The Corner Shop of Whispers
Page 14
Harriet had been the first to trail through the ether of light sleep. She’d been totally starkers and towing a lascivious Henry along, his tongue hanging out and making him look like a randy panting dog. She’d looked at me and smirked before snapping, “Keep Alison away from my painting.” She’d waggled a finger in warning just as the doors to the Juliette balcony flew open. “I don’t want anybody making mischief again or there will be trouble.” And then both Harriet and Henry had floated out through the aperture, hovering briefly on a moonbeam before being snuffed out by dark clouds.
Alison had been the next to come in, and Martin Murray-Wells had been by her side. The two of them had insisted they be allowed to scribble on the canvas. I’d repeatedly batted their hands away, yelling at them to clear off. They’d managed to shape-shift into blobs of paint and had disappeared into the image, cackling gleefully. But before I could worry about what havoc they might wreak, a cold wind had blown around my ankles diverting my attention.
Spinning around, I’d gasped to see Luca standing there. He’d had Annabelle Farquhar-Jones draped around him. It had been too much and I’d let out a cry of pain. Annabelle had sneered openly. “You see, Florrie,” she’d drawled, “I told you Luca was mine. And here he is to prove it. With me.” I’d looked up at Luca, my face awash with tears. “Why did you lie to me?” I’d implored. “Please tell me why?” But his face had been devoid of all expression and he’d not answered me. That part of the dream had sent me hurtling upwards, like a diver struggling to emerge from deep waters, gasping for breath.
I’d sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, wide awake and drenched in sweat. My right hand had swiped at a real tear threatening to spill, while my left hand fluttered down and curled over my slightly rounded tummy, stroking the growing seed of our sole union.
A glance at the bedside clock revealed it was six in the morning. Flinging back the bedclothes, I crept into the master bedroom I’d previously shared with Marcus, taking care not to disturb him. However, as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see the bed was empty. The quilted covers were piled up, full of uneven mounds, as if an army of moles had been attempting to tunnel through the feathery duvet’s innards. Seemingly I wasn’t the only one who’d had a terrible night’s sleep. Marcus had clearly opted to channel his wakefulness into something productive and taken himself off to work early.
Moving through the bedroom and into the en-suite, I stepped into the shower and blasted away the tiredness. If only it were so easy to wash away problems and despair. Getting dressed, I moved around the bedroom, gathering belongings and folding them into a small case. Zipping up the bag, I then made both beds, had some breakfast and finally penned a message to Marcus.
Need to get away for a bit. Will be at Mum and Dad’s. Mobile phone will be off. If you need to contact me, ring their landline. Will be back home in time for May Ball. Shame to waste tickets.
Florrie
Folding the note, I propped it up against the kettle. It was probably a bit presumptuous to expect Marcus to partner me at the ball, but with or without him I certainly had to be there. I’d promised to support Alison, and told both her and Daisy I’d attend. Apart from anything else, Harriet was expecting my presence when her painting was unveiled to both the local press and Joe Public.
Despite the relatively early hour – it was still only just before eight in the morning – I knew my parents would be up and about. They were the sort of folk who rose with the lark and went to bed before ten. As I shut the front door on Number 2, I heaved a sigh of relief. Sometimes, no matter what our age, we still needed to lean on our parents for a comforting hug, a kiss on the forehead, the reassurance that no matter what mess we’d made of our lives, everything would be all right. My mother was very much of the Hyacinth Bucket mould. Whilst I had no doubt she’d be sympathetic about my marriage ending, I wasn’t quite so sure what her reaction would be when I broke the news that not only was she going to be a grandma, but her son-in-law wasn’t the father. I certainly wasn’t looking forward to what her retort would be when I confessed that the real father of my unborn baby was an Italian stud who’d already romantically moved on, and that not only was her daughter up the duff but also up the proverbial creek without a paddle.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘You what?’ my mother yelped. ‘Oh my God. I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’
My mother was in full drama queen mode. She made to clutch her heart whilst still holding her teacup, and only narrowly avoided tipping a camomile infusion down her cashmere-covered bosom. Despite the warm spring weather outside, my mother was taking no chances. She was swathed from head to toe in warm clothing with the heating on for good measure. We were both seated at her neat kitchen table. The best bone china was set before us and a plate of biscuits had been neatly arranged over a doily-decorated plate. My mother tipped her chin upward and drew breath.
‘Bill?’ she bellowed at the ceiling over our heads. ‘Get your bottom off that toilet and get down here. Now!’
My father’s muffled voice floated through the plasterboard. ‘Barbara, I’ve only just settled down with the newspaper. Can’t it wait?’
‘Most definitely not.’
My mother’s cheeks were now sporting two rose-pink blobs. I could tell she was upset. From upstairs came the grumbles of my father complaining to himself. The sound of a toilet flushing followed shortly afterwards. I could picture him now, carefully folding up his beloved daily rag and placing it carefully on the cistern for a later visit, before moving over to the basin to wash his hands. Sometimes the bathroom was his only place of sanctuary in order to have a legitimate excuse to escape the many chores Mum made sure kept him busy now they no longer worked. They’d taken early retirement, opting for voluntary redundancy from their respective employers when the recession had been at its worst.
I put my teacup down and looked across the table at my mother. She was doing a very good impression of someone who’d popped a chocolate in their mouth only to discover it was ten years out of date. I sighed.
‘I thought you’d be over the moon to hear you’re finally going to be a grandmother.’
So far things hadn’t gone quite as I’d expected. Certainly my mother had yet to wrap her arms around me and murmur reassuring words of comfort. I reached for a biscuit just as Mum gave me a baleful glare. For one moment I thought she was going to snatch the biscuit away and send me to my bedroom by way of punishment.
My father lumbered into the kitchen. His sturdy bulk momentarily blocked the light from the small kitchen window as he moved around the table towards me.
‘Hello, love.’ He bobbed a kiss on top of my head before pulling out a chair. ‘Well this is most certainly a lovely surprise.’ He beamed with pleasure and sat down heavily. I caught him glancing around the table, as if mentally counting the number of people present. My father was neither one of life’s fast movers nor thinkers. His brow crinkled slightly. He stared at the empty chair opposite him. ‘No Marcus?’
‘No, Dad.’
‘That’s good,’ he grinned. ‘I’ll have my best girl all to myself.’ He looked very pleased with that.
‘Actually, you’ve got me all to yourself for the next several days. If that’s all right,’ I added.
‘Of course it’s all right. We don’t see enough of our girl. Do we, Barb?’ He regarded my mother, who wasn’t looking quite so ecstatic. Dad’s brow furrowed again. ‘Is there something going on here that nobody’s told me about?’
‘That’s incredibly astute of you,’ said Mum sarcastically.
‘Oh dear.’ My father pushed his chair back and stood up again. ‘In that case I’m going to make a proper brew. Will you join me, Florrie? Unless, of course, you’re pretending to enjoy that camomile muck your mother’s given you.’ He winked.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I said gratefully. My father was always the gentler one of my two parents. He’d always been the first to pick me up when, as a child, I’d scraped a knee.
‘Is that your way of giving me permission to add a drop of brandy to my cuppa?’ Dad grinned wickedly.
‘Most certainly not,’ my mother’s eyes flashed. ‘You won’t believe what your daughter’s gone and done.’
I noted the “your daughter” as opposed to “our daughter”. Dad turned his attention to the kettle briefly, pouring scalding water into my mother’s prized porcelain teapot.
‘Do you hear me, Bill?’ Mum’s voice was starting to sound like a dripping tap.
I put the heels of my hands to my eyes and pressed hard. Perhaps coming back to my childhood home for a few days’ respite hadn’t been such a good idea after all. I’d join Dad for that cup of tea and then go back to Lower Amblegate. Yes, good idea. Once home I’d get on the phone to a solicitor. Sit down with Marcus. Start dividing up our belongings. I might even have a bit of time left over to follow up with the estate agent Marcus had mentioned.
Dad banged the heavy teapot down on the table making Mum and I jump.
‘Hush, Barb,’ he said gruffly. ‘I think our Florrie can speak for herself.’ His tone of voice said it all. You can boss me around most of the time, but this is one time I’m not permitting it. He placed two chipped builder-sized mugs on the table which my mother always kept for visiting workmen, then slapped down a plastic carton of milk, both of which had my mother visibly flinching. Before she could protest about not pouring milk into a china jug for the sake of decorum, Dad turned to me. His eyes were like two bright blue headlamps.
‘So,’ he said, smiling reassuringly and dropping his tone of voice to one that invited confiding in him, ‘tell me, darling, what’s happened. Properly. From the beginning.’
‘She’s pregnant,’ Mum blurted.
Dad’s face changed in an instant from serious to banana-split-grin.
‘Sweetheart,’ he cooed. ‘This is wonderful news! So why the glum face?’
Mum immediately chimed in. ‘Tell him, Florrie. Tell your father what you haven’t long since told me. Although I could hardly believe my own ears.’
Dad turned his attention to Mum and frowned.
‘Why don’t you give the lass a chance to speak for herself, eh? Now please, Barbara. Stop interrupting.’
My mother pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest.
‘Well,’ I began, picking my words carefully, ‘things aren’t very straightforward, Dad.’ I cradled the mismatched mug of tea in my hands.
‘But you’ve been waiting for this moment for years, darling.’ Dad looked perplexed. ‘Your mum and I never thought we’d be grandparents. I, for one, am absolutely delighted with the news. Surely you are too, Florrie?’ His eyes searched mine for an answer.
‘Yes,’ I nodded, ‘but the thing is, Dad, the baby…well…it’s…you see…,’ I took a deep breath, ‘Marcus isn’t the father.’
Dad stared at me. ‘O-kay,’ he said slowly, desperately trying to make sense of what I was saying. ‘I remember you saying Marcus had some…um…fertility problems too…so…,’ his expression cleared. ‘Ah!’ A lightbulb was going off in his brain. ‘I understand. You went to a donor. Is that it?’
Opposite me, Mum snorted. She was obviously dying to get her tuppence-worth in.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ she said under her breath.
Dad gave an exasperated sigh. ‘There’s nothing wrong with going to a clinic,’ he chided, ‘so stop your digs, woman, and let our girl talk.’
‘Don’t you speak to me like that,’ Mum’s voice quivered with indignation. ‘Our daughter hasn’t been to some clinic, Bill. The harsh fact is that Florrie hasn’t been true to her husband. Not true at all. Our daughter saw a donor all right. Another man. And this man has loved her and left her faster than you can say “ovulation”.’ She clicked her fingers together emphasising her point before rounding on me furiously. ‘Oh I know all about your generation not giving two hoots about having kids with different men and being single mothers with your free love and your social housing, but that’s not how we brought you up, Florrie.’
It was too much. I knew Mum was narrow-minded but right now her words were hugely misplaced. I burst into tears.
‘Now then. Calm yourself, love.’ Dad reached out with a giant paw-like hand and enfolded mine into his. ‘I’m sure whatever’s happened, and however it’s happened, it will all work out.’ He gave my hand a comforting squeeze. ‘And one thing I do know. If my daughter is expecting another man’s baby, then things must have been pretty dire in her marriage to have been driven into the arms of someone else.’
I nodded my head gratefully and gave my father a watery smile. Trust him to be the one to see the bigger picture, whilst all Mum worried about was explaining away her newly single daughter’s status and the birth of an illegitimate grandchild to neighbours who, it had to be said, were just as pretentious as the likes of Alison and the Darwin Prep mob.
‘I’ve never told either of you what’s been going on with my marriage over the years,’ I gulped and stared at my tea. ‘I’d hoped we’d work things out together. Get through it. Somehow. But we haven’t. Not for wont of trying,’ I added. ‘Basically the whole subject of fathering a child…or not fathering in this case… has been a huge psychological issue for Marcus. He’s had one affair after another to make himself feel macho.’
Mum gasped. ‘Marcus? Lovely Marcus?’
My mother had always thought the sun shone out of her son-in-law’s very pert bottom.
‘Yes,’ I answered, asserting my voice. I didn’t want her being under any illusion that Marcus was the golden boy she’d always thought him to be.
Dad pursed his lips. ‘I always did think your husband was a tad too smooth, Florrie. The bloody sod. Why didn’t you tell us, love? I could have had a word with him. Put a rocket up his backside and delivered a punch in his no-good goolies for good measure.’
I shrugged. ‘Like I said, I thought we’d work things out. And if we had, I didn’t want you knowing how he’d behaved and then thinking less of him. But a little while ago I received a letter from his latest mistress. It left me in no doubt our marriage was never going to change. I want you both to know it’s been difficult and, at times, pure hell. And it was when things were particularly bad, and I was at my lowest ebb, that I met somebody who…who,’ I gulped and reddened, suddenly finding it awkward to be discussing my extra marital love life with my parents, ‘well…you understand. I met someone who consoled me. Unfortunately,’ my eyes brimmed, ‘let’s just say I was a poor judge of character. Again.’
‘Now you listen to me, Florrie,’ Dad said. His voice was no-nonsense and firm. ‘You can stay here for as long as you like. And if you need to come home and live here full-time with our little grandbaby, then so be it. I’ll be delighted to have the two of you.’
My eyes watered again at Dad saying “the two of you”. My father turned to Mum. ‘We’ll both be delighted. Won’t we, Barbara?’ his tone left no room for any objection.
Mum sniffed. ‘Of course. I just wish I didn’t have to tell Beryl and the rest of my rambling group that Florrie is pregnant with another man’s child.’
‘Bugger Beryl,’ my father suddenly roared. His big paw clenched, immediately turning into a meaty fist that slammed against the kitchen table making both Mum and I jump again. ‘It’s nobody else’s business. And if Beryl says otherwise, I’ll be having words with her too. Meanwhile if you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call to make.’ My father pushed back his chair and stood up.
‘Who are you ringing?’ my mother asked, her expression one of confusion.
‘Marcus,’ said Dad, his lips disappearing into a thin line. ‘I have a few choice things to say to my son-in-law. I’ll be in my study, and neither of you are to interrupt.’ He turned to Mum and waggled a sausage-like finger. ‘And no ear-wigging either.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
I didn’
t really care that my parents now thought so little of Marcus. They lived on the other side of Sevenoaks, which was far enough away from my more insular village which was full of gossips and wagging tongues. I spent the next few days doing an awful lot of sleeping, and feeding the sudden ravenous appetite that had abruptly developed. My emotions see-sawed from numbness over the ending of my marriage, to weepiness whenever I thought of Luca with that wretched woman, Annabelle Farquhar-Jones.
I distracted myself wherever possible, helping Dad in the garden, pricking out pots of cuttings, and planting frothy flowering foliage in patio tubs. The weather was glorious. Pottering in the garden under a warm spring sun quickly turned my skin to gold, concealing the grey circles under my troubled eyes. On Friday morning, I even joined Mum and her trekking friends and went for a ramble.
‘I’d rather you didn’t say anything to Beryl and the rest of the girls about…,’ Mum paused and looked pained, ‘…you know.’ She jerked her head at my stomach to indicate what she was talking about. We were sitting in her car at the assigned meeting point, the village hall’s car park, awaiting the others.
‘Mm,’ I agreed. ‘Goodness only knows what Beryl would think if she found out your only daughter was divorcing her pleasant looking middle-class husband who spends all his free time bedding women and firing blanks.’
‘There’s no need to be coarse, Florrie,’ Mum snapped.
‘Well I’m sorry, but I’m getting a bit fed up with constantly being made to feel like some sort of pariah. This isn’t the Victorian era we’re living in.
‘I don’t care what you think,’ Mum’s lips pursed like a dog’s bottom. ‘I just never thought in a million years my daughter would, after just five years of marriage, be in this horrendous predicament. I mean, how on earth are you going to support yourself? We can’t help you with finances. Mine and Daddy’s pensions aren’t huge, you know. And babies are very expensive.’ Mum ground to a halt as a succession of cars suddenly pulled up alongside us. The over-sixties female mafia had arrived en-masse, and Beryl was firmly in lead position of Don.