Goodbye, Jimmy Choo

by Annie Sanders

  “I don’t think it will quite compete with a PlayStation 3 for entertainment value, do you?” snorted Maddy.

  “It’s so sad when old things just disappear out of your life.” Suddenly Izzie sounded deeply sad and, fleetingly, Maddy wondered why. “Jess thinks my Sasha doll is an antique.”

  “God, I had one of those. I adored it! Used to brush her hair for hours.” Maddy delved into her box of delights again and gently pulled out something wrapped in white tissue paper. She looked at Izzie with hammed-up anticipation. “Oooh, treasure!”

  “This could be it,” laughed Izzie, wide-eyed. “The Fabergé egg that your grandmother stashed away for you to discover and sell when you fell on hard times.”

  Tantalizingly slowly, Maddy unwrapped the tissue. They both guffawed as Maddy revealed a hideous terra-cotta vase with little curly handles and black, decorative squiggles up the side. “Oh tragedy—it’s one of my mother’s few lapses in taste—ghastly. Chuck it quick!”

  As Izzie lobbed the vase into the bin, Maddy had a final delve. “Nope, that’s all, no hidden family jewels or tiaras.” She lifted up the box and then put it down again and felt into the bottom. “Hang on, it’s too heavy to be empty. There must be something else under this paper.”

  Pulling out another brittle, yellowed sheet from Le Figaro, Maddy revealed a thick leather-bound ledger, about the size of an A4 notebook, bulging with papers slipped between the pages. The cover was mottled brown and held closed with two pieces of ribbon shiny with age.

  “What on earth is this?” said Maddy, as she carefully undid the knot and opened the cover. The spine creaked with age, and on the first page was handwritten in faded brown ink and in that distinctive loopy writing all French people seem to have, “Le journal de Luce Ménestrel 1847.”

  “That’s a family name—I wonder who she was.” Maddy turned over the next page and, as Izzie looked over her shoulder, they both fell silent, feeling they had found something significant and grave.

  The writing inside was minute and would have been hard to decipher in English, virtually impossible in old French. As Maddy continued to turn the pages, dried and faded flowers fell from between them, revealing the shadow they had left on the paper. The loose sheets that had been tucked inside seemed to be torn from other bigger bits of paper and had the odd word or numbers scrawled on them.

  “How good’s your French, Maddy?” whispered Izzie, as if in reverence. “I can’t understand a word of this, but then I only managed a C in my exams.”

  “I’m not quite sure. I can recognize the odd word . . . I think this says onagre, that’s evening primrose I think, cire d’abeille—that’s beeswax. Oh there it is again . . . and sauge, which is sage. Hang on . . . pétale . . .”

  “Well, even I know what that is,” laughed Izzie.

  Maddy read on only vaguely listening, lost in the effort of working out the fine script. “Lavande, la rose, jacobée, digitale, that must be foxglove . . .” Maddy struggled with the next word. “God knows what this means, centpertuis . . .”

  “It seems to be a kind of gardening journal. Perhaps Luce was some early Vita Sackville-West,” Izzie wondered, “or the Charlie Dimmock of her day.”

  “Maybe—do you think she used to wield a spade without her stays on? No, this seems to have lots of measurements next to the words, like ajouter deux tasses de lavande . . . add two cups full of lavender. It’s almost like a cookery book but with plants and herbs.” Maddy absentmindedly picked at the biscuits that Izzie had laid out on a plate on the table and started to nibble one. Just at that moment Pasco, who’d dropped off, started awake in Izzie’s arms and both women jumped in surprise.

  “Christ, Izzie, look at the time, it’s five to three. We’ve got to get to school.” She hastily put the book back in the box, along with the other bits, and started to gather up their coffee cups from the table.

  “I’ll have a look at it later and dig out my dictionary.” Suddenly, overcome with good feelings, she put down the cups, turned to Izzie, and gave her a huge hug. “I’ve loved today. You have been wonderful. I can’t thank you enough for putting up with me and all the shit that’s been going on. You are the best thing around here.” She had really meant it, but she could see Izzie look away almost with embarrassment yet with pleasure on her face. For a moment they were both a bit ill at ease, then Izzie grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

  “I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” she said, adding, in her best Jean Brodie voice, “and make sure you have something to eat, young lady.”

  Maddy drove to collect Florence at breakneck speed—or as fast as a five-year-old Fiesta would let her—but by the time she reached Will’s school, she was clearly late and he was the only child left in the classroom. He looked disconsolate and very small sitting at the table in his little gray cap and school coat.

  “Mrs. Hoare,” said his form teacher quietly as Maddy entered the classroom, with Florence and Pasco, “can I have a quick word? We’ve had a rather bad day, I’m afraid,” she continued quietly. “William has been quite disruptive in lessons. Of course, I understand what he has been through and I have been really very lenient with him.” Maddy could feel the hurt well up inside her and a primeval desire to protect her poor little son. “But he’s been so rude,” continued the teacher. “To me and Mrs. Lovett, the classroom assistant, kicking and punching. He even poked Sam with a pencil, and they are usually such good friends. William is such a lovely boy”—you don’t have to tell me that, thought Maddy, suddenly desperate with loathing for this woman—“but we can’t tolerate that sort of behavior when it affects others in the class.”

  Maddy gathered up her children, muttering something about talking to Will later, and left as fast as she could. She felt devastated and mortified. What had she been thinking of? She had been so enveloped in her own grief over the last few weeks, she had failed to see the effect it was having on the children. She’d assumed that so long as there had been someone there with them, so long as they had been fed and bathed, they’d be all right. How stupid and selfish she had been. Of course Will was hurting. He’d lost his father, and all she had done was withdraw inside herself. Something about today, the clearing up and the delving through the box and into the past, had made her wake up. She had to preserve herself and her sanity for the children, if not for herself.

  For the first time in ages—if not ever—she let them help her make the supper. Florence put the sausages on the baking tray and Will broke the eggs for the pancake batter for pudding. Pasco completely emptied a cupboard of Tupperware all over the kitchen floor and for once she let him. Maddy dug out the unopened Mary Berry Aga cookbook someone had given her as an “essential for moving to the country,” and she created an enormous mess making Scotch pancakes. The children smeared them and each other with butter and jam, and ate them warm at the table. Leaving the debris, Maddy whisked them up for a bath, and they splashed and giggled as much with delight at the bubbles as at the fact that their mother was giggling with them.

  They each picked a story, and they cuddled up on her bed to read them. When was the last time she had done this? She gently lifted the two sleepy little ones and tucked them into their beds, turned on their night lights and kissed their fragrant skin.

  “Mum, can I stay in your bed tonight?” Will asked when she came back into her bedroom, lit softly by the bedside light.

  “You’re a big boy—don’t you want to stay in your own bed?” She climbed in next to him and he snuggled up to her.

  “But you must be lonely without Daddy.” His thumb went into his mouth.

  “Yes, darling, I am lonely without Daddy. And you are too, aren’t you?”

  “Is he happy where he’s gone? Will there be anyone else to play cricket with, now he’s not here?”

  Maddy couldn’t bear it. Her face ached with the effort of not crying, but what the hell? What was the shame in showing her son that she missed Simon too. She let the tears fall.

  “I hope h
e’s happy. I know he didn’t want to go there because he wanted to stay with us, but I’m sure it’s a very nice place. Like a beautiful garden where the sun always shines.” She almost began to believe it herself. “And I’ll play cricket with you.”

  He traced her tears with his fingers. “But you’re hopeless. Daddy says you throw like a girl.”

  “But I am a girl! Perhaps you could teach me? Then I could be as good as you.”

  They cuddled a while longer until she felt Will’s body relax and his breathing become slow and regular. It was tempting just to fall asleep next to him, fully dressed, but she knew she’d feel foul in the morning, so she put on her pajamas, and feeling suddenly cold and tired, pulled out one of Simon’s fleeces from his wardrobe. It was her favorite—thick and soft—they had bought it for skiing in Colorado in the short gap before she was pregnant again with Florence.

  Wrapping it around her, she pottered downstairs to tidy up and get a drink of water. There on the table was the wine box, and she idly pulled out the pictures to look at again. How fast time passes. It seemed such a short time ago that she had been twenty and lazy and convinced that everything would come to her without her having to try. There was a photo here of her and Simon, with Will aged about six months on her knee. She looked blooming and Simon so big and proud and capable. She hadn’t want to show it to Izzie. Not quite yet.

  She looked again at the other things and then pulled out the journal, turning the pages once more and squinting at Luce’s script. She went to the sitting room and climbing up to the shelves, pulled down her dictionary, went to put on the kettle, and made herself a mug of tea.

  Chapter 6

  “Right. I’ll be back as soon as I can, but I’ve got to pick up a few bits first. Frank said they’d definitely be here this morning, and the rubbish skip’s being delivered before ten. If Frank gets here first, you can let him sort the skip out. But if you can just hang on until I get back, I’ll take over.”

  Marcus grunted. This was bad timing. He had arranged to take a portfolio of his photos to show an old college friend who had set up a gallery in Oxford, and was itching to be off, even though the meeting wasn’t until lunchtime.

  Even to Izzie’s untrained eye, his photos looked impressive, if slightly contrived. He’d assiduously sought out bridges with the odd bit of graffiti and places where the canal looked slightly rancid, but if he’d turned the camera even a little, there would have been barges, swans, healthy-looking children on expensive bikes. After days tramping through fields in his new photographer’s jacket, he’d also come up with a series of images of telegraph poles, tractor ruts, corrugated iron, and shadows. He was taking it all terribly seriously, had been reading up on Cartier-Bresson, and kept talking about “decisive moments,” but making their part of the world look as if it were suffering from any vestige of social deprivation or blight would have taken a skill well beyond Marcus’s.

  He’d spent ages the night before swapping the prints around, to get them in a pleasing order “for the full narrative force to be felt.” Although he’d kept asking her opinion and demanding that she come and look, he’d seemed too preoccupied to listen to any comment she ventured. In the end, she stuck to what she knew she was good at and made him cups of tea. From what he said, a lot could hang on this meeting.

  Giving him a good-bye hug, Izzie stowed the children in the back, their school bags in the boot, and breathed a sigh of relief as they set off. She’d got her mobile with her and switched it on so Marcus could let her know as soon as Frank got there. Seconds later, it bleeped at her—that was quick! But it wasn’t Marcus, it was a voice mail. The children safely kissed good-bye, she called the answer phone. “You have one new message, received today, at 5:32 A.M. To hear your message, press one.”

  Oh God! It was Maddy. Please don’t let anything be wrong. The voice was crackly, hard to hear, but the tone was urgent. “Izzie, can you get round here quick? I need to see you as soon as possible.”

  There was only one thing for it. She’d have to get Marcus to wait while she went over. His voice when he answered her call was a little terse. “You on your way? Great! I can’t afford to be late for this, you know!”

  “Darling, I have to go over to Maddy’s. There must be something wrong. She left me a message really early, and I’ve only just got it. Could you bear to hang on just a bit?”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” he snapped. “Not again! You’re over at her house all the time. I’ll tell you this, you’d better bloody hope there’s something wrong with her, because if there isn’t I’ll personally go over there and wring her sodding neck! Okay, if you must, but hurry up.”

  She winced at the sound of him slamming down the phone and stood dithering by her car. What to do for the best? She knew today was important to Marcus, but he didn’t really have to leave quite so early. He was right, of course. She had been neglecting him, and being with Maddy wasn’t quite such an act of charity on her part as she had led him to believe. But now it seemed that Maddy was in crisis again. Izzie dialed her number, but it rang and rang. There was really no choice.

  She let herself in the house and called out, hoping she wouldn’t find a scene like yesterday’s. The sound of muttering and crashing around led her to the kitchen, and she opened the door to a fug of cigarette smoke. Sitting at the table, Maddy was once again barefoot in her pajamas, but with a huge fleece zipped down halfway to reveal her lacy vest. Oh God! Had she really delivered the kids to school like that?

  “Hi! Thought you were never coming! Take a look at this. It’s fantastic.”

  Gradually, Izzie felt the coil of fear in her stomach unwind. Maddy was okay. In fact, she was more than okay. Her eyes were shining and, although she looked pale and knackered, she radiated an energy that was deeply contagious. Before her on the table, still liberally strewn with Coco Pops and crumbs, was an array of sharpened pencils; a stack of paper covered with notes, numbers, lists, and lots of question marks—and the Journal de Luce Ménestrel.

  “Want a coffee? There’s some left in the pot. I’ve been working on this all night. Started about eight and just couldn’t tear myself away. Where have you been? I called you ages ago—way before the kids woke up—Oh!” Realization dawned. “Were you worried? I’m sorry, I didn’t think. It was just so exciting, I couldn’t wait to tell you.”

  “Well, yes. I did think there must be something up. I was afraid I’d find you with your head in the Aga or something. I’m just so relieved it’s something good at last.”

  “Oh, Izzie, I’m sorry. I promised myself yesterday I wouldn’t be so self-absorbed, and now I’ve gone and done it again. I’ve been a lousy mother these last few weeks, and now I’m turning into a lousy friend too. You’ve been so patient. Please don’t give up on me now. Look, you sit down there, have a look at what I’ve done, and I’ll bring you a drink.” And she shot up to get a mug.

  Izzie shook her head and laughed. Maddy was like a greyhound on speed—all twitchy and wild-eyed. She must have been hitting that cafetière all night! Turning over the notes Maddy had made on the back of Simon’s company letterhead, Izzie began to see why she was so excited. Recipes for an ointment to strengthen the nails, an infusion to make the hair grow, a table about what to pick at which phases of the moon—it was fascinating stuff. Maddy had rendered it into English without losing the archaic style. The result was charming—really atmospheric, and the character of the woman who had written it so long ago sang out from the pages.

  She looked from the translation to the original, admiring the detailed little sketches Luce had done, and an idea began to germinate in her mind. By the time Maddy returned with the coffee (too strong to drink), Izzie was as excited as she was, pacing the room, her face alight.

  “You know what this kind of reminds me of? That Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady thing that was so popular. Do you remember? There was spin-off stationery, cosmetics, tea cozies—probably even condoms! It was huge, and it all started with something like this. S
omeone found an old book and published a replica. Maybe you could do that. I could even help you do a book proposal, help you find an agent.”

  “Whoa, slow down there, Red Rum! This is now, not then. No one’s interested in this kind of thing anymore. That went out with smocks and lacy petticoats.”

  “Don’t dismiss it, Maddy. It might be a goer. See if you can translate the rest of it. But for goodness sake, do it on the word processor—it’ll be much faster.”

  Maddy looked sheepish. “Not the way I type, it won’t. And there’s another flaw in your master plan. Luce goes on and on about a particular plant, centpertuis, about how it’s got healing powers. It’s in loads of the recipes, but I can’t find it in the dictionary. It’s probably extinct—eradicated by the rapacious farmers grubbing up all the hedgerows—unless of course they can get an EU subsidy for keeping them!”

  “You could find that out. Try the Internet. Or phone that cousin of yours. He’d know, wouldn’t he?”

  “Actually, that’s a good idea. I must call him. Haven’t spoken to him since the funeral, and then I didn’t talk to him much either. Mick Jagger could have turned up and I wouldn’t have even noticed.”

  Izzie’s phone rang. Marcus was shouting so loudly, Izzie was sure Maddy would be able to hear every word. She quickly moved across the room. “Get your arse back here now! I’ve got a ruddy great skip blocking the drive, so you’ll have to give me your car. I want to leave for Oxford in half an hour.”

  He rang off without giving her a chance to speak. She looked awkwardly at Maddy. “Do you mind awfully? I have to get back.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. No, you get back home. I’ve got plenty to be getting on with. I might come by and see you later. What are you having done?”

  “Oh, nothing nice, I’m afraid. I found dry rot in the loft. They’re going to replace most of the roof timbers, so of course the slates have to come off.”