‘Oh bloody hell, where is he?’ I called, several times, but no black curly-haired rocket came hurtling towards me as was the norm when he’d wandered off by himself. I called again, retracing my steps to the last dry-stone wall I’d crossed, climbing back over the broken, wooden stile in the hope that it was a simple leg-up he needed in order to join me. He wasn’t there.
‘Shit.’ I looked at my watch. I needed to be turning round and going back home if I was to prepare food for the children, see Mrs Atkinson and keep the appointment with Max’s headteacher who, concerned about how Max was coping after his parents’ death, had asked to see me.
‘Of course he’s not coping,’ I shouted angrily to the skies, almost losing my balance on top of the wall as I scanned the fields for sight of George. ‘He’s a little boy who has just gone through the trauma of losing not one, but both his parents. Of course he’s not sodding coping.’
I jumped down carelessly from the wall, wrenching my ankle a little as I landed and, limping slightly, headed once more to the lane up ahead. Maybe the damned dog had beaten me to it and was now on the actual road. Swearing under my breath, I ran as best I could, knowing that having to tell Max and Allegra that a speeding tractor had squashed George, that he too was in heaven, would be just one step too far.
‘Oy, is this your bloody dog?’ A tall, dark-haired man was standing over George, holding onto his collar while George, delighted at seeing me, pulled madly in my direction.
‘George, there you are. Oh, thank you so much for finding him.’
‘I didn’t bloody find him,’ the man said furiously. ‘He found me—and my mother’s chickens.’
‘Oh gosh, are they all right?’
‘Well, if by all right you mean the whole flock scared shitless and one dead then, yes, they’re all right.’
‘I am so sorry.’
‘Jesus, this dog of yours stinks.’ The man let go of George, holding up his hands in disgust whereupon George bounded over to my side and lay, panting, at my feet.
‘I am really, really sorry,’ I said again, unsure of what else to say. ‘I mean, he’s just a puppy… he’s never done anything like this before.’
‘Why isn’t he on a lead if he’s a puppy?’
‘I am so sorry, he just ran off.’
‘Why aren’t you training him properly? You’re obviously not fit to have a dog…’
I’d suddenly had enough. ‘Look, it’s one sodding dead hen, for heaven’s sake. What does a chicken cost in Aldi? A fiver? Right, give me your name and address and I’ll send you a fiver or, if you prefer, I’ll buy you another hen, live and squawking, plucked and oven-ready or… or made into a… a coq au vin…’
‘You could not even begin to replace this one. It’s my mother’s favourite, her pride and joy.’
‘Well then, as far as I can see, you both need to get out more.’
The man glared. ‘The chicken that your dog has just mutilated is an Ayan Cemani—’
‘Well, if your mother is daft enough to keep chickens with such bloody stupid names—’
‘ —and is the Lamborghini of poultry—’
‘Well, tell her to get the Corsa version next time—’
‘—and is—was—worth over two thousand pounds.’
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous.’ I laughed out loud at the man’s hyperbole. ‘No chicken is worth that much.’
‘I suggest,’ the man said through gritted teeth, replacing his tweed flat cap on his dark hair, ‘that when you get home, you Google “Ayan Cemani” and then, when you’ve done that, you tear up the cheque you’ve made out to me for a fiver and write another one, but this time for two thousand pounds. Oh, and may I also suggest you look in the mirror? You appear to be turning purple, no doubt from my blackberries you’ve obviously helped yourself to.’
Jesus. I clipped the lead onto George’s collar, playing for time. ‘And you are?’
‘Rafe Ahern. I live here, and you and that damned poodle are on my land.’
‘Firstly, Mr Ahern, George is a Labradoodle, i.e. only half a poodle and you insult him by calling him the former. Secondly, how is this your lanyd? Have you swallowed it? Is it inside you? And thirdly… thirdly—’ great sobs suddenly burst, unbidden, from my throat ‘—my husband has just been killed and I’ve no home and no money.’ I pulled the bulging black poo bag from my pocket, swung it by its handles and threw it at the astonished man. ‘And here’s your fucking blackberries back. I don’t want them now.’
*
‘Gosh, did you really throw the bag of blackberries at him?’ Harriet giggled as she helped me take dishes from the dishwasher. ‘And after you’d just murdered his chicken, too? Brilliant.’
‘It’s not funny, Harriet,’ I admonished, giggling too. ‘When I got home, I looked up his damned Ayan Cemani and he’s absolutely right about how much they cost. They’re all black: black feathers, black tongue, black beak, black plume. The only things that aren’t black are the eggs they lay. And two thousand pounds is the going rate.’
‘Well, he’s rich enough to cover it. Or he’ll be insured.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Not really. We met him once at David and Amanda’s, but he left early; he had to leave for the Middle East apparently.’
‘The Middle East…?’
Grace and Mel Naylor came into the kitchen, bearing huge cardboard boxes and a bottle of wine. ‘Don’t worry, Clem,’ Grace smiled, ‘I promise we won’t all get merry like we did at Hat’s place the other week. We’re here to work, to help you.’
‘But work always goes down better with a glass to help it,’ Mel finished. ‘Where do you want us to start, Clem?’
‘We were just talking about Rafe Ahern, Grace,’ Hat said. ‘I was telling Clem, the only time I met him, at David and Mandy’s, he had to rush off.’
‘Oh, he’s always rushing off. He’s the BBC’s Middle Eastern Foreign Correspondent or something like that. He’s always on TV. You’d recognise him if you saw him.’
‘I did see him. Last week. I encroached on his land, nicked his blackberries and murdered his mother’s chicken.’
‘Gosh, good going,’ Grace laughed. ‘My mother is friendly with his mother. Annabelle Ahern is wonderful: she was a Sixties model alongside Jean Shrimpton. If you believe all her stories, she used to go out with Mick Jagger and slept with all of the Beatles at one point or another.’
‘She sounds a lot more fun than her son,’ I smiled. ‘Right, what do you all want to do? Eat or pack up Peter’s stuff first?’
‘Let’s work first,’ Mel said. ‘Then we can relax. Show us the way, Clem, and Grace and I can make a start.’
*
‘Wow, what fabulous clothes Peter had,’ Harriet whistled. ‘Some of this stuff must have cost a fortune.’
‘I know, but it’s no good to me,’ I said. ‘Look, if there’s anything you’d like, just take it.’
‘Get it up on eBay,’ Harriet said firmly. ‘The RSPCA or Help The Aged would lap it up, I know, but at the end of the day charity begins at home and you need to think of yourself and the kids at the moment, Clem.’
‘I don’t have the time to start selling on eBay,’ I frowned. ‘And actually, I’m not sure if I should be getting rid of it. I think Peter’s creditors might have a legal right to it.’
‘Oh, that’s a point, you might be right. How about if we box up and label everything of Peter’s that you don’t want and store it in the garage next to his cars. And then if bailiffs and creditors do come round you can show them where it is and you will be legally above board. If they don’t, then you can eBay it and pocket the cash.’
‘It all sounds a bit mercenary,’ I said, taking the fifty or more silk ties from their hangers and laying them gently in an open box. My eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘Oh, poor Peter. Poor, poor, misguided man.’
‘Mel, get the girl a drink. For medicinal purposes of course.’ Grace patted my arm. ‘It’s a rotten thing to have happene
d, Clem. Just take your time. There’s no rush. I can’t believe there’s no one else to help you. Did neither Peter nor his wife have any family at all?’
I shook my head as I folded a beautiful Hilditch & Key navy and white striped shirt. ‘Both Peter and Vanessa were only children. There are no siblings, no grandparents left—apart from Peter’s mother up in Aberdeen and Vanessa’s mother in a home near Upper Clawson with Alzheimer’s—and, according to Morag Broadbent who talked about her family when we were up there, no cousins to speak of.’
I suddenly sat back on my heels. ‘Gosh, talking about Morag Broadbent—Peter’s mother—it’s just come back to me something she said when we were up there. She said Peter’s father had spent all her family money—the Buchanan Clan’s—on women and horses. Gambling must have been a family trait.’
‘Well, just keep an eye on Sophie if she wants to play Snap.’ Grace smiled. ‘How is she anyway? Have you heard from her?’
I sighed, feeling a tight knot of anxiety. ‘She’s due home for good at half-term in two weeks’ time. The school has said she can stay until then but if no fees are forthcoming she’ll have to leave. I’m dreading it. She hates me and… and she knows about my past history. About where I was born and about Lucy…’
‘No! How does she know that?’ Harriet, Grace and Mel all looked up from their packing.
‘For some reason Peter told Vanessa and Vanessa told Sophie.’
‘Well, how stupid is that?’ Harriet said crossly. ‘How ridiculously stupid. The woman should be shot.’ Harriet’s hand flew to her mouth as she realised what she’d said.
‘Bit late for that, Harriet.’ I smiled and Grace tutted and then, unable to help ourselves, we both began giggling.
‘Oh God, I don’t know why I’m laughing,’ I said, wiping my eyes. ‘I am dreading Sophie coming home. Am dreading telling her we’ll all have to move into a much, much smaller house somewhere.’
‘So, the children are staying with you, then?’ Mel asked. ‘That’s a huge thing to take on.’
‘I’ve no alternative; I’m Max and Sophie’s stepmother. Anyway, I wouldn’t dream of not looking after them or handing them over to social services, which is where they would end up if I just walked away with Allegra.’
‘And where do you think you’ll end up?’ Harriet asked. ‘I do hope you manage to stay round here somewhere.’
‘It all depends on how much money, if any, is left over. This house, thank God, has no mortgage on it and must be worth a small fortune so, once all Peter’s creditors have been paid, I’m hoping there will be enough for a small semi somewhere.’
‘You’ll need four bedrooms,’ Mel said.
‘We can manage with three: Allegra can always share with me. Sophie is sixteen now and hopefully will be off to university in a couple of years…’
‘Well, rather you than me,’ Grace said. ‘From what you’ve said about her she sounds horrendous.’ And then, obviously seeing how I was feeling, hastily added, ‘It will be all right. Really. I’m sure it will all work out in the end.’
‘It’s just that I adore this house,’ I said wistfully. ‘I know I have absolutely no right whatsoever to feel put out at having to leave it. I mean, it was never mine really to begin with. But I’ve just grown to love it.’ I stood up, looking for the shoes I’d kicked off as I packed boxes. ‘I’ll just have to think about it being a two-month holiday that came to a sudden end. Right, lunch. The final supper, as it were. Give me ten minutes to make a dressing for the salad and then leave all this and come down.’
*
‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who has such a way with food as you have, Clem,’ Harriet sighed, greedily mopping up the remains of the tarragon and mushroom sauce on her plate. ‘At least you’ll still be able to work for David, won’t you?’
‘Yes, he popped round before I went to the solicitor last week. I’m cooking a lunch for some Russians next week.’
‘You’ll knock ’em dead with your fantastic cooking,’ Mel said. ‘So, what do you think of David Henderson? Rather gorgeous, isn’t he?’
Harriet smiled. ‘Oh everyone has a little crush on David. We can’t help ourselves.’
‘You as well?’ Mel asked.
‘I don’t know any woman who doesn’t look at him twice. It’s the power thing, I think. You know, even if he was plug ugly—which he obviously isn’t—I still reckon women would flock to him. But he only has eyes for Amanda, so there we go.’ Harriet sighed. ‘We can look and fantasise…’
‘Clem, what’s happening about Lucy?’ Grace asked, collecting dirty plates from the table. ‘I don’t suppose anything at the moment?’
I shrugged. ‘No, I’ve just had too much to think about with all this mess. I can’t just swan off to Leeds and, to be honest, I’m not sure I can cope with her at the moment/’
There was a silence from the others.
‘I know that sounds an awful thing to say about my own twin…’ My voice caught in my throat as I spoke ‘But I just have to think about Allegra and Max at the moment. And Sophie as well, of course.’
‘You’ve missed someone,’ Mel said, pouring water for me. ‘You. Think about yourself for once. When you’re all sorted, when you’ve found a house and you’re becoming famous for hosting rich businessmen’s lunches, then start again looking for Lucy. And this time we’ll all help you find her.’
‘Absolutely,’ Harriet said. ‘Honestly, Clem, we really will.’
23
SARAH
The Reverend Roger had been in a foul mood for weeks. Furious that Jamie, his son, had turned down his place at Durham so that he could remain in France eagerly assimilating more and more of the French cuisine he adored, he’d taken it out on the Rabbitt household until even Mrs Scatchard, parish stalwart and chair of the WI, who had been in love with Roger for years, had had enough.
‘Don’t know what’s up with His Nibs lately,’ she sniffed to Gloria McEwan over toasted teacake and a pot of tea in Betty’s. ‘If he carries on much longer like he is, I shall be resigning from the church council and the flower rota.’
‘Oh, you don’t want to do that, Susan,’ Gloria said, mentally taking note of how much jam Susan was taking for the second half of her already lavishly buttered teacake. ‘It’ll be Droopy Drawers that’s getting to him again. She was supposed to have ordered the bread wheat sheaf for the centre of the Harvest display but totally forgot to ask Brian at the bakery. We had to find a giant swede to put in the middle to offset all the tins of beans and tuna that people seem to think it OK to donate for Harvest these days.’
‘Hmm. Well, I have to say, she doesn’t deserve Rev. Roger. I know he can be prickly at times, and recently he’s been worse than a holly bush, but she does nothing to help him, the church or the village as far as I can see. She doesn’t understand his caring nature, you see, doesn’t see his sensitive side like we do. If she had an ounce of get up and go about her she’d have taken on the Brownies now that Brown Owl appears to have run off with Akela. The poor little mites are crying out for someone to take them on Tuesdays, but will she lower herself? No, not Madam. Too busy floating about like some ageing hippy, growing herbs and orgasmic veggies in the rectory garden. “Mrs Scatchard,” Rev. says to me, only yesterday, “sometimes I long for a bit of plain cooking, a bit of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding…”.’
‘Nowt wrong with a bit of Yorkshire pudding.’
‘“But Sarah,” he says, “is intent on cooking only vegetarian stuff or foreign stuff”.’
‘Foreign?’ Gloria frowned.
‘Osama Bin Laden stuff. You know, Middle Eastern.’
‘Well, I reckon we’ll all have to get used to that sort of muck soon what with this invasion going on.’
‘Invasion, Mrs McEwan? What invasion’s that then?’ Ben Carey, the mature student chaplain on work experience in the diocese, pulled out a chair and sat down with a sigh of relief.
‘Well, the Iraqis.’
‘I thou
ght we invaded them? Ben raised an eyebrow and reached for the menu.
‘You know what I mean, Ben.’
‘Actually, I’m not sure that I do, Mrs McEwan, but never mind that, I need coffee and sugar.’
‘Hard morning?’ Mrs Scatchard asked, with only a modicum of sympathy.
‘You could say that. Rev. Roger has had me all over Harrogate putting up posters for next Sunday’s Harvest Festival. He’s even thinking about bringing the service into the pubs in the town centre.’
‘Posters? Pubs? That’s a bit modern for Roger, isn’t it?’ Gloria peered over her spectacles.
‘Oh, Roger can be very up with what’s in at the moment,’ Susan said proudly. ‘I’d describe him as quite a forward-thinking Luddite…’
‘Right.’ Ben tried to hide a smile. ‘Actually, I reckon the bishop’s been on at him again to rally the troops as it were.’
‘Well, if Mrs R would just stir herself to help a bit more in the parish he might not have to resort to hanging around in pubs to spread the word.’
‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’
‘Who?’ Both women stared at Ben in surprise.
‘Sarah,’ Ben said, still scanning the menu. And, when no response came, looked up and smiled, stroking his beard. ‘Sarah? The vicar’s wife?’
‘Is she? I wouldn’t know,’ Susan Scatchard said, almost primly. ‘She rarely puts in an appearance these days in the village or in church—even on Sundays.’
‘She’s been wonderful to me,’ Ben enthused. ‘She is the most fantastic cook. I’m vegetarian and people are sometimes stumped about what to give me if I’m invited round for supper. More often than not, I’m offered cheese on toast, a boiled egg or a roast dinner without the roast. Not that I’m complaining,’ he added hastily. ‘I’m more than grateful to anyone inviting me to eat with them.’
Susan’s and Gloria’s eyes met in silent but mutual agreement: their respective dining rooms wouldn’t be entertaining this young intern with his lefty, bearded, veggie notions, thank you very much.
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