Sing me to Sleep

by Helen Moorhouse

  He sat alongside Ed, his arms folded and his legs stretched out before him under the table, reaching occasionally to sip from his glass, attentively refilling Ed’s when required – which was often, Bee noticed. It was seldom her dad got the chance to relax like this, she thought. Chatting amicably over a bottle of wine, telling his war stories. Things had been like this at Pilton Gardens, he had told her once. When she was a baby. Dinner parties, impromptu get-togethers, friends and colleagues and fascinating folk gathered around the same dining-room table that was currently buried under a mound of Sasha’s bridal magazines and fabric samples. Or out at the big table in the garden, which was in need of a coat of varnish these days. Bee looked at her dad. His hair was still thick, but completely grey now, his waistband straining a little after the huge meal, his skin tanned from the long hours spent trudging around the farm and through the nearby lanes with Godiva at his heels while he sought inspiration for Lila and Vulpo. She transferred the smile she cast at Adam to her father. She loved to see him like this, completely relaxed, caught in a moment, talking about something that he loved.

  He was remarkably sociable when he wanted to be, she observed. Unlike the man he usually was these days at Judith’s Acre. Always working or walking or reading something – silent and thoughtful. This – this sociable, affable character chatting in the evening sunshine, was who he was truly meant to be, she was sure. Bee wondered if he might have been like this all the time if he’d stayed in the city. The man who had entertained strangers at his old home in London, not the one who hid himself away from the world in the countryside. The man who had married her mother.

  Jenny.

  Bee had thought of that name often throughout her life but never more so than since she and Adam had become a couple three months ago. It was because they were serious, she supposed. Because suddenly, her mental plans for the future had expanded to fit two rather than just one. Because she wasn’t alone any more – she was part of a pair – better than that, part of a team. Being with Adam somehow made her feel more complete – two heads were better than one, after all, and now everything she did involved him. She no longer had to make decisions all alone, like she felt she’d had to do all her life. They had worked at length on her portfolio for Darvill’s and now it was ready. Everything was good enough, he had told her. The needlework was basic, but perfect; the designs were divine. She was ready. And next week, when she went before the selection panel, she knew that he would be waiting outside the interview-room door for her. He’d said that she was a shoo-in, or he’d eat his hat. The panel would most certainly be blown away by her. Bee’s stomach flipped at the thought and she took another mouthful from her wineglass to calm herself.

  More and more these days, she wished desperately that her mother was still here. For so long, it hadn’t crossed her mind – her only memory of Jenny was a hazy one, from the kitchen at Pilton Gardens. She remembered a pale, tall woman, with hair colouring like her own, smiling at her from the kitchen table while she had been perched on the worktop with Ed. She was very young, she knew. Had to have been – her mother had died shortly after her second birthday, which was why the memory didn’t make all that much sense. Bee sometimes thought that she must have dreamed the moment, yet still she clung to it for all she was worth. Apart from photographs and a watch, it was all she had to link her to the woman who had given birth to her.

  Bee wondered if Jenny would have liked Adam. Her first serious boyfriend. Her grown-up partner, as she liked to think. She looked back again at him, lost for a moment in the way the light reflected in his hair. With the sun setting behind him, it looked almost as red as her own. Of course Jenny would. She’d have loved him. Everyone loved Adam, didn’t they? He was kind, clever – brilliant, in fact. He was handsome, funny – he was perfect in so many ways, thought Bee lovingly. And perfect for her. Encouraging her, helping her every step of the way. He constantly told her how beautiful she was, how talented, how intelligent. With him, she felt complete. She wondered if that was how her parents had felt together? If Jenny had felt the same way about the man she married?

  Ed didn’t often speak of her, of course. What Bee knew about her mother had been gathered from odd snippets that he had told her occasionally, from things that her aunts and grandmother had filled in along the way. That Jenny, herself, was beautiful. That she was quiet and calm and dedicated to her family. That she was giving – sacrificing her own job for the needs of her family. Straightforward. Nothing like Rowan with her quiet – sneaky? – ambitions. Bee cast an eye across to where her stepmother was gathering the dirty pudding bowls and was suddenly roused from her stream of thought by the ferocious look that Rowan threw across the table at Adam. Bee sat up straight. What the hell was her problem?

  Bee had known that Rowan was unhappy about Adam since she had first mentioned him. It was a mistake doing that, Bee realised now. Rushing down to the Acre the weekend after that fateful evening when he had followed her from the Tube. They had barely been apart – except for classes – after that. There hadn’t been enough hours for them to talk together – to share, to admire, for each to greedily absorb information from the other, for the realisation to grow within them that it was unavoidable that they should be together. All of this Bee had blurted across the kitchen table to Rowan as the older woman kneaded bread and listened carefully to everything her stepdaughter had to say. What a mistake, Bee knew. Trusting Rowan enough to tell her all of that, expecting someone as deep-down cynical as her to understand.

  “Isn’t he a bit old for you?” had been Rowan’s first question.

  Of course it was. Her eyebrows raised. The old familiar way of showing that she didn’t trust what you were telling her. Bee remembered it only too well from when she was a teenager. Rowan would give her that look and the next thing she knew, Ed would be hauled on board to dole out a punishment or issue a warning. Never Rowan to her face, of course. The second she saw the eyebrow lift, while the hands continued to pummel the bread, Bee knew that she should never have opened her mouth – at least not to Rowan first. She should have just told her dad straight away, given him the real version of events. Now her good news would be coloured by Rowan’s disapproval. And it was good news. Any man would be pleased to hear it, Bee was sure – that his daughter had not only just been handed the biggest career opportunity of her lifetime, but that she was – for the first time – properly and truly and rightfully in love.

  Bee watched as Rowan’s gaze burned onto an unwitting Adam as she picked up the small tower of bowls stained with raspberry crumble with one hand and clinked together the four water glasses with the claw she had formed of the other, one on each finger. The hostile stare continued as Rowan made her way slowly round the table and broke only when she had walked past and carried on back into the house. Bee watched her go with an expression of disdain.

  How dare she? That bloody woman. All her life Bee had tried to be fair towards her. Had tried her best to accept her. Had tried to overlook how different she was to herself and her dad, had tried to tolerate the changes that she made to their existence when she had come to live with them. It had been difficult, Bee remembered. They were doing fine all of a sudden – her and her dad. His depression had lifted and things were normal for the first time in her life. She remembered them being properly happy for once – and that was all that she had ever wanted – for the two of them to be properly happy. She knew that they could never have her mum back, but there were plenty of kids in her school who had only one parent and they were absolutely fine. She recalled being content at last. But then, of course, Rowan had to come on the scene, hadn’t she? All curls and sketchbooks and that big stupid smile; all alone and searching for a mate.

  Bee knew that her own behaviour in the earliest days had been extreme – and she had been harsh on herself for it since she had grown up and moved away from home – but since meeting Adam, since talking it all through with him, she realised that her reaction to Rowan’s arrival on the scene had been
perfectly normal. Rowan was an intruder, a competitor for her dad’s affections, he wisely said. Things had been difficult between them because Rowan had made them that way. He’d even gone so far as to offer the opinion that Rowan might have seen Bee as a competitor for Ed’s affections and that, too, made sense.

  Bee suddenly burned with a resentment that she hadn’t felt for years. How dare that woman, she thought again, fiercely. She was suddenly so hot, so fired up, that she looked at her boyfriend and her father across the table and expected them to stare at her, expected them to feel what she was feeling. But they didn’t. They were oblivious, their heads leaning in closer to each other.

  Bloody Rowan. All her life Bee had done her best to tolerate her, to understand her. And she didn’t even have the courtesy to be polite to Adam on his first visit to Judith’s Acre – which wasn’t even Bee’s home. It was Rowan’s home, where she had dragged her father to live so that she could have everything her own way.

  Since their arrival on the early train that afternoon, Rowan had been nothing but rude to Adam. Coldly civil at first, in greeting, but after that she had pretty much ignored him, locking herself away in the kitchen to prepare their meal. And then she had disappeared for an hour, saying that she was going off to the village to get cream or something, but Bee was certain that it was because she could scarcely bear being under the same roof as Adam. Who was she to judge anyway?

  The meal had been awkward too. Adam had behaved impeccably, of course – Bee was always impressed by how socially adept he was, even in the most awkward of situations – but he had to have seen the penetrating gazes that Rowan had thrown him across the table, had to have felt awkward as she quizzed him about the course that he taught and about the change of course – and college – that he was proposing for Bee. Why couldn’t she just calm down and trust him, like her dad clearly did, wondered Bee furiously. After all, her father was the one with the right to be concerned or suspicious about her welfare, about anyone that she brought home. And he was clearly happy with Adam and his ideas. How funny that Darvill’s had been the college that her parents had attended! Surely that had to mean something? For her to go to the place where her mother and father had first met? Wasn’t that fate? Serendipity? Surely it held too much significance to be mere coincidence? Surely it was a sign that somehow meant the love her parents had shared was still alive – still somehow a force at work, far and above anything that had come from her father’s relationship with Rowan?

  She claimed not to be materialistic, but Rowan had to have some sort of issue with the whole money end of things, mused Bee, catching sight of her stepmother at the kitchen sink through the window overhung with wisteria. She had to have some problem with the cost of things – which Ed had instantly offered to help out with, naturally. The new course wasn’t cheap – not to mention the materials that would be required – but they had resolved that earlier in the evening. Ed had promised to help out if Bee got a part-time job to sustain herself. If this course was what Bee wanted to do, and it was so difficult to get onto, then she deserved the extra investment, Ed had reasoned. Rowan had frowned at that, of course. But why? It wasn’t as if Bee was asking her for money personally – and it wasn’t even as if she was poor – that Corkscrew Cards business had done pretty well for her over the years. Yet no one had suggested even touching a penny of Rowan’s precious stash – it was Ed who was volunteering to help out his only daughter – wasn’t that a natural thing to do for a parent? He could well afford it – Lila and Vulpo had proven to be a huge success – the merchandising alone provided a very healthy income, not to mention the international rights. So if he wanted to spend his money on what he chose, then that was his business, reasoned Bee.

  Was it the case, however, that more money spent on Bee meant less money spent on Rowan, or more to the point, on stupid Judith’s Acre? She’d been rambling on for months now about turning some of the outhouses into self-catering accommodation. A sound retirement investment, Bee had overheard her say to Ed. For whom? For Ed? Or for Rowan who would at some stage get too old or too bored or too lazy to run her card company and decide that it was time to live off the fat of her land. The fat into which Ed was expected to invest his hard-earned income.

  Yes, that had to be it. All about the money, as the old song went, mused Bee. And besides which – more to the heart of the matter – Rowan had always, deep down, wanted Ed completely to herself. She had never loved Bee, had never connected with her in a way that she felt sure she should. She couldn’t even really like kids – too much competition. If she did, then surely she and Ed would have had one of their own, perish the thought?

  No, Bee was a fly in the ointment – but not to worry – Rowan knew that she’d grow up and leave someday and then it would just be her and Ed, in a little country bubble of her making. Exactly as she wanted it. Well, that was how she’d have it then.

  How dare she be rude to Adam, to be so judgemental and bitter and unwelcoming? Tomorrow, Bee would take Adam back to London and never visit this god-forsaken place again. She’d get her dad to come to the city if he wanted to see her – it wouldn’t do him any harm to get out from under the thumb of that woman every now and again, after all. But there would be no more dealings with her stepmother. None. She could keep her selfish ambition and jealousy from now on. Bee had better things to do. A whole life ahead, where she could finally achieve the impossible and, with Adam’s guidance and love, become a proper success, not some sort of crusty, accidental artist like Rowan was, living off the real success of someone else.

  Bee stood up from the table abruptly, finally causing Adam and Ed to look in her direction. “I’m going to bed,” she stated bluntly, and stormed off in the direction of the house without a glance backwards. She’d sneak into Adam’s room later, she decided. And explain everything to him. She was too angry now – best if she didn’t try to come up with a polite excuse.

  Bee’s expression was stony as she stormed past Rowan who emerged from the house, carrying a tray of coffee, just as Bee reached the back door.

  “Off to the loo?” Rowan asked with a smile as she stood aside to allow her stepdaughter to pass. The comment registered no response, not even eye contact, in fact, and Bee stomped up the back step and into the cool darkness of the kitchen in silence. With a frown, Rowan watched her go for a moment, before making her way to the table where she dished out pottery cups and saucers and set the cafetiére down. She was relieved when, as she did so, Adam stood and excused himself, shaking Ed’s hand sincerely and casting her a polite – if chilly – smile, before himself heading toward the house after Bee.

  Rowan was left facing her husband who smiled contentedly across the table at her. Rowan grinned back. “You’re pissed,” she observed, and thrust the plunger down into the coffee, watching the displaced black liquid swirl around the sides. She leaned across the table and poured Ed a cup. “You’ll need this,” she remarked as she did, but he ignored it, the same silly grin plastered across his face as she had seen so often on evenings like this when they ate outside, warmed by sun, talking at the table until the stars emerged and it grew too chilly to stay put.

  “Oi’m jest content, woman,” he observed in his best imitation of her accent, with a sigh.

  Rowan rolled her eyes at him and sat back in her chair, arms folded across her chest, looking out over the valley below where the first of the evening’s lights were starting to twinkle. She glanced at Ed, still smiling, and felt a pang of warmth for him. She, too, was very content.

  She leaned forward and poured herself a half cup of coffee. “What do you think of that Adam chap?” she asked tentatively.

  Ed’s eyes were closed as he leaned back in his chair. He shrugged. “Seems nice,” he replied.

  Rowan remained silent for a few moments, save for the scraping of her spoon around the base of the pottery cup as she stirred vigorously to gain his attention.

  It had the desired effect. Ed sat up and looked directly at her. “You don
’t think so?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.

  Rowan looked away from her husband and placed the spoon on her saucer, pausing to take a sip of the black coffee before replying.

  “He’s nice, all right,” she offered, setting the cup back down but keeping her hands wrapped around it as she glanced back across the view of the valley below. “I still think he’s a bit old for Bee though.”

  Ed continued to look across the table at her. “Only ten years or so,” he replied, shrugging casually as he picked up his own cup. Rowan was right – he did need it, he realised.

  “I suppose I just know so little about him,” observed Rowan. “I mean, I know that he lectures in that costume design course, but with that extra ten years to him, he has to have some sort of past, doesn’t he?”

  Ed was quick to respond. “You don’t think he’s a cad, do you?” he spluttered. “With that accent and those clothes? Are you worried he might have gone foxhunting once or something?” he giggled.

  Rowan ignored him. “I just think that he has to have had more . . . experiences . . . in his life than Bee does. I mean, she’s been very sheltered since we left London, hasn’t she? Local school, local college – even when she’s made her big break back to London she’s moved straight back into the house where she was born, practically. We’ve probably sheltered her too much, don’t you think?”

  Ed nodded thoughtfully. “There was a reason for that, remember?”

  Rowan nodded in response. “I know,” she said, sighing.

  Ed watched the frown form on her face. “What’s really up?” he asked, leaning across the table and reaching for Rowan’s hand. “Spill it, woman, or you’ll be up all night.”