by Jodi Taylor
Sharon stepped forward with her dazzling smile. ‘I’ll help. I can do dessert if you like.’
Kevin muttered something.
‘You see,’ said Russell, apparently understanding this. ‘He’ll help too.’
Mrs Crisp turned to me. ‘What would you like me to serve tomorrow?’
‘Well, I like chicken.’
‘Yes, I could do chicken. With a wine sauce and grapes. A simple seafood salad to begin. I can make that in advance.’
‘Individual hazelnut tarts,’ said Sharon.
‘There you go,’ said the cause of all the trouble, triumphantly. ‘I knew as soon as you all stopped panicking we’d have it sorted. And you’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Mrs C. Your cooking made me the man I am today.’
Silence as his household contemplated the man he was today.
‘No,’ said Mrs Crisp, firmly. ‘You’re not putting all the blame on me.’
The rest of the day was just a blur. Banished from the kitchen, I attacked the little morning room, polishing and hovering until everything gleamed. We rummaged through the linen cupboard, finding bits and pieces we could use.
The best china came out, along with a canteen of cutlery. We sat down to polish while Mrs Crisp walked in and out of the pantry, muttering to herself, and the cause of all the trouble threw the whole thing into further chaos by announcing there would be two more. Andrew and Tanya.
Mrs Crisp stared at him.
‘What’s the problem? Just do a few extra potatoes.’
I took him away for a walk while she was still reaching for her battle tea-towel. We wandered up the lane and up onto the moors.
He said nothing about divorce – nothing just burbling happily away in his usual manner.
‘I don’t think he wants you to go.’
‘Well, I’m not. Not for another twelve months, anyway.’
‘I don’t think he wants you to go at all.’
‘That doesn’t seem likely. The sooner I’m gone, the sooner he can look around for another, less fragile source of income. Otherwise, he’s ditched Francesca for nothing.’
Thomas said nothing in the way that only he can.
‘Don’t you agree?’
‘I agree his money problems are still not solved. As for the rest of it … Jenny, why isn’t he painting yet?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, ask him.’
‘What, just like that?’
‘Otherwise you’ll die of old age waiting to get a word in somewhere.’
Breathe once. And again. ‘Russell, how’s the painting going?
He broke off. ‘Fair’s fair, Jenny. I’m up to here in donkeys, dinner parties, and divorce at the moment.’
I didn’t say anything.
He sighed. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘What?’
‘Not say anything.’
I didn’t say anything again.
‘Well, I don’t have any gear, of course. I threw it all away.’
‘There’s a very good art shop near the castle in Rushford.’
‘It’s not that easy.’
Breathe once. And again. ‘No, I know it’s not. You stopped painting because of Francesca. You told yourself you couldn’t do it without her. Then it stopped being a reason and became an excuse.’
He stopped and looked at me, then continued walking. ‘It’s a good job we’re getting divorced. You’re a bit scary sometimes.’
I wouldn’t let him change the subject.
‘You might be right. OK, you are right. I’m worried … I worry I don’t have it any more. What I was painting then was my life as I saw it. Full of joy and exuberance and confidence. I took chances. They paid off. But I’m not the same person now. I don’t doubt I’ve still got the same technical expertise, but the spark, the thing that jumped from me to the canvas and burst into life – that’s gone. Without it, I might just as well paint walls for a living. And, quite honestly, I’m afraid to find out. So I keep putting it off. Because if it has gone …’
I took his hand.
He seemed surprised, but didn’t try to pull away.
I said, ‘Do it. Take a chance.’
He smiled sadly and shook his head. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’
‘Yes I do. I took a chance. Now it’s your turn.’
We walked for a long time in silence. I wasn’t going to nag and I know from Aunt Julia that according to men, mentioning the same thing twice in one decade constitutes nagging, so I shut up.
‘Do you want to come to the shop with me?’
‘Love to.’
‘Well, all right, then.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘Fine.’
‘Look, you’ve got your own way. Have the decency to let me have the last word, will you?’
‘OK.’
Chapter Eight
After all our efforts, the morning room looked lovely. Well, better than before, anyway. We had candles because although the walls had recently been beautifully painted, the curtains, rugs, and chair coverings were scruffy. By candlelight, it was shabby chic.
Russell was despatched to get the front door working. There was a lot of banging and cursing – all part of the male ritual, Thomas assured me, culminating in an ear-splitting screech which set Marilyn off.
‘We’re going to have the council round at this rate,’ shouted Russell. ‘Is anyone capable of doing anything quietly in this house?’
Sharon, laying the table at whisper-level, just grinned.
Russell and I were pushed upstairs to get ready. He resisted every inch of the way.
‘It’s only a family dinner, for heaven’s sake. Why can’t I wear jeans?’
Nobody bothered to reply and he stumped grumpily off to his room. My reminder that the whole evening was his fault was met with a frosty stare and the comment that the next twelve months couldn’t go quickly enough for him.
We regrouped in the kitchen. Mrs Crisp and Sharon wore black. I wore my long-sleeved black dress and Russell wore a black shirt and trousers.
‘Good grief,’ said Thomas. ‘It’s like a bunch of black holes in deep mourning.’
Tanya and Andrew arrived first, so we had a bit of a breathing space.
They tried to get in through the kitchen but Russell made them go around and knock on the front door. There was cousinly shouting. He dragged it open to the usual screeching fanfare, echoed by a small donkey in the stables.
‘I don’t believe any of this,’ said Andrew. ‘I swear this house gets more like Fred Karno’s Army every day.’
‘Good evening, Tanya,’ said Russell, ignoring him. ‘May I take your coat?’
She handed it over. She was wearing black. There was no hope for any of us.
‘What about my coat?’ said Andrew.
‘What about it?’ said Russell, steering Tanya into the living room.
I took his coat, feeling a little guilty that some twenty-four hours after he’d begged me to stick with it, I was contemplating divorcing his cousin.
The two of us lingered in the vestibule while Andrew examined the front door, claiming he couldn’t remember the last time it had opened. In fact, we spent so long that Russell came looking for us.
‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, suspiciously.
‘Checking out the door,’ said Andrew, vaguely, peering at the hinges.
‘Why?’
‘What?’
‘Never mind,’ I said hastily, suspecting a cousinly contretemps brewing. ‘Let’s have a drink.’
‘Oh, Jenny.’
‘You keep saying that.’ However, before I could investigate his utterance any further, sweeping headlights announced the arrival of Aunt Julia and Uncle Richard.
‘They’re here,’ announced Russell, Poltergeist style. ‘Line up the troops. Wife – front and centre.’
They were charming. Uncle Richard always was, of course, in his own understated way. There was a suggest
ion of gritted teeth about Aunt Julia but you couldn’t fault her efforts.
They barely flinched at the shrieking front door but Marilyn’s response took them back more than a little.
‘Goodness me,’ said Aunt Julia. ‘What the – what on earth was that?’
‘Marilyn,’ explained Russell, not making things clear at all.
‘Our donkey,’ I said, hastily, before she could accuse him of keeping women in the stables against their will.
‘Our sick donkey,’ he added helpfully.
She made a huge effort at a tiny joke. ‘Then I think you have a problem, Russell. If she can do that now, what sort of noise will she be capable of when she’s recovered?’
Fortunately, before Russell could enquire if she’d had a few before she came out, Mrs Crisp took her coat and she was gently but firmly ushered into the living room.
She halted on the threshold and we braced ourselves, but she said, ‘Oh, Jenny, it’s charming.’
Right. So, obviously yesterday’s visit was to be wiped from everyone’s memory. On the other hand, it did look lovely. Gentle lighting hid many defects, the fire crackled merrily, the saggy sofas were comfortable, and all the books made us look respectable.
She turned to Russell. ‘No offence, Russell, but I fancy much of the credit for this goes to Jenny?’
Behind me, Andrew muttered, ‘Who is she and what has she done with the real Julia?’ and I was inclined to agree.
What had brought about this transformation was anyone’s guess. Perhaps even she realised that yesterday’s visit had crossed a line. Perhaps she was unwilling to relinquish visiting rights. Whatever it was, she smilingly insisted that of course she remembered Andrew and Tanya, accepted a drink from Russell, and reminded Uncle Richard they’d brought wine as a gift for the evening.
I think Russell was a little miffed, feeling perhaps that his own choice was being disparaged, but he took in the spirit it was meant and Mrs Crisp bore it away.
We had a few minutes’ small talk. The weather was closely examined and found to be appropriate for the time of year. Andrew’s function was politely ascertained and not found wanting. Uncle Richard informed the breathless company that he and Miss Bauer were professionally acquainted, albeit only slightly, and before we had time to run out of things to say to each other, Mrs Crisp, under instructions from Russell to move things along as quickly as possible, announced that dinner was served.
Mrs Crisp and I had not messed about with the table arrangements. Russell, at the head of the table, was flanked by Aunt Julia on one side and Tanya on the other, on the grounds that his legendary women-handling skills would see him through and the whole damn thing was his fault anyway. He accepted with good grace, contenting himself with twinkling at me as I seated Uncle Richard and Andrew with me at the other end. Russell opened the wine, Mrs Crisp brought in the first course, and away we went.
‘Oh, this looks delicious,’ said Uncle Richard appreciatively, gazing at Mrs Crisp’s seafood salad, which did indeed look lovely. Further up the table I could hear Aunt Julia saying the same.
Russell topped up her wine glass.
Uncle Richard peered closely. ‘Jenny, my dear, which sauce would you like?’
‘Mayonnaise please, Uncle Richard.’
We all served each other and got stuck in. Mrs Crisp retired anxiously to the door, but she was worrying unnecessarily. It was delicious. I looked up to see Russell give her a small smile and the thumbs-up. She melted away.
We chatted away at our end. Andrew was a Checkland and therefore never short of a word or two, and Uncle Richard, after an anxious glance towards the head of the table for approval, happily joined in.
He needn’t have worried. Russell was opening another bottle of wine and they were going at it full throttle. Even as I watched, she laid a hand on his arm and laughed. He didn’t even flinch.
Uncle Richard blinked a little, and then turned back to me and said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘What do you think, my dear. Shall we …?’ and he poured me half a glass of wine, an action that would normally have led to our instant annihilation. He topped up his own and said, ‘What about you, Andrew?’
‘Designated driver,’ he said with regret. ‘And I’m on call, too.’
‘Oh, what a shame.’ ‘He threw another disbelieving glance at his wife. ‘It’s just you and me then, Jenny.’ I sipped away. Sadly, wine tastes like furniture polish to me, but I was happy to be included and smiled benignly upon my guests.
Sharon and Kevin cleared the table and disappeared. I waited a little anxiously for any sounds of breaking crockery but quite honestly, I don’t think I would have heard them over the increasing noise levels at the other end. Russell was telling a story, waving his arms about, and Aunt Julia was smiling at him. As I stared, Tanya turned and said,’ Good party, Jenny.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, pleased and relieved it was going so well.
‘Chicken with white wine sauce and grapes,’ murmured Mrs Crisp, ‘Served with baby vegetables and new potatoes.’
‘Oh my,’ said Aunt Julia. ‘You certainly know how to look after your guests, Russell.’
‘My wife chose the menu,’ he said, still smiling but leaving no one in any doubt that hostilities could break out at any time he wanted them to. His hair was flopping over one eye and they were opening yet another bottle of wine. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.
Tanya flashed me a quick smile then turned her attention back to Russell. I felt a small relief. They’d split the duties between them. Andrew was designated driver. She was on Russell-watch. I wasn’t sure which of them had drawn the short straw.
Uncle Richard and Andrew got on like a house on fire. We talked about donkeys – because if you’ve got one they tend to dominate the conversation – the latest James Bond film, the proposed pedestrianisation in Rushford, football, wine, and all points in between. We were laughing so hard over Andrew’s story of Mrs Aldershot’s Yorkie’s attempt at family relations with Mr Fitterton’s Staffie and the subsequent medical attention required by both dogs and their owners that when Kevin upset the water jug, it wasn’t the embarrassing disaster it might have been.
Uncle Richard lifted the wine glasses out of the way, Andrew moved the plates, I mopped, and we replaced everything with barely a break in the by-now-quite-loud conversation.
Kevin fled in shame, but Sharon’s hazelnut tarts were a triumph and we ended on a high.
Everyone was having too good a time to move so we had coffee at the table and a substantial amount of brandy went round as well.
I think I was beginning to sway slightly when Mrs Crisp put a very welcome glass of water in front of me and Uncle Richard, casting a glance at Aunt Julia, announced they should probably be going.
She seemed quite reluctant, despite having missed her ten o’clock bedtime, but eventually moved slowly and majestically to the door.
‘Stately Spanish Galleon,’ whispered Andrew behind me and I giggled. Russell shot me a very strange look I didn’t understand at all, although actually, things were a bit blurry …
‘Oh, Jenny,’ said Thomas, in some amusement.
… and I realised very suddenly that although I’d quite enjoyed the wine, a substantial amount was about to make the return trip.
I didn’t know what to do. They wouldn’t go. Just standing. Talking. Go, will you. Oh God, I felt bad. I was never drinking again.
‘You’ve never drunk before,’ said Thomas.
‘Not helping,’ I said.
Russell saved me. Turning to say something, he fixed me with an experienced and not unsympathetic stare and said, ‘Don’t come out into the cold, Jenny. I’ll see our guests out.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, suddenly liking him better than I ever had before, and fled for the stairs.
There was no time to get to my room. The family bathroom was the first door at the top of the stairs and I barely made it. I dumped a substantial amount of the evening meal in the nearest receptacle – t
he bath – decided I’d never drink again, or eat either, and waited for everything to subside.
It didn’t. If anything, I felt worse. My stomach cramped painfully and off I went again. And again. And again.
Where was it all coming from? I didn’t remember carrots. My head pounded. I couldn’t see properly. I shivered, shook and hoped I would die before anyone found me.
I was vaguely aware of cars starting and driving away. The door screeched. I heard voices and then a familiar step on the staircase.
He knocked. I told him to go away but in shorter sharper words. He came in anyway. He seemed inappropriately cheerful about my death throes.
‘Don’t panic, Jenny, you’re not the first Checkland to occupy that exact spot. The number of times I’ve been there. And Andrew, back in his day. And, if you’d been able to stomach me for a little longer, and we’d had offspring, I daresay they would have carried on the proud family tradition, too.’
I wouldn’t be surprised if he could speak and vomit simultaneously. I cast him a look of loathing and proceeded to bring up everything I’d eaten in the last six months.
‘Poor old Jenny,’ he said, kneeling beside me and rubbing my back gently. ‘Shall I go away?’
Tears of mortification ran down my cheeks. I looked at the author of all my misfortunes and consigned him to the lowest circles of hell.
‘No, please stay.’
‘Of course I will. I’ll get you some water and then we’ll get you to bed.’
But we didn’t.
It went on all night. The slightest sip of water came back tenfold. I grew exhausted and still it didn’t stop. I lay on the bathroom floor and rested my hot face against the cool tiles, shivering with cold. Russell fetched a blanket and I threw up on that as well. Finally, just a little before dawn, the cramps eased. An uneventful half hour went by.
‘I’m going to carry you to bed now. If you throw up on me, I shall call Andrew and have you put down.’
I nodded and he picked me up, blanket and all and carried me to my room. He place me gently on the bed and went back for the basins, towels, flannels, glasses of water, and all the other paraphernalia I’d accumulated.
‘Close your eyes, Jenny,’ murmured Thomas, who’d never wavered, even during the really unpleasant bits. ‘ Try and sleep.’
