There is a tiny terrible silence then pandemonium erupts. Milo bursts into noisy furious sobs and thumps down on the carpet, Ben scuttles around to retrieve the shepherdess and Harriet’s old jalopy coughs its way to a shuddering halt outside.
‘Quick,’ hisses Nats, ‘shove the sodding thing up at the back of the shelf!’
Daria scoops up her wailing child and hurries to the front door.
Ben, about to do Nats’ bidding, stops with his hand halfway to the shelf. ‘Well, fuck me. Look.’
Nats and Finbar hurry over to join him. One china bow has been neatly sheared off its shoe.
‘Mirabile visu!’ The old man beams. ‘That boy will go far.’
Ben shoves the figurine into the far corner as a commotion in the hallway draws their attention. The aunts’ familiar voices ring out.
‘Oh, how lovely to be home!’ cries Harriet.
‘What is that smell?’ demands Hester.
CHAPTER 50
‘An inspired choice,’ says Hester, as they all crowd around the kitchen table.
‘Yeah?’ Ben is trying to enjoy his curry (maybe a touch more cumin next time?), which miraculously has stretched to seven helpings (including a Tupperware serving for Finbar, who had scooted off as quickly as he could once it was dished out), but is still on tenterhooks about the house. So far the aunts appear to have noticed nothing amiss, presumably having been overwhelmed by the size of the welcoming committee. Nats had inevitably excited barely contained curiosity and Aunt Harriet is stealing sly glances at her as she eats. He notices how uncharacteristically quiet his aunt is.
‘Making curry,’ explains Hester, tucking in with gusto. ‘God knows we’ve had some spectacular food over the last week—not to mention the wine—but there’s absolutely nothing quite like a good old curry, is there?’ She adds hurriedly, in case Daria should be offended, ‘And borscht, of course. Mustn’t forget the delicious borscht.’
Daria glows with pleasure. Milo, sitting on her lap gnawing on a rusk, is eyeing the last forkfuls of her chicken hopefully. ‘Milo is missing you so much,’ she says as Harriet offers the forefinger of her free hand to distract him.
Harriet’s heart swells: how she has missed the little darling, too.
‘’Course,’ says Ben, still slightly miffed at the promiscuity of Milo’s affections, ‘he’s got a new favourite now.’
‘Oh, really?’ says Hester, with the merest hint of frost. She eyes her quasi-grandson critically.
‘Oh yes!’ gushes Daria. ‘Natalie. Milo loves Natalie!’ Oblivious to the resentment brewing in several breasts, she adds, ‘And Barry, of course. He is new friend also.’
‘Indeed?’ The iciness is indisputable now. A week away and the child appears to have acquired a whole new set of acquaintances! ‘And who, pray, is Barry?’
Too late, Daria sees the abyss yawning before her. ‘Ah . . . he is . . . friend of Artem,’ she stammers lamely, appealing silently to her brother for assistance.
Artem, a mouthful of spices and meat awaiting mastication, chokes slightly and, eyes watering, volunteers the intelligence that Barry is an occasional colleague.
‘Indeed?’ Hester is clearly unsatisfied with the response. ‘In what capacity? And how did he come to meet Milo?’
‘Oh . . .’ Artem, unused to prevarication, flounders. ‘He came in for a cup of tea. We were mending . . . yes, mending—’
‘A fence, wasn’t it, Artem?’ Nats leaps into the fray, antennae twitching. Ben never said how forbidding the tall, skinny aunt was. The plump one seems a poppet.
‘Yes! A fence. He came round to the cottage. After work. One day.’
‘For a cup of tea?’ Hester manages to make it sound extremely unlikely, if not unsavoury.
‘And kulduny,’ offers Daria, as though this will ameliorate the tension.
It doesn’t.
So, thinks Hester, feet under the table already, if this Barry creature is invited to sample Daria’s cooking. Must be a fast mover. She notes Daria’s heightened colour and tenses. Oho, so that’s the way the wind is blowing, is it?
‘Had chemistry today,’ Ben butts in, swiftly gathering up the plates with Nats’ assistance.
‘Oh, Ben! Of course,’ says Harriet, emerging from her trance. ‘How dreadful of us! We didn’t even ask. How did it go?’
‘Good, yeah.’
‘Better than good, you said.’ Nats grins.
What an enchanting smile, thinks Harriet. And that extraordinary hair!
Hester, seeing Ben duck his head sheepishly and redden slightly at the girl’s intervention, thinks again, Oho! What on earth has been going on in their absence? First Daria and now—
‘Had some help; well, quite a lot of help,’ explains Ben, testing the temperature of the crème caramel dish. Ideally, he’d have refrigerated it for a couple of hours but it’ll have to do.
Harriet looks questioningly over to where he stands at the counter. Hester, scenting intrigue, inspects the black girl: surely not? She looks even younger than her nephew.
‘Yeah, this bloke Ralph—’
Ralph? thinks Hester testily. How many more of them?
‘Very nice man,’ interrupts Daria.
‘Son of Dad’s boss. He, like, tutored me. Tell you something, first time any of it’s made any sense.’
‘That’s excellent, Ben!’ says Harriet. ‘What good fortune that your father has the connection.’
The atmosphere eases a fraction. Ben, with apologies for its sloppy consistency, dishes up the pudding. Everyone grabs a spoon and digs in. Everyone except Hester, who regards the creamy blob in her bowl critically. ‘This needs a spell in the fridge. It’s not really set, I’m afraid, Ben.’
‘Hetty!’ says Harriet indignantly. ‘He’s rushed over straight from school—after an exam!—to cook us a lovely welcome-home meal! Honestly! I think it’s delicious, Ben dear. Thank you.’ She glowers at her sister, exasperated by her ingratitude. For heaven’s sake, they’ve only just got things back to normal after the ghastliness of the last few days, not to mention the edgy weeks that preceded their trip to Italy. She’s tired, anxious about tomorrow and the horrible intelligence she is harbouring; the last thing she needs right now is Hester finding fault with everything and everyone.
‘. . . good time?’ Ben’s voice drags her back. He’s appealing to both of them, but especially Aunt Hester, who, aware that she is indisputably in the wrong, is filled with self-reproach and looking like thunder; anyone unacquainted with her temperament would assume her to be sulking. As indeed Nats, outraged on Ben’s behalf, does. ‘How was the Riccardi bloke? I know he can cook, but what’s he like? Looks a right bastard on the telly. Really full of himself.’ He glances over and mouths, ‘Sorry,’ to a frowning Daria.
Harriet looks at her sister. Waits. Silence. Everyone shuffles uncomfortably on their chairs. Really, she can be the most provoking woman on the planet! She doesn’t even appear to have heard the question.
‘I think he could be somewhat unpredictable at times, but your aunt had the most marvellous time,’ Harriet says. ‘Tiring, though. The course, I mean. Quite exhausting, in fact. He worked them extremely hard.’ She wonders why she is always the one to make excuses for Hester. Whom, she notes, is now managing to force down the pudding she had so cavalierly condemned seconds before; a pudding of which she, Harriet, would gladly have had second helpings had there been any.
Hester, meanwhile, mechanically spooning crème caramel into her mouth, is mired in her own miserable thoughts. The excitement of getting home, the warmth and bustle of the welcome, the commotion of getting everyone seated had, for a blessed spell, distracted her from the elephant lodged firmly in the corner of her mind ever since they left the airport. In fact, ever since she and Lionel, with Harriet standing tactfully a few yards away, ostensibly out of earshot, had parted in the baggage reclaim area, where, to her intense but guilty relief, Lionel had still been waiting for his suitcase when theirs had already been disgorged onto the c
arousel.
‘Artem will be waiting for us. We must dash.’
‘But, Hester—’
‘I’m sorry, Lionel, we’ll speak tomorrow.’
‘But, Hester—’
‘Sorry about dropping off on the plane. I know you wanted to . . . We’ll talk tomorrow, I promise.’
‘But when, Hetty? When?’
‘First thing.’ His face had brightened, eyes shining with hope. ‘No, sorry, evening. I’m going with Harry to see . . . you know, about Stephen. I’ll . . .’ Oh God, this is horrible. ‘Yes, I’ll . . . soon as we get back.’ Darting forward. Clash of glasses. A maladroit kiss, just missing his lips. ‘Sorry, sorry.’
‘I love you, Hetty.’ Forlorn, barely audible.
‘Yes. Bye. Sorry.’
The elephant is wide awake now, trampling around and trumpeting loudly, demanding attention. What she really wants is to settle down and talk things through with someone she can trust, someone who will understand and help her make sense of her muddled emotions. Harriet. She wishes their guests gone, the conversation silenced, the house theirs once more; knows even as she wishes it what an ungrateful wretch she is.
‘Lovely, Ben,’ she says, scraping the last of the barely tasted caramel out of her bowl. ‘In a day or so, I promise to tell you all about Signor Riccardi. Quite a character, believe me! And, my Lord, so talented.’
‘Yeah?’ says Ben eagerly, glad to have Aunt Hester back in the conversation and to be, it appears, restored to her good books. ‘Did he do all that stuff with—’
‘Ben, dear,’ says Harriet gently, ‘we’re both pretty whacked. Would you mind awfully . . .’
‘’Course, ’course,’ says Ben hurriedly, as Nats leaps up to clear the table. ‘We’ll just load the dishwasher and get going.’
‘Sorry,’ say the sisters in concert, getting up themselves.
The party breaks up instantly with universal relief; there’s something out of kilter about everything, everyone on edge. The visitors swiftly tidy the kitchen despite Hester and Harriet’s protestations, and within minutes everyone is trooping to the front door, Milo waving goodbye frantically over his mother’s shoulder.
‘House is clean,’ says Daria, buckling him into his buggy. ‘Sheets changed.’
‘Daria, you shouldn’t have!’ says Harriet, revelling in anticipation of sinking into her own fresh and sweet-smelling bed.
Daria shrugs dismissively. ‘Please! I like to clean.’
This is something the sisters will never understand.
‘The tank is full,’ says Artem, handing over the keys. ‘Oh, and that knocking noise?’
Which one? thinks Harriet, but nods.
‘Barry took a look and has fixed it.’
Has he indeed, thinks Hester.
‘How kind!’ says Harriet. ‘Oh, very nice to meet you, Natalie. I never asked: are you in Ben’s year?’
‘The year below.’
‘Well, I very much hope we’ll see you again.’
Ben glows inside; at least Aunt Harriet has taken to Nats. He’s not at all sure about Aunt Hester. She’s been really weird all evening. But, weird or not, she’s made no comment about the house or the smell. Maybe they’ve got away with it. A weight drops from his shoulders.
Nats musses Milo’s hair and blows him a kiss, then retrieves her bike. She straps on her helmet.
‘Walk you to the road?’ says Ben.
‘Sure. You getting the bus?’
‘I guess.’
‘God!’ says Nats, once they’re out of earshot of Daria and Artem, who are still making their farewells. ‘Harriet’s lovely but that Hester! Is she always such a grump? Talk about jealous!’
It’s Ben’s instinct to leap to his relative’s defence, except that it’s hard to find any excuse for his aunt’s peevishness.
‘Yeah. Know what you mean. She’s like that sometimes. Worse even.’
‘Worse?! She couldn’t have been more rude if she’d tried.’
‘Oh, trust me,’ says Ben with feeling. ‘She could.’
Nats flings one leg over her bike and gets ready to cycle away.
Suddenly, Ben finds himself saying, ‘You fancy going out at the weekend? Movies or something?’
She takes her foot off the pedal and stands in the lane on tiptoe, steadying the bike under herself, staring straight ahead. For a moment Ben thinks she hasn’t heard him, then, worse, that she’s trying to find a way to say no.
There is a very long silence during which Ben, panicking, thinks: I should have kept my stupid mouth shut. What the fuck was I thinking? Then Nats climbs off the saddle, wheels the bike as close to him as she possibly can without actually running over his shoes and looks up at him towering over her. ‘Are you asking me out?’
Ben, uncomfortably aware of his spots at such close quarters, is cornered. Thank fuck Artem and Daria will be walking the other way. He pulls back, squirming inside, and affects as nonchalant a tone as he can muster. ‘S’pose. Yeah.’
Nats nods, then removes her glasses, her myopic eyes widening.
Oh Jeez . . .
‘Out, as in boyfriend and girlfriend?’
He gulps. This sounds serious. ‘Well, yeah . . .’
She searches his face for a few agonising seconds. ‘Okay.’ It comes out flat, neutral.
‘Really . . .?’ stammers Ben, floored. Astounded. Terrified.
Nats skewers him with her intense gaze. ‘There are conditions.’
‘Okay . . .’ What now?
Nats inhales deeply then starts. Her voice is just the tiniest bit wobbly initially but strengthens as she gets into her stride. ‘First, what happens in our relationship stays in our relationship.’
Ben goes to speak, realises there is more to come, shuts his mouth abruptly.
‘Neither of us at any point, no matter what the provocation, no matter how pissed or out of it we might be—’ Pissed? thinks Ben. You? Seriously?—‘ever divulges anything personal about our relationship. No little quirks, no little anecdotes, nothing. It’s private. Second, neither of us, either during or after we are . . .’ she hesitates, selects the words carefully, ‘seeing each other, ever disses or badmouths one another. We show respect and decency towards one another at all times.’
She doesn’t wait for him to respond. ‘Third, in the stratospherically unlikely situation that one of us ever comes into possession of an image that shows the other in a compromising, pornographic or simply less than flattering light, we will never upload it to Twitter or Facebook or Tumblr or Instagram or their successors, no matter how tempting the prospect might be.
‘Fourth, should, as is more than probable, the relationship prove to be more than a passing whim, and we progress in time to intercourse, we will ensure precautions are taken and we will be respectful of each other’s feelings and at no stage feel pressured into doing anything with which we are unhappy or uncomfortable.
‘Fifth, and finally, when our relationship implodes, as statistically it is likely to, given our youth and inexperience, whatever the hopes we may currently entertain for it, we will terminate it in a proper manner, face to face, not by unfollowing each other on Twitter or unfriending one another on Facebook, or texting or announcing the split on any type of social media. Deal?’
Chin aloft combatively, Nats stops; Ben realises a response is at last required.
‘Er . . . yeah. Wow. Deal.’
CHAPTER 51
‘Gosh,’ says Harriet, easing her behind into her capacious old armchair and letting her muscles relax, ‘we go away for five minutes and look what happens!’
Hester grunts as she places a cup of tea beside her sister. She crosses to her own chair and sinks into it, head back, eyes closed.
‘You all right?’ says Harriet.
‘Fine.’
‘What is it?’
‘What?’
‘Whatever’s bothering you.’
‘Nothing’s bothering me.’
‘Oh, come on! You virtually bi
t poor Ben’s head off over supper.’
Hester appears to ignore the criticism but in truth it cuts deep because she knows it’s deserved; she gets up abruptly and disappears into the hall.
Harriet calls after her, ‘And that nice little friend of his. Natalie. Barely spoke to her.’
Hester returns with a pile of post. A sizeable pile of post with a number of bulky envelopes. She starts to sort the letters and packages into two piles, one either side of the coffee table. Harriet’s soon towers over Hester’s, mainly thick, oversized envelopes. Her heart sinks. She’d forgotten all about them. Oh Lord . . .
‘I think we need to have a chat, don’t you?’ says Hester over her shoulder, hurrying out of the room a second time.
Flouncing, thinks Harriet. She wills her racing heart to slow: anyone would think she was in the wrong.
Hester returns with half a bottle of red and two glasses; she pauses in the doorway and sniffs. She sniffs again.
‘What?’
Hester wrinkles her nose. ‘Can you smell something? Like nail varnish?’
‘Nail varnish? No.’
Shrugging, Hester resumes her seat. ‘Must be the spray polish Daria uses.’ She reflects that the only time Mr Sheen is much in evidence is when Daria tries to restore order and cleanliness to The Laurels, usually when its owners are absent. Perhaps she’s just forgotten how pungent it smells. She pours two generous glasses of wine, nudges one across the table, then, peering intently into her glass so as to avoid Harriet’s eye, says with a nod at the envelopes, ‘What’s going on?’ Did Harriet but know it, Hester’s heart is dancing an uncomfortably lively jig too.
‘Oh, Hetty . . .’ says Harriet, a world of hurt and misunderstandings in those two little words.
They both swallow hard, thinking simultaneously how ridiculously hard it so often is to be brutally honest with one’s nearest and dearest. Both women, to varying degrees and depending on the subject matter, will wade fearlessly into difficult and uncomfortable territory with friends and acquaintances but faced with the prospect of disclosing their inmost thoughts to one another will prevaricate, shilly-shally and tiptoe around each other’s sensitivities for ages. Except that today both recognise that a decision point in their lives has been reached and on this occasion there is nowhere to hide.
Love, Lies and Linguine Page 32
