Ian dreaded coming back to the echoey hallway and its dusty staircase. He had to steel himself before going into their gloomy bedroom, where the pillow still smelt of her perfume and her toothbrush was missing from the pot that usually held two. He even missed her nagging, and her secret whispered calls to a certain Spanish lothario.
Above all, he missed getting Arraminta’s news. Minty used to call regularly to speak to her mum, because Mum was fun and interesting and knew the names of her friends as well as all the answers to everything. He found it odd how Helen, who was very strict with Minty, had always been obsessed with her grades, and was pushy and often mean, seemed to receive the lion’s share of their daughter’s love, whereas he, who had only ever wanted her to be happy, was seen as weak. How did that work?
He stepped over the threshold and shut the front door behind him, considering whether a glass of wine might be the answer right now and deciding that in fact several glasses would be better. He could crack open that bottle of ridiculously expensive Valpolicella he’d bought yesterday, the one he’d read about in the Decanter magazine he’d snaffled from the surgery waiting room. He wouldn’t be drinking Spanish wine for a good while anyway, that was for sure.
Dropping his briefcase on the hall floor, he bent to gather the mail, discarding the pizza flyer, taxi cards and parish newsletter in favour of the pale cream envelope addressed in an elegant if slightly shaky script, handwritten in navy ink. Sliding his finger under the flap, he carefully removed the stiff, gilt-edged card and read that he had been invited to his Aunt Cordelia’s birthday party.
It was months since he’d last been in touch with his aunt, but he had many fond memories of the old lady. As a teenager, he used to enjoy going to her flat in Kensington. There’d always been something a bit unconventional about her, even racy, and though she’d never married, she was far from being a boring spinster. She used to like a flutter on the horses, he remembered. And when she’d been on the sherry, she’d tell risqué stories about the artists and writers she’d fraternised with in the 50s and 60s. He pictured his aunt and his mother, who was much younger, playing croquet in his youth, heard the satisfying thud of mallet against boxwood and the sound of their bickering over a point. To his acute embarrassment, he slid down until his bottom was on the welcome mat and with his back against the front door he cried. It had been years, decades, since he had sobbed like this and for the first time since his teenage years, he desperately wished he could see his mum.
*
Three weeks later, he was on the phone and about to hang up, when his call was finally answered.
‘Yup?’
‘Oh, Helen, it’s me.’ It was strange to feel so nervous when talking to the woman with whom he had exchanged vows and parented a child.
‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘I have caller ID. I think I might have mentioned it.’
He decided to ignore the comment. ‘There’s a lot of mail here for Minty and at least one in a brown envelope, probably another fine. I’ve left her a message, but if you speak to her…’
‘Righto.’
‘I’m driving up to London. Aunt Cordelia—’
‘Finally croaked, has she?’ Helen interrupted.
He drew breath. ‘Actually, no, she’s having a birthday party.’
There was a silent pause while she wondered why on earth he thought she might want or need to know this and he wondered exactly the same.
‘Well…’ She tittered. ‘Enjoy!’
‘Do you know, Helen…’ He looked at the space where the microwave used to live. ‘I was the only one who used the microwave, it’s how I made my porridge every morning. But you know that.’
‘You called to tell me you miss the microwave?’ Her voice went up an octave, clearly amused.
‘No, I don’t know why I called, actually. Probably habit, and that basic human desire to know that someone is worrying about you while you travel, that someone might be concerned if you don’t pick up the phone or make contact. It makes you feel connected, loved.’
‘Christ, have you been on the cooking sherry, Ian?’
‘Not yet, no. And I’m sorry I called, interrupted whatever you were doing. I feel sad, Helen you know, disappointed.’ His heart hammered in his chest.
‘Oh God, is this about the microwave again?’
‘No.’ He felt a wave of anger towards this woman who thought she held all the cards, who was making all the decisions, making him feel like shit. ‘It’s about the fact that I feel you have treated me quite unfairly, I only ever tried to make you and Minty happy, I feel embarrassed that my very best efforts weren’t good enough. And as much as I dislike Juan, I hope your interest in him doesn’t wane as it did with me, because let me tell you, it is the very worst way to live. The worst.’
‘Ian! I... I…’ She was flabbergasted, shocked and angry all rolled into one.
He ended the call with a swipe of his thumb and, as he slammed the front door behind him and loaded up his boot for his trip to London, he laughed. He laughed out loud.
11
Ian descended the basement steps and found the front door ajar. He walked the length of the hall, inhaling the familiar scent of the place and marvelling at the beautiful objects, things he didn’t know he remembered from his childhood until the sight of them hurtled him back through time and space. There was a pen pot on the bureau that he distinctly recalled turning upside down and driving a toy car around. It brought a lump to his throat.
Tina stepped from the kitchen and into the hallway.
‘I’m Ian.’
‘Oh! Miss Potterton’s nephew!’
‘Yes, that’s me. The GP from Tunbridge Wells,’ he replied, rocking on his loafers, knowing this was how his aunt would have described him.
‘How lovely!’ Tina grinned.
‘Oh, do you know it?’ Ian was delighted to have found something in common with the attractive, bubbly woman standing in front of him, someone he wouldn’t have immediately placed in his aunt’s circle. They would have plenty to talk about; she was bound to have an opinion on the controversial opening of a Poundland on the high street, when most residents had been praying for a Waitrose.
‘No... I’ve never been.’
‘Oh.’ He stared at her, a little flummoxed.
‘But it sounds very nice. I was more saying lovely about your job, you being a doctor.’ She pointed at him, as though this might be news to him. ‘I’ve never met one before – well, apart from my doctor and a couple of other doctors. And Dr Kahn, who is my mum’s doctor. And my son, who has made that his ambition, to be one, a doctor.’
‘So you’ve met quite a few?’ He squinted as he followed her over to the beautifully set table.
‘Yes. But never one here. At your aunt’s house.’ She rearranged a pretty white linen napkin that had flopped open and twisted the crystal salt and pepper pot for no particular reason.
‘So how do you know Cordelia?’
‘Miss Potterton? I’m her cleaner. I’ve only known her for a few months. I think she’s hilarious,’ she whispered, tucking her white T-shirt into her jeans.
Ian gave a small laugh. ‘I’ve heard her described as many things, but never that,’ he whispered in return.
‘I don’t think she means to be funny, and I’m not laughing at her!’ Tina raised her palms, keen to assert this. ‘But I just find her way, and her words, so... I don’t know, it’s like she’s from another time and she has absolutely no idea how things work nowadays. It’s nice.’
‘Refreshing,’ he surmised.
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Refreshing.’
‘It’s funny, isn’t it,’ Ian said, ‘how people who are fond of saying it “like it is” or who enjoy “being truthful” actually only ever say nasty things. Have you noticed that? Whoever heard, “I like to say it how it is and that food was amazing!”’
Tina laughed. ‘Yeah, or, “I’m only being truthful, but she looked fantastic!”’
And just like that, the tw
o were laughing, like they knew each other.
‘What are you two scheming about?’ Miss Potterton’s voice boomed out as she made her way along the corridor to the sitting room.
Ian and Tina both stepped backwards, emphasising the conspiratorial nature of their chat.
‘Nothing, Cordelia. We were just talking about Tunbridge Wells,’ Ian offered cheerily.
‘Urgh! I’m afraid the furthest outside of London I’m prepared to venture is Chiswick.’
Ian and Tina exchanged a glance, neither of them willing to introduce the idea that Chiswick was in London.
‘Lovely to see you, Ian.’
‘You too.’ He presented his aunt with a wrapped book, which she set to one side.
Miss Potterton took a seat at the elaborately set table.
‘This looks absolutely wonderful!’ Ian placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the vintage china and silver cake stands, the ornate sugar bowl with matching tongs, the sparkling crystal champagne glasses and the purple and cream tulips that had been artfully arranged in slender bud vases. He noted the nine place settings. ‘Who’s joining us today?’
‘We have a select and refined group of interesting minds, including some very high-profile local residents, who will provide witty repartee over tea.’ His aunt nodded, a stern expression on her face.
‘Oh gosh, don’t know how witty I’m feeling!’ He pulled a wide-mouthed face at Tina.
‘Don’t fret, dear. You were only invited to make up the numbers.’ Miss Potterton smiled at her nephew. ‘And talking of making up the numbers, where is that wife of yours?’
‘Helen?’
‘I am intrigued by your need to qualify. Is there another?’ She tilted her head towards him to better hear the response.
‘Ha! No, no! No other, erm…’ He swallowed. ‘She’s busy. She’s working, on her Spanish thing, so she can’t make it, but she did send her very best regards and many happy returns of the day.’
‘I bet she did.’ His aunt spoke loudly but with her head turned, as though she were whispering.
‘I’ll remove her place setting and wiggle everything around a bit.’ Tina smiled as she piled up the redundant side plate, cup and saucer. Holding the cutlery and napkin in her other hand, she whipped the lot into the kitchen, where Marley had the kettle full, the sandwiches wrapped and the cakes chilling, all ready for the nod from his mother.
‘One down, I’m afraid.’ She kept her voice low.
‘Did they die?’ Marley asked.
She stood in front of her son. ‘What do you mean, did they die? Of course not! They’re just stuck in Tunbridge Wells! What a thing to say, Marl!’
‘What? Don’t look at me like that! I just thought, you know, she’s really old and her friends are all really old and so maybe one of them had died, which is sad, but also good.’
‘In what way could it possibly be good?’
‘Cos I can have their chocolate eclair!’ He laughed.
Tina tutted. ‘You can have one anyway, cheeky boy, and what about your healthy eating?’
‘One eclair won’t hurt, Mum. I’ll just have to train a bit harder tomorrow.’ He patted his flat, hard stomach.
‘Ah, love, you might think you’re chips and gravy now, but your dad used to be built like you and now he’s got a proper belly. You want to watch that!’ She winked.
‘Tina! Tina!’ Miss Potterton called from the sitting room.
‘Yes?’ Tina always bobbed a little when she stood in front of Miss Potterton. Think I need to stop watching Downton. She smiled at the thought.
‘I think maybe we should set a pot to steep. People will be arriving any second and I would like to offer them tea the moment they sit down, plus I’m rather thirsty myself. And don’t forget it’s the Darjeeling.’
‘Certainly, and I’ll grab the door when they arrive.’ She made her way back to the kitchen.
‘Right, Marl, action stations. First pot of tea of the day.’
‘Is she having a nice time?’ Marley couldn’t begin to imagine how it was possible to have fun when you were ninety-four.
‘I think so, love, yes. She’ll get more into the swing of it when her other guests arrive.’
‘The Right Honourable Muir Tyson-Blaine!’ He snickered.
‘Ssshhh!’ Tina placed her finger on her lips. ‘Don’t be rude, Marley. You are in Miss Potterton’s home and these people are her friends and it is her birthday party.’ She spoke solemnly.
‘It’s must be odd having friends with titles. I can’t imagine Digsy will ever have one,’ Marley said as he fiddled with a teaspoon.
‘You never know, love. I’ll just pop back through, see if they need anything.’
Miss Potterton was in full swing. ‘Well, that was the trouble with your mother, she was afraid of her own shadow! I’d have made myself quite clear, and that frightful man wouldn’t have got a penny out of me.’ She nodded, mid conversation with Ian.
‘Funny, I was thinking about her only the other day, as I do on occasion. Thinking how I would really like a cup of tea with her and a bit of a chinwag,’ he admitted.
‘Oh, absolutely! I miss her dreadfully.’ Miss Potterton placed her handkerchief at the corner of her eye. ‘That’s the thing about surviving the longest; you have to say so many wretched goodbyes. And doubly unfair when she was so much younger than me.’ She sniffed. ‘Ah, Tina, what’s the time, dear?’
Tina looked at the clock and then her phone. ‘I think my phone’s running a little bit fast. It says ten past three.’
Miss Potterton sat forward in her chair and gripped the arms. ‘Ten past three? Are you sure? That’s utterly ridiculous. They’re all late! I can’t bear tardiness, I really can’t! Tom always used to say, “Why do people consider their time more valuable than mine? How little must people think of me to make me wait.” And I rather agree. Ten past, are you certain?’ She craned her neck and then squinted at her watch face.
‘I expect parking round here is a bit of a nightmare. Maybe they’re struggling to find a space?’ Ian offered kindly. Both he and Tina were wondering who Tom was.
‘Well, no, Ian, that can’t be right. Everyone is within walking distance or has a resident’s pass. I don’t understand it. I specifically said three o’clock. Didn’t I, Tina?’
‘Yes. Yes, you did.’ She nodded. ‘Tell you what, how about a nice cup of tea while you’re waiting. I’m sure Dr Ian would like one – you must be gasping!’ She smiled at him.
‘That would be lovely. Yes, please.’ He looked like a happy schoolboy who’d been offered seconds.
‘No! Absolutely not!’ Miss Potterton banged the arm of her chair. ‘Can you imagine the embarrassment of Mr and Mrs Govington-Holmes or the Right Honourable Muir Tyson-Blaine if they arrived and we were merrily drinking tea, with festivities well and truly launched without them? How would that look? No.’ She shook her head. ‘We shall wait.’
She turned her head towards the hallway, her fingers fidgeting on the chair.
The expectation, as they listened for the reassuring ping of the bell or the light rapping of knuckles on the glass, gave the room a physical weight that bore down on them like a leaden cloak.
‘Do you drive, Tina?’ Ian made small talk.
‘Only my son round the bend.’ She smiled.
‘Ha! Very good!’ He laughed too loudly and for too long.
‘No, never seen the point, really. Buses are good as gold from where I live and I wouldn’t know where to start with a car, even if I could drive. I mean, it’s not like I could get a car, so learning to drive always felt a bit pointless. My dad had a van. He was a delivery driver for Addison Lee back in the day.’
Ian nodded. ‘I think it’s admirable not driving a car. I hate to think what my gas-guzzling tractor does to the environment.’
‘Oh God! Don’t tell me Helen is encouraging you to go green and start riding a bike everywhere!’ Miss Potterton tutted and ran her tongue over her lips, clearly parched.
> ‘No! No, quite the opposite. I’d like a bike, in fact, but she was very keen we got the four-by-four – good for off-roading and narrow country lanes.’ He looked at the floor.
‘Do you do a lot of off-roading?’ Tina wasn’t exactly sure what that was, but she also wanted to make conversation.
‘No, never.’ He stared at her.
‘But you live in a narrow country lane?’
Ian shook his head. ‘Again, no.’ He pictured the top-of-the-range monstrosity that Helen had convinced him was necessary, when all he really wanted was a bike, and a little Mini with cup holders for his lunchtime coffee and a good sun visor. ‘In fact, I don’t know why we got the bloody thing. Something else she talked me into.’
‘Language, young man!’ Miss Potterton remonstrated.
Tina felt the giggle rise in her throat and turned on her heel, making a hasty exit to the kitchen. She felt his eyes following her as she left the room.
‘Mum, I’m getting bored.’ Marley threw a sugared almond into the air and tried to catch it in his mouth. When he missed, he caught it in his hand and tried again.
‘Not too much longer. What’s the bloody time?’ She pulled her phone from her back pocket and slid the screen. ‘God, it’s nearly half past! Please don’t say they’re not coming.’
She ran her palm over her face, wishing she’d never suggested the birthday party in the first place. Then she bent over the countertop and buried her head in her hands.
‘Knock, knock!’ Ian alerted her to his presence.
‘Oh God! Hi! I was just having a think.’ She was flustered and could feel two spots of colour rising on her cheeks.
‘This is my son, Marley. Marley, this is Dr Ian.’
Ian walked forward and shook hands with Tina’s son, silently admiring the boy’s impressive Afro. ‘Just Ian – don’t worry about the doctor bit.’ He smiled.
Miss Potterton's Birthday Tea Page 4
