by Fanny Blake
Isla stopped listening. Instead, she shunted cereal, toast (cold) and jam across the table, hoping that Charlie would remember their meal-time deal. Eventually the call ended and Charlie came and sat down with all the energy of someone who had just completed a marathon.
‘So!’ Isla tried to be breezy but ended up sounding like a school teacher. ‘Haddon Hall. Ready?’
Charlie pulled the cereal towards her, then reached for her phone. Several narrow silver bangles and a fabric wristband that Isla hadn’t noticed before slid down her arm.
‘Rules,’ she reminded her. She bit back a comment on Charlie’s denim shorts, so short that the pockets hung down her thighs from the inside and her bum could almost be seen from behind.
‘Fuck’s sake.’ Charlie spoke under her breath but with such irritability that Isla didn’t need to hear the words to understand the sentiment. Nonetheless the phone disappeared into a pocket.
‘Tea?’ Isla said as if there was nothing wrong.
‘Please.’ Charlie began to spread honey on a piece of toast. They didn’t speak for a few minutes while Charlie ate that then helped herself to another. Then she broke the silence. ‘Gran, have you really got a boyfriend?’
‘Well, yes.’ Charlie’s curiosity made her feel uncomfortable.
‘Why isn’t he here with you then?’ She bit into the last piece of toast with a crunch.
‘He’s not that interested in me and my issues with Mum, and anyway he’s got his own stuff to do. He is coming up this weekend though.’ She felt herself blushing.
‘Is he?’ Now Charlie was really interested. ‘When? Will I meet him?’
‘He’s arriving at Preston when I put you on the train home. I’m not sure which happens first, so maybe.’ She hadn’t anticipated introducing him to the family so soon.
‘Oh.’ A ping made her take out her phone and flick at its side before putting it away again. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Tall. Kind. Funny, sometimes.’
And he’s woken me from my determinedly single state, reminded me what life can be like.
But Charlie had already lost interest. ‘Can we go to the dog show first?’
Isla couldn’t help smiling. ‘No. We’ll go to Haddon Hall while it’s quiet. Then we’ll spend the afternoon at the show. There you are. One each.’
‘You’ll like the dog show.’ But she wasn’t going to insist.
‘And you might like the Hall. Let’s go.’
‘Give me a chance.’ Charlie picked up her tea, a frown so deeply etched on her forehead, Isla couldn’t help but smile.
* * *
Much later than planned, they were walking over a small hump-backed bridge on the path leading to the Hall. Charlie sat on the low wall, held her phone at arm’s length and pouted towards the lens. ‘Insta,’ she said, by way of explanation.
Isla understood but as someone who had managed to get through life without using any more social media than Facebook sporadically, she didn’t really see the point. ‘You’ll have to show me how it works,’ she said. She was interested in Charlie’s and her friends’ secret world.
‘Later.’ Click. Thumbs.
They crossed the uneven courtyard and went through a front door surrounded by rambling roses. Inside, the house was cool and dark. They wandered through the Tudor kitchens, envying the vast fireplaces and touching the cool stone surfaces. ‘I’d rather have an Aga,’ was Charlie’s opinion.
Back in the banqueting hall, Isla pointed at an iron manacle and lock attached to the wall. ‘Look at this! If you drank too much or too little you’d be locked here and have drink poured down inside your sleeve.’
Charlie adjusted her ponytail, unimpressed.
As they wandered through the rooms, Isla sensed Charlie’s interest as she stopped to look at the dogs painted on the ceiling in the parlour, the wonky glass in the long gallery, the plaster relief of Orpheus taming the animals in the bedroom. She was careful not to go on too much, remembering the tedium of being dragged round the occasional stately home by her parents. But Charlie listened to what she did say. When they reached the terraced gardens, she left her granddaughter sitting on the grass mooning over her phone, while she mooched around, seeing what ideas she could pinch for her own garden, inspired by the huge blousy poppies, old-fashioned roses she hadn’t seen before, the wild flower borders and the mixing and matching of colour and plants.
‘Almost done.’ Isla came and sat down beside her granddaughter. Bees buzzed in the lavender behind them. ‘Imagine what it must have been like living here.’ Below them were the water meadows, a stream crossed by a picturesque arched stone bridge; behind them, a wood.
Charlie was staring at the cover of the guidebook. ‘Weird.’
They sat for a bit until Isla got to her feet. ‘We should make a move. A quick look at the chapel, then we’re done.’
With a sigh that expressed her extreme suffering, Charlie followed her. In the tiny chapel, Isla couldn’t resist laying her hand on an exquisite effigy of a young boy at rest. The marble was chilly to the touch.
‘Who is he?’ Charlie, who had been standing at the door of the chapel (escape route), came to stand beside her.
‘He died when he was nine,’ read Isla. ‘His mother was an amateur sculptor who was so grief-stricken she spent the next thirty years making this. Imagine.’
‘Mum would never do anything like that.’ That note of vulnerability had crept back beneath the don’t-care veneer.
Isla put an arm round her. ‘She might, you know.’
‘She’d never get her scripts written if she did.’ Charlie spoke with resignation and resentment as she shrugged Isla off.
The brief moment of togetherness was over.
‘I wonder how she’s getting on.’
‘What if they want her to go and live in the States some of the time?’ Charlie turned her phone over and over.
‘They won’t.’ This wasn’t something Isla had even considered. ‘She belongs here with you and Mike.’
‘He’s never here though.’
‘That’s a cameraman’s job for you. It’s not because he wants to be away from home.’ Couldn’t Helen see how much their frequent absences upset their daughter? Should Isla blame herself? She had tried so hard to be different from her own mother, to be as present and loving as she could be to her own daughter, and now Helen seemed to be reverting to May’s ways. But trying to discuss it wouldn’t help, she knew that from experience. ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t agree to that. She’s got too much that she loves at home. Including you.’
‘Okay.’ She didn’t sound convinced.
‘Time for the dog show. You want to take Jock?’
Charlie brightened. ‘Of course.’
‘Then we’d better go back and get him.’
* * *
Every possible breed of dog had been gathered at the showground. Spirited springers pulled at their leads, lean lurchers looked into the distance, Labradors sniffed around the waste bins, hopeful. Isla spotted a pair of shaggy Spinones – her favourites – drool trailing from their mouths.
‘Gran, look!’ Charlie pointed at a basset hound whose long belly almost scraped the ground. She laughed before her attention was taken by a group of handsome English and Irish setters.
The sun shone on tents busy with people out for a good afternoon. The beer tents were doing a roaring trade while queues snaked away from the food vans. The atmosphere was buzzy, loud with chatter and the sound of a brass band. Announcements were made over a couple of tannoy systems that no one seemed to take much notice of.
There were stalls selling everything a pet could need, dog-food stalls, dog charities reeling people in for their money. The smell of fried food and the sweetness of candyfloss wafted across the ground.
‘Look at those foot-long hot dogs! They look wicked.’
So, armed with one each, they planted themselves at the edge of one of the show rings. They watched dogs retrieving things, terrier racing and a g
un-dog scurry, dogs competing over hurdles, in agility tests and show classes. Charlie loved it, pointing out the different dogs, cheering them on, taking photos.
Isla was quite happy half-watching what was going on in the ring and half daydreaming, to the extent that she didn’t notice Jock edge closer and then pounce…
‘Jock! That’s my lunch!’
Too late. The sausage had gone. Charlie laughed and laughed.
Grateful to him in a way, Isla pulled out her own phone and photographed an elegant black greyhound that had just won the fastest recall competition. Charlie reached for it. ‘You could put that on Instagram. Look.’ Thumbs flying and few minutes later, Isla had an Instagram account and had posted three photos and followed four people. Morag, to her surprise, was one of them. Ian was another. Helen another. And Di, her next-door neighbour.
‘You’ll soon have loads more.’ Charlie was confident as she returned to her phone. ‘I said I’d show you.’
‘Do I really want loads?’ Isla thought she probably didn’t but perhaps she’d post a few more pictures and see what happened. She sat and scrolled through Ian’s feed, curious to see what he posted. Always theatre-related, often self-regarding, there were pictures of him at work and of posters of the shows he been to and recommended. She ‘liked’ one or two of them as Charlie had showed her. During a break between events, she did what she’d vowed she wouldn’t and switched to her emails.
Mum! I’m sorry not to have been in touch more. Phone calls are hard because of the time difference. How are you and Charlie getting on? Hope she’s not too much trouble. And have you got to the bottom of Granny’s will yet? I’ve been thinking about her a lot, trying to understand, but I don’t feel I ever really got to know her. I guess we lived too far away. LA is extraordinary – not somewhere I’d choose to be exactly, but the meetings I’ve had have been really promising. More soon. Hxx
What did she mean, more soon? She was due back in a couple of days. Among her other emails, Isla noticed one from the museum but ignored it. She had promised herself she would only check work emails in the evening when she was alone. She clicked out of the app and turned to Charlie. She had seen couples in restaurants sitting together in silence, each absorbed by their own screen. That was just what she and Charlie had been doing. Isla put hers away.
When she was a child, the family was made to sit at the table and talk. Whether they liked it or not.
‘You first, Isla. What have you done today?’ Her father would peer over the top of his spectacles and listen, not allowing interruptions.
They would talk about what they’d done, what was going on in the world, what the news was from their friends. Their father would probe for more information – ‘Do you think men should land on the moon?’ – always interested, always prising out what he wanted to hear: ‘Can you imagine being able to see who you’re speaking to at the other end of the phone?’ ‘Do you think that was the right thing to do?’ May would listen too but could never tolerate a conversation that went on too long – so she would hasten the meal on when she’d had enough. ‘David! Really!’ Isla could hear the sound of those fingers tapping against the table top even now.
Her phone pinged with a text. She fished the phone back out of her pocket. Ian.
Stalking me now?! What next?
She couldn’t help smiling.
Seriously, I was thinking about Aggie’s party when I saw you follow me on Insta and that decided me. The idiots passed me over for a part and I’d love to see the old girl again so I will go. I thought I could come up a couple of days before and meet you? Then I could spend a bit of time with Charlie. Give you a break.
A break! He’d never offered to help her before. He must be at a very loose end. No job. No fourth wife. But he was another one who thought her holiday could be interrupted at will? Did no one think she might actually want to be on her own? She typed back without a second thought.
Charlie going home from Preston on Friday so won’t be here. Not sure where I’ll be after that
Not true.
I’ll see you in Edinburgh. Your first ex-wife
Huh!
She looked up. Charlie was staring at a pair of dogs with long white dreadlocks and thumbing something into her phone. ‘Komondors,’ she said authoritatively.
‘They must be boiling.’ Isla patted Jock. ‘You’re lucky, old boy.’
The dog was panting noisily, so Isla got the bottle of water and bowl out of her shoulder bag for him.
Charlie was as relaxed as Isla had seen her, her hair tied back in a ponytail so Isla could see her face. She reminded Isla of the way Helen would sit, rapt, in front of the show when she’d take her to the theatre.
‘What?’ And all at once, she was that glowering teenager again, challenging Isla with a glare.
‘Nothing.’
‘You were staring at me.’
‘I wasn’t.’ She hadn’t meant to. ‘I was thinking about the next few days and what we’re going to do.’
What were they going to do? Those couple of stately homes and gardens en route that she’d been looking forward to exploring were clearly off the menu now. She fingered the National Trust card in her pocket.
‘You could put me on a train home. Ellie says I can stay with her.’ Charlie nodded at her phone. So that’s what she’d been doing: gathering support. So not everyone was against her. That at least was something.
‘Can you imagine what Helen would say if I did that?’
Charlie raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment of the hell that would be raised. Isla would be accused of taking over, not respecting Helen’s decisions, interfering. Helen was sensitive about her potential inadequacies as a parent and, as a result, defended her decisions to the hilt.
‘Have we had enough?’ She’d kill for a shower and a cup of tea.
‘I guess.’ Charlie looked around her before getting to her feet. ‘And I suppose I do want to see if you get to the bottom of everything.’
‘That makes it sound very serious.’
‘But it is, isn’t it? To you, at least.’
‘Yes, you’re right. It is.’
On their way back to the car, Charlie walked a couple of steps behind Isla as if she’d rather not be seen with her. Isla was okay with that. If Charlie preferred to keep her distance for a bit, so be it.
19
That evening, Morag and Louise drove them to see the well dressings in Youlgrave.
‘You’ll like this,’ encouraged Louise.
‘Yeah?’ said Charlie as she made crossing the car park look like a gargantuan effort.
In the shade of one of the church buttresses, they found their first well dressing. Flower petals, eggshell, straw, coffee beans and other natural materials had been pressed into clay to make a picture the size of a large door.
‘This is extraordinary,’ Isla said, leaning as close as she could to appreciate the intricacy of the work. Charlie had been leaning over the barrier too before straightening up.
‘It’s all about the destruction of the rainforest,’ she said, as if they couldn’t possibly have understood. ‘I saw a documentary about this. They’re clearing forests to plant palm-oil plantations so the natural habitat of the orangutans is destroyed and they have nowhere to go.’
They all stared at her.
‘They use palm oil in all these products.’ She pointed at the petal illustrations framing the main image. ‘But look what happens to the wildlife. See. “We are made of the leaves of one tree.” ’ She read the words running around the image of a human hand shaking an ape’s.
Isla felt proud her granddaughter knew about the situation and, more importantly, cared.
‘Are there any more?’ Charlie was already walking towards the gate into the main street.
The three women exchanged glances. They had expected her to submit to the expedition unwillingly. Instead, the four of them walked the length of the picturesque main street together, admiring each well dressing in turn.
> ‘Read this, Gran!’ Charlie called to Isla who was watching Jock greet a sheepdog. ‘Look! This is important. It even mentions Greta’s speech. Did you hear it?’
‘Well, not all but I know the gist,’ she said, ashamed by the way she’d dismissed the Swedish schoolgirl and climate and environmental activist, Greta Thunberg. But if she had made Charlie and her friends take responsibility for the environment, perhaps Isla should have paid more attention, given them more credit. After all, they weren’t so dissimilar. In 1982, she and a group of friends had travelled to Greenham Common in a Transit van to join women from all over the world who linked arms round the airbase’s perimeter fence that December. Ian had dismissed the women’s protest as a waste of time, which had made her all the more determined to add her voice to the rest.
‘Freedom,’ she whispered, repeating the rallying cry. ‘I protested too, in my day,’ she said in answer to Charlie’s puzzled expression. ‘Then we were terrified by the prospect of nuclear war. Thousands of women camped around an airbase to protest against the storage of nuclear missiles, some of them for months, and in really difficult conditions. I just went up for a couple of days. Ian was so bloody awkward about my going as it was.’
‘And did it work?’
‘In all sorts of ways.’ She remembered the mud, the cold, the smell of wood fires and food, the lights, the police, the women, and the extraordinary feeling of camaraderie found in a common purpose. Yes, everyone should act on their own beliefs to make the world a better place.
Charlie had already wandered off – a protest that had happened in the mists of time didn’t much interest her. This did. Isla dragged Jock over to where she stood by a sign beside the final well dressing that was propped up outside the door of a Methodist chapel.
‘This one’s about climate change. Look! All these things are what we should be doing. Insulating houses, using green electricity, eating food grown locally. Read it.’ She took a photo of the explanation and then a few selfies in front of the dressing that illustrated the progress of the earth from its creation to its destruction by mankind. At the bottom, spelled out in red petals was a line from the Book of Malachi: ‘For the day cometh that shall burn like an oven.’