by Gil McNeil
Dear God. Without knowing it, I seem to have waved a domestic version of a fairy wand and Ivy has finally been able to unleash her heart’s desire in the wonderful world of cleaning supplies. I’ve had to bribe Ben and Alfie with cans of Coke while we’ve compared brands of mop, which all look the same to me, and we’ve got enough brushes, sponges, and cloths to last us years. We’ve also got a new bucket on wheels which will transform cleaning the kitchen flagstones into a complete joy, if Ivy’s demonstration is anything to go by, and more packets and bottles and cleaning supplies than I’ve ever seen. Ivy is so happy she’s almost skipping, and by the time we get to the checkout, so are the boys, because I’ve had to promise extra television time to avert a postschool meltdown at my refusal to sanction mock sword fighting with washing-up brushes.
Bloody hell. I’ve just spent nearly two hundred and forty pounds, on absolutely nothing you can eat or wear. Poor Ivy nearly falls over when the girl tells us the total, and she’s all for retracing our steps and putting things back on shelves, but I manage to get her back to the car, still in a daze, clutching a dustpan and brush, for some reason best known to herself. Ben and Alfie are keen to race the new wheelie bucket round and round the car park until I intervene.
“What’s the point of it having wheels then, if you can’t wheel it?”
“It’s to make the cleaning easier Ben, which it won’t be if you two have trundled it through the mud before we’ve even got it home. Get in the car please love.”
“What are we having for supper?”
“Pasta bake?”
He nods, since pasta is one of his best suppers. Pasta anything actually, baked or otherwise.
“I hate pasta.”
“No you don’t Alfie, and get in the car please.”
Ivy is studying the till receipt.
“It’s right dear, and really, when you look at the prices, we’ve saved ever such a lot, only I never thought it would come to that much, I really didn’t.”
“It’s fine Ivy. We needed to restock, and now we’re all set. Alfie, get in the car. Now. Or there won’t be time for cartoons.”
Dennis is horrified when he helps us unpack, and starts muttering at Ivy, who’s looking increasingly stricken.
“I’m sure we don’t need half this stuff. What’s this for?”
He holds up a collection of thin brushes with bristles, joined together with a plastic chain.
“It’s for cleaning teapot spouts. They’re very fiddly, and you can’t get them properly clean with a cloth.”
“Good Lord, what will they think of next?”
I’m starting to feel a bit sorry for Ivy now, and it’s not like Dennis has ever needed to clean a teapot spout. It’s not something I’ve spent a great deal of time worrying about either, but I’m sure it will come in handy.
“We need the right tools for the job Dennis, just like you do for the garden. And it’s about time the house got its fair share, don’t you think?”
Ivy nods.
“That’s right, and don’t you say another word Dennis, or you can make your own supper. She’s been very kind, getting me all sorts that I’ve wanted for years, so don’t you go spoiling it for me, do you hear?”
“I was only saying.”
“Yes, well, don’t. And you can get those dirty boots off my kitchen floor, thank you. Just because I’ve got a new bucket doesn’t mean I want to be filling it up every five minutes, thank you very much. I’ve told you until I’m blue in the face, either take them off at the door or stop outside. Cup of tea, Miss Molly, and a slice of cake? I’ve got a new Victoria sponge in the tin.”
“Thanks Ivy, that would be lovely, and then I better make a start on supper.”
“What about you Dennis, are you stopping in, or what? And don’t you think you’re getting a slice of my cake, because you’re not. It’s for the family, not the likes of you, standing there upsetting everyone.”
“No I’m not, I’ve got things to do in the shed, at least that way I’ll get a bit of peace.”
“Mum, Uncle Bertie says he’s going to do the cannon in a minute, so can I help him?”
How perfect.
“You can’t help Uncle Bertie Alfie, you know that. You can watch, but you can’t help. Only grown-ups can do anything related to cannons. They’re very dangerous.”
Both Alfie and Dennis are tutting as they wander off in search of Bertie, and Ivy and I exchange a smile.
“Dennis will sort them out, don’t you fret. He makes a fuss about it, but I think he enjoys it almost as much as Mr. Bertie does.”
“I think they all do Ivy.”
They’ve developed a little routine now where the boys stand at a safe distance, almost like they’re standing to attention, and then cheer once the stupid thing has boomed out another plate-rattling round. The only useful thing is how much it annoys the seagulls, who tend to stay clear of the house. They’re a menace in the village when people are trying to eat outside the café or the fish-and-chip shop. Actually that might be a good way to raise a bit of extra cash, particularly if we’re going to be visiting the cash-and-carry on a regular basis—I could rent Bertie out as a seagull deterrent. I’m sure he’d love it.
“I’ve done a rhubarb crumble for your supper. Your Alfie asked me for one specially. It’s in the fridge, all ready—just pop it in the top oven for twenty minutes, dear.”
“Thanks Ivy. Have you made one for you and Dennis too?”
“I have, only I might not feel like cooking this evening. He might have to make do with cheese and biscuits. I haven’t decided.”
I’m fairly sure hell will freeze over before Ivy gives Dennis cheese and biscuits for his supper, but she’s clearly still miffed with him, so you never know.
“There’s soup for Mr. Bertie, the one he likes, oxtail. You go and have a sit-down and I’ll bring your tea in. You’ve had a long day.”
I think I might continue to bask in the glory of Ivy’s approval for a tiny bit longer.
“Five minutes’ peace before I start on supper would be a real treat, thanks. And I’ll heat Bertie’s soup when I make our pasta.”
I end up making a proper pasta sauce for supper, mainly because there’s none left in the freezer, but also because I’m hoping a session chopping and stirring might be a good antidote to our busy afternoon. The boys have all snorked back slices of cake before going back outside with Bertie and Dennis, so they’ll last a bit longer before having supper on the table becomes critical. I’m chopping carrots and celery and onion, and trotting backwards and forwards to the pantry, which is probably my top alternative to the linen cupboard when I’m in need of a bit of calm pottering. There’s something about all the jars of jams and pickles and bottled fruit lined up on the stone shelves, next to the big glass jars of flour and rice and all the tins and packets, and Ivy’s epic collection of recycled jam jars and bottles, which gives you an instant housewifely boost. It’s always cool and dark, and there are bowls and dishes and assorted saucepans and fish kettles and double boilers lined up in ranks on the bottom shelves, so if we ever find ourselves needing to cook for a banquet we’ll be in with a chance. The china cupboard has the smaller bowls and plates, but there’s an impressive collection of soufflé dishes and huge serving platters and tureens in the pantry, in a variety of patterns from long-lost sets: willow and Chinese, flowers and fruit with gilded edgings, alongside the blue-and-cream Cornishware I’ve collected over the years and all the plain white I brought with us. Somehow it all combines to look rather grand. The rest of the house might be in need of a face-lift, but the pantry is perfect just the way it is.
I’m retrieving a bay leaf from one of the jars of herbs Ivy dried last summer and making grand plans to make lots more jams this summer with the boys, when Dan comes in.
“Great, pasta again. What a treat.”
“I thought you were outside with Uncle Bertie?”
“I got bored. Is it meat sauce?”
“Tomato. You can hav
e some tuna with yours if you like. Actually, you could make yourself useful and grate the Parmesan.”
“Can I use the food processor?”
“If you clean it afterwards, yes. The dishwasher’s already nearly full. Otherwise use the grater.”
He’s grating the cheese, albeit in a rather desultory fashion, while I open a couple of cans of plum tomatoes and whizz them into a pulp with the handheld blender, when the bloody cannon suddenly booms out and I whizz tomato all over the kitchen counter and halfway up the wall.
“Mum.”
“Yes Dan.”
“You’ve got tomato all up the wall.”
“Shut up and get me one of the new cloths would you, and the new bottle of cleaner, it’s under the sink.”
He tuts.
“If you want supper, then get a cloth. There’s rhubarb crumble for pudding.”
Dan loves Ivy’s rhubarb crumble almost as much as Alfie does. Any crumble, come to think of it.
“With custard?”
“Possibly. But unless you want custard with a hint of tomato, get wiping.”
I think I might just retreat into the pantry to find the tin of custard powder, and reboot myself back into chirpy domestic mode before Bertie Boom and the boys come back in for supper. And then I can have another look at Lola’s magazines, and pretend I can afford to spend ninety-eight pounds on a roll of wallpaper.
“Mum?”
“Yes Dan.”
“Can you make loads of custard? There’s never enough.”
“As you long as you don’t want cereal for breakfast, sure.”
I better make some more bread, so we’ve enough for toast and their packed lunches. Perhaps the magazines will have to wait.
By the time I’m finally in bed, I’m exhausted, but instead of falling asleep I end up having a series of slow-motion panic attacks. What if I can’t make this work and we have to sell up? Where will we go, and how will I ever get over the shame of letting Helena down? Oh God. And what will I do if Bertie goes completely off the rails? He went out on patrol in his slippers again this evening, and came back half-frozen. Thank God Ivy had left by then, and I’ve washed the mud off his slippers in the scullery sink, and they’re drying on top of the boiler, but there’s “charmingly eccentric” and there’s “completely loopy,” and I’d really rather he stuck with “eccentric.”
Right. I’ll get up and make a pot of tea, and update my lists. That’s always calming. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll overdose on Ivy’s Victoria sponge and blame it on the boys. Bloody hell.
“What’s that terrible racket?”
“The builders, fixing the roof. I’m upstairs, sorting through Ben’s old trousers trying to find some for Alfie. He’s having another growing spurt, so he looks like he’s wearing culottes.”
“They’re quite trendy again.”
“Not for six-year-olds they’re not.”
“How is my lovely boy?”
“Fine, apart from the trouser thing.”
“And the house?”
“We’re still at the stage where you wonder if all the mess could possibly be worth it, but at least we won’t get electrocuted or have the ceilings fall down on our heads.”
“Has that Lucinda woman given up yet?”
“Not really. She’s rung twice now, and on Monday she popped round, so I hid and Ivy got rid of her.”
“That was very assertive of you darling.”
“There’s only so many polite reasons I can think of why I can’t go to one of her horrible lunch parties, and now I’ve got Mum ringing me up three times a day about bloody Roger’s Valentine’s dinner at the hotel. It’s all part of his I Will Be Captain campaign. He’s inviting the current vice captain. He wants to make a big show of it. Can you think of anything more lethal?”
“You could always wear your necklace if he wants maximum showing off.”
“What necklace?”
“Hello? Diamonds, emeralds, ring any bells? How many diamond necklaces have you got darling?”
“It’s not really mine, not really, and Roger and Georgina are still upset about it, so it wouldn’t be terribly subtle. Anyway, it’s in the bank.”
“It is yours, unless you sell it to buy new bathrooms, and it might be a laugh. You might meet a stranger of the tall-dark-and-handsome variety.”
“I very much doubt it, not unless he’s had some sort of brain injury. Why else would you be at dinner in the hotel, where everyone is in couples apart from the bloody waiters?”
“You never know darling, it might not be as bad as you think.”
“It bloody will, and if I wear my black dress everyone will think I’m a bloody waitress, and I can’t wear trousers or Dad will sulk all night.”
“I’ll courier you a frock down if you like.”
“I’d never fit any of your things. My trousers are getting shorter by the day, just like Alfie’s, but in my case it’s thanks to Ivy’s cakes.”
“I’ve got an Issey Miyake that might work, silk pleated dress, drapes from the neck to the floor; all you need is high heels.”
“I’ll look like I’m wearing a parachute.”
“There is that. I only wear it if I’m in the right mood. It can be a bit barrage balloon. Ooh, I know, I’ve seen the perfect thing. I’ll order it right away. Dark-plum wrap dress, stretchy fabric, with velvet flowers, a bit like flock wallpaper but on a frock. I was going to get it next month for your birthday.”
“It will have to be very stretchy, but it sounds lovely.”
“It’s a wrap dress darling—it expands, so the fun never ends. You’ll get an occasional glimpse of your bra, which I know will freak you out, so wear a slip if you must, but a lacy one. I want you to ping me a photo before you leave the house so I can check. Deal?”
“Deal. And thank you, millions. At least I won’t look like a waitress.”
“My pleasure darling. Right, I’m off to find you a pumpkin Cinderella. You shall go to the ball.”
By the time I’m ready for the stupid dinner I’m seriously considering ringing up with a mystery illness, but Lola’s dress arrived this morning and it’s lovely, so that’s helping, and Bertie is very complimentary as I’m leaving.
“Off to paint the town red my dear, that’s the spirit? You look—what is it the boys say?”
Christ, I hope they haven’t explained MILF to him. Dan was saying it about some actress last week, but I pretended not to hear.
“I’m not really sure Uncle Bertie.”
“Sickening, that’s it, you look completely sickening.”
“I think it’s just ‘sick,’ unless you think I’m coming down with something?”
“Extraordinary the way they talk nowadays. Can’t imagine telling a girl she looks ‘sick.’ Anyway, you look very fetching, what we used to call an absolute bobby dazzler.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do my dear—should give you plenty of scope. Any chance of a spot of supper Ivy? Been out on patrol and I’m rather peckish.”
“I’ll bring you something in a minute Mr. Bertie, I’m just making cocoa for the boys.”
“Cocoa—that rings a bell. Used to have cocoa on night watches, might fancy a mug myself.”
“I’ll bring you a sandwich too then, shall I? I won’t be a minute. And you have a lovely time dear, you look champion.”
“Thanks Ivy.”
“Polly put the kettle on.”
“Thanks Betty.”
There’s a waiter giving all the women a red rose as we go into the dining room.
Oh God.
Georgina is wearing a sequined cocktail dress, and so many sparkly bangles she jingles every time she moves. Even her eye shadow is glittery. She’s on a mission to persuade me to host a lunch for her ladies’ golf team, which I think is what Bertie would call the thin end of the wedge: once I agree to one lunch, she’ll be pushing to use the Hall as a venue for all her lunch parties and I’d rather stick pins i
n my legs than become a regular feature on her calendar of snooter events. It takes me ages to convince her that I’m too busy with all the building work and redecorating. Roger is busy trying to be the host with the most with Mr. and Mrs. Vice Captain, laughing too loudly and generally being annoying. But the food is fine, thank God. Dad has a habit of sending things back and making a fuss, but the new chef is definitely an improvement. And then the bloody cabaret starts in the lounge. It’s Dean and the Martins and their big-band sound, only it’s slightly more of a little band since there are only two Martins. They’re regulars at the hotel, and their official name is Nice ’n Easy, but all the staff call them Dean and the Martins. They make such a fuss setting up and doing sound checks they’re definitely not Nice, or Easy. Dean, who is actually called Dave, has very white teeth and a gold jacket, and starts running through his Frank Sinatra/Dean Martin songbook, with Dad tapping his fork along to “Strangers in the Night.” I wonder if he knows it’s about exactly the kind of encounter he would thoroughly disapprove of—especially if she was wearing trousers.
We’re accompanied by “Some Enchanted Evening” as we move into the lounge for coffee, and I’m trying to work out how soon I can leave, whilst simultaneously trying to surreptitiously adjust my dress, which has managed to relax itself to reveal far more lacy vest than I intended, when Roger spots someone he knows and beckons them over.
“Molly, you remember Stephen, don’t you?”
Christ. It’s Stephen Jackson, who I was madly in love with for about three weeks many years ago, when we were both seventeen. Thank God Sally isn’t on duty tonight, or she’d be in hysterics. He used to be a Steve, with a leather jacket and carefully frayed jeans, but he seems to have moved on to being Stephen now, with smart suits and an impressive tan. And here he is, standing smiling at me. Bloody hell. Talk about a blast from the past.
“Lovely to see you again Molly. Roger told me you’d moved back recently.”
Georgina has gone into full-simper mode.
“Stephen is very much a rising star locally, Molly—a very sought-after architect. He’s won so many awards we’ve all lost count. Do join us for coffee Stephen, if your table can spare you?”
