A Family Recipe

by Veronica Henry

  The tears spilled over anyway. They had no truck with her attempts to be brave.

  ‘Damn. I wasn’t going to cry …’ She did a half-laugh, half-sob. ‘He can bugger off with his fancy-pants lawyer. I hope they’ll be very happy together.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not what he wants. You know what men are like.’ Sadie pointed at her head and then her crotch. ‘Brain in pants. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’

  ‘It means a lot to me. It’s undermined everything I have done for this family.’

  Laura was properly crying now, wiping her face with one hand and trying to pour the coffee with the other.

  Sadie jumped up to hug her friend. She couldn’t handle the thought of the Griffin family falling apart. They were her constant. They were her family. They were the one good thing she held on to when she was having a crisis or had done something she was ashamed of. They were her refuge, her comfort.

  ‘Come on,’ she said to Laura. ‘Sit down and drink your coffee. Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘No. I’m never eating again. It’s because I’m fat, I expect.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. You’re not fat for a start.’

  ‘No. I know. I just want a reason, I suppose.’ Laura sat down, looking utterly miserable.

  ‘I’ll make you some toast.’

  ‘The Aga’s out. You’ll have to use the Dualit.’

  Sadie pulled a loaf out of the bread bin and stuck two slices into the toaster. She knew the kitchen at Number 11 like the back of her hand. She’d spent more time in here than she had her own, almost.

  Stupid Dom. She understood far better than Laura how it might have happened, because she was a cynic. She got all the gossip at the boutique. Plenty of wives came in to spend money when they found out their husbands were up to no good. Though it wasn’t always the husbands who strayed. Sadie could spot an incipient affair in a customer a mile off: there was always a renewed confidence; a sense of daring; a frisson. And a need to buy new clothes. That was to start with. Affairs were beguiling and intoxicating, but inevitably ended in disaster. Sadie didn’t judge or comment when she spotted the signs. She was there to make a living, not give marriage guidance.

  She hoped that when Laura calmed down she would see sense and talk to Dom, and that Dom would have the strength and backbone to fight for his marriage. She hoped he wasn’t in too deep with this Antonia. She hoped Antonia didn’t have long-term designs on Dom. He was a very attractive option: successful but not arrogant, attractive but not narcissistic, fun but not irresponsible. She’d always thought him well-balanced. She felt quite sick to think of him being unfaithful to Laura. It shook her belief in what was good and right in the world.

  She decided the best thing she could do was listen and be there. And make sure Laura didn’t make any rash decisions.

  She put the buttered toast on a plate in front of her friend.

  ‘Darling, just stay calm and take it easy today. You’ve had a big weekend and you’re probably still a bit up in the air about Willow going. Be kind to yourself.’

  ‘How?’ Laura looked miserable. ‘All I want to do is go back to bed.’

  ‘Have a long bath with loads of bubbles. Put on some nice clothes.’ She pointed at her. ‘I’m not having any skanky victim outfits. Then go for a walk. It’s a gorgeous bright autumn day – the leaves look amazing …’ She trailed off. ‘Yeah. OK. I’ll shut up.’

  Laura looked deflated. ‘Do you know what I usually do when things are rubbish? I cook something. But what’s the point? There’s no one here to eat it.’

  ‘Laura. Don’t go under. You need to stay positive and calm and clear.’ Sadie picked up her bag. ‘I’ve absolutely got to go to work now. I should have opened up five minutes ago. But I’ll call you later and I’ll pop round when the shop shuts.’

  Laura shut her eyes and nodded. Everything was closing in. Suddenly it was all too horribly real. And she didn’t feel angry any more. She felt scared. And bewildered.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she told Sadie, her voice tight. Sadie had to go to work; she didn’t want to worry her. ‘Thank you for being here.’

  Sadie hugged her, picking up her bag and her keys.

  ‘Call if you need me.’

  Then she was gone, bangles clanking, high heels clicking over the limestone, leaving a cloud of Coco Mademoiselle and emptiness behind her.

  Laura refilled her coffee cup and looked down into its depths as she chewed on her toast. How on earth was she going to face life on her own, if that was the outcome? For a start, what could she actually do? She had no CV, no experience. She hadn’t had a job since she’d been a chalet maid, the winter she met Dom. Over twenty years ago now.

  She remembered the first night she had met him. At a loss as to what to do with her life at the age of nineteen, with unimpressive A levels, she was spending the winter season looking after a rental chalet in the French alps in the hopes of finding direction and inspiration.

  Le Chalet Rouge was perched in the middle of an Alpine village near the Trois Vallées, and she had immediately felt at home there. It was a traditional wooden house, decked out in cheery red tartan with cosy rugs and wood-burning stoves, comfortable rather than luxurious. Her job was to provide a substantial breakfast, a restorative tea and a three-course dinner, make the beds and keep the place tidy. It suited her down to the ground. The fresh air and the beauty of the location, all-day cooking and the occasional chance to ski, as well as a lot of jolly socialising on her night out with the other seasonaires: sometimes she thought that perhaps this would do as a career. She loved nothing better than to look after people and fill them up with heart-warming, rib-sticking fare. Her toffee-apple cake was legendary.

  Dom and his mates arrived on a crystalline February afternoon, full of bonhomie and Becks. The ten of them had been on the rugby team at Exeter University together. The chalet owners didn’t usually allow big single-sex groups but there had been a connection, a friend of Dom’s who vouched for them all.

  ‘He’s supposed to be a good bloke,’ the owner told Laura. ‘They’re rugby players, so they’ll be party boys, but my friend assures me they’re quite tame and well-brought-up.’

  And when they turned up, they were charming. Well-mannered, high-spirited lads who wanted a hard day’s skiing followed by a hard night’s eating and drinking. Laura wasn’t fazed. She knew they needed treating with firm, matronly kindness.

  ‘I don’t clear up sick,’ she told them. ‘And I don’t want any cling-film-over-the-toilet-seats shenanigans. The bottom two shelves in the fridge are no go – they’ll be the ingredients for supper, so if you eat them, there won’t be any. And please hang your wet towels up.’

  ‘You’re very strict,’ said Dom, who was the tallest of the group. ‘We brought you this, from the airport.’ He held up a huge bottle of Badedas and a box of Ferrero Rocher. ‘We know the way to a girl’s heart.’

  He smiled and his eyes twinkled, and looking back, that was the moment she lost her heart to him, because she knew instinctively that it was he who had instigated the gift. The others would have been too busy downing pints in the airport bar. And he had shown lots of thoughtfulness throughout the week: helping her butter brown bread for the smoked mackerel pâté, clearing away the plates, offering to wash up. And he kept a watchful eye on his friends, reining them in when they got too loud or looked in danger of getting out of control.

  On her day off, he asked if they could ski together. She’d been there three months so was pretty accomplished and knew the runs well.

  ‘So the black run that goes down the back of the valley – is it hard?’

  ‘Not if the conditions are good. If the sun’s been on it all day and then it gets cold, it can get tricky. But it should be fine.’ She’d only done it once, and it was scary. But her heart was pumping and she felt exhilarated by the challenge.

  The accident had been one of those things – as accidents so often are. A momentary lapse of concentration, a
lumpy mogul, the wrong decision … Then the blood wagon, an air ambulance, an operation on his knee. Laura was distraught when she went back to the chalet that night. Dom’s friends gathered round and were surprisingly kind to her.

  ‘Don’t blame yourself. Dom’s a big boy, and a good skier. He knew the risks. Accidents happen.’

  Nevertheless, she did blame herself. She’d wanted to show off to Dom. Show him what a good skier she was; that she wasn’t just a skivvy.

  Dom was in the hospital for days afterwards, until he was fit to fly home. She visited him every day, bringing him cake. At first it was guilt that had taken her there, guilt that she’d underplayed the difficulty of the black run, but it wasn’t long before he was the first thing she thought of when she woke, and she hurried to get the breakfast things cleared so she could rush to his bedside.

  Laura sipped at her coffee. She’d put too much milk in and it was lukewarm. She pushed the cup to one side. The kitchen still felt cold too. She needed to phone Sam Budge and ask him to service the Aga. She’d be lucky to get him. It was autumn. Everyone would be after him. She dialled his number and he promised to fit her in at some point during the day if she waited in. She told him she’d wait until the end of time if necessary.

  Now that had been done, Laura sat at the table, not knowing what to do. Her sense of purpose had evaporated. There was no one to do anything for. Rather than liberating, it was totally inhibiting. She could barely breathe. She didn’t want to phone Willow or Jaz – they would know something was wrong and she didn’t want to have to tell the truth or to lie. She didn’t want to think about Dom, let alone talk to him.

  She sighed. Where was the manual that told you what to do when your husband had been unfaithful? What were you supposed to think/eat/do/wear? Because she had no idea.

  She wondered where her grandmother was. It was odd that Kanga hadn’t been in to see her after last night. Maybe she’d wander over to Acorn Cottage and find her.

  She stuck on her Uggs and grabbed a cardigan from the hook in the hallway. She still couldn’t be bothered to get dressed. She went out of the French windows and into the garden, blinking at the pale amber of the September sun. The garden was in that curious autumnal state: half abundant, half moribund, offering up the last of its bounty while the leaves fell and everything began to die back. She loved the smell, the sharpness of the cold air mixed with the earth that still contained the warmth of summer. There were apples, pears and plums to be picked, the late-ripening raspberries, onions and potatoes to dig up … Then bulbs to plant for spring. Her heart wasn’t in any of it. She stomped past the greenhouse and the tangle of the little orchard just in time to see Kanga coming out of her door. She looked exhausted and drained, more like her age than the strong, caring woman who had taken charge of her last night.

  ‘Kanga?’

  ‘Oh, darling. I was just coming to see if you’re all right.’ Kanga looked tearful, which was unusual. ‘I haven’t slept much.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I didn’t tell you yesterday because I didn’t want to worry you, but Ivy had a fall on Friday evening and broke her hip.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Laura loved Ivy. Everyone did. She had been Laura’s honorary godmother, as her mum hadn’t believed in such things. She always bought over-the-top presents – huge flagons of perfume and glittery purses and furry slippers. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you. Not after yesterday … How are you?’ Kanga was uncharacteristically flustered, obviously overwhelmed by her friend’s condition but mindful too of Laura’s plight.

  ‘Don’t worry about me. Ivy’s far more important. What have they said?’

  ‘They did an operation to pin her hip. But she’s very frail. Very confused. I’m off now to go and see how she is.’

  Laura hated seeing her grandmother so distressed. She knew how close Ivy and Kanga were. They’d been friends since they were small girls, and even though they were wildly different and didn’t live in each other’s pockets, they were defiantly proud to still be propping each other up at the grand old age of ninety-three.

  ‘What about her daughters?’

  Kanga’s lips tightened. ‘Beverley was the one who found her. She was going to phone Kim in Australia. And Nadine came in yesterday but she’s got enough on her plate with the salon so she won’t be much help. You know what they’re all like. They need Ivy to tell them what to do.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Laura knew Ivy was the archetypal matriarch and that her family leaned on her heavily.

  ‘Have you heard from Dom?’ asked Kanga, anxious. ‘I’m so sorry, darling.’

  ‘Not yet. And I’m OK. Let’s talk about it later. You’ve got enough to worry about.’

  ‘I want to get back to the hospital so I can be there when the doctor comes.’

  ‘I can take you if you like?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine.’ She looked at Laura. ‘You need to talk to Dom. Sort things out.’

  Laura didn’t want to draw Kanga into her own drama right now.

  ‘I will. I’ve got a few other things to sort out first. Sam Budge is coming to do the Aga.’

  ‘Your marriage is more important than the Aga.’

  ‘That,’ said Laura, ‘is where you are very wrong. Nothing is more important than the Aga.’

  She watched her grandmother head off through the back gate and her heart contracted with pity. Laura would have gone with her but she knew Kanga wouldn’t have allowed it. She was ferociously independent, as was Ivy. For a moment she smiled, imagining them as youngsters. They must have been a formidable pair.

  11

  1942

  ‘The bastards,’ said Ivy as the sirens went off again that night. ‘The dirty stinking swine. Come on.’

  She shoved at Jilly to get her up, gathering everything they needed: blankets and pillows. The two of them scurried as quickly as they could, down the stairs, down into the dank gloom of the cellar. There was no electric light, but a stack of candles and a box of matches. There were three fraying armchairs to sit in. They bundled themselves up in their bedding to keep as warm as they could, but the damp was freezing and still needled its way in. They could feel the boom of the bombs as they dropped. They sounded even louder tonight.

  ‘Oh, what shall we do?’ said Jilly, trying to control her distress. She clasped her hands together. ‘Maybe we should pray?’

  ‘There’s no point in bloody praying,’ said Ivy. ‘When did that do any good? Where’s God when you need him? If he wanted us to be all right he wouldn’t have invented the Germans.’

  Jilly laughed. Ivy’s vision of the world always cheered her.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s quite how it works,’ she said. ‘But I agree.’

  ‘We’ll sing instead. Singing is much more useful than praying.’

  Ivy began to croon in her tuneless little voice, swaying backwards and forwards in time, a rather mournful song about declaring undying love for someone.

  ‘Can we sing something else?’ asked Jilly, abruptly. ‘Something jollier?’

  The words had awoken something in her. Something she didn’t want to think about. Had she declared her love to him, in the hot, sweet heat of that moment? Surely not. Surely you didn’t say ‘I love you’ to someone you had only just met. But she didn’t know how else to describe how he had made her feel. It had been quite overwhelming. All-consuming. It had made her feel alive; the complete opposite of how she felt now – heavy and empty.

  She wasn’t going to think about him. Not now. Everything had changed. There was no place for Harry Swann in her life, whatever he had been, however he had made her feel. He was going off to learn to fly. He didn’t belong to her. He belonged to the war.

  It seemed to be taking everything from her, the wretched war. But she still had Ivy. She put out her hand to grasp hers. Their fingers entwined and they held on tight to each other as they sang, the sound of the bombs providing a rhythmic counterpoint that in any
other circumstances would have been immensely satisfying. For hours they sang their hearts out, exhausting their entire repertoire.

  The next day, it soon became apparent that the first raid had been a mere warm-up, a reconnaissance mission, a chance for the Germans to expose the city’s underbelly. They’d only used incendiary devices the first night, which by contrast had wreaked only havoc, not devastation. The second night they’d used powerful explosives that gave no time for fire-fighting. The destruction was relentless and the loss of life inevitably higher. The townspeople were shaken and bewildered, any adrenaline from the first night evaporating as the true horror became apparent.

  As Bath emerged dazed into the aftermath, the fires burned on and the air was thick with smoke and soot and dust. It was going to be all hands on deck. There wasn’t time to bemoan what had happened. There was no time to stand and stare.

  Ivy and Jilly came up from the cellar to wash and gulp down a cup of tea and a piece of toast before they headed back down into the centre of the city to see if they could help. Yet again there was no detail on the wireless to put them in the picture. But they had heard the bombing. They knew they would be stepping out into a different world.

  In the rush, Jilly knocked her mother’s favourite cup onto the quarry tiles: a pretty bone-china cup covered in strawberries. She went to grab it but it smashed into tiny slivers, scattering itself all over the kitchen floor. For some reason this was the last straw. A symbol of what she had lost. She slumped into her chair at the kitchen table and sobbed. There was nothing normal she could hold on to. Everything was slipping through her fingers.

  Ivy gave her short shrift. She swept up the shards and made another cup of tea, plonking it down on the table.

  ‘You can let those Nazis win,’ said Ivy. ‘That’s what they want: to see us all in despair. You can let them laugh at you. Or you can pull yourself up by your bootstraps and help people worse off than you.’

  Jilly stared at her. What could be worse than losing both parents in one night?