by Nicola Slade
‘You mean falling in love with the wrong men? You could be right,’ she grinned reluctantly.
‘I know I am,’ retorted Julia. ‘We both believe wholeheartedly in happy-ever-after. I know exactly what happens: you start off with a terrific crush on someone, fall into bed with him, convinced he’s the love of your life, and bingo! He turns out to have a wife, or a fiancée, or he’s phobic about commitment, or he keeps his socks on in bed. ‘Or he’s gay,’ she added as she cleared away their coffee cups.
‘Gay?’ Finn was intrigued.
‘None of your business, I’m not going into that one,’ Julia spoke defiantly. ‘Look at us …’ she indicated the mirror. ‘… you’re a chip off the old block, you poor kid.’
Finn stared at the two of them reflected in the mirror opposite.
‘Oh God, never had a chance, did I?’
Matching cynical grins lit up the mirrored faces, so much alike in features that there could be no doubt of their relationship.
‘Look at us,’ Finn echoed her sister. ‘Big bouncy creatures, both tall and – what? I refuse to say fat, I think I’ll say voluptuous. It’s only the eyes and hair that are different.’
Julia laughed aloud at her.
‘And seventeen years difference in age, don’t forget. Anyway, go on with you, you’re not fat, you’re tall and curvaceous. Now me,’ she preened theatrically, ‘I’m the voluptuous one, always have been and I was never a blonde like you; a real, green-eyed, red-haired Irish cliché, that was me, and a tomboy too, at least till my boobs developed. And I’m two inches shorter than you.’
She sobered rapidly.
‘I’m right though, aren’t I? We’re alike when it comes to men, too.’
Finn sighed.
‘You know you are,’ she shrugged. ‘I never thought about it from your point of view, as a mother-figure. It must have been awful watching me doing the self-same thing, flinging myself in and out of love all these years, like a superannuated teenager.’
‘Very galling,’ Julia said in her driest tone. ‘Oh I know I was married to Colin for eleven years and I certainly didn’t stray, but the shine wore off a long time before he took off into the wide blue yonder. I don’t know if I’d have done anything about it, though, if he hadn’t made the decision, for I’d the ghost of Sister Mary Margaret sitting on my shoulder telling me divorce was a sin! I must admit, though, it was frustrating watching you louse up school and college because of a procession of wretched, spotty boys.’
‘Spotty boys? Are you talking about the lurves of my life?’ Finn reached out and hugged her sister. ‘Jeez, Ju, we’re a pair, aren’t we? At least you never messed up any jobs because of men. Ever since I dropped out of uni because of my tutor, I seem to last a couple of years or so in each relationship and I’ve never, ever managed to remember the golden rule: keep work and sex separate.’
‘If we start talking about my more spectacular mistakes we’ll be here all night, so go to bed, darling …’ Julia shrugged. ‘Just take things as they come, use this as an opportunity to find out what you really want, and maybe by Christmas you’ll have a clearer picture of what you want out of life.’
‘You’re a pal,’ Finn hugged her affectionately. ‘Like I said, I still think it’s a cop-out, moving into your garage and as to finding out what I want from life … who knows? But part of it is what I’m starting to do – taking control, making decisions by myself. Well, look at today – a job and a car. It’s a Renault by the way, I pick it up tomorrow. It’s a start, at least.’
Chapter 3
Ursula Buchanan sang as she put the kettle on, in a high, breathy soprano, frayed round the edges as she put the kettle on. She sang as she put out stale bread for the birds and when she put the slices of bread into the toaster for Henrietta’s breakfast; as she set out Henrietta’s tray the singing increased in volume for sheer happiness; she even sang when she scrubbed the downstairs lavatory, but that was later in the morning.
Such a small thing, she mused, as she sailed into Henrietta’s bedroom, pushed and pulled the pillows straight, pushed and pulled Henrietta into place and flicked open the legs of the bed-table, ignoring, for once, Henrietta’s evil eye. Such a tiny, infinitely minute occurrence in the history of mankind, that glance of mine at the notice-board in the post office a while back, and look where it’s leading me now!
The angel had been back a couple of times since his first manifestation, dropping in unannounced and perfectly friendly. Once he had forced her to stand up to Henrietta.
‘Go on,’ he’d urged. ‘Tell her you’re not a slave; say it, I dare you.’
So she had.
‘I’m your housekeeper, Henrietta, and your sister-in-law,’ both doughy chins wobbling in her earnest terror. ‘I know I’m lucky to have found a home with you since Mother and Father left me penniless, but you’re lucky too. Yes you are,’ she pressed on, ignoring the squawk of indignation and averting her eyes from the dark glare of Henrietta’s angry hooded eyes. ‘If it wasn’t for me you’d have to pay for nurses and cleaners and you’d probably have to go into a residential home which would cost you the earth.’
Reaction set in when Ursula reached the kitchen and she shivered beside the Rayburn.
‘That went rather well, I thought,’ remarked the voice like a peal of bells and the angel perched on the scrubbed pine kitchen table. ‘Buck up, Ursula, you won that round, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know how I dared!’ Ursula was so short of breath that she had to sit down. ‘What will I do if she decides to throw me out? For it’s true, you know, I do owe her a lot; she took me in when I had nowhere to go. I never had a job; they all said it would be too much for me …’
She turned on the angel, suddenly indignant. ‘You know all this, surely? If you’re an angel, I mean. All about the war and being trapped in the cellar when that house was bombed. Why am I bothering to tell you?’
She wiped an angry tear from the end of her nose.
‘I know I’m not clever and I forget things, but I … I used to be clever, you know, it wasn’t my fault.’
****
Rosemary Clavering frowned at the untidy kitchen. A whole day to herself and all she could think about was washing-up.
‘A whole day …’
It seemed unbelievable but here she was, the day stretching invitingly before her until five o’clock when Margot would be decanted from the community bus on its return trip from the day centre. Oh the day centre … Wonderful, wonderful place and wonderful, wonderful social worker for organising Margot’s disappearance there for two whole days each week.
‘Will I like it?’ Margot had asked, furrowing her brow while she tried to imagine a day spent with other elderly people.
Do I care, Rosemary had commented silently, but aloud, she said: ‘Oh, I think so, you’ve always loved meeting other people, haven’t you? Maybe we could go into town next week and buy you something nice, a new jumper perhaps? You’d want to keep looking nice, after all.’
‘What if she has an accident,’ Rosemary asked the social worker diffidently. ‘You know, wet knickers or something?’
‘Not a problem,’ was the brisk answer. ‘Just pack a bag with spares, mark everything with her name – oh yes, put something in that she likes, something familiar, so she can connect with home.’
Now, in the messy kitchen, Rosemary shuddered as she recalled the horrible, kindly words and the horrible, breezy tone. Just like packing a bag for playschool, or boarding school, she thought with a pang of unwilling commiseration. She may be a bloody nuisance, but she’s a human being, an adult, not a toddler, for God’s sake. And she is my mother, like it or not.
For a moment the responsibility weighed heavily then she shrugged and marched into the studio she had set up in the dining room. Five minutes later she was settled at the table, water pot filled, paper pinned to her board, a hastily plucked spray of chrysanthemums posing in front of her.
‘If Ursula’s idea is to get off the gro
und,’ she announced to the blackbird on the lawn. ‘I’d better get off my backside and this is one way I can see ahead, I’m sure the art shop in town will sell them on commission for me.’
The social and barter club she had proposed had grown from an idle comment to Julia Fitzgerald to a fully-fledged entity in a very short time. After that discussion over coffee she and Julia had talked about it again and again until Rosemary took the plunge.
‘I’ve put a poster in the village shop,’ she announced when Julia called in a few days afterwards. ‘Inviting anyone interested in forming a club – and I’ve outlined the aims – to meet in the lounge bar of the Bychurch Arms at eight o’clock on Tuesday night. You have to come and support me, then if nobody else comes I won’t feel such an idiot.’
Presiding over the inaugural meeting Rosemary managed a serene and welcoming smile that disguised the nervous knot in her stomach. Margot had been difficult all that day, the heels-dug-in phase, in obstinate mode, so much harder to deal with than the imperious dowager duchess or the increasingly recurring periods of disorientation and incoherent incontinence. It had been touch and go whether Rosemary was going to get away at all but at last the raddled prima donna turned into a tearful and weary elderly child and slid into a deep sleep.
‘Do come and sit down.’ Rosemary summoned up a wary smile at the diffident huddle of strangers and Julia surged to the rescue, warm and generous and welcoming.
‘Have you all got drinks? That’s great now! Look, Rosemary, why don’t we all go and sit in the garden, it’s so lovely just now.’ And before they realised it even the shyest members were being bustled out to breathe in the scent of spring and admire the glorious deep blue of the evening sky.
‘Oh you …’ Rosemary breathed in a grateful aside to Julia as they shifted chairs and tables into a cosy group. ‘I honestly believe you’d organise a party in a morgue.’
Julia raised an amused eyebrow.
‘Why not? You’d need a couple of stiff drinks, though.’
‘Idiot! But thanks, anyway. I think they’re beginning to thaw.’
‘I left the advert deliberately vague,’ Rosemary told them, after introducing herself and explaining her reason for wanting to start a social group. ‘I don’t really know what sort of group it might be, I just suggested a couple of ideas for barter, but I also thought we might get together for theatre trips, going to the pictures, meals out, that kind of thing. I mentioned art classes because, as I said just now, that’s what I know, but I’m sure we can muster quite a variety of skills that we could pool. Your input will be very welcome.’
She nodded pointedly to Julia who grinned and responded obediently, having been primed to volunteer as an encouragement to the rest.
‘Okay, well, I’m Julia Fitzgerald, originally from near Wexford. I live in Forge Cottage, I’ve no family, only a younger sister who works abroad, and I moved here from Winchester a few months back when I retired from the Royal County Hospital where I was a theatre sister. I don’t really want to offer nursing as a skill, as such, but I wouldn’t mind teaching a first aid course or something similar. I can also offer lifts, maybe for shopping trips, or hospital visits, whatever. Oh yes, I’m not a bad cook so if anyone wants a dinner party organised, I’m your woman.’
Ursula Buchanan was trembling in her seat next to Julia. She put up her hand and waved it excitedly at Rosemary who blinked, then nodded with a smile.
‘I live with my sister-in-law, Henrietta, who is older than I am and in poor health. Before she gave me a roof over my head I looked after my parents till they died so I’m afraid I’ve never had much chance to find out my skills. But I can bake very nicely, Mother always said, and if anybody has a cat I’d love to feed it if they have to go away any time. I used to have a cat at home but he died just before Mother and Henrietta won’t let me have one at her house; she thinks cats are vermin, but they’re not, I love them.’
Her voice rose and she sat down defiantly, a mottled flush on her pudgy cheeks. Julia turned to smile reassuringly at her and Ursula relaxed, basking as so many before her, in the warmth of Julia’s approval.
The old Pole announced himself next, as Marek Wiszynski, said he had been in the war with the Free Polish troops and was now a widower, his English wife was dead and his English son was now living in Australia.
‘He paid for me to go out there once,’ the old man said stiffly. ‘But we don’t get on so well. I don’t like the heat and I can’t afford to go again, paying my own way and I won’t let him do it again. I can do some things, a little carpentry, perhaps, fix a dripping tap, a leaking joint, that sort of thing. I would like to trade it for – oh, I don’t know, I suppose it would be friendship.’ He glared fiercely round at them after this admission but softened a little under the sympathy he sensed all around him. ‘This is for all of us, isn’t it? That we are a little lonely? The loved ones gone, the old way of life vanished, the family and friends far away?’
‘Oh yes,’ Bobbie Boyle breathed a sigh of relief and smiled timidly round the room. ‘I had to take early retirement at forty-five from Bracewell’s in Ramalley, after I was involved in a car crash and couldn’t stand for long hours. I used to be in ladies’ fashions. I can do dress-making and alterations and I’m a dab hand at mending and darning too and I can amuse small girls quite successfully. I’ve no family left and I’ve had to give up being Brown Owl in town because I had a nervous breakdown after my accident and they were afraid the parents wouldn’t like it, even though it was three years ago and I’m quite all right now. They tried to be nice about it, said I’d always be welcome to help out, but it’s not the same, is it? I … I was beginning to despair when I saw your notice but you’ve given me new hope!’
Julia caught Rosemary’s startled gaze; this was getting heavy, they hadn’t envisaged anything quite this serious. Rosemary turned gratefully to another woman, in her thirties maybe, who had raised a nervous hand.
‘Hello,’ she smiled. ‘Do tell us about yourself.’
‘Oh, thank you. Well, my name’s Sue Merrill and I teach Geography. My … my husband and I, um, lead separate lives nowadays and we’ve no children. I suppose I’m lonely too.’
She sat down abruptly and reached surreptitiously for a tissue to wipe her brimming eyes as the elegant man beside her rose to his feet with a courteous bow all round.
James Edward Stuart, Old Pretender and Claimant to the Throne, made his presence known, described his hobby of genealogy and smiled graciously at the startled group of his subjects as he sat down in a momentarily silent pub garden.
Again Julia and Rosemary gazed at each other in astonishment and something bordering on awe. Where on earth had these people come from?
A cackle of laughter came from the last occupant of the grouped garden chairs.
‘Well, well, well! I had my doubts about this club idea,’ announced the Cruella de Vil figure in black as she raised her glass to them all. ‘But I think I’ll fit in rather well after all. Now, of course you’ll want my potted biography?’
She settled her elegantly thin elderly legs, one crossed on the other, drew heavily on her cigarette, took another swig of what appeared to be neat gin, and told them who she was.
‘Name’s Delia Muncaster,’ she announced in a high, diamond-cut drawl straight out of a 1940s film. ‘I spent more than forty years married to Guy Muncaster, the art historian – you might have heard of him? Made a television series in the Seventies.’
‘Lady Delia? murmured Bobbie. ‘She’s an earl’s daughter you know,’ she breathed in a reverent whisper.
The murmur of respectful surprise was sufficient answer and she continued.
‘He died before Christmas and when things were settled I went house-hunting. That’s how I’ve ended up living here at the pub while Daisy Cottage is being done up for me. I’ll be moving in, hopefully, in a couple of months and your club sounds just the thing to help me get my bearings.’
Even as she spoke Delia could hear Guy’s
voice in her head, those whining tones, almost as highly pitched as her own: ‘Really, dear heart, cliché upon cliché! And what a collection of misfits and plebs; after all the years with me, surely you must have learned some refinement of taste. With your ancestry one would have expected a soupcon of elegance to be innate, would one not? However, even the most thoroughbred of lineages throws up the odd sport, I suppose.’
The introductions wound up with a shy contribution from an apologetic Jonathan Barlow who had tiptoed up the gravel path and hovered on the fringe of the group until Julia noticed and rescued him.
‘My wife won’t … she’s an invalid,’ he whispered as he faltered to a stop in his introduction. ‘But I’d like to … very much, I mean, if I may.’
Chapter 4
‘What were you saying about your interview for this shop job, Finn?’
Julia and Finn were washing up after supper when Julia suddenly recalled her sister’s remark.
‘What? Oh God, yes.’ Finn’s laughter bubbled up as she remembered. ‘It was so funny. I sort of hung around to help The Young Chevalier get his father into the car and even though he hated me being there he couldn’t have managed without me, your gentleman friend was absolutely knackered. He just kind of flopped there while poor Charlie was struggling to get him strapped in, and explained very sweetly that he’d been hoping to get the clairvoyant to contact the Stuart kings for him! Mind you,’ she frowned at the memory, ‘he did give me a rather naughty wink when Charlie wasn’t looking.’
‘Really?’ Julia frowned too. ‘That doesn’t sound like Jamie.’
‘Oh, not a come-on sort of wink, more as though he and I were sharing a joke at Charlie’s expense.
‘Anyway, I waved them off with a sweet smile to Charlie that made him cringe and I was just going to head for the car when I spotted the hippy in the bobble hat putting a card in the window, saying: ‘Shop Assistant wanted’. So I turned round and asked for the job.’