by Gil McNeil
I’ve just boiled the kettle when Pete arrives. He’s not meant to be here for another hour yet and I’d hoped to have everything ready to go before they came back. The boys go straight out into the garden to play football, even though it’s cold and they’ll get muddy, which isn’t exactly what I had in mind for our journey to Devon. Damn.
“Coffee?”
“Black, please. I decided to bring them back a bit earlier. Janice and I are going shopping later on. I hope that’s okay?”
What am I supposed to say, “No, it’s not, go away and bring them back later like we agreed?” Despite being surrounded by boxes and removal men, clearly what is most convenient to him is all that matters, as bloody usual. He’s doing it on purpose, I know he is.
“It’s fine. Biscuit?”
“No thanks. Janice and I are on a diet.”
Oh please.
“Won’t that make Christmas rather difficult?”
“We’re poaching a salmon. There’s no need to overindulge, if you don’t want to. Which reminds me, could you make sure there’s something light for lunch on Boxing Day when I come to see the boys.”
“Sure, or feel free to bring your own salmon.”
He raises his eyebrows and gives me his soon-to-be-patented The Headmaster Is Not Amused look. God, he’s annoying.
“Will you be staying for lunch then? I thought you said you wanted to pick them up and head back.”
“I’m not sure; I might just visit for the day. Janice will be at her mother’s, and I think the boys might find it strange staying with me when Janice is away.”
And he’d find it strange having to do all the cooking and keep them entertained, which is what he actually means. The boys weren’t keen on the idea to be honest, he’s only managed to have them stay a handful of times over the last year. They don’t really enjoy it, so we usually stick to Sunday afternoons. So I’ll try to rise above it. Again.
“Mum, can we have hot blackcurrant?”
“No Ben, all the bottles have been packed and they’re in the van. But you can have tea, or hot milk. I’ve got loads of milk left.”
I bought extra, for the removal men, and then forgot to cancel the milkman’s delivery. So milk is one thing I’m not short of.
“Can we have hot chocolate then?”
“Sure, if you can find it, maybe in that box over there?”
He starts rootling through the box by the kitchen cupboard.
“Ta-da.”
“Okay, find me a saucepan, and then give me five minutes.”
“Thanks Mum.”
Pete is not looking happy.
“Do you want some hot chocolate?”
“Hardly. I did just say we’re on a diet.”
“Oh yes, sorry.”
“I know we discussed this, but I still think you should have mentioned it, I want to make that clear.”
“Mentioned what?”
“That you were about to inherit such a large house, and all that land.”
“All that land? It’s only twenty-two acres Pete. Helena sold the rest of it over the years, you know that.”
“Yes, but the house, the stables, everything, by rights you should have declared it.”
“Declared what, when?”
“That you were due to inherit such a valuable property, during the divorce. Why did you never mention it before? Janice and I have been discussing it, and we think it should have been included.”
I might seriously need to find that gin if he carries on like this.
“It was as much a surprise to me as it was to you. A nicer one for me, of course.”
I can’t resist saying this.
“And what about the cottage?”
Bloody hell, he’ll be asking me for a list of the furniture next.
“Yes Pete, the house, the land, the stables, the cottage, although Ivy and Dennis are living in it and they get to stay for as long as they want, but the old gatehouse, or what’s left of it, the gardens, the meadow, the cove, Bertie, the parrot, everything, God help me. I could get Mr. Crouch to send you a complete inventory if you need it? Only you’ll have to pay him for it, he bills by the hour.”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you. But you might have spoken to me, before you decided. After all, I am their father. But I suppose my views don’t count at all.”
God, if I keep trying to rise above all this bollocks, I’ll be bloody levitating.
“Not really Pete. Not now we’re divorced.”
“There’s no need to be bitter Molly, it’s very unattractive.”
“I’m not bitter, far from it. Maybe everything is starting to come up roses after all, particularly given Helena’s famous rose gardens. And this is just what we need, a whole new start. I talked about it with the boys, you know that, and they’re excited, well apart from Dan, and the local schools are good—you’ve read those inspection reports I showed you—and they’ll have so much more space.”
“Yes. All twenty-two acres of it.”
Time for one of Lola’s lines I think. They always hit the spot.
“It’s kind of you Pete, but don’t worry, you can have the boys to stay whenever you like. We can fix up a couple of weeks in the summer holidays too?”
The sad thing is I know he’ll say no to this, or he’ll make arrangements and then cancel. He’s done that for the last two Sundays, so I can’t see him managing a whole fortnight in a hurry.
“Let’s see, shall we. I am particularly busy at the moment. I still think you should consider selling—it must be worth a fortune—surely that would be the best thing to do? I’d be more than happy to help. It would be important to find the right kind of agent, it’s such a unique place.”
He tries a smile.
God, he’s so transparent it’s almost shocking.
“And then if I sold up, you could stop paying maintenance for the boys, is that the idea?”
“Not at all, and I wouldn’t be so hasty you know Molly. It might be worth considering.”
“It won’t, because it’s not an option, the terms of the will make that clear. And anyway, I would never do that to Bertie. I’ll run the bed-and-breakfast, and I might sign up with an agency for teaching work, once we get settled. I’ll need to find a way to make a living, just like I do now.”
His smile has vanished, and he looks cross again.
“If you time it right Pete, it’s only a six-hour drive—five, if you’re lucky—and I know it’s a long way, but you’ll be welcome to come down and stay anytime you like. You’ll find our B-and-B rates are very reasonable.”
He looks horrified.
“I’m joking Pete.”
Actually I’m not. I’m not having him coming down for weekends and expecting me to run around serving him breakfast. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to bring bloody Janice, and there’s no way on earth I’m serving both of them breakfast in their new matching bloody tracksuits.
“There are loads of places to stay nearby. I’m sure we can work something out so everyone is happy.”
I’ve been half hoping he’ll say he minds about the boys being so much farther away. Even though it would have made everything more difficult, I’d have understood if he’d not been keen on that. But over the past few weeks it’s been pretty clear that hasn’t really bothered him at all. Which is so sad and disappointing, I don’t really want to think about it.
“You could always sell some of the land, I suppose?”
Christ. He’s really starting to annoy me now.
“No I can’t, not without Bertie’s agreement, and anyway, I don’t want to. I want to try to make a go of it. Money will be tight, but I’m going to give it my best shot—and by the way, this month’s money is late again. So can you sort it please? I did think about breaking the terms of the will, dumping Bertie at the hotel with Roger, and leaving the boys with you for a few months while I floated round the world on a luxury cruise, but I decided against it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.
”
“I quite like the idea of a cruise. I think it would be very restful.”
“Apart from anything else, you don’t know the first thing about running a bed-and-breakfast, so I can’t see how that’s going to work. It would have been far better to sell now and save all this upheaval.”
“Pete, I practically grew up in the hotel, and I worked there every holiday for years. I should be able to cope with a few B-and-B guests.”
Actually I’m pretty nervous about this aspect of our new life, but I’m not letting him know that.
“Yes, but…”
“Please stop being so negative, Pete. It’s a great failing of yours, you know, and it’s very bad karma.”
This is another of Lola’s suggestions for ways to annoy him, and it seems to be doing the trick.
“Now, are you sure you don’t want some hot chocolate? I’ve got loads of milk. Call the boys in, would you? Theirs is ready, and we really need to get a move on.”
“I’ll just say good-bye and then I must be going, I’ve got a great deal to do today.”
“Right.”
Christ. Still, no use crying over spilt milk, as they say. Which is a good job, because I manage to pour a fair bit over the kitchen counter while I make the hot chocolate. Right. Find my list. One last check in all the rooms. And good-bye Pete. And good riddance, as Lola would say if she were here. God, I wish she were here. I might need an emergency backup call before we set off. Either that or find that bloody gin. Just a sip would help—I don’t want to get arrested for drunk driving. Or I could drink the whole bottle and give one of the removal men my car keys. I think I’ll make do with hot chocolate for now, and see how it goes.
By the time we’re finally in the car, heading to Devon, I’ve found my list and everything is relatively peaceful.
“How much longer Mum?”
“Quite a while yet Alfie. Listen to your tape love, and then we’ll stop for some food in a bit.”
Dan sighs.
“I suppose that’ll be pasties all round then.”
“Pasties are a speciality of Cornwall, you idiot. They were invented for miners so they could hold the pastry when their hands were dirty and just eat the filling.”
“Thank you, Wikiben. Mum, you’ve got to stop him using the computer all the time. He’s turning into a total nerd.”
“Shut up Dan, and that’s great Ben, did you find out anything about Devon?”
“It’s famous for clotted cream.”
Dan sighs again.
“That’s so much better.”
“Dan, stop it, please. Nobody is going to force-feed you clotted cream.”
“Good, because I’ve already told you I don’t want to live in bloody Devon.”
“No, but you don’t want to live in London either. You don’t want to do anything except moan as far as I can work out. And please stop being so rude. We’ve already talked about that today. Just give Devon a try, that’s all I’m asking. We were always going to have to move when we sold the house, you know that, love. Be fair.”
“Alright, alright. I said I’d give it a go and I will. But you owe me one Mum, big-time.”
“Fair enough.”
“Can I have a motorbike when I’m sixteen?”
“No. But if you don’t like your new school, you can go to Hogwarts.”
He grins.
“Okay.”
He spent ages trying to convince me that Hogwarts really existed after we read the books. He was sure if he could persuade me to enroll him, he could be the next Harry.
“I’m putting an owl on my list for Father Christmas. Just so you know.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, Dan. But Father Christmas doesn’t do pets, you know that.”
Thank God I had the sense to invent this Santa Claus disclaimer, or I’d be living in a bloody menagerie by now.
“He might, in Devon.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath, love.”
We stop at a café recommended by the movers, where they can get sausage, eggs, and chips and huge mugs of tea for less than the price of a packet of coffee and a muffin in a motorway service station. There are lorry drivers from every nation sitting side by side, eating and looking tired. But the food is delicious, and we’re clearly a bit of a novelty, because the woman behind the counter gives the boys a free doughnut each. Alfie gets sugar everywhere and makes me promise we will come here every single time we go in the car, which might make the school run a bit tricky, but I play along for the sake of in-car harmony, and eventually he falls asleep, still covered in sugar.
“Can we turn the music up a bit?”
Ben clearly wants to enjoy his turn in the front seat.
“No, Alfie’s just got to sleep—please let’s leave him that way. He was up really early this morning and it’s going to be a long day.”
“Good job he’s asleep. I wish I was too, listening to Ben’s crap music.”
“Dan, when it’s your turn in the front, you get to choose, okay? Or else I’ll choose for the both of you.”
“Great, so that’ll be ‘The Wheels on the Stupid Bus,’ totally awesome way to arrive in the Land of Clotted Cream.”
Ben sighs.
“Shut up Dan, or she’ll throw apple juice at you. Again.”
“I didn’t throw it; it just squirted out of the carton. And don’t say ‘she.’ ”
“Shut up Dan, or Mum will throw apple juice all over you again.”
His blue T-shirt is now covered with dried brown spatters. But the look on his face when it happened was almost worth the laundry nightmare I will no doubt be having when I try to restore the T-shirt to its former glory. Because of course it’s one of his best ones. Of course it is.
“I don’t know why you made such a fuss, Dan. It looks just like that one you tried to con me into buying you when we got your new jeans.”
They both tut. United tutting. Great. This is going very well so far. Dan mutters “completely bloody hopeless” under his breath.
“Mummy, Dan said ‘bloody,’ and that’s a rude word isn’t it? Can I say it, because if he can say it, I should be able to—that’s fair, isn’t it? It’s important to be fair you know Mummy. Can I have some juice?”
Ben and Dan both sigh.
“Mum?”
“Yes, Dan?”
“I think the Kid has woken up.”
“Yes, thanks Dan, I’d spotted that.”
“Just like to keep you informed. Shall we dope him up again? Where’s the Calpol?”
I know without turning round that Alfie is now sitting up a little bit straighter in his seat, eyes widening at the prospect of his brother doping him up.
“Stop teasing him, Dan, and pass him a drink. There’s a carton of juice in the bag, and be careful with the straw.”
“Are we nearly there yet?”
“Not yet love.”
“I’m hungry.”
“There’s fruit in the bag.”
“I don’t want fruit. And I don’t want Calpol.”
“I know, love. Dan was only joking. You only have Calpol when you’re feeling ill, you know that.”
“I know. And I don’t want it. I want vodka.”
“I have taught you well, O little one. Go forth and share thy wisdom.”
“Don’t do your Darth Vader voice Dan, you know it scares him. Can anyone still see the removal vans?”
Bugger. A series of roundabouts seem to have separated us from the vans.
“Great, so not so much of a convoy after all then Mum, given it’s just us.”
“Thanks Ben. I had worked that out for myself. Ring them would you Dan, and check they’re still on the right road.”
“Heading back to London, if they’ve got any sense.”
Alfie starts to sing.
“Put a sock in it, would you?”
Alfie carries on, and there’s a muffled sound, and then a shriek from Alfie.
“Mum, Dan put his sock in my mouth. Right in my mo
uth.”
“Dan, stop it.”
Dan has been taking his socks off ever since he was old enough to be wearing them. I used to spend ages retracing my steps around shops looking for tiny baby socks, which he’d pop onto the nearest shelf while I was trying to read the ingredients on the jars of baby food. Although why I bothered, God alone knows. He seemed so fragile, and giving him organic carrots seemed so important then, but now he’s nearly six foot tall, with enough testosterone to power an entire flotilla of teenage landing craft, it doesn’t seem to matter quite so much.
One minute you’re pureeing veg, and the next you’re into the sex-and-drugs-and-rock-and-roll chats, and trying to make sure you eat at least one meal together every day. Or most days, when nobody has stormed off upstairs in a sulk.
I really want to make sure we carry on with our family routines at the Hall, even if we have to adapt them to include Bertie and a mad parrot. Family mealtimes are the only way to really keep track of what they’re up to, and I need all the help I can get. When they were babies, it was all so much easier. It didn’t seem like it at the time, but it was. Dan was only two when Ben was born, and then Ben never slept, literally never for more than about fifteen minutes at a time for the first few months. He had terrible colic, and then eczema, and then just as he started to grow out of it and they were both at school, Alfie arrived. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Alfie was nothing to do with Pete at all. We all have brown hair and dark-green eyes—in my case, hazel—but Alfie’s my blond and blue-eyed boy. Pete’s brother Sam is the same, so that’s the genetic clue which averted a steward’s enquiry. Although Sam took one look at his family and promptly buggered off and joined a band. He’s quite a famous music producer now, so we only see him once in a blue moon. I must remember to send him our new address. He can come down for the weekend; at least we’ve got the room now. Unless we’re packed to the rafters with all our tatty furniture of course. Oh God, I’m dreading all the unpacking.
