The children were like over-inflated balloons the day their father came home, so excited they might pop. Even Baby Dot, who probably had no proper memory of her daddy, had very carefully helped Jilly make two dozen jam tarts, and together they had rolled out the scraps and put a pastry letter on each tart, arranging them on a big white plate to spell out WELCOME HOME DADDY.
‘You clever thing!’ Jilly told her, and Dot clapped her fat little hands.
‘Daddy!’ she crowed, because they’d all been getting her to practise saying it.
Helena was sitting in a chair in the middle of the kitchen. In the excitement of Tony’s return, Ivy had offered to do her a shampoo and set. The two women seemed to have settled into an uneasy friendship, though Ivy was always sure to remind Helena she was top dog. Jilly was pleased, even though she wasn’t entirely sure how hygienic it was – Helena’s long dark hairs got everywhere as it was – but she looked around the kitchen and felt pride at how far they had all come since that dreadful night.
‘Right,’ said Ivy to Helena when all her hair had been neatly rolled onto curlers. ‘Let’s go upstairs while that sets and do your face. And get you changed.’
Jilly was happy to stay in the kitchen and look after the three children. They were occupied in making a big ‘welcome home’ sign to put over the fireplace. Even Dot was scribbling furiously on the edge in blue crayon. Jilly had to chastise Colin when he got agitated.
‘She’s ruining it.’
‘There’s room for all of you to do what you want. It doesn’t have to be perfect.’
‘Yes, it does!’
‘That’s your corner of the poster there. Don’t worry about Dot’s. It’s from all of you.’
Jilly managed to restore peace by distracting them with a few of the broken jam tarts.
Half an hour later, the kitchen door flew open.
‘Ta da!’ Ivy stood back and revealed her handiwork.
Everyone gasped.
Helena’s hair was coaxed into an elaborate roll on top of her head, then fell in thick, smooth curls down to her shoulders. Her arched eyebrows were painted black and her lips were ruby red to match the red silk dress Jilly had found packed away in another wardrobe. She had put on a little bit of weight while being at Number 11, thanks to Jilly’s home-cooking, and the extra pounds suited her. She looked less gaunt. Even better, she had lost that haunted look. She didn’t jump any longer at every loud noise or continually look over her shoulder.
‘You look like a film star!’ said Jilly.
Helena beamed, and at that moment there was a loud rat-a-tat-tat on the door.
‘That’s my Tony,’ she said. ‘That’s his knock. I’d know it anywhere.’
Tony Norris wasn’t a particularly tall man, but he filled the room with his personality the moment he walked in. He was charming and quick-witted and funny, with a boxer’s broken nose and dark eyes that gleamed with mischief. The sort of person who kept you going when your morale was flagging, he missed no opportunity for a joke. The house rang with his laughter as soon as he stepped over the threshold.
He disappeared under a sea of children when Helena brought him into the kitchen. They clambered all over him, and he dangled them upside down by the ankles until they screamed for him to stop. Dot was overawed by his presence, but wouldn’t leave his side.
‘My little monkey,’ he called her.
Helena rushed around helping Jilly serve up the ‘welcome home’ dinner they had made: a great big Irish stew. They’d saved up their meat rations to get as much mutton as they could, then filled it out with potatoes and leeks and onions from the garden, and Helena had made some dumplings as well. She carried it proudly to the table and the rich scent of gravy filled the air as the lid came off the pot.
Jilly looked around the table as they ate. She’d made a difference, she thought. The children were much calmer and better-mannered than they had been when they arrived, and they were more confident. They also got on better; it would be impossible to expect small children not to squabble, but now they played together nicely and shared, where once there would have been snatching and tattle-telling.
The only thing that unsettled her was Tony. There was a hunger in his eyes she recognised when she saw him looking at Ivy. She sensed trouble on the horizon. She would say nothing, for the time being. Hopefully Tony would be distracted by his wife. Helena was glowing under his attention. It was as if someone had thrown fairy dust over her and brought her back to life.
The atmosphere in the house changed dramatically once Tony had arrived. Perhaps it was the presence of a male in the house – the rumble of a deeper voice, a heavier tread on the stairs, the scent of tobacco – but it felt quite different to Jilly. Although Tony was very amiable – and particularly charming to Jilly, as the hostess – she wasn’t sure he made her feel comfortable, perhaps because he was so different from her father, who had been mild-mannered, considerate and, above all, helpful. Tony seemed to think that being on leave meant he needn’t to lift a finger. Once or twice Jilly had asked him to help her mend something or bring something in from the garden and he had obliged, but he didn’t think ahead or do anything more than he needed to.
He was only here for a fortnight, so she didn’t confront him about it. But gradually his upbeat persona began to tarnish. He was irritable with the children and ignored Helena. All he wanted to do was sit with a glass of beer and a cigarette, reading the paper, or fall asleep on the settee in the drawing room. He liked it in the drawing room, but he told the children they weren’t to come and disturb him while he was in there.
Basically, thought Jilly, as long as no one demanded anything of him, and he was kept fed and watered and left to his own devices, he was charm personified. But that wasn’t how life worked. And it made her sad, as she could see Helena drooping visibly, losing her sparkle too. She became almost downtrodden when he snapped at her or, worse, took no notice of her. The honeymoon period seemed to be over. Helena became more and more withdrawn. In the meantime, Tony seemed to focus his attention on Ivy, teasing her, telling her jokes, asking her questions. To be fair to Ivy, she treated him the same way she treated everyone else, with her good-natured banter. But it was obvious Tony found Ivy beguiling.
On the middle Sunday of Tony’s leave, Ivy was cutting his hair in the kitchen and giving him a wet shave. He was sitting in the chair with a towel round his neck. As Ivy took care to scrape the last of the shaving cream from his cheeks and was smoothing his hair into place, Tony was enjoying the attention.
Helena was sitting at the table peeling potatoes for lunch, looking more and more miserable. As Ivy poured some balm onto her hands and patted it onto Tony’s cheeks, Helena slammed down the vegetable knife and ran out of the kitchen.
‘What have I done now?’ asked Tony. ‘I’ve just been sat here. How can I have done anything wrong?’
Jilly looked at Ivy, who just shrugged. She pulled away the towel that had been round Tony’s neck.
‘There you go, handsome,’ she chirruped. ‘Go and see to the missis. Put a smile back on her face.’
There was no point in having a go at Ivy, Jilly thought afterwards as she swept up Tony’s curls from the floor and put them in the bin. Tony had a game going on with Ivy and Helena, Jilly could see that, and it wasn’t a nice one. But it wasn’t fair to castigate Ivy, who was just being herself. She suspected Ivy didn’t always understand the extent of the power she had over people, probably because she wasn’t technically pretty, and so thought little of herself. But she had something more animal, that men liked and women feared. Jilly herself was immune, because she knew Ivy inside out, almost like a sister, and they had never competed. But she didn’t like the way Tony was playing Ivy and Helena off one another. It was unsettling.
Exasperated, Jilly decided not to bother cooking Sunday lunch after all. What was the point? It was supposed to be a time when everyone got together round the table and enjoyed each other’s company, not a war zone. The piece of baco
n she was going to boil could wait for another day. The parsley she’d snipped for the sauce would keep fresh stuck in a glass of water. She would make potato cakes for the kids instead with the spuds Helena had peeled.
She went out to feed Mungo, who gave her a sympathetic grunt.
‘I don’t know, Mungo,’ she sighed. ‘Seems to me people aren’t happy unless they are causing trouble. Give me a pig any day.’
A couple of hours later Tony came down into the kitchen looking miserable.
‘I don’t know what’s the matter with her,’ Tony told Jilly. ‘I don’t know what more I can do to make her happy. It’s not my fault there’s a war on. I can’t just leave and come home. And I know we haven’t got a place of our own yet, but she says she loves it here. Says it’s the happiest she’s ever been.’
‘I think the bombing was pretty frightening,’ said Jilly, handing him a cup of tea. ‘I think it’s had a bit of an effect on her. You should remember that. She thought they were all going to die.’
‘I know. But they didn’t.’ Tony looked disgruntled. ‘Maybe I should get her something really nice for Christmas. A ring or something? Do you think that would help?’
‘No,’ said Jilly. ‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that.’
‘The fucking war.’ Tony looked up, shamefaced. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to swear.’
‘It’s OK. I agree with you. The fucking war.’ She handed him a Garibaldi biscuit. ‘Just be patient and kind. She misses you.’
‘She’s got a funny way of showing it.’ Tony looked down into his tea, gloomy.
‘And you shouldn’t play up to Ivy.’ She was going to say it. She wasn’t going to let him get away with it.
Tony looked up, his eyes wide with innocence.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Three days later, Jilly went up the stairs with a pile of clean clothes for the children. She’d laundered and ironed them herself because it was quicker than trying to get Helena motivated: she was very distracted and hard to manage while Tony was around, and Jilly didn’t want to put her under pressure. She was surprised she had managed to go out today, but she’d decided to walk the children to the school with Baby Dot in her pram, then take her to Hedgemead Park to play before coming back for lunch.
She knocked on the door before going in. She didn’t know whether Tony was still asleep or not. She jumped as the door opened suddenly and Ivy came out, pulling the door shut behind her with a bang.
She was in a pale-green silk dressing gown, loosely tied at the waist.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Jilly. ‘You should be at work.’
‘Off sick. With a headache.’
‘What were you doing in there?’
Ivy put her hands on her hips, her dressing gown falling open to reveal a bare shoulder.
‘What are you saying?’
‘Ivy – you have to admit, it looks suspicious, you coming out of there half-dressed. I’ve seen the way Tony looks at you.’
‘Yes,’ said Ivy. ‘So have I. And I went in there to put him straight. He’s got to pay that poor girl more attention. Be a bit more kind. OK, yeah, so he’s off fighting, but she’s been through it as well, and he doesn’t seem to realise. Those kids are a handful and he does nothing to help her out. He’s a selfish pig and he needs to snap out of it.’
‘Oh,’ said Jilly, realising she had underestimated her friend. ‘I’m sorry, Ivy. I got the wrong end of the stick.’
Ivy glared at her.
‘Yeah. Well. You obviously don’t think much of me.’
She pushed past her and ran off down the stairs.
Jilly was dumbfounded. Before she could decide what to do, the bedroom door opened again and Tony stood there. He was in his trousers, bare-chested, and Jilly could see every muscle in his arms, his skin smooth. His hair was swept back, just one lock falling over his eyes.
He had the grace to look embarrassed.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit of a …’
‘Yes,’ said Jilly. ‘Poor Helena. I’ve been meaning to say something but I wasn’t sure it was any of my business.’
‘Well, your mate did it for you. Gave it to me with both barrels.’
‘You do understand what Helena went through was very traumatic for her?’
‘Yeah, I do. And I’m doing my best to make it right. But there’s only so much I can do, and Helena – she doesn’t seem to want to know me …’ He looked down at the floor. ‘If you know what I mean.’
Jilly nodded. He didn’t have to spell it out.
Tony looked up at her.
‘I just want to be held. To feel like I matter. To feel that there might be a point to going back into war and maybe getting killed. To feel like there might be something to come back to one day. I can’t just be shut out. I love Baby Dot but she’s in the bed with us still …’
He looked anguished.
Jilly sighed. ‘I know it’s difficult, with everyone living on top of each other and no privacy. What if I take the children out for the day at the weekend? Give you some time on your own. You can talk and …’
She blushed. Tony reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.
‘You’re a diamond, you are. I reckon that would help no end.’ He sighed. ‘Hopefully when the war ends and I get back, we’ll have a place of our own again.’
Jilly went back down to her room and lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. The incident had unsettled her, and unlocked memories. She remembered that glorious feeling; the feeling that would make anyone throw caution to the winds. She had only felt it once, and found it hard to believe it could ever happen again. It made her heart ache to think that might have been her only chance. She understood only too well what it was Tony was yearning for.
As she lay there, wallowing in her gloom, she suddenly felt something. A flicker, deep in her belly. As quick as a tiny mouse. She couldn’t be sure if she had really felt it or not. She lay as still as she could, concentrating, and then she felt it again. This time it was stronger and went on for a little longer.
It must be the baby. It was all it could be. She wondered what it was doing, whether it was waving a tiny arm or turning a somersault or kicking out to say ‘Hello, I’m here’.
‘Oh,’ she said, putting a hand on her belly. She couldn’t feel anything through her skin. The baby was obviously too deep inside her. ‘Hello, little one,’ she said. And it gave another flutter in response.
Somehow, it made her feel better. This was new life, a tiny new life, and surely that had to give anyone hope.
27
Antonia was being ushered into James Kettle’s office by his personal assistant, who had sent word that he wanted to see her.
While she waited, she went to stand by the window and looked out at the handsome square where the offices had been since 1812. The trees were November-bare, so she could see the row of identical Georgian houses opposite, their brass nameplates winking in the autumn sun: rival solicitors, estate agents, a swanky private dentist, an ad agency.
‘Antonia.’
She turned to see James walk into the room. He had recently taken over from his father, and had already injected a little twenty-first-century pizazz into the firm. His office had remained traditional, but the offices elsewhere had been updated with sleek glass and wood flooring and every technological innovation possible. There was a canteen with the ultimate in healthy food, and yoga classes twice a week.
He was as smooth as the cup of coffee his assistant had made for Antonia to put her at her ease.
He pulled out his chair then indicated she should take the one opposite. He sat back, resting his elbows on the chair arms, eyeing her thoughtfully. She knew he was ruthless. She’d heard stories about him playing hard ball during takeovers. Ambitious, too. He had aspirations for Kettle and Sons.
Eventually he leaned forward, resting his chin in his fingers.
‘The word is, Antonia,’ he said, his tone light but Shere Khan deadly
, ‘that you’re having an affair with one of our clients.’
She sat up a tiny bit straighter, her mind racing. ‘Oh?’ She frowned. ‘I’m not sure how anyone can possibly suspect that.’
‘So it’s not true?’
She stared at him. ‘I’m not having an affair with one of our clients, no.’ That wasn’t a lie. It was long over.
James laughed. His perfect white teeth had no doubt come from the clinic over the square. ‘But you were?’
No one could prove it. Unless they had actually been in the room watching her and Dom have it off, it was all just supposition. The lawyer in Antonia knew this, and this was her career at stake.
She allowed herself a hint of a smile. ‘How is this relevant?’
‘Well,’ said James. ‘That’s a good question. It’s not as bad as if you were a doctor screwing a patient, no. Or a teacher screwing a pupil. But …’
He paused for a moment, thinking.
‘I can see you as a partner, Antonia. You’re smart, diligent and you go the extra mile. I’m looking to grow our conveyancing department. As you know, the property market in Bath is ever buoyant. I would hate you to scupper your chances of a great career with this firm because of a bit of idle gossip. I like my partners squeaky clean. This is still a small town.’
Antonia looked at him, wondering if he was squeaky clean himself or if he had a discreet mistress tucked away, maybe up in London. She had seen his wife, in her uniform of jeans, loafers and camel-hair coat, the type of woman who looked thirty at forty and forty at fifty thanks to money and lack of stress.
‘You will hear no more gossip, I can assure you. I am very happily single and I love working at Kettle and Sons. I don’t want to jeopardise my position here in any way.’
‘Excellent.’ James nodded, then his gaze hardened slightly. ‘Just don’t screw it up for yourself, Antonia, OK? This is a family firm, not a fucking soap opera.’
Ralph Fiennes. That’s who he reminded her of. Classy and suave with a deadly edge. She met his gaze, bold and resolute.
A Family Recipe Page 24
