A Family Recipe

by Veronica Henry

  Laura’s mouth dropped open in mock shock as Willow and Jaz grinned at her, scheming sisters.

  ‘I’m proud of you, Willow,’ said Jaz. ‘But if you’ve nicked my Jack Wills hoody, it’s war.’

  ‘I swear I haven’t. You can check my bags.’ Willow turned to her great-grandmother. ‘Thanks to Kanga, for being a brilliant great-gran and holding the fort at home when Mum was with me in hospital, and for encouraging me when I was behind with my work and thought I would never, ever pass an exam. You are the reason I know all my irregular French verbs and how the digestive system works and what an allegory is. Thank you for believing in me.’

  ‘I always believed in you, darling,’ smiled Kanga.

  Willow went and burrowed herself under her dad’s arm.

  ‘Thanks to Dad, for always coming to see me in hospital as soon as you got off from work – your hugs are the best. Thanks for the piggybacks whenever I got tired and for teaching me to ride a bike and to swim and to ski, even though I thought I was a weakling and I couldn’t do all the things other kids were doing. Thanks to you I know I can do whatever I want.’

  ‘You can do anything. You know you can,’ said Dom, beaming with pride.

  ‘But most of all …’ Willow turned to Laura and held out her arms, ‘thanks to Mum for being all-round totally amazing and always there. I know how much you’ve given up to look after me and I know you say it’s your job but I don’t know anyone else who has such an incredible mother who never complains. You are why I’m going off to York tomorrow. I never dreamed I would go to uni, but you made it happen.’

  As she stepped across the room and into Willow’s arms, Laura wondered how on earth she was supposed not to bawl her eyes out after such a heartfelt speech. Luckily everyone else was a bit teary too, so it was acceptable, but the difference was that Laura wasn’t sure she would stop once she’d started.

  ‘That was the most wonderful speech. I can’t tell you how much it means. Thank you,’ she murmured in Willow’s ear, struggling to keep her composure but somehow managing.

  ‘Thank you, Mum,’ said Willow. ‘I meant every word.’

  As the evening started to wind down – everyone had been told they had to leave by half ten; a first for Number 11 – Kanga touched Laura on the arm. ‘I’m going to slip away. I’ve already said goodbye to Willow. I won’t come and wave you off in the morning. It’ll be a bit emotional.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful.’ Laura kissed her grandmother’s cheek. ‘And thanks – I know you’ve given the girls some money.’

  ‘A little bit extra won’t go amiss.’ Kanga smiled at her, aware that her granddaughter was anxious. ‘And don’t worry. It’ll be Christmas before you know it.’

  Laura didn’t want to think about it. Christmas was over three months away. How on earth was she going to survive?

  3

  Just after midnight, Kanga was woken by Dean Martin singing merrily about marimba: one of the girls had made Sway her ringtone, knowing it was her favourite song.

  Kanga had embraced her iPhone completely. She had every app going. She sometimes saw people staring at her with astonishment as she scrolled through her messages or tapped out a reply with speedy fingers.

  She reached out to answer it. Middle-of-the-night calls were never good. Was it a distress call from Laura? No – she would come and knock on her door. Kanga’s house was only at the bottom of the garden. It had happened often enough over the years: Dom and Laura bundling Willow up in her duvet to carry her to the car so they could take her to hospital; Kanga coming over to Number 11 and slipping into the spare room to look after Jasmine.

  She peered at the screen to see who was calling. It was a number she didn’t recognise. A wrong number? If she didn’t answer she wouldn’t know.

  She pressed the green dot.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Beverley,’ a hoarse voice replied. It had an edge of panic. ‘I got your number off Mum’s phone. Sorry to phone so late, but I thought you’d want to know.’ Her voice wavered. ‘Mum’s had a fall.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Kanga snapped on her bedside lamp, fully alert. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘No. She’s broken her hip.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly. I’d popped in with her lottery ticket – she’d been lying there for hours. She was nearly unconscious – I couldn’t get any sense out of her.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I’m at the hospital with her. In Intensive Care –’

  ‘I can come. Straight away.’ Kanga swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  ‘What if she dies?’ Beverley’s voice went up, tinged with hysteria. Kanga knew Beverley could be a bit of a drama queen, but now was not the time to judge. She’d be able to assess the situation for herself.

  ‘She won’t die. Stay calm. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  When you got to ninety-three, you’d had your fair share of bad news. You became stoic about crises. It wasn’t that you didn’t care; you just got used to dealing with them. But this was the one call she had been dreading. Dreading but half expecting.

  Kanga had been strong all her life, a coper, a doer. But her friend had always been right there beside her. Kanga thought of her as a bright buttercup in the dull greyness of her darkest days. She’d had her fair share of grief, after all, over the years. You were lucky if you got that kind of loyalty in your life. It was harder than finding true love. Some people never had it: a staunch, lifelong friendship that withstood everything.

  She got ready as swiftly as her body would allow. She was still active and mobile but she wasn’t the whirlwind she had once been. She had to take things slowly and surely. ‘More haste, less speed’ was her mantra. She moved through life now with a deliberate care.

  She pulled fresh clothes out of her cupboard. Twenty years ago, when Dom and Laura had built Acorn Cottage for her in the garden of Number 11, she’d had wonderful fitted wardrobes put into the bedroom, with special shelves and shoe holders and drawers and hanging rails. Everything was in its place. The move had been a timely opportunity to sort through all her possessions, to bring with her only what she either needed or loved.

  It had been the perfect arrangement: a cottage purpose-built to her specification in return for her giving Number 11 to them. She’d been recently widowed, rattling around the huge house and feeling her husband, Jocelyn’s, absence keenly, and Laura and Dom had been squashed up in a little house and about to start a family. She hadn’t needed all that space. Besides, even now Number 11 was still her home, in a way. The door was always open to her, although she was mindful not to pop in with too much regularity. She lived in dread of being thought a nuisance.

  She pulled on clean underwear – she’d taken to pull-on bras with soft seams and stretchy big pants and pop socks that came up to her knees: not a good look but she felt comfy and snug. Then jeggings – like the iPhone, she had embraced jeggings as one of the great luxuries of the twenty-first century: streamlined and forgiving, they were part of her everyday uniform. Over that she slung a long, fine-knit jumper and slipped her feet into the low-heeled ankle boots she’d worn earlier. There was no time for make-up. She went to the loo quickly, rinsed her teeth to freshen up, then found her bag and car keys.

  She wasn’t going to worry Laura by waking her. She and Dom needed to sleep, to be ready for their journey to York the next day; the next milestone in their life. She knew Laura would probably tell her off when she found out she’d gone out in the middle of the night without telling her, but this was an emergency. Kanga slipped out of her front door and into the alleyway behind the house where her car was parked.

  It only took half an hour to get to the hospital at that time of night. The air was clammy and cold as she hurried through the car park and in through the automatic doors, searching the signs for the right floor – it was always impossible to find the way; the layout seemed to be deliberately disorientating – following the arrows
along endless corridors that were half-lit, presumably to conserve energy at night-time. Occasionally she would pass a shuffling patient – an insomniac escapee in a shabby dressing gown – or a purposeful porter. She reached the double doors of the intensive care unit, pressed the buzzer and squirted her hands with sanitiser. She knew the drill. She had been in one ICU or another often enough over the years: this was the same hospital where her beloved Jocelyn had slipped away, nearly twenty years ago now. She still missed his strength and his kindness, but she felt him with her. He was always with her.

  She went into the reception area, with its unique hospital smell of soup and disinfectant, helpful posters on the wall giving advice, photos of the consultants and doctors you were likely to meet during your visit. There were three nurses chatting at the station, conferring over paperwork. Behind them she could see the shadowy outlines of beds on a dimly lit ward. She scanned the whiteboard for the name she wanted.

  There it was, written in blood red.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked one of the nurses.

  She pointed.

  ‘I’m here to see Ivy Bennett,’ she said. ‘Her daughter’s expecting me.’

  She was ushered onto the ward with reverent urgency, of the kind given to visitors who weren’t going to like what they found when they arrived at the bedside, but as she walked towards the bed the machines were steady and reassuring rather than alarming. Under a thin cellular blanket was a tiny figure, no bigger than a child. All that was evident was a veiny wrinkled hand containing a cannula, and a pink scalp with a smattering of snow-white hair.

  At one side of the bed was Beverley. Beverley was defiantly overdressed and over-made-up for her age, her hair dyed cherry red, in tight shiny clothing and high heels, rings on every finger. She had a big mouth and a big heart, like her mum, although Kanga thought she was a little selfish. She had often thought that Beverley wasn’t as attentive to her mother as she could be, and this situation was a case in point.

  Ivy had become more frail over the past few months. She would never admit to it, but Kanga had noticed she was finding things she had once taken in her stride more difficult, that her confidence was faltering, and she got tired very easily. Of course, because of her forceful personality you had to know her well to notice. Kanga had asked Ivy if perhaps she should get some help at home, but Ivy had brushed away her worries.

  The problem was, thought Kanga, it often took a crisis for people to change their lifestyles in old age. She was annoyed that Beverley hadn’t been more proactive. Surely she’d seen that her mother was struggling?

  Though perhaps she shouldn’t judge. It was, after all, easy for Laura to keep an eye on Kanga when she only lived next door. And Beverley still worked full-time in the hair salon that Ivy had passed down to her. Beverley didn’t do hands-on hairdressing any more, but ran the salon with a rod of iron. Her daughter, Nadine, and two of her granddaughters worked there, and Kanga knew it was hard work keeping them all in line.

  Beverley stood, a balled-up tissue in her hand.

  ‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ Beverley said.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’s sleeping. She’s had a CT scan to check if she banged her head – it seems to be all right. She’s broken her hip and she’s very dehydrated, which is why she’s on a drip.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’d called in to see her, to bring her lottery ticket. She’d tripped over that silly rug she insists on having in the kitchen. I’ve told her about it a million times.’ Beverley tried to laugh then gave a sob. ‘I don’t know how long she’d been lying there. I couldn’t get any sense out of her. I called the ambulance straight away.’ Her face crumpled. ‘I haven’t phoned Kim yet. I mean, what can she do, all the way over in Australia?’ Beverley’s older sister had emigrated years ago. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d want to know.’

  Kanga put a hand on her shoulder. She understood that Beverley needed someone with her. Her sister was the other side of the world; her daughter, Nadine, was a terrible worrier and not much use in a crisis.

  ‘Of course I want to know. Thank you.’

  Beverley nodded. She was trying desperately hard not to cry. ‘I’m so scared. Look at her. That’s not my mum. She looks so tiny …’

  Kanga stood over her friend.

  ‘Ivy. Ivy, darling, it’s me. It’s Jilly. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere. So don’t you worry.’

  She sank down into a spare bucket chair next to the bed. She picked up Ivy’s hand. She couldn’t stroke it because of the drip, but she held her fingers. Next to her the machine gave a beep and flashed up another set of figures that seemed to cause the staff no alarm.

  ‘You’re going to be all right, my love,’ she whispered. ‘We’re fighters, remember, you and me. Neither of us are going anywhere. Seventy-five years since the Germans tried to get us. And we didn’t let them, did we? Do you remember?’

  4

  1942

  All Jilly could remember of the rest of that night was being terribly cold and everything happening in a blur. Nothing made sense. No one was where they should be. Everything was upside down and out of context.

  Mr Archer, the warden, had hurried her into a cellar after he found her. She had no idea whose it was or who else was in there. She’d huddled herself into a corner until the all-clear had sounded, then let someone guide her out into the cool pearlescent dawn and back to her own house.

  Number 11 stood there as if nothing had happened. She wanted to scream at it – why didn’t you look after them? – but it wasn’t the house’s fault.

  She was shaking, her bones filled with ice, her teeth chattering.

  ‘She’s in shock, look. Poor duck.’

  Firm hands guided her to a seat. There were endless cups of warm liquid held to her lips. Tea, she recognised, but it scalded her so she pushed it away. Then something that tasted vaguely of beef. This was cooler and she managed to sip at it. There were gentle voices all around, whispering, conferring. Then one more urgent.

  ‘Jilly. Are you able to speak to me?’

  She could make out a uniform, but she had no idea if it was police or army or perhaps a nurse of some sort. The light was still dim, so she couldn’t tell what time it was. She seemed to be wrapped in a thick blanket that smelled of dust and mould. She wrapped it more tightly around herself. She looked up, taking in the familiar sight of the white Aga and the pale-blue wallpaper covered in drawings of vegetables: carrots and onions and cabbages. She was at home, in her own kitchen. She should feel reassured, but instead she felt anxious. Something wasn’t right.

  Then she heard Mr Archer’s voice.

  ‘She weren’t at home when it happened, I don’t reckon. She came from Lansdown Hill direction.’

  His observation made her stomach lurch. She didn’t want to go into her memory bank. Sleep. She needed to sleep.

  ‘I want to go to bed. Please.’

  It was her own voice, loud and clear. Perhaps if she lay down in the peace and quiet she could make some sense of it all?

  ‘Well, of course,’ said the original voice. ‘And you shall. But we can’t leave you here on your own. Is there anyone you can have with you?’

  The voices conferred again as Jilly searched through the muddle that was her brain. All she could think of was Ivy. Ivy would know what to do. Ivy would send them all away and help her.

  ‘Ivy. I want Ivy.’

  ‘That’ll be Ivy Skinner,’ said Mr Archer. ‘She lives down Bear Flat. Her mother used to do for the doctor. The girls used to play with each other. They’ve always been friends.’

  There was a slight tone of disapproval in his voice. There often was, when people spoke about Ivy.

  ‘We’ll see if we can get hold of her.’ Two warm hands wrapped themselves round hers. ‘Jilly – you know what happened, don’t you?’

  Jilly shook her head. Not because she didn’t know. Because she didn’t want to hear any more. As soon as someone voiced it, i
t would be real. While it was tucked away in the back of her mind, she could pretend.

  ‘Your parents. They were both killed last night. In the air raid. They were out in the street. They were by the church wall and it fell on them.’

  She took in a sharp breath. There. It was out. The truth. Ugly and terrifying.

  ‘No …’

  She put her face in her hands, though she had known straight away. As soon as she’d arrived at the top of the road and Mr Archer had stopped her. The look on his face had said it all. Distress and sympathy and horror.

  ‘We don’t know why they didn’t go straight down to the cellar. But they didn’t.’

  The cellar at Number 11 was all kitted out with blankets and candles, bottles of water and tins of food, ready for any eventuality. Her parents had been prepared.

  Jilly shut her eyes. She knew only too well why they hadn’t gone down to the cellar. They had been looking for her. When the air raid started, they would have gone to her bedroom and found her missing. They would have had no thought for their own safety, only hers. She was the reason her parents had died. If she had stayed at home that night, they would have all gone down to the cellar together. And they would be up here now, making a cup of tea and discussing it all, the bloody sneaky Germans taking them by surprise.

  But she’d wanted thrills and adventure. She’d wanted to sneak off behind their backs to see Harry Swann. She could have told them where she was going. They wouldn’t have stopped her. She was eighteen years old, perfectly old enough to go and meet a boy for the evening if she wanted to, and they weren’t prudes, or overprotective.

  But it wouldn’t have been half as exciting, to have gone out with their blessing. The thrill had been in the secrecy of a clandestine liaison; the urgency of a final chance to meet before Harry-the-hero went off to take to the skies. She’d wanted to go out under cover of darkness and sneak back in again through the back gate.