A Good Year for the Roses: A Novel

by Gil McNeil

  The screen goes blank and there’s a silence.

  “Good God.”

  For once in his life Roger has said exactly the right thing.

  There’s another awkward silence as Mr. Crouch gives everyone copies of the will. Dad’s so furious he’s not speaking at all now, and Roger gets up and walks out, with Georgina running along behind him. He drives off so fast he sprays gravel all over Dad’s car. Bloody hell. Mr. Crouch says he’ll call me to discuss a few details when I’ve had time to gather my thoughts, and Mum tries a faint wave as she gets into the car, and Dad drives off, looking thunderous. Ivy is standing in the doorway with her arms folded, and mutters something which sounds like “Good riddance,” before turning to go back towards the kitchen.

  “Thanks Ivy, for everything today.”

  “You’re welcome Miss Molly.”

  “Please Ivy, just Molly.”

  “We’ll see. Will you do it then?”

  “What?”

  “Take on Mr. Bertie. Your aunt was counting on you. Will you move down here, then? He’s a full-time job in himself, wandering about in all weather and losing track of time, and there’s the B-and-B guests to see to as well. Not that we get many, except in the summer, but there’s a lot to do.”

  “I don’t know Ivy, I haven’t had a chance to take it all in yet, but I promise I’ll think about it.”

  “Well, you can count on me and Dennis, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I know that Ivy. And thank you.”

  She nods.

  “Well, those cups won’t wash themselves. She was always on at me to put them in the dishwasher, but you don’t put good china like that in the dishwasher, not if you want it to last.”

  “I’ll just go and say good-bye to Bertie.”

  “He’s in the library, talking to that silly bird.”

  She raises her eyebrows.

  Bertie is sitting by the fire, looking half-asleep.

  “I’ll be off now, Bertie, but I’ll call you later.”

  “Right you are my dear. All a bit of a surprise, I shouldn’t wonder, but we’ll muddle along.”

  “Of course we will. I just need to think through all the details, work out what’s best for everyone, but I’ll come back down, maybe at the weekend, and we can talk then?”

  “No point talking to me about details. Always left that to Helena. I’m sure whatever you decide will be best. I think I’ll go for a walk, haven’t been down to the cove yet today, where’s my coat? I looked for it earlier on, but I couldn’t find it.”

  Ivy will have hidden it. It’s nearly dark now, and freezing cold, and she won’t want him clambering down to the cove in this weather.

  “I don’t know Uncle Bertie, I haven’t seen it. I’ll call you when I get home, shall I?”

  “Yes dear, you do that. Although I may be out on patrol.”

  “Bye Betty.”

  “Bugger off. Stupid bird.”

  Quite.

  Thankfully the effects of the gin have worn off by the time I’m driving home, and I drank loads of black coffee at Mum’s before I left. Dad is still not speaking to me, and Mum was pretty silent too, like I’ve done something wrong somehow. I’m beyond exhausted, and everything is so confusing I don’t know what to think. It’s all very well for Helena to decide I’ll move to Devon, but what about the boys and what’s best for them? And if I don’t move us all to the Hall, then what happens, apart from Roger and Dad opening the champagne while they try to work out how quickly they can persuade Bertie to sell it to them. I can’t let that happen. It’s not fair. And moving could be a whole new start for us, and it’s a pretty good answer to where on earth we’re going to live when the sale of the house goes through. At least there are enough bedrooms, and I’ve always wanted the boys to have more space to grow up in, more of a country childhood and less urban angst. But they might hate it. And what will we live on? Helena only ran the B&B so she could buy new plants; it’s hardly going to support three growing boys. I could sign up to do supply teaching locally, but filling in for teachers who are off sick is hideous, and anyway I can’t leave Ivy in sole charge of Uncle Bertie and the boys, let alone that bloody parrot. She’s good, but she’s not bloody superwoman. Oh God.

  I stop for more coffee in a motorway service station, and do what I always do when I’m about to go into complete meltdown. Thank God for mobile phones.

  “Lola?”

  “Hello darling, how was it—totally grim?”

  “Yes, terrible. The church was good though. Full of flowers and people who really cared about her. They read the will—actually Helena did, on a video.”

  “Spooky. Although I quite like the idea, get the last laugh and all that.”

  “She certainly did that.”

  “Ooh, what did she do, did she leave you the necklace? I bet she did, how brilliant.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You sound a bit shaky darling. It can’t be that bad. What did she leave you? Something to remember her by, I bet. She adored you, anyone could see that.”

  “Bertie.”

  “Sorry?”

  “She left me Uncle Bertie.”

  I’m crying again now.

  “Darling, please stop, it’ll be fine, although fuck knows where you’ll put him. Well, that settles it: you’ll have to buy a bigger house now. Did you get the diamonds too? They’ll be worth a fair bit, so that should help, and I can lend you some money, you know I’ve already offered.”

  “No, I’m not explaining it properly. She left me the Hall too. Uncle Bertie and Harrington Hall, and the land, all of it. You know you were saying earlier about weaving, or making cheese? Could you run me through how that would work? Because, to be honest, I haven’t got a clue.”

  “Fucking hell.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “The whole house? Christ, it must be worth a fortune. I bet your dad is furious.”

  “Incandescent.”

  “Well, thank God for Helena. It’s about time you got a lucky break. I always knew she was a star, I just didn’t know how much, ooh, and I’ve just thought of something else completely brilliant.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Just imagine Pete’s face when he hears.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “He’ll be livid. He ditches you and the boys and rebrands himself as a pillar of the establishment with his new Stepford wife, and hey presto, you become Lady of the Manor and inherit a minor stately home. It’s almost too perfect.”

  “It’s hardly stately, Lola. It’s practically falling down. It’s freezing cold in winter, and every time it rains you have to put saucepans under the leaks in the attic. I doubt the B-and-B makes enough to feed Bertie, let alone support me and the boys.”

  “My heart bleeds, darling—your very own beach, and the meadow and the woods, and a beautiful house and Helena’s garden, and all you have to do is grill a bit of bacon.”

  “I think it might take more than that Lola, and none of it is mine, not really, I just have custody of it.”

  “If she’s left it to you, then it’s yours darling, and that woman will be around won’t she, the housekeeper woman?”

  “Ivy? Yes, thank God, and Dennis. But that’s another thing: Ivy likes doing things her way. She won’t want anything changed.”

  “Well, she’ll have to get over it then won’t she, since you’re the new Lady of the House.”

  “Please stop it Lola, you’re really not helping. And what about the boys, what on earth do I tell them?”

  “Didn’t you say you wished you could move out of town?”

  “Yes, but not to the middle of nowhere by the sea, right next to my bloody parents.”

  “Tell me again how your dad took the good news, on a scale of one to ten?”

  “Three hundred and fifty-six.”

  “Excellent. Just goes to show, be careful what you wish for.”

  “You’re telling me, except it never even oc
curred to me to wish for it, or anything like it, and—”

  “And nothing, darling. Just go with it. Life has finally given you a lucky break, so just go with it. It could be a whole new adventure, just what you need. And you can book me a room as your first official guest.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “You will not, you’ll bloody do it, if I have to drive you down there and lock you in the cellar. It’s going to be fantastic. Actually, is there a cellar?”

  “Yes, by the pantry. Don’t you remember, Roger hid down there that time we all got drunk and played Hide and Seek, and we pretended we couldn’t find him.”

  “Oh yes. Right, well, I’m writing a list.”

  Christ. Once Lola writes one of her lists, there’s no escape.

  “I can write my own lists, thanks very much.”

  “You can, if you like, but I’ve already started mine. You need decent bed linen for the bed-and-breakfast. None of that polyester rubbish. And proper products for the bathrooms. Luckily I’m a bit of an expert on luxury cosmetics—I knew it would come in handy one day. You need organic soap, and beautiful candles.”

  “Stop it, right now, or I’m going to go into hysterics.”

  “Fine, you go into hysterics, and I’ll finish my list. I’ll email it to you when you get home. Call me later darling.”

  “I hate you, Lola. I really do.”

  “Book me in, darling, your first guest.”

  Bloody hell. As if I haven’t got enough to worry about now I’ve got Lola, the world’s most demanding guest, booked into a B&B I didn’t even know I was running until about five hours ago.

  “Call me later, when you’re home. And Molly?”

  “Yes?”

  “I like my orange juice freshly squeezed, none of those ghastly cartons, and, actually, shall I get my PA to fax you a list?”

  “Lola, this is so not helping.”

  “Deep breaths darling.”

  “I’m already hyperventilating, so I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

  “Shallow breaths then. Have you got a paper bag?”

  “Not on me, no. Would my handbag do?”

  “Not really, you might inhale something unexpected.”

  “That would just finish off the day perfectly.”

  “Well try to breathe slowly darling, and think about something calming. I know, imagine Pete’s face when he hears the good news.”

  “Actually, that is helping, a bit.”

  “I’d love to be there when he finds out. Make sure you tell him in person, so you can see how he looks. It’ll be worth it, trust me.”

  I’m smiling as I walk back to the car. Admittedly it’s the kind of smiling which can easily turn into sobbing hysterics. But it’s a start.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jingle Bells

  December

  Bourbon Roses

  Originating from an island in the Indian Ocean, these roses are prized for their combination of beauty and scent. With ruffled silky petals and fragrances with undertones of peach melon and jasmine, they are often grown as climbing roses on arches and pergolas. Notable examples include Queen Victoria, a sweetly scented lilac-pink rose with hints of honeysuckle; Boule de Neige, with milky-white curled petals; Madame Isaac Pereire, a deep pink with a strong raspberry scent; and Souvenir de Malmaison, a blush-pink fragrant rose with hints of nectarine, cinnamon, and nutmeg.

  It’s Friday morning and I’m in the kitchen trying not to have a complete meltdown; I may need to set myself up with some sort of emergency drip. Perhaps if I lie on the floor with a bottle of gin set on a slow trickle. If only I’d nicked a bottle of Helena’s sloe gin, I’m sure that would do the trick. I’ve lost my main list, so I’m writing an emergency backup one now, and if I could find any gin, I’d definitely give the drip thing a go, or pour myself a stiffener, as Uncle Bertie would say. It’s Moving Day today, and the boys are due back with Pete in a couple of hours, and there’s still loads to do.

  I’ve spent the last six weeks driving up and down to Devon, sorting out papers with Mr. Crouch whilst simultaneously keeping an eye on Uncle Bertie and trying to give Ivy a hand, which hasn’t been easy, because she’s been on a manic cleaning mission ever since the funeral. I’m sure it’s some sort of displacement activity, but she’s been washing and polishing like a woman demented. I’ve resigned from school and term finished last week, thank God. I’ve found new schools for the boys, and had a series of increasingly tense conversations with Dad and Roger, who seem to think if they just go on about it long enough, I’ll sign everything over to them. I had to get Mr. Crouch to ring up Dad in the end, to explain that I can’t sign anything over to anyone except Bertie, so Dad’s not speaking to me at all now, except via Mum, which, all in all, is probably a good thing. I’m hoping I’ve made the right decision, for all of us, but it still feels like a bolt from the blue has thrown everything up in the air, just like I felt during the divorce, bobbling along and then suddenly you’re hit by lightning that you didn’t see coming, and you’ve no idea what just happened but you’re left feeling a bit crisp around the edges. I’m not that good at change. I need everything to settle down, just for a while, so I can get my breath back, and then I’ll be fine. Although obviously not today, not with everything being in boxes.

  “This is going to Devon, right love?”

  Mick, our head moving man, is holding up a plastic laundry basket.

  “Yes please. I thought I’d put labels on everything, sorry.”

  I’ve been sticking on labels for days, but Mick keeps finding things I’ve missed. Perhaps I should just stick a label on my forehead and go and sit in the back of the van. God knows if we’ll need an old plastic basket which only has one handle, but I’ve got a horrible feeling that what with the B&B laundry on top of the usual endless loads generated by the boys, I’m going to need as many laundry baskets as I can lay my hands on. Right. Time for a cup of tea, I think, since I can’t find the gin. And try to avoid remembering that it’s Christmas next week and I haven’t really started on Operation Tinsel yet.

  “I’m putting the kettle on, Mick.”

  “Lovely, two sugars, and then you’ll want to pack the last bits in them boxes, unless you’re leaving them here.”

  Maybe everyone could just head off to Devon and I can have a nice little lie-down, just for a while, in a completely empty quiet house. How lovely. But the final completion on the contracts went through about an hour ago, and the new people are moving in this afternoon, so they might be a tad surprised to find me fast asleep in the middle of their new living room, like a rather grubby Goldilocks, without the porridge. I feel like I’ve been covered in a thin layer of grime and dust for weeks now, what with emptying out cupboards and trying to clean and pack up here, combined with Ivy washing everything that doesn’t move at the Hall like some mad Spring Clean on fast forward. She even gave Betty a bath the other day, which was rather brave of her. Apparently parrots are meant to like a bit of light sprinkle with warm water, but this was more of a total plunge into hot soapy water in a washing-up bowl. The language was quite spectacular, particularly from Betty, and it turns out there’s nothing quite so bedraggled and tragic-looking as a sopping-wet parrot in a sulk. By the time she’d finished, Ivy was soaked from head to foot, and so was Bertie. Thankfully I only had observer status, so I could lurk in the back of scullery trying not to laugh. God help me if parrot-washing duties are handed on to me at any point in the near future, but I’ll definitely be borrowing Dan’s snorkel.

  “What about this bag? In the car or the van, love?”

  “In the car please, Mick. It’s stuff we’ll need tonight. Or some of it, there should be another bag somewhere, a blue one.”

  “Right you are. First van’s nearly full, good job we started yesterday, always more to go than you think.”

  They’re loading everything into three small vans, because their usual lorry would never fit down the drive to the Hall, not without some drastic pru
ning to most of the trees and shrubs. And pruning over half a mile of rhododendrons was never going to be top of my list today, if I could bloody find it. Although I still think I deserve a gold star for anticipating the lorry would get stuck before we arrived and had to park it by the stables and form a human removal chain to get everything into the house. We’re bringing most of our furniture; there’s a room next to the kitchen which I want to turn into a family room. It’ll be perfect for after-school telly and homework and a playroom for Alfie. Helena used it as an office, so there’s only a rickety old desk in there now, and a couple of chairs piled up with old seed packets and gardening magazines. Although now I’ve seen everything being loaded up, I can’t imagine how it’s all going to fit in, and I’m not sure how much we’ll be able to get up the stairs into the attic, so we might need to use the old stables too, and none of them have what you’d call a complete roof. Either that or we can have a bonfire. Our stuff is mostly what I think the furniture trade would refer to as “old tat.”