Still, it was a bit of a bugger.
‘Lucky you,’ said Honor, stirring bèchamel for a lasagne. ‘Their house is to die for.’
Bruno was leaning up against the worktop, watching. ‘So everyone keeps telling me.’
‘The only trouble is you won’t want to go anywhere else afterwards.’
‘You might want to turn that off, it’s started to boil.’
Honor switched off the gas. ‘Where are you going to look, anyway?’
‘Don’t know yet.’ He pulled a shrug face. ‘Ma favours West Hampstead because she used to live there.’
‘Gosh, you’ll never afford Hampstead!’
‘West Hampstead – it’s not smart, she says.’
‘Oh, fine. Anyway,’ added Honor comfortably, ‘I expect the TSs will be able to help with that.’
‘If he thinks I’m going to trudge round with a copy of the Advertiser looking at god-forsaken bedsits with him, he can think again,’ said Felicity.
‘I’m sure that won’t happen,’ said Robin. ‘We can point him in the right direction, but it’ll be character-forming for the lad to conduct his own researches.’
In this interim period – what he thought of as the calm before the storm – Robin had quite frequently found himself in the role of devil’s advocate. Perhaps Felicity had secretly hoped he would object to Bruno’s coming, so she’d be let off the hook, because now that it was arranged she was making heavy weather of it.
It was a matter of common consensus among their wide circle of friends and acquaintances that the Trevor-Saverys, Fliss and Rob as they were generally known, had an enviable lifestyle. In fact they were one of the few couples of whom it might be said that they had a ‘lifestyle’. Meaning that they – especially Felicity – had formulated a plan, and worked on it. Lucky for them that Robin was now CEO of Porterfield’s so executing the plan had been well within their means.
Their house in Hampstead, in one of the more recherche zones overlooking the bathing pools, stood out from its neighbours in just the right way. A 1930s mansion, cool, pale and shiny, it sat there like a spaceship, all gleaming glass and elegant curves, unashamedly different. Inside, clever Felicity had created exactly the right mix of chic minimalism and habitability. With three children under ten this was a hard act to pull off, but she’d achieved it triumphantly. Mind you, they had the space, so the children’s bedrooms were in a kind of annex, and they also had a full-time nanny which helped. People agreed that they were marvellous parents and had the balance just right. Felicity had given up paid work (there was no financial imperative) till Noah, Rollo and Cecilia – nine, six and three respectively – were all in school, but she was no idle luncher. She was on the fundraising committees of two charities, a volunteer at the local hospice, and heavily involved in an important initiative (spearheaded by a famous Hollywood actress) to do with the provision of sanitary products for girls in the Third World. All this kept her busy. Plus the house was absolutely amazing, the scene of sparkling dinner parties (the TSs still gave those) as well as convivial kitchen suppers and Christmas parties where the whole place was transformed into a silvery winter wonderland. And the children of course were lovely.
In short, they were a fortunate couple who spread delight rather than envy. Carpers were in a minority.
The night before Bruno was due to arrive Felicity lay awake fretting. Part of the trouble was that she hadn’t seen him for ages and wasn’t sure what to expect. After getting three respectable A Levels (God knows how, Felicity had no time for that weird school) he’d taken off on a gap jolly with a friend – six weeks in Australia and around the dodgier youth meccas of the Pacific Rim. Whether this had broadened his mind wasn’t clear, but she’d heard no reports of disasters. She’d invited the parents up to Hampstead for the weekend, but they’d declined in order to keep the home fires burning for Charity and Honor. They had been up earlier in the summer and been a great success, you could take them anywhere.
Now the TSs were back from three blissful weeks in Maine, and awaited the arrival of Bruno, an unknown quantity.
‘Mum! Mummee …’
‘Who’s that?’
‘I’m wet!’
Cissy came paddling across the bedroom, trailing dampness. Robin rolled on to his back.
‘Anything I can do?’
They both knew the question was rhetorical and in a moment he rolled away again.
Felicity accompanied Cissy back to her room and embarked on the process of changing first her nightclothes, then her sheets, then sitting next to her during a potty session in case there was more to come out. Given the hour and her mother’s undivided attention, Cissy became chatty.
‘Can we read Tiger?’
‘Not now, it’s sleeping time.’
‘Tiger for Tea!’
‘Not now. It’s night-time. Have you done anything?’
‘Ate all the food in the cupboard, drank all the water in the tap, ate all—’
‘No tiger now, Cissy. Come on.’
‘No, no, wee’s coming!’
Felicity sat with her arms round her knees. Her feet were cold. She was overcome by a familiar weary boredom. She could admit it to herself – much of the activity associated with small children was boring. Daily, hourly, she thanked her lucky stars that she was able to employ a nanny. She simply didn’t know how other women did it, the long hours of time-filling, the sheer plod of childcare. At least with Noah there had been the excitement of the first grandchild, and a boy (over nine pounds, she still winced to think of it, thank God for epidurals) – all the flowers and champagne and general sense of celebration. She had a nursery nurse to tide her over the first month and after that she had stopped trying to breastfeed, she couldn’t believe the ceaseless struggle was good for either of them. Rollo had been much smaller, so his arrival had been easier, and he wasn’t so hungry either, but two – dear God! Nothing had prepared her for the ceaselessness of it. Marguerite had come up, but that was before they were in this house and the spacious Edwardian semi down the hill had felt crowded. Their first nanny had arrived when Marguerite left, and though she hadn’t survived the move they hadn’t been without one since.
‘Effant book. Effants!’
‘No, no elephants now.’
Felicity lifted her daughter off the potty – it was still empty – and hoisted up her trainer pants and pyjama bottoms.
‘Into bed.’
‘Can I come in your bed?’
‘No, you’re going to sleep in your lovely bed.’
‘My big girl’s bed.’
‘That’s right.’ Felicity pulled back the duvet and hoisted Cissy in. ‘There. Do you want Sheepie?’
‘No, not Sheepie!’ Cecilia’s tone implied that this was the most ridiculous, villainous suggestion in the world. ‘Not Sheepie!’
‘Who would you like?’
‘I want to come in your bed.’
‘But you’re going to go in your lovely Big Girl’s bed which is much better.’
After a not brilliant night with Cissy occupying the centre of the bed, Robin left early the next morning, the rucksack containing his clean shirt on his back. He collected his road bike from the garage and was through the gate and just about to mount when the nanny, returning from her night off, slowed down to turn into the drive in her red Japanese runaround, a necessary perk of the job. He paused and raised a hand in greeting.
‘Morning Ellie!’
She sent him a little wave, opening and closing her hand like a bird’s beak. A very confident young woman, and why wouldn’t she be? The nanny business, he had come to realize, was a seller’s market, and though Eleanor was undoubtedly indispensable and a treasure, she knew her own worth and had negotiated a very comfortable package chez TS.
Robin didn’t grudge it her. Now he took a couple of scooting steps and swung his leg over the saddle. The Tempo Ultegra had set him back north of five k but it was worth every penny, not for the exercise alone but the psychological
benefits.
He needed to be calm. Tonight Bruno would be here.
Noah and Rollo were at that age when small boys seemed to ricochet from place to place like released balloons, creating small explosions of mess wherever they touched, and making a lot of unnecessary noise. Felicity fondly believed that Rollo was actually a quieter child, but this theory remained untested because Noah was rambunctious and where his older brother led, Rollo followed. This morning Cissy was cranky after her disturbed night, so Felicity was particularly grateful for her nanny’s cheerful Kiwi competence. Ellie had an enviable ability to distract the boys – this time with some mad song about thunder down under, which if it wasn’t lavatory humour sounded enough like it to enchant them – so that they followed willingly, and while she was doing that she somehow got Cissy into her shoes and sweatshirt. This morning the boys were strapped into the back of Ellie’s car to be taken to St Cuthbert’s C of E Primary up near the Vale of Health, and Cissy into her seat in her mother’s Audi. Her playgroup was a quarter of a mile further away, en route to the hospice where Felicity was due to provide comfort to the residents both in the day room and on the ward. Cecilia would be dropped off by Felicity, and then picked up by Ellie at midday. On this occasion the boys had a lift home with another mother after football on the heath, but Ellie would give all three children their supper, and make sure the chicken casserole was defrosted and in the oven for later. Officially her day ended after the children’s bedtime, but she was agreeably flexible.
‘He’s catching the train that gets into Paddington around four,’ Marguerite had told Fliss. ‘So allowing for some faffing around he should be with you between five and six.’
Felicity had not offered to meet him, and was glad her mother hadn’t asked. They needed to start as they meant to go on. Bruno had been halfway round the world, the journey from Paddington to Parliament Hill should cause him no problems. There was one thing though.
‘Is he solvent at the moment?’
‘He should be. He swears he is – he’s been working down at the beach cafe since he got back. And Hugh’s slipped him a few bob for extras. So don’t stand for any sponging.’
‘Don’t worry, we won’t.’
‘It’s very, very good of you,’ Marguerite had said again with feeling.
‘Remind me again when he starts college?’
‘Two weeks – beginning of October. He’ll be off your hands by then.’
Bruno was due to start one of those mixed degrees that were so popular – Felicity couldn’t remember exactly but it was something like Sanskrit, Philosophy and Design – at what would once have been a poly, now the University of North London. The campus was in Cricklewood, so even when he was in his own place that was three years within easy reach. During that time they would be the first resort in a crisis. All the more reason not to featherbed him when he was here.
St Teresa’s Hospice was a model of its kind. Felicity felt better the moment she crossed the threshold. Modern, comfortable, tastefully decorated, peaceful but not hushed, everywhere an air of gentle wellbeing. She could never have done what her sister Honor did – all the mopping and wiping and spooning and sponging – she knew her limitations, and that was beyond her. She wasn’t even much good when one of the children was sick, the sound, sight and smell of vomit made her retch, and she was more relieved than she dared admit that the end of nappies was in sight. She could never have coped with the less obliging psychological aspects of terminal illness, or even old age. These days she was painfully alert to any signs of forgetfulness in her parents. Children were mentally and physically demanding, but at least one had the reassurance of knowing that they were probably likely to grow up and grow out of whatever it was, whereas with the older generation it was only likely to get worse.
The receptionist (another volunteer) greeted Felicity with a warm smile – she was a popular member of the team.
‘Morning Felicity!’
‘Hello Jean, lovely day.’
‘It’s always the same isn’t it, the moment the kids go back to school …?’
‘Absolutely.’
Felicity passed through reception, down the bright corridor with its tasteful framed landscape photographs and into the kitchen. The timetable on the wall showed that sharing ward duties with her this morning would be Angela, a recent graduate from the induction course whom she hadn’t met before. Felicity was glad she was there first, to establish a microscopic degree of precedence over the newbie. All the volunteers had to take the twelve-week course, but there was no substitute for real hands-on experience.
She set out rose-patterned cups and saucers (everything was attractive and good quality at the hospice) trays with pretty cloths, and plates of biscuits. She filled a jug with elderflower cordial, and surrounded it with glasses. The next task was to visit the ward and take the patients’ orders, something which could take a little while because you didn’t want to rush – conversation was just as important as refreshment.
She was just about to set off, armed with notebook and pen, when a woman entered from the corridor carrying a long-spouted plastic watering can.
‘By a process of elimination, Felicity, I presume?’
‘Yes.’
‘Angela Hall, good to meet you. Not sure of the form so thought I’d just find something to do’ – she brandished the can – ‘and get stuck in.’
‘Well done – hello Angela.’ Felicity concealed her small discombobulation beneath the prescribed beaming niceness. ‘I was just off to take hot drink orders, why not come along?’
‘Good idea. Unless there’s anything’ – Angela cast about – ‘but it looks as if you’ve done it all.’
This went some way to soothing Felicity. Angela was a neat, homely, well turned-out woman in her sixties, with bobbed grey hair. Everything about her proclaimed lack of vanity, as well as order, dependability and good sense. So probably not a rival but a good henchwoman.
On the other hand there was no denying that on the ward she was a natural – chatty, thoughtful, considerate and (most importantly, they’d had this drummed into them) a good listener. Felicity was conscious of raising her own game slightly to, well, not compete exactly, but to show she was an old hand.
Felicity tried not to have favourites among the patients. Apart from anything else you never knew how long they would be there for and it was unwise to become too attached. But she was especially fond of one chap, a retired sales director, who had been in a few times over the past few months for respite care. David Thorpe’s aggressive cancer had done nothing to dim his love of the ladies, and they had established a mildly flirtatious relationship. This morning Angela reached him first and Felicity glimpsed their handshake, her attentive enquiries … But Angela’s good manners couldn’t be faulted. As Felicity approached she stood back, and David said, ‘Ah, here she is, the angel of the urn.’
Felicity raised her eyebrows at Angela to show it was a joke. ‘You know perfectly well there is no urn.’
‘Bet there’s one out in the galley.’
‘Anyway, what’s it to be this morning?’
‘I’ll have my usual skinny macchiato with almond milk and a cinnamon stick.’
Felicity spoke as she wrote. ‘One flat white.’
‘She’s a hard woman,’ said David to Angela.
‘I’m learning that.’
Back in the kitchen, as they prepared the orders, Angela said, ‘It’s impressive how stoical people are. I’m not sure I’d be so philosophical.’
‘This place does all it can to help the patients to be comfortable and calm.’
Angela smiled indulgently. ‘That Mr Thorpe is fond of you.’
‘I don’t know about that. It’s just his manner.’
‘Does he have family?’
Felicity tried to decide whether this was a loaded question and decided on balance that it wasn’t.
‘He’s divorced with two grown-up children. They come quite often, they’re nice.’
They began loading the trays on to a trolley – itself a thing of beauty, made of sparkling brass and glass, with a lace cloth.
‘What about you, do you have any children?’
‘Three under ten,’ Felicity said modestly. ‘The youngest only just turned three.’
‘My goodness, such a busy time … I remember it well – or at least, I say that, but actually it’s a blur!’
They headed back to the ward, with Angela bustling ahead. Felicity, with food for thought, followed after with the trolley.
Eight
Bruno and Sean sat in a Victorian pub that nestled in the lee of the Royal Free Hospital. Bruno’s giant rucksack lay propped against his chair. On the table were two pints of Bullshot ale, and a packet of smoky bacon crisps. Bruno had been told not to turn up at the TS’s house before five, and it was two-thirty so there was time to kill. The original timing had been predicated on his getting the train from Exeter to Paddington, but he had decided to save the fare and hitched a ride – well, two to be precise – which had set him down near Hendon at about one.
Since the two of them had returned from South-East Asia Sean had taken up residence in London – Kilburn – and extended an invitation to Bruno (not mentioned to the family) to shack up there on the sofa indefinitely. There might even be a permanent billet if Sean’s current flatmate moved out which was always likely, they were a floating population. But Bruno was attracted by the idea of a couple of weeks with his sister and brother-in-law first. Fliss was a bit up herself but Robin was OK. And even though they had three kids they were loaded, so he expected the conditions to be quite luxurious.
They had already scoped out the house from beyond the iron gate, and Sean had expressed admiration.
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