June spots my dad right away. He’s already at the table as we make our way through the ballroom. He looks so handsome in his suit that I can’t stop grinning as I introduce him to Sophie, Laney, Dot and Maggie. We do make a good-looking group. June is gorgeous as usual, with her blonde curls shining in the overhead lights of the ballroom. Her dress is deep green and fitted and definitely not too show-offy, which she was worried about.
‘All right, Phoebe?’ Dad asks. ‘You look nice.’
‘I feel nervous!’ I say. ‘I don’t know how Mum did this.’ She always made acceptance speeches look so easy. A few words, a little self-deprecation and a lot of thanks. That’s what I’m planning. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
‘I wouldn’t miss my daughter’s big night,’ he says, and I nearly fall off my chair. He’s never said anything like that to me. It was always Will’s big night, big game, graduation, whatever.
It’s his turn nearly to fall off his chair when I throw my arms around him. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
But I’m too nervous to enjoy any of this really. At least it’s not like those televised award shows, where all the finalists have to sit in the same room to hear the winner announced, and then pretend to be happy when it’s not them. I couldn’t manage that. It would be just my luck that a camera would catch my expression just as I’m sneering.
Listen to me, like I’m going to get photographed at the Social Superheroes awards. These are all charity people and care-home workers, not the princesses that Laney was rubbing elbows with at the Snowball.
‘Remind me to give you something after,’ Dad says.
‘What is it?’ A congratulations gift!
‘Not now. After your award. Just remind me so I don’t forget.’
The dinner seems to take ages, with the women assuring me that I cook better than the chefs at the five-star hotel. I love their loyal lies. The excitement of the night, and free-flowing wine, must be going to their heads. At least they’re keeping me distracted from what’s ahead.
That Mum is missing this seems unfair to both of us. Mostly to me, if I’m being honest. I can tell myself till I’m blue in the face that it shouldn’t matter what another person thinks of my choices. Even my mum. As long as I know I’m doing my best, and I’m happy with where I am in the world, that’s what matters. Nobody but me can really make me happy. I know all that.
I just wish I’d stood up for myself more, instead of being struck mute by her judgment. I spent way too much time trying to appease her instead of telling her how proud I am of everything I’ve done, first at the bistro and now at the home. If she were here, I’d tell her that there is more than one way to be successful, and it doesn’t have to be measured only in pay cheques and other people’s estimation. That knowing I’m keeping an entire care home healthy and happy makes me happy. And yes, that I’m proud to be getting an award from intelligent people with enough sense to recognise everything that she was too blind to see.
Mostly, though, I wish Mum were here to see all this for herself.
Finally, the awards begin, and I can feel my shoulders tensing up. I’ll probably still be able to recite my little speech in fifty years. I’ve practised it enough. And I’ve mentally mapped my route to the stage, around the two sets of tables in front of us. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
Yet when the presenter announces the Care Home category, it sends the women, and my tummy, into a flutter. Dad grabs my hand, and when his big, warm one envelops mine, I couldn’t be more grateful. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I murmur.
‘Next is the award for excellence in care-home catering,’ says the woman onstage. Her voice has the deep timbre of someone used to being listened to. ‘This award recognises excellence in providing meals that are not only nutritionally balanced and tailored for the clientele, but consistently delicious. I like to think of this as the yummy award.’ That gets a laugh. ‘I only wish we’d been able to judge by sampling all the nominees’ best efforts. Never mind. Maybe the winner will let me come and have lunch one day.’
I laugh and nod.
‘I’m delighted to announce that this year’s winner of the award for excellence in care-home catering is…’ She pauses, exactly like they do at all the big movie awards. ‘Phoebe Stockton of Framlingham’s Happy Home for Ladies.’
Everyone applauds, none louder than our table. Even Maggie is enthusiastic. There’s no going back now. As I weave my way to the stage, I’m surprised that I’m not more nervous. I’m just happy and I can’t stop grinning. The presenter shakes my hand while handing me the small glass award (crystal? Mum would know) and moves aside for me to stand in front of the podium. ‘Thank you so much,’ I start, then remember my script. ‘It is such an honour to be recognised officially for my cooking. But I feel like I’m thanked every day by the Happy Home residents, some of whom are here tonight: Dot, Sophie, Laney and Maggie, you and every one of the thirty-three residents make me love my job. I also want to thank our manager, June Cole, for hiring me in the first place. Your support and friendship mean the world to me. My parents, Simon and Barb Stockton, are the reason that I am who I am, so thank you. And of course, a huge thank you to the Department for Social Welfare, for recognising the contributions that the charity sector makes to our society, and having these awards, and this great party! Thank you.’
Then I hold my award in the air, just like actors hoist theirs, because, sod it, this is my night!
Everyone wants to hold the gong when I get back to the table, but we have to pass it around quietly because the rest of the awards are still going on. It’s hard work to keep my clapping as enthusiastic as it was before I went onstage. Look at me, already resting on my laurels.
I haven’t forgotten what Dad said. ‘You have something for me?’ I remind him when there’s finally a break.
‘Ah, right.’ From the bag-for-life by his feet, he takes a big album. ‘I found this a few weeks ago. Tonight seems like the right time to give it to you. I know you’ll be thinking about Mum.’
My eyes meet his at the mention of Mum. He’s smiling as he hands me one of those fake leather photo albums with loose binder pages. Deep green, a colour Mum always preferred. My heart is thudding as I open it. It must be photos I’ve not seen before, maybe of Mum and me. I’m touched that he wants me to share the night with Mum in this way, but this will definitely reduce me to a puddle. Everyone is watching me as I open the cover.
‘I don’t understand. What is this?’ I say, leafing through the first few pages. They’re not photos. First is a cut-out page of course listings. It takes me a second to notice that it’s from my catering college. ‘These were my courses,’ I say. My first year. There’s a business card from the school’s careers placement counsellor with a number handwritten across the front. A mobile number. And my commencement invitation and the receipt for the cap and gown we hired for it.
‘Your mum was proud of you,’ Dad says with tears in his eyes. ‘I know she didn’t show it in the best way, but she was. Always.’
‘Oh, Dad.’ Then I flip the page. ‘My menus!’ I remember typing up those first ones. We used that horrible scrolly font, until we had to change it because the waitress kept getting asked to read out the dishes. Every single menu I made is in Mum’s scrapbook.
And all my awards, or at least the newspaper and magazine clippings about them. And that article for the bistro’s five-year anniversary where I went on about Mum’s kitchen. She saw it.
Dad is smiling at me. ‘You see?’
I do. I think, finally, I do. Mum, I tell her, you would have loved seeing this tonight. I’ve ‘stamped my mark on the world’, just like you always wanted.
Finally, I feel like I know my mother. She was too harsh and often hurtful. She didn’t easily praise and always found fault. What I didn’t understand till now is that I shouldn’t have taken her words at face value because, even though she went about it in completely the wrong way, she was trying to encourage me to be the best person I could be.
I
only wish I could tell her now that I understand. That although she did it all wrong, now I know it came from a good place. It’s all right here in my hands. My mum was proud of me all along.
Chapter 24
It’s times like this when June would rather be the home’s cleaner than its manager. She’s been pacing the office floor for the past ten minutes mumbling to herself as she works out her strategy. I know better than to try interrupting her. She’ll only shush me and have to start over.
Terence has asked officially for a meeting with Dot. He didn’t use the word mediation, but he wants June there to referee. ‘I suppose it’s nice that he trusts you.’
‘I’m not a bloody social worker, am I? Dot’s never going to agree to it. She hates his guts. I don’t blame her, the bastard. Imagine doing that to someone you’re supposed to love, and with her best friend. I think Dot’s shown remarkable restraint. He’s lucky she hasn’t stabbed him already.’
I know she’s thinking as much about Callum as Terence. Or maybe it’s Nick she’s imagining assaulting. Things are frosty between them. At least he’s got the sense not to push her. Every time they have to be in the room together, he acts like she’s got a gun pointed at his temple. In a way, she does. She makes all the sacking decisions around here.
Finally, she says, ‘You’ve got to be there too. If she tries to kill him, I’m not sure I can stop her alone. I’m not sure I want to. After what he did? He doesn’t deserve anything.’
But I’ve been thinking about that in light of Mum’s scrapbook. It’s sitting on my coffee table in the flat, and I get quite teary every time I look at it. I don’t think I’ll ever put it away. I want it there to remind me that even though I saw her criticism as disappointment, it wasn’t that. It was a monumentally misguided way of trying to encourage me to reach for the stars. How many other parents think they’re helping their children by pushing them harder, when all the child hears is You’re not good enough? Hopefully not many, because not everyone will be handed a scrapbook to clear things up.
I do wonder if it’s possible that Terence is misunderstood too. I can’t imagine how groping our waitresses or insulting the residents can be misunderstood, but that scrapbook is making me see everyone’s actions in a new light.
‘Will they want me there?’ I ask. ‘It sounds quite personal. Of course, I’ll come if you want me to.’
‘You have to be there,’ she says. ‘It’ll take two of us to keep them apart.’
She’s only half kidding.
‘I have nothing to say to him,’ Dot says when we tell her about Terence’s request.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ June says. ‘He’s only asking that you listen.’
‘It might make you feel better.’
She gives me her over-the-glasses look. ‘How, exactly, is that supposed to make me feel better? It seems to me that Terence wants to make himself feel better. It has nothing to do with me.’
‘I’m sure he wants to apologise properly,’ says June. ‘Wouldn’t it be a little bit nice to hear him grovel?’
‘Mmm, I suppose, though who knows what rubbish he’ll come out with. You’ll be there?’
‘Of course! Both of us, if you like.’ I, for one, can’t wait to hear what rubbish he comes out with.
So that’s how the Happy Home for Ladies got its very first mediation. News spreads through the home faster than when I’m serving home-made custard with apple crumble. By the time the meeting is due to start – in the office, where there’s at least a door to give Dot and Terence some privacy – nearly all the residents have gathered in the lounges. The atmosphere in there isn’t tense so much as expectant. Battle lines have been drawn by gender (unsurprising), except for Sophie, who can sympathise with Terence’s point of view. That peeved Dot.
But Sophie’s soppy romanticism means that she’s not so much Team Terence as she is Team Love. Or at least Team Please Stop Fighting.
The men and women might be on opposite sides of the Terence/Dot debate, but there has been some softening lately in other areas. Sophie joining the DIY club definitely helped. That’s because she’s got them doing all sorts of work that the women want, from making ‘feature walls’ in their rooms with gorgeous rolls of vintage wallpaper to building alcove shelves. Plus, they’re pretty good with flat-pack instructions. It’s a good thing Max had the driveway widened when he took over, because it would be a tight squeeze for all the Ikea deliveries otherwise.
Of course, Sophie could have been helping the women with their home makeovers all along. I guess it took the added prospect of romance amidst the building supplies to get her back into her designer tool belt.
Dot comes into the office looking much like she always does, in her flowery day dress and with her glasses hanging on a chain around her neck. It’s the way she smells that makes June and I glance at each other. ‘Chanel No. 5?’ June says.
‘My signature scent.’
Hmm. If so, then I’ve never run across her signature before.
She peers at the old sixties industrial wall clock. ‘I do hope he isn’t going to be late now that he’s got me here. Because I won’t stay.’
‘I saw him just a minute ago,’ I tell her. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m not looking forward to it, if that’s what you’re asking.’ She gives a small shake of her head. ‘Patricia and I made our amends years ago. She’s the one I cared about. This isn’t necessary.’
‘You’re good to do it,’ June says, just as Terence appears in the doorway.
He’s wearing a suit that I haven’t seen before and his hair is neatly combed over to one side. Heart surgeons are probably more relaxed doing a triple bypass than Terence looks about speaking to Dot.
‘What’s he doing here?’ I say when I see who’s standing behind him.
Nick falters, I’m pleased to see.
‘He’s not involved with this,’ I add. His brown-nosing really does know no bounds. Tamsyn has probably put him up to it. They’re a perfect pair. I bet Terence doesn’t know where her nose ends and Nick’s begins.
‘I want him here,’ Terence says. ‘If you get backup, then so do I. Nick is my second.’
June scoffs. ‘What are you talking about, Terence? This isn’t a duel.’
‘Not yet,’ murmurs Dot. ‘I don’t mind if he stays. He’ll see through your nonsense. He’s got common sense.’
Now it’s my turn to snort disbelief. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s you who wanted to talk, Terence, so be quick about it and stop wasting my time.’
As there aren’t enough chairs for everyone, and Terence and Dot are our elders, we let them sit, with Dot in June’s office chair and Terence in the one opposite the desk. Terence leans in towards her. She leans back. ‘I remember that perfume,’ he says. ‘I loved that.’
She holds him in her steady gaze.
When Nick makes a move to lean beside me against the extra desk, I say, ‘Sit on your own side.’
‘There are no sides.’
‘Aren’t there? You are with Tamsyn’s family, so …’
The look on his face is pure shock. With a sinking heart I realise that that’s what a bloke looks like when he knows there’s no point trying to deny the truth. There’s no point in me denying it, either. Nick and Tamsyn are together. Why is that so hard for me to accept, even when the evidence keeps bashing me over the head? No matter what happened between us, she’s Nick’s girlfriend, not me. She thinks I’m pathetic, and you heard what she said. At some point he’s going to tell me about them. Well, there, I’ve given him the perfect excuse.
Dot’s got her arms folded in front of her, not giving one millimetre as we wait for Terence to start. He clears his throat. ‘Dot, you know I’ve always had the highest regard for you.’
‘Hmph.’
He waits for more, but she says, ‘I’m saving my comments for the end.’
‘She always did like to get the last word,’ he says to the rest of us.
‘You’re here to talk to Dot,’ June reminds him.
That makes him sit up straighter. ‘When I look back at what happened between us, it’s the single biggest regret of my life. Dot, I shouldn’t have let you go to Oxford.’
Uh-oh.
‘What?!’ Dot says. ‘Shouldn’t have let me?’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ he hurries to add. ‘I mean that I shouldn’t have let you go alone. I should have gone too. I could have found work there instead of in Ipswich, but I was a fool. And to be honest, it’s only with hindsight that I can see that. At the time I really thought, in my heart of hearts, that you should have stayed with me. I didn’t think your job was as important as mine. That was the biggest problem.’
She glares over her glasses. ‘No, Terence, the biggest problem was that you cheated on me with my best friend.’
‘You’re right,’ he admits. ‘But the reason that I was idiot enough to do that was that I had such stupid ideas about you being away. I’m not excusing what I did. I never could. I’m only trying to explain it, because you never gave me the chance.’
‘Why should I have given you anything? You presented me with a fait accompli. What would I have gained by talking about it? It was only Patricia who offered to step aside for me. You never sounded like you regretted it for a moment.’
‘I didn’t know that Patricia did that.’
‘You don’t know a lot of things,’ Dot says. ‘Like how it felt to be betrayed by your best friend and the man you love. Who was I supposed to talk to? Who was there to help me get over it? Nobody, because you took my best friend from me. I might have eventually forgiven you for what you did to me, but I hated you for making me lose her.’
‘But you made up,’ he says, ‘with Patricia.’ His look is so earnest that I can hardly remember the Terence who defiantly weed in the rhododendrons.
‘Eventually, yes. But she couldn’t be there when I most needed her. I went through that alone.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Dot, for being such an arsehole then, and for pushing you to forgive me over the years, when what I probably deserved was a punch in the mouth. It doesn’t make up for what I did, but know that I truly am very sorry.’
The Not So Perfect Plan to Save Friendship House Page 22