A Family Recipe

by Veronica Henry

  ‘Is there anything you want me to bring you?’

  Ivy reached out and touched her hand with a smile. ‘Nothing, love. I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘I can’t feel a thing.’ There was a shadow of a smile. ‘I’m on so many painkillers I can’t even tell if I need the toilet.’ There. A faint glimmer of her old spirit.

  ‘You need to eat. Get your strength up.’

  Ivy put her custard cream back down on the tabletop in front of her.

  ‘I’m not hungry. I could do with some squash, though.’

  Kanga got up to fill her glass with water, and poured in a glug of Robinsons Barley Water.

  ‘There you go.’

  Ivy sipped at her drink, then handed her the glass, lying back on her pillow. She seemed exhausted.

  ‘All right, Mum?’ Beverley had been out to get a KitKat from the vending machine.

  Ivy didn’t answer. Her eyes were shut. There was a tiny custard cream crumb on the side of her mouth. She seemed to sleep about eighteen hours a day, waking sporadically, like a newborn baby.

  ‘I think she’s dropped off again,’ said Kanga, wiping the crumb away gently. ‘Shall we go and have a chat?’

  They sat opposite each other in the family room on either side of a plastic table. Beverley looked terrible. She hadn’t even bothered with make-up, which was a first – Kanga had never seen her without false eyelashes and red lipstick – and the strain was starting to tell.

  ‘The consultant says there won’t be much more they can do for her here in a week or so,’ said Beverley, snapping the KitKat finger in two. ‘But she can’t go home. She won’t be able to walk properly for at least a month. She’s so frail. And what if she falls over again?’

  ‘Couldn’t you look after her? Just while she gets better?’

  Beverley looked aghast.

  ‘I’m not a nurse,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t know what to do. And I’m still running the salon six days a week. It would fall apart without me. Nadine might be able to do balayage but she can’t do a balance sheet to save her life.’

  ‘You could get some professional help. It would be much nicer for her to be in her own home, surely?’

  ‘I honestly don’t think that’s what Mum would want.’ Beverley shook her head. ‘She wouldn’t want to be a burden. She’s always said that.’

  ‘No.’ Kanga knew Beverley was right. Ivy would never want to be a nuisance or a drain. ‘So where will she go?’

  ‘I’ve been speaking to her social worker. There’s a care home in Frilmington that has a place. It’s only a mile away from the salon so we’ll be able to visit as often as we like. Just while she recuperates. If she gets proper care then maybe she’ll be able to go home again.’

  Frilmington, Kanga knew, was a miserable overspill on the very outskirts of Bristol which had nothing to recommend it. She was fairly sure any care home in its environs would be insalubrious at best.

  ‘Frilmington?’ She made a face.

  ‘It’s the only place with a bed available at the moment. It’s a recommended care home. It’s on the list.’

  ‘Yes, but some of those places can be awful.’ Kanga had seen the programmes on television. And read the papers.

  ‘We haven’t got much choice.’ Beverley looked distressed. ‘Oh God. I hate this. This decision-making. I told Kim not to come back until we’d settled things, but part of me wishes she was here. I feel so responsible.’

  ‘I know how hard it must be. If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.’

  Kanga was dying to take over, but how could she? She was just a friend, not family. She had to respect Beverley’s position.

  ‘Would you come with me to the home? To have a look? At least then I could have someone to talk to and help me decide.’

  ‘Of course. We need to make sure your mum gets the best care. That’s what she deserves.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Beverley was folding the foil the KitKat was wrapped in, scoring lines in it with her long red nails. She didn’t speak for a moment, then she looked up. ‘I feel so guilty that I don’t feel capable of looking after her.’

  Kanga thought for a moment. She needed to be tactful with her next suggestion.

  ‘Maybe you could sell the flat?’ she suggested. ‘If you released some capital, that might give you a bit more choice about what to do.’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘There isn’t any capital,’ said Beverley eventually.

  ‘There must be. The flat’s worth quite a bit now, surely?’ When she was widowed not long after Kanga lost Jocelyn, Ivy had bought a flat in an area of Bristol that had been very unfashionable at the time, but was now being gentrified – prices had shot up and flats like hers were being snapped up and renovated by young couples. ‘I’d have thought the sensible thing to do would be to sell the flat and use the money to finance somewhere really nice for your mum. Maybe a warden-controlled flat?’

  Beverley looked as if she was choosing what to say next very carefully.

  ‘Mum released the capital in her flat about ten years ago. To one of those companies.’

  ‘An equity release scheme?’ Kanga’s heart sank. No wonder Ivy hadn’t told her. She’d have stopped her straight away. She frowned. ‘But where did all the money go?’

  ‘You do know Mum had quite a few gambling debts?’

  ‘Gambling?’ Kanga knew Ivy liked what she called the gee-gees, but she didn’t think she was a gambler.

  ‘She liked a flutter. Well, more than a flutter.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’ She knew Ivy could be a dark horse, but it seemed there was a lot she’d kept hidden from her best friend.

  Beverley gave an exasperated smile.

  ‘We’ve had our problems with her, you know. It was Dad’s fault – he gave her a taste for it. But once he died she didn’t have his tips – he was in with all sorts of stable lads – so she ended up losing most of the time.’

  Ivy’s husband, Reggie, had been a bit of a wild card – a second-hand car dealer who loved the high life. He’d never been short of cash but it slipped through his fingers. It had been Ivy who harnessed his money and made sure they bought property. They’d been a colourful couple – they loved the races and cruises and flash hotels. It had always been amusing when the four of them went out, Kanga remembered with a smile. Her own husband, Jocelyn, had been the polar opposite of Reggie – quiet, thoughtful, contemplative – but in a funny kind of way they had got on, and respected each other. They’d always had fun – Reggie made sure of that, from the very first bottle of what he called ‘shampoo’, and he was always overanxious, making sure they were having a good time and always, always picking up the bill. Jocelyn wasn’t in the least offended, but Kanga found it grated on her. Reggie obviously had no idea that Jocelyn was a shrewd and successful businessman himself – he just chose not to flash his cash. She never said anything though. It was Ivy and Reggie’s way, conspicuous consumption.

  ‘She likes to gamble and she likes to spend. Have you seen her bedroom? It’s full to bursting with stuff she’s never worn.’ Beverley shook her head in despair. ‘Coats. Shoes. Handbags. All designer stuff.’

  Kanga wanted to stifle a smile. She could remember that from when they were young. Ivy loved to wear something new. The latest fashion. She hadn’t been able to indulge during the war but afterwards …

  ‘I know how generous she is,’ said Kanga. ‘She’s the queen of birthday presents.’

  For her last birthday Ivy had bought her a magnificent Wedgwood teapot and insisted on taking her out for lunch at the Royal Crescent Hotel. If she’d released the equity in her flat no wonder she’d been able to afford it.

  ‘Yeah. She didn’t just spend the money on herself. She wanted to help us all out while she could. Me and the kids and the grandkids. You know, a few family treats. A few things to make our lives a bit more comfortable.’

  Now things Ivy had told her that had struck her as ex
travagant at the time were starting to make sense. A big family holiday to Australia to visit Kim and her family in Perth, no expense spared. The salon Ivy had handed down to Beverley and her daughter Nadine getting a big makeover. A new conservatory for Beverley …

  Kanga did the maths. All of these could add up easily to the amount of equity Ivy would have been able to release from her flat. By the time the interest was added on, there’d be nothing left over. Ivy wouldn’t be able to benefit from her own house going up in value.

  It was almost criminal. She knew perfectly well that Ivy would have been persuaded into it by some smooth-talking salesman. If only she’d mentioned it. But she wouldn’t have, because she knew Kanga would have talked her out of it, and she would have thought it was a great idea, because all Ivy ever wanted to do was give. She knew there was nothing her friend would have loved more than getting all of her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren onto that plane to Australia. She remembered her talking about it – the holiday of a lifetime! – and now she understood the pride she’d had in her voice, because she’d been able to make it happen. And Ivy lived for the moment. It wouldn’t stop her even now, knowing there wouldn’t be anything left over for her care. She would do it all over again.

  ‘I’m not going to know anything about it, am I?’ Kanga could imagine her saying. ‘No point wasting the money on me at my age.’

  Kanga wanted to cry. She wanted to cry for her wonderfully good-hearted, misguided friend, who suddenly seemed so frail and vulnerable.

  ‘I’ll come with you to look at the home,’ she told Beverley. ‘Then we can talk about the best thing to do.’

  15

  1942

  ‘If they’re from Kingsmead they’ll be rough as badgers,’ said Ivy, her voice dark with foreboding.

  ‘You don’t know that,’ said Jilly, bright with enthusiasm for her new project. Anything, she thought. Anything to stop her thinking about what had happened. Looking after the Norris family would keep her busy, for the time being at any rate.

  The two girls had gone back up the hill to fetch Jilly’s father’s car. Luckily Dr Wilson had backed it into the garage when he had last used it, as Jilly wasn’t sure how to put it into reverse. They clambered in, sliding over the cold of the leather seats.

  Jilly tried to remember the instructions her father had given her when he’d attempted to teach her to drive a couple of years ago. It hadn’t been a huge success. He had teased her when she hadn’t got to grips with it and she had been indignant, then furious, then thrown a tantrum and got out of the car in the middle of the road, and eventually they had both agreed it wasn’t worth them getting cross with each other.

  ‘You need someone other than your father teaching you,’ her mother had said. ‘He’s impossible.’

  He hadn’t been impossible; he was just hopeless at teaching and couldn’t resist pulling her leg. He wasn’t being patronising. It was just his way. Now, Jilly tried to remember the little he had taught her. She pulled out the choke, turned the key, put her foot on the clutch, crunched the car into first, let off the handbrake then put her foot on the throttle.

  The big car bunny-hopped out of the garage and along the road while Jilly tried to put it into second gear. It stalled almost immediately. She started it up again.

  ‘Push the clutch in harder. Any fool knows that!’ Ivy instructed from the passenger seat.

  ‘I’ve got it now!’ cried Jilly, grappling with the gearstick. There was an awful crunching sound, then the car lurched forward. ‘There we are.’

  For a few hundred yards they glided forward gracefully. Then Jilly turned left into Lansdown Hill and accelerated downwards.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Jilly wanted to shut her eyes as the car gathered speed, remembering the terror from her lessons.

  ‘Keep your foot on the brake!’

  ‘I should have let you drive.’ Jilly hated the sensation of panic. ‘I can’t do this.’ She didn’t feel in control at all, although the car did seem to stop when she applied the brakes, which was reassuring.

  ‘No fear. I’m not crashing your dad’s car. You can do it, Jilly. Course you can.’

  They edged down the hill, past the high pavements of Belvedere with its black railings, Jilly breathing in a sigh of relief when they reached the safety of the Paragon at the bottom. She stopped to take stock, her hands gripping the wheel. This was almost worse than listening to bombs dropping all night long: her heart was pounding and her palms were sweating. A car behind her sounded its horn.

  ‘Oh God.’ Jilly fiddled with the gearstick until she got the car into first and edged off again. Ivy clapped in delight and Jilly couldn’t help laughing as she turned right and picked up speed along George Street, travelling sedately between the Georgian buildings. It was a moment of triumph and levity after the darkness of the past two days.

  ‘Wooo hoooo!’ screamed Ivy, throwing her head back. ‘Off we go!’

  Where there was laughter, thought Jilly, there was hope.

  The rest of the journey was difficult to negotiate. So many roads were blocked off that Bath was almost impossible to get around. The traffic was heavy with emergency vehicles and buses crammed with people fleeing the city.

  ‘Cowards,’ said Ivy.

  ‘You can’t blame them.’

  ‘We’re all in this together. You can’t just run away.’

  Jilly moved the car up into third gear. She had barely got out of second up until now.

  ‘I think I’m getting the hang of this.’

  By some miracle they reached their destination without crashing into anything. Jilly slumped backwards in the seat, exhausted. She could see a family waiting outside the council building: a diminutive woman with a baby balanced on one hip flanked by a small boy and girl of about school age. They all looked exhausted and dishevelled. There was one small bag at the woman’s feet.

  ‘Is that them?’ asked Ivy with distaste. ‘They’ll have nits, I’m telling you that now.’

  Jilly jumped out of the car and went to greet them.

  ‘Are you Mrs Norris?’

  The woman nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re coming to live with me for a while. I hope you’ll be comfy with me. And I’m so sorry. About your house. It’s awful. It’s all awful.’

  She felt quite emotional. Seeing this family made it all real. The poor woman must have been terrified.

  ‘I’m Jilly, by the way,’ she said, holding out her hand.

  Mrs Norris just moved her baby onto the other hip. She stared at Jilly dully, not offering her name or a hand. She was wraith-like and beautiful. No bigger than a child herself, with a tangle of dark hair to her waist and large dark eyes that looked as if they had been burned into her face with a hot poker.

  Jilly tried again.

  ‘I can’t call you Mrs Norris. It’s far too formal. What’s your name?’

  The woman thought long and hard for a moment, as if it was a trap, before finally divulging her name.

  ‘Helena.’

  ‘Hello, Helena. I’m Jilly. And what are the little ones called?’

  Helena touched each child on the head as she named it.

  ‘Colin and Julie. And this is Baby Dot.’

  ‘Short for Dorothy?’

  ‘No. Just Dot.’

  There wasn’t even the glimmer of a smile. Jilly supposed she must be in shock. She bent down to Colin and Julie. They looked grubby, with too-long ratty hair and chapped lips. It must be hard, she thought, bringing up three children in wartime in poverty, with your husband away fighting.

  ‘Hello, you two. You’re going to be staying with me for a little while. I’m hoping I might be able to dig you out some toys.’

  They gazed at her solemnly with their mother’s dark-brown eyes. They seemed bewildered by the situation, but Jilly supposed they must be in shock like their mum.

  She stood up.

  ‘Well, the car’s just here so shall we head off? I’m not very good at driving but d
on’t worry. We haven’t got far to go. And this is my friend Ivy.’

  Ivy was leaning against the passenger door, smoking a cigarette. Helena looked at her warily.

  ‘All right?’

  Ivy dropped her cigarette and gave a nod. ‘Come on then, you lot. Hop in.’

  Jilly could sense there might be trouble between Helena and Ivy but this was no time for rivalry. There was a war on.

  Jilly stalled five times heading back home as driving uphill proved much harder than going down. She tried to laugh about it but Helena remained impassive in the back seat, her arms wrapped round the children. Ivy tried to catch her eye in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘I’ve got a pig in my garden,’ said Jilly, trying to jolly the journey along. ‘So I’m hoping one of you will help me with him.’

  ‘Pigs stink,’ said Colin.

  ‘Mungo does smell a little bit, I admit. But he’s very nice. I’ve got some chickens too. Who wants to be in charge of collecting the eggs?’

  There was a silence. Jilly could see them all looking at each other as if she had suggested something quite out of the ordinary, like collecting dinosaur eggs.

  ‘Me, please,’ piped up a little voice in the end, which she assumed was Julie.

  The Norrises walked through Number 11 with awe. They stepped reverently onto the tiled floor, staring up at the high ceilings and the Bath stone staircase with the black iron bannisters as if they were visiting a cathedral. Jilly had never thought of the house as particularly grand – to her it was comfortable and homely – but maybe it seemed palatial if you were used to being crammed into a tiny terrace. She knew some of the houses in Kingsmead were bordering on slums, so they probably were a bit overwhelmed.

  ‘What a beautiful house,’ said Helena eventually. Her voice was very faint, little more than a whisper.