Goodness, Grace and Me

by Julie Houston

  ‘Well she’s not likely to do that is she?’

  ‘No.’ Diana shook her head in agreement. ‘What he did say he’d do, though, was to have a word with the practice health visitor and ask her to go round and see Mum on the pretext of an annual health check-up she’ll say she’s due now that she’s seventy-five.’

  ‘Um,’ I said doubtfully. ‘Can’t really see that doing much good unless she opens up to her and tells her what’s on her mind.’

  ‘No. Well at the moment there’s not much more we can do.’ Diana drained her cup, glanced once more at her watch and said, as if reading the next item on an agenda, ‘Right. Pregnancy. How pregnant are you and what do you want to do about it?’

  ‘Very early – not even five weeks. And you know as well as I do that I can’t have it.’

  Diana raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you want another child?’

  Did I? In different circumstances, yes, I’d be more than happy to be pregnant, I now realised, but I couldn’t admit this to Diana. She’d tell me to throw caution to the wind and just go ahead with it.

  ‘It’s a totally hypothetical question, Di. At the moment there’s only my salary coming in and, apart from some trust money left by Nick’s father for the kids’ education, everyone, including Sylvia now, is dependent on me. Interest rates are so low now I don’t even know if the trust fund will continue to function.’ Tears of self-pity were hovering at the back of my eyes just waiting for the signal to fall.

  ‘Get the kids out of their schools,’ Diana said, never a proponent of private education. ‘It’s absolute madness paying for education if you’re struggling to make ends meet. Just think how much money you’d save. What does it cost, anyway?’

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ I breathed.

  ‘Yes, I do. This could be the answer to your problem. Come on, how much?’

  ‘About twenty-five thousand a year,’ I muttered, knocking off a couple of grand in my embarrassment.

  ‘Earnable?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Diana tutted impatiently. ‘If you’re forking out that sort of money for education, then obviously a greater amount has had to be earned before tax. Basically you are working just so that you can send your kids to an elitist institution.’

  Was I? If that was the case, who the hell was paying the mortgage, gas and Sainsbury’s bill every month? My brain, already fuddled with worry, was beginning to feel like cotton wool.

  ‘No, it doesn’t work like that,’ I said, struggling to get my poor old mushed brain around how exactly it did work. ‘I told you, the money for education comes from a trust.’

  Diana snorted dismissively. ‘I bet that money can be used for whatever you want. You need to get Nick to look into it.’

  ‘Nick doesn’t know.’

  ‘No, but I’m sure he can find out.’ And then seeing my face, she registered what I really meant. ‘Oh, Hat, you mean he doesn’t know you’re pregnant?’

  I shook my head miserably. ‘No.’

  ‘So when are you going to tell him?’ Diana took my hand.

  ‘I’m not. He’d never admit it, but I know Nick so well. I know he’s already worried sick that he may have made a mistake in trying to start up this new company. Particularly now, when other well-established companies are going to the wall on a daily basis. He didn’t get in until one this morning, fell asleep straight away but was then up wandering around at four. Then he was off again at seven. He’s due to go back to Italy tomorrow. You know, Di, Nick’s driving me mad at the moment, but I love him sooo much’ – here I threatened to break down and sob – ‘I can’t tell him I’m pregnant and I’m going to have to make the kids leave their schools and go to the local comp which, incidentally, has just been put into Special Measures. I can’t put that pressure on him, I just can’t.’

  Diana squeezed my fingers sympathetically. ‘So, if you can’t do that, what are you going to do?’

  I couldn’t say what I was going to have to do because the Herculean sobs that I’d managed to keep at bay during our conversation finally found their release, rendering me inarticulate. There was nothing much else either of us could say after that. The ‘A’ word hung between us, unsaid and, once I’d used up all of Di’s mini pack of tissues, we abandoned our virtually untouched cups and left.

  It was well after lunchtime by the time I got home. When I’d left that morning, Liberty and Kit were still, as my mother used to say, stinking in bed. India, now Adriana Saxton’s best friend once more, no doubt as a result of the garden party, had been collected by Adriana and her mother to spend the day in their six-bedroom, six-bathroom, plasma-TV-on-every-wall, neo-Georgian box.

  A motorbike, presumably Sebastian Henderson’s, was parked on the drive. I’d totally forgotten he’d promised to come and spend time on the garden. Anxious that he wouldn’t see me red-faced and puffy-eyed, I shot inside and tried to repair the ravages of a good half- hour’s protracted sobbing. I really was going to have to get a grip. The sooner I made an appointment to see my doctor the sooner I could sort out the problem.

  A note from Libby informed me that she’d gone off to the nearest shopping outlet with Beth, while another, unsigned, but presumably from Kit, read ‘Yo me ma. I’se off wiv me muckers skateboarding. Back late.’

  And I was worried about putting Kit into the local comp? He’d fit perfectly.

  I didn’t quite know what to do with myself, but spent the next hour pottering around, watering the plants, making a casserole for our evening meal, even making a list of all the things I needed to do for the new half term.

  Once the October holiday was over, I realised, we were into the silly season. Christmas comes early to primary schools: once Bonfire Night is out of the way we’re straight into deciding which class will do what for the Nativity. It might only be November, but Baby Jesus is already poised to put in an appearance so that by the time December comes nerves are run ragged, staff are not speaking to one another, Jesus has been lost and found several times, and the kids are thoroughly pissed off with the whole caboodle.

  Realising I was putting off the call I had to make, I took a deep breath, grabbed the phone and tried to make an appointment to see my doctor. Tried is the operative word. When I was a little girl, if we needed to see the doctor, we simply walked down to his surgery and took our place in the queue in the waiting room. You eyed up who was in front of you and knew exactly when it was your turn to go in without any help from a frosty-faced receptionist. No problem.

  ‘Hi, this is Harriet Westmoreland. Could I make an appointment to see Dr Chadwick?’

  ‘When were you thinking of?’

  ‘As soon as possible please.’

  ‘Dr Chadwick is away for the week. It is half term you know.’

  ‘Yes, I am aware of that. Next week then?’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s fully booked. You need to ring at the beginning of the previous week to make an appointment for the next week.’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘Today is Tuesday, Mrs Westmoreland. You need to ring on a Monday.’

  ‘So, you’re telling me that I have to wait until next Monday in order to make an appointment for the Monday after that?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘But I could be dead by then.’

  ‘Are you dying, Mrs Westmoreland?’

  ‘If I say “yes” will that get me an earlier appointment?’

  Obviously a receptionist with a sense of humour failure, she ignored my query, shuffling papers importantly before sighing, ‘Dr O’Leary could see you tomorrow.’

  I bet he could. An ancient, bible-bashing Catholic from Ireland, regularly seen walking to and from early morning mass, his distaste for anyone wanting contraception or advice with anything of a sexual nature was legendary. Not the best person to ask for a termination then.

  ‘I’d rather see Dr Chadwick,’ I said. ‘She is my doctor, not Dr O’Leary.’

  ‘Oh, just a moment, Mrs Westmoreland. There is a gap here – nex
t Tuesday morning? At ten?’

  ‘Lovely.’ I’d work out what I was going to tell Valerie Westwood later. And Grace. Grace would want to know why I needed to see a doctor.

  Relieved that I’d set the ball in motion, I made coffee and set off to find the gorgeous gardener.

  After a rather miserable start to the week, the weather had improved and was unseasonably warm once more. I was all for global warming if it meant pleasant days like this in early November. I stopped to admire my little plot which, given all the attention it had received from Dad and his little band of workers on Sunday, was looking pretty damned good. There were now enough bulbs in there to ensure a fabulous display of daffodils and tulips come spring and I made my way down to the banking that Sebastian had said he wanted to get his hands on. I couldn’t see him anywhere but could see the fruits of his labour. He must have been here all morning, clearing much of the overgrown creeper, dead grass and brambles, which had been choking the honeysuckle and clematis. A forsythia hedge, which hadn’t seen the light of day for years, hidden as it was by a parasitic trail of ivy stems, appeared as shocked and pale as a newly released prisoner, blinking in the weak, autumn sunlight.

  Once again I see these hedgerows, hardly hedgerows;

  Little lines of sportive wood run wild.

  A great surge of pleasure raced through me as I stood there, breathing in the smell of newly turned earth, quoting Wordsworth and surveying this fabulous garden that was becoming more fabulous by the minute. A robin, its breast deepened to a scarlet hue in anticipation of the coming winter, hopped brazenly near my feet, emboldened by my stillness. It moved a short distance as I shifted slightly looking around for Sebastian. His coat, a navy donkey- jacket, was hanging on the amorphous, elongated branch of an ancient apple tree to the left of the new potting shed.

  I set off towards it, but stopped short a few metres from the potting shed as the sound of laughter came from within. I stopped in my tracks, straining to listen, but all was quiet. Stopping only to pick up a huge, crumbling flowerpot, I tiptoed to the rear of the shed, positioned the flowerpot underneath the window, climbed on and peered in.

  All I could think was how beautiful they both looked together, their dark hair indistinguishable one from the other as they lay entwined on my ‘hairy mammal.’ Sebastian’s bronzed thigh, tightly muscled as only a twenty-three-year-old thigh can be, lay possessively alongside Grace’s slender leg. Her eyes were partly closed, her face softened in a way I’d not seen since Daniel’s leaving had left it polished with a hard, though still beautiful, veneer.

  Sebastian, hooking a strand of Grace’s hair, wound it slowly through his fingers before bending his head to her open mouth. Grace’s red cami, the straps falling wantonly over her raised arms, was the exact colour not only of her lipstick but of the Remembrance Day poppy which, nestled for some reason in Sebastian’s mass of black pubic hair, was totally and utterly inadequate in covering up what was intent on rising from its depths.

  Realising I’d been holding my breath, I forced myself to exhale, carefully lowered my Wellington-booted feet from the upturned flowerpot and, picking up the untouched coffee mug threw it, along with its cold, scummy contents, as hard as I could over the banking, down into the newly ploughed field below.

  ‘Are you ok?’

  ‘Fine,’ I snapped, not looking up as Grace came into the kitchen, but continuing with the task of polishing the granite work surfaces for the second time that morning.

  ‘I brought you the heater.’

  I didn’t say a word, just stabbed viciously at a particularly tenacious smear.

  ‘The heater?’ Grace repeated, sitting down opposite me at the kitchen table. ‘The one I promised you yesterday? Sylvia gave me the key to your potting shed on her way out so I went down there and fixed it up for you. It’s lovely and warm, now. You can go and play at being Greta Garbo to your heart’s content.’ Grace laughed nervously.

  I put down the cleaning cloth, folded my arms and glared at Grace. ‘Whose potting shed exactly, Grace?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Whose fucking potting shed is it, Grace?’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You might well say “Ah”. How dare you use my new shed as a knocking shop? What if it had been Kit or Liberty who’d wandered down there? Or India?’

  ‘It wasn’t planned, Hat. I didn’t for one moment think Seb would be here. Why should I?’

  ‘Possibly because he’d told you he’d offered to do my garden for me?’ I snapped, holding her gaze.

  Grace reddened. ‘He may have done. But I certainly didn’t expect to find you all out. When I arrived, Sylvia was just leaving. She gave me the key and told me you were all gone for the day.’

  ‘The kids, maybe. But not me. Sylvia must have told you I’d only gone for a quick coffee with Diana.’

  ‘She didn’t, actually.’ Grace walked over to the sink. ‘Can I make myself a coffee?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ I said shortly. ‘You usually do.’

  Grace turned, stung by my abrasive reply. ‘What exactly is it you’re objecting to, Harriet? Before all this happened with Nick and the Hendersons you’d have been first in line to hear all the juicy details. You’ve changed, you know. Lost your softness, your sense of humour. In fact you’re fast becoming a miserable old harridan.’

  I gasped at the sharp words but before I could reply Grace went on, ‘Is it the fact that we’ve used your precious potting shed? If so, I apologise. I’ll make sure that Seb and I keep out of your way in future.’

  ‘The future? There is a future then?’

  ‘Harriet, the minute I saw Sebastian in “Jimmy’s” last Friday night I fell in love.’

  ‘You fell in lust,’ I said nastily. Oh, God, What was the matter with me? This was my best friend I was laying into. Why couldn’t I be pleased for her?

  ‘Why can’t you be pleased for me?’ Grace echoed my thoughts.

  ‘Because it’s all too close to home. In case you’ve forgotten, Sebastian is Little Miss Goodness’s only, adored son. You, Grace, are not only years older than him, but also the one person that Amanda could never bring to heel. I hardly think she’ll open her arms to you as a prospective daughter-in-law.’

  ‘Harriet, for heaven’s sake. I only met him on Friday. Alright, admittedly I’ve been with him ever since, but …’

  ‘You’ve been,’ I broke off, trying to think of the right word, ‘dallying with him since Friday night, and you never told me?’

  ‘Dallying with him?’ Grace chortled. ‘I wouldn’t exactly call fucking his brains out “dallying” with him.’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting,’ I hissed.

  Grace looked at me curiously. ‘You’re jealous. For some reason, you’re jealous.’

  ‘Oh don’t be ridiculous,’ I snapped, taking up my frantic polishing once more. ‘Why should I be jealous of you having sex in my potting shed with someone just out of school?’

  Grace smiled. ‘Because he’s the most gorgeous specimen you’ve ever seen? Because he’s young and bright and funny and comes unhindered by all the crap that we oldies have in our lives? Because he makes love like a dream – and ten minutes later comes back for more?’

  Well, I suppose put like that, maybe she had a point. But there was no way I was going to admit that seeing Grace and Seb together had made me feel middle-aged: bogged down in a seething mess of bills, adolescent kids, work and worries about Nick. Or that seeing Grace and Seb together, totally wrapped up in each other, had reminded me so much of how Nick and I used to be. I missed him so much.

  And what was it about my house that induced everyone who came to it to have sex in it? First there was young Jennifer Walker in my sitting room the other night, then the ‘doggers’ down in the woods, and now Grace carrying out her Lady Chatterley fantasy down in my potting shed. Maybe I should get in on the act – set up a brothel and become a Madam. It would be one way of paying the gas bill, which was surely due any day.

  Even a
fter Grace’s accusation that I was becoming – what was her phrase, ‘a miserable old harridan’ – I seemed unable to relax, laugh and concede that she might just have a point. Instead, like an out of control lorry, I blundered on. ‘I’m concerned about Amanda’s reaction if she knows what you’ve been up to with her one and only son – and the repercussions it might have on my family,’ I said primly.

  ‘Oh don’t be such an arse, Hat.’ Grace raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘You sound just like my mother. What I’m up to with Seb has nothing at all to do with you and Nick. Or Little Miss Goodness come to that.’

  ‘Of course it has. For a start you are my friend, and you’ve been doing the dirty deed on my premises.’ I paused while Grace laughed out loud at this, infuriating me further. ‘An outraged Amanda only needs to tell David to pull the plug on this whole business deal and my family is in the mire.’

  ‘Hattie, Amanda isn’t going to do that.’ Grace now said placatingly. ‘She’s into Nick far too much to jeopardise what they’ve sorted out so far.’

  ‘What do you mean, Grace?’ I said icily. ‘What has Sebastian said to you about Nick?’

  Grace reddened again and moved away to fill the kettle so she wouldn’t have to meet my eyes. ‘Nothing,’ she blustered. ‘Seb just said she’s working really hard with Nick on this project. Wants him to succeed – like we all do.’

  ‘He’s said something else hasn’t he? Grace, I need to know. What did Seb say about Nick and Amanda?’

  ‘Oh you know Amanda. Always has to be top banana. Wants everyone to love her. Seb adores her, but he knows what she’s like.’

  ‘That hasn’t told me anything, Grace. You know I think Nick is having a thing with Amanda. You’ve not said anything to put my mind at rest.’

  ‘Harriet, just go with the flow. Nick is a big boy – well capable of looking after himself.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ I interrupted, ‘if I remember correctly it was you who said Amanda was ruthless, would get what she wanted in the end. Remember my brother John? Almost had a breakdown over her?’

  Refusing to meet my eyes once more, she sighed before changing the subject. ‘Sebastian has made me feel good about myself again. It may just be sex, but it’s bloody good sex, I’m having fun and it’s helping me get over Dan.’