by Gilli Allan
‘Cheap.’
‘Particularly as I only expected him to do a half-hour set. But he’s been at it non-stop all afternoon.’
‘It was fascinating to watch the kids’ reaction to him. Kind of mesmerised, but at the same time taking it … him, in their stride.’
‘Everything is commonplace to children. Whatever life deals them that’s their norm, isn’t it? The whole of life is a kind of everyday magic to a child. Yet they’re truly entranced by someone like Owen, or Peter Pan and Tinkerbell at the panto, because the magic is really real for them. But at the same time they kind of take it for granted … like Father Christmas and the tooth fairy. It’s only adults who gasped and flinched at some of the things Owen was doing because we knew how close he flirted with disaster.’
James continued to watch his daughter, sat with her frilly pink ‘fairy’ dress splayed out around her, a sequin tiara on her curly dark hair. Unconscious of his scrutiny she continued to examine the unwrapped toys and chatted away to Rory.
‘She’s had a wonderful time. And there’s more to come. Her godfather is yet to arrive, so there’ll be more presents. And tomorrow the pony.’
‘She’s a lucky girl.’ Jessica had said something similar only recently and then kicked herself later. ‘I mean … I know she lost her mother but, like I said, she’s not aware of what she’s missed. This is her life, what you and Gilda have made it, and for her it’s normal.’
‘I suppose. Thank you anyway, for all you’ve done to make today special.’
‘I’ve enjoyed it in a masochistic kind of way. But it’s also been educational, a dry run for when I have to do it myself for Rory. Not that I’ve got the kind of facilities and space you have here.’
‘Would it be any kind of repayment if I offered you this house for his party?’
Surprised and embarrassed Jessica prevaricated. ‘Heavens! I couldn’t. That’s an amazingly generous offer. I hope you don’t think I was hinting?’
‘Of course not. But do think about it. When is his birthday?’
‘Not till August.’
‘So, he’s quite a few months younger than Sash. But they really do get on, don’t they?’
‘Seem to. Though Rory does still have his crabby moments, even with Sasha. I’m relieved he hasn’t had one this afternoon.’
‘They all do. He’s not unusual in that.’ As James spoke, and as if to demonstrate their compatibility, Sasha leant towards Rory, lips puckered. He looked at her, frowned, but then decided to oblige and a swift kiss was exchanged.
‘But I’m not sure I approve of my daughter having a toy boy,’ James added. Even though she was sure the remark was innocuous, blood flushed her cheeks.
Jessica lay in the bath, reflecting on the afternoon’s excitements. It was six thirty before Owen had gone, given a lift into town by Mrs Dowdeswell and daughter. By then he had changed back into his everyday clothes and looked more like the vagabond she had first been introduced to; the rest of his worldly goods were pushed into the canvas sack he carried over his shoulder. Just before he left, Jessica was sure that James had thrust a handful of extra notes into his pocket. And he had done the same with the home help, Mrs Dowdeswell, and her daughter.
Gilda had disclaimed all offers of assistance with dinner. Jessica was firmly told to relax, recuperate, and get ready in her own time for the evening ahead. As virtually everything which could have been pre-prepared for the night’s meal had been, probably by Mrs Dowdeswell, and Gilda had done little all afternoon beyond being present, Jessica did not feel too guilty about giving in.
She stuck her toes up through the scented bubbles and contemplated the nails. If she’d known in advance she was coming out to dinner she would have painted them. It was now gone seven and the expected guest or guests had still to arrive. Jess was tired and would have preferred to wrap herself in the thick towelling dressing gown which hung over the radiator, then curl up in one of those big, squashy armchairs in front of the fire for a while, a large glass to hand of the Rémy which James had been so free with a few weeks ago. And when she felt sufficiently drowsy, she would go to bed; compared to the high, sagging bed in the cottage, the guest bed in this house was spectacularly comfortable. But instead she had to apply make-up, put on a posh frock, then present herself downstairs to eat a meal she did not want with people she’d never met.
Suddenly there was noise and voices: Sasha’s high-pitched squeal of pleasure, the heavy clunk of the front door closing and she knew the guests had arrived.
‘Not bad … Two hours … Rush hour …’ she heard. Jess sighed and pulled out the bath plug.
Jessica descended the stairs, buffeting away a balloon that had pulled free from the bunch tied to the newel post and was floating upwards on the warm air. Gilda came out into the hall, a sherry glass in her hand.
‘Here she is, James,’ she said. He followed his mother, and behind him came an exceptionally pretty woman in her early thirties. She was tall and her russet brown hair, cut into a fashionably jagged style, was streaked with amber – like an Olde English marmalade, Jess thought. Her fragile, high-heeled sandals were instantly recognisable as this season’s Jimmy Choo’s and the black dress she wore, stunning in its simplicity, was almost certainly from the haute end of the designer scale.
Only twenty minutes earlier Jessica had gazed at her own virgin toenails and made a decision. Instead of changing she’d pulled on the dark green Jigsaw dress – which was several seasons old – opaque mauve tights, and the comfortable flat ankle boots she’d been wearing all day. Once upon a time she’d have felt a stab of regret to have found herself so upstaged. She might even have mentioned that her own posh frock was still upstairs hanging up behind the bedroom door, and her Manolo Blahniks still in their box in her overnight bag. Tonight the regret was a pinprick and passed easily.
‘Imogen, may I introduce you to Jessica Avery. Jessica, this is Imogen Gyles.’ The two women shook hands and smiled at one another.
‘Jessica is the mother of Sasha’s best friend, Rory. You’ve already met him. And Imogen’s the partner of my best friend from my Oxford days, Piers, who is Sasha’s godfather.’
‘I love the way you’ve decorated the dining room, Jessica. It’s … sweet.’
‘Ah Piers, there you are. May I introduce you to Jessica.’
‘Must say … Enchanted!’ A good few inches shorter than his partner, Piers was a stocky man, with a slightly florid complexion, clipped beard, and mid brown hair, worn in one of those trendily short, spiky cuts which disguise thinning hair less obviously than the ever lower parting. He had lunged forward to clasp Jessica’s hand and as he did so, added in a stage whisper, ‘Foxy lady! Not usual type. Dark horse, Warwick.’ James ignored his broad wink and led the party into the large drawing room. Piers had a small wrapped parcel in his hand which he put on a shelf, before asking for a glass of vino collapso for himself, and a vodka tonic – ‘ice, no slice’ – for Imogen. His accent was so top drawer it was almost a Brian Sewell caricature.
Sasha, still in her party dress, ran in. ‘I saw you, Uncle Piers! I knew you still had another present for me!’
‘No, no, no! You had your present soon as we got through door, pretty minx. Not only one with birthday today!’
‘Where is the moron?’ Imogen asked, accepting the vodka tonic from James. Piers gave her a hefty nudge in the ribs.
‘We’ve got a present for you,’ Jessica said. ‘Rory helped choose it. It’s one of his favourites.’ Rory, who still did not know what to make of these loud new arrivals, stood by the door shiftily, holding a carrier bag. ‘Give Sasha her present, sweetheart.’ He shuffled in and unceremoniously thrust the bag in her direction. Sasha took it and sank onto the floor, her tiara increasingly askew. From time to time she paused in the unwrapping to dart a suspicious glance at the gold-wrapped parcel on the shelf. Eventually the last layer came away. She sighed with pleasure.
‘I love books. It’s my first book today!’
; ‘What’s it called?’ her father asked her, with an appreciative nod in Jessica’s direction.
Sasha frowned and drew her finger along the title. ‘The … three … li … tt … le … wwwo …’
‘Wolves,’ Jessica supplied.
‘… And … the … big … bad … pig!’
‘That’s right!’ Everyone chorused. Sasha grinned delightedly, then struggled to her feet and clutching the book against her, ran from the room.
‘Whoa! Where are you going?’
She reappeared at the door reluctantly. ‘I want Danny to read it to me,’ she explained to her father. ‘Danny reads me all my best books.’
‘What a hoot! That should be worth sitting in on,’ Imogen said to Piers with an arch smile. Piers shook his head at her.
‘Not tonight, Sash. You know he’s not been well,’ her father explained.
‘Not well?’ The words sprang involuntarily from Jessica. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘He’s had a chest infection.’
‘Chest? How bad?’
‘Pretty bad.’
‘But he’s got asthma!’
‘I know he’s got … Jessica? Where are you going?’
‘He’s living out there in that ice box of a caravan with a chest infection?’ Aware her voice was becoming shrill she could do little to prevent it. She’d already quit the room, heading for the front door. ‘Don’t you realise how serious it could be? He could be dying out there. It’s a disgrace he should be living there at all this time of year, with no heating, no proper sanitation!’ She had the front door open, but James came up behind her in the hallway and pushed it shut.
‘You think I’m some kind of ogre, don’t you? That I’d employ a child and make him live in a box in the garden?’ She might have expected anger from him, but he merely sounded pained. ‘It’s his choice, Jess. I know he doesn’t always seem it, but he is a grown up. He has the right to make his own decisions. It was a bloody nightmare finding that caravan and then getting it set up at exactly the right angle – some nonsense to do with ley-lines – with electricity and running water. I’d have much preferred him to stay in the house. It’s not as if we’ve any shortage of bedrooms. He could have his pick. But no, he wanted the independence. If I had a separate cottage in the grounds of course he could’ve had that, but I haven’t.’
‘So, because it’s his decision, he can stew in his own juices when he’s ill?’
‘Jessica!’ The exasperation in his face was swiftly overtaken by a weary acceptance that she would always think the worst of him. ‘You’re absolutely right, he has been quite poorly, and the caravan was a totally inappropriate place to leave him. Which is why, when he was too out of it to object, I moved him to the house and called in our GP. Apparently he’s not signed up with a local practice. We had a look at all his medication, inhalers and so on, and found it was all prescribed from his home practice. All apart from one inhaler which seemed to have been prescribed for Rory. You know Sasha has asthma as well? So, anyway, I took matters into my own hands and signed him up on our doctor’s list. But he’s in the house, Jessica. He’s much better. And unless he’s changed his mind he is planning to come down to eat with us. After all, it’s his birthday too, and it looks like his brother’s got a present for him.’
She sat heavily on the bottom stair and covered her face. The acute anxiety that had engulfed her drained away, leaving a vacuum which filled with questions.
‘Piers? Brother? Birthday?’ He’d told her he was Pisces. If she’d thought twice about it, his birthday had to be around now sometime. Jessica looked up at James, who still stood above her, his hand on the newel post.
‘You didn’t know Piers was his brother?’ She shook her head, stunned. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve seemed quite thick with Dan. I assumed you knew his brother is Sasha’s godfather.’
‘But his brother’s called Pete?’
‘Look, you’ve not been living here long and may not be aware of it, but there’s a bit of a stigma attached to anyone coming from the Forest of Dean. They’re all reputedly stupid or inbred. So when Piers got to Oxford, in an attempt to distance himself from his roots, he awarded himself a fancy double-barrelled name. Adopting the accent was just a part of the rebranding. It’s been so long it’s hard for me to remember that he’s not the Piers Ford Bowman I’ve always known since university, but plain Peter Bowman.’
‘I’m sorry. I must seem like a mad woman. But –’
‘And it was Piers who recommended Danny when I was looking around for a competent farm worker last year. He knew I was looking to run a tight, low-cost enterprise here, concentrating on the sheep. And he was worried about his brother’s ability to find work and support himself. From the point of view of employment farming is a shrinking business.’ He looked up and cleared his throat. ‘So … thanks a lot, Piers! Just what I needed! Saddled with a bloody counter-culture climate change protester!’ This last was said at full volume as Piers Bowman wandered out into the hall to see what was going on.
‘Not grown out of that rubbish yet? No way I’m swapping tart-mobile for milk float, on say-so of scam-mongers at the University of East Anglia!’
‘Bit simplistic,’ James demurred. ‘They just put a bit of a spin on some of the data.’
‘Can’t convince me the globe’s warming. Succession of arctic winters? Soggiest summers in living history?’
‘That’s weather,’ Jess said, automatically, still bemused by recent revelations. ‘Not climate.’
Piers spluttered and stared at her. ‘Sorry. More proof required before I adjust carbon content of footprint!’
‘Jess didn’t realise you’re Dan’s brother,’ James said, to divert the conversation.
‘Yes. For my sins. Poor little scrag end of humanity … on my mind past few years. Not that I’ve seen Planks for yonks, since started work for esteemed Mr Warwick.’
‘You’ll notice a change in him,’ James said.
‘Try to keep in touch. Christmas gift. Smartphone. Twerp’s never got it switched on. Probably hasn’t worked out how to use it yet!’
‘James, darling,’ Gilda called from the kitchen. ‘Will you find out if the lad is coming down for dinner? Otherwise I’ll take a place setting away.’
‘It’s OK, Ma … I think he is,’ James called back, as Danny appeared at the head of the stairs, dressed in the combats, baggy shirt, and his fancy waistcoat, which looked as if it had been cleaned since Jessica last saw it. He looked a little thinner, a little hollow around the eyes, a little paler, yet a slight flush of pink mounted to his clean-shaven cheeks as he found himself the centre of attention.
‘Christ!’ Piers mouth fell open. ‘Unrecognisable! Where dreadlocks? Where beard? And … sod it! Taller than me! Now a mighty slab of man! Imogen! Here! To me! Now! Not spotty boy I described.’
As Danny reached ground level the two embraced. ‘Why don’t you use your fucking mobile?’ Piers said, momentarily sounding choked. ‘Imo? Imogen?’ He turned, his arm around his brother’s waist. The young woman entered the hall, still holding her long glass. ‘Imo, this … baby bro, Planks … um … Daniel.’ Piers brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. Imogen’s eyes widened.
‘Piers,’ she said coolly, ‘You really have not done your brother justice. Hello, Daniel, I’m Imogen,’ and she held out her hand. Danny smiled and shook it.
‘Not my fault! Last sighting, thin child, five foot nothing. Dreads and scraggily beard down to armpits!’
‘A slight exaggeration, Imogen, but he has sprung up over the last year,’ James qualified. ‘And the beard comes and goes. Let’s go and get another drink.’ They moved back into the drawing room. Sasha had grabbed Danny’s hand and was already trying to interest him in her new book.
Piers was still shaking his head, still overcome by the change in his brother.
‘You’ll be telling me next you’ve lost virgy-queen status!’
‘Piers!’ Imogen reproved. ‘Don’t be so fucking rude!’
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‘Sorry, mate. No business mine. Birthday gift … Here!’
So far Danny had said little but had seemed composed and smiled a lot. Now he sat down with Sasha and Rory either side of him, the book and the gold parcel in his lap. To Jess he looked suddenly tense.
‘Open it, then,’ said Sasha and without waiting took it from his hand and began to help him.
Rory said, ‘Sasha is four. I’m three and three quarters. If it’s your birthday too, how old are you?’
‘I’m twenty.’
‘Twenty! That’s old! That’s almost nearly as old as Tubs! Are you going to ride the horses again?’
‘Ride the horses?’ He glanced towards Jessica for explanation.
‘You remember,’ she said brightly, as much to explain to everyone else as to him. ‘You collected some horses from the field opposite our house. Rory and I watched you ride one of them and lead the other two down the lane.’
‘Yes,’ Rory agreed, yawning widely. ‘And you came into our house for a cup of tea, but then you had to go because Tubs gave you asthma.’ Before he could go on to say anything about Danny kissing and cuddling Mummy, Mummy interrupted.
‘I think it’s about time you went off to bed. Don’t you?’
By this time Sasha had stripped most of the gold foil from around the parcel but then thrust it back to Danny, her lower lip thrust out petulantly as if, despite it not being for her, she’d somehow expected a surprise toy. He stared transfixed at the box in his lap, sat in its tattered nest of gold paper and unravelling spirals of ribbon.
‘It’s mint.’
‘What is it? Is it a mobire?’ Rory asked, resurrecting his current obsession with owning his own mobile phone. The toy one she’d bought him had failed to deflect his fascination with hers. ‘I want a real mobire for my birfday.’
‘Hush, Rory. No one wants to hear what you want.’
Danny raised his eyes to Piers, and Piers answered for him. ‘An MP3 player. Not up on what you’re into these days. I’ve downloaded some ambient Brian Eno and some hippy dippy stuff … whale song and the like.’