A Good Year for the Roses: A Novel

by Gil McNeil

  “No Aunty Lola, chickens lay eggs all the time, you just need a cockerel if you want them to do sexing and have chicks.”

  From the look on her face, I’m not sure Ivy is that impressed with Ben’s latest bit of research, but Dennis nods.

  “That’s right, and cockerels make too much of a racket to be worth the bother.”

  Lola is clearly trying not to laugh as I manage to exit the henhouse with a nifty move which leaves all the chickens still inside, albeit in mild hysterics. It’s the first time I’ve actually managed this, so I’m pretty pleased with myself. It’s just a shame I’ve left the bucket inside.

  Dennis retrieves the bucket by sauntering in, picking it up, and then sauntering back out again, with no mass flappings or screechings. The buggers are definitely doing it on purpose.

  “Great names darling. Did you choose them?”

  I can tell she’s still trying not to laugh.

  “No, Helena named them after gardeners: Gertrude Jekyll, Vita Sackville-West, Penelope Hobhouse, Beth Chatto. There are loads of books in the library; they were a fascinating bunch, from what I can gather. Constance Spry pretty much invented modern flower arranging. The Duchess, after the Duchess of Devonshire, the one who’s mad on chickens, she used to have flocks of them wandering round Chatsworth apparently. Helena knew her years ago; I think they came out together.”

  “Came out? Am I missing something here?”

  “Came out as debutantes, did the Season, all that malarkey.”

  “It’s a whole new world isn’t it darling. Do they lay loads of lovely eggs then?”

  “Not since we turned up, no.”

  “Maybe you should let them do a bit of sexing then—might perk them up.”

  “Thanks Lola. I’ll bear it in mind.”

  Dennis laughs.

  “They always tail off a bit in the winter. They’ll start up again soon, don’t you worry. Right, I’m off inside for my elevenses. Shall I put the kettle on?”

  Alfie starts hopping up and down.

  “I need a bacon sandwich, like Dennis, I really do. I never get bacon.”

  “You can have one tomorrow, if you come downstairs when I call you for breakfast, otherwise it’s just cereal, I can’t start making bacon now.”

  Ivy puts her hand on his shoulder.

  “I put a bit of bacon in the warming drawer earlier in case the boys fancied some, if that’s alright?”

  Alfie cheers, and hugs her.

  “Thank you Ivy, you’re my best person in the whole world.”

  Dennis smiles.

  “Nothing like a bacon sandwich to set you up on a cold morning, and it looks like rain later, might even be snow. Let’s get back indoors before all the bacon disappears.”

  “That’s enough of that Dennis. We don’t want any snow, and there’ll be nobody helping themselves to my bacon, thanks all the same. And I’ll be wanting some leeks for lunch, and some rhubarb, before you come in. I thought I’d make a crumble.”

  I glance at Lola to see if she’s recoiled in horror, but apparently her newfound aversion to all things rhubarb doesn’t include crumbles.

  Dennis tuts.

  “You want to watch yourself Alfie, or she’ll have you out digging up veg in the pouring rain too.”

  “You should train Tess. She’s very good at digging.”

  “I might try that lad. Save me a lot of bother.”

  Dan shoves Alfie, but fairly gently, so I ignore it.

  “I think we’d all rather the dog didn’t dig up our lunch, thanks all the same Alf.”

  He’s still wearing his new hat with the earflaps, which I am now coveting since it has started to get so much colder.

  Perhaps a bacon sandwich might be just what we all need.

  I’m sitting by the fire with Lola in the drawing room while the boys are off playing or “helping” Dennis dig up leeks.

  “Right, so run me through the money darling.”

  “What money? Why does everyone think I’ve got money now?”

  “Who thinks that?”

  “Pete, mainly.”

  “Yes but I’ve told you, the brilliant thing about being divorced is you don’t need to worry about what he thinks anymore darling. What’s your budget, to transform all this?”

  “Well we get just under five hundred pounds a year from renting the fields to the local farmer.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “No, the sheep are lovely and Helena didn’t want to rent to anyone else. Mr. Crouch explained it all to me, there’s a proper business account and everything, and I’m the only signatory. Helena sorted it all out. She didn’t put Bertie on the account, though—she said he’d be too annoying and he’d just write cheques for daft stuff.”

  “Good call.”

  “Excellent call.”

  “So, apart from five hundred pounds, what else?”

  “The B-and-B brought in just under four thousand pounds last year, and there’s money set aside in a special account for Dennis’s and Ivy’s wages for the next year or so. God knows where Helena got the money from, but she set it all up so I don’t have to worry about that straightaway. Their cottage is rent-free, but I need to do something about how little they get paid as soon as I can. Overall the house makes a huge loss of course—it has done for years. Helena only really noticed her plants, and then whenever things got tricky, she’d sell something.”

  “Is there anything left to sell?”

  “Not unless anyone wants to buy a parrot, not really. Helena left some money for Bertie, and he keeps trying to give me cheques, but we’re fine, for now. We got a good price for our house. It would have been a lot more a couple of years ago of course, but by the time the mortgage was paid off, I ended up with over one hundred and fifty thousand pounds—one hundred and fifty-three thousand, four hundred and sixty-seven, actually—after I paid my half of the solicitor’s bills.”

  “Christ, is that all?”

  “Lola, that’s a huge amount of money.”

  “Yes, if someone walked up to you and said, ‘Here, have a bonus,’ you’d be pleased, but not to live on and do up a huge place like this and take care of the boys.”

  “Yes, but there’s the money from Pete for the boys. Even if it’s usually late, it does arrive eventually, so I should be able to manage if I’m careful.”

  “Or I could invest.”

  “Yes, but we’ve already talked about that Lola, and I want to try to do this by myself—well, ‘by myself’ thanks to Helena and Bertie. And anyway I think you’d be a very scary business partner.”

  “That’s true. But if you get stuck, you’ll let me know? I could have a word with my bank, or your bloody father could talk to the hotel’s bank surely?”

  “Yes, but he’d meddle and then Roger would start trying to boss me about, so I’d rather try to make it a go of it without them if I can.”

  “So no nest egg, fabulous house, huge potential, what’s the plan? I know, turn it into a high-class brothel? Aristocratic clients only. Give them rubbish food and someone to wallop them with a riding crop and they’ll feel right at home. You’ll make a fortune.”

  “Tempting, but no. If things get too tough I can always sign up for a bit of teaching work if I have to, although by the time I’ve paid for child care that won’t bring in much, and anyway I think I need to be full-time here if I’m going to pull this off. I’ve got a few ideas though. Let me show you.”

  “Bugger, do we have to go back outside? I’ve only just got those bloody Wellies off. That’s how you could make your fortune darling: invent something to help weekend guests get their Wellies off.”

  “I have. He’s called Alfie.”

  We troop up to the stables, with Tess barking and Alfie having an imaginary sword fight with a stick while I show Lola the beautiful wooden beams.

  “Lovely darling—shame about the freezing gale blowing through all the holes in the roof though.”

  “Yes, but that could be fixed, and they’
d make great holiday cottages. With the right plan and a few walls moved, you could turn this into two, maybe even three little terraced holiday cottages. The roof space is huge, so you could put a second floor in for a bathroom and bedrooms. Lots of places have done it and they rent them out all year round for weekend breaks, and then in the summer we can earn serious money renting them by the week. I’ll need to get plans approved and talk to builders, and the bank, but while I get all that sorted, I thought I’d use some of my money to deal with the most urgent things in the house, and fix up the gatehouse, and that way I can rent that out and see how it goes. Sort of test the market. I’ll still keep some money in reserve for emergencies. But it could be lovely, and it’s much less dilapidated than here—well, a bit less. I’ll show you, if you’re up for a walk down the lane. What do you think?”

  “I’m finding it a bit hard to think darling, I can’t feel my fingers. I may be in the first stages of hypothermia.”

  “It’s not that far, and the last stage of hypothermia is when you imagine you’re hot and start taking all your clothes off, so as long as you don’t start doing that, you’ll be fine.”

  “Promise?”

  We walk down the lane as the sun starts to go down and the stable roof turns a beautiful pinky orange.

  “What does that mean then—a sunset like that? ‘Red sky at night, shepherds’ what?”

  “ ‘Delight. Red sky at dawn, shepherds be warned.’ ”

  “Of what?”

  “I’ve no idea. If you want a forecast, ask Bertie—he’s got all sorts of theories about what the weather is going to do.”

  “Is he usually right?”

  “Not often, no. Look at the stables now. If you half close your eyes, you can almost see how lovely they could be.”

  Lola turns to look.

  “I find it works better if you shut your eyes completely darling.”

  Alfie starts to yell.

  “It’s snowing, it is, it’s snowing.”

  And sure enough, it is. Just a few flakes. But it’s definitely snow.

  “Bloody hell, I’ve got to get back to town tomorrow, drifts or no drifts.”

  “There’s an old tractor, I’m sure Dennis can fix it. He’s been fixing it for years, and he uses it for cutting the grass in the meadow. Or he could take you on his new ride-along mower.”

  “To London?”

  “No, to the station. You can get the train back, if it gets really bad.”

  “Thanks darling. But I think I’ll just strip off now and lie down in the snow. Save time.”

  It’s the last day of January tomorrow, and I’m hoping this will herald a change in the weather. We’ve had gales, and torrential rain, which flooded the road into the village, and what felt like weeks of snow, only a light dusting at New Year, but then three days which were so bad all the schools were shut. And last week we had a power cut, so I spent half an hour in the cellar fiddling with the fuse box until Dennis arrived, having cycled up the lane to tell me the power was off from the village all the way along the coast. So the camping torches were back on duty again, because the combination of the boys and candles is just too terrifying to contemplate, even without a resident Mrs. Danvers. We listened to the radio and I kept the fires going, which involved a fair bit of scuttling round with kindling and bags of logs, but at least it kept us from freezing, and I think the boys quite enjoyed it. The one hidden bonus to the house being so cold is the boys have taken to wearing slippers, so their socks are a lot less grubby than usual. Living in a house with flagstone floors in the kitchen seems to have converted them; Alfie’s got Batman slippers with ears, and Dan and Ben are both sporting fleece-lined tartan affairs, which they pretend to loathe but wear pretty much constantly. They’re all washable—I’ve learnt the hard way that if it won’t go into the washing machine at 40 degrees, there’s no point buying it when it comes to boys and clothing. Girls too, probably, but I’m guessing there’s less mud and grass involved, and not so much pushing your brother into the ha-ha to score bonus points.

  The last couple of days have been so stormy I’ve been wondering if Bertie has inadvertently shot an albatross with the bloody cannon. He’s been even more Ancient Mariner than usual, muttering about the lifeboats being called out, and forecasting more bad weather. This morning he announced there were two rescues last night, but thankfully everyone got back to dry land safely, so he’s firing the cannon later to celebrate. It’s any excuse really; it’s like living with Admiral Boom from Mary sodding Poppins. He says there’s a longstanding naval tradition of firing cannons out to sea to show a lack of hostile intent, or as part of a celebration, but I think he just likes it.

  “Mum?”

  “Yes, find your school bag Alfie, and Ben, hurry up please.”

  “You know Uncle Bertie’s cannon?”

  “Yes Alfie, and don’t just stand there, start looking properly please, and not over there, it won’t be in the fridge.”

  “Well it has black powder, so it can’t hurt people. Did you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  Otherwise we wouldn’t have moved here in the first place. I’m not completely insane.

  “Well can we get him a real one, with proper cannonballs?”

  Ben sighs.

  “No we can’t, you idiot, they’re illegal. You can’t fire real cannons whenever you like—you could kill people. And Mum, did you know they only do odd numbers, Bertie was telling me. If you fire an even number of shots, it means death, or something like that, that’s why they do the twenty-one-gun salute for the Queen, not twenty-two. It goes down depending on how important you are.”

  “Well that’s good news because a one-gun salute makes enough racket, twenty-one would probably make the house fall down.”

  Another reason to be glad we’re not Royal.

  “Come on, please, hurry up or we’ll be late. Dan went for his bus ages ago.”

  There are no tractors dawdling along the lanes this morning, thank God, or stupid sheep being moved from one field to another and having mass panic attacks in front of the car, so we get to school with a few minutes to spare. Ben and Alfie have settled in really quickly. Alfie’s enjoying having a big brother in the top class, and it’s definitely helped that even though this is a small village school, at least half the kids weren’t born round here. My old primary school is closed now and turned into houses, so everyone from Launton and the surrounding villages comes here, and it’s strange seeing people I was at school with standing with their kids in the playground. Claire Denman is now Claire Prentice, and still recognisable from her seven-year-old self. But Belinda Trent has transformed herself from being shy and nervous and is now Bella who runs the local pub. Sally says she’s brilliant at chucking out drunks. Her son Arthur is in Alfie’s class, and along with Sally’s Tom they’ve become a little trio, so Miss Cooper has definitely got her work cut out for her with all three of them determined to find ways to make the school day pass more quickly. Ben’s Mrs. Dent gives off a much stronger vibe, but she teaches the top class, and everyone knows you’ve got to have your wits about you when you’re teaching the oldest kids in the school, unless you want to find yourself Super Glued to your classroom chair while your class takes an extended lunch break.

  Sally is standing by the fence, holding Tom’s bag.

  “I’m such an idiot, I promised him I’d wait until they go in, and now I’m going to be late.”

  I hold up my collection of book bags and lunch boxes, which makes her smile.

  “Two idiots then.”

  “Yup, but at least the weather’s better. We’ve got so many pots and pans and bowls up in the attic for all the leaks it’s driving me crazy. It’s like a very tragic episode of Antiques Roadshow up there, where none of it turns out to be Spode. Mr. Stebbings is due to start the building work soon though, thank God, and Bertie says the storms are over, for now, so he’s doing the cannon thing later to celebrate.”

  “Well I hope your Alfie doesn’t
tell Tom, because he’s desperate to see it, and I’m on until six this week, so Patrick’s picking him up, if he remembers.”

  Sally’s Patrick is setting up an organic butchery business, so he does a variety of stalls at local farmers’ markets, which keeps him pretty busy.

  “He only forgot that one time, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but once is enough. Miss Cooper rang me at work. It was awful. You know how teachers carry on and make you feel completely crap. Oh, sorry.”

  “It’s alright Sal. It’s the first thing they teach you at college, how to look down your nose at parents.”

  “I bet. Oh look, there’s Karen, Dylan’s mum, with the new baby.”

  “Christ, she looks knackered.”

  “She was a midwife at the hospital in Barnstaple, you’d think she’d have the newborn thing sorted. Just goes to show it’s different when it’s your own. She’s set herself up as a natural birth attendant now, whatever that means.”

  “Bit of raspberry leaf tea and a beanbag?”

  “Pretty much. She’s alright though, for a hipster. She’s calling the baby Sky.”

  We both smile. Things have really changed round here since we were at school. Then it was mostly local families who’d lived here for generations, but now we’ve got more of a mixture: the locals, the rich wives, and the hipsters, as Sally likes to call them. The locals tend to work in tourism now, or catering, and are pretty dismissive of incomers, who drive up house prices and throw fits in the local shops when they can’t find olives. But since most of the ways to make a living round here involve dealing with holidaymakers or new villagers, most people are pretty tolerant.

  The rich wives live in the biggest houses, often newly built with mock-Georgian facades and triple garages, and spend their time organising endless rounds of lunch and dinner parties, while their husbands commute a couple of days a week or work from home. Some of the wives work, but mostly they’re ladies of leisure, driving round in giant off-road vehicles, but never going off road, and sending their kids here for a couple of years to save on school fees before they pack them off to boarding schools. On the school run they’re either very smart, with full makeup and matching accessories, like Georgina, or they look like they’ve just got off a horse, which they often have. They’re not popular with the rest of the parents, because they form a definite County clique and tend to be a bit snooty and standoffish in the playground. And then we’ve got the hipsters: artists, surfers, or self-sufficiency fans, they move here for a more sustainable life, and do up tiny cottages, usually very slowly. They’re fond of bartering, since money is short, and the men often wear sandals. We’ve got two aromatherapists, a crystal therapist, and a Reiki healer in the playground this morning, as well as assorted yoga teachers; we’ve even got one who does yoga classes while you balance on surf boards in the sea. But only in the summer, because the winter-weight wet suits restrict your movements too much, and if you fell in the sea without one the only yoga pose you could do would be Frozen Woman in a Leotard. Sally tried it once and said it was brilliant, until you fell in. We’ve also got a former ballet dancer with the Royal Ballet, who teaches Pilates, so all in all it’s a very supple playground.