A Good Year for the Roses: A Novel

by Gil McNeil

  “Not as embarrassing as finding yourself with a toddler before you’re old enough to vote, trust me.”

  “Please don’t go into one Mum. I know the drill.”

  He adopts a rather tragic pose.

  “ ‘Make sure it’s someone special, make sure you’re careful, watch out for scary diseases, and watch out for naughty men who try to get you into their cars,’ blah blah blah. I promise, okay? If the glorious day ever comes, I promise I’ll be careful.”

  “Good. And I’m not sure anyone would try to get you into their car Dan, not unless they were completely insane.”

  He grins.

  “Anyway I wouldn’t start looping out about it Mum, I haven’t even persuaded her to talk to me yet.”

  “Who?”

  “Freya?”

  So it’s still Freya then, oh dear. Even as his mother, and hugely biased, I can see she might be a tiny bit out of his league: tall, blond, and looking every inch the poster girl for the joys of surfing, she’s also clever and in the same top classes at school as Dan.

  “Don’t you ever talk in History or English? She’s in your group for those isn’t she?”

  “Yes, and sometimes we do, but not out of school.”

  “Girls like clever boys love, if they’re clever too. Just try to relax and be yourself.”

  “Like I’m going to be able to pull that off. Last time I tried to talk to her, my voice went all weird.”

  “Focus on school, where she can see you shine.”

  “There’s only three weeks left before the holidays, and anyway, I think ‘shine’ might be pushing it a bit Mum.”

  “Not if you do your homework. Won’t you have a holiday project, for English?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ellingham has already told us, but its crap, he wants us to write about our summer. Honestly. Couldn’t he have thought of something more boring?”

  “What books are on your course list for next year?”

  “Pride and stupid Prejudice, and I’ve seen the film, and I don’t get why that wanker Darcy doesn’t just get on with it.”

  “Probably the same reason you don’t declare your intentions to Freya.”

  “I would if I had a great big house like he does.”

  “But he does, and she turns him down.”

  “Yes, but that was his own fault, for being such an arse.”

  “Maybe you could write about different kinds of prejudice, things you’ve seen over the summer.”

  “What prejudice? It’s pretty cool down here Mum.”

  “Everyone is prejudiced against the tourists though, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, but they deserve it. Although Mr. Ellingham did say we could make stuff up too, so you can write about the summer you wished you had, and compare it to the one you actually got, so maybe I could do some Pride and Prejudice stuff in that. Cool. Thanks Mum.”

  I think Mr. Ellingham is being rather brave asking teenage boys to write about the kind of summer they wished they’d had. I’m guessing girls in bikinis may feature in quite a few of the essays which get handed in.

  “Just make sure you write something he can read out to the class, something that shows what a creative genius you are.”

  He grins.

  “And I’d like to read it, when you’re done.”

  He tuts.

  “So can I go then, to the party?”

  “I suppose so, if you promise to be sensible. I’ll come and pick you up, at eleven?”

  “It won’t even be properly started by then Mum. And you can’t come and get me—everyone will get cabs.”

  “Midnight and I’ll come and collect you. You haven’t got money for cabs, and neither have I. And I won’t sleep until you’re home safe. So take it or leave it.”

  He tuts again, but he’s smiling as he goes upstairs.

  I’ve just settled Alfie into bed when Stephen calls.

  “Hi Molly. Bea tells me the gatehouse is nearly finished.”

  “Yes, it’s looking great, mostly due to Bea and Vicky—they’ve been brilliant. You must come and see. How is… where are you again?”

  “Barcelona, and it’s good, thanks. The job’s going well, and I’m thinking about opening a European office. We’re up for a couple of big projects, and if we get them—which I’m reliably informed we will—then the new office will be part of the deal.”

  “How exciting.”

  “Yes, it is rather. I’ll still be based at home of course—got to keep the core business ticking over. Anyway, enough business. I’m calling to invite you to a ball.”

  “Sorry?”

  “White ties, tiaras, that sort of thing. Lucinda Langdon-Hill is on the committee. She’s been badgering me about tickets, they do it every year, and it’s usually pretty good. Chance to wear a long frock and glam up for the evening. They do all rather go to town with their outfits.”

  Oh God.

  “I haven’t actually got a long frock Stephen. I haven’t got many short ones either to be honest. But thank you, for the invitation.”

  “Good excuse to go shopping.”

  “It doesn’t really sound like my sort of thing but…”

  “It raises lots of funds for charity. Last time it was retired racehorses I think, and the local Tory party.”

  “All causes dear to my heart.”

  He laughs.

  “There is that.”

  “I’ve only just managed to persuade Lucinda that I don’t want to be on her Ladies Who Lunch list. I don’t want to start her off all over again. I’m sorry, but thank you for asking me.”

  “Well, if you’re sure, I suppose I can see if Bea is free that night—it will be very useful for work.”

  Poor Bea.

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “I’ll fix up another dinner when I’m back?”

  Oh dear, I’m not sure I’ve handled this very well. But seriously, a long frock and a load of hideous county types. I’d rather stick pins in my legs.

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Night Molly.”

  “Night Stephen, and thanks for calling.”

  Oh God, I’ve done it again. Thanks for calling. Christ. I know he’s smiling now—I can almost hear it.

  “My pleasure.”

  It’s Saturday afternoon and we’ve got a full house. Lola and Tre arrived late last night, and Sam and his wife Angie have just arrived, with their kids, Silas and Ruby. I’d forgotten how much I like Pete’s brother, and Angie arrived with two bags full of the kind of treats you don’t often buy for yourself: posh pasta, jars of artichokes and peppers, a huge chunk of Parmesan, all sorts of delights from a smart Italian deli, as well as a fabulous collection of chocolates and a big box of Turkish Delight. So she’s a strong contender for Star Guest of the Year. They’re out in the orchard while the kids have a run around and meet the pigs, and I’m in the kitchen with Lola, making coffee.

  “So you really liked it then—no snags at all?”

  “It’s great, comfy, but gorgeous too, and the bathroom’s perfect. Very designerly. Talking of which, what’s the latest from the architect?”

  “He’s away again; we’re having dinner when he’s back, at least I think we are, if he’s got over me refusing to go to the local Tory ball with him. As if.”

  “So you’ll be selling the house and giving all the money to poor people will you?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean I want to go to a ball with the kind of local snooters who think poor people are scum.”

  “You could have worn your necklace.”

  “Oh well that’s different then. If I can wear an emerald necklace which isn’t really mine and I get to show off, I’m definitely going. What was I thinking?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Alright Comrade, but if I find you a champagne socialist ball to go to in town, then will you wear your emeralds? I know property is theft, but until the glorious revolution Helena left them to you, so they’re yours. And I want to see you wearing them.�
��

  “Sure. At least the other guests wouldn’t make you want to shoot yourself, or them. They still go hunting round here you know. Some of them make Attila the Hun look like a wet liberal.”

  “Leave it with me. Actually, have we got any champagne? We could have a practice run.”

  “Not that I know of, but ask Bertie—he’s in charge of booze supplies, and he’s got all sorts stashed away in that cellar. Let’s take the coffees out.”

  Lola is watching Eddie, who has turned out to be a very handy pig rustler and is busy getting Squeak back the right side of the electric fence after another dash for freedom before he knows what’s happening and starts to eat Eddie’s Wellies.

  “You didn’t mention he was so gorgeous, he could get gigs as a model if the music thing doesn’t pan out.”

  “Who, Squeak?”

  “No you idiot, your young Mr. Edward. The upper-class Burberry look is very in right now. Very postmodern Brideshead Revisited meets Downton Abbey, and all that bollocks. Does he have a tweed suit?”

  “I haven’t asked him.”

  “I was watching Cool Hand Luke the other day, and there’s a touch of the young Paul Newman about him you know. He was gorgeous, a nice man too apparently, which is rare. He could be devastating in white tie and tails.”

  “Are we still talking about Paul Newman?”

  “You should hold a posh dinner party, make everyone dress up. You’ll see what I mean. He’ll look stunning. And he keeps looking at you, I’ve seen him.”

  “He does not.”

  “He does, when he thinks you won’t notice. If you got a move on you could have a very diverting summer darling. Try a little flirting to start things off, bring him out of his shell.”

  “He’s already out of his shell Lola. He’s thrown everything up in the air, stood up to his parents, which according to Celia takes some doing, and now he’s trying to work out what he wants to do next. The last thing he needs is a middle-aged woman trying to flirt with him. And anyway, I’ve no idea how to do flirting, I’m out of practice, and you were always the expert, even when we were at university, you were the one who could flirt better than anyone else I know.”

  “First of all you are not middle-aged. Because if you are, then I am, and that’s completely ridiculous.”

  “I’m forty next year Lola, almost old enough to be his mother.”

  “Forty is the new thirty, and no way is that middle-aged. And unless you had him when you were twelve, you’re not old enough to be his mother, so stop it right now. Just stick on something tight with a few buttons undone and see what happens.”

  “Does the phrase ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ ring any bells?”

  “No, but ‘lamb dressed as mutton’ does. Honestly darling, what about that green skirt I gave you at Christmas? I bet you haven’t even worn it once.”

  “The one I’m meant to wear with black woolly tights and boots, so I look like I’m channeling Robin Hood? Anyway it’s way too hot for summer—I’d be boiling hot.”

  She laughs.

  “Oh alright, but wear a dress tonight for the beach party, promise?”

  “No, I’m wearing jeans, and so will you unless you want a sandy bottom.”

  “I give up.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s a crying shame though.”

  “Maybe, but at least this way nobody will end up actually crying.”

  The pigs are playing football with the kids, with the new toy Ben found for them on the Web: a ball with holes in it—you fill it with pellets of food, which fall out of the holes whenever the ball rolls. They spend hours pushing the ball around with their snouts, running as fast as they can, with accompanying squeaking and grunting every time pellet of food falls out.

  Sam is very impressed.

  “I didn’t know pigs played football.”

  “They do down here.”

  He laughs.

  “Are they always that muddy?”

  “No, but the mud helps stop them getting too sunburnt, so the boys dug a wallow for them. It was either that or keep covering them in sunscreen.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He grins.

  “It’s a whole new world, isn’t it love?”

  “Tell me about it. Have you met the chickens yet?”

  Angie and Cool Hand Eddie help me to make a quick supper of spaghetti and salad, and then we head down to the beach. I surreptitiously try to see if I can pick up any signs of longing looks, but I can’t, and anyway it’s making me go all self-conscious. It’s bound to be Lola imagining things, just like she did when I started going out with Pete and she set me up on a blind date with Luke Harris, who she claimed was keen on me, only it turned out he was madly in love with Lola and spent the whole night talking about her and asking me for top tips to get her attention.

  The boys have been planning a campfire for days, collecting twigs and persuading Eddie to saw up some of the branches and a couple of big logs from the wood store drying in the stables. We’ve got hot dogs and veggie burgers, and marshmallows to toast on sticks, and we’ve taken folding chairs down for any grown-ups that aren’t keen on sitting on the sand. Celia and Bertie are helping them avoid setting fire to their sticks, or each other, while Sam helps me carry extra rugs down, and a bag full of towels and spare tops.

  “Are we going swimming then?”

  “Not in theory, no, but someone is bound to fancy a paddle and end up falling flat on their face. My money’s on Alfie.”

  “I think my Silas might give you a run for your money on that one. Fancy a quick wager: a fiver for the first person whose kid ends up soaked?”

  “You’re on.”

  “I can’t believe how big the three of them are now. The country life definitely agrees with them, looks like it agrees with all of you, you look ten years younger darling, you really do. Unlike Pete—who looks older every time I see him. I met him for a drink a few weeks ago, god, he can be boring. He’s seriously pissed off you’ve got this place isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  We both smile.

  “So I wanted to say, well, I’m sorry my brother is such a total arse, and if you ever need anything, just call, okay? Me and Ange talked about it, and I promised I’d mention it. Not that it looks like you’ll need any help. You’re making a real go of it here—anyone can see that—but if you ever do, family comes first and all that bollocks, yes?”

  “Thanks Sam.”

  “I mean it. I don’t want you thinking all the men in our family are tossers.”

  “I hope not, or I’m in big trouble when my three are grown up.”

  “Good point. Right. Okay, just wanted to say, you know, well done, and sorry about my idiot brother. Do you think there’ll be any marshmallows left by the time we get back down there?”

  “Not a chance. But I hid two more packets, in the bag with the towels.”

  “Good thinking. Come on, I’ll race you.”

  Alfie is already soaked by the time we get down to the beach, and is now standing wrapped in a rug while Dan tries to dry his T-shirt by holding it very close to the fire.

  “Did we say a fiver?”

  Sam sighs.

  “You can go right off people you know Molly, right off.”

  “Alfie, come here, I’ve got dry things in the bag, but you’re not to go in the sea again, promise? Dan, thanks love. Just give it to me. He can put it back on if he’s going for another paddle, and it’ll be wet again in no time.”

  “I love it here Molly, it’s brilliant. Is it always like this?”

  “Not in the middle of winter, no Angie.”

  She smiles.

  “But no regrets, about leaving London?”

  “No, we all love it here now.”

  Lola raises her glass.

  “I’ll drink to that. What about you Eddie, anything you miss? Were you one of those City boys who spend all day on the phone yelling ‘Buy six million at forty-three
and sell at seventy’?”

  “Good God no, nothing so exciting. I worked at one of the big law firms, in the property division. I had no idea what was going on half the time, I was in Wills and Estates before that, and that was even worse.”

  “I had no idea you could draft wills Edward.”

  “Please don’t tell me you haven’t got a will Aunt Celia.”

  “Of course I have my boy. Helena introduced me to her chap, sorted it all for me in no time.”

  “Well, thank heavens for that. You wouldn’t believe the number of times people ended up asking me to write their will at one of Mother’s hideous dinner parties, or to look at one they wanted to challenge—it was appalling.”

  Lola laughs.

  “Like when you’re a doctor and people tell you all their symptoms over supper?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “I wonder if people do that to Mr. Crouch. I must ask him when I see him next week.”

  “Mr. Crouch?”

  “Helena’s solicitor—well mine now too, I suppose. He made me update mine when I inherited Harrington. Oh, I’ve just thought, I could ask him if he has any part-time work available if you like, I’m sure they could always use a whizz kid from London, if you’re interested?”

  “Less of the whizz I’m afraid. I was completely out of my depth most of the time, and the rest of time, well, you know those films where people turn to stone, or ice, and you see them slowly freezing up, from their fingertips, stuck in the same position for years? Well, it was just like that. I could literally feel myself calcifying.”

  Bertie raises his glass.

  “Good for you my boy. Here’s to melting hearts of stone.”

  We all raise our glasses.

  “Mum, Ben has knocked my marshmallow off my stick on purpose. Again.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t Alfie.”

  “Mine’s fell off too.”

  Silas holds up a rather charred-looking stick.

  “Here, let me help you. The trick is avoiding getting too close to the flames.”

  Bertie puts another marshmallow on his stick and pats Alfie on top of his head.

  “Anyone for a cocktail, liven things up? We could send one of the ankle biters up for supplies. Oh, thank you Eddie, good man. Just bring a selection down, and I’ll see what I can come up with.”