by Karen Clarke
‘Where’s that sunny girl of mine gone?’ Mum looked around comically, as if the old me might be lurking on the oak bookcase that had belonged to the previous owners. ‘We Ambroses are famed for our resilience, so don’t you go letting the side down,’ she said, wagging a playful finger.
I mustered a smile. She was right. Our family possessed an uncanny ability to bounce back from adversity, which had proved a blessing in the past, but since Max… don’t think about Max… since leaving my job, my resilience had taken a battering, and, apart from the resurgence that had seen me uproot my life, was in danger of vanishing.
‘Why don’t we have a nice muffin before I go?’ Mum suggested, as if I’d reverted to being seven years old. She shot into the kitchen and returned with the gingham-covered basket she’d found in the porch that morning, while putting out some rubbish. ‘You can pop round and thank the woman who left them, and then you’ll have made a new friend.’
‘I guess so,’ I said, taking the note she was holding out and scanning the untidy handwriting sprawled across the paper.
Welcome to Maple Hill, from Doris Day (Head of Neighbourhood Watch) Number 1 (blue door, brass knocker). The purple bits are blueberries, I didn’t use nuts, just in case. If you aren’t allergic I make a nice pecan tart, although I don’t think people can be allergic to pecans. They’re tree nuts, so not related to the peanut. Return the basket at your leisure. I’m in all day tomorrow.
‘Doris Day?’ I immediately thought of the old films that Mum and I used to watch on Saturday afternoons, when Dad took Chris to the football, and tears pricked my eyes.
‘She’s bound to be lovely with a name like that, and to have gone to all this trouble…’ Mum peered into the basket and inhaled. ‘They smell divine.’ She often said actressy things like ‘divine’ since she’d joined Acting Out.
‘I’m not hungry,’ I said, then seeing worry unfold on her face, added, ‘Go on then, maybe a couple of bites.’
She relaxed into a smile. ‘We’ll share one,’ she said, which was a measure of her concern. She’d currently given up anything she couldn’t throw in a juicer.
‘They taste… odd.’ I swallowed a mouthful, trying to pinpoint the flavour. ‘Sort of… earthy.’
‘They might be poisoned.’ Mum grabbed it off me, her face contorting with horror. ‘It could be laced with arsenic.’
‘Mum!’ A laugh bubbled up. ‘This is real life, remember?’
All the same, I didn’t eat any more, and once Mum had left in a flurry of hugs, goodbyes, reassurances, and promises to call, dashing to her little Golf in the sleety rain, holding her tapestry bag above her head, I slid the bolt across the door. After I’d checked that all the windows were tightly closed, I switched on the television for company.
Next, I took another tour of the cottage, acquainting myself with its twists and turns, soothed by the unaccustomed space, soft colours, and tasteful furniture – which I’d never have chosen, but which suited the little rooms.
The books and cushions I’d accumulated, and the fortifying photos of family I’d scattered around, made me feel a bit more anchored.
‘I’m going to be fine,’ I said out loud, determined not to imagine Max’s head on the pillow in the bedroom, his athletic body in the shower, or his long legs stretched out on the sofa.
Shipley was going to be a Max-free zone. A drama-free zone.
A round of applause burst from the television and I gave a bloodcurdling yelp.
This was ridiculous.
Maybe I wasn’t suited to being alone with my thoughts.
‘You’re not used to it, that’s all,’ I said kindly, as if counselling one of my pupils. Don’t think about them. Don’t think of their shiny little faces, wondering where Miss Ambrose has gone, or my ex-colleagues, gossiping about me in the staff room.
My old life was over.
‘DO something!’ I ordered, my voice bouncing off the smooth, cream walls. Perhaps I could go for a bracing walk. I glanced through the window at a seagull being flung about on a gale-force wind. The rain was horizontal, and in the distance the sea was a frothing mass of crashing waves.
I should start my novel instead.
I rushed to the back bedroom, where I’d set up my laptop at the school-type desk I’d bought on eBay a few years ago, but had never found a space for. I plonked myself on the swivel chair Mum had given me, which used to be Dad’s.
I spun around a few times.
The room was warm, thanks to the efficient central heating, but otherwise empty. I’d need a new bed if I was going to have people to stay. Mum had been happy to bunk in with me, but I could hardly share with my brother if he came to visit, and even though the sofa was big and squashy enough to sleep on, it would be nice to have a proper spare bed.
I logged on to the Wi-Fi, congratulating myself for setting it up before arriving, and started browsing websites. Before I knew it, I’d ordered a double divan, and some bedding and matching curtains.
I quickly checked my emails (nothing but Spam) and clicked onto Facebook. Max loathed social media, so thankfully wasn’t on there, but reading updates from my old life made my throat ache. I was missing the build-up to the end of term before Christmas. We’d be living on a diet of Quality Street and mince pies in the staffroom, and someone usually brought in a bottle of Bailey’s to share on the last day of term.
On impulse, I deactivated my account and scrolled through Twitter instead. Erin often posted pithy updates from the talent agency she worked for, but apart from a bland congrats to Ellie Palladino on a job well done! about a former soap star fronting a toothpaste advert, there was nothing recent. Or pithy.
I logged off, surprised to find that a couple of hours had shot by. I stood up and did some stretches to get my blood flowing, then sat back down and opened the document I’d imaginatively titled ‘Novel’.
I stared at the blank page, wishing I’d written a paragraph or two already. The trouble was, I hadn’t made up my mind what type of novel to write. I’d been hoping inspiration would strike once I began my new life.
Thrillers were popular, so it made sense to go down that route.
I looked out at the muted colours of the compact garden, where the light was fading and the naked apple tree was bent double, and tried to enter a murderous frame of mind.
A robin landed on a wavering branch, its feathers fluffed up for protection, and the sight of it reminded me it was Christmas in less than three weeks and I’d hardly bought any gifts before leaving London.
Perhaps I should do some more Christmas shopping now…
No.
‘Stay focused,’ I ordered myself, waggling my fingers above the keys.
Just type an opening line and the rest will flow.
I was sure I’d read that somewhere. Or maybe Max had said it, about his poetry writing.
I quickly typed: It was dark and dreary, as Janet entered the garden… Janet? I knew a Janet from school, and she was lovely, but hardly main character material.
It was dark and dreary as Maxine entered the garden… That was better. A strong, female name.
No, wait. Maxine? I was thinking about bloody Max.
… as Camilla… too royal. Cerys… tricky to pronounce? …as Jasminda, Belinda, Melinda, Toyota, Magenta, Placenta…
Jessica!
I pressed delete and started again. Rain lashed down as Jessica entered the garden…
Why was she entering the garden?
…as Jessica entered the garden with a spade and began to dig…
More atmosphere.
…as Jessica drove her spade into the soil…
Drove didn’t sound right… dug… didn’t look right.
Jessica slashed the soil with her spade… Oh, for hell’s sake, spades didn’t slash.
I hated Jessica already.
And I didn’t want to write a thriller.
I deleted it all and typed: Jessica watched Marco enter the garden, his naked chest muscles rippling as
he wielded his spade…
Blood gushed to my face. Imagine Mum reading that! And why was I fixated on spades?
As I deleted the text, I became aware of an unnatural brightness filtering into the hallway, considering the sky was now black with no sign of a moon. I rose and went into the front bedroom, and my mouth fell open as I drank in a kaleidoscope of Christmas lights. In the house opposite, they twinkled in every window, around the garden, and even on the roof, while next to it was a perfect replica of a gingerbread house. There were candy canes and gingerbread men surrounding the perimeter of the garden, and icing-like snow trimmings attached to the edges of the house (how had they got that ‘ginger’ effect on the walls?) Moving closer, I noticed a house a couple of doors down decked out as a scene from Frozen, with vivid blue lighting, and an image of Elsa beamed onto the front wall.
‘Wow,’ I breathed. They really made an effort on Maple Hill, and I wondered if it was compulsory; whether I’d be shunned if I didn’t participate.
Dragging my eyes from the festive lights, I slammed my laptop shut. What I needed was a cup of tea, and to plan my novel properly.
Down in the kitchen, I spotted the piece of paper Doris Day had written her note on, laid on top of some junk mail Mum had placed on the worktop. I picked it up and was about to throw it away, when I noticed Doris had written something on the back: There’s an emergency meeting of The Christmas Lights Society at No. 8 Maple Hill at 6 p.m. today (the 7th) if you fancy coming along. Refreshments provided.
I glanced at the illuminated digits of the built-in oven: 17.55. I checked my reflection in the glass door. My hair – recently chopped from shoulder- to jaw-length – had developed a kink, and my skin was chewing-gum pale, but I didn’t have time to faff with straighteners and make-up.
I pulled my parka on over my sweater and jeans, stuffed my feet into my boots, and grabbed my keys.
My novel would have to wait. It was time to meet my neighbours.
Chapter Three
It was gone six o’clock by the time I realised that Number 8 was right next door. It shouldn’t have been that difficult, as there were only ten houses on either side of the road, and one at the top of the hill, but I’d been too busy admiring the displays, distracted by inflatable Santas, prancing reindeers, and a galaxy of fairy lights to look for numbers.
I finally worked it out by a process of elimination.
‘Well done, Sherlock,’ I muttered, blinking at the dazzling assault on my eyeballs. My neighbour’s was the gaudiest, most haphazardly decorated house in the street. It was as if he’d run amok in a Christmas decoration warehouse and bought every light, ornament and inflatable he could find and blindly flung them up. I remembered the owner, creeping up his garden path a month earlier, and thought I recognised the reindeer, now inflated and prancing in a bush.
I hesitated, knowing the meeting would have started, then marched past a row of illuminated angels and, after moving aside a winking Father Christmas on the step, and almost dislodging a flashing wreath on the door, gave a determined knock.
The woman who answered beamed a greeting as she stepped aside to let me in. She was fiftyish, and generously proportioned, with brass-coloured curls around a doughy face.
‘They’ve already started, love, but go on through,’ she said, as I entered a cluttered hallway, hung with coats and scarves.
As she pushed the front door closed, I was hit by a blast of heat from a radiator. On the other side of the wall, voices rose and fell, and I was reminded of a film I’d seen with Mum, about an elite society whose secret meetings had turned out to be orgy-filled nightmares.
Dismissing the image, I held out a frozen hand. ‘Lily Ambrose.’
‘Sheelagh Lambert.’ Her grip was warm and vice-like. ‘It’s spelt the Irish way, which is a nuisance because I’m always having to spell it,’ she said, with an extravagant eye-roll. ‘At one point, I thought about changing it to the Aussie version.’ She adopted a jaunty pose and boomed, ‘G’day, Sheila!’ before reverting to her Dorset lilt. ‘But then I thought, why should I? I’m half Irish on my mother’s side and proud of it. Two-thirds German, thanks to my great-grandfather, and a quarter Italian, courtesy of my dad’s side, but slice me in half and I’m a West Country gal through and through.’
Brain reeling from the confusing introduction, and Sheelagh’s terrible maths, I adopted what I hoped was an engaging smile. ‘I’ve just moved in next door—’
‘I know, love,’ she said, tweaking her snowflake-patterned cardigan across her torpedo-like bosoms. ‘We watched you from our bedroom window, me and Barry.’ Her off-white teeth and raspberry-coloured lipstick made me think of a scone, bursting with jam and cream. ‘We were thrilled to see a pair of young ladies moving in. We’re very modern, Barry and me, and have nothing against same-sex marriage.’ She lifted her chins. ‘I kissed a lady myself many years ago, before I met my husband.’
‘That’s… good.’ I swallowed an unexpected giggle, half tempted to play along. ‘The other lady was actually my mother,’ I said, deciding I’d better not. ‘She was helping me move in.’
‘Well, I’m sorry about that.’ Sorry for assuming I had an older, female partner (Mum would be delighted to have been mistaken for a young lady), or sorry I wasn’t gay? It didn’t feel right to ask. ‘Oh well, never mind,’ she said, leaning past me and opening a door into a lamp-lit dining room, where several people were sitting round a table laden with food, talking over the top of one another.
As my eyes zigzagged around, trying to take it all in, they met the chilly stare of a coal-black cat on the windowsill, and I was prompted to ask its name.
‘That’s my darling boy, Marmite.’ Sheelagh patted my arm with ring-crowded fingers. ‘He’s lovely, unless you get on the wrong side of him.’ I wondered how you got on the wrong side of a cat. Steal its food? ‘He can be a bit moody,’ she added. ‘Tends to divide opinion, hence his name. I love him, but Barry’s lukewarm. He stands in front of the TV whenever he watches Most Haunted, and shredded his favourite pants. Marmite, that is, not Barry!’ Her laugh was like a klaxon, and the heated conversation at the table stopped, as several pairs of eyes swivelled to greet us.
I’d never felt more like a stranger, my usual confidence – from years of dealing with pushy parents at school – trickling away in this over-heated room, where the leaf-patterned walls were hung with those photos of babies in flowerpots that used to be fashionable.
‘Let me take your coat,’ said Sheelagh, yanking it off, almost taking my arms with it. ‘I’ll go and fetch you some tea. Or maybe you prefer coffee?’ She said it as though coffee was an illegal substance.
‘Tea will be fine, thank you,’ I said.
She nodded, apparently satisfied, then cleared her throat extravagantly. ‘This is Lily, our new neighbour,’ she announced grandly. ‘Be gentle with her, folks!’
The cat shot past with a furious glare, as if I’d upset his plans, and I nervously approached the table to a chorus of, ‘Hello, Lily’, ‘Welcome to the neighbourhood’, and, ‘Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for?’
‘Come and sit here,’ said a woman who’d been discreetly buffing the edge of the table with a lacy handkerchief, which – along with her neat, greyish-blonde bob – was a clue to her age. Apart from James Bond, no one under sixty carried a hankie these days.
‘Thanks,’ I said, easing towards the dining chair she’d pulled out. The padded seat still held the imprint of someone’s sizeable bottom. ‘Wasn’t somebody…?’
‘Sheelagh won’t mind. She’ll fetch herself a stool from the kitchen,’ said the woman, shifting slightly to give me a piercing look as I perched on the still-warm seat. ‘I’m Doris Day.’
‘Oh, you left the muffins,’ I said, aware that everyone was listening, and that my London accent sounded more pronounced. ‘Thank you so much.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I thought I’d put blueberries in them, but later realised I’d used some chopped-up beetroot by mi
stake.’
So that’s what the weird taste had been. ‘That’s OK, don’t worry.’ I was practically gushing, in an effort to put her at ease. ‘It was a lovely gesture.’
‘I wasn’t worried, because beetroot’s very good for you, but I got distracted after putting a leg in the oven,’ Doris said. ‘My Eric loves his lamb, but a leg can be tough without the bone in, and I wasn’t sure I’d got the temperature right. I had to consult Delia.’ She chuckled. ‘Good old Delia, what would we do without her?’
‘Indeed,’ was all I could manage.
‘She means Delia Smith, the chef,’ explained the woman on Doris’s right, a cheerful smile crinkling her pale blue eyes, which looked tiny behind her glasses. She had frizzy brown hair, exploding from under a pink woolly hat with a pom-pom. ‘I’m Jane, her next-door-neighbour,’ she said, nudging Doris so hard she tilted towards me. ‘I work on the flower stall in the square, if you get chance to have a look, and that’s my husband, Dennis.’
She jabbed her finger at a broad-faced man sitting opposite, examining a chicken drumstick. ‘If you want any shelves putting up, he’s your man.’ She gave him a love-struck smile. ‘Hands off, though, he’s mine.’ She let rip an earthy cackle. ‘Just joking,’ she said, as if there was any doubt. Despite his friendly smile, Dennis was at least fifty-five, with a greying beard that was more dishevelled than hipster. ‘My very own Christian Grey,’ Jane continued, causing a pained expression to cross Doris’s powdered face, and Dennis’s ears to redden.
Unperturbed, Jane went on to introduce everyone at the table. I was good at remembering names – vital for a teacher – but it was hard to focus, what with the heat, and the weight of so many eyes on me.
‘That’s Mr Flannery, he owns the newsagent’s in the square, and next to him is Marnie Appleton, and she runs the sweet shop along the parade.’ I vaguely remembered visiting a sweet shop in Shipley on holiday, and sharing a bag of chocolate mice with my brother.