by CE Rose
I glanced at my watch. Poor baby! No wonder he was starving. I hurried to the lounge, sat in the armchair and Joe latched on immediately. As my eyes swept the room, I noticed the sofa. The cushions were no longer in the neat and ordered state I’d left them; they were disturbed and dented. Clearly someone had slept there last night. Bloody hell, what the…?
With a frown, I replayed what had happened at midnight. I couldn’t say for certain, but I was pretty sure I’d blacked out before reaching the side door. Which meant that someone also had keys.
* * *
Prompted by my mother-in-law’s interference, I had travelled to Norfolk with the vague notion of… what? Collecting paperwork for the probate, I supposed. But beyond that I had no real plan of what to do about mum’s belongings, or indeed the house itself. Although Laura was usually so pragmatic, our conversations since the funeral had revolved around her not-so-subtle questions about my wellbeing: ‘Everything OK, Ali? Is Thingy behaving himself now? Have you had lunch? What did you eat? What about all those check-ups you’re meant to attend to make sure you’re not cracking up?’
‘Stop it, Laura. You sound like bloody Madeleine.’
‘That’s cruel, Ali.’ Then, ‘You two were besties. Why did you fall out? Did she stumble off the pedestal?’
‘Very droll. How’s sweet, savage love with Shelby going?’
I hadn’t wanted to think about Madeleine, let alone talk about her. The trick with Laura was to change the subject, so I had. It had been lovely to listen to her unguarded prattle – what she and Shelby had done over the weekend, what she’d made him for dinner, the small but thoughtful gifts he’d regularly bought her. She hadn’t mentioned the baby issue, so neither had I. But we hadn’t discussed Mum’s will and estate, or what to do about her reams of stuff or the bungalow’s future either. Was the plan to pack everything up with a view to selling The Lodge, or would we keep it on and rent it out? Was it mortgaged to the hilt or were the title deeds somewhere in the house? The contents were immense, each pristine piece either nostalgic or antique, so I didn’t want to sell items lovingly kept or sourced by my mum, but Miles and I only had so much spare room in our home. There were her siblings, of course, but how would I allot the trinkets and ornaments, lamps and books? And what about the larger items of furniture? The sofa suite, wardrobes, drawers and beds…
Perhaps Mum’s friends would want a keepsake too. I gave a small smile at the thought of her horror film ‘staff’ and made a note to tell Laura about the addition of a giant, no less. But another thought occurred. The gardener and the cleaner were obviously still coming. Was anybody paying them? The house was running as though someone lived here. What about bills? The gas, council tax, water rates, a window cleaner? My chest felt tight with worry, but as I showered and dressed there was some wry relief that at least my legs were working this morning. I’d use them to visit Tom and Joan Hague and sound out things with them. Not only about finances, but the new bloody gardener who seemed to think it was OK to frequent my mum’s house. Then there was the secret about Dad. That was still something I wanted to unearth.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When I finally emerged outside, a gentle wind broke the humidity. Hoping I looked saner than I had two hours previously, I put Joe in his pram and strolled the longer but smooth-surfaced route to the main road. Turning left, I retraced the steps I’d so often taken as a child. Times had changed, of course, but Mum and Dad had thought nothing of letting me amble down this tree-lined hill to Bureside, the riverside property owned by Tom and Joan.
Though I must have met them from time to time before I was five, my clear recollection of them started when Dad bought The Lodge. At that age, I was suspicious of everyone, so it was no surprise I hadn’t liked them at first. Silly things bothered me – Joan’s sixties-style spectacles and swinging earrings, Tom’s over-friendliness and too-red lips. But after visiting Bureside with Mum on a few occasions, my adoration of their fairytale thatched cottage overcame my prejudice. Set in manicured gardens on the River Bure, it had its own lagoon complete with a white picket bridge, stunning weeping willows and a spread of pink water lilies. The inside was wonderful too, a dark Aladdin’s cave, chock-a-block with exquisite classical furniture and antique books. Mum had never been into old things in Sheffield; mega modern had been her preference back then, so her friendship with Joan must have converted her. And on some level me, too. How many times did I paw the huge gilt-edged Holy Bible before Tom persuaded Joan to give it to me with an indulgent smile? The pleasure of lugging it home had been immeasurable, but Mum’s sharp nose had shown her disapproval.
‘Joan really gave you that? A valuable antique isn’t something to play with, Ali. We’ll put it away until you’re older,’ she’d said, taking it from me.
‘Oh come on, Eve,’ Dad had replied. ‘It’s a beautiful gift. Let’s leave it out as a reminder of Tom’s generosity.’
‘Really? Such a dusty old thing?’
‘Yes.’ He’d circled her waist, deflecting her annoyance as only he could. ‘The Queen Anne table will be an ideal place for it. Though not quite as perfect, it has long, slim and shapely legs like yours.’
A lovely memory, but the clutch of anxiety was there. The bible was another charming and delicate item to be moved and rehoused.
Waving away a plump bee, I waited for the road to clear and looked at Bureside’s large driveway. Tom’s Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow wasn’t there as usual. It was probably thirty years old now, but it must have cost him a fair sum back in the day. Pretty impressive for an ex policeman. ‘Bobby on the beat turned entrepreneur,’ he once said when Laura asked what his job was. He’d winked at me. ‘With a huge dose of help from your very clever accountant daddy.’
I pushed the pram into the shade of a canopy above the front door, lifted the brass knocker and waited for a while. Only then did it occur to me that I should have telephoned first. I wasn’t a little girl strolling down to bother poor ‘Mrs Hague’ because I knew she’d be here and everyone else was busy. I was an adult now and I hadn’t seen her in the flesh for years. Though older than the woman in the photo above the hearth, she’d still been a tall, square-faced and handsome lady back then. Her grey hair in a bun, she’d always worn those dangly pearl earrings. And of course the cat’s-eye-shaped spectacles. Would she look the same today? I didn’t find out as the door was answered by Tom. I’d seen him more recently at Mum’s, so he was as I had expected – silver-haired these days, but still dapper with his neatly trimmed moustache. And those same lips and too-perfect teeth.
‘Alice! Hello, love,’ he said, obviously surprised. ‘We didn’t know you were here yet.’ He clearly hadn’t been to the deli or spoken to Mum’s staff. The thought of the gardener made me hot with embarrassment. Since discovering the dented cushions, I’d been infused with indignation. What the hell had he been doing stalking the house at flaming midnight, let alone helping himself to the sofa? I’d managed to overlook what a hysterical idiot I’d been, but it was suddenly there, lit by spotlights. Screaming and bloody fainting, then rushing out this morning like Cathy on the moors. Still, if I was the subject of gossip, it hadn’t yet spread this far out of the village.
Reverting to Tom, I stiffly waited for his greeting. Even a social embrace wasn’t my thing, but he’d always been tactile with easy hugs and kisses, and I had welcomed them once the childhood attachment had set in. But today his pale eyes welled and he simply took my hand. ‘Oh love, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your mum. How we miss her.’ He blew his nose loudly and focused on Joe. ‘Come on in then, and let’s see your little smasher. Eve was so thrilled.’
Wondering how old Tom was these days, I passed my son into his steady hands. Mid to late seventies was my guess. Though wearing wire-framed glasses today, he still looked fit and held himself erect like a soldier. He’d probably been quite a catch in his youth.
Lifting Joe up high, he laughed. ‘Aye, he’ll do.’ He kissed him on both cheeks and passe
d him back. ‘Cup of strong brew coming up.’ He smiled his white smile. ‘It’s the one thing I miss about Sheffield – not the tea, but the water; even when it’s boiled, it doesn’t taste right down here. Mind you, I get my Yorkshire puds every Sunday come rain or shine. I’m a lucky fella – my Joan’s are still the best in the world. Take a seat and make yourself comfortable, love. I’ll just be two minutes.’
He headed up the stairs, so I stepped into the oak-beamed lounge, propped Joe on my knee and glanced around. From the brown Chesterfield settee to the well-stocked teak bar, nothing had changed.
Hurtled back in time, I turned to the French doors behind me and pictured my parents drinking cocktails on the lawn. I smiled at the image. Sitting in stripy deck chairs, Mum was wearing a headscarf and swatting midges, Dad was popping the cherry from his glass into my mouth. The memory was so vivid, I almost felt the fruity crunch, the sweet and sour zip as it slipped down my throat.
Was the hammock still in the garden? I had preferred to gently swing beneath its shaded hood but Laura would stretch out on the grass in her tasselled denim shorts, desperate for her pale legs to catch the sun. Her shins were singed that last summer, hot and bright pink for days. ‘Why do I always burn Mum? She doesn’t. It’s so bloody unfair!’
Coming back to the room, I put my hand to my chest in surprise. A row of eyes were watching me from the console table. I had completely forgotten about the ‘sleepy-eyed’ porcelain dolls. With their mop of human-like hair, creamy china skin and staring eyes, they were actually quite spooky, but as a child I was more intrigued than alarmed by them. I knew Joan’s seven ‘German Bisque’ babies were very valuable and not to touch them, but I was fascinated by their exquisite Victorian outfits. I’d peer at their delicate eyelashes or peep into their pink mouths and spy tiny teeth. I’d longed to cradle ‘Lucy’, ‘William’ or ‘Beth’ to see what they felt like, but I always sensed I was being observed – by Mum with bated breath in case I dropped one, most probably.
I automatically began to count them, from the first auburn-haired boy to the last dark-haired girl, but a loud bang from somewhere made me look up. Was it Tom? Had he fallen?
‘Alice.’
I jumped. Carrying a tray, he was right beside me. I rubbed my goosebumped arms. ‘Oh sorry, I was miles away…’
Seeming to study me carefully, he put down the steaming drinks. ‘One mug of best tea,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell Joan I haven’t used a cup and saucer or I’ll be in trouble. Neither use nor ornament in my humble opinion.’
‘She isn’t here?’ I smiled. ‘Don’t tell me she’s swanning around in the Roller.’
‘No, Joan doesn’t drive. Not these days, at least.’
We fell silent for a while. I groped for what I wanted to ask about Dad. But where would I start? As lovely as Tom was, I didn’t know him that well. I could hardly just say: ‘Mum wanted to tell me something about Dad before she died. I was too absorbed in my own worries to listen. Do you know what it was?’ And if it was something bad about my dad, did I really want to know? Tom was still intently gazing. Bloody hell, it felt as though he was reading my mind. And no, right now I wasn’t ready to discover an Auntie Brenda ‘home truth’.
I swallowed. ‘How’s Sylvette?’ I quickly asked instead.
Sylvette was their spectacular ten-berth cruiser. She’d been integral to my rose-tinted summers, especially the outings on the Bure with Tom and Dad. Sleeping overnight in my very own cabin. Helping myself to fruity drinks from the bar. Eating fried breakfast on the decking. Feeling important at the helm of such a fine boat.
‘Do you and Joan still go for river trips?’ I added.
‘Aye, we do, just the two of us escaping. Romantic as we like. Ask Joan and she’ll tell you she’s happiest there. “Free as one of those swans”, she’ll say.’ He sat next to me and peered closely. ‘The important question is how our Alice is today. You’ve got something on your mind. How can I help you, love?’
Taking a wobbly breath, I tried to explain the issues which were worrying me most, but it was hard to keep focus. I was still so exhausted; I could have fallen asleep there and then. But it was a relief to talk to him, to spill out my pathetic concerns. At that moment he was the closest thing I had to a father and he was patient, measured and kind.
‘Let matters ride for now, love,’ he advised. ‘See how you and Laura feel about things in the weeks and the months to come. What’s the hurry? Have a little holiday while you’re here.’
Reaching an arm around my shoulder, he pulled me close and pecked the top of my hair. ‘It’s lovely to have young’uns around.’ Then, with a twinkle in his eye: ‘And no fretting about cleaners and gardeners and bills. We might be a little behind the times in these parts, but even we’ve heard of online banking, direct debits and standing orders.’
Feeling much brighter, I laughed and took a breath. ‘Actually, talking about the gardener…’
‘Aye?’
‘He said he’s called George, but Mum’s old gardener happened to be called George too. I’m pretty sure they aren’t one and the same.’
He smiled. ‘Well, that’s a relief. Old George died at least a year back.’
‘Right.’ I frowned. Why had Mum never mentioned employing a new one? ‘He seems to have house keys…’
‘Aye, he does.’
I inhaled to consider how best to approach last night’s bizarre episode and the bloody man’s clear familiarity with my mother’s home. But Tom continued to speak before I had chance. ‘Don’t let that worry you, love; what with the holidaymakers down here, it isn’t unusual.’ He cocked his head. ‘Besides, Eve trusted George with them. She very much liked him too.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
I left Bureside with mixed feelings. Tom’s sorrow and concern were touching, and his advice helpful and sound, but I was cross with myself for wimping out of my questions about Dad. As Laura had recalled, he’d gone off with Tom in the Roller most weeks during that last summer. Perhaps it was the memory of Mum’s tight face and her short temper, but those trips, looking back, seemed furtive.
‘Where are you going, Dad?’ Laura had demanded at some point. ‘Why can’t we come?’
‘You don’t want to travel to boring old Norwich,’ Tom had replied, slipping us both a five-pound note. ‘Save all your pennies for Great Yarmouth, eh?’
I frowned. After Mum’s funeral, Laura had speculated they were hospital visits for check-ups or treatment. Perhaps chemotherapy. But that meant the Hagues must have known about Dad’s illness…
The usual anxieties about who-knew-what made me unsettled. Sighing, I wondered what I’d do in the same position. Allow my daughters to have one last blissful holiday or prepare them for the horrific shock only weeks later? Laura was in the latter camp, I knew. She and Mum had row after row after Dad’s death: she was nearly fifteen; Mum should have told her. Mum knew she could be trusted to keep secrets, didn’t she? But I was in the former; covering my ears and blocking out life’s horrible truths was far preferable.
I inwardly groaned. Perhaps that was why I hadn’t registered Madeleine’s drinking for so long; maybe I had chosen to turn a blind eye.
The sun hot on my cheeks, I trudged up the leafy road. Stopping at the gates, I glanced up to The Lodge. Did I have the energy to slog around the perimeter road? Nope, it would be far quicker to take the shortcut.
A stupid idea. After only a few seconds of pushing against the stones, it became clear this route hadn’t been designed with a pram in mind. Winded and dizzy, I soon gave up, sat on the grassy bank and lowered my head. Though truly pathetic, the thought of a battle with pebbles made me want to weep. Far easier to take Joe out and collect the buggy later. A plan, a good plan. But before I’d even got to my feet, strong arms had scooped both up.
Pink-faced and undignified, I scrambled after them, mortified to be such a pitiful figure yet again. I longed to explain that I was once an assertive, professional woman in complete control of my life, but
knew I couldn’t squeeze out the words without crying.
At the front door I fumbled for my keys.
‘Have you eaten today?’ the giant asked. But he didn’t say it accusingly, as Miles might have done; it was just a question.
I shook my head. ‘Joe needs feeding,’ I replied. It felt like my mantra; life revolved around providing for my son, it was the only thing that kept me going.
He nodded. ‘I’ll make a sandwich then,’ he said. ‘The side entrance is open.’
* * *
Fearful the gardener might walk in with his offering any moment, I hid in my bedroom. Part of me knew I should be freaked out by this giant’s constant presence, that I should confront him about sleeping on the sofa and even ask for the keys back, but now I had spoken to Tom and received Mum’s blessing via him, I felt – even more weirdly – protected, of sorts. And even in my agitated state, I saw there was some humour in my situation. This man had all but carried me to bed last night and he was now making me lunch. It was bizarre and a little romantic. From what I had glimpsed so far, he was probably older than me, but definitely much younger and bigger than the old – dead – George. Though his face was half hidden by a shock of dark hair, this version was broad-shouldered and sinewy.
Picturing Laura’s raised eyebrows, I smiled. ‘Oh very Lady Chatterley,’ she’d laugh.
But the smirk disappeared, replaced by a sudden notion. I wasn’t Lady Chatterley; I was her daughter. This man had known where my bedroom was last night; he was obviously familiar with the lounge, the kitchen, the cupboards. He had a bloody key! And what had Tom said? That Mum ‘very much’ liked him. Oh God; perhaps he wasn’t just staff.
Carefully laying Joe in his cot, I caught my face in the wardrobe glass. Though I had avoided mirrors over the past few weeks, I’d seen my reflection in windows, and in Madeleine’s gaze, and I hadn’t liked what I saw. Today was no different. The dark circles beneath my eyes were tinged almost purple; accentuated by my tight ponytail, my face was pallid and thin.