It wasn’t until Nell had gone upstairs to her bedroom to fetch her hairbrush that she realised how advanced the thaw actually was. On the ceiling above her head was a dark, damp, spreading patch…
Bloody hell! Nell thought. This can’t wait. I’m going to have to do something now. She pushed her bed out of the way of possible drips, pulled on her gardening clothes, and then turned her attention towards getting up into the roof. By standing her stepladder (unopened) on a towel in the bath, she could just reach high enough, and when she had climbed to the top of it and pushed the hatch cover aside, she shone her torch round the roof space. Above her head glimmers of daylight were visible where the overlaps on the clay tiles were poor or damaged. Parts of the floor were covered in up to two inches of snow, but it wasn’t a proper floor. There were a couple of planks laid loosely over the cross-members and some of the gaps in between were half filled with lengths of fibreglass wool. In places the snow was lying directly on the plaster of the ceiling below.
So that’s what the survey meant about insufficient insulation, Nell thought. Talk about understatement! No wonder the cottage is so cold. I shall have to do something about it sooner than I’d planned. She put her hands on the sides of the hatchway and heaved herself up through it. There was very little space and the rafters above her head were filthy with dust and bits of old thatch. The cold wetness of the snow soaked through the knees of her jeans at once as she shuffled herself along one of the narrow planks, keeping her balance with difficulty, and conscious that any false move might well result in an expensive replastering job in the rooms below. Then, moving the planks alternately, and using them as thin sliding bridges, she began making snowballs.
The whole operation took an age, and her torch grew dimmer and dimmer as the battery began to give up. By the time she felt she couldn’t go on any longer, the bath was three-quarters full of dirty slush and she was chilled to the bone and exhausted. She inched her way along the final plank and climbed wearily down the ladder into the bathroom. The mirror showed her a cobwebbed-haired apparition streaked with dust. She made a heroic face at herself before realising that she would have to get rid of all the icy contents before she could have a bath; and that there wouldn’t be enough hot water to do both. She turned on the cold tap, and waited.
Later, she couldn’t resist phoning Rob at work to tell him of her triumph.
‘Well done indeed!’ he said. ‘Epic stuff. I’d planned to come back and give you a hand in fact – after going to vet yet another unpromising bedsitter – but you’re clearly self-sufficient.’
‘I was really worried about putting my foot through the ceiling,’ Nell admitted. ‘Those planks were so narrow, and the what-d’you-call–’em cross bits are even worse.’
‘They’re called joists,’ Rob said. ‘Which reminds me, have I told you my favourite building joke?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Right, well this pompous Englishman asks this Irish Labourer whether he knows the difference between joist and girder. And the Irishman thinks for a moment and then says he reckons he does.’ Rob put on a passable Irish accent. ‘Oi tink I’ve got it, he says. Joyce wrote Ulysses and Goethe wrote Faust!’
And that was the moment when Nell decided, Oh, what the hell? Why don’t I just go for it! ‘Nice one,’ she said, laughing. ‘Look, Rob, what is the point of paying for grotty digs somewhere, anywhere, when you could come and be my lodger in comfort here?’
There was a brief silence. Then: ‘You’re on,’ he said. ‘Thanks very much. When can I move in?’
Chapter Fourteen
‘So, what’s it like being a landlady?’ Sibyl asked, as Nell drove her towards London on Christmas Eve.
‘It’s good,’ Nell smiled. ‘Rob’s only been at the cottage for a couple of days, but he’s already taken the top off the woodburner and cleaned out the chimney. You should have seen the lumps of tar that came out – all black and shiny, but lightweight like pumice stone.’
‘Ah well, at least he’s useful.’ Sibyl was hoping for more.
‘And he’s good fun.’
‘Can he cook?’
‘Dunno. He hasn’t yet.’ Nell was watching the rainy road ahead.
‘Lucky old Rob. What about his children?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, is there room for them to visit? And how would you feel about that?’
‘Oh, he’s getting a couple of bunk beds to go in the spare room with him. It’ll be a bit crowded, but they won’t be there that often; just odd weekends here and there, he says.’
‘Children can be quite invasive,’ Sibyl said carefully.
‘Yes, I’m sure. I’ve no experience really, but I suppose one picks it up as one goes along.’ Nell pulled out to overtake a slow caravan, and her whole being looked rigid with concentration as if she were willing the Citroën to risk a stab at 70 mph. Sibyl wondered how she would react to two children who, from what Nell had already told her, were clearly disturbed.
‘Anyway,’ Nell went on, ‘you can always give me good advice, can’t you?’ She glanced briefly sideways and smiled.
‘I wish Elly would take my advice,’ Sibyl said soberly. ‘Has she told you about her latest damn-fool idea?’
‘Of selling up her business and going to drama college? Yes.’
‘And do you believe that Hayhoe character will really mastermind her transformation into a working actress?’
‘Well, Rob doesn’t think much of him,’ Nell admitted. ‘It is a bit worrying, isn’t it?’
‘I do hope we won’t have constant rows this Christmas,’ Sibyl sighed. ‘Last year was quite awful – probably because you weren’t with us to act as a buffer.’
‘A buffer,’ Nell said lightly. ‘I suppose that’s marginally better than being called a fogey.’
Sibyl didn’t reply. ‘I may be mistaken,’ she said slowly, ‘but I sense trouble ahead. I have a nasty feeling that Paul … No, I’d better not say. Let’s hope I’m wrong.’ She looked at Nell’s profile and saw a frown crease her forehead and noticed her catch her lower lip between her teeth. She’s anxious too, Sibyl thought, but like me she’s keeping shtoom and hoping it will pass.
Nell was tired when they arrived, but Elly was on a high. Oh Lord, Nell thought, how am I going to tell her about Anna? I don’t want to ruin her Christmas, but I do have to say something.
‘Guess who or what can blow the biggest smoke-rings in the world?’ Will challenged at supper, kicking his younger brother under the table to prevent him from jumping in with the answer.
‘That hurt!’ Sam said, aggrieved.
‘Red Indians?’ Sibyl suggested.
‘You mean Native Americans,’ Will corrected her. ‘Wrong!’
‘Malachy,’ Elly said with a silly grin.
‘Wrong again.’
‘Go on then,’ his father said cheerfully. ‘Get it over with.’
‘Mount Etna.’ Will looked pleased with himself.
‘Really?’ Nell asked.
‘Yeah. It’s a volcano, right? An’ every so often it goes POP! and blows a perfect smoke-ring. I’ve got a photo in this book to prove it.’
‘I’d like to see that,’ Nell said.
‘I’ll get it,’ Will said, slipping down from his chair. ‘It’s cool.’
‘Not now, Will, OK?’ Paul said. ‘In fact it’s time you two boys went to bed. No doubt you’ll both be awake at sparrowfart tomorrow, so we adults could do with a little peace over our coffee now. All right?’
I’ve never liked Paul very much, Nell thought, watching him shepherding his sons upstairs, but he is competent with his children. He’s a disciplinarian too (unlike Rob) but they apparently don’t resent him for it. She wondered how Rob was getting on at his father’s house on the other side of London, and whether Bert was blowing cigar smoke-rings for Rosie and Josh.
‘Penny for them?’ Sibyl asked her.
‘I was just wondering what Rob was doing.’
‘H
ow’s it working out between you?’ Elly asked.
‘Fine so far,’ Nell shrugged. ‘I didn’t intend to invite him to Bottom Cottage at all, but he made me laugh.’
‘Fatal mistake,’ Elly said. ‘I know just how easy that is. Malachy creases me up sometimes.’ Sibyl turned to her daughter, frowning and was opening her mouth to say something, when Paul came back into the dining room.
‘Well, that’s the boys sorted,’ he said. ‘I think they’re even more excited about going skiing than they are about Christmas!’
‘I’ve got something to say about that, actually,’ Elly said. She looked determined.
‘You’ve always got something to say!’ Paul was flippant. ‘More coffee anyone?’
‘Just listen for a change!’ Elly’s hands were two fists on the table in front of her. ‘I’m not going skiing with you after all. Malachy says there’s someone I should meet who’s over from the States for only three days, who could be the vital catalyst for my career as an act –’
‘Stuff that!’ Paul exploded. ‘Of course you’re coming skiing. It’s all arranged. The boys are depending on it.’
Elly ignored this. ‘… And that’s not all.’ She took a gulp of black coffee. ‘I’m sorry if this spoils Christmas, but it can’t wait. Malachy thinks I’ve got a big chance here, and I’m not about to blow it.’
‘Malachy thinks this: Malachy thinks that!’ Paul mocked. ‘Why should he bother himself with someone like you? Just answer me that?’
‘You really want to know?’ Nell saw Elly bracing herself, turning her profile towards an imaginary camera – the powerful heroine about to deliver the coup de grâce.
‘Oh, give us a break,’ Paul snapped. ‘Do you think you could just stop bloody acting for one moment? We’re not impressed, OK? We know you too well.’ Nell found her head swinging back and forth between them like a spectator at Wimbledon. She sensed Sibyl doing the same, but couldn’t look at her.
‘You may think you do,’ Elly retorted triumphantly, ‘but Malachy might have something to say about that.’
‘Fuck sodding Malachy! What the hell’s it got to do with him?’
‘Everything.’ Elly raised her chin proudly. ‘You see, he loves me.’
‘That old poseur? Don’t make me laugh.’
‘And I’m leaving you.’
Paul stared at her.
‘B – B – But…’ Sibyl stammered, breaking the sudden silence, ‘I thought it was the other way aroun –’
‘You can’t!’ Paul interrupted. His face was flushed. He reached across the table, grabbed Elly’s wrists and held on to them hard. ‘What about me? What about the boys? You’re my wife.’
‘Oh God, Nell thought, no wonder she’s been so elated lately. But why did she have to do this today of all days? And why the hell didn’t I tell her about Anna months ago? Now she’s put herself irrevocably in the wrong, and it’s all my fault.
‘Let go,’ Elly said, dangerously quietly, ‘or I’ll do you for assault.’
‘Come on, Nell,’ Sibyl said briskly, scraping her chair backwards on the polished floor. ‘Washing up.’ And the two of them went out into the kitchen without a backward glance.
‘Happy Christmas,’ Anna said aloud with heavy irony. She raised a glass of buck’s fizz and toasted her reflection in the mirror. Then she put the special spring-cap back on the half-bottle of champagne to keep the rest for later, and stood at the window of her flat, sipping the alcoholic orange juice and watching the rain dripping from the bus stop and backing up round the blocked drain in the street outside.
What have I ever done, she thought, that I should be alone today? It’s so unfair. I can just imagine Paul all cosy with wife and kids having a happy traditional time with booze and a massive turkey and mountains of presents. Alternatively, of course, Nell might have done the decent thing and told Ermintrude about me, so Paul might well be coping with a hysterical wife and desperate to escape to the peace of the houseboat – and me!
She looked at the special gold-wrapped parcel he’d given her weeks ago and wondered whether to open it now, or if she should wait and discover what he’d chosen as his idea gift for her whilst she was actually talking to him on the telephone. ‘I’ll phone you as soon as I’m able,’ he’d promised, ‘but it could be tricky to find time alone. I’m sure you understand.’
She understood all right, but that didn’t make it any easier. She wondered how Paul would feel, being by himself on such a day: the one day when all your friends desert you, when everything is shut, and when even the weather is sulky. I could go for a walk in the rain, she thought. I used to love sloshing about in mac and wellies when I was little. But then she thought: No, I can’t go out. Paul might phone, and I can’t risk missing him. I could read. I’ve got piles of books I’ve been dying to have time for… No, I won’t be able to concentrate if I’m waiting for the phone to ring. Maybe I could at least call up somebody for a chat. But who? God! I hate Christmas.
She opened the champagne bottle again and poured herself a refill. Then she turned on the television and slumped in front of it. The morning passed with the help of her clock on the mantelpiece, which ticked loudly and gave due weight to each lengthy minute. The television programmes were rubbish, but there was nothing else. The canned laughter etched out her amour propre like acid. She looked at the gold parcel longingly. It couldn’t all be bad. She was sure his present would be worth waiting for. But still he didn’t phone.
She drank the rest of the champagne and got maudlin, curling herself up with a cushion to hug, and snivelling into paper handkerchiefs until she had filled her waste-paper basket with pulpy crumpled tissues. Then she ate a virtuous cheese sandwich for lunch and thought, well, anyway I won’t be pigging out today and feeling gross like ninety per cent of the population. But she still felt hungry so she scoffed a creamy yoghurt … and then another one … and a Tesco custard tart… and a whole bar of fruit and nut chocolate. And then she wanted to be sick, and couldn’t. And still he didn’t phone.
The flat needed hoovering. The bath needed cleaning. There were even cobwebs hanging from the ceiling above her head. She might as well do housework if she was trapped there for the day, but the noise of the hoover might drown the phone bell, and anyway, why should she do horrible chores on Christmas Day. Wasn’t it bad enough being alone?
Finally at half-past three in the afternoon when daylight was fading, there was at last an intelligent programme to watch on Channel 4. Anna settled back with a tall glass of water and a sigh, and prepared to be entertained. And it was then that the telephone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me,’ Paul said. ‘Look, I’m sorry, this has to be quick. They’re all out for some stupid rain-walk but they’ll be back any moment now it’s getting dark.’
‘And a happy Christmas to you too!’ Anna said tartly.
‘Oh, don’t you start,’ Paul said wearily. ‘I was counting on you at least to be understanding today.’
‘Why?’ Nell’s done it, and they’re all having a miserable Christmas too! Anna thought gleefully. Brilliant! Now we’ll be able to commiserate with each other, and then he’ll realise how much better it would be with me! ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Only every bloody thing.’
‘Poor Paul,’ Anna said, putting on her most caressing voice. ‘Tell me all about it.’
‘You’re not going to believe this.’
‘Try me.’
‘Elly has chosen today of all days to announce that she’s leaving me for another man.’
‘WHAT?!’ Conflicting thoughts surged through Anna’s mind: Yes! and Wonderful! and Damn! Why did I go blathering to Nell? and Who would have thought it? and YES! ‘You don’t mean it?’
‘I’m afraid I do.’
Afraid? ‘But who?’
‘Oh, she’s deluding herself that the great Malachy (I’m-so-divine) Hayhoe wants to marry her! It seems she’s prepared to throw it all away; marriage, children, the lot,
to shack up with him. Can you credit it? Of course it’s doomed from the outset, but then what? And how shall I tell the boys? I just don’t know…’ He sounded desperate.
‘You’re kidding?’ Anna was astonished.
‘I’ll kill him! To think I entertained the gutless bastard on my houseboat, and all the time he was…’He stopped.
‘Our special hideaway houseboat, darling,’ Anna reminded him gently.
‘Anyway,’ Paul said shortly, ‘sorry and all that, but you can imagine how I feel, and it certainly isn’t festive.’
‘But, Paul, can’t you see? This is our big chance. You’ve always said your marriage to Ermintrude was a sham. This could be the perfect solution. Now you and I can –’
‘Eleanor is my wife,’ Paul shouted. ‘Surely you can appreciate what that means to me. I’m sorry … I’m too upset… too angry … I’ll call again when things have calmed down.’
‘You can’t mean –’ Anna began, but he’d put the phone down. She felt mortally wounded, and at the same time outraged by his double standards. She didn’t know what to think. In a daze she saw his present still lying in its golden Christmas paper on the table. She unwrapped it. It was a box of chocolates.
Mic had been looking forward to having Christmas in a proper house with all the trimmings. She was well aware that she would be expected to do most of the cooking, but accepted it as the price she had to pay for comfort and security. She had however reckoned without Josh and Rosie being there too. This was the year they were supposed to go with their dad to London for Christmas with their flash granddad (and bloody good luck to them). But at the last minute, Josh had refused to go, and Rosie couldn’t be persuaded to go without him – understandable really. So there Mic was, lumbered again.
Mornings were always her best time; Gavin, half asleep, would climb into bed with her and they’d have a cuddle and discuss the day ahead, and she would privately wonder what sort of mood Cassie would turn out to be in – better these days, since her four weeks of intensive therapy. Today it had all begun much too early, inevitably so. Gavin had woken in high excitement at five o’clock and had roused her by trying to pull her eyelids up.
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