‘Next door,’ I called to them over the hedge, as Dad frogmarched her away. ‘Mrs Harper is next door.’
They didn’t appear to hear me, though, so I shrugged and shut the door. Fireman Sam was still going strong in the kitchen and I knew that particular DVD was good for another hour or so and Clemmie knew how to put another one on after that, so I went upstairs to lie down on the bed for a bit.
That afternoon, against my better instincts, I paid a visit to Phil’s solicitor. I’d hoped Jennie might have forgotten, that it might have slipped her mind, but cometh the hour, cometh the neighbour, bustling up my path well before the appointed meeting. I’d considered being out, or hiding in the cellar and shutting all the curtains, or just point-blank refusing to go, but knowing with a sinking heart any such prevarications would provoke awkward questions, I acquiesced. I felt very much as if I were en route to the gallows, though. Surely this was when the will would be read? Colour what was left of my life?
‘Would you like me to come in with you?’ Jennie asked as we got the children ready. ‘There might be a receptionist or someone we could leave the kids with?’
‘Absolutely not,’ I told her, so vehemently I think we were both startled. I straightened up from buckling Clemmie’s shoes to stare at her, aware my eyes were glittering.
‘OK, Pops,’ she said gently, ‘that’s fine. I’ll wait outside.’
I could see her thinking it was the most emotion I’d shown for a while.
Nevertheless she insisted on driving me into town, telling me I’d never find it – I can’t think why, it was right next to the town hall, slap bang in the middle of the high street. But apparently I needed to be dropped at the door, wear a certain shirt and skirt she’d picked out, wash my face and brush my hair. So bossy. Clearly the man I was bidden to meet did not have a bossy best friend, though, because not only had he forgotten to brush his hair, he had biscuit crumbs all down his front.
I had to climb a few flights of stairs to achieve his office and although Jennie was going to sit with the children in the car, in a sudden diversion from the script Archie had refused to be parted from me and had a shouty-crackers tantrum in the car, so that by the time I’d got to the top of the stairs with my son in my arms, sobbed-out now and quiescent, I was panting rather. A couple of doors faced me with very little clue to the content of the rooms beyond so I pushed through the nearest one and into a reception area. No receptionist, just a rather messy waiting room with a few magazines strewn around and another couple of doors on the far side. Feeling on the verge of a great escape but knowing Jennie wouldn’t be satisfied unless I gave it one last shot – might even bound up the stairs and insist on seeing for herself – I decided to push one of them open and if that didn’t yield a solicitor, call it a day.
The door was stiff so I turned and used my shoulder to barge it open, employing slightly too much force so that when I flew through with Archie in my arms, slipping on one of many pieces of paper that littered the carpet, it was in a manner reminiscent of a couple from the Ballet Rambert practising a new and complicated lift. The room was small and our faltering pirouette ended at a leather-topped desk. Behind it sat a muscular man dipping a Jammy Dodger into a mug of tea. He gazed in astonishment as I spun to a halt. His hair was dark and tousled and in need of a cut, and he had very broad shoulders. He looked like a rugby player who’d been squeezed into a pink shirt for the occasion and was slightly uncomfortable with it. Even in my tuned-out state, I could see he was handsome. He hastily put down the biscuit brushing a few crumbs from his shirt and got to his feet, hand extended.
‘Oh – er, I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you knock.’
‘D’you know, I’m not sure I did.’
‘Mrs Hastings?’
‘No, Mrs Shilling.’ I brushed some hair from my eyes and shifted Archie onto my other hip in order to shake the hand he offered.
‘Oh.’ He looked surprised. ‘Really?’
‘Well, I’m fairly sure.’ I managed a smile but then felt a bit peculiar. A bit … light-headed. Must have been the stairs. And not sleeping for two nights. I needed to sit down. I reached behind me for a chair, which happily existed, and sank gratefully into it with Archie on my lap. The tousled man sat too, hastily consulting an open file in front of him and quickly shoving the packet of biscuits in a drawer.
‘Right. Mrs Shilling. So … your husband hasn’t run off with a Portuguese baggage handler, brackets male, from Heathrow?’ He glanced up, a rather nice quizzical gleam to a pair of deep brown eyes: amused eyes. ‘And you didn’t snap his golf clubs and then replace them in his golf bag before he flew to Sotegrande for a week with said baggage handler?’
‘No, my husband died a few weeks ago.’
He looked horrified. ‘Oh, Christ. Oh, God. I’m terribly sorry.’ He really looked it. He shut the file and tossed it to one side, running his hands through his hair. ‘How very crass of me, I do apologize.’
‘Please don’t worry.’
He looked genuinely upset. As he turned hastily to consult a computer screen on his desk, no doubt flicking up my notes, I took the opportunity to wonder how he’d squeezed those shoulders into that shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, a tie abandoned on the desk. For some reason he reminded me of Archie, the one and only time I’d tried to dress him smartly, for the funeral. His buttons had flown off in seconds flat.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he was murmuring as he peered at the screen and tapped away with the mouse. ‘As you might have noticed I’m minus a receptionist at the moment. Janice’s mother is ill, so I’m slightly rudderless. She usually points me in the right direction.’
‘Temp?’ I hazarded.
He turned from the screen to gaze at me. ‘Sorry?’
My sentences were sometimes somewhat truncated these days and I took a deep breath and tried again. ‘You could get a temporary secretary.’
He gazed at me a moment, then his face cleared. ‘What a completely brilliant idea. D’you know, that hadn’t occurred to me.’ He scribbled it down on a pad, cast me another quick, admiring look, then went back to the screen. ‘Ah yes, it’s all becoming horribly clear. Mrs Hastings is coming in next Tuesday, whereas you’re coming in today. I’ve got the dates muddled up. Mrs Hastings probably wants to know if she can change the locks and sell his Jaguar SJS, whereas you’re here to talk about a will, which at this precise moment is at home on top of the linen basket in my bathroom.’
‘Your bathroom?’
‘I took the papers home to read last night. Left them upstairs.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘Sorry, too much information, it’s just I often read papers in the bath. I find a rush of blood to the head helps the grey matter.’
‘Fair enough, I read novels in the bath.’
‘Although I seem to remember I didn’t quite get to the Shilling bundle, I only got as far as the dusky bag handler. I do apologize, Mrs Shilling, you’ve come on a wild goose chase. Not only hasn’t your solicitor read the papers, he’s left them at home.’ He turned from the screen and held out his wrists across the desk. ‘Cuff. Or slap.’ He put them down and looked grave. ‘Or even fire, possibly. I would.’
I smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not fussed. I’m not sure I’m up to discussing wills yet, actually, but one of my friends insisted.’
‘Did she? Oh, well, unless you’re totally insolvent there’s no immediate hurry. Nothing that can’t wait. Come back when you’re ready, if you like.’
‘Really?’ I stood up gratefully. ‘Thanks. I might do that.’ I had no idea if I was solvent or not. Just put the bills in a drawer. ‘It may even be a few weeks yet.’
He too got to his feet. ‘Which gives me plenty of time to retrieve your precious bundle from my laundry basket and give it the attention it deserves – couldn’t be better.’
We both smiled, equally pleased, I suspect, with the outcome of the meeting: both feeling we’d got a result. He went quickly ahead of me to hold the door as I picked my
way back across his floor – him apologizing for the mess and me assuring him it couldn’t matter less and that it was a bit like playing Twister with my children – and as I went through Janice’s room and towards the stairwell, I was aware of him watching me from his doorway.
Outside in the street, Jennie was hunched at the wheel looking stressed, her car on a double-yellow line.
‘Well?’ she demanded, as I popped Archie in his seat beside Clemmie, buckling him in. I got in the front.
‘Yes, it was fine.’
‘What d’you mean, it was fine? Oh, piss off!’ This, to a traffic warden who was attempting to take down her number plate. She lunged out into the traffic to thwart him amid a blare of horns.
‘I mean, it’s fine, it’s all in hand. But there are a few incidentals to be sorted out, so I’m going to pop back in a few weeks.’
‘A few weeks!’ She turned to look at me, horrified.
‘Days. I mean, days. But I’ll manage, Jennie, now I know where the office is. I’ll be fine on my own.’ I felt exhausted suddenly. Really lie-down-on-the-pavement exhausted.
‘Well, I’m surprised you have to go back at all, to be honest,’ she said hotly, raking a hand through her hair. ‘Wasn’t it all there at his fingertips? Didn’t he just read it out to you? The will? He’s not disorganized, is he?’ She shot me a quick look.
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘Only someone – I think Laura Davy – said he’s a bit chaotic. She went when they took her mother’s appendix out instead of her hernia and said he was all over the place. You do realize he’s not Phil’s solicitor, don’t you?’ she said sharply.
‘Er …’ So many questions.
‘No, he died. This is the nephew, who’s inherited the practice.’
‘Ah.’
‘I checked it all out when I made the appointment, because I didn’t think the name corresponded to the letterhead. The uncle was well known locally apparently, whereas this one is a bit of an unknown quantity. He was in a big City firm in London but his wife left him and he came out here for a quieter life, wanted a change of pace, which is all very well, but just because we’re parochial doesn’t mean we’re stupid, does it? And if he can’t get his head round a simple will …’ She set her mouth in a grim line and shook her head. ‘He’s got to shape up, I’m afraid, or he’s toast.’
I thought of the pink shirt, slightly strained at the shoulder seams.
‘He’s in quite good shape, actually,’ I said vaguely. ‘And he’s extremely organized. I think he’ll do very well. What’s his name?’
She turned, aghast. ‘You don’t even know his name?’
‘Of course I do, I just forgot.’
‘Sam Hetherington.’
‘That’s it. Don’t bully me, Jennie, I’m feeling a bit all-in as a matter of fact.’
I was. Truly tired. Relieved to have got that over with but exhausted with the effort. And I certainly wasn’t up to my son wailing again from the back seat. Since when had he started to cry so much? He used to be such a good baby. I leaned back on the headrest and shut my eyes.
‘There’s a carton of juice in my handbag,’ Jennie told me.
I opened my eyes. Turned my head slowly to her. ‘D’you want it now?’
‘No, but Archie might,’ she said patiently.
‘Oh.’
I leaned down and fumbled obediently in her handbag at my feet, found the Ribena and handed it to Archie, sticking the straw in first. He put it to his lips, squeezed the carton with his fist and the juice went shooting out of the straw, all over his face and down his front. For some reason Clemmie, beside him on her booster seat, burst into tears.
‘You forgot to say don’t squeeze!’ she wailed. ‘You always say don’t squeeze!’
Archie gazed at his soaking-wet jumper in dismay, opened his mouth as wide as he could and roared, dropping the juice on the floor. Jennie swore under her breath then reached behind for Clemmie’s ankle, stroking it and making soothing noises, reaching for Archie’s too. As we drove home, amid the inexplicable cacophony of my fractious children, Jennie shot me an exasperated look which I caught in surprise. Was there a law, I wondered, as I gazed out of the window at the increasingly bare branches of the trees as they flashed past, the sun appearing between them like a searchlight, against just sitting quietly the while? About having a little hush?
7
That evening, at eight, the inaugural meeting of the Massingham book club took place at Angie’s house. Peggy, Angie, Jennie and I assembled in the vast, beautifully converted barn kitchen where Angie and Tom had entertained so splendidly and raucously over the years: sixteen for dinner sometimes and a lot of laughs. This evening, however, it was just the four of us who sat at the huge oak table under the high, vaulted ceiling, criss-crossed with original beams, the twinkle of many tiny down-lights upon us. Outside the huge picture windows, darkness had fallen, but in the soft glow of a coach light, Angie’s horses could be seen behind the post and rails, already rugged up for winter, standing nose to tail. Inside, candles had been lit above the fireplace and in great urns beside it, whilst the fire crackled comfortingly in the grate. Michael Bublé crooned softly in the background.
‘So. Everyone got a pen and paper?’ Angie, sitting at the head of the table, had clearly decided to take the chair – her house, after all. She was looking particularly stunning tonight in her delicate, Jane Asher way: red-gold hair shining, elegant despite jeans and Ugg boots. We all nodded. ‘OK. Well, we’re here tonight primarily to discuss who we want to join our club,’ she said importantly, crossing her skinny knees.
‘And which books,’ Jennie reminded her, unused to playing second fiddle.
‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ Angie was deflated in an instant. ‘Which books to read. Anyone got any ideas?’
‘Who’s Who?’ drawled Peggy. We all looked at her. ‘Then we could determine if there’s anyone within a radius of twenty miles worth hitting on.’
‘Anyone got any sensible ideas?’ went on Jennie smoothly, ignoring her. ‘Angie?’ she asked diplomatically, having usurped her so very recently.
‘Well, I have given it a bit of thought, actually,’ said Angie, going a bit pink. She’d clearly rehearsed this. ‘How about Silas Marner? It’s by George Eliot, so heavy, but look how short it is.’
She just happened to have a copy handy and whipped it out of a drawer from the side, the better for us to marvel. It certainly was delightfully slim. Not more than a hundred pages.
‘And then we could say we were reading Eliot,’ mused Jennie, flicking through.
‘Exactly,’ said Angie triumphantly. ‘And look, half of it’s Introduction, which we don’t have to read, and quite a lot of Index. Or there’s Pride and Prej?’ she said, rather warming to her role of literary doyenne in her salon. She leaned back expansively in her chair and waved her pencil about. ‘I mean, I know we’ve all read it, but just to kick off with, you know? To get us in the mood and –’
‘Who’s read it?’ interrupted Peggy.
Angie and Jennie looked smug. They stuck up their fingers. Looked rather pityingly at Peggy.
‘Poppy, you have too.’ Jennie nudged me.
‘Oh.’ I stuck up mine. I’d been looking at a spider crawling up a rafter into the roof.
‘Really?’ Peggy asked. ‘You’ve all read it, have you?’
‘Of course,’ said Jennie.
‘Or have you just seen the film?’
Three fingers wavered slightly. Then lowered.
‘I’ve seen both versions,’ said Angie defensively. ‘The Keira Knightley one and the old one.’
‘Come on, let’s not kid ourselves that we’re going to wade through the classics,’ Peggy said drily. ‘I vote we kick off with Wilbur Smith.’
Jennie looked pained. ‘Yes, we could, but the idea is to stretch ourselves a bit, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ Peggy lit a cigarette. ‘I thought we were here to enjoy ourselves. Thought we were doing this for p
leasure.’ She blew out a thin line of smoke. ‘OK, how about Lawrence, then? He’s a bit more stretching, although admittedly mostly in haystacks.’ She gave a throaty chuckle.
‘Poppy?’ Jennie turned to me. ‘Any ideas?’
I came back from the spider. It had gone right up into the rafters, into the apex of the roof.
I stared blankly. ‘Anne of Green Gables?’
How odd. Dad had attempted to read that to me when Mum died. We’d started with Black Beauty, but had to stop when Ginger died. I remember the tears rolling down Dad’s wind-blown cheeks as he sat on my bed. I even remember my pink floral bed cover. We hadn’t liked Anne, though, had never got to the end. Found her wet.
My friends exchanged startled looks. Angie attempted to give this due consideration.
‘Yes … we could read Anne of Green Gables,’ she agreed, ‘but –’
‘Oh, let’s forget the bloody books and talk about who we’re going to ask,’ said Peggy, wriggling on her bony bottom in her chair. ‘Far more exciting.’
Jennie raised her eyebrows and shuffled her notepad. ‘OK,’ she said wearily. ‘Peggy? You’re clearly itching to fire away.’
‘How about Angus Jardine, Pete the farrier, that smoothie antiques guy Jennie fancies, and Luke the organ-grinder in church.’
We looked at her aghast.
‘Peggy, this is a book club, not a frustrated-women’s dating agency!’ Jennie spluttered. ‘I meant local women!’
‘Why do they have to be women?’
‘Well, they don’t, exclusively. But usually, you know …’
‘Usually it’s the little women who get together? When their hunter-gatherers come home? Bustle out importantly to show they have lives too?’
Jennie and Angie looked at one another.
‘Peggy’s got a point,’ muttered Angie.
‘But we can’t have the four of us, and four men. How would that look? We need a couple of women, for heaven’s sake,’ Jennie insisted.
‘Saintly Sue?’ suggested Angie. ‘If we can put up with her halo. And my sister might come?’
A Rural Affair Page 8