It was one thing she could be completely confident about. Her food. Taught at Judith’s elbow since she was a small child, she felt entirely at home in a kitchen. Silently, she leaned over the table and screwed the cap off the bottle of red wine to allow it to breathe. It was a good one, the man in the off-licence had told her. “Good grub and good wine,” she whispered to herself, feeling a little better at the reassuring thought that she was well-prepared. Preparation was the key to everything, Judith always preached.
Suddenly, Rowan whipped around to face back in the direction of the empty kitchen. She was sure . . .
There was no one there. Nothing at all, in fact.
She breathed in deeply, and out again, realising that her heart was hammering against her ribcage with fright. That was the second – no, the third – time it had happened in the time since she had moved in. It was stupid Jon’s fault that she was so jumpy. Stupid Jon filling her head with stupid notions about Ed’s dead wife and stupid Rowan for letting her imagination run riot.
It was all just anxiety, she reassured herself. Anxiety at moving in with someone – at moving in with a man, with whom she was having a relationship, of all things. She’d never done that before. Anxiety at these feelings she had for him, the intensity and the suddenness of them, anxiety at having a child thrown into the equation. Anxiety about what others would think, at where all this was leading.
Rowan’s body suddenly virtually convulsed with shock at the loud clicking noise which suddenly invaded her thoughts, coming from far down the hall. The front door, she realised, after a second. Ed. He was home. She heard the buzz of voices from the hallway, the thump-thump-thump of two sets of children’s feet – Bee’s and her cousin Matilda’s – disappearing into the front room and the instant hum of voices and light-hearted music from the TV. Her body flooded with gratitude for a moment as she turned and saw Ed’s beaming smile as he stood at the top of the kitchen steps.
Rowan beamed in return at him as he stepped down into the kitchen. It was a smile that soon faded, however, as she was greeted with the grim and serious faces of the people who followed him.
“Rowan, these are my parents,” said Ed. “Eileen and Frank. And this is my sister Vicky. Everyone, this is Rowan.”
“So pleased to meet you, everyone,” she said lightly, her hand extended in greeting. A hand that remained extended into thin air for just a moment too long, before Ed’s father reached in from between his wife and daughter and clasped it firmly, nodding his head at Rowan before awkwardly releasing the hand and turning to Ed to request the Sunday newspaper.
“I’ll get it for you now, Dad,” replied Ed, guiding his father back up the kitchen steps toward the living room where Rowan knew that the papers lay on the coffee table.
Immediately, she became uncomfortably aware that she was under intense scrutiny fromthe two women who now remained, facing her, still standing stiff at the bottom of the kitchen steps, coats and scarves on, waiting for something, or someone to take care of them.
Rowan took a breath and smiled. “Let me take your things,” she offered. “It’s a bit nippy out there today, isn’t it?”
She was rewarded with silence.
Eileen Mycroft sighed as she unbuttoned her red coat and slipped it off with what seemed like unnecessary effort, passing it to Rowan who mumbled a “There we go!” as she draped the coat over her arm and accepted the scarf that followed. Rowan then reached out to take the black leather jacket which Vicky had removed carefully, watching Rowan closely as she did so, before thrusting it at her rudely.
“Don’t put that jacket in the cupboard under that manky stairs!” Vicky barked suddenly. “It’s designer. Put it somewhere that I can keep an eye on it.”
Rowan was stunned and opened and shut her mouth again, unable to formulate a response. She glanced at Eileen, who was rooting through her handbag for something, completely ignoring her daughter’s rudeness.
For a moment, Rowan contemplated saying something . . . but what? Telling Vicky to ask nicely and say please, like she might of Bee? Instead, she silently gathered herself together and carried the coats up to the hall meekly, where she draped them over the bannister, before taking a deep breath, steadying herself and returning to the kitchen.
“Would anyone like a drink?” she offered politely before noting that Vicky had made her way to the table and was already clutching a glass of red in her hand.
“Got one,” she said flatly. “And could you make sure that them two don’t disappear anywhere?” She nodded toward the door into the hallway where the voices of squabbling children could be heard. “Need to keep an eye on those two when they’re together,” she remarked drily, taking a large slug from the glass. “That Bee’s a sneaky little biter when no one’s looking. I ain’t going home out of here with chunks gone out of me kid again. Ain’t that right, Ma?”
Rowan’s eyes widened at the words and she looked at Ed’s mother to see if she agreed with this opinion. She knew that Bee was prone to tantrums and liked to deliver the odd kick here and there, but in all the time Rowan had known her, she had never shown signs that she might be rough with other children.
Eileen looked up from her handbag and directly at Rowan, giving an exaggerated shiver as she did so. “Could I have a cup of tea?” she asked, oblivious again to what her daughter had just said. “Only it’s ever so cold in this room – always has been. In fact, I might have my coat back if you don’t mind. Very parky. Have you got no heating on?”
Shocked, Rowan nodded and turned, retracing her steps to the hallway where she retrieved the red coat and returned it to its owner who slung it around her shoulders before silently making her way back up the kitchen steps toward the living room, followed by her daughter.
* * *
By the time lunch was over Rowan was exhausted. The demands and the criticism had been relentless.
“Take those filthy weeds off the table. Can’t eat with them there!”
“Ain’t that tablecloth very colourful, Mum? Like something you see in an Indian’s house.”
The food – the delicious pie and trimmings – was sniffed at, poked, analysed and commented upon, but not before a demand had been made for chicken nuggets and chips for Matilda who didn’t eat “all that sort of creamy stuff”. Preparing them – for a child who looked like she ate little else – delayed lunch by almost half an hour and Rowan bristled as she served up the food that had been reheated.
Even her own portion of nut roast couldn’t go ignored. It was Ed’s Dad this time: “You a tree-hugger then, love?” he asked loudly, pointing his knife, held like a pencil, at Rowan’s plate.
She reddened as the others peered in to stare.
“Rowan’s vegetarian, Dad,” responded Ed. “She doesn’t eat meat but she was very good to make you a lovely chicken pie, wasn’t she?”
He was answered with a grunt as the old man shook his head, mystified at the prospect of someone who didn’t eat meat, which prompted Vicky to wade into the conversation.
“Give over, Dad,” she said through a mouthful of potatoes. “It’s the twenty-first century now, for heaven’s sake. Veggies ain’t nothing new. And just ’cos we can’t understand how they all think and that, don’t mean that they can’t eat nuts and leaves if they want. Ain’t nothing to do with us if they’re all pale and skinny and getting sick all the time.”
And with that she poured herself the last of the red that Rowan had so carefully chosen, that she had commandeered instantly when they sat down to eat, leaving everyone else’s glass empty. Rowan glanced around the table. Ed’s mother had brought her cup of tea with her to the table although, in her favour, she had managed to shrug her coat off her shoulders. It still rested across the back of her chair, however, just in case. Ed’s dad had requested a large glass of milk which he slugged from regularly as he stared into space while eating great shovelfuls of food and apparently tasting nothing.
The children had juice – Matilda had begrudgingly accepted
it in the absence of anything fizzier, which Rowan firmly didn’t allow in the house. Rowan couldn’t help staring at the unfortunate child as she stuffed her mouth and then stared around the table at the adults as she ate, her red cheeks bulging, her mouth open in order to breathe, scratching at the eczema marks on the inner joint of one of her elbows and her hands. Rowan felt ashamed for staring. But more than that, she felt sorry for the child as she hunched over her food as if someone would steal it. She wore a dress which strained at the seams, emblazoned with the words Hot Chick. Her hair needed a wash and her shoes were scuffed, a pink bow at the toe of the right but missing from the left. Part of Rowan was slightly repelled, but a bigger part wanted to take Matilda off for a bath and a hair-wash followed by a plate of decent food and some cuddles. She glanced at Vicky, seated opposite her, whose eyes were glazed now after the full bottle of red, her expression increasingly disdainful with each tiny mouthful of food. Watching them, Rowan found that her own appetite was sparse. Who on earth were these people, she wondered suddenly, feeling for a moment as if she had left her own body and was an observer on the ceiling.
And there, in the middle of them, was Ed. Funny, clever, sophisticated Ed. How on earth could he have come from these people? How could he be one of them?
There was a sudden loud clatter as Eileendropped her knife and fork loudly on her half-cleared plate and then gave an exaggerated sigh, intent on gaining attention.
“Oh, I couldn’t eat another bite,” she declared, glancing at everyone else’s plates around the table. “Did you make all that yourself, Rowan?”
Rowan froze, a forkful of potato halfway to her mouth. “I did,” she replied awkwardly.
Eileen rolled her eyes and exhaled with a “Phew!” She shook her head. “Very rich,” she said bluntly. “Very rich. You shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble for us. We wouldn’t expect that. Jenny never did. Did she, Edmund?”
It was Ed’s turn to look at his mother, swallowing deeply and reaching for his water glass.
Rowan glanced at him, nervously.
“Mum –” he began.
She carried on regardless. “Jenny knew how to make things easy for herself. When we’d come round she’d get all the grub from that lovely Deli-catessen on Fox’s Road, didn’t she, Ed? All of it in silver foil tubs – stews and the like. That’s much more the type of people we are, isn’t it, Frank?”
Her husband nodded, not lifting his eyes from his plate where he was scraping the last of his sauce off the completely cleared plate with his knife and then licking it with a flourish.
“They did the mash and everything. Lovely it was. Nicer than Marks and Sparks, even. And so simple . . .”
Ed’s voice interrupted her, more insistent now as he glanced at Bee who was staring at the adults intently. “Mum, I’d rather you didn’t in front of –”
Vicky cut him off. “She always had lovely clothes too, had Jenny,” she observed.
Rowan looked on in alarm as she saw her turn to Bee to address her directly.
“Your mum was a great dresser,” Vicky said, slugging the last drain from her glass. “Any more of this Ed?” She waved the glass at him.
“No, Vicky, I think you’ve had enough,” he growled. “And I think you should all stay quiet on the other subject too. We’ve spoken about this before.”
Vicky groaned loudly and banged the glass back onto the table. “Oh, keep your hair on, Ed,” she whined.
Rowan stared at her, shocked and nervous. With her stained teeth and petulant expression, Vicky looked in that instant like a naughty child being deprived of liquorice.
“You’d swear she was a big bloody secret, your wife,” she bit, “when everyone knows she was the bloody Love – Of – Your – Life. Capital ‘L’. Irreplaceable, you said she was.”
Eileen suddenly joined in, nodding her head in agreement with her daughter. “Vicky’s right, Ed. It’s important that my granddaughter knows about her mum and doesn’t forget her, especially . . . now . . .” Her words trailed off as she nodded in Rowan’s direction.
“Yeah, especially now,” added Vicky sullenly. “Now that you’ve found a . . . well, it won’t do for Bee to grow up and forget her realmum, will it?”
With that, it was as if the room came alive with voices. Rowan watched, open-mouthed in horror, as Ed began to shout at his sister, which made Bee dissolve into tears. The little girl suddenly slipped off her chair and fled from the table, out through the kitchen and up the hall. Moments later, Rowan heard the thump of her feet as she ran up the stairs and then overhead, after she had slammed the door of her bedroom.
At the table, Ed’s mother tried to speak over both of her children, arguing loudly in Vicky’s defence; shouting that Ed shouldn’t be so quick to “move someone new in”, especially with Jenny’s memory so fresh, and expect everyone to be happy about it.
Before Rowan could fully take it all in, Vicky had then herself burst into tears, accompanied by loud, exaggerated wails. From this, Matilda took her cue to shriek with confusion and fear. Rowan instinctively reached out a hand to comfort her but that in turn made her scream louder. Rowan withdrew her hand sharply, looking fearfully at Vicky, confident that this would bring a fresh tongue-bashing, but nothing came. Vicky was completely absorbed in her own crying fit, her mother’s voice still nag-nag-nagging at Ed while she reached out to try to comfort her wailing daughter. Ed, in turn, had fallen silent and instead sat there, trying his best not to explode again. Rowan could see by him that he was seething with rage. His father, all the while, sat in complete silence, with his hands folded across his chest, staring into space, as if somehow all of this wasn’t happening.
Suddenly, something inside Rowan snapped.
“Ed,” she said firmly, “don’t you think it might be a good idea to go check on Bee?” She turned back again to Matilda who recoiled from her as if she was about to be struck. Rowan glared at Vicky for a moment, before turning back to the crying little girl. “Matilda,” she said loudly, over her hysterical shrieks, “how would you like some pudding?” There was an immediate silence. “And some cartoons, maybe, eh? Some pudding in front of the TV for a little treat?”
Matilda nodded emphatically, a trail of snot dribbling from her nose.
Rowan nodded back and sat upright, turning her gaze back down the length of the table at the rest of Ed’s family, as he meekly stood up and left the table to do as she had suggested.
“Right then,” Rowan said loudly. “Myself and Matilda are going to get some pudding and then she’s going to watch some cartoons. Shall I make some coffee?”
It was only later, when the Mycrofts had eventually left, and Ed had coaxed Bee from her room to give her a conciliatory bowl of ice cream, that Rowan managed to make her way to her bedroom and collapse, trembling with stress and exhaustion. What was she doing here, she asked herself. Why was she constantly facing a barrage of obstacles when it came to this relationship? Why was it so bloody hard?
First Ed himself, then Bee and now his hideous family? And Jenny, of course. Bloody Jenny.
Up until this moment, she had always believed that if something was good, then it was worth fighting for. But as she listened to the muffled hum of Ed’s voice through the floorboards, talking cheerily to Bee, and thought again of the afternoon’s events – of the horrible screeching voices, of the disapproval and downright ignorance of his mother and sister, the indifference of his father – she wondered if she were up for this. If she had it in her to persist with this relationship where it had become apparent that she wasn’t wanted – not by Ed’s family, not by Bee – not really, anyway – not even by the damned house. It dawned on Rowan suddenly that she was always going to be second best. Second fiddle, second in the race to a dead woman.
And in an instant she became aware that she had no idea how she could ever make it to be first. Something she wasn’t even sure if she wanted to be any more.
Chapter 36
November 2001
Jen
ny
I almost feel sorry for her. I should, I know I should.
I should be able to reach inside my soul, such as it is, and find something there that is human and kind and Christian and all that jazz.
I should feel empathy – those harpies gave me a hard enough time too, for heaven’s sake – I should be able to identify with her, feel her pain, understand her discomfort.
So maybe that’s why I’m still here? Because I’m a horrible, unforgiving witch who hasn’t an ounce of the milk of human kindness running through her . . . well, not bones . . . being, then. Because a part of me thrills a little that they were so horrible to her with her nut roast and her creamed leeks and her handmade centrepiece.
I’m not happy about what they did to Bee, mind. God forbid that they should be the keepers of my memory. What they did today had nothing to do with me, of course. It was as downright nasty and low a piece of manipulation as I have ever seen and had I the power I would kill them for what they did to my little girl.
But if some good should come out of it, maybe it will be that that woman finally realises that she’s not on an easy ride. And maybe she’ll take her boxes of paper and her website and her lentils and her ugly things and just get off it?
That she’ll realise it’s hard. And that Ed will never be hers and that she cannot have Bee?
And maybe she’ll just get the hell back to her life, whatever it is.
And get out of the one that should have been mine.
Chapter 37
November 2001
Ed and Rowan
Sing me to Sleep Page 19
