by Kate Field
Rich moving in? The notion had never occurred to me.
‘No, and he won’t be doing. Our house is a man-free zone. Anyway,’ I continued, exercising my own sharp turn in the conversation, ‘you know I told you about the sponsored walk to raise funds for The Chestnuts? Someone suggested selling T-shirts with a logo on to raise extra cash and I wondered if you’d have time to draw something for us? It doesn’t have to be anything fancy.’
‘No problem. Anything for you and Gran Gran. I’ll email something over in the next couple of days.’
And then she was gone, back to her noisy, busy life, while I trundled on with my quiet, empty one.
*
‘… and I’ll show you the design she’s come up with later,’ I said to Tina. ‘She’s an artistic genius, like Faye. The T-shirts will probably sell so well that we needn’t bother walking up the hill at all.’
Tina was proving herself a true friend, and had given up a day of her Easter holiday to help me paint my living room. It wasn’t a massive room, and I could have easily managed it myself, but when she’d offered to lend a hand, I hadn’t been able to resist accepting. It was the boring tasks like this that allowed the regret at living alone to creep in: I’d fought hard to become independent, but sometimes it was a treat to choose not to be.
‘You’re not seriously wasting one of your vouchers on this, are you?’ Tina asked, as I poured paint into two roller trays. ‘This is hard work. How is that being kind to yourself?’
‘It’s a fresh start. I haven’t painted this room for years. There are still nail varnish marks on the wall from when Caitlyn had a sleepover for her sixteenth birthday.’ I glanced around the room, taking in the scuffs and scratches that told the history of our time in this house: the marks that would look like blemishes to some, but represented precious memories to me. If I thought about it too long, I would never paint this room again. I shook off the maudlin thoughts as I grabbed a pile of old newspapers and taped a few sheets down around the edges of the room to protect the carpet.
We knuckled down to the painting, listening to the radio as we worked. The local station was full of Easter adverts, encouraging us to spend our money at the sales or go on days out.
‘What are your plans for the weekend?’ Tina asked. I had hoped she wouldn’t bring it up, and so far, had managed to skilfully change the subject whenever it appeared to be heading this way. It was another drawback of the single life; no one questioned a couple if they wanted to stay at home alone.
‘No particular plans,’ I said. ‘I might spring-clean the kitchen cupboards.’
I probably deserved the disparaging look Tina gave me. All I needed was a cat to make my spinster status complete. It wasn’t that I was a neat freak – far from it – but I hated to sit still and be idle. Idle thoughts had an unnerving habit of going where I didn’t want them to go; such as back in time to last week’s conversation with Paddy, and the painful revelation that our relationship had been a sham for longer than I’d realised.
‘And I’m going to afternoon tea at Fairlie House and visiting the spa on Saturday,’ I added, belatedly remembering that I was doing something exciting after all. ‘Caitlyn was impressed. It was exactly the sort of thing she had in mind for the Be Kind to Yourself vouchers.’
‘Yes, but you’re supposed to be choosing things for yourself, not to please Caitlyn. You’ve spent the best part of twenty years arranging your life around her. Quite understandably,’ Tina added, waving her roller at me when I started to object. ‘But how is it freedom if the doors are open but you still walk round the edge of your cage?’
That was harsh – too harsh for me to want to hear it – and I turned my back on Tina and concentrated on my painting until every wall had been covered with the first coat and we escaped to the kitchen for a break.
‘How are the plans coming along for the sponsored walk?’ Tina asked, as we settled at the table with our cups of tea – ginger and lemon for me, builders for her. I wrote out the latest voucher for Caitlyn.
BE KIND TO YOURSELF
VOUCHER THREE
I, Eve Roberts, have been kind to myself by painting the living room!
‘Amazingly well,’ I replied, pushing the voucher to one side. Perhaps it didn’t sound such a treat, when I saw it written down. ‘Winston is an organisational whizz. Every tiny detail is on the spreadsheet, and if it’s on the spreadsheet it gets done. I feel like a spare part most of the time.’
‘Sounds like you’ve met your match.’ She raised her eyebrows in a suggestive way. ‘Shame he’s married.’
‘And totally besotted with his wife and daughter … and far too young for me, even if I were looking, which I’m not …’
‘Blinded by lust for Rich?’ We both laughed, although I wasn’t sure why I joined in; it was hardly loyal. ‘If you were looking, what would your type be? And don’t say Rich. We all know you can do better than that. You’ve settled for him, not chosen him. I mean, physically I can see the appeal, but I thought you would have looked deeper than that. I’m not sure what else he has going for him.’
I recoiled in my chair as if Tina had slapped me. Had the paint fumes got to her? She’d never expressed an opinion on Rich before; not a good one either, now I came to think of it. Her invitations to dinner or Sunday lunch had never included Rich, but I hadn’t minded. He wouldn’t have fitted in. And what was that ‘we’ about? Who had Tina been discussing me and my so-called love life with? Anyway, she was wrong: this was exactly the relationship I had chosen. Another topic that I preferred to steer my idle thoughts away from. Introspection was rarely a good idea.
‘We know what your type used to be,’ Tina continued, taking her third digestive biscuit and dunking it in her tea. ‘Tall, dark and Irish …’
‘Half Irish,’ I corrected her, and could have kicked myself when she grinned; of course, I should have pretended not to know who she was talking about. ‘If I had a type now, it wouldn’t be based on physical things. It would be someone who was honest, kind and dependable.’
‘You’re telling me you’re immune to twinkly eyes and a roguish smile?’
‘If you’re talking about Paddy Friel – and I’m not admitting he has either of those things – then yes, I’m fully immune and he administered the vaccination himself.’
‘So there’s no chance he’s going to be the celebrity opening the sponsored walk?’
‘None at all.’ I rewound. ‘Who said there’s going to be a celebrity, anyway?’
‘It’s all round town. I heard it yesterday from Bob the butcher.’
Bob the butcher, whose father was a resident at The Chestnuts. I was going to kill Gran – unless she was the death of me first.
‘We have no plans to invite a celebrity,’ I said firmly. ‘And if we did, it wouldn’t be Paddy. He’d be the last person I’d ask. From what I’ve seen, he pimps himself around the country and would open a jam jar if there was money and a photograph in it. He hardly needs more publicity. He uses it quite shamelessly.’
‘All the more reason to ask him.’ Tina smiled. ‘If he doesn’t scruple to use his celebrity for his own ends, why should you scruple to use it for yours? It’s for the good of The Chestnuts. You can swallow your pride, can’t you?’
Could I? I hadn’t come any closer to swallowing it by the time Saturday came round, and I could only hope it wouldn’t ruin my ability to enjoy afternoon tea. I picked Gran up from The Chestnuts late in the morning, ready for the twenty-minute drive to the Fairlie House Hotel. She was waiting for me in what had been the reception hall of the manor house, wearing a bright pink dress that bordered on neon and a flowery hat. The look was only slightly marred by the thick white surgical stockings.
‘Hello,’ I said, kissing her cheek. My eyes smarted at her pungent perfume. ‘You didn’t need to wear a hat. It’s not that posh a place.’
‘I hope not, given as you’ve made precious little effort.’ Gran pulled a face as she looked me up and down. ‘Any road, it’
s not a hat, it’s a fascinator. I’ve borrowed all this clobber from Mrs Pike. She wore it to her grandson’s wedding four years ago.’ I smiled, but Gran hadn’t finished. She could have given the best comedians a masterclass in perfect timing. ‘And then to the christening two years later.’
I didn’t take the bait.
‘Only just a great-grandma? Poor Mrs Pike. She’s years behind you. The way you’re going, you’ll live long enough to become a great-great-grandma. I bet Mrs Pike can’t hope for that, can she?’
Gran conceded the point and, trouble averted, allowed me to lead her to the passenger seat of my car.
‘Pooh! What a pong!’ she said, as I switched on the engine and a faint scent of floral air freshener began to waft around the car. I was amazed she could smell anything over her perfume. ‘What do you need that for? Have you got a dicky tummy? I won’t offer you a butty then.’
She reached into her shopping bag – I’d wondered why she had needed such a huge bag – and pulled out a foil parcel, which she unwrapped with as much care as if it were expensive wrapping paper, while I drove away from The Chestnuts and on towards the road that would take us to the Fairlie. I felt like borrowing the ‘what a pong’ line as a stench of egg invaded the car.
‘Ham and egg,’ Gran said with satisfaction. I caught her lifting up one side of the crust before giving a hearty sigh. ‘Processed ham. Who’s ever seen a square pig?’
‘You haven’t forgotten that we’re going out for afternoon tea, have you?’ I asked. ‘You didn’t need to bring food.’
‘I can’t miss my dinner. I might end up as scrawny as you. In my day, ladies had curves not angles, and we were all healthier for it.’
Conversation continued in this vein as I drove along the country lanes, with Gran and the sat nav seemingly vying to see which could nag me the most. I didn’t mind – or not Gran, anyway. She could nag me, call me any names she wanted, because I adored her and because she was here. She was alive. The last seventeen years would have been impossible without her. When my mum had packed her bags and moved to Spain, Gran had packed hers and moved to Inglebridge to be near me and Caitlyn, selling the precious house she had occupied for almost half a century, and in which she’d enjoyed married life and raised my dad. A cut-price afternoon tea could never repay what she had done for us.
The Fairlie House Hotel was a gorgeous stone mansion with high, even windows revealing its roots in Georgian times. Sitting amid luscious parkland at the end of a long drive, it reeked of luxury and exclusivity and … romance, whispered my heart, although it had been so long, I wasn’t sure how my heart still remembered what that was. As I pulled up in the car park, even Gran was silent. It couldn’t last.
‘At least one of us is dressed for the occasion,’ she said. She patted my knee – clad in a cord skirt and tights, because I had made some effort, even if it wasn’t up to Gran’s standards – and grinned. ‘Don’t worry, our Eve. They’ll be so dazzled by my outfit, they’ll barely notice yours. We can pull this off.’
Laughing, I took her arm and led her into the hotel. The silence in reception was overwhelming, our steps muffled by the thick carpet and our voices absorbed by the plush fabrics hanging at the windows and covering the chairs that formed a pleasant lounge area. Gran made a beeline for a sofa next to a table scattered with magazines.
‘This’ll do me,’ she said, rifling through the magazines before sitting down.
‘Are you sure?’ I hovered. ‘Perhaps I should skip the spa. It doesn’t feel right abandoning you here.’
‘I’ll be right as rain,’ Gran said, dismissing me with a wave of her hand. ‘You go and enjoy the poking and prodding. It’s a treat to read up-to-date magazines for a change, and I’ve got a flask of tea. I can keep an eye on all the comings and goings from here.’
She’d miss nothing, I was certain of that. Putting my misgivings to one side, I followed the directions to the spa and allowed myself to be whisked away to a scented, darkened room where I lay on a plinth in trepidation of what was coming next. It wasn’t the thought of the poking and prodding that bothered me, rather the enforced idleness – the best part of an hour to be spent doing nothing, vulnerable to every stray thought that might choose to attack me. But they must have been potent essential oils they were spraying into that room, because the time rushed by, and far from having unpleasant thoughts, I couldn’t remember having any thoughts at all. My mind was a total blank, and I felt more relaxed than I had done for months. I’d already filled in the next two vouchers, and decided this was definitely the best use of them so far.
BE KIND TO YOURSELF
VOUCHER FOUR
I, Eve Roberts, have been kind to myself by having a facial and massage!
BE KIND TO YOURSELF
VOUCHER FIVE
I, Eve Roberts, have been kind to myself by taking afternoon tea with Gran Gran!
I was soon brought back down to earth by Gran.
‘Your face is shining like the moon,’ she said, as I wandered back into the reception area to collect her. ‘You should have brought some powder.’ She stood up and patted my arm. ‘You needed that. The frown line between your eyebrows isn’t as obvious. I’m glad. Shall we go for tea now? I’m peckish.’
Afternoon tea was being served in a lavish dining room, decorated in rich creams and beiges and exuding the same air of quiet refinement as the rest of the hotel. It was a far cry from the package holiday hotels I had occasionally stayed in with Caitlyn, where the furniture had shown the scuffs of generations of rampaging children, and the dining room was more like the school canteen than a fine restaurant. I wondered who would choose to stay in a place like this – and who could afford it.
‘Those with more money than sense,’ Gran remarked, when I repeated the question out loud. ‘All you need are clean sheets and a decent breakfast, not all this malarkey. White linen!’ she said, scrunching the pristine tablecloth between her gnarled fingers. ‘I wouldn’t want to be responsible for the laundry bill round here.’
She had equally scathing remarks to make about the pale carpet and the silk fabric on the chairs, but she didn’t fool me. She was loving every second of it – that was obvious from the sparkle in her eyes and the way her head twisted round in every direction so she could take in every detail. The story of this afternoon was going to keep her in conversation for weeks at The Chestnuts, and I was delighted that we’d decided to come.
My delight was short-lived. As Gran was exclaiming over the velouté – ‘why can’t they call it cup-a-soup instead of a fancy foreign name?’ – my heart sank as some new guests were ushered to a table only a few metres away from ours. I recognised Jo Blair among them, and I could feel the relaxing effects of the spa swiftly dissipate.
She caught sight of me at much the same time and we exchanged a reluctant grimace.
‘Don’t you like it?’ Gran asked. ‘It’s a bit thick but the flavour’s not bad.’
‘No, it’s lovely,’ I said, putting down my empty cup. ‘I just spotted someone I didn’t want to see.’
I should have known better.
‘Who’s that then?’ Gran peered round, swivelling in her chair to stare at every table. ‘Anyone I know? Have you had a falling-out with someone? That’s not like you.’
‘No.’ I leant back as the waitress took my plate. ‘It’s the new head at school. The new interim head, Jo Blair.’ I lowered my voice. ‘She’s at the table over there.’
I jerked my head to the left and Gran immediately stared that way.
‘Which one is she? The po-faced one with the short hair? She looks like a …’
‘Gran!’ I hushed her just in time; whatever she was about to say would neither have been polite nor quiet. She was temporarily distracted by the arrival of the main afternoon tea: tiers of neat rectangular sandwich portions and lamb Scotch eggs; tiny hot cross scones, chocolate egg nests, cupcakes decorated with rabbit faces, slivers of simnel cake and iced gingerbread chicks; and the one that was going
to challenge my healthy diet the most – miniature chocolate éclairs, topped with a fondant carrot. It was an impressive display, and Gran was silent for the best part of ten minutes while she made inroads into the food.
‘I’ve not seen her crack a smile yet,’ she said at last, picking up the conversation where we had left it. Her memory could be disappointingly good for her age. ‘Is she one of those who never smiles in case it gives her wrinkles? She’s younger than I expected. Not much older than you. I can’t say as I’d like to work for her, from all you’ve said.’
‘I wasn’t given a choice.’
‘Make your own choice. I’ve always said you were wasted at that school. You’ve years of work left in you. Why do you want to spend them on a job you don’t love? You get to my age and there’s nowt to do but regret what you’ve done and not done. It’s not much fun, let me tell you. If you don’t like the path you’re on, try another while you still can.’
And in those few minutes, Gran showed me again why she was so special. She could ramble for hours on inconsequential topics, and then cut you to the quick with such a sharp insight that it felt as if she’d seen through all your bluster.
‘I’m not qualified to do anything else,’ I said.
‘You weren’t qualified to do what you’re doing, but you got qualified. You can do it again. Or why not use that degree you were once so keen on?’
Why not? Because that degree was now tainted by unhappy memories. Not just because of the obvious connection with Paddy and my heartbreak over him, but because it would always remind me of my dad, who had driven me around the country to visit various archaeological sites and museums and who had made me believe that I could do anything I chose. I had loved those road trips the two of us had undertaken together. What would he think of me now, clinging on to a job that no longer made me happy? Had my confidence dropped so far that I didn’t dare try something different in case I failed? I had once been braver than this. Could I be brave again?
