Rebecca swallowed a rising sob—mustn’t cry in front of the children who were now running and screaming around the garden. Pulling herself taller, she took a disguising gulp of her cappuccino.
“There’s nothing wrong with St Oswald’s Lodge, Becky. Your dad’s happy there, they treat him well, and you know that. Anyway…” She grinned, returning to the chaotic kitchen to prepare bacon sandwiches for everyone. “What would your dad have done with a swimming pool and spa? He’s not up to diving in the deep end. And a hairdresser? Well, with the greatest of respect to George—not a regularly required service for him, is it?”
Rebecca returned the smile of her dearest friend, surveying Max and the Scott children from the kitchen window as they chased the hopping rabbit around the neatly trimmed lawn, and sighed.
“I know, I know. But as soon as Rosemary Cottage is sold, the first thing I’m going to do is pay off the outstanding fees at St Oswald’s Lodge and move him to Morningside Towers.”
Claudia removed her well-used, orange cast iron frying pan from the cupboard and busied herself with browning the bacon for sandwiches.
“What’s happening with the cottage, Becky?” Paul probed, appearing at the door fresh from the shower, the spitting double of his five-year-old son—same dark, handsomely etched features, same untamed espresso hair, his slender body encased in fitted black jeans and navy hoodie.
“Absolutely nothing. No viewings since February when the roof tiles on the gable end collapsed into the back bedroom under the weight of all the snow. The garden’s a tangle of wild flowers and overgrown herbs. Who’s going to take that on, even though it is right next to Hadrian’s Wall? Even an avid historian would draw the line at a horticulturist’s worst nightmare! I don’t have the finances to repair the roof nor the time to spend clearing the garden. But until the work is done, the property is not going to attract any serious buyers, I’m afraid.
“I’m desperate to get it sold though, Paul. Jeremy Goldacre, the estate agent who’s handling the sale, advised me to reduce the price again. But I’ve already reduced it by thirty thousand pounds, and if I reduce it any further there won’t be enough to repay Dad what I owe him and the bank loan I took out to discharge his outstanding care home fees at the Lodge. And they’re still in arrears.”
Rebecca twiddled her empty coffee mug, staring at the remaining dregs, as Paul slid next to her at the huge pine table. “I should loathe that cottage. Its purchase caused this miserable nightmare. But every time I visit, even with the questionable charm of its crumbling roof, I fall in love with it again. It’s exactly the home I dreamed of when I was a girl. No Barbies and dressing up in pink netting tutus for me. Climbing and swinging from trees, constructing pebble dams, exploring the fields with the boys, building dens out of knotty branches and hay were my chosen leisure pursuits!
“I dreamt of the exact replica of that sturdy stone cottage, pale ivory roses arching over the front door which had to be dead centre, windows divided into four panes either side and upstairs in perfect symmetry, nets wafting in the breeze, white picket fence, gate slightly ajar. The garden filled with cute pink fuchsias—still my favourite—wild swaying grasses and sweet-smelling herbs emitting their fragrance as you brush past them along the cracked front path, and heavily laden fruit trees in an orchard at the back. Listen to me, I’ve missed my vocation, should have been an estate agent. I’d make a better stab at the job than Hurray Jeremy!
“But it’s not just the property, Claudia.” She paused to accept the deliciously fragrant bacon sandwich and douse it in HP sauce. “It’s what it promised—a better quality of life for Max, with Dad, you, and Paul on the doorstep. Max attending the local village school and inviting his friends ’round to play. With the countryside offering an extension of the garden, the opportunity for Max to run wild and free in the fields of the farm next door, just like I did, would be so good for his wellbeing. Enjoying the cows and sheep, not terrified of all animals, no matter how small and placid, not cooped up in a tiny, grotty, overheated flat above a flower shop, hating the horrendous hours he’s forced to spend at nursery. You know, he’s the last child to be collected on an evening? How can I do that to him? He doesn’t deserve it. I’m a rubbish mother.”
This time she couldn’t prevent the lone tear trickling down her cheek, watching it splash onto the worn, bleached table. She brushed others away crossly.
“I should never have bought it, I know. I got carried away, surfing a wave of nostalgia. I should have consulted Brad first. But I so wanted it to be a surprise for him—a packaged solution to our problems. Dad was all for it, bless him. He’s always wanted us back here, couldn’t fathom the lure of London. I get that now.
“He was an angel, lending me the money. But I should never have accepted it—it was everything he had, Claudie, every penny from when he sold the barn after Mum died.
“But the biggest mistake was putting his name on the deeds, just to keep the purchase a secret from Brad until I could reveal the cottage in all its glory. I’d have wrapped it in a red ribbon if I could! Then, after the unveiling ceremony, me and Brad could have raised the mortgage and paid Dad back with any interest he’d lost. No harm done. I didn’t for one minute pause to consider the consequences, nor did I have any inkling Brad would drop the bombshell of his affair and walk out on us.
“Then Dad had his stroke and couldn’t stay in his supported flat, even with the daily carers coming in. And to cap it all, he has to pay full fees there because he owns a property and assets worth more than twenty-three thousand pounds!
“I’m a useless daughter for not forward planning for my own dad’s future. I have even less of an excuse with my renowned addiction to list making. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I did have a very comprehensive list, but, obviously, it omitted to include the scenario of my husband dumping me in the mire!
“Oh, yes, and add to that lengthening list a rubbish friend, too, who dumps all her woes onto her undeserving friends. I’m so grateful to you and Paul for accommodating me and Max, and for visiting Dad at the Lodge with Daisy. He loves your visits, you know.”
Claudia stroked Rebecca’s pale, limp hand, as Paul tended the second frying pan of sizzling bacon for the kids’ breakfast, its pungent, mouth-watering smell drawing the children in from the garden.
“George does worry about you, Becky. He needs to be reassured you are happy and settled before he goes. He knows you’re not and it upsets him. Have you told him you’ve been struck off because of the bankruptcy? That you lost your job at Harvey & Co?”
“Goodness, no! It’d kill him. He and Mum made huge sacrifices to send me to uni. I miss Mum so much, Claudie—every day. I wish she was here, just to give me a hug.” She couldn’t prevent the hot tears any longer.
Paul refilled the kettle and set it to boil, bustling off to round up the children and start the delicate negotiations of persuading Daisy to get dressed in something other than her favourite candy-pink tutu and princess tiara for their trip to the pool.
“Come on, have a hug from me.” Claudia, familiar with mopping up tears on a daily basis, reached across the table to wrap her arms around Rebecca’s slumped shoulders. “You know, this addiction to list making has to stop, Becky. Don’t take this the wrong way, but could your blinkered focus on achieving a directory of desires have made you forget to simply live and enjoy life, or to deal with whatever life throws in your path when fate chooses to fling it your way?”
“Claudie, as usual you are spot on. I am obsessed with the hope that, with the structure of a written list, my life won’t go off piste. But it’s taken some very hard lessons for me to realise no matter how many lists I make, no matter how successful I am at achieving the tasks, life is uncontrollable—well, mine is! But I’m terrified to ditch my lists, Claudie. They are the lifebelt I cling to in the raging storm which is my life right now.”
“You’ve certainly had your share of trauma, Becky. Anyone who’s endured the turmoil you have would experience the
same crisis of confidence. But, you know, avid concentration on an unachievable bucket list risks neglecting the challenges of the present, those little things that bring us tiny nuggets of happiness, regular doses of which provide contentment and the strength to press ahead. You do realise that a bucket list is a roll-call of experiences to do before you die! Not in the next six months! You’ve got all the time in the world to climb Kilimanjaro, or whichever mountain you’ve got on that infuriating list.”
“It’s Mount McKinley.” Rebecca giggled, for the first time hearing the stupidity of her obsession when all around her, life as she knew it, was crumbling. “Well, you will be relieved to be informed that I intend to do just that. Ditch the list!”
“Deb and Nathan, the colleagues at work I told you about, have also confronted me with my obsession, which culminated in me indulging in the purchase of a book entitled The Little Green Book of Wishes. I must confess, I did initially intend to use it to draft more lists—but only of the wishes variety, not the bucket variety,” she hastily added, glancing at Claudia’s scowl. “But the note at the front from the author clearly directs the reader to use the book as a ‘lucky bag of wishes’, to dip in, dip out of its gems of advice, and discard the stress-inducing, must-achieve bucket list. What better self-help tome is there for a girl like me? I’m Rebecca Mathews, nee Phillips, and I’m a listoholic!”
Claudia smiled at her best friend. “Why don’t you grab the bathroom and take a leisurely shower, use the expensive stuff Paul bought me for Christmas, on the glass shelf above the bath. Don’t understand why I guard those shiny bottles so slavishly, except they do look too pretty to use. Go on, we’ll sort Max out with his breakfast and swimming gear. You get off to visit George. Send our love and warn him I’ll be down with Daisy on Friday. And don’t fret, Becky. He’s happy there!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rebecca pointed her old silver car into the terracotta-coloured gravel parking bay, crunching to an abrupt halt. She was anxious to spend as much time with her father as she could on this visit. She knew he missed seeing her and Max immensely, but not as much as he missed the company of his beloved Marianne.
Since his stroke at Christmas, he had steadily become more frail. Although he still clung to all his faculties, his memory was fixed on the past, not the present. When she visited, they spent their time together reminiscing about her happy childhood, laughing at the antics she had performed, her rejection of all things girly for the freedom and adventure of running wild in the meadows surrounding their converted barn, her Titian hair flying in tangled ringlets behind her.
They always chatted about her mum, sometimes as though she was in the next room, recalling the forty-five years of happily married life George and she had enjoyed, an accolade Rebecca would never match.
“Hi, Dad.” She found him sitting in his wheelchair on the patio in a sheltered spot, wrapped in an emerald and black tartan blanket, his unlit pipe clamped between his teeth, the smell of dried tobacco sending ripples of childhood nostalgia through Rebecca.
“Becky!” Raising his frail hand in greeting, George removed his pipe and placed it carefully on his blanket-wrapped knees. His bright blue eyes sparkled at her arrival. She bent to kiss his papery cheek, tucking the blanket more securely around his immobile legs. “No Max?”
“He’s gone off swimming with Claudia, Paul, and the kids. I’ll bring him in after lunch.”
“Lovely, pet. Shall we decamp into the lounge? It’s getting a bit draughty out here now and there’s tea and homemade cherry scones on the go. You’re too thin. Do you eat?” He repeated the same admonishment every time she visited him.
They settled into the peaceful, chintzy residents’ lounge, the April sun’s weak rays catching dancing dust particles. The aroma of home-baking permeating the room, as a huge green teapot and a stacked plate of well-risen cherry scones were deposited on the smoky glass coffee table by a chirpy young Polish girl.
“Just a cup of tea for me, pet. You be Mum!”
Rebecca only just managed to grip onto her wrecked emotions, as her weary mind leapt to the gaping hole the departure her beloved mum had left, her pain still raw as she sat pouring tea for her dad as her mother had so loved to do.
“How’s that job of yours? You work too hard for that company, you know. I hope they appreciate you.”
“I know, Dad.”
“Well, you need to start thinking of that young lad of yours, before he starts reception class in September. You don’t want to be sending him to an inner city school in London. When are you moving back up here? Living in that cottage you bought? The local village school only has sixty kids, you know. He’ll love it. He’ll get all the care and personal attention young children need there, a more rounded education than just cleverness from studying books.
“I want to see you settled and happy, Becky love. I know you and Bradley weren’t able to mend your differences and I’m sorry about that, but you and Max have to come first now, not Bradley. That’s why you’re sticking things out down in London, isn’t it? So he can be near his dad? But what about all the other positive reasons for moving back up here? Remember your list addiction, Becky? Pros and cons? You need some joy in your life. I see none in your face.”
He took her pale hand into his translucent ones, which used to be so firm and strong, but were now liberally dotted with brown age spots. “Be happy, Becky. It’s really all that matters in life. Money and career are okay when you’re carving out your place in the world. But you’ve got Max to think of now. What are you waiting for? Do what your heart says is right, as your mam used to say.”
George wasn’t aware Rosemary Cottage was hardly habitable or that she’d have no chance of securing a job in Northumberland whilst she was an un-discharged bankrupt and a stuck-off solicitor. But she knew he was right—here in rural Northumberland inventions such as six-minute segments of time-recording, unachievable financial targets, and exorbitant bonus payments seemed obscenely avaricious.
Lapsing into silence, George gently snoozed, worn out from the energy expended on such a lengthy conversation, whilst Rebecca pondered his pep talk. Sipping her tea, her thoughts leapt from guilt, to worry, to shame, and then to panic at her father’s failing health. If she was going to take the plunge and move back north, it would have to be soon or it would be too late for her treasured relationship with her father.
The care home manger materialized, a round, bustling, jolly woman in her late fifties, with the sing-song Welsh accent Rebecca loved.
“Hello, Rebecca my dear. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks, Mrs Peters.”
“He’ll be away ’til lunchtime now. Loves a snooze in that chair in the morning, does your dad. Why don’t you come back at two, after lunch? He’ll be more refreshed then. He’s spending more time sleeping lately. Talks about your mum all the time, though. He adores her, you know, misses her so much.”
“Yes, I know,” Rebecca said sadly, wishing she had been as lucky in her choice of partner. She rose from the comfort of the flowery, wing-backed chair, reluctant to leave. “See you at two, then, Mrs Peters. I’ll bring Max.”
“You do that, pet. We all love to see the little livewire.”
Rebecca slumped in her car in the Lodge’s car park, howling for her miserable choices in life, for the closing days of her father’s life, and her own bleak ones ahead. How had she managed to get herself and her beloved family into this mess? How had she dared to inflict such pain on her father and Max? And how could she ever start to put things right?
Wiping away her self-regarding tears, she drew in a deep breath. Come on, Rebecca. Show some mettle! Do the right thing and sort your life out!
She determined to do just that!
CHAPTER NINE
“Right! Where’s that wishes book then?” Deb demanded first thing Monday morning. “Hand it over! I’m holding you to your promise.”
Before Rebecca handed the little green book to Deb, Nathan glanced at their team man
ager, Georgina, still engrossed in a complicated call, then scootered his chair to Deb’s desk as if keen to get involved.
“The Little Green Book of Wishes.” Deb rotated the book in her hand, stroking its emerald cover as though wedding dress silk, parting its pages at the contents page. “‘Wishes with your Partner’, ‘Wishes with Children’, or ‘Wishes for the World’ section? Hey, there’s one of your wishes here, Nath, from the ‘Wishes with Friends’ section—‘Real Ale tasting’! Oh, and ‘Swishing’! Now that’s one I would include on my wish list!”
“I don’t understand why you are both so excited.” Nathan rolled his eyes. “It’s a complete waste of time and energy, if you ask me. Wishes never come true. I’d love to get the supervisor’s job when Georgina is promoted to associate next month, but I know I won’t, so what’s the point applying? Why put myself through all that anxiety and stress? Anyway, it’s Becky we’re selecting random wishes for, not me. And why put poor Becky through the hassle and potential humiliation of performing challenges from a randomly purchased book extolling the unachievable virtues of fulfilling our deepest desires? Crazy, if you ask me.”
He flicked his Baringer & Co pen between his fingers until it became a blur. However, despite his pessimistic forecast, he continued to pour eagerly over the contents section of the little green book with Deb and Rebecca.
“Well, I think it’s an excellent idea and so does Fergus. Hey, look, there’s even a section on marrying. Thank goodness, ’cos I could do with some seriously helpful tips, we’ve still got so much to do. I’m up for ‘Becoming the Perfect Bride’ and ‘Maintaining a Successful Marriage’. Might even try ‘Co-existing With Your In-laws’.” She sniggered.
“Oh, I’m so excited. Look, Becky, ‘Amassing a Prestigious Shoe Collection.’ Let’s study that one and slip off one lunchtime soon to Jimmy Choo’s wedding shoe emporium! Come on, what’ll be your first challenge from the little green book? You chose the category, but me and Nath are choosing the challenge.” She held the book up to Rebecca’s face and flicked the pages from back to front, her perfectly plucked, honey-blonde eyebrows disappearing into her fringe.
The Wish List Addiction Page 5