A Family Recipe

by Veronica Henry

  ‘Are you rich?’ said Colin.

  ‘Colin!’ Helena jabbed him with her elbow.

  Jilly laughed. ‘No. Not at all. Very ordinary. But we are lucky.’

  She ushered them through into the kitchen as it was probably less daunting than the rest of the house. It was bright from the late-afternoon sun that poured in through the big windows looking out onto the garden. There were dark-red quarry tiles on the floor and a big scrubbed pine table in the middle with a selection of wobbly chairs that didn’t match. A jug of tulips her mother had picked a few days ago stood on the dresser, the blooms drooping as if they had heard the sad news. Jilly felt her throat tighten, then snatched up the kettle to fill it at the butler’s sink.

  ‘Sit down. You must be exhausted.’

  Helena sank down into the flowery armchair by the Aga. Jilly flinched: that had been her mum’s roost. She’d sat there at breakfast, trying to wake herself up, and in the afternoon when she got back from a day’s teaching, kicking off her shoes and tucking into a piece of cake. Her mum had been unashamed about enjoying her comforts and was quite happy for Jilly and her dad to wait on her. It wasn’t that she was lazy or couldn’t look after herself. It was what they did. There was plenty she did for them in return.

  Jilly turned away and fetched the stout brown teapot down from its shelf. She didn’t mind Helena sitting there. It was strange, that was all, to realise that she was never going to see her mum in that chair again. She felt a lump rise up and swallowed it down. There was no time for self-pity.

  ‘How about boiled eggs?’ she said brightly. ‘The hens laid me exactly three this morning.’

  Even amidst the chaos of the bombing the hens had done their duty. It had been a small reminder that life goes on. A comfort.

  Colin and Julie looked at each other and then at their mother. Helena jiggled Baby Dot up and down on her knee.

  ‘We love eggs,’ said Colin. ‘But they make Mum want to puke.’

  Ivy raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Colin …’ Helena looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. Eggs aren’t my best thing.’

  Ivy went to say something but Jilly flashed her a glance.

  ‘I’ve got a tin of sardines?’ she offered.

  ‘That would be nice.’

  Jilly made the children boiled eggs and toast on the Aga and gave up her butter ration for them. They needed something hot and plain but delicious to feed them up, and she didn’t have much else in. Then she found some leftover rice pudding and gave it to them with a blob of jam. Colin and Julie scraped their bowls clean and asked for more.

  Helena prodded at her sardines, listless.

  ‘You must eat,’ Jilly urged her. ‘You need your strength.’

  Helena pushed the plate away. ‘I can’t.’

  Jilly picked the plate up and took the sardines away. She understood. What Helena had been through must have been terrifying. And now dusk was approaching and the once sunny room was becoming gloomy.

  ‘We need to get the blackouts up,’ she said, snapping on a lamp. ‘And I need to show you the cellar, just in case …’

  She didn’t want to say in case of what. But even at the suggestion, Helena seemed to shrink into herself. She went the colour of dirty dishwater. Jilly scooped Baby Dot off her lap and knelt down next to her.

  ‘It’ll be OK. You’ll be safe here, I promise.’

  She knew it was a promise that was impossible to keep, but it didn’t stop her making it. She would do her best to keep this straggly little family safe.

  After tea, and when the blackouts had gone up, Jilly took them up to the top floor, where there were two spare bedrooms. They hadn’t been used for a while and the rose-covered wallpaper was faded and the carpets rather threadbare, but there was a double bed in one and two singles in the other, and although they looked a bit gloomy with the blackouts up, they would be very different in the daytime, with the curtains drawn back and the windows open. And gloomy could soon be turned into cosy, with a bit of imagination and a good clear-out. There was quite a bit of clutter – old suitcases and cardboard boxes full of goodness knows what – but it was only a morning’s work to transform them.

  ‘I know they don’t look very welcoming at the moment, but this is all a bit sudden. We can sort them out properly over the next few days,’ said Jilly. ‘Get them aired out a bit, find you some books and toys for the children. Some things to make you feel at home.’

  Helena looked anxious. ‘Can we all sleep in one room? In one bed? I don’t want to be apart from the children.’

  ‘If that’s what you want.’ Jilly wasn’t going to argue, and the children were only small; there was probably just enough room for them all to squash up together. In time, perhaps Helena would feel ready to sleep on her own, but for now Jilly understood her need to keep her children close. Her need to protect them must be overwhelming. ‘I’ve got plenty of bedding, so you should all be as snug as a bug.’

  She found an extra eiderdown and two thick cream blankets with a satin edge and two more pillows, and by the time she had piled them all onto the bed it looked like rather an inviting nest. She wondered if the children would have nightmares after the night before, but decided it was more likely that Helena would be disturbed by the memory than them: they seemed to have forgotten everything and were squabbling over who should have the biggest pillow.

  She also wondered about giving Helena one of her father’s tablets to help her sleep, but decided against it. Everyone needed their wits about them in case the sirens went off again. She didn’t want Helena dead to the world. With luck, she was exhausted by everything and would fall asleep naturally. With even more luck, Jilly would too. She couldn’t believe it was only Monday and her life had changed beyond recognition.

  This time on Friday night, she had been pulling on her lilac dress, the butterflies in her tummy only slight as nothing ever usually happened to her at dances, only Ivy. Three days later, she had lost her virginity and her parents, and was landlady to a motley crew of strangers.

  Who knew what the next few days would bring?

  Helena lay Baby Dot on the bed to change her nappy. Jilly had worked out that Dot must be nearly two, and probably old enough to be potty trained, but now was hardly the time to bring that up. Dot was waving her chubby legs about and laughing, and Helena was struggling, exasperated rather than amused by her daughter’s antics. Jilly could sense she was reaching the end of her tether.

  ‘Let me do that while you go and have a bath.’

  Helena look surprised at her kindness.

  ‘That would be lovely. I feel as if I’ve got dust everywhere still. In my hair and in my teeth.’

  ‘I’ll lend you a nightie. It’ll swamp you – you’re much thinner than me.’ It was true. Jilly felt enormous next to Helena, who, despite having had three children, was painfully thin. ‘The children can sleep in their vests and pants and we’ll get them pyjamas from somewhere tomorrow.’

  Helena stared at her, her eyes swimming with tears.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Helena nodded. ‘It’s just … I’m so scared. And I really miss Tony. My husband. I wish he was here. I’m terrified something’s going to happen to the kids and it will be my fault.’

  Jilly touched her shoulder gently.

  ‘Listen. I’m scared too. But we’re going to be all right. I promise you.’

  She had no right to make that promise. The night was getting nearer. The black night that might be full of fire and noise and destruction and death. Or might not. But if it meant Helena resting easy in her bed with her little ones, she didn’t care about lying.

  16

  Afew days later, Laura made her way up the stairs to the top floor with a roll of bin bags and a notepad and told herself, You can do this.

  Dom had texted her every day this week, pleading to meet, and every time she had refused. Eventually he had sent her a final message:

  OK. I won’t text you any more. Please don’t be in any
doubt that I love you. Just let me know when you are ready to talk because we can’t not talk for ever. Dom xx

  She still couldn’t bear the thought of talking to him. In the meantime, she was determined to get on with her new plans. She had to prove herself to herself. She had to prove that she was more than just a mum with an empty nest. That she could make a plan and see it through, and be a success on her own terms. Edmond’s encouragement rang in her ears as she stood on the landing.

  There were two bedrooms and a shower room on the top floor, but they were rarely used. If the girls had guests they stayed in their rooms on the second floor, and there was a spare room next to Laura and Dom’s room on the first floor for adult guests. So the attic rooms had become glory holes and dumping grounds.

  They must have been the servants’ quarters once, with their smaller windows tucked into the eaves, but they were each a decent size by today’s standards. One had a big old brass bed and the other had two cast-iron singles. It must have been years since anyone had slept in either of them.

  Other than the beds, there was not much furniture, just boxes of clutter that must date back to her grandmother’s ownership – Kanga had only taken the things she really wanted with her to Acorn Cottage – and all the things that the family had grown tired of but didn’t want to get rid of just in case. Dom’s accounts were in here together with games and jigsaw puzzles, bits of gym equipment, fishing rods, a sewing machine, photo albums, a travel cot and a Moses basket full of cuddly animals, two boxes of LPs and a hi-fi system.

  Laura felt a little daunted by the task in front of her. How could she turn these two dusty, dreary rooms into somewhere people wanted to stay – and, more importantly, would pay good money to stay in? At the moment they were less than inviting.

  She thought it would take her at least a month to get them up to scratch. They would need to be painted, new curtains put up at the windows (they would need cleaning; she must find a window cleaner as she didn’t fancy leaning out this high up), fresh mattresses put on the beds and bedding purchased. She peeled back the faded burgundy carpet and saw floorboards underneath. If they were in good order they would need painting too, otherwise she’d need new carpet.

  She started to make a list. She’d need rugs, towels, toiletries – it was going to cost a fortune. How would she pay for all that? She and Dom had a joint account all the bills came out of, and there was always money for food; anything she wanted she put on a credit card. But she didn’t actually have her own money and now she wasn’t sure how she felt about plundering the joint account to finance her new idea … How was it all going to work?

  How was it all going to end? Would it end in divorce? The very word made her skin prickle. It might not even be up to her. Dom might leave her for Antonia. And that might mean selling Number 11. She would never allow that to happen.

  But she wouldn’t have any choice. Dom would be entitled to his half of the house; she knew enough about how divorce settlements worked to know that. Even if he was the transgressor, there was no blame. It was fifty-fifty. And no way could she afford to buy him out. Number 11 had shot up in value since they had bought it from Kanga.

  The more she thought about it the more she realised she didn’t even have a clue how much money they had in the bank or how much Dom was set to make from Wellington Buildings. She didn’t suspect him of hiding anything from her – he was totally transparent – but she’d never taken any interest or paid any attention to the details when he outlined things to her. She trusted him, signed whatever he asked, then forgot about it. Irresponsible, she realised now. And it left her very vulnerable.

  Her mouth went dry and she began to sweat. This was worse than she had imagined. It wasn’t simply that Dom had been unfaithful. It was that their lives might never be the same again. She might lose her home, her beloved home, the home that went back as far as her great-grandparents … She was a fool. If Dom left her, she’d have nothing to call her own. No income, no career, no way of supporting herself … What could she buy with her half of the house? If she got half – she knew they still had a mortgage. How much was that? How much would be left? She simply had no idea.

  Instinctively she reached for her phone. She could call him right now, ask him to come back. Then everything would be back to normal. She would be safe and secure, and they could keep Number 11 and she could carry on with her plans.

  She was about to text him. Then she told herself: no. That wouldn’t change anything. All that did was signal to Dom that he could behave as he liked and she would put up with it. Something needed to change before she had him back, and that was her.

  She needed to learn to stand on her own two feet. It was more important than ever. The future was a very different place from what it had appeared to be. She would play her part in determining what happened next. Dom was right – they couldn’t not talk for ever but she had to arm herself first. She had to be independent and know she had a future that didn’t depend on Dom.

  It could include him, but it mustn’t depend on him. That was the only way she could move forward. On her own terms.

  Could she manage it? She went and stood at the window, and when she saw the panoramic vista over the city she thought yes, she could. People would love this view of the church spire, the green hills the other side of the city, the curved crescents and terraces. She would make the rooms cosy and comfortable, with little homely touches. Her guests would be tucked away up in the eaves and she would hardly know they were there, but she would be able to realise an income pretty quickly.

  It was a start.

  By six o’clock, she was filthy. She had filled four bin bags: two to go out with the rubbish, two for the charity shop. It had been tough, emotional work, going through the detritus of their family life and deciding what to do with it all, but she had been ruthless, somewhat motivated by both fear and anger.

  She lugged them downstairs and put them in the hallway, then washed the dust off her hands and face and went into the kitchen.

  It smelt delicious and homely: she had put a chicken in to poach earlier, sloshing in all the ends of the unfinished bottles of wine in the pantry and handfuls of herbs. She took down the little recipe box from the shelf and leafed through the cards until she found the one she wanted. She knew the recipe by heart, but somehow she needed the ritual of finding the card with her mother’s writing on it. Even after all these years it was a connection to Catherine, the mother she had lost when she was only four.

  Catherine had been a free spirit, by all accounts, and had spent her late teens and early twenties travelling, constantly in search of the sun. She had come back from Greece with a tan and a baby bump that had turned out to be Laura. Despite her parents’ broad-mindedness – Kanga and Jocelyn had made it very clear Catherine was welcome to live at Number 11 – she had been determined to be independent. She’d lived with a clutch of other free spirits in a communal squat in Walcot Street, which had been a bit of a hippy enclave in those days. Laura had dim memories of a household full of music and barefoot children that smelled of patchouli and dope and curry powder. Her mum had worked in a wholefood shop at the end of the road, scooping out muesli and lentils for other like-minded health-food nuts, as they were regarded in those days. And then one day she’d been knocked off her bicycle by a delivery lorry turning right straight into her path. She had died instantly.

  Laura remembered being scooped up by her grandparents and taken to Number 11. She was used to spending a lot of time there, because relations between her mum and her grandparents had always been good, even if they hadn’t seen eye to eye on everything. And Kanga – as Laura had rechristened her – had made sure she never forgot her mother. There was a dreamcatcher in her bedroom her mother had made, several of her paintings on the wall, two colourful patchwork cushions she’d sewn. Even now she still had her mother’s collection of records and an armful of silver bangles.

  And the recipes she had brought back from her travels, including the avgolemono,
which was the Griffin family’s favourite comfort meal.

  Before she started to make it, she texted Kanga:

  Come for supper? 7ish Xx

  It took only seconds to get a reply:

  Lovely.

  She took the chicken out of the poaching liquid and strained it, then put on two handfuls of basmati rice to boil. She zested and squeezed the juice of three lemons, and separated three eggs. She was just pouring herself a glass of wine when her phone went. As ever she tensed before she saw who it was, then smiled at Willow’s name on her screen. They’d texted a few times, but hadn’t spoken properly yet – Laura didn’t want to pester.

  ‘Darling!’

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Brilliant. Totally ace.’

  ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Oh, the usual fresher stuff. Drinking myself stupid. Staying in bed all day. Signing up to societies. Taking loads of Es.’

  ‘Willow!’

  ‘OK … I haven’t signed up to any societies.’

  ‘What are you like?’

  Willow laughed. ‘Honestly, Mum. It’s cool. It’s fun. And I’ve been to all my induction sessions and met all my tutors and stuff.’

  ‘Have you made some new friends?’

  ‘Yeeeees …’

  Laura could sense the eye-roll and smiled.

  ‘Eating properly?’

  ‘Yeeeees …’

  ‘Taken your inhaler?’

  ‘Oh, wait … Um … yeeeeees.’

  ‘So when can I come and see you?’

  ‘Maybe leave it a couple of weekends?’

  Laura could hear panic. She laughed.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to turn up unannounced.’

  ‘How’s things at home?’

  Laura hesitated. At least she had something to tell Willow that would deflect from the situation. ‘Oh, it’s a bit sad. Ivy had a fall and broke her hip. She’s in hospital so Kanga’s been trying to sort what happens when she comes out.’

  ‘Oh no – poor Ivy.’