“I’m insisting on accompanying Mum and her best friend, Margaret, to town next weekend to select her outfit and hat. I’m thinking pale lilac or lavender, complimenting the Royal purple theme, but she’s settled on insipid lemon. The colour really drains one’s complexion, I think, so I’m going with her to arbitrate. Right,” Deb said, suddenly turning her search beam on Rebecca, who’d mistakenly assumed she had avoided any further interrogation. “Chalk that date up to experience. Next challenge!”
“Oh, Deb, can’t we call it a day? The picnic wasn’t a huge success because I knew it was supposed to be a date and that piled the pressure on. I wasn’t my usual relaxed self.” Rebecca pulled a face. When was she ever relaxed? “And I only noticed Brian’s quirkiness because I was looking for an excuse not to take things further. And what better excuse than his manky feet? Yak!”
“Okay, not a date, but another activity. You and Max took great pleasure in playing golf together. A real success, wouldn’t you agree? What about a challenge from the ‘Wishes for Friends’ section this time—no Max? Me and Fergus will babysit. I’m planning on four, maybe five children, so the more experience Fergus has with kids the better he will be prepared. What have you always enjoyed doing? Is there a hobby or latent talent you had before the legal profession inserted its evil claws into your soft, milky-white skin?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Deb. I should be spending my spare time with Max. It’s the summer holidays soon. I need to return to Northumberland to visit Dad and to chase that useless Henry of an estate agent again. I get farmed off to the receptionist whenever I telephone from London, so I need to visit him face to face, see the whites of his eyes, as Dad always advises. I’m considering changing agents or going dual. The summer months are the best time to press the many attributes of the cottage. That’s when the place is heaving with holiday makers, ramblers, cyclists, and hikers walking the length of Hadrian’s Wall, maybe searching for a pretty little cottage as a holiday home. I can’t chance missing the summer season or it’ll be another six months languishing on the stagnant housing market!”
“What’s Mr Estate Agent like? Is he a contender?”
“Stop it, Deb. But actually, yes, he is handsome, in a Hooray Henry sort of way—crisp pink shirt, braces, glint of gold cufflinks, drives the obligatory black, four-wheel-drive tank with tinted windows. But all I desire from him is a sale. He sold the cottage to me in the first place, spun the fairy tale that there were prospective purchasers queuing up to buy it, advising I should put in an offer quick or lose it. Not sure that was true if the last twelve months are anything to go by, but he had me at ‘Ivory Roses climbing around the heavy oak front door.’ I’d love to have a free reign and unlimited budget to throw at the interior design.”
Rebecca affected a creative director stance, throwing one elegant hand expressively wide, lodging the other firmly on her hip. “Darlings, I see modern farmhouse chintz, celestial blue and winter teal with a splash of crushed peppermint in the lounge. Over here we encounter a huge indispensable cream-coloured solid fuel Aga, so I’m thinking roasted pumpkin on the chimney breast wall, Californian sands on the window wall to reflect the buttercups of the adjacent field. Moving up to the master bedroom, I recommend feminine and girly, none of that minimalist beige and taupe Bradley insisted on, so it will be dressed in candy pink, toned down with water lily and pale rose.”
She giggled and continued. “Master Max Bradley Mathews, I’m sure, will demand Thomas blue, with accents of Percy green. Hey”—she resumed her seat in her swivel chair at her desk—“did you know there’s a specialist stencil library which supplies the whole country with every stencil imaginable, just along the road from Rosemary Cottage, in Stocksfield? You should see it. We visited to explore the library and the attached manor house—every single room, including the bathroom, which was my favourite, had been lovingly and meticulously stenciled—on a ‘school trip’ during an adult education course I joined when I was reading for my law degree at Durham. Interior design is the path I always wanted to pursue, before the law elbowed my creative ambitions sideways.”
“That’s it then,” Deb exclaimed, her eyes shining. “I happen to know there’s an interior design taster course offered at our local college this Saturday. That’s where I’m spending my Wednesday nights, learning the intricate art of sugarcraft, designing elaborate posies, delicate leaves, and berries for my wedding cake decoration. Drop Max ’round at ours on Saturday morning and we can spend the day up to our eyes in jams, cream, and icing sugar for cupcakes. It’s our homework this week!” She giggled.
“Mum, and me, and my auntie, Jennifer, are performing a trial run for the fruit wedding cakes, too. Max’ll love it. He can make as much mess as he likes, and you can go off to college for a day of creative therapy. Try it out, take some ‘me time’ for your own sanity, Becky. When’s the last time you did anything which wasn’t connected with work or Max?”
“That’s a ridiculous suggestion, Deb,” Nathan butted in. “If she’s got a free day with a babysitter, she should be doing the ‘Divorce and Beyond’ training seminar Lucinda wants us to do, not indulge in our ‘creative hobbies.’ I’ve been roped into attending on Saturday morning, and then I’m straight off to my meeting afterwards.”
“What meeting’s that, Nathan?” Deb enquired, her eyes boring into Nathan’s.
“Oh, erm, I meant meeting the lads down the Fox & Hounds for a few drinks. Saturday night, you know.”
Deb narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “That isn’t what you meant. You’re not a closet alcoholic, are you? Or attending Comic Book Fans Anonymous? No? A weird wizard’s Magical Self-Help Group for Miserable Magicians?”
“Funny girl, Deb.”
“Mmm. Any news from Emma’s solicitors yet? After the letter Becky sent?”
“Actually, yes. Emma’s thinking carefully about her plans for the summer holidays whilst Millie is off school. I’m hopeful she might agree to allow her to spend a few days with me in Edinburgh. Mam’s oncologist warned us her cancer is becoming more aggressive and she’s had all the chemo she can manage for the time being. Her heart’s weakened, so they have to be careful. I’m really pinning my hopes on these holidays. It’s probably the last chance for Mam to see Millie.”
“Oh, Nathan, I hope Emma realises it’s the right thing to do. We did mention court proceedings in the letter, but it’ll take months before a final decision is made by the Family Proceedings Court after the welfare reports have been prepared,” Rebecca said.
Rebecca had a huge amount of sympathy for Nathan’s predicament. His options were sparse, the timescales out of his control. Perhaps the meeting he hadn’t wanted to expand on was a self-help or support group to guide him through this difficult time. He did seem more assertive.
* * *
“Well, did you have fun?” Rebecca knew the answer straightaway.
Max was covered in a light dusting of flour and splodges of red icing, at least that’s what she hoped it was! He pouted ruby red lipstick, a la Marilyn Munro! His green eyes were wide and bright, his pupils dilated—a sugar rush!
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“How many cupcakes have you made?” The little buns were piled in high, tumbling pyramids on every available surface.
“Seventy two, and we’ve iced them all, haven’t we, chum?” said Fergus. “Some more professional than others, I have to admit. Deb’s decorated those with the cute daisies, mine are these with the tiny marshmallows and little chocolate balls, and those lurid green and black ones are Max’s. Great job, buddy, high five.” The sugar high was not confined to Max!
The kitchen of the Bell family home was a scene from a kitchen nightmare. Deb had not graduated from the culinary school of thought which preached bakers should tidy up as they went along. Every available surface was strewn with brightly decorated mixing bowls, spatulas caked in icing, pastel-coloured paper cases, and in pride of place in the centre of their huge pine table rose a deep, circular fruit cake on a pede
stal. The aroma was an elixir to the nostrils. Lemon-coloured icing drizzled down the sides of the fruit cake, sliding the tiny white daisies in its lava flow.
She glanced through the open back door into the garden beyond, where on the green, wooden patio decking the table was bedecked with a yellow gingham table cloth, bright sunshine-yellow plastic plates and cups, and a tower of homemade fruit scones, accompanied by homemade raspberry jam in a glass dish with buttery-yellow clotted cream.
“Hey, Becky! It’s been an awesome day.” Deb smiled when she caught sight of her friend. “Fergus and Max are demon bakers. I’m not sure now whether I’ll be icing my own wedding cake, though. Might get the fruit cakes we’ve made from Gran’s secret recipe professionally iced. How did you get on? Are your creative juices flowing like the icing on my experimental wedding cake?”
“I’ve had the most fantastic day. Thank you so much for entertaining Max. Yes, such as I possess it, the artistic flair came flooding back. We learned about colour wheels, mood boards, textures, printing, stenciling. The best fun of all was using the glue gun—a gadget that’s definitely going on my Christmas wish list! Oh, if I’m even allowed to have a Christmas wish list. Here, I made this for you.”
She presented Deb with a handmade, brown paper carrier bag with woven string handles, printed with bells and Deb and Fergus’ entwined names.
“In our next session we’re designing and producing a stained-glass panel, using lead and a soldering iron. If you agree, I’d love to design a stained-glass piece for your wedding present, intertwined names similar to the design on the bag, wedding rings, hearts, bells. What’s your surname going to be when you’re married?”
“Horne. Deborah Marie Horne,” Deb said proudly.
“You’re going from a Bell to a Horne?”
“Yep.”
“Made for each other, you two are!” Rebecca laughed. In that moment, Rebecca realized that over the last three months since she’d had the good fortune to meet Deb, she had never laughed or smiled so much in years. She’d assumed working in an open-office environment would be distracting, that she would resent not having her own private sanctuary to prepare her complex legal cases, but the complete opposite had transpired. She only had to lean to the left or right for a word of support, the answer to a difficult query, or the suggestion of a cappuccino. She had a lot to give thanks to her friend and colleague for, apart from her ban on drawing up her beloved lists. Without them, Rebecca still felt adrift, with no structure or control in her life.
“Thanks, Becky, that’s a kind and intimately personal gift. We’d be honoured to give it pride of place in our new home. I’m delighted you enjoyed your day-off-duty so much,” she said softly, squeezing her tightly. “A little bit of self-indulgence stretches a long way, even though me and Ferg seem to be the beneficiaries of your day’s toil.”
“I was so totally immersed in the projects—crafting with my fingers and a different part of my brain—that I’m ashamed to admit I wasn’t permanently anxious or frazzled wondering what Max was up to, whether he was happy and safe. I’d love to pursue a career in interior design. Maybe I will, one fine day.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Come on, Max darling, pull those trainers on. It’s the perfect day for flying kites.”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
The previous evening, as they snuggled up enveloped in Max’s voluminous duvet winding down to sleep, they’d embroidered the stories of their respective day’s activities for each other’s giggling enjoyment, happy to be back together. They’d made a pact that tomorrow—Sunday—they would select a joint activity.
Rebecca had delved into the little green book for its inspiration, but Max reminded her that the rainbow-coloured kite they had purchased as a lazy alternative to the ‘make it yourself’ project—unable to accompany them on the picnic with Brian and Erin due to the fickle weather and teeming crowds—still languished in the cupboard under the stairs. She had checked the weather forecast for the following day and to their delight a light breeze was predicted.
Instead of the usual bedtime foray into the trainspotting world of Thomas, Percy, Henry, and Gordon, they scrutinised the pearls of wisdom cultivated from the pages of the emerald tome, paying close attention to the safety advice. ‘No flying close to trees or power lines—that can be dangerous. No running with the kite—you could trip or bump into people. Hold the wooden spool firmly to avoid string burn.’
They drifted off to sleep, Max’s soft, warm body spooned against Rebecca, each relishing the proximity of the most adored person in their lives.
* * *
On that early Sunday morning in July, the park was deserted, save for the hardy dog walkers and the odd obsessive jogger, due to the increasing breeze which Rebecca would have described as a moderate wind. She prayed flying a kite wouldn’t require too much strength or talent, as she possessed neither.
Nevertheless, she extracted the brightly coloured, diamond-shaped kite from its excess of packaging. Max’s deft little fingers straightened out its beribboned tail on the grassy slope. The kite tail was not, as Rebecca had assumed, purely for aesthetics. It served to drag out the kite’s base and keep its nose high in the air, increasing its stability.
“Right, Max, remember what we read last night? Backs to the oncoming wind, which I think is this way.” She positioned Max’s back into her stomach, reaching down over his skinny shoulders, placing her hands over his on the wooden bobbin of twine. The kite lay motionless on the grass in front of them.
“How does it fly into the sky, Mum?”
“Not sure, Max. You stand as still as you can and hold on as tight as you can. I’ll lift the kite into the air, see if that does the trick.”
She knelt down, her flying amber hair spreading wide into the increasing breeze, producing the impression of an electrocuted Titian temptress. Raising the kite to her full five-foot-eight-plus arm’s length and tiptoes and, for good measure, adding a jump, Rebecca launched the reluctant paper bird skyward. It promptly nose-dived back to the ground, flat as a pancake.
Their eyes met, green on green, and they giggled.
“My turn, Mum,” said Max, transferring the wooden spool to Rebecca’s outstretched hands. He retrieved the kite, dropped a kiss on its face, and copied Rebecca’s volleyball leap, producing the same disappointing result.
“Hi! Having trouble?” a man with an antipodean twang enquired.
“Hi! Yes, you could say that. Our kite prefers terra firma to the freedom of the skies, it seems,” Rebecca replied, smiling at the handsome Australian guy, knitted hat pulled over his ears, accompanied by his attractive Dalmatian puppy. Max slunk behind her, his coat sleeve firmly gripped between his teeth.
“Would you like me to get you started? The launch is the most difficult part and there is a knack to it, but once the kite’s up there in the sky it’s an exhilarating experience, I can assure you!”
Rebecca glanced at Max, weighing the desire for the morning’s kite-flying expedition not to be a total disaster against the fact she’d have to take responsibility for the Dalmatian’s lead during take-off which would traumatise Max.
The Australian saw her hesitation and backed off. “No worries.” He held up his hand. “I could be any old scuddy dog walker.” He flashed his perfectly straight, intensely white teeth in a friendly smile.
“Oh, no, it’s just my son has a phobia of dogs, well, any four-legged animal. I was just thinking through the technicalities of accepting your kind offer.”
“It’ll only take a second to get this tiddler up to the heavens. Here.” He shoved the red leather lead into Rebecca’s hand and grabbed the spool, his long-legged strides launching him half way down the hill in no time. His dog plonked down his bottom, docile, regarding him with interest, head tipped to one side, unconcerned at being abandoned in the care of strangers.
Amazingly, the kite leapt high into the air, prancing like a sky nymph, and Max, forgetting the proximity of the Dalmatian, pogoe
d in delight.
“Yes, yes, yes.”
The Australian Samaritan stomped back up the hill, keeping the tether taut, as the kite ducked and dived, performing an animated aerial dance for its enthralled audience. He handed the spool to Rebecca, showing her how to handle the line like a horse’s harness. She snuggled Max’s back into her stomach, allowing him to take the reins under her supervision.
“Thanks.”
“No worries. It’s a fun activity. Flown kites since I was a kid in Adelaide. Not done it for a while, but maybe I’ll unearth my fighter kite. Hand painted it myself!” He stuck out his huge hand, “Scott Barker, at your service. And this is my faithful canine companion, Suzie.”
“Oh.” She tentatively removed one hand from the straining bobbin to be grasped in a powerful shake. “Rebecca and Max.”
“You know, kites can teach kids all sorts of useful stuff. There’s the science and physics side—kite flying can introduce kids to aerodynamics, witnessing the enthralling spectacle of the wind catching the underside of the kite’s wing causing it to lift gracefully into the air.
“There’s the history and culture side, too. Kites can be traced back at least two thousand years to the Chinese who not only flew them for pleasure and sport, but they displayed elaborately crafted, red and gold kites during cultural festivals.”
Scott’s freckled face became animated as he leapt forward to grab the spool, bringing their errant kite back under control.
“Then there’s the technology side—kite-building is fascinating. It’s not just glue and sticks, you know. The first designs were made with bamboo and fine silk thread, with bamboo pieces fashioned into tiny whistles making the kites musical as they cavorted through the sky.
“Then there’s my favourite, the sport of kite-fighting! In China and the Far East it’s a really big deal. There’re even events and exhibitions in Australia now. Did you know that a fighting kite’s string is strengthened and sharpened so it can slash the rival’s kite on impact? Some fliers even use ground glass glued onto fishing twine. Don’t agree with that myself. In a duel, the loser forfeits his kite—the winner takes all!
The Wish List Addiction Page 8