by Claire Sandy
This book is for Stephen and Emily Carlile,
my favourite newlyweds
Contents
DAY 1 Tuesday, 11th August
DAY 2 Wednesday, 12th August
DAY 3 Thursday, 13th August
DAY 4 Friday, 14th August
DAY 5 Saturday, 15th August
DAY 6 Sunday, 16th August
DAY 7 Monday, 17th August
DAY 8 Tuesday, 18th August
DAY 9 Wednesday, 19th August
DAY 10 Thursday, 20th August
DAY 11 Friday, 21st August
DAY 12 Saturday, 22nd August
DAY 13 Sunday, 23rd August
DAY 14 Monday, 24th August
What Would Mary Berry Do?
Prologue
DAY 1
Tuesday, 11th August
Dear All Next Door
Thanks for feeding the cat and the gerbils and the fish. The fish might die. They do that a lot in our house. My number’s on the fridge in case of emergency, but unless the house gets sucked into a black hole, please don’t call – WE NEED THIS HOLIDAY!
Evie & Mike & Scarlett & Dan & Mabel xxx
Nothing looks as good in real life as it does in the brochure.
Evie was more than old enough to know this simple fact of life, but as the family Ford Focus nudged its way westwards out of London, she found herself hoping for an exception in the case of their rented holiday home.
Rashly, the brochure in her lap promised ‘Paradise’. Evie flicked though the glossy pages as the car slowed beside a derelict kebab shop. The colour photography dwelt in porny detail on a long straight drive edged with topiary balls, leading the eye to a grand slab of Georgian architecture the colour of a warm biscuit. Maybe Wellcome Manor would be as good as it looked. Maybe it really would be a kind of paradise.
‘How much further?’ whined Scarlett from the back seat.
‘Ages yet, darling.’ Evie kept her tone light. She’d vowed to stay in Lovely Mummy mode for this much-anticipated fortnight. ‘And do leave it more than three minutes before you ask again.’ Then again, maybe she’d be in Sleep-Deprived, Packing-Like-a-Madwoman-Since-6 a.m. Mummy mode. ‘It’ll be worth it when we get there, I promise.’
‘It’s just some boring house,’ said Scarlett, who, at seventeen, was an expert in what was boring and what was not. ‘It’s old.’
‘So am I,’ murmured Evie. She’d aged ten years on this car journey and they hadn’t even reached the M3.
As the scenery morphed from grimy brick to quicksilver motorway, the front seats had to warn the back seats more than once to simmer down or they’d ‘turn this car round right now’. Patch barked tunelessly from junction 4 to Stonehenge; Dan made little Mabel cry by shouting ‘Bottom’ in a variety of accents; Scarlett’s outrage at being ripped from the bosom of her friends was almost visible, like a mangy fur stole around her shoulders.
‘What!’ Mike was exasperated by Dan’s request. ‘Why didn’t you go before we left?’
‘I did,’ said Dan.
‘You’ll just have to cross your legs and hang on,’ said Mike.
‘I want to go too,’ said Mabel, whispering into Patch’s fur, ‘Go where?’
As Scarlett shepherded her brother and sister behind a hedge on the hard shoulder, Mike asked Evie, ‘Did you pack Mrs Misterson II?’
‘Of course.’ They had a brief communal flashback to that family day out when the original Mrs Misterson – a grubby baby doll, felt-tipped all over and half-bald – had gone missing; Mabel had screamed her way around Wookey Hole. ‘As you’d know,’ Evie continued in the same urgent undertone, ‘if you’d been there to help pack. Like you promised.’
‘Yeah, well . . .’ Mike sniffed and sighed and fiddled with the satnav.
By the time he had finally come home from work, the cases were packed, the fridge was cleared, the dog was on his lead, the windows had been checked (twice), water bottles had been filled, Kindles had been charged, medication for every minor medical eventuality had been lined up, healthy snacks had been chopped up and stashed in ziplock bags, and the younger children were so ready they’d had time to become un-ready again, dropping juice on their clean gear and reading new comics bought for the journey. Evie had even remembered to set the house lights on timers, to hoodwink any burglar crazy enough to imagine the Herreras had anything worth stealing. For mums, the family holiday is more stressful than a business trip.
‘You said you’d just do an hour in the office and then—’
‘I know, I know.’ Mike chopped the air with his hand. ‘I got involved. It’s hard not to.’
Evie glared at him, aware that if the glaree doesn’t look at the glarer, the glare is more or less void. From the hard shoulder came the sound of a small girl falling in her own wee. ‘Mike, give in and look at me. I’m not wasting this brilliant glare.’
When he laughed, Evie found his hand on the steering wheel and squeezed it. ‘Come on, love. Get your holiday-head on,’ she said. ‘After all, your legs are already on vacation.’
‘Don’t diss the shorts,’ warned Mike as their children clambered back into the car.
‘What is there to diss,’ asked Evie innocently, ‘in ten-year-old yellow nylon shorts that are fraying at the crotch?’
‘Crotch!’ shouted Dan.
‘I’m missing the party of the year for this,’ said Scarlett when they stopped for coffee at a Little Chef.
‘You’ll live, Scarlett,’ said Evie, looking around, yearning for her husband to hove into view with a loaded tray. She needed caffeine, and she needed it now. Preferably intravenously.
‘You’re ruining my life,’ said Scarlett.
‘Yeah, sorry about that.’ Evie knew there was no point in arguing. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’m planning on ruining Dan’s and Mabel’s as well.’
‘I don’t mind, Mummy,’ said Mabel generously.
‘You’re too kind, Mabes.’
Mike appeared, tray aloft. ‘Hang on!’ he yelped, as greedy hands grabbed at his wares. With great ceremony he handed Mabel a milkshake.
‘I asked for banana!’ spat Mabel, with an abrupt change of tone. ‘This is strawberry!’
‘But you love strawberries,’ said Mike.
‘She used to,’ corrected Evie, sighing and standing to return the rejected shake. ‘Before Dan told her that—’
‘Strawberries come out of pigs’ BOTTOMS!’ yelled Dan. He was happy, so very happy, to have the opportunity to shout ‘Bottoms’ in a public place.
‘Shush, Dan,’ said Mike sternly. ‘Evie, sit down. Mabel will just have to make the best of it.’
They locked eyes for a moment, a silent tussle in their stare. Evie’s eyes were saying, Let it go just this once, so we arrive without bloodshed and tears and milkshake in everybody’s hair. Mike’s eyes, just as eloquent, and with the same fetching bags beneath them, said, We spoil these kids rotten and I’ve been driving for two hours, and when I was Mabel’s age I took what I was bloody well given.
‘Actually,’ said Mabel, ‘I do like strawberries.’
As a breed, Border collies are highly intelligent; Patch had missed that memo. He couldn’t herd sheep, or fetch help, but, boy, could he fall off things and into things (plus a nice sideline in getting his head stuck in other things), so it was inevitable that he would slip his lead and race off across the scrubby wasteground behind the Little Chef, ignoring the shouts of his name (Evie wasn’t convinced Patch knew his name) as he dodged Mike’s increasingly frantic lunges.
‘Dad, don’t hurt him!’ shouted Scarlett, as Mike’s face thudded into the dirt once again.
‘That jumper’s dry-clean only!’ yelled Evie, as another rugb
y tackle failed.
‘This is like crap bullfighting,’ said Scarlett.
‘She said “crap”,’ said Mabel.
‘This creature,’ said Mike, dumping the wriggling Patch on the back seat, ‘is going straight to the dogs’ home when this holiday’s over.’
Nobody took that seriously. Everybody knew Mike loved the dog with the same fierce possessiveness that he felt about the others stuffed in the airless car with him. Evie glanced at him as he put the car into gear. He was a looker, her bloke, even with that scowl on his face. A day or two of country air, and the scowl would be history – that was the theory. Mike did a serious job and he took it seriously; duty often claimed him on weekends and evenings. Half of her resented the intrusion, while the other half envied his sense of purpose.
‘How many green bottles,’ asked Dan, ‘were we up to?’
‘Not sure,’ said Mike. ‘But I lost the will to live at thirty-eight.’
‘Daddy’s joking,’ said Evie.
‘Daddy isn’t,’ said Mike.
There was grit in his super-short dark hair and a smear of mud across his not-exactly-big-but-definitely-there nose. Evie experienced a small jolt of happy achievement at bagging such a healthy specimen all for her very own. It was a feeling that still sneaked up on her, even after twenty years. Admittedly, it snuck up less than it used to, and it died a death completely as her eyes strayed below his waistline; lustful pride couldn’t win against Mike’s yellow shorts.
The kids had arranged themselves in height order on the back seat. Here are some we made earlier, she thought.
Nobody knew where Dan’s Titian hair came from, but Scarlett had Evie’s wiggy, wayward, mucky blonde mop. Scarlett’s eyes were like Evie’s in design – slanted, sea-coloured, either judgemental or indulgent, depending on mood/point in menstrual cycle – although they gazed out through kohl flicks that Cleopatra might deem a little much. Dan was lean, like his dad, whereas Scarlett was ‘robust’ (the official term) like her mother.
And Mabel, their last-born – an emphatic full stop to their brood – had her father’s brunette looks and clever, searching, occasionally inscrutable eyes. Those freckles across her nose, however, thought Evie proprietorially, are down to me.
She frowned. ‘Dan, what happened to your face?’ Clean enough to eat your dinner off when he left the house, her son now looked like a miner coming off-shift.
‘Dunno.’ Dan shrugged. Trivialities such as basic hygiene meant little to him; he was a busy person, with things to break and people to dismay. ‘Why didn’t you invite somebody my age, Mum? I’ve got no one to play with.’
‘There’s a worldwide shortage of ten-year-old boys, haven’t you heard? I’m sure your big sister will let you hang out with her.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Scarlett, laughing for the first time since London. ‘It’d be my pleasure to hang out with somebody who picks his nose and keeps it for later.’
Spotting her opening, Mabel was there in a flash, heart-shaped face shining. ‘I’ll play with you, Dan,’ she said in the tiny, throaty, sugary voice that could make her sound like a very small, very camp man.
‘Who knows a good joke?’ Mike was being hearty, like a dad in a cereal ad.
Evie quailed. She’d heard all the kids’ jokes. Please God, if you’re there and still talking to me, she begged, don’t let Mabel tell her chicken-crossing-the-road joke.
‘Why,’ shouted Mabel, ‘did the chicken . . . ? No, hang on. I mean, when did the chicken . . . ? On the road, see, there’s this chicken and . . .’
‘I want to die,’ said Scarlett.
‘We’re almost there,’ said Evie. ‘We’re almost at paradise.’
‘Why now?’ wailed Evie. ‘Why do we have to get lost at the eleventh hour?’ Somewhere in this sunny snarl of overgrown lanes, Wellcome Manor awaited them, but the satnav kept directing them down the same rutted road. ‘I hate the satnav,’ she said vehemently as the car bumped and jolted. ‘She’s always had it in for me. The bitch is trying to come between me and my cream tea.’
‘What’s a cream tea?’ asked Dan, as Scarlett said, ‘That’s the fourth time we’ve passed that stupid tree.’
‘A cream tea is a colossal waste of money, Son,’ said Mike, squinting at the map on his knees.
‘A cream tea is one of Western civilization’s greatest achievements,’ said Evie. ‘There are scones, there is cream, there is jam. There are doilies. There is a pot of tea. There are no mugs.’ She stabbed the air, violently anti-mug. ‘There are dainty teacups and silver spoons.’ She closed her eyes, in a swoon. ‘And, best of all, there’s no washing up.’
‘Worst of all,’ said Mike, ‘you pay fifty quid to have a cucumber sarnie, and all sane people know that cucumber isn’t a proper filling. Plus,’ he rattled on, as Evie opened her mouth to disagree, ‘scones are stupid and teapots are poncey and finger-sandwiches sound downright rude.’
‘Finger-sandwiches . . .’ said Mabel thoughtfully from the back seat.
‘No, darling,’ said Evie, knowing where this was going, ‘they’re not sandwiches filled with fingers.’ She turned back to Mike. ‘I don’t care what you say, husband o’ mine, I’m having my cream tea if it kills me.’ She’d been looking forward to scones from the moment they’d plumped for Devon as their holiday destination. ‘So just you—’
‘I think,’ interrupted Mike, ‘we’re here.’
Everybody fell silent as the car turned through an open pair of high ironwork gates that spelled out ‘Wellcome Manor’ in ornately curling capitals. The car scrunched over gravel – such an expensive sound – and the drive that Evie had perved over in the brochure unfurled in front of them.
Wellcome Manor ignored the rules; it was better in real life.
Pillars on either side of the broad front door crumbled photogenically. Wisteria crawled across rows of tall sash windows. Hundreds of summers had baked the house, so that it seemed to exude a healing warmth as it towered against a backdrop of sky so blue it was surely Photoshopped.
It was a magnificent house, but as the car slowed to a stop, it seemed to Evie a friendly house, sitting back and smiling in the sunshine.
‘This is paradise,’ she murmured.
Already out of the car, with her arms folded, Scarlett said, ‘See? Old.’
‘I love it I love it I love it!’ Mabel was easier to please. (Except if you gave her carrots; never offer Mabel a carrot.)
Half-swallowed by the car boot, Mike shouted, ‘Take a bag, everyone!’ with the air of a man expecting to be ignored.
‘Yoo-hoo!’ The venerable old front door opened and a couple waved from the wide step. The woman held a baby in her arms, and a boy approximately the size of Mabel jumped up and down at her side. Mabel tore off at the sight of him, and Dan followed, dragging Patch on his lead, unaware that the dog was only partway through a complex toilet event.
The Ling-Littles had arrived before them. ‘Welcome to Wellcome!’ Clive’s voice boomed.
‘Thank you kindly, good sir!’ called Evie, as Mike’s head sank lower into the boot.
‘Lord of the manor,’ he muttered. ‘As if he owns the place.’
‘Be nice!’ Evie was wasting her breath. Mike and Clive were oil and water, their only common ground being their wives’ firm friendship.
Laden with bags, she lurched over the gravel like a drunk. She could tell their holiday home had impressed Mike; she could read his thoughts by the set of his shoulders or the jut of his chin. Prising him away from London had entailed blackmail, ultimatums and a shooting-from-the-hip late-night conversation ending with, ‘We need some quality time. There are things to discuss.’
‘These aren’t gardens,’ said Mike. ‘They’re grounds. I feel like a servant carrying m’lady’s bags.’
Wellcome Manor grew as they approached it. It was a house of distinct personality, sure of itself. Arches carved in the dark yew hedging offered tantalizing glimpses of secret views beyond, and they could just see the roo
fs of outbuildings huddled around the back of the house.
Scarlett thawed a little as she took in the stone lions at the foot of the steps and heard the splash of a Border collie running into water. ‘There’s a pool?’ she said, all her hauteur dissolving.
‘Round one to us,’ said Evie, but she’d lost Mike to Shen’s welcoming embrace. Evie kissed Clive politely, wrinkling her nose at the smell of his cigar. He was a bear of a man, short-necked, massive-shouldered, always dressed in City-boy uniform.
And then Shen was upon her, gabbling, dragging, kissing, commanding Clive to take the bags, and foisting her six-month-old daughter into Evie’s arms. ‘Fang wants her godmother.’
‘And her godmother wants her! Hello, you.’ Evie loved her god-daughter for many reasons: her sunny nature; her dimpled knees; her faultless fat face, which blended, beautifully, her father’s English ruddiness and her mother’s Chinese elegance. She also loved her for being called Fang – ‘It was my grandmother’s name!’ Shen had snapped defensively when the vicar giggled at the font.
‘Just look at this entrance hall.’ Shen’s accent and rapid speech still held a trace of her ancestry. ‘Look at it!’ she ordered, as if Evie wasn’t looking hard enough.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Mike, gazing about him. This was a compliment; he said it like that whenever Evie felt energetic enough to break out her suspenders.
Double-height, the hall was painted the colour of a dove’s underbelly. Doorways topped with plasterwork cornices offered up further rooms, each as sumptuous and delicious as this one. All the painted surfaces were perfect; all the furniture, both antique and quirkily modern, gleamed. There were no signs of wear and tear, no evidence of the argy-bargy of everyday life. They’d stepped into a magazine shoot, where the only smell was the aroma of cut flowers, and the light was flattering.
‘This is just the beginning. Through there’s the sitting room. One of them.’ Alight with happiness, Shen was at her best around costly things, which might explain why she got twitchy in Evie’s kitchen. ‘And through there’s the cinema room . . .’ She paused to allow that to sink in.