Making Hay

by Veronica Henry

  He hoped that the diesel-stoked roar of the Jeep’s engine wouldn’t rouse her, but then reasoned that she’d assume he was going for the papers. They always had the Independent and the Mail – one to stimulate the brain cells, the other to catch up on gossip and for the recipes and fashion in You magazine. But he sailed straight past the post office, which opened for two hours on a Sunday morning to flog papers and croissants, and straight on into Eldenbury, where he sought out James’s and Caroline’s house. There it was – a magnificent building fronting on to the tail-end of the high street. It was split into two, one half shop, one half residence. So carried away was he by his spontaneity that it was only when he was on the doorstep banging on the knocker that he wondered if ten o’clock was too early, but then he remembered they had a baby. They were bound to have been up for hours.

  Caroline answered the door. Barney looked apologetic.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you – ’

  She waved him in gaily, seemingly unperturbed and not needing any explanation for his arrival.

  ‘Come in, come in. James is up and out already – he’s gone to value some old bat’s paintings. Left me holding my head and the baby. Why didn’t anybody tell me to stop drinking last night?’

  She looked at him in mock outrage. She didn’t seem to be in too much agony, but he would hardly have recognized her as the vampish sex kitten from the night before. Gone were the plunging neckline and the wild red curls. Her hair was scraped back in a scrunchy, she was wearing a pale blue sweatshirt, regulation post-natal black leggings and a pair of sheepskin slippers. There were suspicious stains on her left shoulder. She grinned as she clocked Barney eyeing them up warily.

  ‘Excuse the designer vomit. Henry still insists on chucking up half his bottle.’ She led him through into the kitchen, which looked as if a bomb had recently been dropped. Breakfast things were strewn everywhere; last night’s saucepans – or, presumably, the night before’s, as they had been out to supper – were soaking in the sink. The Sunday Telegraph was spread over the table. A row of empty Avent bottles waited on the draining board. Caroline grimaced. ‘James will kill me if I don’t get this cleaned up before he gets back. His woman that does says she won’t do any more unless I get my act into gear. But it’s like wading through bloody treacle, trying to get anything done with a baby. Henry hardly sleeps at all during the day. Mind you, he goes through the night, so I can’t complain. He’s an angel, really. Aren’t you?’

  She made a squeaky kissing noise in the direction of the floor. Barney looked down and what he saw made his heart jump into his mouth. A brightly-coloured ring that formed a baby nest. Just like the one Oliver had had. And in it, a gorgeous, fat baby with ginger curls, gurgling happily.

  He staggered back as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him. He could barely breathe for the shock. He’d never got used to how it could hit you, suddenly and unexpectedly. He’d thought he was over it. Well, not over – you never got over something like that. But he thought he could cope. In public, at least. He still had the odd private moment, but he’d really thought he was able to function. It seemed not. It would teach him to be complacent, and judgemental…

  Caroline was looking at him, concerned.

  ‘Barney? What’s the matter?’

  Barney couldn’t speak. A choking noise came from the back of his throat.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Barney passed a hand over his face. He wasn’t all right. Not at all. He was engulfed in a mixture of misery, self-pity and despair. Half of him wanted to scoop up Caroline’s baby and have once more the feeling of a soft, warm, wriggly bundle in his arms. The other wanted to bolt out of the door and never come back.

  At the sound of his choking, Caroline had rushed to the sink to get him a glass of water. She handed it to him, concerned, then watched in appalled horror as Barney broke down in sobs.

  He pointed.

  ‘We had one like that.’

  ‘A baby?’

  ‘A nest. For our baby.’

  Caroline looked utterly baffled. Barney tried to compose himself.

  ‘Shit – I’m sorry. You must think I’m a complete idiot.’

  ‘What baby?’

  Their agreement not to mention Oliver to anyone now seemed like a terrible idea. But the cat was out of the bag, and Barney found that he wanted to tell her. He took a deep juddering breath in.

  ‘We had a little boy. Oliver. He died when he was six months old.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘It was a cot death. They said he wouldn’t have felt anything. Just like going to sleep and not waking up…’

  He said it to convince himself as much as anything. Many was the time he’d tortured himself over Oliver’s last moments. For a second, Barney thought he was going to break down again, but with a supreme effort of will he managed to keep control. By now Caroline’s own eyes were filled with tears.

  ‘That’s terrible. I can’t think of anything more terrible.’ She touched his arm; squeezed it compassionately. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Barney smiled his thanks, feeling a complete berk. He couldn’t believe he’d blown it like that. He thought the best thing was to say no more about it. A sudden thought occurred to Caroline, and she put a hand to her mouth in alarm.

  ‘Shit – after everything I said last night. I had a go at Suzanna about her body-clock. Oh my God… why didn’t anyone tell me to shut up?’

  She sat down in a chair next to him, stricken with guilt.

  ‘It’s OK. How were you to know?’

  Caroline looked at him.

  ‘Nobody at the brewery knows about this, do they?’

  Barney realized that Caroline wasn’t the dippy mother come party animal she liked to pretend to be. She was sharp and shrewd, and he could tell the brewery’s interests were very close to her heart. He gave a helpless shrug.

  ‘Suzanna and I agreed we wouldn’t mention it. It just seemed easier, somehow. We could start again with a clean slate.’

  ‘Pretend it never happened?’

  ‘Well, no, we can’t do that. It was for Suzanna, really. She took it very hard.’

  Caroline gave a little shudder.

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘I think she wanted the chance to start again. Be a new person. Not be branded as some tragic figure. I think she thought people would be analysing her for a nervous breakdown if they knew about Oliver. Either that or making allowances all the time.’

  ‘I see your point. But don’t you think it’s a bit… duplicitous? Keith and Mickey not having the full picture?’ Caroline sounded concerned.

  ‘I’d be grateful if we could keep it to ourselves. Just for the time being. I don’t think Suzanna would be able to cope with it being out in the open – not just at the moment. The move and everything – it’s been quite stressful.’

  Caroline agreed, albeit reluctantly. She also offered Barney a shoulder to cry on, if he ever felt the need. Barney was incredibly touched by the generosity of her spirit; it had been good to talk. And while Caroline might come across as a bit of a nightmare at first, she was honest and spoke her mind, which he liked, because he felt he could trust her.

  He was about to go, when he remembered what he’d come for.

  ‘I forgot! I wanted a puppy.’

  ‘No problem. James will be delighted.’

  ‘You can’t move to the country and not have a dog. And it will be good security for the pub.’

  ‘I’m not promising they’ll make very effective guard dogs. Their mother would lick you to death. But come and have a look. See what you think.’

  She led him through into the backyard and into a garage, where a sheepish chocolate Labrador nursed a pile of squirming, splodgy fur.

  Barney picked out the one he wanted. It was all one colour, the colour of Marmite. Which seemed like the perfect name.

  ‘Marmite,’ he murmured, and buried his face in the little bundle.

  ‘You’d better take him t
oday,’ said Caroline. ‘One less thing to pooh and wee about the place.’

  Barney stopped off at the feed merchants on the way home and bought a smart wicker basket, a dog duvet, two stainless-steel bowls, a collar and lead, and a supply of the food that Caroline had recommended. The dog might have been free, but he’d managed to spend more than a hundred quid, he realized ruefully as he popped the puppy in its basket in the boot for the drive home.

  When he got back he was surprised to find that Suzanna was actually up. She was in the games room, which they had decided to convert into a temporary headquarters and makeshift office. They’d been offered space at the brewery, but Barney was insistent that at least one of them should be on the premises at all times now that the demolition was over and things were being put back together. Builders and decorators could not be trusted to get on with the job in hand without someone breathing down their necks; there would be deliveries that needed checking; decisions to be made. So everything that had been dumped in the games room had been moved to the outbuildings and a phone line and computer had been installed, as well as a big table for meetings. Suzanna was sitting there now, surrounded by recipes and menus from rival pubs and price lists from suppliers. She eyed Barney warily.

  He stood in the doorway, the puppy squirming in his arms.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  Barney walked over and bent down. The puppy wriggled happily on to the floor.

  ‘It’s for you. His name’s Marmite.’

  Suzanna looked up at him, her face a mask of hostility.

  ‘I don’t want a baby replacement,’ she said.

  There was an ominous silence, while they both considered the harshness of what she’d said, each of them shocked.

  ‘It’s not a baby replacement,’ said Barney. ‘It’s a fucking puppy. I thought it would give you something to think about. Other than yourself.’

  He turned on his heel and marched out of the room.

  Suzanna flushed hot with shame. She was a bitch; an utter bitch. But no one seemed to understand how easy it was to be defensive; her reactions were knee-jerk, to protect her. If she didn’t put up that barrier, she’d collapse.

  The puppy looked up at her. His paws were ridiculously large, like a little boy wearing his father’s slippers. He waddled over to her, sat down and did a defiant wee, not taking his gaze from hers.

  ‘You little sod,’ she chided, utterly charmed. She scooped him up in one hand and rubbed her nose against his.

  ‘Hello, Marmite,’ she whispered.

  How could she have been so cruel to Barney? His face when he’d put Marmite on the floor had been so full of hope, and she’d slapped him down because she’d been taken unawares, because she was still labouring under the trauma of the night before. It had been all she could do to get up that morning, but she’d forced herself, telling herself that she had to struggle on against the odds. And then she’d ruined her resolution with a cheap jibe.

  She didn’t blame Barney for being sharp with her. In fact, it frightened her, because he was always so patient.

  She went to find him, Marmite in her arms. He was in the cellar, surrounded by pipes and barrels and buckets and bottles of bleach. Suzanna swallowed.

  ‘I… don’t know what to say to apologize. He’s the most gorgeous puppy and I don’t deserve him and I don’t deserve you and… you don’t deserve me. I was appalling.’

  Barney looked at her gravely. His expression was very serious and her heart thumped. What if this what it? What if she’d pushed him too far this time?

  He handed her a big red bucket full of disinfectant and a huge scrubbing brush.

  ‘Get scrubbing,’ he grinned, and Suzanna nearly dropped the puppy in relief.

  The night after the Liddiards’ dinner party, Ginny had very disturbed dreams. Several times she thought she’d imagined a dark head on the pillow next to her, a pair of glittering eyes staring into hers and a deep, husky laugh. She woke the next morning exhausted, telling herself it was the rich food and the unusual amount of wine she’d consumed playing havoc with her digestion, because the bed was decidedly empty and she had on her grey flannel pyjamas. There was no way she could have got up to what she’d dreamed about wearing those. But it had seemed very real, and the images flashed through her head all day. What really worried her was – if it was her imagination, where on earth had she got all those ideas? She thought she was bewitched, that somehow Bertie had transposed his wicked thoughts into her head.

  At ten o’clock she staggered downstairs to find the twins had been down to the post office for croissants. A thought suddenly occurred to her: what were they doing back? They were supposed to have stayed over at David’s the night before. Sasha looked mutinous as Kitty explained.

  ‘Sasha said something to Faith and she freaked. Dad thought it was best if he brought us home.’

  ‘Poor sod. Imagine having to live with that neurotic cow.’ Sasha spread raspberry jam defiantly on her croissant. Ginny tried to look strict.

  ‘What did you say to her, Sasha?’

  ‘I only asked her if she was sure it wasn’t twins. She’s enormous.’

  ‘She’s not that big,’ protested Kitty.

  ‘It was only a joke! Does anyone round here remember jokes? God!’

  Ginny smothered a smile. Anyone not as neurotic about their weight as Faith could have taken the jibe. But she chastized Sasha none the less, because she knew that her mischief could come across as spite, and she didn’t always realize how people took her remarks to heart.

  Having devoured two croissants in the hope of soaking up whatever alcohol was left in her stomach, washed down by an Alka-Seltzer and three cups of tea, Ginny felt fit to broach something that had been playing on her mind since she got up. It was a fragmented snatch of conversation from the night before – something she was trying to focus on to eradicate the images of Bertie kissing her, memories that threatened to turn her into a quivering jelly.

  ‘You know I’ve been looking for a job and I haven’t been able to find anything suitable? Well, someone suggested setting up an ironing service. What do you think?’

  There was a small silence.

  ‘I’d rather screw someone for money than do their ironing.’ Sasha was emphatic.

  ‘Thank you for sharing that with us, Sasha. Sadly that’s not an option.’ Ginny was brisk. She scribbled down some figures on a piece of paper.

  ‘I reckon I could charge twenty pounds for a basket of ironing. Each basket would take me an hour, an hour and a half max. Two baskets a day is two hundred quid a week. I’d be my own boss. I could have the days to myself and do it in the evenings. Or if I got my skates on I could finish it all by eleven… it doesn’t matter. The point is I can please myself. Do as much or as little as I want.’

  Kitty frowned. ‘It doesn’t seem fair that you’ve got to work.’

  Ginny was touched.

  ‘I want to. I’d like a bit of independence. A bit of my own money so I don’t have to go grovelling to your father if I want something.’

  She noticed she’d slipped into divorce-speak, even though they weren’t officially. ‘Your father.’ She used to refer to him as ‘dad’. Sasha waved her knife in solidarity.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about grovelling. He is such a tight-arse. And do you know how much Faith has spent on her new pram? Six hundred quid!! I told him, he could have bought us a car for that.’

  ‘Sasha, shut up. This is about Mum, not us.’ Kitty turned to Ginny. ‘Why don’t you give it a go? You’ve got nothing to lose. And if you don’t like it, you can give it up.’

  Kitty was right. She had nothing to lose. She smiled at her daughter, grateful for the support. Sasha chipped in.

  ‘I’ll do you a poster. You can put it up in the post office.’

  Ginny raised an arch eyebrow. ‘I thought you thought it was a bad idea?’

  ‘I only meant I wouldn’t do it. No one would want me anywhere near their ironing. But you’re fantas
tic at it.’

  Ginny grinned ruefully. Sasha had always been the mistress of backhanded compliments.

  ‘Come on, then.’

  Galvanized into action, Ginny freshened herself up with a shower and got dressed, eager to get on with her new project. Remembering what Bertie had called her, she got Kitty to look out their old Beatrix Potter books and found the Tale of Mrs Tiggywinkle. She found a picture of the old hedgehog with a basket of washing under her arm and scanned it into the computer. Sasha messed around with some fonts and colours until they had a striking A4 poster advertising her services. Later, she went to a DIY superstore and bought half a dozen square wicker laundry baskets which she planned to issue to her prospective clients. That way she could control the amount of clothing they gave her: she was sure people’s definition of a basket would vary enormously. They also went nicely with the image she wanted to portray – of a traditional, old-fashioned service. At the same time, she would guarantee to turn the clothes round in forty-eight hours. There was no point in giving someone your ironing to do if it just lingered in their house for weeks on end.

  She also bought a new iron – she needed one anyway – and a new ironing board. She saved the receipts, putting them in a file marked ‘Business’, even though she probably wouldn’t make enough in the first year to have to pay tax. But you never knew. She might not be Anita Roddick, but everybody had to start somewhere. Who knows, she might have a multimillion-pound franchise by the end of the year.

  ‘You seem very chirpy.’

  Keith beamed.

  ‘Yes.’

  He and Mandy were sharing mushrooms on toast, a sort of brunch as neither of them had surfaced until gone eleven. Keith had been lying in bed, having opened his curtains to the glorious April sunshine, trying to read the Sunday papers, but every now and again his thoughts had strayed to Ginny. He’d never warmed to anyone so instantly before. And Keith thought she needed looking after. He remembered the gory details Lucy had given him of her husband’s desertion; having been through a similar experience, he sympathized.