A Merry Mistletoe Wedding

by Judy Astley

  ‘She’s here! We’re on!’ Anna called to Mike, who was in the wicker peacock chair in the kitchen holding his guitar, looking as if he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He already seemed to be wilting slightly under the threat of the intense scrutiny he (or rather his home) was in for in the next hour. He was clearly taking this visit as an invasion and Anna wanted to give him a bit of a kick to perk him up. He was making the place look untidy and she suspected untidy didn’t go down well when a house was being valued. Anyone could see it was a bit tatty (or would the term be ‘well loved’? It had certainly been that) around the edges without Mike adding to the atmosphere.

  ‘Mike, get it together, man, or she’ll knock off a few grand for lack of smiles,’ she said to him and went to open the door.

  ‘Hello!’ Anna was conscious that she sounded falsely thrilled. The beam she’d put on her face as she greeted the girl felt forced. Why was she so nervous? After all, this agent was going to be very well paid when (if) a sale went through. And it wasn’t a commitment, not at this stage, only a preliminary what-if.

  ‘Hello! I’m Belinda.’ The girl held out a slim, pale hand. A couple of silver rings glinted, her nail varnish was a safe mid-pink and she was wearing the kind of office uniform of black trousers and jacket that was probably meant to look reassuringly professional. Like a banker, Anna thought as she ushered the girl into her hallway. That kind of corporate thing was another world to Anna, who was from the realm of art and sculpture and dressing as she pleased. How weird it must be to have to wear heels and full-scale make-up and something safe and dark every day but never colourful layers and shoes that didn’t look as if they hurt.

  ‘Would you like tea?’ Anna offered as they reached the kitchen. She felt twitchy, even though she needn’t, yet considering whether to sell a house you’d lived in for over forty years was a massive decision. Would the sitting room have been a better place to take this Belinda? It was big and light, had plenty of sofa space if a long sit-down preamble to the viewing was needed, and was as tidy and clutter-free as she could manage. Mike’s paintings of exuberant nudes on the walls might be a bit daunting for her but there were other things she could look at: big old patchwork cushions, lots of colourful throws and the vast Moroccan rag rug in multitudinous shades of turquoise. On the other hand, the kitchen had useful distracting gadgets that would need dealing with while they got to know each other. Nerve-wise she sympathized with Mike, who had put his guitar down and was making a bit of an unnecessary palaver about getting out of his chair. Was he playing at being an old man or something? He wasn’t quite seventy yet, not nearing ninety, and he had plenty of energy in him. He shook hands with Belinda and gave her a half-smile.

  ‘Regular, camomile, jasmine or mint?’ Anna said, opening a cupboard and checking what she’d got.

  Belinda said, ‘Oh – er, camomile would be … um … Well, I’m not sure. I’ve never had it. It sounds nice. I like to try new things.’

  ‘It smells of cat piss,’ Mike warned her with a sideways grin as he filled the kettle.

  ‘Mike …’ Anna gave him a look.

  ‘Well it does. And it tastes of old hippies.’ He was smiling but Anna saw a puzzled expression on the girl’s face. Maybe she didn’t know what an old hippie was. It was quite likely – she looked about seventeen (though surely couldn’t be) and her voice was direct from the safe calm world of private school, ponies and violin lessons. Either way, Anna would bet the value of this house that she wouldn’t know what a hippie tasted like.

  ‘Take no notice of him, he’s just winding you up,’ Anna said, wishing the agent could go outside then come back in and they could all start again.

  ‘Could I change my mind about the tea?’ Belinda said. ‘I’m actually fine, thanks. We are told to say yes even if we don’t want one because it gives the home-owners something to do and we get to check out the kitchen. You can tell almost all you need to know about a house’s value from the kitchen. Oh …’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Mike asked as Belinda faltered over her words. ‘Do the pink kitchen units confuse the price issue? It was all done back in the days of fancy paint effect. The distressed look was very chic then. Not that we distressed it, I mean. The growing family managed that by themselves. Or are the walls and ceiling a problem? I was rather proud of my wispy clouds on a blue sky effect. You dab the colour on with a J-cloth and smudge it.’

  Anna looked at him, willing him to stop. He was rambling and would unsettle the poor girl even more.

  ‘No, no, that’s er … lovely. And unusual. It’s just that I’m not supposed to say things like that,’ she admitted. ‘It’s not very professional of me. I do tend to blurt.’ She smiled at him and bit her lip. Anna felt annoyed, recognizing a gesture that was meant to look charming and a bit helpless. It probably got results with most of the men it was aimed at. Belinda’s pretty fingers tugged at the end of her long blond single plait. She was that close, Anna reckoned, to putting it in her mouth and giving it a childlike chew.

  ‘Orange squash?’ Anna offered.

  ‘No, no, really, I’m fine. I don’t need anything.’

  Anna poured herself a glass of water, put it on the table and they all sat down. She was conscious that the surface of it was covered with old pale rings from years of mugs of tea carelessly placed. The table would be going with her and Mike when (if) they moved but did that kind of thing get noticed by those valuing a house? Belinda eyed the plate of Bourbon biscuits Anna had put out but didn’t take one.

  ‘So,’ Belinda said, putting her iPad in front of her and switching it on. ‘I understand you’re downsizing?’

  ‘Er … sort of. Possibly,’ Anna told her. ‘We haven’t quite decided yet what we’re going to do, but we do need to move. This place is far too big and keeping it going just for the two of us is an expense we could do without, frankly, now we aren’t working so much.’ The family weren’t any good at helping them decide either, though Belinda didn’t need to know the ins and outs of that. Emily had cried (she’d always been a crier, but was even worse now, being hugely pregnant) and told them they couldn’t possibly sell her childhood home. Jimi had said it was a terrific idea – the place was way too big and they were being the household equivalent of hospital bed-blockers. As for Thea, well, they’d got no sense out of Thea since Christmas when she’d paired up with Sean and started to spend every other minute on the A303 whizzing up and down from Cornwall. Anna and Mike could tell her they were relocating to Mars and she’d probably just smile and say, ‘Great, fine.’

  ‘The idea is to find out what we’ve got available, money-wise, if we decide to sell up. Then we’ll know what we’ve got to play with and we can think about options,’ Mike said.

  ‘I expect you’re thinking of something like sheltered housing? My gran has just moved into a lovely place. Very safe and caring,’ Belinda said to Anna in a low tone, surprising her by reaching across the table and gently taking hold of her wrist.

  ‘Fuck, no!’ Mike spluttered. ‘How old do you think we are?’

  ‘About the same age as Belinda’s gran, I expect,’ Anna told him. ‘We probably are.’

  ‘Only if she was a child bride,’ he argued, then turned to Belinda. ‘I share a birthday with Keith Richards. Though a few years later.’

  She looked a bit blank.

  ‘Guitarist? Rolling Stones? You must have heard that saying: when the world ends, the only survivors will be cockroaches and Keith Richards? I intend to cash in on the birthday connection and claim shared immortality.’

  Belinda giggled and swiftly removed her hand from Anna’s. ‘My gran says the Beatles were better. Oops, sorry!’

  ‘What I’m trying to say’ – Mike’s tone was softer now – ‘and I’m sorry if I overreacted there, is that where we’re going isn’t relevant at the moment. We haven’t decided yet. Could be Wales, could be West Wittering, could be Willesden. Don’t know.’

  ‘I’m ruling out Willesden,’ Anna said. ‘
And possibly West Wittering. Isn’t it all yachties in blazers? Not really our bag.’

  ‘Just the valuation then,’ Belinda said, tapping out a note on the iPad with the end of her nail. ‘Though we do have some good listings for retirement … No, OK. So – um … shall I just wander round or would you prefer to come with me and show me over the premises?’

  It felt so impersonal, having the home where they’d lived for over four decades, where they’d raised three children in a warm tumble of domestic chaos, described as ‘premises’. Mike was being no help, rabbiting on about totally irrelevant things. He was now staring out of the French doors, focused on a fat magpie gorging itself on the contents of the bird feeder hanging from the apple tree. Anna had planted that tree shortly after Jimi was born. There’d been a plum tree at Thea’s birth, a pear for Emily. And then there were the younger trees for the first three grandchildren. Emily’s new baby was due in a couple of weeks – if they really were selling up, would it be worth continuing the tradition here and putting in a little quince after it was born? Or should they do that at the new place? If it had a garden, that is. Suppose they opted for a flashy flat with a swanky terrace instead? Would a quince thrive in a big pot?

  ‘I think I’ll come too,’ Anna said, deciding that if this girl was going to be raising her prettily arched eyebrows at the undersea mural (complete with full-breasted mermaid) she had painted in the second bathroom and the embroidered crushed-velvet patchwork curtains which were getting a bit shredded but were still so beautiful, then she’d rather be there to see it and to defend her home instead of imagining the worst from downstairs.

  ‘I’ll just have a quick look to start with,’ Belinda explained as she made a couple more notes on her iPad about the kitchen, ‘and any measuring and so on will come later if you decide you really do want to sell. Today, I’ll be able to come up with a very rough ballpark figure but I’ll have to go back to the office and let you know from there, officially. Property round here is in huge demand,’ she continued as they made a start in the sitting room. ‘A double-fronted place like this doesn’t come on the market very often, especially not one with a view over the playing fields. Nice big back garden, perfect for a young family.’

  ‘Could a young family possibly afford it?’ Anna asked, genuinely curious. She had a very vague idea of local property values. This corner of London had always been expensive. The house had previously belonged to Mike’s parents and no way could he and Anna have afforded to buy it, even all those years ago.

  ‘You’d be surprised.’ Belinda continued to make notes as she prodded at Anna’s terracotta-painted wall of built-in bookshelves. ‘The area has a lot of media people, a lot of bankers. They’re all the ones who want easy access to central London and as much green open space as possible. It’s all here.’ She flicked at the curtains, checking how far the old double doors to the garden went back, and she pulled up the rug to look at the broad oak floorboards beneath. ‘Nice,’ she commented but said little else and Anna could only guess at what she’d written on her iPad.

  ‘There’s lots of potential with a house like this,’ she announced as they went up the stairs to inspect the bedrooms. She looked pleased by the scale of the rooms but grimaced at the emerald-green fittings in the second bathroom. Anna was glad Belinda managed to control her self-confessed tendency to blurt: the bath and basin had been a fabulous find, from the 1930s with art deco squared-off corners; she and Mike had been so delighted to get them.

  ‘Terrific!’ she exclaimed, looking at the ornate coving in the second of the two back bedrooms. ‘You see, we emphasize the wealth of original features but the buyers like to know there’s room for making their own mark. There are walls that can come down and space to extend the kitchen way out into the garden. The attic is ripe for conversion and this little space here’ – Belinda opened a door and peered into the room where Anna put anything that needed ironing and then removed it when it had been there long enough to flatten itself under the heap – ‘this could make a lovely ensuite wet room … just about, with a knock-through to the next room.’

  Anna felt sorry for her house. If it were a person, it would be crying out for a reassuring hug by now. It must be like sitting in front of a famous cosmetic surgeon having your face tweaked this way and that as the face-changer to the stars decided that you were way too old and baggy to continue to present yourself to the wider world – and that, unless you accepted his offer to charge you a million dollars to be fixed, you should consider a life under a big balaclava.

  ‘It’s always worked fine for us as it is,’ she said, by way of defence.

  Belinda laughed. ‘Oh, but the kind of family who’d afford this would want to extend. Everyone does. Ideally, they’ll want a separate floor for the children, and of course proper live-in accommodation for a nanny. That, at a push, could go over the garage. And there’s space at the end of the garden, if you knock down that big tatty old hut, space for a good-sized home office, which is so much a thing. Oh yes, I am certain this house will go for a jolly good sum.’ Anna noted that she actually licked her lips as she wrote down another note on her iPad and the two of them went back to the kitchen. Mike wasn’t there. Anna wondered if it was worth telling Belinda that he was probably in the ‘tatty old hut’ that had worked so brilliantly as their joint painting studio for the past forty years. Belinda had probably had posters on her wall at university that they’d designed. But it was true the hut was mostly held together by a crust of old oil paint and might well fall down with a good push. She thought of what could replace it: a stylish pod structure maybe, or a chichi shepherd’s hut, decked out in Cath Kidston and bunting? Perhaps a small wooden pavilion with a verandah, which wouldn’t look out of place on a village cricket green? She’d quite like one of those.

  ‘So.’ Belinda tip-tapped again on her iPad. ‘I can tell you now, very rough ball-park-wise, that – given the fact so much work would be needed – I’m afraid we’re actually looking at rather under the magic three. And also, timing … A lot of people are keen to get moving between now and Christmas. So, how soon would you want to move?’ she asked.

  ‘Er, not sure. And what do you mean, “just under the three”? Three what?’

  ‘Oh, three mill. Million,’ Belinda said breezily. ‘Two point nine five, for asking, I’d say, though I’d have to confirm and you might have to be flexible on the final … Are you OK?’

  Anna had sat down heavily in Mike’s peacock chair. She pulled at a bit of loose wicker. So it looked like they were really going to move. They would be able to afford somewhere cheaper and smaller but still lovely and have plenty of ‘change’. Like most artists, they hadn’t managed to equip themselves with fancy pension schemes so the house would have to provide it. And oh, what a wrench it would be, how much clearing and sorting – and then the finding somewhere else. It was going to be a massive upheaval. But it was time. She was still in terrific energetic health but her sixty-eighth birthday wasn’t far off and she’d quite like somewhere to live that was easier to care for. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms and a massive garden were far more than two people could possibly need and the expense of keeping it all going – the council tax, the ongoing maintenance – it was all becoming way too much.

  ‘Um, I think so,’ she said. ‘Just a bit surprised, that’s all.’

  Belinda looked worried, clearly nervous that she’d got a potential fainting on her hands.

  ‘Is it a disappointment?’ she murmured, eyeing the kettle. ‘I’m so sorry …’ The slim hand was back on Anna’s wrist. Anna let it stay there this time.

  ‘No. Good grief no. It’s not a disappointment. Not at all.’

  THREE

  They weren’t real contractions, just the Braxton Hicks sort that nature sends to give you a rough idea of what to expect. Emily was certain of this because the baby wouldn’t be born for another eight days, on a Friday, preferably early in the evening when Thea would be home from work and could collect Milly and Alfie an
d take them to hers for the weekend. That way Sam wouldn’t have to worry about them and could immerse himself in the birth experience. He’d been drunk when Milly was born and had sneaked out for a quick cigarette just in time to miss Alfie’s arrival, but this time she was determined he’d be there, doing back-rubbing and forehead-moistening and being the one who cut the cord, like a proper hands-on father.

  She’d written the due date in pen in her diary: 5 September, and there’d never been anything in that diary in ink that didn’t happen as and when it was supposed to – and thank goodness for that. Emily needed precision in her world because without it, all would free-fall into chaos. You couldn’t run a home, two (soon three) young children and an accountancy practice on vagueness. If she wanted vague and unreliable she’d got Sam for the role and, since she’d reluctantly started her maternity leave two weeks before, she’d been appalled at how much he left to chance, domestically speaking. Why, for one thing, did he do the food shopping so haphazardly, lugging home bags of random items on the way from collecting the children from their various summer activities? It was terrifying knowing this didn’t leave him both hands free to steer them safely across the road – in fact, she could make a case for that being actually illegal. If it wasn’t, it should be. After all, you couldn’t trust two under-eights with micro-scooters to wait for the green man at the lights, still less anticipate the murderous idiot who’s gone hurtling through on red. Also, she’d so often suggested planning the week’s menus in advance so he could order online and not have to keep popping up to Waitrose, but no. He claimed it gave him ‘thinking time’ and that he couldn’t bang out his humorous column for the biggest-selling Sunday newspaper on being a feckless father every single week if he never left his writing hut. That was the trouble with him being a journalist – he could find an excuse for anything, in the interests of ‘research’. ‘Besides,’ he’d over-argued, ‘Milly and Alfie have to learn that food doesn’t just come in boxes from a delivery van. They need to see shelves being stacked, money changing hands, pleasantries exchanged. They must experience the joys of handling fruit, learning what’s in season and so on.’