by Gil McNeil
“Congratulations darling.”
“If I get finished in time. I’m still up to my elbows in paint, and the bloody chimney sweep came on Monday, which wasted nearly the whole day, so that was a complete treat.”
“Very Mary Poppins.”
“Oh yes, it was wonderful, what with him whistling and poking brushes up chimneys, and Dennis and Mr. Stebbings scampering about checking when the brushes emerged, while Betty told everyone to bugger off, in between whistling along with the stupid sweep man. I was half expecting him to break into a chorus of ‘Chim Chiminee.’ Or the suffragettes to come marching past.”
“I loved that film, particularly the mother—‘Stand Firm, Sister Suffragettes.’ She had great frocks, but she should have told George to bugger off and taken the kids on her march with her and then she wouldn’t have needed a nanny, and soppy Mary could have stayed at home and talked to her umbrella. She gave me the creeps. Practically perfect in every way, I don’t bloody think so.”
“I liked the cook, the one who puts the saucepan on her head, or was that the Railway Children?”
“Don’t get me started. That was a truly great film. So what was Bertie up to while the sweep was doing his thing? Did he fire the cannon?”
“Is the Pope Catholic? Gave the sweep a shock, he nearly got one of his poles stuck in the dining room chimney.”
“Good old Bertie.”
“Bonkers old Bertie more like. Celia’s been telling me Helena used to threaten to push the cannon off the cliffs if he didn’t stop.”
“You could try that.”
“Not without a handy rugby team I couldn’t—it weighs a ton.”
“I wonder if you can rent rugby teams by the hour. I bet you can. Perhaps I’ll start a whole new roster of clients. I bet they’re less whiny than creatives. Talking of which, any news from the architect?”
“No, I think he’s still in Dubai.”
“He’ll call, when he’s back.”
“He might not, and that’s fine Lola, I told you, he got a bit sulky when I didn’t sign up to all his ideas for the house when he came round for coffee. Definite sulking.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“Maybe, and Betty did try to bite him, but that was probably down to Bertie, I’m sure he does it on purpose. I think he may have heard him trying to persuade me to sell up and turn the house into an upmarket holiday camp.”
“Which does make sense darling, if you wanted to make some proper money.”
“And if I wanted to be homeless, with a mad parrot.”
“Yes, but you can’t blame him for coming up with grand plans—that’s what architects do. He’ll call, and then you can finally move on, unless you’ve got another likely prospect on the horizon.”
“No, I haven’t, and I am moving on.”
“You know what I mean, a new notch on your—”
“Don’t say bedpost, please. It’s so Benny Hill.”
“Saddle?”
“That’s a particularly attractive image, thanks.”
“Are you becoming a nun then? Nobody told me.”
“No, but the last time I was on a horse I fell off. We hadn’t even left the stables so I landed in a load of old straw, but even so.”
We’re both giggling now.
“Get back in the swing, then. Or hammock, you can’t do much on a swing, although hammocks can be tricky too. We had one in that villa last year, but we kept falling out. It got quite annoying after a while.”
“Have you seen him lately?”
“Neal? No, but I met his new wife, at a lunch. Stick insect. IQ of a small domestic pet.”
“In other words perfect for him?”
“Ideal. God, I don’t know why we bother, I really don’t.”
“Neither do I.”
“Night darling.”
“Night Lola.”
I’m almost nodding off when the phone rings again, with no diamond tune. If this is another one of those calls telling me my computer needs fixing and if I would only give them my credit card details, they promise to improve my download speeds, it’s going to be a very short call.
“Hi Molly. I hope it’s not too late, I’ve rather lost track of time.”
Actually half past eleven is quite late, but I sit up and try to sound like the opposite of someone who’s half-asleep.
“Hello Stephen. Are you still in Dubai?”
“Yes. I thought I’d be back by now, but things have run on. How are things at the Hall?”
“Getting there. We’ve just got our first B-and-B booking, so I’m racing to get everything finished in time for Easter.”
“I gather Bea is coming round tomorrow?”
“Yes, with Vicky, and their daughter. Vicky’s in the same book group as my friend Sally. I’m hoping she’ll help me with some ideas for the gatehouse. Sally says she’s a designer, and if their house is anything to go by she’ll have loads of great ideas.”
“Yes, they’re both very talented. Does Sally still work at the hotel?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m sure you’ll like Bea. She’s worked for us for about five years now, and she does some interesting work. She might even inspire you to go for a broader scheme. She’s got good instincts, see what you think. And let’s fix up that drink as soon as I’m back, or perhaps I could take you out to dinner?”
“That would be lovely.”
“I’ll call you, once I know what my diary looks like. We could try that new fish restaurant, I’ve heard good reports.”
“Sounds lovely.”
Oh God, why do I keep saying “lovely”? He probably thinks I’m a total idiot.
“Night Molly.”
“Night, and thank you for calling.”
Oh God. Thank you for calling. Now I sound like I work in Customer Services. What is wrong with me?
“My pleasure. I’ll see you soon, and say hello to Bea for me.”
Thankfully the line goes dead before I can say anything else embarrassing. I’m glad he called though. I felt like I’d failed some unwritten test when he came round for coffee. He was so impressed with the house, and the gatehouse and the stables, but definitely less impressed with my plans. I’ll just have to remember to make sure Betty isn’t around—either that or make her a special papier-mâché hat all of her very own.
I’m standing in the school playground with Sally, waiting for the bell to ring as Lucinda Langdon-Hill arrives and gives me a cheery wave. I’m still avoiding going to any of her snooter lunches, but either she’s got skin like a rhinoceros or she’s a bit thick and hasn’t noticed—possibly a bit of both. She was telling me all about her business partner who does holiday rentals yesterday, and she’d be more than happy to pop a brochure round. Sally thinks it’s all highly amusing.
“She’s waving at you again.”
“Shut up Sal.”
“I will understand you know, if you feel you have to go and stand with the posh people. After all, you do live in one of our more important houses. Watch out—here comes Fliss Osborne, on her horse.”
“How super.”
Felicity holds the reins while her daughter Charlotte dismounts, and then clops off down the lane with the pony trotting along beside her horse, giving us all an imperious nod as she passes.
Lucinda is waving again, which makes Sally laugh.
“Blimey, there’s posh for you. Wait until she hears you’ve got stables—she’ll be trying to get you to tack up before you know it, and then you can arrive on horseback wearing a velvet riding hat just like she does.”
“With Alfie? On a horse? It’s bad enough with the bloody parrot.”
“Good morning Mrs. Taylor.”
Great. Mrs. Williams, our head, has just heard me saying “bloody” in the playground. I’ll probably get some sort of black mark in the parental register.
“Good morning Mrs. Williams.”
“I gather from Alfie that you used to teach, in London.”
; She’s probably thinking that explains the bad language.
“That’s right, History, at secondary school.”
She’s giving me a determined look, and I’m trying to return it, to signal that no, I am not available to run historical projects on Francis Drake or anybody else with assorted six-to-ten-year-olds, thank you very much.
“Alfie has been telling us all about your chickens. You have quite a little flock I hear?”
Bloody hell. I must have a word with Alfie about sharing domestic details. The nutter chickens have started laying again, but Vita and Gertie have gone broody, so I’m wearing the long sheepskin gloves I found in the boot cupboard when I feed them, as anti-pecking protection.
“Yes, that’s right.”
What is she after now, my taking charge of a whole school omelette?
“Miss Cooper and I thought you’d be the ideal person to take charge of the egg stall at the Spring Fair. It’s very simple, and great fun. Miss Cooper can give you all the details—and I’m sure you’ll help too, won’t you Mrs. Elston?”
Sally is caught off guard by this.
“Er, yes, of course, only…”
“Excellent. There’s Miss Cooper now. I’ll give her the good news. And all the parents help of course. We wouldn’t want your chickens to have to work overtime now, would we? Good morning.”
Bollocks.
Sally is still looking rather stunned.
“God, she’s good. What egg stall is she on about Sal?”
“I think it’s the egg tombola.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Loads of eggs, all painted, and there’s numbers on the bottom of some of them. So you choose your egg and if there’s a number, you get a prize. And if not, well, you get to keep your egg.”
“Are you serious?”
“They started it years ago—after the war I think—when boiled eggs were a big treat.”
“Dear God.”
“You can say that again. We’ll have to make hundreds—at least a couple of hundred, I think. More if the weather forecast is good. Everyone is supposed to bring boiled eggs into school on the day before the fair, but they always forget. Brenda Thomas was up till half past three in the morning last year.”
“Are you seriously telling me we’ve got to decorate hundreds of boiled eggs and then stand there like nutters all day, dodging bits of shell when people don’t win anything and decide to have a quick snack?”
“Pretty much.”
“Jesus Sal, it’s like the land that time forgot.”
“I know. That’s why we like it, most of the time.”
“Can’t we just buy loads of mini chocolate eggs? I bet we could get big boxes of them at the supermarket. It can be our contribution to school funds.”
“That’s a brilliant idea. But people do like the decorated eggs. Mind you, they’d probably like chocolate ones even more.”
“That’s decided then. If they want boiled eggs, they can run the stall themselves. If we’re doing it, they’ll be chocolate, yes?”
“Yes, but you tell Miss Cooper.”
“Thanks Sal, you’re a tower of strength.”
“I was late again last week, picking Tom up, she already thinks I’m crap. I can’t tell her we’re not doing the boiled-eggs thing too, I just can’t. But I’ll owe you one, I promise. And I think the chocolate ones will be really popular. You’re completely brilliant.”
“Sal?”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
Thankfully Miss Cooper approves of the chocolate-egg plan; as long as she can cross something off her list, I really don’t think she cares. We promise to make sure we don’t buy chocolate with any trace of nuts because we’ve got a couple of kids in the school with serious allergies, and we’re all set. But still. If anyone suggests we dress up as chickens, they can bugger right off.
I’m back at home making a quick coffee with Ivy when Mum arrives. She and Ivy have declared a temporary truce in their home-baking competition while they focus on the big Spring Clean. They both seem to be enjoying this enormously and have spent ages working out a plan of action to fit round my frantic attempts to get the last of the redecorating done so we can get everything spick-and-span and up to Ivy’s usual standards. She says she usually gets a couple of girls in from village to help with the rough jobs, so I was having visions of the kind of women who can handle themselves in a fight at the pub, but they turned out to be her friends Florrie and May, who’ve been helping with the Spring Clean for years. Florrie is on the waiting list for a hip replacement, and May is waiting to get her cataracts done, so Ivy doesn’t let her clean anything fragile, but between them they’ve managed far more than a team of eight people half their age. And with Mum helping too, Ivy says they’ll be done in record time. All the floors are so shiny now you can find yourself doing a pretty good audition for Dancing on Ice if you’re not concentrating. I’ve managed to avoid a triple toe loop in the hall so far, but the boys have been taking full advantage of the chance to slide sideways balanced on one leg, and Alfie can get right across the dining room if he’s got his school socks on.
“Coffee Mum?”
“Please, and I’ve brought those curtains back—the old brocade ones from Ben’s room. I’ve taken them up six inches and given them a clean. It took three cycles in my machine, but they look so much nicer now, I thought we could hang them Ivy, if you’ve got a minute?”
Ivy only nods, since she’s got a mouthful of Bakewell tart, so I leave them planning more cleaning while I put my painting clothes back on and start pouring paint into my tray. I’m halfway back up my stepladder when the front doorbell rings.
Bugger.
A rather posh-looking woman gives me a critical look as I open the door.
“Mrs. Pargeter. I’m here to meet Millie.”
“Sorry?”
She sighs and looks at me like I’m one of life’s slow learners.
“I’m Mrs. Pargeter, I have an appointment with the owner. Lucinda arranged it, to discuss holiday rentals. I’m exceptionally busy today, so if you could find her, I’d be most grateful.”
She clearly thinks I’m a half-witted decorator, and I’m tempted to wave my paintbrush and say everyone has gone out.
“Right, well, that’s me.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m Millie—I mean Molly, sorry, I’m Molly, and I don’t remember arranging anything with Lucinda about holiday rentals.”
She decides to ignore this inauspicious start and goes into full meet-and-greet mode.
“Well done you. So nice to see our old estates being taken care of, so important. I do represent quite a few of the more important local properties, and your lovely gatehouse will sit very nicely on the list. I’ve brought my camera, so I can take a few snaps now, if that works for you?”
God she’s pushy, and she’s looking very determinedly at the door, clearly waiting to be asked in for coffee so she can sign us up.
“We’re not really ready for photographs just yet.”
I wave my paintbrush, which she ignores.
“There you are Miss Molly. You’re wanted on the phone.”
Thank God, the cavalry has arrived in the form of Ivy, who is giving Mrs. Pargeter a very beady look.
“Oh, right, well, I should probably take that, and then get back to my painting, but lovely to have met you, Mrs. Pargeter, and do give all the details to Ivy.”
Ivy takes a step forwards, and I think Mrs. Pargeter has probably met her match, so I leave them to it. Bloody hell, my Lady of the Manor routine clearly needs more work. I bet nobody ever mistook Helena for a random gardener or painter, even if she was wearing filthy old trousers and her terrible old gardening jacket.
I’m back up my ladder when Ivy comes in.
“Rude woman. Quite put out she was. I hope you don’t mind my fib about the phone call, but it’s the only way to get rid of people like her, and she’s no better than she ought to be, and that’s all I’m
saying. Florrie used to clean for her mother, years ago, and I could tell you some tales.”
“She’s gone then?”
“Yes, left her card, which we won’t be needing if I’ve got anything to say about it. Think they’re a cut above, her mother was the same. Ran a pub before she married, and not a nice pub either. All fur coat and no knickers—both of them—always have been.”
“Don’t make me laugh Ivy, or I’ll fall off my ladder.”
“Just you be careful. I’ll go and finish those curtains with your mum. She’s made a lovely job of them, you wait and see, and then we can have a nice cup of tea.”
“Great.”
With a bit of luck I’ll get at least an hour before they’re back in the kitchen.
“Thanks, Mum, the curtains look great. Do you want another coffee before you go?”
“No thank you dear. I better be off, I’ve still got my shopping to do. But I did want a little word. Georgina was wondering if you’d had a chance to think about her offer?”
“What offer?”
“You know, the lunch, for all the golf club women, now the builders have finished in the house. I’m sure it would be good for business.”
“How?”
“Sorry dear?”
“How would it be good for business? They don’t strike me as the types with friends who’d book into a B-and-B, and the gatehouse won’t be ready to show anyone. So no, I don’t want a load of Georgina’s snobby friends having lunch here, thanks all the same. Sorry Mum, but I’ve already told her, so she can stop trying to get you to fix it up for her.”
There’s a pause.
“You’re probably right.”
Crikey, is Mum actually agreeing with me?
She smiles.
“You’ve worked so hard here, and Ivy has been singing your praises, and everything looks so much nicer, it really does dear.”
“Thanks Mum.”
“I’ll tell Georgina no, then, shall I?”
“Please.”
“I know I shouldn’t say it, but she could probably do with being told no a bit more often, the fuss she makes about those clothes of hers. She was trying to persuade me to buy a new coat yesterday—there’s plenty of wear left in my old one, but you should have heard her. I’d better be off, but I’ll see you on Friday. Ivy and I are planning to turn out the big china cupboard and give everything a good wash. She says some of it hasn’t been out for years.”
