A Good Year for the Roses: A Novel

by Gil McNeil

  “Oh sure, I’ll give them a break. They can have a nice long one if they don’t buck their ideas up. They’re always disappearing when you want them. I think I’ll split them up, put them on different floors. Thanks Moll. Morning Tiffany, Chantelle—all the rooms on your floor finished, are they?”

  Vicky is waiting at the gatehouse when I get back, and she’s making a pot of coffee, thank God.

  “I’ve brought croissants too; I thought we might need a bit of a boost. Is the water hot?”

  “It should be, I set the boiler to twice a day.”

  “We’ve only got downstairs to clean and we’ll be done.”

  She hands me a mug of coffee.

  “Apart from all the unpacking and tweaking.”

  “Yes, but that’s the fun part. And I prefer to call it ‘dressing,’ thanks. I ‘dress’ rooms, I don’t ‘tweak’ them.”

  “Sorry.”

  She grins.

  “Here.”

  She hands me a croissant.

  “Thanks Vicky, this is just what I need.”

  “Don’t let me forget to take more pictures. I need them for the website. I uploaded the upstairs ones last night—do you want to see?”

  “Yes please.”

  She opens her laptop and starts clicking away.

  “Oh Vicky, they look great.”

  “All part of the service, madam. Right, what’s first?”

  “Just let me finish this and I’ll start on giving the kitchen a proper clean.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “No, you do the dressing thing, I’ve brought the books, they’re in the car. I got some for babies too—I asked the boys if they’d let me have some of their old ones, I only wanted a few of their old picture books—they never look at them—but they were so outraged they spent ages sorting through all their books, so I didn’t sneak any out. They found all sorts of things they’d forgotten, so all three of them ended up reading, for nearly two hours—it was great. I nearly rang The Guinness Book of Records.”

  She smiles.

  “Daisy does that too. If her room gets too crazy, Bea gets a cardboard box and says we need to take a few bits to charity and she tidies up at the speed of light.”

  “Top tip—I must try that.”

  She brings the books in from the car.

  “Oh, I love this one, I remember reading it to Daisy. These are great, Molly. We might get a few people bringing babies, they’ll love this, I’ve put a No Children Over Two restriction on for bookings, and they can see there’s only one bedroom, so that should take care of anyone wanting to bring bigger kids.”

  “I keep wondering if we should have put in for planning permission and put an extension on for the bathroom, gone for two bedrooms. But it would have taken ages and blown my budget completely.”

  “No, it works perfectly as it is. The proportions are right, and Bea says they’re getting a lot more picky about people sticking extensions on lovely old buildings like this. Anyway, when you do the stables, you’ll have two-bedroom rentals to add to your portfolio, won’t you?”

  “That sounds good. A portfolio.”

  “I’m learning the agency lingo. Shall I unpack the rest of the china too?”

  “Great, and I’ll find the rubber gloves and give the kitchen cupboards a good clean, before Ivy sees them.”

  We both smile.

  It’s been great seeing everything starting to come together over the past couple of weeks. The wood floors look transformed, newly sanded and stained, and we’ve put sisal matting down in the kitchen and underneath the dining table, and a thick wool rug in front of the new log-burning stove. The combination of blues and greens downstairs makes everything look fresh and elegant, acid greens and cornflower blues, with cushions and throws on the slate tweed sofa and armchair. Vicky has worked wonders finding things which look expensive, mixing in cheaper fabrics for cushions and the blinds, and the polka-dot curtains we made for the kitchen. All my boot-fair finds of old blue-and-white china will look great on the dresser, and I’ve put a large blue glass jug filled with dried alliums from the garden on the windowsill by the front door. The glass sparkles in the sunlight, and the soft, chalky paint on the walls and duck-egg blue in the kitchen somehow brings everything together, even if it did take four coats.

  Upstairs we’ve gone for toasted-almond-and-cream paintwork in the bedroom and a soft pinky cream in the bathroom, with wallpaper Vicky found of March hares leaping, in a pretty pale butterscotch and white. It cost a fortune, but we’ve only done the end-gable wall, and it makes the whole room look like something you’d see in a magazine feature on luxury bathrooms. There’s a plain white freestanding bath in front of the window, which is so big Mr. Stebbings had to take the window frame out to get it in, and a separate shower, and a comfy slipper chair covered in some special soft-white Italian rubber, which Vicky got at a huge discount from one of her trendy suppliers. Even after the discount she negotiated, it still cost a fortune, but with the wallpaper, it makes the room look designerly without being clinical. And I’ve bought thick white towels and bathmats, and cotton bed linen in creams and caramels, with butterscotch-and-cream check linen curtains with thick linings for guests who don’t want to wake up at dawn.

  I’m cleaning the kitchen windows when Mum arrives.

  “I thought you might like a sandwich. I’ve brought one for Vicky too. Doesn’t it all look lovely?”

  “Thanks, Mum. She’s just left, she’ll be back tomorrow, but I think we’re getting there.”

  “Ivy’s been telling me all about the rabbit wallpaper in the bathroom. Can I go up and have a look?”

  “Sure, and it’s hares, Mum, not rabbits. Go up and see, and I’ll put the kettle on.”

  We sit at the dining table.

  “Thanks, Mum, this is great. I didn’t know I’d got so hungry.”

  I’ve eaten Vicky’s sandwich as well as my own.

  “It was Ivy who made them. She was making lunch and she was all for sending Dennis down to fetch you both, so I said I’d bring them down. You’ve worked wonders here, you really have. I quite fancy the idea of booking in for a few nights. Although what your father would say heaven alone knows. What’s this?”

  She picks up the blue suede folder Vicky left on the dresser.

  “We’re making up a book for guests, leaflets on local things to do, bus timetables, tide times. Vicky’s putting the final touches to the how-to notes tonight: how to switch the boiler on, what day the bins are collected, what day we’ll change the linen—that kind of thing.”

  “This jug is pretty. Is this one you found at one of your markets?”

  “Yes, it was only a couple of quid. I thought I’d fill it with roses, if Dennis will let me have any.”

  We both smile.

  “I’ve been in the garden with him and Celia this morning, starting lifting up paving stones to see if they can work out what’s happened to the pipes for the fountain. Did you know she’s Flora?”

  “Who is?”

  “The statue. It’s the goddess Flora, and the water she pours from her jug represents Spring, or it will do if they can ever get it working. Edward was helping them. He’s such a nice man, isn’t he? He was doing most of the lifting until the man arrived to tune the piano.”

  “Good. I was hoping I’d miss that.”

  “You should have heard them, he ended up playing tunes with Bertie and Betty while the piano tuner had a cup of tea—they had us all in stitches. I didn’t know he could play so well. Terrible about his parents isn’t it, sound like nasty sort of people to me. Celia says they’re so cross they’re not speaking to her either now. I think she’s quite enjoying that, though.”

  “Yes, I think she is.”

  “She was telling me all about her new cottage, and how Mr. Stebbings will be doing it, before he starts on your stables.”

  “That’s right, if I can get the plans approved and all the paperwork sorted with the bank.”

  “Celia was
saying her new cottage is up on the hillside, behind the harbour.”

  “Yes, in the lanes, right up at the top.”

  “She said the garden needs a complete overhaul. It’s steep and terraced, but it’s got out of control, so she’s thinking of alpines, only she doesn’t know much about them. She said Helena told her I had a lovely rockery at the old house, so she was hoping I’d give her some tips. Wasn’t that nice?”

  “Well you did Mum. The whole garden was lovely.”

  “I’ve said I’ll be happy to help, but I’ll want to make sure I have time to help out here too. I enjoy it and I don’t care what your father says. I like feeling useful, and it’s not him stuck indoors all day, is it? It won’t hurt him to have a sandwich for lunch occasionally. I always leave everything ready for him in the fridge, and I always make a proper cooked meal in the evenings.”

  “I know you do Mum, and you are useful, very useful. But you can come and just sit in the garden and read a book you know. Harrington is a part of you too.”

  She seems very pleased with this, and gives me a hug.

  “Look at the time—I better get to the shops. I want to get some pork chops for supper. But make sure you have an early night tonight—you don’t want to get exhausted before the first guests arrive.”

  I think that ship may already have set sail some time ago, but never mind.

  “Thanks Mum.”

  I’m rather impressed she’s decided Dad can cope with the occasional sandwich for lunch. I just hope she sticks to it. We’ve spent years avoiding him getting into a temper, and mealtimes were always particularly bad, with her looking nervous and fussing. It’s no wonder I love picnics so much—they were the only time we didn’t have to worry about Dad getting into a strop. We’d sit on the picnic blanket in the garden, or on the beach, with nobody yelling about sitting up straight or not eating too quickly. Actually maybe we can have a picnic at the weekend, if the weather holds, although possibly not within sight of the pigs, not unless we want to share all of our food.

  We’re in the garden after school, and I’m enjoying a quick ten minutes of deadheading roses while Ben picks peppers and tomatoes for supper. It’s surprisingly relaxing wandering around with a basket snipping off fading flowers and taking the petals indoors to dry. I’ll cut the lavender soon and dry that as well. On days like this I could seriously get into this gardening lark.

  “Mind you don’t go cutting any of those for your vases.”

  “Without permission Dennis, would I dare? Ben’s in the kitchen garden picking tomatoes for tea, I hope that’s okay?”

  “I’ve just seen him. He’s got all the makings of a proper little gardener, that one—reminds me of our Michael at that age.”

  “He really enjoys it. I was just going to take these in and make some tea. Would you like a cup?”

  “No, I’m keeping out of Ivy’s way. She’s in a mood today, always the same the day after our Michael phones.”

  “You must both miss him. How long has he been in Australia now?”

  “Nearly ten years. The littlest one was born out there. She’s moved her mother out there now, my daughter-in-law, she lives in a bungalow near them. Wouldn’t fancy that if I was him, your mother-in-law moving all that way to keep an eye on you. Ivy’s mother was bad enough, when we were first married, always popping round to poke her nose in, but you move round a lot with the navy, and that soon got rid of her. Still, he’s got himself a good job and a big house with a pool and all sorts, so he made the right decision.”

  “It’s such a long way though. Have you ever thought of going over to see them all?”

  Please God he doesn’t say, “Yes, we’re going next week,” or I will be well and truly buggered as Uncle Bertie would say.

  “Not really. His wife, Christine, well she’s a nice enough girl, but she and Ivy fell out over the wedding. Ivy was only trying to help, but Christine and her mother wanted everything done their way, and then, well, it just carried on that way when Joshua was born. Which I suppose is to be expected—a girl wants her mother at a time like that. I know that. But Ivy felt shut out. We didn’t have the space for them to stay with us, and money was a bit tight, and one thing led to another and they stopped coming. And then they told us they were emigrating, and that was that. She and Ivy are too alike—that’s the trouble. They both said things they shouldn’t have said, silly little things. I bet if you asked them, neither of them could remember it now, but one thing led to another, and they ended up not speaking. Still don’t. He rings us every few weeks, and we speak to the boys, but she never comes on the line.”

  “What a shame.”

  “It is. And Ivy minds, I know she does. She won’t say, but I can tell.”

  “Can’t we do something?”

  He smiles.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. There’s no point trying to get Ivy to back down, got to go round sideways if you want her to change her mind—after being married to her so long, I’ve learnt that if I’ve learnt nothing else. But it’ll be our golden wedding the year after next, so I thought I’d see if he’d come over for that. What do you think?”

  “I think that’s a brilliant idea, but why wait? Why don’t we have a party for her birthday and invite them over for that. Actually, when is her birthday?”

  “The end of September, but she doesn’t like a fuss. Well, she says she doesn’t, but I’d never hear the end of it if I forgot.”

  “Do you think they’d be able to come?”

  “Our Michael’s like me—anything to keep the peace, but I know it bothers him, so I know he’ll try his best. And Ivy would be tickled pink. But I think we should keep it quiet, or she’ll fret about it, and you know how she gets when she’s got a bee in her bonnet. And I’d want to ask Mr. Bertie—he’s very good at keeping secrets, and he knows her very well, I’d want to have his opinion. I wouldn’t feel right not discussing it with him.”

  “Of course, and if he thinks it’s a good idea, they can stay in the house. I can reserve the B-and-B rooms and she won’t suspect a thing. I’ll make up a name, and it will be my treat Dennis—the party and everything. If they can get cheap flights, then I’d really like to cover everything else. I’ve been wanting to find a way to thank you both.”

  He smiles.

  “Let’s see what Mr. Bertie thinks, but I think you might be on to something. And you’re right, no point in waiting. Been long overdue as it is.”

  He’s whistling as he walks towards the orchard, unlike Ivy who is banging saucepans around and muttering when I get back into the house.

  “Is Mr. Bertie still out there? Silly man won’t sit still for more than five minutes before he’s off making mischief somewhere.”

  “I’m not sure Ivy. I haven’t seen him.”

  “I’ve made you an apple pie for supper; it’s in the bottom oven keeping warm.”

  “Thanks Ivy.”

  “Mr. Edward asked for it special, poor thing. He says he’s always been partial to apple pie. I don’t think anyone has fed him properly for years.”

  “Probably not. It’s lucky he’s here now so you can rescue him before he gets rickets.”

  She hesitates, and then smiles.

  “I like to see people eating up.”

  “That’s good, because we all love your food.”

  “Apart from Mr. Bertie—he only picked at his lunch today, he’s always been a fusspot. And I know he’s never been that keen on liver and onions, but it builds you up. I’ve got some for our dinner tonight, with a bit of bacon. No doubt Dennis will twist his face as well, but it’s good for you, so he’ll just have to lump it.”

  “Right.”

  Bloody hell. I seriously hope she likes the surprise party, if Bertie gives it the green light, or I think we might all find ourselves eating quite a bit of liver. Yuck.

  “Mum, what’s for supper?”

  I’m half tempted to say “liver and onions,” just to see Dan’s face.

  “Tuna quiche
and salad, and Ivy’s made an apple pie for pud.”

  “Great. Shall I lay the table?”

  “Yes please love, although it’ll be a while yet.”

  “Okay, I’ll do my homework first, and then I’ll set the table.”

  “Thanks love.”

  “It’s fine, Mum, I know how hard you’ve been working.”

  He trots off upstairs, and Ivy and I exchange glances.

  “Either he’s starving, he’s broken something, or he wants something. Fingers crossed it’s food he wants.”

  She nods.

  I’m making a salad with the tomatoes Ben picked, and I can’t resist eating a couple while I’m chopping. They taste so different from shop-bought ones, it’s the same with the lettuce and the cucumber—straight from the garden, they taste so much fresher. And the really brilliant bit is I don’t have to be the person who grubs about in the mud growing them. Dan is still being hyperhelpful, and is now offering to shut the chickens up for the night later on, if I could just let him know when I’d like him to do it.

  “Okay, I give up, what have you broken?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, can’t I just be helpful without getting the third degree?”

  “Okay, sorry, so what do you want?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Really?”

  He grins.

  “Well, it’s just this party I’d like to go to, but we can talk about it later—it’s no big deal.”

  “Nice try love. What party?”

  “Robbie’s mum has already said he can go. It’s on Saturday night, in a couple of weeks, on the beach. One of the lifeguards, Jack, he’s eighteen, and he’s invited everyone from the club, and loads of his mates too, for a beach party, with a barbecue. It’s going to be epic.”

  “Eighteen is a lot older than fourteen love.”

  “Yes, but I’m nearly fifteen.”

  “Not until next month you’re not, and you know what I mean. I’m guessing people will be drinking, and doing all sorts of other things too probably.”

  “Oh God, this isn’t going to be another one of your sex-and-drugs chats is it? Please, they’re so embarrassing.”