‘Thanks. Let me just walk up the road again.’ They walked up and down the street. ‘Why would they steal my car and not your Audi, that’s what I want to know.’ Juliet glanced up the road, pushing her hair out of her eyes. ‘I – oh my God.’
‘What?’ Sam looked up in alarm. ‘Do you see them?’ He gripped her arm.
She spotted her silver Škoda with shock, seeing it for the first time as others must: windscreen covered in dead dried leaves and bird shit, scrapes wiggling like thin streamers along the metalwork from bonnet to boot, one wing mirror hanging on by a thread, the result of a close encounter with a tractor when she was racing to collect the children from Matt.
‘No . . .’ she said. ‘I see it. Bad car,’ she said, thumping the car crossly on the roof when she reached it. ‘Naughty!’ She turned to Sam. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’
Sam raised his eyebrows, chewing the inside of his mouth. He seemed to do this often, as though he found her intensely alarming, or as though he were trying not to laugh at something. ‘No harm, no foul.’ He touched her arm, as she climbed into the car. ‘It’s all good. All good. Thank you for a great first week, Juliet.’
She was coming to the crossroads, where three old grain stores of the old Tooker Farm were being converted into luxury accommodation. A large truck with a smart logo on the side had got stuck in the entrance, unable to make the turn from the lane. In the opposite field, a farmer dressed in rubber dungarees was shaking food into one of the troughs, pushing the pigs that crowded round him away. Juliet wound down her window.
‘What’s it now?’ she said.
‘They’re putting in the tiles for the swimming pool today,’ said Tom, shaking out the last of the scraps. ‘Mediterranean glaze. All the way from Italy.’ He had a reddish face, a grizzled, balding head and sparkling blue eyes.
‘Very nice,’ said Juliet, solemnly, and they were both silent for a moment, gazing across at the construction site as the pigs behind him grunted and squealed, jostling for food.
‘Isla’s welcome to come back any time,’ Tom said. ‘Grace loved having her, she wants her to come for a sleepover,’ Juliet nodded, pleased. ‘Debs is taking Grace swimming tomorrow. Have a word with her about it then,’ and he turned back to his animals, social niceties over.
‘Thanks,’ Juliet called, and drove on. At first she’d found it hard to know what to say to people who weren’t just strangers but whose lives were completely different to hers. So she’d learned less was more. Everything at home in London had been so high-octane – this playdate, that friendship group, this party, that secondary school. Always pushing, always going for more. But she had gone to pick up Isla from Grace’s house a few weeks ago, just after they’d gone back to school, and found another one of these trucks stuck in the lane again, this time bringing Carrara marble for the bathrooms.
Debs and the girls had appeared in the lane to tell her to back up and leave the car on a verge a hundred metres back.
‘Sure.’ Juliet had sniffed – she had a cold.
‘Yes,’ Debs had said, solemnly, and though Juliet’s nose was totally blocked she could still smell the faint stench of pig and pig farm. ‘Pigs are very clean animals, you know, but the smell of all that manure is disgusting. So’s what they eat. Took me years to get used to it.’
‘Can you smell it from the house?’ Juliet had asked, as they’d walked up to the Tolleys’ farmhouse together, Isla and Grace running behind them, dodging in and out behind the trees that lined the path, the family’s collie jumping ahead of them with joy.
‘Us? No, we’re high up on the hill. The wind blows it down, away from us. Always has done. Why do you think they built the house up there all those years ago?’
Juliet looked down at the barns. ‘What about those new houses, then? Won’t they be exactly downwind of the smell of your pigs?’
‘Yep,’ said Tom, with a straight face. ‘But the property chap who bought old Tooker Farm for a song, did he ever come to introduce himself, talk to us about it? Has he ever apologised for the noise and the traffic, and their SUVs blocking everything, and the people on their phones shouting and these guys from Oxford and London swarming everywhere in their smart suits? Have they thought of the fact there’s twenty gallons of pig shit being produced every day less than twenty metres from where they want to have their luxury barns?’
And he started to grin, broadly and Debs smiled, and Juliet, too. ‘Oh that’s great,’ she said. ‘That’s just bloody great.’
The new truck showed no signs of being able to remove itself, but Juliet was able to squeeze past and she did, the encounter with Tom leaving her with a warm glow inside despite the chill of the wind. Nearly home. In a few minutes the turnoff to Farmhouse: Space loomed on her left, and Juliet peered nosily in, just in case. There was always the chance you might spot some celebrity arriving, though more likely it was a cab dropping off some glossy-haired media people. It had opened in September, and was the talk of Godstow; who’d applied for membership, who had been spotted there.
Of course, George was a member – he would be, though Frederic refused to go, saying it wasn’t his kind of place. George loved it; he’d asked Bea if she’d like to go there with him for a cocktail, and she would have gone, had Juliet not put a stop to it. ‘She’s fifteen, George. OK?’
‘She could do with a night out.’
‘With other fifteen-year-olds.’
George had rolled his eyes. ‘Boring.’
Juliet had been to Farmhouse: Space once, before Christmas, for a drink with two mums from Bea’s class – both London escapees whose husbands’ business interests had taken a tumble and who needed to downsize. It was obvious this was an audition to see whether Juliet might become One of Them, but if so she had failed. She desperately coveted the style of the place, the casual yet studied boho chic – Moroccan wall hangings, faded turquoise tiles on the terrace, Bloomsbury-era fabrics on the cushions, the smell of jasmine and grapefruit everywhere – but it all felt totally unreal, and after five minutes she got fidgety, as the other two women droned on about house prices and how great it was to be out of London and whether the local school was good enough for Jagger and Bay and then one of the mums, the taller one with long, long blond hair and a large-ish nose, had turned to her and said, in her London–LA drawl:
‘So, is it a problem for anyone, Bea being gay? I don’t have a problem with it of course.’
Juliet found herself staring at her clear, dewy skin. How did you get skin like that? ‘Not that I know of. I’ve talked to her teachers. We’ve focused on making sure she believes her family loves her, it doesn’t change anything else for us.’
‘Right. So good. Because so many people down here aren’t as enlightened as London. Different attitudes. And Bay-bay said Bea had had a difficult time settling in, wasn’t making many friends yet. I just wondered if you’d had any comments about it from some of the parents.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ the other mother had chipped in, her face a rictus of concern.
‘No, none at all.’ Juliet could feel herself stiffening. ‘She – it’s been a tough year for her.’
‘I don’t have a problem with it,’ said the other mum. ‘I think it’s really great.’
‘Great?’
‘That she’s gay. I mean – you know. I totally get you. I’d find it really hard if it was Zalie, or Coco, obviously, but Bea doesn’t really seem to care about being popular, does she? Which is great.’
‘Oh. Well . . . she—’
‘Oh my God. Did you hear about those Moo lodges, down towards Stroud? James says they’re seriously incredible. He thinks we should go and look at one this weekend.’ And with a wave of her hand the subject was over.
Juliet had made her excuses and left as soon as she could. Farmhouse: Space was not for her.
She’d got the paprika. The film she was going to suggest they all watched was Lilo and Stitch, though Bea always ignored Juliet’s suggestions. Juliet turned into the lane, feeling a g
low of anticipation. The rest of the weekend stretched out ahead of her: they were going to go swimming, then it was Sandy’s third-birthday tea, and Juliet had invited three friends of his round from nursery: George, Charlotte and Arthur (Juliet noted with interest and amusement the fact that no one in London had children with the same names as the royal family, whereas in Godstow, down-from-Londoners aside, it was practically the law.) And spring was coming. It was.
In the lane above the house she saw a woman walking towards her. She waved, and pulled into a siding, winding the window down.
‘Honor! Hello!’
‘Hi, darling. I was just leaving you a note.’
‘Oh. Come in for a cup of tea.’
‘I won’t, thanks,’ said Honor, zipping her jacket up and plunging her hands into her pockets. She shook her ash-blonde crop, vigorously. ‘I’m walking back. Bryan’s making curry.’
Juliet got out of the car, and gave Honor a hug. ‘Good weather for it.’
‘Absolutely, only he insists on making it far too hot, and I can only eat two bites at a time . . . anyway.’
‘Honor, you think carrots have too strong a flavour.’
‘Well, carrots are awful,’ said that lady now. ‘Hideous. They’re wet and crunchy at the same time. Listen, I had a nice chat with your lovely Bea. She was chopping up onions and weeping copiously, poor lamb. Haven’t you got her well-trained. I couldn’t have got Ev to cook at that age, not for all the tea in China.’ She smiled at Juliet.
‘How is he?’ said Juliet. ‘Have you heard from him?’
‘He’s planning to come for a visit, in June, after the job’s finished.’
‘Please, do tell him to come. We have to catch up properly. I want him to see the garden again. Tell me what to do with it.’
‘That’s why I came over actually. I was going to ask if you want me to pop back some time and we can walk through the whole plot, and work out what to plant.’
Grandi and Honor both maintained Ev had his love of gardens from Nightingale House, but his ability and flair came from his mother, who had created from a grassy field at the side of their converted barn a stunning formal garden hung around with hibiscus to remind Bryan of Jamaica. ‘Oh wow, would you?’ said Juliet. ‘I’d be so grateful. I cleared a lot of dead wood, before Christmas, and I’ve been feeding the soil. The bulbs are starting to come up, but it’s things like perennials and seedlings and what to grow in the veg garden and the greenhouse. And what’s going to last. I don’t want to re-create Grandi’s garden. I can’t.’
‘Nor should you. That was based on Liddy’s Victorian garden, and it was all roses and violets and rhododendrons. Lovely, but awfully blowsy. I’ll come over this weekend, how about that?’
‘It’s Sandy’s birthday,’ Juliet said, grimacing, but she was glad, almost – proud of the melee of events. Birthdays, gardening, swimming, Friday night film nights . . . She reached out and grabbed Honor’s hand. ‘Come for some cake, will you? Bring Bryan. He hasn’t met them all properly.’
‘Oh I’d love that. So would he. Oh, you are clever.’ Honor leaned on the window of the car. ‘I’m so glad you’re back. Your father – well, pshaw. But Stella would be so happy.’
‘I feel at home here. Properly, totally at home, even though I’m not very happy a lot of the time. The two are separate, you know?’ She stared at Honor almost wildly, wanting her to understand, desperately hoping she would. That someone would. ‘I am just not sure . . . for the kids . . . that it was the right thing. And I don’t know when someone rings the bell and says, “Ding ding! That was the correct route to take!”’
‘Course it was,’ said Honor, stoutly. ‘You’re doing what all women do. You’re confusing what’s best for you with what’s best for your children. We’ll come for cake, but how about next weekend for the gardening? Be prepared for me to be brutal.’ Juliet gave a mock grimace.
‘I can take it.’
‘You can take anything. I think, darling, you underestimate yourself. I mean your father is my oldest friend but I do think he and your mother could have paid you a visit by now and shown you some support. I’ve told him so. Have a glass of wine this evening. Tell yourself you’re bloody great.’
Juliet drove on, smiling, and turned into the driveway of the house, her mind running over things. Divorce papers. Colin the caterpillar birthday cake. Socks. Tampons. Call back the window man.
‘Hi!’ she called, as she let herself in. Annie, Mrs Beadle’s granddaughter, had picked up Isla and Sandy and was watching TV with them. Juliet sniffed, inhaling the welcome smell of onions and garlic.
‘Hiiiii,’ the two youngest children called back dully, not really paying attention. She could see them sprawled on the beanbag, glazed expressions fixed on the TV. Sandy was still in his coat. Juliet picked up the post and wandered through the dining room, noting it was still light, noting too the condensation on the windows, which meant some heat must be being kept in. She came into the kitchen.
‘Here’s your paprika. Um – how much TV is Annie letting them watch, Bea?’ She looked up. ‘Oh God, Bea! What’s wrong, darling?’ She dropped the post on the counter and went over to her daughter.
Bea was standing in the middle of the room, holding a wooden spatula, her face red with silent crying. Juliet folded her in her arms. ‘Darling? Darling!’
Bea couldn’t speak for a while. She juddered, and said quietly: ‘M-Mum!’
‘What’s wrong? Tell me.’
‘You said every-every thing w-w-would p-pass,’ she said, eventually. ‘You said it would get b-better.’
Dismay, fear, filled Juliet, inflating inside her like a balloon. ‘It does, darling. I believe that.’ She kissed Bea’s head. ‘Promise. Is it Fin? What’s happened?’
‘Argh!’ Bea pushed her away, and retreated to the back of the kitchen. A piece of the old fabric which acted as a door covering the pots got caught in the zip of her boot, and tore away from the counter. Bea looked down at it, crying even harder. ‘This stupid bloody house! It’s not Fin. You’re always saying all this stuff, and it’s rubbish.’
Juliet mechanically picked up a pair of kitchen scissors and began cutting off some gaffer tape. She held out the piece of tape, on one finger, and picked up the torn fabric. ‘I’ll fix it. What’s happened? Please tell me, darling.’
‘Do you know why Dad’s pushing the divorce?’
‘No, darling. W-why?’
‘Tess. She’s pregnant. She’s having the b-baby in August.’
Juliet dropped the fabric, and the gaffer tape she was clutching flew up on to her hair, sticking grimly and twisting itself around. She pulled at it. ‘What?’
‘Tess. She and Dad are having a baby. It’s due in the summer.’ Bea had twined her hands together. ‘I knew something was up last weekend. He was being really weird. He kept asking me stuff, about the divorce, and she was crying and she didn’t eat anything. And – and I rang him . . . just now . . . he said . . . he said they’d both wanted it and he was going to t-t-t-tell you to tell us this weekend.’ Her hair was in her face; she pushed it ineffectually away, then batted at it angrily when it fell back over her eyes. ‘How – I – I just . . . I just want it to stop!’
‘Oh my love.’ Juliet pulled at her hair, her fingers clumsy. ‘Well.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You’re going to have a little sister or brother!’
‘I don’t want a little sister or brother . . . I want it to all be the same again, Mum . . .’
Juliet tugged at her hair again, then went over to her. ‘Darling. Oh my love. It’s OK. It’s more than OK.’
It wasn’t OK at all though. It was shit.
It was shit of Tess to get pregnant, shit of Matt to impregnate her, it was shit that Tess’s own two kids had to deal with having a new baby in their life on top of everything else – her own children, too, who were more insulated from it, but still. Babies were a blessing, they said. But, as Juliet’s mother had once darkly muttered, ‘Of course that’s what they tell yo
u, because they need us all to believe it.’ The tone in her voice was what Juliet remembered.
The house in Dulcie Street was too small for three children: she knew that better than anyone. Robert, Tess’s ex, was a bully and would use this against them – Juliet saw, with clarity now, why Matt had been after her for money, why he was pushing the divorce . . . And she saw, looking down the long years, the difficulty of another baby, the screaming, the tiredness and rows over division of chores, the fragility of this new relationship, Tess’s brittle character, Matt’s childishness, his need to be right. Saw it all, and understood what a disaster it was. This poor baby was the line drawn between the past and the future, not Juliet’s leaving London. And she had to make it OK for the children – yes. Keep on keeping on.
‘Dad said you’d be upset.’
‘I’m really not.’ She stopped pulling at the tape which was now a tacky ball in her hair, and smiled at her daughter. ‘Darling, I think Tess is going to have her hands full. It’s bloody great this baby’s got a half-sister who is as kind and cool and wonderful as you.’
She reached out and picked up the pair of kitchen scissors, and cut off the tangled hair-tape ball. The tail-end, not caught up, dangled free, like a feather, and as she stared at it she saw, as though through a stranger’s eyes, how faded her hair was. Once it had been a vivid red-gold. Now it was pale, sandy almost, all the glory in it gone. She threw it in the waste paper basket. Tomorrow she would get the rest of it cut, three or four inches.
Bea was staring at her in horror. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘It wouldn’t have come off any other way,’ said Juliet, simply, and she put the scissors down gently.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
March, a month for:
cleaning the windows
sorting out the books
dusting, inside and out
wiping the wood down with a soft cloth
but most of all:
be wary of spring – it is dangerous, it creeps up on you and gives you HOPE. Sometimes the days are like summer and the sun is hot and you forget yourself, Juliet. You forget it’s not summer yet. Be wary.
The Garden of Lost and Found Page 32