by Beth Corby
I log in to my account and read Lauren’s email.
To: Hannah Wilson
From: Lauren Wilson
Subject: Don’t even think about saying no
Hannah,
The whole family has been invited to a party at Great-Uncle Donald’s next Wednesday. Everyone’s going. Aunty Pam and Uncle Nigel said even Nicholas is taking a day off work, so you’re coming too – no excuses. Take the train to Mum and Dad’s on Tuesday night and one of us will collect you from the station.
Lauren
That’s weird – I’ve never even met Great-Uncle Donald. He and Grandma Betty had a big row years ago, and she’s supposedly been keeping us safe from his ‘subversive influence’ ever since. I wonder what’s changed and why we’re suddenly going to his party.
I write Lauren a quick text. It will annoy her because, as far as she’s concerned, she’s passed on the message, job done – so I smile as I send it. Hi Lauren. What party? Why? Hannah.
The reply comes almost immediately. Family thing – everyone meeting Great-Uncle Donald. Just say yes.
I mean, it sounds interesting, but I have an assignment due next week and also it’s not all that long until my finals. I suppose I could write the essay on the train. I sigh and tap in a quick message. OK. Will be on train. Tell Mum if she phones.
Tell her yourself bleeps Lauren’s reply.
I guess I should have expected that.
I pocket my phone, do up my coat and look up at the department building. My stomach squirms uncomfortably, a curdled mixture of embarrassment and annoyance. How did that interview turn into such a disaster? In fact, beyond causing actual bodily harm, I don’t see how it could have gone much worse. I suppress the urge to stick out my tongue at the building before I head back to my digs. What the hell am I going to do now? Something had better turn up, because I’m all out of ideas.
Chapter 2
It’s Tuesday evening, it’s already dark, and I’m sitting on the train to Farnborough staring dazedly at the tracery of rain trickling down the window. I’ve just finished reading a translation of book one of Ovid’s Metamorphoses and I haven’t taken in a single word. In fact, it might as well be written in the original Latin for all the sense I made of it. I put it down and assess my notepad, which is usually covered in doodles, comments and a primitive essay plan by now, but this time is uncompromisingly blank. I pick up my pen, worried I’ll have nothing to transfer to my computer later, and write the essay title. I stare at it, then underline it, but it’s no use, I simply can’t focus. I slump back and tap my pen on the metal edge of the table, earning a pointed throat clearance from the businessman diagonally opposite. I stop tapping. I might as well face it – I’m too worried to write.
The trouble is that, although family get-togethers are always a bit tedious, this one, thanks to my dreadful teaching interview and my complete lack of plausible Plan B, has the potential to be gut-wrenchingly awful. There’ll be the usual talk of my cousin Nicholas’s medical career and how he sees himself rising through the ranks at breakneck speed, with Aunty Pam and Uncle Nigel looking on proudly as their son waxes lyrical. Then there’ll be the enquiries about Lauren’s marvellous commissions at the recruitment agency, predictably segueing into which famous companies she’s worked with lately and how she’s matched people to their perfect jobs, changing their lives forever (bring on the halo and heavenly choirs). And then Grandma Betty will turn to me, asking, ‘So, what are you up to these days, Hannah? Another change of career on the horizon or are you sticking with English?’ Every time without fail, followed by her falsely sweet titter. And then someone will mention my teaching interview . . .
I score another deep underline into my notepad, almost tearing the paper, and quickly put the pen down before I burrow through to the table.
I know I shouldn’t care – they certainly don’t, and are much more interested in Great-Uncle Donald than anything to do with me . . . so perhaps if I don’t mention my interview, no one will ask.
It’s possible.
And if they do remember, I could say I’m still waiting to hear. After all, I haven’t officially received a rejection letter. It’s not a lie, technically. And it would mean I could enjoy the day, meet Great-Uncle Donald, and tell people later . . . preferably when I’m a hundred and three and feigning senility so no one will believe me anyway.
I sit up straighter, a smile sneaking onto my face. Tomorrow could even be fun. I might find out more about the rift between Great-Uncle Donald and Grandma Betty, and how he made the shedloads of money in London – something that Grandma Betty made a snide comment about a couple of years ago but seemed unable, rather than unwilling, to elaborate on.
I wonder if he has any family? There’s always tons of extended family on those lost-relative programmes on TV, so he might have kids and grandkids, too.
The train rocks unevenly as it starts to brake, and that’s my cue. I quickly shove my work in my bag, haul it onto my back and stagger up the corridor. The train lurches to a stop, and I topple out onto the icy, wet platform to find it empty. My heart momentarily sinks, but if Lauren’s drawn the short straw and is picking me up, she won’t come out in the freezing rain to greet me off the train – she’ll be waiting in her car in the pickup zone.
I hoist my bag more securely on my shoulder and make for the exit, but there are no cars in the empty spaces directly outside. I peer around, trying to shield my face from the worst of the rain, and finally spot Lauren’s car on the other side of the empty car park. Honestly, Lauren could write a book on the art of passive aggression. I trudge across the howling expanse until, soaked through and exhausted, I open Lauren’s boot and dump my bag inside.
‘Need a hand?’ Lauren calls, tapping away on her phone, not even looking up.
‘No,’ I say, wincing as a trickle of cold water runs under my coat sleeve and creeps up my arm as I close the boot. I get in and lean over to give Lauren a hug. ‘Thanks for picking me up.’
Lauren shies away, wrinkling her nose. ‘You smell like wet dog,’ she says scathingly, and turns on the engine. I sniff my coat collar. It smells perfectly fine, but I’m not opening hostilities this early. Instead I hold my hands out to the hot-air vent, which gives me a much warmer reception, as we pull out of the station.
Several roundabouts and the cinema slide past before I think of anything to say.
‘So, how’s the latest man in your life?’ I ask finally.
Lauren laughs. ‘Just dumped him, actually. He turned out to be a bit of a nuisance.’
‘In what way?’
Lauren overtakes a lorry on the limited stretch of dual carriageway before the next roundabout. ‘Too clingy: always phoning and dropping round.’
‘I thought boyfriends were supposed to do that?’
‘Not mine. I expect them to be fun, take me nice places and know when to give me some space, not get on my nerves.’
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I look out of the window.
‘How did the interview go?’ asks Lauren. I’m surprised she’s remembered. ‘Am I going to have to call my little sister “Miss” from now on?’
I toy with the idea of lying to her as planned, but I can’t be bothered. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but it was a disaster from beginning to end.’
‘Everyone says that after an interview,’ says Lauren. ‘ “Oh I was awful”, “Oh it was terrible”,’ she mimics, lifting a hand dramatically to her forehead. ‘How badly can a teaching interview go? They’re crying out for more teachers.’
I bite my lip, already regretting my candour. ‘The interviewer hated me on sight.’
‘And?’ prompts Lauren.
In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘And I disrespected his field of study and likened children to Hitler.’
Lauren hesitates. ‘Not really? Even you’re not that stupid!’
‘Well, apparently I am.’
Her voice hardens. ‘Jesus, Hannah! You’re twenty-five. Why can’t you answer a
few simple questions like a normal person? Mum and Dad can’t support you forever.’
I feel a hot flush of embarrassment, which I quickly bury in a shallow grave. ‘They don’t support me – they just gave me a loan,’ I say with determined calm.
‘Loan!’ snorts Lauren.
‘I’ll pay them back.’
‘What with?’ Lauren gives me a cynical look and we sit in silence for a while.
‘What’s the plan for tomorrow?’ I ask, changing the subject.
Lauren sighs heavily. ‘Dad’s driving us. Grandma and Grandpa are coming with Uncle Nigel and Aunty Pam. Nicholas is driving himself.’
‘And has anyone said why we’re going?’
‘No, we just all received lavish invitations “requesting the pleasure of . . .” I’ve seen ours. It’s all gold leaf and embossed edges.’ Lauren cuts in front of a small hatchback, causing the driver to flash his lights angrily. She holds her middle finger up to the rear-view mirror.
‘Why is everyone so keen to go?’ I ask, hunkering down in my seat as the other driver overtakes, mouthing angrily and throwing her a few choice hand gestures of his own. ‘It’s not anyone’s birthday or anniversary, is it?’
Lauren shrugs. ‘I don’t think so. At least, no one’s said anything. But Aunty Pam wanted to go, and then Grandma Betty said she wasn’t going to have us all listening to Donald’s lies and not be there to defend herself, and suddenly we’re all going.’
‘Is this about the family rift, then?’
‘I’ve no idea. I asked Mum if she or Aunty Pam know what happened, but she said the bust-up took place before they were born, and Grandma Betty’s always refused to talk about it.’
‘So it’s a closely guarded secret, then . . . at least as far as Grandma Betty’s concerned.’
Lauren frowns – something she rarely does in a bid to avoid wrinkles – then a smile spreads across her face. ‘Hmm, but perhaps Great-Uncle Donald will tell me, if I ask him nicely.’
Probably – men are putty in her hands. ‘Maybe, but I’d still tread carefully – I’m guessing it’s a touchy subject,’ I say, because telling her not to would be counter-productive.
Lauren rolls her eyes as if she’s back in her teens, wearing heavy eye make-up and a choke-inducing amount of hairspray. ‘Are you seriously telling me you don’t want to know what the issue has been all these years?’
‘Not if he wants to let bygones be bygones, so we can all be family again.’
‘Fat chance! Grandma Betty won’t let him back into the fold without a bucket load of grovelling,’ states Lauren. She has a point.
Lauren brakes hard and swings around a roundabout towards our parents’ housing estate.
‘Unless it’s her fault . . . and Grandma Betty’s the one who should be begging forgiveness,’ I add, savouring this novel thought. ‘Might we see history being made and watch her apologise?’
Lauren pulls up onto the drive and applies the handbrake. There’s a pause as our eyes meet and, in a rare moment of agreement, we admit how unlikely that is.
‘Time to face “The Olds”,’ she says, using the term she favoured for our parents during our teens.
‘Happy, smiling faces,’ I sigh, which is what Lauren used to say to me when she slipped back in after being out all evening when she was supposed to be babysitting me. She smiles tightly.
While I collect my bag from her boot, Lauren opens the front door with her key and shouts into the house, ‘Mum! Dad! We’re back!’ adding, ‘Hannah’s teaching interview was a disaster!’ I close my eyes, and almost drop my bag back in the boot, climb in after it, and pull the lid closed behind me.
‘Lauren! Why did you tell them about my interview?’ I hiss as I join her on the doorstep.
‘Oh, was it a secret?’ she asks, looking impressively contrite. I grit my teeth. ‘Well, you were going to tell them sooner or later, so what’s the difference? At least I’ve saved you the trouble of breaking it to them.’ Lauren gives me a big smile.
‘You’re so kind,’ I mutter sarcastically. Happy, smiling faces, I remind myself sourly, and follow her into the house.
Chapter 3
Mum and Dad were a bit tight-lipped yesterday evening, thanks to Lauren’s grand announcement about my disastrous interview. As a result, I spent a fretful night trying to come up with a suitably impressive Plan B. Unfortunately, after dismissing becoming a bestselling author, internet sensation or art historian on TV (like Sister Wendy Beckett, minus the wimple), I was left with temping again. Now I’m sat in the back of the car next to Lauren feeling bleary eyed and shiftless, Lauren’s on her phone swiping men’s photos to the left (as she has been for the past hour), and Mum and Dad are arguing over the correct route through Wiltshire’s country lanes.
‘I’m sure we should have taken that last left, Steven,’ says Mum.
‘It was a farm track,’ snaps Dad, who’s still furious with her for agreeing we would come because he can’t stand Uncle Nigel or Grandma Betty.
‘But it says in the directions to take the first left.’
‘If we’d taken that left, Angela, we’d have ended up in someone’s field. Unless Donald is a bloody sheep, we won’t find him up there!’
‘There’s no need to bite my head off!’ Mum gives me and Lauren an obvious glance. ‘Perhaps we should stop and ask Nigel. He’s got satnav,’ she says, gesturing to the large silver 4x4 following us.
‘We are not asking Nigel or his bloody satnav – and if we had taken a wrong turn, he wouldn’t still be behind us!’
I bite back a smile. I’ve never been able to figure out whether Dad’s envious of Uncle Nigel’s car or whether he just thinks he’s a bit of a knob.
Silence falls and Lauren sighs and puts away her phone. She looks over Mum’s shoulder at the directions and slumps back into her seat.
‘It’s called “The Laurels”,’ she says, unimpressed. ‘Sounds like an old people’s home.’
‘Does it?’
‘Of course it does. Fan-bloody-tastic, a day off spent with lots of old biddies sat watching us drink tea.’ She mimes shooting herself in the head.
I force a smile. ‘We’re only there to see Great-Uncle Donald, aren’t we? The rest doesn’t matter.’
‘Whatever,’ she huffs, peering out at the countryside.
Noticing Lauren’s perfectly manicured claws, I inspect my uneven nails and nibble at a rough edge. She turns back and I drop my hand, curling my fingers under so she can’t see them.
‘I mean, what constitutes a party in an old people’s home?’ she bleats. ‘More than three people in a room? Cups of tea and cake? And what can we possibly have to talk about?’
I cast about for ideas. ‘I don’t know. What we do? What we like? Isn’t that what most people are interested in – gossip and news?’
‘I suppose,’ she agrees grudgingly. ‘I can always tell him about my work. He won’t appreciate the intricacies, but people usually understand how successful I am from the commission I make . . . though, on second thoughts, perhaps I should play that down. He might not leave me anything if he thinks I’m loaded.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, when he dies I don’t want him passing me over because he thinks I’m doing well enough already.’
I gasp. ‘Lauren, that’s horrible! You haven’t even met him yet!’
‘No, but he’s old and he’s family.’ She gives me a condescending look. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it? He’s supposed to be rich, and why else would he want to meet us all? Why do you think we came?’
I stare at her.
‘Oh, don’t play the innocent with me. I know you’ve thought about it,’ she whispers, her eyes narrowing.
‘I can honestly say it never crossed my mind.’
A smile sneaks onto her face. ‘Of course it has. You’re planning to butter him up, just as much as I am. And with things going the way they are for you right now, you’d be stupid not to,’ she adds, just loud
enough for me to hear.
I stare at her in mute disbelief. I feel sick, both about my own situation and what she’s suggesting. It’s awful! I turn away and close my eyes. I hope Donald has a brood of twenty grandchildren all lining up to inherit. It would serve her right if he did.
Lauren nudges me hard. ‘We’re here,’ she says.
I must have dozed off, because we’re passing between peeling cast-iron gates. There’s a hand-painted sign proclaiming it’s ‘The Laurels’, and we’re plunged into the green gloom of its overgrown namesakes. After a few moments, we emerge onto a large semi-circular sweep of gravel in front of a gorgeous and well-maintained Georgian house that bears none of the hallmarks of being an old people’s home.
‘Oh,’ gasps Lauren. ‘Grandma Betty wasn’t joking about him having a few quid, then!’
‘No, she wasn’t,’ agrees Dad.
I sit up to see better and the warm brick frontage, sash windows and delicately proportioned portico with classical sandstone pillars practically sweep me into a Jane Austen novel and an empire-line dress. I’m still gaping, sweetshop window-style, as we park and Nicholas and Uncle Nigel pull alongside us in a scrunch of gravel. Nicholas is smiling away to himself in his swanky Porsche, and I suspect he’s thinking along the same lines as Lauren. But Uncle Nigel, with eyes only for his massive car, gets out with a polishing cloth and lovingly starts cleaning the bugs off his bonnet and grill.
I open my door to hear Grandma Betty complaining – not that there’s anything unusual in that, but she’s looking pointedly at Uncle Nigel.
