‘You missed your vocation. Should have been a teacher,’ said Frank.
‘More likely a dinner lady.’ Posy pictured herself dolloping out scoops of mashed potato to an endless line of upturned little faces. Large please, and extra gravy. ‘Oh I forgot to give them the ice cream. Well, they could eat it while they watched the show.’
‘Bad idea, Posy. There’s bound to be lots of audience participation. They’d only spill it all over their costumes,’ said Flora.
‘Never mind. We’ll get through it,’ said Frank, meaning the ice cream, not the show. ‘Why don’t you two watch the show and I’ll carry on out here?’
‘OK, fine, if you don’t mind missing it.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You’ll have to let the parents in when they start arriving,’ Posy warned him.
‘Maybe James can do that bit.’
Posy and Flora were entranced by the show. ‘I wish we’d had parties like this when we were little,’ said Posy.
‘Stella’s a stunner,’ said Flora.
The birthday girl was called up to assist and Stella formed some of the more compliant-looking mermaids into a percussion band. The magic princess’s hat was full of flowers and silk hankies, and finally doves and the rabbits.
The parents arrived as it all ended, and Flora helped Posy to give out the party bags. As soon as the children were all gone she hurried back to see if she could help Stella. Too late. Stella was packing her last box.
‘Lovely show,’ said Flora. ‘That’s quite a box you’ve got there.’
‘Speed and efficiency are all in the storage and packing. It’s all organisation. I can fit in twice as many shows a day as some magicians because I’ve got this part down to a fine art.’
‘Very impressive,’ said Flora. ‘I’m in the organisation business too, but a different kind of magical transformation.’ She gave Stella one of her cards. ‘Not that you look as though you need any solutions.’
‘I might know someone who does,’ said Stella.
‘I organise parties and events for people too. If you’d like to give me one of your cards, I’m sure I’ll want you soon …’
Stella found one of the promotional postcards straight away, Linus one side, herself on the other.
‘Thank you,’ said Flora. Posy came in with the money in an envelope.
‘Thank you. Poppy loved it, we all did. Hope we’ll see you again soon.’ ‘Me too,’ said Stella. Flora helped her carry her things to the car.
June
Kate and her family were going to the Longleat Centre Parcs for half-term.
‘Huh,’ said Frank when Posy told him. ‘What kind of a holiday would that be? You might as well go to the school playground at 3.15. What kind of getting away is that? Scoop them all up and take them in a giant dumper. I’d bloody hate it.’
‘It’s not their holiday. They’re going to France in August too. Anyway, it sounds nice,’ said Posy feebly.
‘Huh. I hope the Lions of Longleat raid the place.’
‘There are acres of forest, and cycle paths,’ said Posy who wasn’t listening to him at all. ‘And a health spa. Kate’s got all these treatments booked. Oh well, I don’t suppose we’ll ever be able to afford it.’
‘Posy, what’s happened to you? How could you want to go there?’
‘I could stand it,’ said Posy.
He put his head in his hands. ‘Posy, it isn’t even a real place. How can you go on holiday to somewhere that isn’t a real place?’
‘You wouldn’t be so snobby about people going to Butlin’s. Just ’cos we can’t afford to go.’
‘Huh.’
‘At the age of thirty-seven,’ Posy sang, ‘She realised she’d never ride to Centre Parcs/In a space wagon/With the air-conditioned air in her hair.’
‘It doesn’t even scan,’ said Frank. ‘And I thought you were thirty-five still.’ What he really wanted to say was that he hated her singing; she was always off key, starting out soprano, finishing up as practically a bass. He couldn’t believe that he had signed up to spend his whole life with someone who couldn’t even carry a tune. They had nothing more to say for a while. Frank left for his shed, Posy carried on with the washing up. But they both were remembering the last time they’d been abroad, it was nearly ten years ago now, two weeks in Greece. That was the sort of holiday they should really be having now, all sparkling sea, honey, yoghurt and nectarines.
Posy remembered how they’d marvelled at the stars; no wonder the Ancient Greeks had hung their stories on them. It had been total bliss, well, apart from the walk to the beach past a pair of tethered farm dogs. The dogs had looked vicious, had barked and leapt at them every time. Once Posy and Frank had passed, the dogs turned their aggression on each other, throwing themselves again and again the length of their chains, but always finding each other out of reach. Posy expected that the dogs or their descendants were still there, chained, snarling and frustrated.
Posy and the children were spending half-term at the Bee Centre. Frank wasn’t going with them. He waved them off, feeling waves of relief that he wasn’t with them in that overloaded car, and worry that Posy might be so distracted by the squabbling that they’d all meet their doom somewhere on the A303. The forecast was for thundery showers. He could see Poppy and James starting to argue about who had the least space before Posy had even turned the corner. Her extra-long pause at the junction indicated that she was already reaching for a story tape. If she was really lucky she’d manage it in less than five hours.
The sky was peculiar. There were anvil clouds over St Catherine’s Hill. If this was Kansas, Flora thought, there would be a tornado; but it was Hampshire in June; Hampshire, where hurricanes hardly ever happened. The first big splashes of rain hit the windscreen as she turned off the motorway. The unmistakable lurching and thumping of a puncture began halfway down the hill outside St Cross. It was a stupid time and place for this. She was seeing a new client in forty-five minutes. She rang the AA to ask for assistance. When she finally got through she learnt that there were flash floods throughout the area, they’d be as quick as they could, but she might have a long wait. There was nothing for it but to change the tyre herself.
She stepped out of the car and into the ankle-deep torrent of rainwater. This was crazy but she’d never yet cancelled seeing a client, never. She had to get to Arlesford, on the other side of Winchester. She got her linen mac out of the boot. Putting it on to cover her grey dress seemed rather pointless, but she did anyway. Within moments she was soaked through. Cars sped by, each one sending another wave over her.
Flora knew what she was doing. She had the jack out and the car cranked up, now for the struggle with the bolts. Her fair hair, which that day she’d left loose, was turned dark and plastered to her head, water flowed down her neck and out of her sleeves, and oh, the state of her shoes! Her hands and the spanner were so wet that they kept slipping, but she knew that if she worked fast she’d have time to run in and change and only be a few moments late. The river was now up to her calves. A lesser mortal might have been swept away. She just couldn’t get the last bolt off. A car pulled up behind her.
Just what I need, Flora thought, help from some patronising tough guy. She made another attempt at the bolt.
‘Can I help?’
It was a woman’s voice. The pink DMs were underwater, but the red spangles on the dungerees were unmistakable. Stella’s Puppets and Magic, thought Flora, standing up.
‘I can’t get this last bolt off,’ said Flora. ‘Hands are too wet.’
Stella pulled out a blue silk handkerchief, and then another, and another. ‘I’ll try with these,’ she said. As if by magic, the bolt was off.
‘Oh thank you!’ Flora gushed. She was close to tears. Together they had the wheel off and the new one on. The rain was stopping and the sun was breaking through the clouds. She could still be on time. ‘Thank you. You’re drenched too now. It was so kind of you to stop. I hope your costume’s not ruined.�
��
‘I’ve finished for the day. Anyway, it has a twin.’
‘You’re Stella, aren’t you? We’ve met,’ said Flora. ‘You came to my niece’s party, Poppy Parouselli, mostly mermaids, in Southampton.’
‘Oh,’ said Stella, ‘I didn’t recognise you.’
‘I don’t usually look like this,’ said Flora. There was water running out of her shoes.
‘You look exactly like the princess at the door at the beginning of “The Princess and the Pea”,’ said Stella.
Flora laughed. ‘I know the one. Thanks so much for helping. I have to go and get changed, I’ve got a client to see. I’m so grateful. Thank you.’
They returned to their cars. Stella waved one of the handkerchiefs. The rain had stopped. Flora pulled away into the traffic and was gone.
There were downpours and flash floods in Wiltshire and Dorset too. It took Posy six and a half hours to get to Cornwall.
‘I feel like this is where I belong,’ she said. She was stiff after the long drive. The aunts were there to greet them. Isobel was now asleep in the car, having managed to stay awake and moaning for almost the whole journey. ‘Thank goodness we’re here.’ It was all just as it should be. She looked about her, stretched her arms wide and inhaled deeply the healing Cornish air. The sun was shining, the sky was blue. The children climbed out of the car, scattering crisp crumbs and raisins. Poppy and Tom hugged the aunts. James stood stiff as a petrol pump whilst he allowed himself to be kissed on the top of the head. He’d soon be holding hands with Is as they gazed into rock pools, and sitting on Bea’s knee eating honey toffee.
The North Cornwall Bee Centre wasn’t much more than some fields with a garden and some hens. The aunts’ house was the Bee Centre, or Bee Museum as people often mistakenly called it. In the grounds were the hives, a meadow and orchard where the donkeys, Barney, Billy and Betsy lived. There were bikes in various sizes and a go-kart, and the huge wooden playpen that had once been Flora and Posy’s. Upstairs in the Bee Centre were the exhibition rooms and a café of sorts. Visitors who pushed the ‘PRIVATE - STAFF ONLY’ door (and many did) would find themselves stumbling into the aunts’ bedrooms.
It was the dustiest, most cluttered attraction ever to appear in the guidebooks, but even so they were doing slightly better than their rivals at the Paperweight Museum down the road. Is and Bea were as busy as bees. They had 400,000 of them. The Cornish gorse and heather, and their garden with its beds and beds of lavender and roses and herbs, and the yellow tree peonies beside their door made, they said, the sweetest honey in England. Posy and Flora agreed that it tasted of the blue sky.
Is was tall for her generation, and her grey curls had once been as dark and wild as Posy’s. If she was a queen bee, then Bea was a bumble. It was Bea who made the brown and yellow striped jumpers that sold in the shop, and the lines of knitted bees in black felt wellies and sometimes waistcoats and hats appropriate to their occupations. Gardener Bee held a rake and a trug, Professor Bee had a black-felt mortar board, Doctor Bee had a white coat and a stethoscope, King and Queen Bee had plush purple cloaks and gold paper crowns. Flora and Posy’s favourite was Bee-Keeping Bee with her bellows and veiled hat, made from some gauzy stuff that Bea found in the Centre’s first-aid kit. As she grew older the bees’ jobs became more absurd, Fishmonger Bee and Fisherman Bee, Javelin and Shotputter Bees, Photocopier Engineer Bee (this one was hard to identify) James Bond Bee …
If you costed the time spent making the bees and the jumpers, the profits would have been negative; but Aunt Bea never did. Anyway she had plenty of time, sitting behind the till in the shop or by the urn in the café, which was sometimes quiet.
‘If I had a penny for every smart alec tourist dad who quips “Not exactly yer tourist honey pot, is it love?” …’ Bea grumbled.
‘Or a pound coin,’ said Is, pushing a cup of tea towards her. ‘Biscuit?’
‘Actually, I’ve been thinking about a new line. Donkeys. I think they’re just as popular with the visitors as the bees.’
‘Probably more.’
‘Knitted grey bodies, black PVC-coated fabric hooves, little hats with flowers …’
The Parousellis did their best to help in the Centre, but mostly played in the grounds and spent hours and hours on the beach. This was how Posy wanted her children to be: tanned and healthy in shorts, jumpers and canvas shoes that were bleached by the sun and turned crunchy by the salt and sand. When they closed their eyes each night they saw pebbles and shells and seaweed and rock pools behind their lids.
If The Wild Years hadn’t been playing at the Gosport Festival, which paid well, Frank would have been in Cornwall too. As soon as he’d calculated that there was no danger of Posy and the children returning, he phoned Melody. The baby was overdue.
Melody answered after two rings.
‘Whoever you are, before you ask,’ she said, ‘I’m still bloody here.’
‘I wasn’t going to ask,’ said Frank. ‘I was wondering how you were.’
‘How do you think I bloody am?’
‘I thought I might come over and see you.’
‘Got some time on your hands, have you? Where’s your wife and kids then?’
‘Cornwall. Or nearly in Cornwall by now.’
‘Hang on,’ said Melody. He heard Anita’s voice in the background. ‘Mum says, have you got the shoe rack and the telescopic duster?’
‘Might have,’ said Frank, laughing.
‘S’pose you can come over then.’
‘Be about half an hour,’ said Frank. He often felt like calling her sweetheart.
It was Anita who opened the door.
‘Oh hello Frank, it’s you, is it?’
‘Seems to be.’
‘Well, you might as well come in.’ Frank saw her brighten at the sight of the BettaKleen bags. He realised that if Posy had been in this situation she would have brought flowers or biscuits or something for the hospital.
‘How much is that then?’
‘Er,’ Frank looked down at the receipt stapled to one of the bags. ‘£13.89.’
Anita raised her eyebrows.
‘Oh, on the house …’ he said.
‘Well, thanks.’ He decided not to point out that it was the least he could do.
‘Where’s Melody then?’
‘She’s putting her feet up. She nodded towards the front room door. Frank took this as an invitation to go on through.
There was something about the room that made him want to lounge. It was all so comfy and warm - ashtrays, the oversized sofa which had footrest bits that pulled out - you could check out any time you liked, but it would be hard to leave. The dog was asleep and gave only a muffled growl to indicate that it knew and disapproved of Frank’s intrusion.
‘What’re you watching?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know. There’s nothing on,’ said Melody. ‘It’s all bloody lifestyle shows. As if anyone with a lifestyle would be watching this crap. I’m so bored just waiting for something to happen.’
‘Not long till “Countdown”.’
‘What? Oh, that “Countdown”. You would say that. I suppose all you Parousellis sit around competing at Countdown everyday. Want a biscuit?’ Melody asked, pointing at the tin with her very pink toes.
Frank shook his head. ‘Got your bag packed then?’
‘Mum did it weeks ago.’
‘Anything you need?’
‘Few million pounds. My body back.’
‘Melody, you look beautiful.’
Of course Anita chose that moment to come in. Frank suspected that she listened at doors. ‘That’s what I keep telling her,’ she said. ‘You soon get your figure back, after the first one anyway.’
‘I’ve got my flat,’ said Melody. ‘Two bedrooms in Canberra Towers. It’ll be really nice when I’ve painted it. I can get the keys on Monday, assuming I’m here.’
‘Which floor?’
‘Seventh. Everyone says the same thing …’
‘L
ucky!’ said Frank. ‘Is there a view over the water?’
‘It’s really nice. We’ll be watching all the ships go by.’
‘If you want any help …’
‘My brother’s doing it. But maybe. You haven’t told her yet, have you?’
‘What, Posy? Well, no, not yet. She’s away with the kids for half-term. It just hasn’t been right.’
‘She’ll find out somehow,’ said Anita. ‘These things always come out in the end.’
‘Mmm. Or maybe there are lots that don’t come out, that nobody ever knows about,’ said Frank.
‘What?’ asked Melody.
‘If the time’s right I’ll tell her,’ he said.
‘Huh,’ said Anita. ‘I won’t be holding my breath.’ She picked up the telescopic duster and left the room.
‘And when might the time be right?’ said Melody.
‘Look, what good will knowing do her, or the children?’ said Frank. He felt like adding, ‘And it’s not as though you want me anyway, is it?’
‘I just kind of think that she has a right to know. People always want to know things, don’t they? Nobody wants to be the last to know.’ He couldn’t understand why they were so bothered about Posy, what relevance it had to them.
They didn’t even want him at the birth. Anita was going to be the one. Frank wasn’t sure whether or not he was pleased about this. And Melody hadn’t even been to her ‘parent craft’ classes. (When he thought of everything that Posy had dragged him to before Jimmy was born … the NCT and the Active Birth partners’ evenings … She had made him go to so-called ‘Refresher nights’ for the other three too, despite the fact that when push came to shove she just hissed at his offers to massage her back.) Melody seemed to have the right idea. She said she would take everything on offer when it came to the pain.
Three days later Melody’s mum rang him from the hospital. It was a girl. Born after a relatively easy, for a first time, labour.
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ he said, and started to cry.
Melody was sitting up in bed looking pretty and pink. Her hair was up in a ponytail. He put the huge bunch of pink roses down on the bed and kissed her cheek.
Happy Birthday and All That Page 16