But Natuw has a lot to answer for.
Then a small figure in an unzipped teddy-bear suit wriggled out between Inga and the door frame, ran up and hugged my legs fiercely – and painfully. Caitlin stared up into my face with her usual pugnacious expression and then ran off ahead of me to where the parents were gathering.
The actor swung Caitlin up into his arms as I walked past down the drive, and he did it with such infinite grace that I half-expected someone to roll out of the bushes on one of those trolley things with a camera shouting: ‘Take two, scene one!’ or something of that kind.
But nothing happened except for my very nearly being flattened by Mrs Whippington-Smythe’s big red off-roader hurtling up the path.
Skint Old Cook, no. 2
Savoury Ducks aren’t.
Chapter 10
Small Change
When I looked at the paltry coins Keith paid me, three were French and one German, which were of no earthly use to me, but perhaps my Feng Shui money frog would like them? I could sort of heap them round him like a dragon’s hoard.
One by one the little gremlins passed me, homeward bound in their monster carriers. The only ones walking up the hill were the actor and Caitlin, and they didn’t catch me up until I was nearly home.
I heard the thump of small feet behind me, and then Caitlin was embracing my legs again. I nearly fell over. When she held her arms out to be picked up I did, and hugged her, though I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve it. Still, it did make me feel a bit less of a witch, and also suffer a sharp pang of regret for my lost chances of motherhood. A sort of strange, low pain inside.
Maybe my heart’s in the wrong place.
‘Are you crying?’ asked Caitlin anxiously.
I smiled. ‘No, it’s the cold making my eyes water.’
She peered into them alternately from two inches away. ‘They’re a very funny colour.’
‘Em says they’re the colour of black grapes.’
‘Trodden-on-black grapes,’ amended Caitlin. ‘The insides are sort of purply.’
‘Caitlin seems to like you,’ her father said, catching us up.
She looked at him severely. ‘She’s okay, Daddy. Gunilla bit Josie, and then she kicked Charlie, and Charlie sorted her out. She calls her Godzilla, and I’m going to call her Godzilla too, because she’s a monster.’
‘She’s just a confused little girl,’ I said to the actor, who was raising one eyebrow.
(How did he do that? I can never do it, even though I’ve spent hours in front of a mirror trying. It’s both, or nothing. I can twitch the end of my nose without moving my lips at the same time, though, and I bet he can’t.)
Mace had to be older than me, but he’d worn in a sophisticated, lounge-lizard sort of way. Nature, as well as artily silvering the odd strand of hair, had given him interesting lines around his dark eyes to map out what he’d been up to for the last forty-odd years. He also looked fit (as far as you could tell from someone wearing a duvet) without giving the impression his personal fitness trainer flew in by helicopter every day to put him through his paces.
Caitlin slid down again and took his hand.
‘So we meet again,’ he said, with more resignation than enthusiasm. ‘Em says you’re her sister?’
I didn’t blame him for sounding surprised. (And just when did Em get on chatting terms with him?)
‘Yes – Charlie Rhymer. I’m living in the Summer Cottage because my husband’s divorcing me and Father’s mistress has taken over my bedroom.’
‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ he mused.
‘Which bit?’
‘The divorce.’
‘Like you and Mummy,’ commented Caitlin, swinging on her father’s arm like it was an exercise bar.
‘Mummy’s marrying Rod,’ she told me. ‘He’s very nice but thick, and he can’t be my daddy, because I’ve already got one. He says I can just call him Rod.’
‘That’s nice,’ I said weakly.
A faint spasm of something that might have been either pain or annoyance passed across the actor’s face, and he abruptly changed the subject.
‘I still think that lean-to is an excrescence on the beautiful face of Upvale,’ he said, his lovely posh and mellow voice at odds with his exotic face.
‘Like that duvet you’re wearing,’ I said shortly.
‘It’s Kenzo.’
‘So I’ve heard from Elfreda Whippington-Smythe.’
‘Which one’s she?’
‘Small, bun-faced, always wears jodhpurs, talks from up her nose.’
He shuddered. ‘Oh, God, that one. She rides past every day, and lingers. And if I go for a walk, she always just happens to be crossing my path.’
‘I expect she keeps her binoculars trained on you from the other side of the vale. You should wear something more inconspicuous. My sister Anne’s an expert in camouflage, and she’s coming home soon – you could ask her.’
He looked down critically at himself. ‘Perhaps you’re right – this does look worryingly at one with your lean-to. Garish.’
‘Verandah. But don’t worry. I expect good taste is optional for the acting profession.’
‘Speaking of good taste, that’s the biggest garden gnome I’ve ever seen,’ he said blandly, pointing behind me.
I turned. Walter was standing just inside the verandah, wearing a red woolly hat and his usual voluminous corduroy trousers. He was beaming and pointing at where his eyebrows would have been had he got any. I blew him a kiss.
‘Walter made the verandah as a welcome-home present,’ I said, ‘and I think it’s perfect!’
We stared at each other, then a most disconcerting smile appeared on his even more disconcertingly beautiful pinky-brown lips.
Wow.
I could probably have prevented my own plebeian mouth smiling back had I coated my face in concrete.
Caitlin, tired of jumping up and down waving at Walter, tugged his arm. ‘Come on, Daddy – I’m hungry.’
She turned to wave as they carried on up the path, but Mace didn’t.
Walter’s presence in the Summer Cottage was easily explained: an electrician was just putting the finishing touches to the socket and lighting he’d installed, probably illegally, in the verandah. Walter doesn’t trust any tradesmen not to make off with the family stainless steel.
‘Anne’s come,’ he informed me over his shoulder before escorting the electrician up the stairs to the Parsonage.
I changed and tidied up. There was no sign of Flossie, so she was probably up with Frost in the kitchen.
* * *
Anne was striding up and down the kitchen in her usual fashion, in khaki cotton trousers and a camouflage waistcoat that would have blended the actor into the woods quite nicely.
‘They entered from the left and circled—’ She broke off briefly to thump me on the shoulder and say: ‘Hi, Chaz.’ ‘Circled the enemy before attacking.’
‘Where have you been? Which battle is this?’ I demanded.
‘Hospital,’ Em informed me. ‘Anne’s fighting the Big C.’ She carried on shearing chickens into pieces and tossing them into a big pot.
I recognised nourishing chicken soup in the making, and looked at Anne more closely. She did look fine-drawn and tired.
‘You don’t mean…?’
‘Cancer,’ Anne said. ‘Lump – left breast. I was just telling Em – they circled the little bugger, and whipped it out before it could invade.’
‘Oh, Anne! Why didn’t you tell us? We could have been with you.’
‘Enough on your plates already. Fight my own battles,’ she said.
‘Did Red go with you?’
‘Spineless git. Couldn’t face any of it – cleared off.’
‘Is – is that it, now? Do they think the cancer’s gone?’ I asked, worriedly.
‘So they say. Took a lymph node, too, and it wasn’t in that. Got more puckers than Bride of Frankenstein. Just as well I’ve got no boobs to speak of a
nyway.’
I sat down at the table next to Em, feeling limp.
Em tossed the last chicken piece into the pot with the vegetables. ‘They took the gland from under her arm to check if it had spread, but there was no sign of it,’ she interpreted. ‘So she’s clear.’
‘Left arm’s a bit sore,’ Anne admitted. ‘Got to go over to the hospital every day for six weeks for treatment – back-up stuff. Then back to work.’
‘Have you told them?’
‘Told them it was a small op on my dodgy knee – rest up, back right after Christmas.’
‘What about Red?’
‘Break his knees if he says any different.’
‘Why don’t you go and lie down for a bit?’ suggested Em daringly.
‘Fall back, regroup, and fight another day,’ she agreed, to my astonishment. ‘You’d better not have put that tart with the see-through blouse in my room: where does she think she is, the bloody Cannes Film Festival?’
‘No, she’s in Charlie’s room.’
‘Bad luck, Chaz.’
‘Never mind – I quite like it in the Summer Cottage,’ I said. ‘Did Em tell you Bran’s home too?’
‘Seen him – didn’t know he spoke Croatian.’
‘I’ve put your stuff upstairs, our Anne,’ Walter said, hobbling in. ‘Outside the door.’
‘Good man. See you’ve got no eyebrows yet.’
‘No bodily hair what-so-ever,’ he agreed, beaming.
Tips for Southern Visitors, no. 3: Fashion
1) It is socially acceptable now, and always has been, to wear white stilettos with jeans.
2) If going out for the evening in a big city, remember, even in winter, that one layer of clothing is enough. Coats and tights are for wimps.
3) If you are wearing a bra you do not need a handbag.
‘Well,’ said Father sarcastically, gazing at the complete family circle around the breakfast table next morning. ‘All my little chickens come home to roost?’
‘Cluck,’ said Anne, who was eating French toast lovingly prepared by Em, who was inclined to hover over her – but then, we’d never seen Anne looking ill before. She moved stiffly, and there were dark circles under her eyes.
Bran stared across at her and smiled. ‘There’s no reason why we can’t all use the click language,’ he said in perfectly intelligible English, before resuming the creation of a strange triple-decker sandwich that involved a lot of marmalade and bacon, watched with fascination by the two little girls.
Frost came in with a mouthful of letters and spat them onto the carpet.
‘Must all my post be covered in dog saliva?’ demanded Father distastefully.
‘Beats me why folks bother writing to you at all, you great lump of nowt,’ Gloria said, coming in just then with more toast and the teapot.
‘Thank you for that vote of appreciation,’ he said. ‘Do you think you could ask Walter if he’d take a look at my desk? One of the legs is a bit wonky.’
He and Jessica exchanged fleeting but meaningful glances.
‘I’m not surprised,’ Gloria commented cryptically, and patted me on the head like an infant in passing as she went out again.
Jessica was rather daringly eating a boiled egg, but I didn’t think she would make it through the whole gargantuan repast; she’d already had one spoonful and a bite of dry toast.
‘Well, it’s nice to meet all Ran’s family at last,’ she said, ‘even if Anne and Em do rather dwarf poor little me!’
‘Bran and I aren’t much taller than you, ‘I pointed out.
‘No – you two certainly don’t take after Ran, do you? In fact, it’s hard to believe you are related!’
‘Charlie looks exactly like her mother – Lally Tooke,’ Ran said, looking up from his paper.
‘And does Bran look like his mother?’ asked Jessica slightly waspishly.
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember,’ he replied calmly. ‘It was all a long time ago. Aren’t those girls going to be late for school?’
Jessica looked up at the clock, squawked, and dragged her protesting children away. I peeled the rest of her boiled egg and tossed it to Frost, who ate it in one gulp.
Not having to go to the nursery ever again made me feel inordinately happy – until I discovered the hate mail from Angie, dewed with dog drool, under the table.
… better start looking over your shoulder, Charlie, because I’m coming to Upvale. Soon everyone will know you’re a murdering whore, leading men on and then turning on them …
Life is just a rollercoaster of pleasure lately.
Chapter 11
Parting
Health Check
There are few minor ailments that cannot be alleviated by the application of two large gin and tonics.
‘Get your coat,’ Em said, appearing on the stairs after dinner.
‘Why, where are we going?’
‘Freya’s house – it’s her turn.’
‘What for?’ I asked, obediently pulling on my coat and hurrying after her. Flossie’s snores reverberated up the stairs behind me.
‘The discussion group. It was a reading group, but now we just meet and discuss – stuff. And anyway, Freya’s husband’s coming back tonight to collect his things, and he has a violent temper.’
‘I didn’t know she had a husband.’
‘Had’s the operative word. She’s thrown him out and got an injunction against him, but a fat lot of use that is. Still, she’s being fair – she’s letting him come round tonight to remove his half of their belongings.’
‘But I thought she had magic powers. Can’t she just do something nasty to him?’
‘You’ve never seen so many boils on one man’s neck,’ Em said. ‘But that was Xanthe Skye – Freya’s powers lie in other directions.’
I didn’t ask what. Already it sounded like a fun evening.
‘Who else will be there? I’m not feeling very sociable.’
‘Madge comes, and she isn’t terribly sociable either – and Susie from the nursery, and Xanthe Skye and Lilith, of course. Madge’s old father is driving her mad – and ours is driving me mad. And you can have a good moan about Matt. We could get Freya to do something nasty to Matt, if you still have any of his belongings.’
‘I think I already did, killing his best friend, and I’ve cleared out everything to do with him.’
‘Purged,’ she agreed.
‘In every way.’
We trudged up the hill in icy darkness, lit at irregular intervals by the small yellow circles grudgingly cast by three old street lamps. The Black Dog looked terribly warm and inviting; Father and Jess were probably in there already. The last bus up from town stopped just ahead of us and decanted Inga and Godzilla before chugging slowly onwards.
Inga gave me a sad, pitying smile as she passed us, but Godzilla lingered pulling faces at me and capering, until she looked at Em instead, and suddenly ran off crying: ‘Mama! Wait!’
Freya lived at the end of a terrace of old stone weavers’ cottages right at the top of Upvale. The bus passed us again on its way down, a brightly lit and empty Marie Celeste.
The tiny sitting room, already full, became crammed to bursting point with our arrival.
Freya pushed past us gasping: ‘Ice, ice – I must have ice!’ in a parched voice, but she came back fairly soon with coffee, gin, and crackers smeared with something that probably only looked like road-kill hedgehog.
All the time we were drinking and chatting heavy footsteps thumped about overhead, with muffled cursing. From time to time something bumped down the stairs and was dragged out.
Then the footsteps and creakings from above were replaced by the sound of frenzied sawing, and flakes of plaster drifted down into my cup.
‘What’s he doing?’ enquired Madge.
‘Sawing the wardrobe in two,’ replied Freya calmly.
‘Isn’t that taking the “his half” business a little too seriously?’ I said.
‘He’s taking it to the
letter, but I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to do with half a wardrobe. I’ll use mine for firewood. Mind you, if he’d asked I’d have given him the whole thing. I don’t want it. I was never big on white melamine.’
‘I know what you mean,’ I agreed. ‘My ex-husband liked angular modern furniture, all cream and white, with no colour or pattern.’
‘No wonder your aura is still faintly blue,’ Xanthe said, edging a little further away.
‘Sorry. Is there some way I can clean it off? Sort of Magic Flash?’
‘Are you joking?’ Xanthe asked, looking at me severely.
‘No, she’s serious,’ Em explained. ‘She just doesn’t know much about that sort of thing. I’m the only one who ever listened to Gloria Mundi.’
‘You have a natural talent for the Ancient Arts,’ agreed Lilith. ‘Far beyond Gloria, who is a mere wisewoman.’
‘Oh, nothing’s beyond Gloria,’ I assured her. ‘Em’s just gone in a different direction.’
There was more frenzied sawing from upstairs.
‘The dressing table?’ suggested Lilith, and Freya nodded.
‘Yes – he’s taken it very hard; but then, so did I when he tried to slap me around.’
‘Your having already found a much younger lover seems to rankle particularly,’ said Xanthe.
‘Have you?’ I said with respect. ‘Who is it?’
‘He’s new – a teacher from the valley – but I’m teaching him one or two things. He lives on that new Mango Homes estate – Raspberry Road, just off Strawberry Street. You’ve just bought a house there too, haven’t you, Susie?’
‘Yes, but mine’s Galia Gardens, up Honeydew Hill.’
‘Fruity,’ I commented.
‘Well, I drew the line at Passionfruit Place, but otherwise I don’t mind,’ Susie said. ‘They renamed my old road Mandela Street, and every time someone forgot to put the town on my mail it went on a Round-Britain Tour. There’s a Mandela something in every town in the country.’
The halved furniture descended the stairs in a series of crashes, and a few minutes of dragging and swearing later the van drove away.
‘I’ll just pop out and perform a protection spell for you,’ Lilith said. ‘In case he tries to come back.’
Every Woman for Herself Page 8