Sunshine Over Wildflower Cottage

by Milly Johnson

  Inside the church, a local opera singer in a long black frock sang a moving rendition of ‘Bring Him Home’ which set off a Mexican wave of handbag-opening for tissues. Then the vicar began the service. The organist played ‘Love Divine’ in too high a key so that everyone either mimed or stretched painfully for the notes. Mick’s brother read the eulogy – a glowing and tender tribute to a dear brother, husband and father. A flawed man, but essentially a good one, with a love of home comforts, David Bowie and football. Then the Old Spice Girls clambered into Linda’s seven-seater and set off for the crematorium.

  ‘You know, your face is so much better with make-up on it, Stel,’ said Iris. ‘You’ve looked like death warmed up these past couple of weeks.’

  ‘You’re subtle, Mum, I’ll give you that,’ sighed Linda.

  ‘You feeling better, Stel?’ asked Caro. Stel didn’t look right to her. Her eyes were dull and there was a cold sore at the side of her mouth which she’d attempted to cover up with foundation.

  ‘I’m improving,’ said Stel with a fluttery smile.

  They had to skim past Ketherwood to get to the crematorium. Ian’s house was somewhere around here.

  ‘Linda, where’s Crompton Street?’

  ‘It’s coming up on your right.’

  ‘Have we time to drive up it?’ asked Stel.

  ‘I can do a loop,’ said Linda. ‘What do you want to go up there for?’

  ‘There’s a house for sale that took my eye in the Chronicle,’ lied Stel.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to live here, surely?’ said Iris. ‘You’ve got a lovely house. And that nice lad next door to look out for you.’

  ‘Al’s a bit off with me at the moment,’ said Stel. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.’

  ‘Ask him then,’ said Linda. ‘You’ve only known him forty-odd years. What number do you want? God, I wouldn’t have one of these houses given to me.’

  ‘Forty-three,’ said Stel.

  ‘He’s a lovely man is Al,’ said Caro. ‘I wish you and him would have got it together. He’d have looked after you and you’d be living in the lap of luxury now.’

  ‘Any decent man is blocked by her radar,’ said Iris. ‘Only the idiots get through. Apart from now maybe?’ She cast a sideways glance at Stel. Stel didn’t reply.

  ‘Forty-three,’ Linda pointed. ‘Ugh.’

  Forty-three Crompton Road was a shabby mid-terrace of five. The left end one had its windows boarded up and a large rectangle of chipboard nailed over the door.

  ‘I can’t see a For Sale notice,’ said Caro.

  ‘Just stop for a second. I’ll be quick as I can,’ said Stel.

  She got out of the car, hearing a female chorus of ‘what the hell’s she doing?’ behind her, and peered through the front window of forty-three. There was a grotty black sofa in the middle of an otherwise empty lounge, and it had the air of an abandoned property. The door to forty-one opened and a painfully thin man, who looked much older than he probably was, appeared on the doorstop.

  ‘Who you looking for, love?’ he asked.

  ‘Er, John,’ Stel picked a random name. ‘He’s renting the place from the owner.’

  ‘You’ve got t’wrong place. Housing Association own all these,’ said the man. He had no teeth, Stel noticed. He couldn’t have been over twenty-five. ‘Last bloke left a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Are you sure? I could have sworn he said he was staying here.’

  ‘Someone called Ian had it last.’

  So there was no friend who had been staying here then. Ian had lied.

  ‘Thank you.’ Stel felt slightly sick.

  ‘Who’s your new friend?’ asked Linda, when Stel got back in the car.

  ‘I think the Chron put the wrong picture in,’ she answered.

  *

  Lots of Mick’s present and ex work colleagues had gone straight to the crematorium rather than join the church service. Gaynor was glad that plenty of people had turned out for him, it made her proud that he was so well thought of. Everyone was respectful to her, shook her hand and said that they were sorry for her loss. No one said ‘I thought he’d left you and buggered off with a young lass.’

  Gaynor had held up very well all day. Her brain had resolutely stuck in organising mode, making sure that everything went as planned with neither hiccups nor unwanted Bellfield guests. But as the vicar said his final words, his Irish voice soft and rich and gentle, Gaynor’s composure began to slide.

  ‘As we say goodbye to Mick, take a moment to remember the best of him. Keep that memory in the scrapbook of your heart. Let the Mick you know, go on, with your love.’

  The final music choice started up: ‘Ashes to Ashes’, Mick’s favourite Bowie track. Gaynor remembered him trying to dance to it at a wedding during his New Romantic days and making a total pig’s ear of it. He was such an appalling dancer, but he did carry the frilly white shirt off well.

  Let him go on with your love. She imagined him floating up to heaven in that shirt, looking like Adam Ant’s more substantially-built brother. The further up he floated, the more like an angel he appeared.

  She felt her mother’s arm slide around her shoulders as the guests began to file out, dropping notes and coins which would be sent on to the British Heart Foundation onto the plate at the door.

  ‘Come on, love. You’ve done him proud,’ said Paula to her daughter.

  ‘I need a drink,’ said Gaynor.

  Chapter 82

  For so long now Gaynor’s focus had been either on getting Mick back or kicking him in the bollocks. Then after he died, arranging his funeral absorbed all her attention and now it was done with, there was just a void in her life. Today, she filled that void with wine. A lot of wine.

  Gaynor was washing her hands in the ladies when Leanne appeared at her side, all hair extensions and spray-tan, towering over her mother in skyscraper heels.

  ‘Mum,’ said Leanne with a sad smile and put her arm around Gaynor’s shoulder. Touched, Gaynor turned her head into her daughter’s shoulder and stood there, breathing in her daughter’s Dior Poison perfume. She had her father’s square shoulders and his hazel eyes. Gaynor squeezed her tightly, knowing that as long as she had Leanne, she would always still have Mick, too.

  A few seconds later, Leanne asked, softly and tentatively, ‘Mum, any chance of having my share of Dad’s money sooner rather than later?’

  Gaynor pulled away. ‘What?’

  ‘He did leave me some money in his will, didn’t he?’

  ‘Well, he left some in trust—’

  ‘It’s just that I could really do with a cash injection. Everything is so expensive in London.’

  Alcohol muddies brains, but it can also unlock zones where clarity reigns supreme. Leanne might have looked like her dad on the outside, but inside was a very different story. There was no softness about Leanne at all. Selfishness oozed from every square millimetre of her. For all his faults, Mick had been a giver, not a taker. He had a great capacity for tenderness and love and in all those things they had been a true match. Leanne Pollock was not the sum of both parents. Gaynor felt as if someone had thrown a bucketful of disappointment over her which drenched her down to the bone marrow.

  ‘Do we have to talk about this now? On the day of your father’s funeral?’

  ‘Well, I’m leaving in about half an hour. I’ve got a taxi booked so I can go and pick up my suitcase from the house and—’

  Gaynor’s mouth had dropped open in an O of incredulity. ‘You’re not staying with me? I’ve aired your bed. I’ve bought food in . . .’

  ‘No. I’m working. I’m doing some catalogue shots on Friday . . .’

  ‘But this is Monday.’

  ‘I’ve got to prepare, Mum. You don’t know how these things work. My car is getting old. It’s not worth repairing. Dad would want me to be safe on the roads.’

  ‘Your car’s less than three years old, Leanne.’

  She knew that because Mick had bought it new for
Leanne’s twenty-first birthday, a neat little Toyota Aygo. It couldn’t have had above twenty thousand miles on the clock. She hardly drove it around central London.

  Gaynor suddenly understood. ‘You mean you want a bigger car. A grander car.’

  ‘Image is everything in my work. People look at what you wear, what you drive. I need it. Dad would have wanted me to benefit from his death.’

  Gaynor looked at her daughter, really looked at her and she felt ashamed. How had Leanne turned out to be such a self-obsessed little cow? Yes, they’d given her the best of what they could afford, but they’d tried to make sure she appreciated how lucky she was, too. They’d hoped to instil good values in her and thought they’d led by example. They’d given her freedom to grow but within reasonable boundaries. They’d made sure she knew she was loved. But still she had managed to grow up a cold fish, making sure she was all right Jack and sod everyone else. Gaynor thought her daughter had been crying in church but her eye make-up was immaculate. The dabbing of her handkerchief at her eye had been just for show – just like everything Leanne Pollock did. There was nothing below that orange tan but greed and more greed.

  Gaynor straightened her back and asked, ‘What happened to the twenty thousand your dad gave you when your nan died last year?’

  Leanne tutted. ‘It just went, on things.’

  ‘Do you still have her jewellery or did you sell it and that went “on things” as well?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake. Look, can I have some of Dad’s money, please? Now, when I need it, not later when you’re . . .’

  ‘Dead.’ Gaynor filled in the missing word for her.

  Gaynor noted Leanne’s pouty, inflated lips, the Hermes scarf at her neck and the ridiculously expensive handbag over her arm. She’d spotted the scarlet-soled shoes earlier. These were the essential ‘things’ of her daughter’s life. Trying to keep up with Victoria Beckham. The fur coat and no knickers brigade, as Iris would have put it.

  ‘I think it’s about time you stood on your own two feet, don’t you?’ said Gaynor.

  ‘Legally I think . . .’ Leanne shut up as quickly, realising that she was in gross danger of overstepping the mark.

  Gaynor laughed and the hollow dry sound echoed off the tiles. ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking about suing me. Not on the day of your own father’s funeral.’

  ‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘Oh I know exactly what you meant,’ said Gaynor, strong and angry. ‘You’ll get your money when you’re thirty or when I’m dead and buried, whichever comes first. Don’t you worry, you’ll be able to waste everything your father and I worked all our lives for on fish lips and Stella McCartney frocks but you’re on your own for a few years now. And if that takes me off your Christmas card list then so be it.’

  She glared at her daughter, fire spitting from her eyes. Her daughter glared back: their eyes battling for dominance.

  ‘Oh for fu—’ Leanne huffed like a frustrated four year old. ‘There’s no point in hanging around, is there? I’ve said goodbye to Dad so I’ll just go.’

  ‘That’s up to you,’ said Gaynor, her voice brittle.

  ‘Bye then.’ Leanne paused, giving Gaynor the chance to change her mind. She knew that behind the flint expression, her mother was on the brink of begging her to stay for the night. They’d talk and make friends and look at old photos, have hot chocolate and cry a bit.

  And she was right. Gaynor did want all those things, but the alcohol in her system was serving to strengthen her resolve rather than weaken it at the moment. So Leanne Pollock strutted out, heels tapping an angry, spoiled tattoo on the tiles. The door crashed against the wall and as it made a thump back into its wooden frame, Gaynor could feel the reverberations rattle all the way down to her heart.

  Chapter 83

  ‘Everything all right, Viv, duck? What did the doctor say?’ asked Geraldine, as Viv walked in through the door.

  ‘Yep. Back’s just bruised, that’s all,’ Viv answered. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  Heath was sitting at the table reading the newspaper. He had Phantom the young barn owl sitting contentedly on his glove, acclimatising to people and noise. She clacked her beak and flapped her wings when Viv got too near for comfort.

  ‘Steady,’ said Heath.

  ‘Doing a spot of manning, I see,’ said Viv, with a smile.

  ‘Oh very good,’ said Geraldine, clapping her hands together. ‘She’s picking up the terminology.’

  ‘More barn owls in captivity than there are flying wild,’ replied Heath, with a grumble. ‘I wish I could teach everyone about bird care as quickly.’

  ‘Crikey, was that a compliment?’ Viv gave a dramatic mock-gasp. ‘Tea, anyone?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Geraldine, wondering why Viv was so perky after a visit to the doctor.

  Heath’s thoughts were otherwise engaged. There were exactly six weeks to the end of the lease on Wildflower Cottage. Nothing was going to save them now and he needed to start moving the animals out to new homes. There could be no more delaying of the inevitable. The sooner they settled in, the better. He’d had a call from the Owl Sanctuary near Northallerton. They presently had a place for the snowy and the great grey owls and gave him first refusal. If he didn’t take those places within three days, they would offer them to someone else. It was a good sanctuary, Heath couldn’t afford to pass it up. He’d made an appointment to take them up there on Wednesday morning but he’d kept that to himself. He knew Viv would be devastated but she’d be leaving here herself when they all had to move out of Wildflower Cottage. He couldn’t bear to think of what state Geraldine would be in. She would cry, he wouldn’t, but a piece of his heart would break off with every creature that left its home here.

  Viv left the others under the pretence of catching up with some paperwork in the office. She needed to be by herself for a while and she’d find it difficult today making polite chit-chat, even with the lovely Geraldine. The events of the whole morning were churning around in her brain. One minute she felt shining and triumphant, the next grubby and manipulative.

  Her actions had been a necessary evil, but she hadn’t felt good about wielding a staff of power over the Leightons, however they’d treated her, and others she cared for. She was the sanctuary’s only hope and she had to save it or she would never again have been able to sleep at night.

  And she knew that she’d given the Leightons the chance to earn a zillion points of goodwill and likability. She imagined they’d play the press like a cheap guitar. They would continue to reign as the perfect, gorgeous family with everything. No one need ever know about the oddball in the closet.

  There had been not one note of warmth sounded in the symphony of their showdown. Not one shadowy memory of a vulnerable little girl had crept over their hearts in the whole twenty-three years, she knew that.

  You should have died.

  Viv switched on the ancient computer and read the emails. She wanted to hit delete on all of the correspondence that related to finding the animals new homes, but she forced herself to wait for the final clearance. Leighton’s brain would be working like every department in GCHQ simultaneously. If anyone could find a loophole, he would. Why the hell hadn’t she said twenty-four hours instead?

  Chapter 84

  A little old lady holding a serviette, points gathered together in one hand to form a knapsack, squeezed Linda’s hand.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she said.

  ‘Oh it’s not my husband,’ said Linda, scanning the room for Gaynor. ‘I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘My mistake,’ said the old lady. ‘You look so much alike.’

  Stel snorted down her nose. Gaynor and Linda couldn’t have differed in more ways: one dark and slim, the other blonde and rotund. Linda and Stel watched the old lady return to the buffet table, where she picked off some quiche and added it to her serviette stash.

  Mavis Marple loved a funeral. This was her favourite place for
a buffet as well. They made the best salmon and broccoli quiche at the Farmer’s Arms. She had a black book in her handbag to remind her what to choose and where.

  ‘Ghoul,’ tutted Linda. ‘I bet she hasn’t a clue who Mick was and is just here for the bloody sausage rolls.’

  ‘Do people actually do that?’ chuckled Stel, swiping another glass of white wine from the tray of a passing waitress. Oh, she really shouldn’t. Look what drink had done to her the last time she’d indulged, but somehow she didn’t care today. She wouldn’t be able to drive back from Linda’s as she was over the limit already, so she might as well have a few and pick up the car tomorrow. She’d drunk just enough to feel relaxed and on the right side of fuzzy and she was ever so glad to be in the company of her friends again. She wanted to get hammered and tell them all that she didn’t know what the hell was going on in her life and that she felt as if something heavy were pressing down on her chest and she couldn’t breathe.

  ‘You all right, Stel?’ asked Linda. ‘Really all right?’

  ‘Well, apart from that bug . . .’

  ‘Stel, this is me you’re talking to.’ Linda said sternly. ‘I’m a bit worried about you if I’m honest. You just don’t seem yourself lately. It’s not this new man of yours, is it? You’ve not gone and landed another arsehole, have you?’

  Stel wanted to spew it all out. But here was not the place and if she started talking she might not be able to stop. Another arsehole. She was so predictable, she thought, with an internal shake of the head. Everyone would think her such a fool for having walked into it. She was fifty-bloody-two, for Christ’s sake. For once, she would act like a grown-up and sort out this mess herself. No one need ever know she’d been taken in yet again.

  ‘Everything’s fine, love. Honest.’ Stel raised her glass before sipping from it. ‘I promise I’d tell you if it wasn’t.’