Hugo points to a scar above his eyebrow. ‘I had stitches. I love going fast, too fast sometimes.’
I glance at Mum, so buttoned up. She can’t sit still, fidgeting like Hugo and me during a sermon at church. Dad pours the tea and tells Vivienne I made the coffee and walnut cake. ‘Do you like cooking, Polly?’ she asks.
I nod, vigorously. ‘She’s very good,’ Mum adds. It’s the first time my mother has complimented me and my head swims with pride.
‘Perhaps you’ll be a chef one day,’ Vivienne says, before telling me my cake tastes like heaven. ‘Maybe you’ll live in Paris and run a patisserie.’
*
Over tea Vivienne talks to Hugo and me, asking us questions about school and what we enjoy. I notice how graceful her hands are, placed gently around her teacup. She smiles and laughs generously, but there is also a sadness that haunts her face. Part of me wants to shout at Mum, tell her to make Vivienne feel more welcome, forgive her; but I have to keep on reminding myself why Mum is reserved. I answer questions politely. It is as if Vivienne has cast a spell on me to behave. Never before have I been so careful about my grammar. Mum keeps on hopping up and down, refilling mugs and cutting more cake, even though none of us are really all that hungry.
I am disappointed when Vivienne’s taxi arrives. She says goodbye, hugging Hugo and me as if we are long-lost friends. Mum and Dad walk her to the car.
‘She was awesome,’ says Hugo with surprise. ‘I really liked her.’
‘Shush!’ I watch them from the window. It looks as if Vivienne is upset. Mum is shaking her head. Dad opens the passenger door, but Vivienne stays put. She is saying something to Mum. Oh I wish I could hear! I think they are arguing. Maybe Mum is saying she can’t visit us again. Vivienne glances towards the window, as if she senses I am watching. She waves goodbye. Tentatively I wave back.
When she’s gone I’m left confused. I feel sorry for Mum: her visit was clearly painful, but Vivienne also brought a ray of sunshine into the house, just as Granddad Arthur used to.
*
That night Hugo sits at the end of my bed. ‘What did she look like, Polly?’
I wish with all my heart I could wave a magic wand and let him see. I’d do anything for my brother, but I can’t help with this. ‘Oh Hugo, she had this amazing wild hair.’ I picture it; chocolate-brown, just like mine, tumbling down her back like a waterfall. ‘And brown eyes, like Mum’s. She wore these sparkly sandals and lovely jewellery.’
‘Do you think Mum will let us see her again?’
‘Hope so.’
‘Me too.’
When Hugo goes to bed, I shut my eyes. I see her tears, hear the warmth in her voice, taking such an interest in my life that I almost believed I could have an exciting future. A patisserie in Paris! Tired, I fall straight to sleep, only to stir when I hear footsteps across the landing. My bedroom door creaks open and I see the shadow of my mother standing at the end of my room, until quietly she slips away.
11
@GateauAuChocolat It’s chickpea soup & Indonesian marinated chicken with roasted sweet potatoes & as if that isn’t enough, apple caramel cake.
The first regular to arrive at the café is our local famous author, in her eighties, who hobbled here two years ago, after breaking her wrist and cracking both ribs falling down her stairs. ‘It’s a curse getting old,’ she’d said, before explaining she couldn’t cook for herself. Her elderly friend often accompanies her; they call us ‘Care in the Community’. Without asking I serve them both some soup and a glass of red wine, ‘Medicinal,’ as they call it.
Next comes our local serial flirt, an illustrator who works from home. I haven’t seen him since Christmas. He scans the menu board and orders the chicken, ‘And maybe, pretty Polly, if I have room, a slice of your apple caramel cake.’
‘You always have room.’
He smiles. ‘How are you, Mary-Jane? Been on any hot dates?’
Mary-Jane bristles. ‘You’re lucky I don’t pour this over you,’ she tuts as she places the jug on the table.
Soon there’s a real buzz, everyone talking across the tables and Mary-Jane and I are rushing around serving soup, camomile and mint teas or Jean’s red wine to go with their chicken. I slow down when I see Ben opening the front door, and notice at once that he’s shaved his beard. It makes him look younger. Jean turns to see who I’m waving at. ‘You dark horse, Polly.’
I smile. ‘He’s a friend.’
‘Single?’
I’m sure Aunt Vivienne bribes him to squeeze gossip out of me.
‘Think so.’
Jean shrugs. ‘Cute. Gay?’
‘Straight.’
‘In that case why aren’t you two at it like rabbits?’
‘So delicately put, Jean.’
He laughs. ‘I try my best.’
Before I have to time to explain that he’s not my type, Ben kisses me on the cheek.
‘Like the new look,’ I say, touching his chin.
*
When Jean is thankfully upstairs giving a cooking demo on bread-making, and all the regulars have left, Mary-Jane and I finally have our lunch. I serve myself some chicken and sit down next to Ben, asking what he’s bought, gesturing to the bags under the table.
‘Clothes. Emily was moaning that—’
‘That’s great!’
‘Sorry?’
‘She’s talking.’
He nods. ‘The headmistress spoke to me, says she keeps on asking her teacher if her mum is coming back.’ Guilt is etched on his face. ‘You were right, Polly. I need to stop pretending this hasn’t happened. It’s not helping her, or me for that matter, so at bedtime we’ve begun to tell each other stories about Grace.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Amazing. Independent. Wore her heart on her sleeve. Annoying too, because she always had to be right. I’ve told Emily about the holidays we used to go on as children, how Grace and I could swim for hours in the sea …’ his voice falters, ‘pretending we were fish. Sorry,’ he says, hiding his emotion with a cough.
‘Carry on,’ I encourage, believing it’s good for him to talk about her.
‘She was passionate about Chinese medicine and helping people. I envied that in a way. I told Emily about her school days, at boarding school like me. Our stepfather couldn’t wait to get us out of the way. She once dunked a towel in the bath and wrung it over the headmistress’s head.’ He smiles. ‘Emily liked that one, but I told her not to be getting any ideas, that I didn’t want to see her name in that red book.’
I laugh at that. ‘Did she tell you any stories?’
‘She told me how her mummy had once left a needle sticking out of her patient’s forehead, between her eyebrows. There have been lots of stories about Patch too.’
‘Patch?’
‘Grace felt guilty that Emily didn’t have a brother or sister so they got a rescue dog, a half this and a half that, who knows what Patch was, but …’
‘When did Patch die?’ An idea is forming in my head.
‘About a year ago. He had a tumour, died very young, poor Patch. I remember Grace asking me how she could explain death to Emily,’ he says with more than a trace of irony. ‘Why?’
‘No reason.’ Just that one of the customers was saying earlier today that her neighbour’s dog, a Scottie, had had four puppies and she was struggling to find a home for the last girl.
‘Let’s see what you bought,’ I ask, still wondering if I’m crazy thinking Ben could handle a puppy on top of everything else? I can’t imagine one in his immaculate flat, but then again, maybe it’s exactly what their home needs?
Ben fishes out a selection of items.
‘What?’ he says, catching me looking at an uninspiring mushroom-coloured skirt with matching polo-neck.
‘Was this the only colour it came in?’
Ben stares at me as if I’m talking astrophysics.
‘Grace must have bought her things, you know, in pretty colours?’
&
nbsp; ‘Yeah, but they’re too small for her now … I just grabbed …’
‘I can tell,’ I say, a little too harshly, as I come across a pair of sludgy khaki dungarees. ‘Has Emily got a party dress for Maisy’s birthday?’ Jim’s Maisy is five this weekend. She’s having a bouncy castle party on Sunday.
‘A dress? No! We should get her something.’
Ben must sense I’m taken aback at the ‘we’ since he says, ‘You will help me, won’t you?’
The look in his eyes is so beseeching that I feel a flood of affection towards him. ‘Of course.’ I fold the clothes back into the bag. ‘Let’s take this stuff back and …’
‘Take what stuff back?’ Aunt Viv says, joining us in the kitchen. I hadn’t noticed her come in. Aunt Viv has worked for Jean for five years, managing the shop area part-time. She heard about Jean’s café by pure chance. After Louis was born Aunt Viv had returned from America for good, but needed to find work. She happened to be sitting on the bus scanning the job section of the newspaper, when she overheard a Frenchman complaining that all his staff were hopeless and leaving the country. They ended up talking, Jean offered her a job, and they fell in love almost overnight. Jean’s perfect for her in that he’s unconventional, well-travelled and fiery – which keeps Aunt Viv on her toes – but deep down he’s kind at heart.
I introduce Ben to Aunt Vivienne, and when he hears her name I can see his ears prick up. I’d told Ben all about her that night in his flat. He’d listened intently to the story of her first visit, asking what happened after that. Well, Vivienne did visit us regularly, but I always felt it was carefully stage-managed by my parents. Each time Aunt Viv arrived, we were ushered into the sitting room and rarely left alone. I always had this feeling Mum was eavesdropping. I told Ben about one time when Aunt Viv had asked if Hugo and I could show her the sunken boat. Mum sent out a search party, i.e. my father, when we weren’t back after an hour. When we were on the boat, alone, just the three of us, Hugo and I felt much more at ease. Aunt Viv talked little about the past, she never mentioned Mum’s brother, or prison, or losing her child, but what she did say was that after seven years of hell, Granddad Arthur had saved her by buying a ticket to America. He had an old school friend in LA, who was willing to have her to stay. He paid for her flight and enough to pay for a short stint in rehab; the rest was her responsibility. ‘There is something about the ocean. It helped me heal,’ she told us.
‘I can see the family likeness,’ says Ben, jolting me from my thoughts. Aunt Viv’s dark hair, now peppered with grey, is coiled loosely in a clip, and she’s wearing a red woollen dress with suede boots.
‘We are alike,’ Aunt Viv says, ‘except I’ve got a lot more wrinkles, damn it!’
I explain that this is Ben, the one I met at school; his niece is in Louis’s class. ‘And we’re going shopping on Saturday to buy her a dress,’ I tell Aunt Viv, reassuring Ben that I haven’t forgotten.
When Ben leaves, Aunt Viv looks at me quizzically. ‘He’s charming.’
I realise my friendship with Ben is going to be a source of gossip. Already school mum Gabriella is pouting, unable to hide her jealousy when I told her how much I’d enjoyed her lasagne. I couldn’t help myself. Every now and then my naughty side comes out. Gabriella will be at Maisy’s party this weekend. I will try to behave.
12
I’m at Ben’s flat, helping Emily get ready for Maisy’s birthday party. In return, Ben is playing pirate games with Louis. I notice small changes each time I come round. Ben has bought a couple of rugs to warm up the wooden floors and there are more photographs scattered around the flat, including one of Ben as a young boy dressed in his cricket whites, on the bookshelf. There is also a picture of Grace holding Patch on Emily’s bedside table. She’s fairer-skinned than Ben, with striking auburn hair and hazel eyes, just like Emily’s.
Radio 2 is on; it’s Hugo’s weekend show and he’s talking about funny shopping experiences. It makes me think of yesterday. We found Emily a green sequinned dress in Monsoon, but not without a lot of ‘I’m bored!’ comments from Louis and I could tell Ben was well out of his comfort zone as we shopped for matching accessories.
As I plait Emily’s hair in the sitting room I ask her to tell me about Patch. She says he was a cross between a Dalmatian and a Scottie. I let go of the plait. ‘How did that happen?’
She twists round and stares at me. ‘How did what happen?’
‘Nothing. Sorry, carry on.’
‘Last Friday, after a particularly heavy night,’ Hugo says live on air, ‘I stumbled into the office and sat down at my desk with my usual bacon and egg McMuffin and cup of coffee, ready to eat my way through my hangover. Being partially sighted, there are various pieces of equipment that make my office existence easier. Actually they are essential – none more so than the anglepoise lamp on my desk.’
‘It’s Uncle Hugo!’ says Louis, when he and Ben charge into the room. ‘My Uncle Hugo is famous, Emily!’
‘So on this particular morning,’ Hugo continues, ‘I switched on my computer, turned on my lamp only to hear this ominous phutting sound followed by a little bang. My extra light source was stuffed, so before tucking into my hangover breakfast I had to go to the closest supermarket and buy a light bulb.’
‘Shh,’ I say to Louis when he asks when we’re leaving.
‘Locating the relevant light bulb successfully, I headed for the till,’ Hugo continues, ‘where the following dialogue took place: “How much is this, please?” I ask in my politest tone. Silence. “How much is this, please?” I ask in a slightly louder tone, but still nothing. Mildly angry and impatient by now, thinking about my McMuffin getting cold, I demand, “Come on, mate, do me a favour, I can’t see very well. I’m blind.” To which the cashier sitting behind the one serving me says, “Yes, and she’s deaf.”’
I burst out laughing.
‘Oops,’ Hugo says. ‘That put me in my place. You’re listening to Hugo Stephens on Radio 2. If any of you have had funny shopping experiences, I’d love to hear from you. Now, let’s take a break with a bit of something to relax us all on a Sunday morning …’
Marvin Gaye’s ‘Let’s Get It On’ begins to play.
Ben laughs. ‘He’s quite funny, your brother, for a blind guy.’
‘And you’re quite funny, for an arsehole.’
‘Arsehole,’ Emily repeats, followed by a small laugh.
Ben raises an eyebrow at me.
‘Sorry,’ I mouth, but when Emily jumps up and gives us a twirl in her new dress and French plait it’s clear that we’re making progress.
*
Ben looks as if he has stepped onto foreign soil when he walks inside the local community centre and stares at the bouncy castle at the far end of the room, already filled with five-year-olds jumping up and down to One Direction. I know from hiring out a castle myself that the rules are only eight children allowed on at one time, but it looks as if Louis’s entire class is giving it a go, the castle rocking from side to side like a ship on choppy waters. Heads will bang or teeth will be knocked out at any minute.
We take off our coats and hand presents over to Jim, who is dressed in jeans and a thick woolly jumper, house keys sticking out of his back pocket.
Some of the parents have already left, making the most of the free babysitting, but Emily clings to both of us, making it clear that leaving isn’t an option. Louis charges towards the bouncy castle and leaps on to it. I haul him back, whip off his trainers and make him promise to be careful.
‘Promise,’ he says, diving towards Maisy again and just missing the fist of one of the children who has decided it’s much more fun punching the walls.
Jim asks if I’ll do the music for pass the parcel and musical statues. Camilla, his wife, is in bed with flu. ‘She works too hard,’ he mutters. ‘Not her fault, but she picked a lousy day to be ill.’
Distracted, I watch Ben take Emily’s hand, encouraging her to have a go on the castle with the other children. She won
’t budge. I decide to wait, fighting all my instincts to butt in. Gabriella approaches him, wearing a low-cut navy dress and high-heeled boots. I watch as she bends down to Emily, giving Ben a good view of her ample cleavage.
‘She used to flirt with me,’ says Jim nostalgically.
‘But now there’s a new kid on the block,’ I say, still annoyed with myself that it bugs me. She bugs me. She’s married. I watch as Ben and Gabriella help Emily on to the castle. Gabriella whispers something into his ear.
‘Do you think she’s attractive?’ I ask Jim, attempting to sound casual.
‘Yeah, she’s gorgeous in that curvy Italian way.’ When he sees my face he adds, ‘But not as hot as you, of course.’
I kiss him on the cheek, making him blush. ‘I’ve trained you well. That’s the right answer.’
*
The children sit in a circle for Eugene the magician. There have only been two bouncy castle injuries. Luke, who wears Ben Ten glasses and shorts all year round, even in the snow, is nursing a nosebleed; Maisy has a sore foot. Gabriella’s daughter, whose weight is substantial, stood on it.
Eugene enters the circle with his collection of tired props. ‘It’s the same guy every time,’ I tell Ben quietly.
‘Why call your child Eugene? Just call them “Kick me”,’ he mutters.
Eugene is in his early sixties. He has thinning grey hair and a rather unfortunate gap between his front teeth. After a series of half-hearted tricks with his coloured tissues and then a rabbit appearing in a hat (it doesn’t worry them that they saw it last time), Eugene steps towards the birthday girl, asking if she will pick a card.
‘Is this your card?’ he asks, eyes wide with enthusiasm.
Maisy shakes her head, wipes her red snotty nose with the sleeve of her jumper.
‘Oh dear. Is this your card?’ He waves the card, showing it to all the children. ‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘No.’ Maisy giggles.
‘This must be your card!’
‘No!’
And then, like magic, Eugene produces a card from behind his neck.
One Step Closer to You Page 7
