‘Oh get over it, you pompous arse,’ I muttered, slamming the window with such force that a blackbird, in the middle of a solo rendition in the eaves above, took to the air with an offended ‘chuck, chuck.’
Feeling martyrish I showered and, grabbing a cup of coffee, made my way to the tiny alcove at the top of the stairs that now masqueraded as our study. I thought longingly of the huge room we’d turned into a combined study and playroom just after India was born but which was now Sylvia’s granny flat. It was the sunniest room in the house, south-facing and with French windows that opened directly on to the garden allowing the scents of lavender and honeysuckle to drift in on a summer breeze.
I knew I should feel grateful that Sylvia’s moving in had allowed us to hang on to our home when the business collapsed, but this morning I felt nothing but resentment for her presence. Maybe we would have been better downsizing when we knew we’d hit rock-bottom, I mused, as I found the file on the computer containing the school English policy I had to update and hand in by the next morning. I sighed, acknowledging that, until India was older, I needed and relied upon Sylvia far more than she needed us. She gave her time freely, taking India to and from school and looking after her if she was ill or when her school holidays differed from my own; and Sylvia was not averse to doing a load of washing or giving the house a quick Hoover every now and again. She might drive me bats occasionally but I never underestimated what she did for us, or took her for granted.
But I did resent her. I resented the fact that she was now living, albeit separately, in my house. And at times like this, when I knew I’d been pretty stupid lighting a fire and leaving it to the elements, I resented the fact that my stupidity was being discussed with Nick.
Temper and tiredness and lack of breakfast (damned if I was going to show my face in the kitchen) persuaded me that the policy would have to do just as it was without adding the extras that I knew were expected.
‘How many people will read the bloody thing anyway?’ I challenged the computer, and pressed the print key just as my big sister, Diana, walked in to my little alcove carrying her own cup of coffee and a handful of Sylvia’s flapjack.
‘Hello, you little firebug. Hiding in here out of Nick’s way?’ And she laughed through a mouthful of cake, almost spilling her coffee on the pristine document that lay like foot-stepped virgin snow in the tray of the printer.
‘If you’ve come to have a go at me too, you can f-off right now,’ I snapped, ignoring her as she laughed again, scattering crumbs onto the computer keys. ‘And you’re eating Sylvia’s flapjack, you traitor,’ I added, my mouth salivating at the sight and smell of Sylvia’s syrupy confection.
‘I think it’s hilarious,’ she chortled. ‘The kids told me all about your early bonfire party with Nick in the altogether.’
‘Yeah, well, Nick is being totally over the top about it. And bloody Sylvia is sucking up to him, egging him on. She loves it when he’s fallen out with me and she can step into the breach and hold his outraged hand.’
‘Actually, they were all beginning to see the funny side and wondering where you’d got to.’
‘How did you know I was here?’ I asked.
‘I didn’t. I’ve been here a while looking for you.’
‘Oh? What’s up? Not like you to be around on a Sunday morning. I thought you’d be out walking with Marcus.’ Diana, now well into her forties, single and more than happy with her lot, had dangled the adoring Marcus on a string for years. He loved her but had to accept he was, and probably never would be anything other than, just one amongst her many men friends.
‘Couldn’t cope with him today,’ Diana said, yawning widely apparently at the very thought of him, ‘so I thought I’d come and see you playing happy families with your brood.’
‘We’re always happy aren’t we, Hat?’ Nick shouted as he came up the stairs bringing with him a bacon sandwich that he set in front of me. As I’ve said before, I can never hold a grudge for too long, especially when I know that it was my fault that my family almost ended up as toast, and the smell of a peace offering is working its way up my nose. And this surely wasn’t a husband in love with another woman?
‘I’m taking the kids out for a walk,’ Nick said as I devoured the sandwich. ‘Do you want to come? I thought we might grab a pub lunch over at Upper Clawson.’
‘What time is it now?’ I asked, hesitating. ‘And can we afford lunch out?’ The thought of donning wellies and shuffling through the falling leaves was really tempting, but I knew I still had some school work to do and there was a pile of ironing that had been sitting, accusingly, in the corner of the kitchen for days. If it grew any bigger I’d need a slab of Kendal Mint Cake before I launched myself at it.
Nick glanced at his watch. ‘I think we’ve got enough to cover lunch. We need a treat after last night’s little surprise. It’s nearly midday, so we need to get off if we’re going. Mum says she’ll do any ironing you might have if we take Bertie for a walk with us,’ he added, almost reading my mind.
There are times when I just love my mother-in-law.
Ten minutes later we were all wading our way across a boggy field, avoiding (unsuccessfully, in India and Bertie’s case) ancient and not so ancient lacy cowpats. A herd of brown and white cows whose breed I couldn’t for the life of me recall, gazed balefully at us from their vantage point against a broken-down dry-stone wall, assessing our progress across a parallel footpath out of eyes even more beautiful than Nick’s. One did put her head down warningly as Bertie, thoroughly overexcited at being out with so many of us, grew brave and made a detour towards them. Within seconds he was back in our midst, his short legs paddling ten to the dozen as he endeavoured to keep up, his sausage tummy skimming the wet grass.
Liberty, plugged in to her iPod, had taken the lead, her constantly active fingers the only indication that she was being brought up to date on the Saturday night events of her friends by text. What would she write about her Saturday night, I wondered, as I moved to catch up with Nick and Diana who were deep in conversation several yards ahead. Probably something along the lines of ‘Crzy mthr nrly set hse on fire last nite. Dad stark bollk nkd in grdn. Crzy deserted godmthr arrived in taxi in middle of nite to join in wth fun.’
Talking of Grace, I needed to ring her – make sure she was OK – but realised I’d left my mobile at home. Damn! I’d have to ring her once we returned from our walk. I waited until India and Bertie, both panting, both with tired little legs, caught me up and I rallied them forward, promising Sunday lunch just around the corner.
‘Don’t fib, Mummy, I know it’s not round the corner. There’s loads of corners to get round yet, and my wellies are hurting me.’ India’s lip began to tremble as Bertie flashed me a wall-eyed, mutinous glare.
‘Nick, can you give India a piggyback?’ I called. ‘She’s had it.’
‘Don’t think I’m giving that excuse for a dog a leg up,’ Diana shouted back as Nick hoisted India on to his shoulders.
Up to me then, as usual. I took off my pashmina, a birthday present from Grace a couple of years back, fashioned a papoose and tied Bertie on to my back, leaving his back legs dangling around my waist and his nose on a level with my shoulder.
‘You certainly aren’t going to win friends and influence people with that breath,’ I muttered to Bertie, turning my head and squashing him a bit further over to one side, before drawing level with Diana where she stood waiting on a rocky outcrop, convulsed with laughter at the sight of me like a disgruntled Quasimodo, struggling up the hill towards her.
‘I had Christine on the phone yesterday,’ said Diana, once we were on level ground again, and Bertie and I had settled into a fairly steady, rhythmic pace.
‘Oh yes? What did she want?’ Christine was our sister-in-law who’d been married to our elder brother John since getting pregnant at the age of eighteen and, without mincing words, a right royal pain in the butt. Diana and I, perhaps unfairly, had never forgiven Christine for ensnaring John
at his most vulnerable. Though maybe it was Amanda Goodners we should never have forgiven.
‘You know what she’s like. Always got her nose where it’s not wanted. She wanted to know if either of us had been to see “Mother” lately.’
The way Christine had hijacked our mother on to her side after years of making snide comments about her was a constant source of irritation to Diana and me, and her use of the handle “Mother” when referring to her mother-in-law grated on my nerves in much the same way that references in “Mother and Baby” magazines to “Baby” made me want to screw them up and toss them in the nearest bin.
‘What was she implying?’ I asked. ‘That she’s the only one who cares about her and that we don’t spend enough time round there?’
‘Yup. I got the whole lecture about how we don’t go and see her enough; how we just don’t know how many years they have left, and how it’s our duty to spend more time with her.’
‘Bloody cheek of the woman. I go and see Mum and Dad because I want to see them, not out of any sense of filial duty.’ I was seething, as much from knowing that my sister-in-law had, in reality, got a point – I didn’t go and see them as much as I should now that I was working full time – as from her acerbic comments.
‘Apparently Christine’s round there most days, helping her with her ironing, doing her shopping and even taking round food parcels.’ Diana paused to give Bertie a lift further up my back.
‘Food parcels? What do you mean by food parcels? How do you know Christine is taking stuff round for them? Did she tell you?’ I was so put out by Christine apparently treating my parents as if they were on their last legs that I spat out a volley of questions without waiting for a response to any of them.
Diana laughed. ‘Calm down. You’ll make the dog travel sick waving your arms around like that. Of course she didn’t come straight out with what she’d been doing – that’s not her style is it? She just let it slip how she couldn’t get used to cooking smaller quantities now that Hollie has left home, and how much “Mother” and “Dad” seemed to appreciate it when she took any “little leftovers” round for their tea. “You know how partial ‘Dad’ is to my lasagne,” she told me, smugly.’
‘News to me,’ I said rudely. ‘Since when has “Dad” ever eaten anything other than liver and onions or cow heel and oxtail?’ A dyed-in-the-wool Yorkshireman, my father had always looked upon any food with a hint of “foreign” as downright suspicious.
‘I know. I can’t believe Mum and Dad want to be babied like this – they’ve always been totally independent. Anyway, after I’d had all this from her, Christine then began to hint that she thought Mum might be losing it a bit.’
I was instantly alert, and looked across at Diana as we made our final descent from the moorland down onto the main road where the welcoming gabled end of the pub could be seen just a few hundred yards away.
‘What did she mean – losing it a bit?’ I asked.
‘Well, you know, not quite as with it as she used to be. I think Christine’s talking rubbish. OK, maybe Mum’s memory isn’t as good as it used to be, but she is seventy-four now.’
‘I went round yesterday morning, you know,’ I now said, ‘and I have to say I think Christine might have a point.’
‘Oh?’
‘Did you know Mum has booked a holiday for her and Dad to go to the Isle of Man? Trouble is, she only told Dad about it a couple of days ago and they’re off next Friday.’
‘Nothing sinister about that. She probably wanted it to be a romantic surprise – after all, they did go there for their honeymoon.’
I shook my head. ‘No, I don’t think so. She said they weren’t going to the Isle of Man – they were going to Douglas.’
‘Douglas is the Isle of Man isn’t it?’ asked Diana looking puzzled.
‘Exactly! Mum also asked me if I’d seen “Our Patricia” lately.’
‘Patricia who? We don’t have any relatives called Patricia do we?’
‘Not that I know of. I think she actually meant you.’
‘Me? Since when has my own mother forgotten my name?’
‘Since yesterday, apparently,’ I replied, bringing a relieved and wriggling Bertie back down to earth on the floor of the Public Bar of The Coach and Horses before joining the rest of my family.
Chapter 6
Nick and the others had forged ahead and were already seated at a table in the corner of what used to be the tap room, hoovering up crisps while engrossed in the bar meal menu that offered everything from home-cooked Sunday roast to curry.
‘Come on, Mum,’ called Kit, ‘I’m starving.’
‘Well, what a surprise,’ I grinned, taking a slurp of Nick’s lager to quench my immediate thirst before moving to the bar to order drinks for Diana and myself.
I loved this place. High up on the Pennines, it had long been a stopping-off point for travellers who, for whatever reason, were intent on crossing the border from God’s Own County into Lancashire.
Nick had disappeared from the tap room when I returned from the bar for a second time with water for the dog; we’d all forgotten about poor old panting Bertie in our eagerness to get food and drink down our own necks. I could see Nick through the window, leaning against the car park wall, talking animatedly while continually running his hand through his thick blonde hair. Whoever he was talking to, I had a feeling it wasn’t merely good manners that had taken him outside. Diana raised her eyebrows but said nothing as I finally sat down to peruse the menu. For weeks she’d been party to my fears about Nick wanting to throw in his job, and, perhaps at the memory of Mum’s face when we were kids and very little money was coming into the house, she more than anyone knew how I felt about it. What Diana didn’t know, because I hadn’t told her yet, was the way Nick had been looking at Amanda on Friday night. The same way, I realised with a jolt, that he’d looked at me all those years ago in the university bar. Suddenly my mouth was dry, my appetite gone.
We had all ordered and were just about to start eating our meal when Nick reappeared, breezing in but not quite meeting my eye.
‘Where’ve you been, Daddy?’ asked India plaintively, offering him one of the picked out mushrooms that lay around her plate like discarded slugs. ‘I’ve saved you my mushrooms.’
‘Thanks, darling,’ he said, glad that someone was on his side.
Diana, who was very good at diffusing situations and should really have been a diplomat at the United Nations rather than the social worker that she was, launched into a tale about her cat, Hector.
Just as she was coming to the punchline, Nick’s mobile went off again. We all jumped and I looked meaningfully at Nick. Couldn’t we even have Sunday lunch together without the Hendersons edging in on us?
Nick leapt up once more, walking swiftly towards the door as he answered the call, then turned and handed his mobile to me.
‘It’s Mum. Your Dad’s at the house – says you arranged to meet him there when you called round yesterday?’
Shit! I’d forgotten all about asking Dad to come round to give me advice on my garden.
‘Hi Sylvia,’ I said, taking Nick’s mobile and trying to think on my feet. ‘We’re a good hour’s walk away from getting home. Could you ask my dad to hang on until we get there?’
‘Why don’t I come and pick you up?’ Sylvia’s strident voice came down the phone. ‘I’m sure Bertie and India would be grateful for a lift back as well. Then Nick and Diana can walk back with Liberty and Kit.’
There she was, organising my life again. I knew I was being unfair – keeping a conversation going between my Dad and Sylvia would be hard for both of them. Dad’s deafness and Sylvia’s clipped vowels normally rendered him nodding in agreement to anything she said, while Dad’s broad Yorkshire accent often had Sylvia utterly perplexed.
‘Actually, I wouldn’t mind a lift back,’ said Diana swiftly finishing her meal and screwing up her paper napkin before tossing it onto the table. ‘I really could do with seeing Dad aft
er what you were saying about poor old Mum earlier, and I hadn’t intended coming out for lunch. I’ve a lot to do at home. Why don’t I grab a lift with Sylvia, India and the dog and you walk back with the others?’
‘Because Dad’s come round specially to see my garden.’
‘Look, I’ll take him down to your plot – I assume it’s that newly dug patch by what remains of the potting shed – and I can ask him about Mum. He’ll be more than happy down in your garden by himself once I’ve gone.’
The lure of apple crumble, coffee and another hour’s walking before the Sunday afternoon ritual of school work, uniforms and kit bags was too tempting to resist. In the end, both Kit and Liberty, pleading homework, piled into the back seat of Sylvia’s car alongside Diana, India and Bertie for the ride home.
‘You’ll be pleased to know I think we’re fully insured for the potting shed,’ Nick said after the waitress, who couldn’t have been any older than Libby, had cleared away our plates and taken our order for pudding. ‘I pulled the policy this morning and we should be OK.’
‘They even insure stupidity?’ I asked ruefully.
‘Yes, even that,’ laughed Nick.
‘I bet sometimes you wish you’d married Anna though don’t you?’ I sighed, looking down at my wedding ring.
‘Anna? What’s she got to do with this?’ asked Nick in surprise.
‘Well, I bet she wouldn’t have pinched your bonfire and set your shed on fire.’
‘No, I don’t suppose she would. But then again, she wouldn’t have dreamed of doing her own garden. She’d have had a gardener to do that.’
‘So you don’t think Anna would have hung around, once your business went down the pan, if you’d have been married to her instead of me?’
‘I doubt it. She’d have been off, back to Daddy, the minute the shit hit the fan.’
‘So, really, what you’re saying is that I’ve been a good and faithful wife all these years?’
Nick patted my hand. ‘Absolutely. Although, I have to say, last night’s little shenanigans blotted your copybook somewhat.’
Goodness, Grace and Me Page 7
