Just Another Day

by Patricia Fawcett

  The timing was all wrong.

  If she had met him before David, then it might well have been a different story.

  After a hectic time in London, she was back in Devon, profoundly relieved to be back, and getting ready for the Sandersons’ dinner party. She had had a busy day, having to rush off a belated birthday card to Izzy. The last time she had written to her was a brief note to thank her for the wedding present, but it had been one of many little letters, specially printed thank-you cards, and she recalled that there had been no personal touch which she now regretted. Sometimes she treated Izzy so badly that she wondered quite why she continued to keep the friendship ticking over as she did for her own birthday was earlier in the year and Izzy’s card, always a cheerfully rude one, meant she had to reciprocate.

  She had meant to put a letter in with the birthday card – a bland one-size-fits-all card with pink roses on the cover - explaining what had happened but in the event she did not have the time to compose one and it hardly seemed the right moment anyway, depressing somebody on their birthday. After she posted it, she realized that excluding David’s name after the ‘with love from’ bit might tell Izzy something for Izzy had put with love from Izzy, Alan, Vicky, Sarah, Jane and Mabel on hers but she was in no mood for an Izzy post-mortem on events. She would get round to telling her, telephoning her maybe and probably meeting her now that they lived closer but she was in no great hurry.

  Izzy was a face from the past and a constant reminder of something she had no wish to be reminded of. She put it out of her mind, terribly busy as she was with the whole house-purchase business which was proving to be something of a nightmare. It was going through, although it was subject to slowing down procedures that seemed to dog the local solicitors. Francesca’s solicitor was a woman, Ms Joanna J. Jennings of Cooper & Franklin whose offices were in a splendid white-fronted building on the Plymouth road. On the telephone during the initial enquiry Ms Jennings had sounded suitably brisk and business-like and her no-nonsense tone had impressed Francesca. She imagined for some reason a small jolly lady in her fifties, rather plump but the reality was a little different.

  In the flesh, Ms Jennings was tall and slender and considerably younger than fifty. She had a severe bob so perfect it might have been a wig, sharp features, and a penchant for brightly tailored jackets and unfortunately she had just broken her leg skiing in Colorado. Whilst Francesca had some sympathy with her predicament she could not help feeling annoyed that she had jetted off on holiday when she ought to have been dealing with the reports from the surveyor and the land registry and goodness know who else. All the reports were sitting on her desk and because the fracture was a tricky one and in addition there was some problem with the medical insurance, Francesca did not feel she could be as huffy as she wanted to be. Nobody seemed to have heard of the word delegation in that office and Selina, when she heard the reason for the hold-up, said that she should tell the woman to bung in some painkillers and get her arse into the office a.s.a.p.

  But then Selina would say that, Selina had been known to struggle into the office on the very verge of pneumonia and had been dealing with paperwork at home the day after delivering each of her children. So the unfortunate Ms Jennings got short shrift from her.

  On top of that, the Sandersons’ solicitor was a certain much loved local man Edwin Northcup, an old dodderer with a name and disposition straight out of a Dickens novel. Unwilling to bow out of the business, he was about eighty and he was just out of hospital after suffering a perforated ulcer so it had to be said that they had been extremely unfortunate in their choice of professionals. So, for the moment, Francesca was renting a furnished flat above the delicatessen on the high street on a short-term lease which she hoped would be sufficient to see her through and this evening she was in the tiny bedroom trying to decide what to wear for the dinner party.

  Pamela had issued the invitation and it was not one she felt she could refuse but she was uneasy about the wisdom of accepting it in the first place wondering just what the rules of engagement were. Ought she, the buyer, to be seen to be fraternising with the vendors? She had decided to accept anyway if for no other reason than she wanted to see the house again.

  The two parties were sitting, pens poised, all ready for the final signatures when their two scintillating solicitors could get their fingers out so it was just a waiting game but, with both of them anxious to get moving, nothing could possibly go wrong.

  Could it?

  Reminded of what had gone wrong before with David staging the supreme sacrifice to avoid signing on the dotted line, she was not so sure.

  ‘These damned solicitors,’ Pamela Sanderson said, greeting Francesca with a kiss on both cheeks and drawing her into the hall. ‘Aren’t they so annoying? Richard has been tearing his hair out.’ She smiled as she added. ‘Figuratively speaking of course.’

  Francesca had left her umbrella in the porch, but in the short dash from her flat she felt a bit damp round the ankles in the sudden torrential downpour, peep-toe shoes not being ideal wet weather wear.

  ‘Oh you poor girl. Look at you. You’re drenched. You should have driven round.’

  Francesca laughed. ‘Much too lazy. I only live five minutes away.’

  ‘That’s no excuse. I drive everywhere, dear. Isn’t all this house business taking an age? The good news is that Mr Northcup has just come up trumps and says we should be able to complete by the 12th so you can move in as soon as you like after that. Now you mustn’t worry about us. We can move out at a moment’s notice because all our furniture is going into storage before we ship it over. I can’t wait to get to France,’ she said, pausing for breath and taking Francesca’s black pashmina from her. ‘The weather’s gone off, hasn’t it? I suppose that’s the summer gone unless it perks up again. At least you know where you are in the south of France. It’s glorious sunshine all summer long aside from the occasional thunderstorms which are marvellous too in their way.’

  ‘Whereabouts are you moving to in France? Gareth did say but I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘The Riviera near Nice. Do you know it? The views from our terrace are just outstanding. Blue sea, blue sky, heavenly scents. I can’t wait.’

  ‘It sounds lovely.’

  ‘Oh, here’s Richard. Francesca’s here, darling.’

  ‘Francesca, how nice to see you. Looking lovely as usual.’ Her husband appeared, beaming. He was a portly, bald-headed gentleman, several inches shorter than his wife. He was dressed in a formal fashion with a dark suit, white shirt and bow tie. ‘Come on through. We wondered whether to light the fire, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to do it, not in July. Bloody awful weather, isn’t it? Gareth says he’s very nearly been blown off the cliff several times. Mind you, the sea over there is a sight to behold when it’s like this. Did Pamela tell you Northcup’s given us a date?’

  ‘Date?’

  ‘For the move.’

  ‘Of course.’ She cursed herself for her lack of attention. Sometimes these days she felt she was on another planet and people must think her very dim. She smiled at Richard, liking him. He and Pamela were two of a kind.

  ‘12th July, but don’t hold your breath,’ he went on cheerfully. ‘I’m not sure we should be doing this, meeting socially. Is it a bit off I ask myself? Don’t breathe a word to Northcup. Officious old soul. If he knew we were doing this, meeting behind his back, he’d have another coronary.’

  ‘It was an ulcer, darling.’ Pamela fussed around at the drinks cabinet. ‘Will you have a dry sherry or would you prefer something else?’

  Francesca could not plead she was driving and rather than cause a fuss accepted the sherry Pamela seemed keen for her to have. She sipped it gingerly and a morsel from a plate of nibbles. Knowing that Pamela had a vast wardrobe and liked to dress up, Francesca had opted for a knee-length dress in oyster silk. Pamela’s dress sense straddled a dangerous line, her lustrous long blonde hair à la Marilyn Monroe and the voluptuous figure a hindrance to the elega
nt image she strived to achieve.

  Francesca knew exactly what David would have said about the delightful Pamela and the thought made her smile. She was a sparkling tonic of a lady and would certainly light up the Riviera.

  ‘Full circle,’ Pamela said happily, sitting down with her glass. ‘The house is coming full circle. Isn’t that wonderful? Do you think it knows?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Richard laughed. ‘Excuse me, Francesca, but doesn’t my lovely wife talk a lot of bullshit.’

  ‘Language, Richard. I may be used to you, but Francesca’s not.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Francesca laughed too, although Richard did pull an apologetic face. ‘Perhaps it does know.’

  ‘You’re not vegetarian or vegan or gluten-free or whatever, are you?’ Pamela asked with a sudden squeal. ‘Oh my gracious me, I forgot to ask. Please say you’re not.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ Richard said as she reassured them. ‘She’s done venison parcels. Freshly shot deer from the farm shop.’

  ‘Humanely dealt with,’ Pamela said hastily. ‘The poor darling wouldn’t have known what had hit it so you needn’t worry and it’s been hanging ever since. It should be beautifully tender.’

  ‘Lovely.’ Francesca smiled although it was gritting teeth time because venison was her least favourite meat.

  ‘With new potatoes, braised leeks and swede and carrot puree,’ Pamela rhymed off the menu. ‘And for dessert, I’ve done lime and ginger cheesecake or peach and almond strudel with clotted cream of course. We’re having no nonsense with calorie counting tonight, not that you need to worry, Francesca.’

  ‘She’s been in the kitchen all day long practising for when we move to France,’ Richard said. ‘Pamela’s going to spend her time cooking delicious meals, shopping in the local market, quilting and what have you and I’m going to sit around doing absolutely nothing.’

  ‘That’s what he thinks, Francesca. I must show you a picture of the new house. We have a pool. Isn’t that marvellous? I’ll just go and get it.’

  The bell rang as Pamela returned and handing Francesca the pictures, she jumped up, smoothing the skirt of her dress. ‘That will be Gareth,’ she said. ‘I did mention that he was coming along, didn’t I?’

  ‘No. You didn’t.’

  ‘Oh sorry. I wasn’t being secretive.’

  Wasn’t she? Francesca asked herself.

  With Richard momentarily distracted and Pamela out in the hall, Francesca took a moment to fish in her bag and hastily check her lipstick.

  Lilac House still had the faint feel of a B&B as they ate their meal in the dining-room where Francesca, as a guest, had breakfasted not so long ago. Pamela was a charming attentive hostess if a little obsessed by the recent world cruise which she and Richard had enjoyed with the benefit of their stateroom with balcony. After all, what was the point forking out money for a cruise, she said, if all you could afford was a broom cupboard somewhere in the depths of the ship?

  ‘We thought we would go the whole hog. After all, it’s only money,’ Richard explained, just a shade defensively. ‘We have no children and, you never know, either one of us could have a heart attack and drop dead tomorrow. Oh God, sorry, I forgot about.…’

  The silence was suddenly painful, Pamela springing into action after a shocked moment, but not before she shot her husband an irritated glance.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Francesca said quickly, seeing his embarrassment and glossing over it. ‘Not to worry. Honestly it doesn’t matter.’

  The main course was very good, the food elegantly arranged on fashionably square plates, the presentation worthy of a TV chef, little towers of venison and vegetables tastefully surrounded by … well, whatever it was Francesca decided it was best not to refer to it as gravy.

  As Pamela fussed around, she exchanged a small smile with Gareth who seemed thoroughly at ease which was in direct contrast to her own state of mind. He had made an effort tonight, wearing shiny leather shoes, smart trousers and a pale blue shirt, but no jacket or tie.

  Richard, his earlier slip-up clearly uppermost in his mind, was very careful not to refer in any way to her late husband, but Gareth had no such qualms and brought the conversation round to it by saying that it was great for her to have a big project to deal with.

  ‘I heard somewhere that it helps the grieving process if you have something to do, and there’s nothing quite like doing up a house,’ he said. ‘Getting stuck into this will really help.’

  Pamela gave him an annoyed look, irritated on two counts; firstly that he had brought up the subject at all and secondly that he was suggesting that the house needed a major gutting. But, she was an accomplished hostess, and deftly changed the subject back to France.

  ‘Although I am so thrilled to be going abroad I shall miss being here,’ she said. ‘It’s so wonderful to step outside your door almost straight onto the moor. I can remember having some lovely leisurely walks.’

  ‘When?’ Richard smiled fondly at her. ‘I can count the number of times you have been for a walk on the moor.’

  ‘Yes, well …’ she sighed. ‘To be honest, unless it’s brilliantly sunny I do find it a tad depressing. Miles and miles of grass and bracken and then if the mist does come down you are instantly reminded of Sherlock Holmes and that hound.’

  ‘I love it,’ Francesca said, leaping to its defence, looking round at them, but particularly at Gareth. ‘You are quite right, though, the mists can be frightening. It was a no go area for us in bad weather. When I was little we used to have picnics in summer. Me and my mother and my brother.’

  ‘Oh, you have a brother? What’s his name? What does he do?’

  Pamela was waiting for an answer but it was Gareth who picked up on her hesitation, quickly carrying on the conversation. ‘I love the moor too, but I probably love my walks along the cliff more because of the sea. You must come over to my place,’ he added, looking at Francesca. ‘Bring your walking boots.’

  ‘Walking boots?’ Pamela laughed. ‘She doesn’t have any. Do you, Francesca? And if she’s anything like me she won’t be able to walk in the wretched things. Just get yourself some trainers, Francesca, and have done with it.’

  ‘I’d love to do some proper walking, but I’m very rusty.’ She addressed her reply firmly towards Gareth. ‘You can’t really count an amble round the park in the city, can you?’

  ‘No worries. I’ll break you in gently.’

  ‘Remind me, isn’t Tintagel all about King Arthur?’

  ‘Indeed. Do you know the story?’

  ‘The fable,’ Pamela corrected him with a smile.

  ‘He’s reputed to have been born on Tintagel Island in the castle there. And just below on Castle Beach you can see Merlin’s Cave. Great stuff.’

  ‘If you believe all that nonsense,’ Pamela sniffed.

  ‘It’s just a short hop from Boscastle,’ Gareth said, ignoring her rather pointedly after her last remark.

  ‘Isn’t that where they had that terrible flood?’

  ‘Yes but they’ve put it all behind them. Cornish folk are resilient to say the least. The last time I saw it the river was no more than a trickle. It’s difficult to imagine how awful it was on that day.’

  ‘Poor souls.’ Pamela sighed. ‘I can’t imagine anything worse than having your home flooded. I don’t like the sea. In fact, I’m frightened of it.’

  Richard laughed. ‘And there speaks a woman who’s just been on a round the world cruise. Now, when we’ve been dashed about on all the oceans of the world you tell me you’re frightened of the sea.’

  ‘That’s different. You are perfectly safe on a liner that size.’

  ‘Remember the Titanic,’ Richard said, a twinkle in his eye as Pamela went out to get the cheese and biscuits. ‘To be honest,’ he said quietly when she was out of the room. ‘It did get a bit hairy when we had storms and let’s face it you can’t go around the world without hitting a few. We hit a particularly bad one in the Indian Ocean. Pamela wa
s as white as a sheet, prone on her bed the whole day stuffed with sea sickness pills. I’m lucky. I had the dining-room to myself. It can pitch and toss all it likes and it doesn’t bother me. But I tell you, those waves were something to behold. Fantastic but bloody terrifying.’

  Pamela returned with an oval tray filled with tiny crackers, bunches of mixed grapes and various cheeses.

  ‘Do help yourselves.’

  ‘That’s what I like about the sea,’ Gareth said, smiling gently. ‘It’s moody and it changes colour with its moods. If I had any talent as a painter, I would be in my element. My study in the cottage has this fantastic view.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Pamela said. ‘He’s not exaggerating. Gareth has this wonderful cottage, Francesca.’

  ‘I thought you lived in a caravan.’

  ‘I do, but I own the cottage,’ he said. ‘During the summer I live in a caravan in the field next door and let the cottage out to visitors. It’s purely a financial arrangement. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to.’

  ‘Now, Gareth, you know you love living in your caravan,’ Pamela chided him gently.

  ‘I suppose I do, but letting out the cottage helps with the mortgage and I’m always glad to move back in winter. I like the sea in winter.’

  ‘Gareth does have creative talents, but he’s far too modest,’ Pamela said. ‘It may not be painting but he writes. Tell her about your books, Gareth.’

  ‘No, no. I would bore her to death,’ he said, displaying what seemed to Francesca to be a genuine shyness at the prospect, persuaded eventually by a persistent Pamela. ‘It’s nothing very exciting. I write technical manuals designed mainly for students offering practical approaches and solutions to business problems. That’s it in a nutshell. There …’ he smiled. ‘Now I have bored you rigid.’