets a notebook out of her bag and writes something down; Dreadful Lack of Taste, probably. I bet she’s got everything beautifully colour co-ordinated at her house.
‘Mrs Chambers was telling us all about your little knitting project at the planning meeting last night, and I must say it sounds very ambitious.’
She smiles, but it’s not a very friendly smile.
‘I was rather wondering, though, and I do hope you don’t mind my asking, but do you have any formal training? We know you run your little group here, of course, but it’s not quite the same thing is it?’
She’s giving me a very determined look, and Gina Preston takes a step backwards.
‘I think I’ll just be helping out.’
‘Mrs Chambers said you’d be forming a working group to establish a programme for the whole school. As chair of the PTA, that does of course come under my remit. You’ll be meeting in the New Year, I take it? Do you have a date fixed?’ She opens her diary.
Oh God.
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, do feel free to call on me, because I am rather experienced with this kind of thing, and proper presentation is so important when it concerns the education of our children, don’t you agree?’
Gina’s nodding so vigorously I think her bun might fall down.
Elsie stands a bit closer to me behind the counter.
‘I’m sure Jo will manage. She used to be a top news producer on the television, you know, so I think she probably picked up a trick or two on paperwork and suchlike, don’t you?’
Top news producer? I must have missed that bit. I remember the frantic news producer running up and down corridors clutching bits of tape, but I think the top bit must have happened while I was in the canteen with Ellen.
Annabel’s clearly Not Happy. Very Not Happy as Archie would say.
‘Well, do let me know if you need any advice, because we must keep our standards as high as possible, and I’m always happy to help.’
In other words, she’s always happy to take the credit for other people’s ideas.
‘Now, there was one other little thing. I gather Grace Harrison shops here?’
Elsie seizes on her new Specialist Subject.
‘Would you like to see the pieces from the newspaper, I’ve got them in my bag?’
Annabel smiles. ‘No, thank you. My cleaning lady showed them to me.’
Elsie stiffens.
‘Does Miss Harrison come to your knitting group?’
‘She doesn’t really come into the shop.’
Annabel exchanges a triumphant glance with Gina.
‘No, I thought perhaps she didn’t.’
Elsie folds her arms.
‘No, Jo goes to her house, on a regular basis, for private consultations.’
There’s a small intake of breath from Annabel, and a distinct gleam in her eye as she turns to me.
‘And I suppose the house is absolutely gorgeous? Is the furniture very modern?’
I think I’m meant to deliver top details which she can trade on at her dinner parties, but luckily Elsie seems happy to continue in her new role as my official spokeswoman.
‘I’m afraid we can’t talk about it, because of confidentiality you know. We do have to protect the privacy of our celebrity customers – I’m sure you understand. Now, can I help you with anything? Only we are quite busy this morning.’
Blimey. Elsie’s smiling, and there’s a small silence, until Annabel says she’s written to Grace to ask her to open our Spring Fair, but she’s had a reply from some woman saying Grace can’t be available on that day, so if I could just mention it that would be excellent, and I nod vaguely and there’s an awkward silence until Gina rallies and says she’s thinking of making a cardigan for her daughter, Fleur.
‘Do you have any hundred per cent cotton?’
I show her where the cottons are. Fleur’s in the same class as Archie, and Horrible Harry, who’s recently taken up Nipping, but only when he thinks the teacher isn’t looking, although luckily he’s still giving Archie and Nelly a wide berth so I’m hoping there won’t be any more pushing incidents.
Elsie’s standing guard by the till, while Annabel half-heartedly looks at some of the mohair.
‘This is a pretty colour.’
‘Yes, that’s the mohair we used for the shawls for Miss Harrison. You’ll need four balls, if you’re making one.’
Annabel pretends to ignore her, but starts looking at all the different colours in earnest. A courier van screeches to a halt outside the shop and a man in blue uniform bounds in, carrying a large padded envelope. I’m guessing it must be the shade cards that I ordered for new winter tweed, only they don’t usually send things by courier. There’s a flat white cardboard box inside the envelope, and Elsie watches as I open it, and then we both look at the set of beautiful black-and-white photographs of me sitting with Grace in the rowing boat, wrapped in my cardigan, with both of us laughing. There’s a scribbled note on thick cream card: ‘Thanks for supper. Thought you might like these. Daniel.’
‘What lovely photographs.’
Annabel’s leaning over the counter.
Elsie shuts the box.
‘Yes, aren’t they? So will that be four balls of the pink, then? It’s quite a complicated pattern until you get the hang of it, so do feel free to pop in if you get stuck or anything. We’ll be more than happy to help.’
‘Thank you but I’m quite an experienced knitter.’
She hands Elsie her credit card.
‘Well, we’re here if you need us. Jo’s often out with her private clients, of course, but I’m always here.’
Christ, they look like they might start slapping each other in a minute. I think I’ll go upstairs and look at the photos properly.
‘I’ll take these up, Elsie, and put the kettle on shall I?’
‘Right you are, dear.’
I look at them while the kettle’s boiling, and they’re fabulous; what a nice thing for him to do. I dial the number on the card, and the phone’s answered by someone sounding rather annoyed.
‘What?’
‘Daniel?’
‘Yes. Who is this? I’m trying to get some fucking work done.’
‘It’s Jo Mackenzie, I was just calling to say thank you
for the photographs. They’re absolutely beautiful, but I’ll call back another time if you’re busy.’
‘No, sorry, I thought you were from the agency. Hang on a minute.’
There’s a muffled sound in the background, and then he comes back on the line.
‘Right, that’s better. I got your address from Maxine. I thought you’d probably be in the shop. So you like them?’
‘They’re amazing, I normally look terrible in photographs, you’ve got no idea. Grace looks very relaxed. I suppose that’s because she didn’t know you were taking them?’
‘Oh, she knew all right. She can spot a camera a mile off, and she’d have soon let me know if she wasn’t up for it.’
‘Well, that was nice of her. I’m really glad she didn’t tell me though, or I’d have been doing my special Photograph Smiles. I do one where I look like I’ve just had a big shock, and another one where I look like I’m about to vomit.’
‘And do you alternate?’
‘I try to.’
‘Good for you, it’s important to vary your look. Yes, I won’t be a minute. Christ, can I call you back, Jo? The models are getting humpy, and they’ve been a total nightmare all morning.’
‘Of course.’
‘Great. Talk to you later then.’
What a nice man.
I take the tea downstairs and let Elsie have a proper look at the photos.
She’s clearly itching to show them off.
‘We could put them up in the shop, like in those restaurants, where they put up paper napkins signed by all their famous customers. Wouldn’t that be lovely?’
‘Maybe.’
I’ve never really seen the point of the framed napkins thing; the signatures are always from people you’ve never heard of, or else they were in an episode of The Bill in 1984. Either way it always ends up looking slightly tragic. But she’s not giving up.
‘We could put up photos of all our famous customers.’
‘What, like Mrs Marwell?’
‘Well there’s your friend Ellen, and we could put other ones up, too. Your gran’s got a picture of you knitting, sitting on her settee, when you were little, she showed me when she was sorting through her albums, you’ve got your white school socks on, it’s ever so sweet, and there’s some of the shop, years ago.’