by Gil McNeil
“Night love.”
“Night Mum. And Mum?”
“Yes love?”
“When I have my birthday, promise I don’t have to have puppets.”
“Okay. Would you like a magic show instead? Sally knows a good magician. I think she’s booking him for Tom’s party.”
“If he can magic up no parents, loads of booze, and fit girls, then yes, please.”
“Dream on, sweetheart. And lights out soon, and your laptop needs to be downstairs.”
I risk kissing the top of his head and he leans back for a moment.
“It was a good day, wasn’t it Mum.”
“Lovely.”
“It might be alright down here, you know. I haven’t decided yet, not totally, but it might.”
“Diamonds Are Forever” starts ringing out across the landing.
Lola. With more skirt instructions. How perfect.
“Would you like more tea Stephen?”
“No thanks, I might have a sliver more of the cake, though. Did you make it?”
“No, that’s down to Ivy. She went into cake overdrive for Alfie’s party. My cakes are, well, not like Ivy’s. I’m getting into making bread, though, for the B-and-B.”
“That’s a nice touch, although as I’ve said, I think you can go far better than a B-and-B with a place like this.”
“The gatehouse won’t be B-and-B once it’s finished.”
“True, and he’s making a good job of everything, I will say that. Mr. Stebbings has always been reliable for quality work. But you could do something exceptional with those stables. I’m sure you’d get permission to double the space at least, maybe even more, and if you put in a swimming pool and a spa, the house could be turned into luxury suites—with room for housekeeping and a kitchen, of course. You could be looking at substantial income if you did it properly.”
“Which would be handy, since we’d be homeless.”
He smiles, but also looks mildly irritated.
“I promised Helena that I’d keep everything going, if I can. Well, not promised, but you know what I mean. She put her trust in me.”
“Sure, if that’s what you want. Just don’t make any final decisions. Look at all your options before you decide.”
“But if I did decide to keep things simple, and do up the stables rather than anything bigger, would that be something your firm could do—as a job, I mean—because I’d definitely need help with the plans and everything.”
“Of course, we’d be happy to. I tend to focus on the bigger projects, but I could put one of the associate partners on it. Bea might suit you. She does lots of renovations, and she’s got a great eye. But as I say, don’t decide anything yet. I’ll get Bea to give you a call if you like?”
“That would be great.”
I can see he’s not going to give up on his idea to turn the whole place into a luxury holiday-camp/country-house hotel.
“How long are you in Dubai?”
“A week, possibly ten days. We stay in a decent hotel, so I can’t complain. And then we’re up for an award in Madrid, so I’ll barely be home for a couple of weeks, and I hate that. I miss seeing Finn.”
“Mum?”
“Yes Dan.”
“Alfie’s in the ditch again. Sorry, the ‘ha-ha.’ ”
“Well get him out.”
“Just thought you’d want to know.”
He gives us both a rather hostile look, and stamps off.
Stephen smiles.
“I should probably be going, I’ve got work to finish before I leave tomorrow. Shall I say good-bye to Bertie?”
“He’ll be out on patrol. He likes to keep an eye on the beach.”
“What for?”
“God knows. Make sure the French aren’t invading again? Who knows.”
He laughs.
“You can say good-bye to Betty if you like?”
“If I want to be told to bugger off, I can always phone Finn and check on his schoolwork.”
“Mum?”
“Yes Ben.”
“Alfie’s got a bit wet, but it wasn’t his fault, not really. He was the goalie.”
“Not again. You’re supposed to play football somewhere else Ben, you know that.”
“Yes, but it’s the best flat bit.”
“I’ll be there in a minute. Don’t let him indoors with anything muddy on, or I’ll have to clean the floor again.”
“Okay.”
We walk across the hall, and Stephen pauses to examine the tiles again.
“I’m going to replace the cracked ones. Mr. Stebbings is getting them for me.”
“Good, you want them done properly, that kind of patina is hard to replicate. But if anyone can do it, he can. And thank you, for showing me round, and for tea.”
“You’re welcome.”
He leans forwards and kisses me on the cheek. And obviously it’s not the same as the last time he kissed me, at the school disco all those years ago when I was trying to remember what Sally and I had decided was the optimum stance for kissing based on our limited but dedicated research. Obviously it’s different from that, and a good thing too. But it does feel like more than just a social kiss.
“I’ll call you from Dubai, and maybe we can have dinner when I’m back?”
He gets into his car and waves as he drives down the lane.
Crikey. Maybe he’s just being professional, and hoping I’ll decide to hand over the Hall for him to turn into a grand project. And to be honest, I’m not even sure I want to be going out to dinner, the last thing I need is anything complicated. But still, it’s nice to be asked. I can’t wait to tell Sally.
CHAPTER FOUR
Bringing Home
the Bacon
March to April
China Roses
The arrival of roses from China introduced reliable repeat flowering for the first time. With light and sparse foliage, and delicate sweet fragrances, they are more tender than other varieties. Notable example varieties include Perle d’Or, a coral rose which fades to an apricot pink, fragranced with hints of peach; Irene Watts, a soft pink which fades to ivory; and Old Blush China, a fresh, strong pink rose scented with overtones of violets and sweet peas.
I’m halfway up a stepladder painting the newly replastered ceiling in the guest sitting room in what the paint company have decided to call “Fossil,” but is actually a pale chalky cream. I’ve got paint up one sleeve and in my hair, but I’ve finally got the hang of the new roller, so it’s all going rather well, when Ivy comes in, looking excited.
“Mrs. Denton’s just called and they want to book in for the weekend after next, and I know we’re not meant to be open until Easter, but they’re a nice couple, no bother at all, so I said I’d call them back. Will we be ready, do you think?”
Bloody hell, our first guests.
“I don’t know. I suppose we could be.”
“Well if you’re sure, I’ll let them know. It is looking ever so much better in here, they’ll be so impressed. Half an hour until lunch suit you?”
“I need to get this finished first Ivy.”
“No you don’t, you need to come down off that ladder and have your lunch. I’ve been telling Dennis, ‘She’ll work her fingers to the bone if we let her.’ You’ve got to pace yourself. Rome wasn’t built in a day you know.”
“No, it was built by slaves. Who didn’t stop for lunch.”
She tuts, and folds her arms.
“Mr. Bertie likes eating with you. I never liked the idea of him up here in this great big place all on his own. He needs a bit of company, stop him getting up to mischief. It’s made all the difference to him, you being here, having his lunch with him, a real difference.”
“Thanks Ivy.”
“I mean it. And you be careful on that ladder—rickety old thing. We don’t want you falling off and doing yourself a mischief do we? I don’t hold with women up ladders as a rule. If the good Lord had intended us to spend our time up ladders, he’d h
ave invented men who can do the housework properly.”
“Some of them can.”
“Not round here they can’t. Between Dennis and Mr. Bertie, and the boys bringing in mud, and you treading bits of wallpaper and dust everywhere, it’s a wonder I’m not on tablets, and that’s all I’m saying. Do you want carrots with your lunch, or peas? I think I’ll do both. Celia is here today doing the garden, so she’ll be in for lunch, I’ve made a shepherd’s pie—she likes that and I don’t think she eats enough. Never has. She’s got nobody to cook for, and I don’t think she bothers.”
“Right.”
“Helena was the same, never learnt to cook what I’d call a proper meal. She could boil an egg or do you a bit of toast, but that was about it—no call for it when they were young, of course. Everyone had a full-time cook back then.”
“Not everyone Ivy.”
She smiles.
“No, that’s true enough. Not everyone. Now, remember, I want you at the table when I call you. Or we’ll be having words.”
“Yes, Ivy. Thank you, Ivy.”
I mutter “and ‘three bags full’ Ivy” under my breath.
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
Right. Two weeks is the new deadline. Great. Mr. Stebbings has finished in the house and moved on to the gatehouse, but it’s taking me far longer than I’d hoped to finish the painting and all the final touches. At least the guest bedrooms are almost done, and the bathrooms look nicer, even if the floors did take me ages. The sanding machine made such a noise, and then the varnish took forever to dry, but it looks so much better, I’m glad I stuck with it now—literally, in the case of the family bathroom, when I varnished myself into a corner by the sink.
Twenty minutes later I’ve got paint up both my sleeves, but one more coat should do it.
“Ivy says lunch is nearly ready, dear.”
“Thanks, Celia.”
“She’s humming, so I wouldn’t dally if I were you. Helena always used to say Ivy humming was an early-warning signal you ignored at your peril. Heart of gold of course.”
“Yes.”
“But a complete tartar if crossed. Like all good women. I think we’ve got shepherd’s pie, quite a treat.”
“That’s good. Tell Ivy I’ll be there in a minute, I just need to finish this last section, and then it needs to dry before I do the last coat.”
Ivy and I spent ages unpacking all the new bed linen yesterday, sewing red, green, or blue thread onto all the labels in accordance with Ivy’s coding system so you can spot a double flat sheet from a single without having to unfold everything. At one point I had a mini meltdown and got partially buried under a pile of sheets and blankets, which weigh a surprising amount when they fall on top of your head. But we’ve got neat piles of new linens in a variety of pale blues and white now, so it was worth it, and I’ve made up some more lavender bags, so everything smells lovely too. Mum helped me put up the new curtains in the bedrooms last week, so that’s another job crossed off the list. She did most of the sewing-machine action in the end. Even making simple cotton curtains with no linings is trickier than you’d think, particularly if you manage to machine part of your skirt to them. But the wooden shutters are the real triumph, newly oiled and sanded and repainted a soft chalky cream, which reflects the light and manages to look elegant and warm at the same time. I had to try loads of shades until I found the right one, with Mr. Stebbings helping me choose between Donkey Ride and Pigeon. Donkey Ride won in the end, despite the stupid name, and Bill the window cleaner, another local pensioner with a ladder, has been very complimentary. His graphic description of what happens when old sash cords finally snap and windows descend like guillotines meant I had to divert Mr. Stebbings from his morning tea for an emergency sash-cord survey, but they’re all sorted now, so I don’t have to have nightmares about inadvertently guillotining hapless B&B guests. I really don’t know where we’d be without all the bits and pieces Mr. Stebbings has squirreled away in his workshop. As long as Ivy keeps him supplied with tea and cake, he’s always happy to fix extra things and not charge for them. He says he likes to see them put to good use, and he knew they’d come in handy one day.
“Are you coming then, or not? I’m nearly ready to serve up.”
“Sorry Ivy, I’ll be there in a minute, I promise.”
“You better be, or I shall send Mr. Bertie in to fetch you, with Betty.”
“Mum?”
“Yes Alfie? Eat your supper, love.”
“You know the Spring Fair. Well I’m doing singing in it, our whole class is.”
“That’s nice.”
“Have you heard his class singing Mum?”
“Ben.”
“But have you?”
“Is your class singing as well?”
“No, we’re doing Francis Drake. He was born in Devon and he went round the world in The Golden Hind. So we’re doing models and stuff.”
“That sounds good.”
“Yes, and he was playing bowls on Plymouth Hoe when the Spanish Armada was coming, but he said there was plenty of time to finish the game, so he did. And then they won, against the Armada I mean. I don’t know if he won the bowls thing. But we’re not allowed to do the fighting bit, which is rubbish. My group is doing the banner, so we don’t have to dress up, but we’ll be in the parade.”
“That’ll be good. They do a big parade every year along the seafront—the school, the lifeboats, all the local groups. It’s great, if it doesn’t rain.”
“Let’s pray for rain then.”
“Thanks Dan. Clear the table if you’ve finished love, and put the plates in the dishwasher please.”
“And Mum?”
“Yes Alfie?”
“We’re going to sing pirate songs, and we’ve got to dress up. We’re making our hats.”
Bugger. Another costume for a school-related activity.
“With that mashed-paper stuff.”
Dan grins.
“If you’re wearing a papier-mâché hat, I’m definitely praying for rain. With a bit of luck you’ll all be parading covered in bits of wet newspaper.”
“Dan, aren’t you meant to be clearing the table?”
“Okay, okay, don’t get hysterical.”
“And Mum?”
“Yes Alfie?”
“Betty can come too, because pirates have parrots, so it’ll be great. Won’t it Mum?”
Bloody hell.
“I’m not sure about that Alfie, I don’t think Betty would like it.”
“She’d love it, and I’ve already asked Uncle Bertie and he says she can come.”
“I don’t think he did Alfie.”
And if he did, he can bloody well change his mind, sharpish. In an ideal world I’d rather not find myself standing watching my youngest parading around with a foul-mouthed parrot in front of the whole village. Actually, more like half the county, since people come for miles—it’s one of the highlights of the local calendar, before the summer season starts and everyone is too busy. There are boat races in the bay, and lots of stalls, even if it’s pouring with rain, which it often is, everyone just puts their hoods up and gets on with it, like they have done for years.
“Mum, let him take her. She’d probably bite a few people. It’d be great.”
“Ben, help Dan clear the table if you’ve got nothing better to do than make silly comments.”
“Will Uncle Roger be there Mum?”
“I expect so.”
Dan is grinning again.
“Well there you go then. Betty should definitely be allowed to come with us.”
By the time I’m in bed, rewriting my To Do lists whilst simultaneously mulling over my best tactics for Operation No Parrots on Parade, I’m feeling like I might be about to launch into another round of my slow-motion panic thing, which I could seriously do without. I’m mulling over an emergency slice of cake when “Diamonds Are Forever” rings out on the phone, and it turns out Lola is als
o having a trying time: one of her clients, who’s sold his script to a big studio, is now complaining that they want so many rewrites it will be almost unrecognizable from the script they actually bought.
“Like they were ever going to say, ‘Thank you so much, we won’t change a word.’ ”
“But if they want to change it, why did they buy it?”
“Partly because I led them to believe that if they didn’t, a rival studio would snap it up. But mainly because they all think they’re creative geniuses, they have to meddle with everything to keep themselves and all their mates in their highly paid jobs, even though most of them have never had an original idea in their lives. Bastards.”
“So you can see his point?”
“No, I bloody can’t. Is the whole process fantastically annoying? Yes. Did I warn him it would be? Yes. Did he practically knock me over in his rush to sign up and get the money? Yes. Do I have all day to listen to him whining? No, I bloody do not. Christ, sometimes I wonder why I bother. I should get a proper job.”
“Like?”
“Something with no whiny clients. Do they still have lighthouse keepers? I quite fancy that.”
“Lola, you get withdrawal symptoms if you can’t go clothes shopping every week—every day sometimes—how would that work?”
“I can use the Internet darling. Same-day delivery.”
“Not in a Force-ten gale you can’t. And how would it all get delivered—by helicopter? You probably wouldn’t actually need any new clothes anyway, apart from waterproofs.”
“Scandinavian knitwear is very in right now. I could wear lots of sweaters.”
“Yes, until they got soaked, and then they’d weigh so much you wouldn’t be able get back up the stairs to the turn the light on. Actually, I think the lights are all automatic now, so they don’t actually have lighthouse keepers anymore.”
“Bastards. Okay, I’ll think of something else. How about you darling—want to run away with me?”
“Yes please. Alfie’s class is singing pirate songs at the Spring Fair, and he wants to take Betty, so we’ll need to find a new school—a whole new village, probably, after she’s bitten someone and sworn at half the kids. Oh, and we got our first B-and-B booking today—in two weeks’ time—so that’s something else to worry about.”
