A Good Year for the Roses: A Novel

by Gil McNeil

“Dennis doesn’t like anyone else driving the mower. If we put some cushions in, and towels, I’ll wheel you down.”

  “Brilliant. Could you get my swimsuit too when you get the towels? It’s in the top drawer of my chest of drawers—it’s navy blue.”

  “God knows how I’m going to get you back up. You weigh more than I thought.”

  “How charming.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Oh God.”

  “I’m deeply offended.”

  “What I meant to say is people weigh more than you’d think, if you’re pushing them in wheelbarrows, and uphill is going to be tricky, especially in the dark. I’d hate to tip you out.”

  “That wouldn’t be ideal.”

  He grins.

  “I don’t suppose you fancy sleeping down here, do you?”

  “Sure. I took a couple of my tablets earlier, and then I forgot and had some more champagne, so I really don’t care.”

  “Oh God, you’re not going to pass out are you? Are you sure you should be swimming?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Hang on and I’ll come in with you.”

  “I can swim, Eddie.”

  “I know, but just in case.”

  “Just in case what? I’m not going out far. I’m not even going to swim, just float about.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  The sea is wonderful. It’s warm after so many days of sunshine, and perfectly flat. The tide’s coming in, so I’m drifting back towards the shore, and there’s a full moon.

  “This was a great idea.”

  “I know.”

  He splashes me.

  “I’m floating here, thank you, trying to zone out, so no splashing.”

  “Sorry.”

  And then suddenly he kisses me.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

  “Stop saying ‘sorry,’ Eddie.”

  “Sorry.”

  He kisses me again.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.”

  Bloody hell.

  “Ever since I got here really.”

  “Eddie, do you think anyone can see us?”

  “I bloody hope not.”

  “So do I.”

  “Your carriage awaits madam, or rather your barrow.”

  “I’m sure I can walk back up, if we walk slowly.”

  He smiles.

  “Let’s see how we go. Back up to the house and a nice hot bath, wash all the salt off?”

  “You read my mind.”

  “See if you can read mine.”

  At some point during the night we agree not to talk.

  “If we start saying anything out loud, the spell will be broken and it will all get overwhelming, with aunts and uncles and boys, so let’s just, well, not talk?”

  He smiles, and kisses my foot.

  “Not talking sounds good to me.”

  “I should probably head off to my room soon.”

  “Sure. Not yet though.”

  “No, not yet.”

  When I go downstairs for breakfast, he’s already sitting at the table. I feel like I’m in some sort of dream and any minute I’ll wake up.

  “I’m all packed. Aunt Celia woke me at eight, with a coffee.”

  “That was kind of her.”

  “Delightful, particularly since I slept so well. Tea?”

  “Yes please.”

  “This is just like when I was first sent off to school. It’s all rather terrifying. I’m not even sure where the first gig is. But I’ll be back, as soon as I can.”

  “Okay.”

  “I won’t come back and find someone else is playing the piano, will I?”

  “Not unless Alfie turns out to be musical, no. I’m pretty sure you’re safe with Dan and Ben.”

  “Edward, I’ve put your bag in your car, and Ivy and Dennis have come to say good-bye.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Celia. Right, I better be off then.”

  We walk across the hall and he kisses me on the cheek, and then he kisses Ivy and Celia and shakes hands with Bertie and Dennis.

  “Thank you, again. For everything.”

  He turns to me.

  “This has been a wonderful summer.”

  Oh God, he’s so young.

  “Say good-bye to the boys for me, and Bubble and Squeak, and the hens, particularly Gertie.”

  He gets into the car and we all stand waving as he drives down the lane.

  Bloody hell. I’m not sure I can even begin to work out what I feel about all of this. I’ll call Lola later, but first I think I need to get some sleep. Ivy and Dennis head towards the kitchen with Celia as I follow Bertie into the library.

  “I think I might go up for a nap, Bertie. Have you had breakfast?”

  “Yes, I had mine earlier, with Celia. Did you have a nice swim?”

  “Sorry?”

  Oh God.

  “Helena and I used to go down for a late swim quite often, when we were younger. Sea’s warm enough this time of year. Wouldn’t try it any later in the year if I were you, not unless you want to get frostbite. Celia was asleep, but I was watching a late film, heard you coming back up to the house. Kept a low profile, thought it was best.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you fancy a drop of something to soften the departure and speed him on his way?”

  “Yes please.”

  “Good for you. Definite sparkle in your eyes this morning. Told you a bit of gallivanting would do you good. I’ll just go and get some ice.”

  “Polly put the kettle on.”

  “Bertie will be back in a minute Betty. Be quiet.”

  “Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.”

  My feelings exactly.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Good Year

  for the Roses

  September to December

  Tea Roses

  Arriving on the tea clippers bound for Europe in the late 1800s with their highly prized cargos of tea, many of these roses have scents which are reminiscent of fresh tea leaves, or have hints of fruit, pepper, and cloves. With elegant buds and pointed reddish leaves, they need shelter and gentle pruning. Notable varieties include Gloire de Dijon, a buff-pink-apricot rose with a luscious tea fragrance with undertones of fruit; Devoniensis, bred in Devonshire and also known as “The Magnolia Rose,” a sumptuous cream with a heady scent; and Lady Hillingdon, an elegant old rose with apricot buds which open to a soft, creamy butterscotch, scented with overtones of Darjeeling tea.

  It’s the middle of September, and the boys are back at school. Ben has started at secondary and gets the bus in with Dan now. He seems to have settled in well, no doubt helped by the fact that Ella is in the same class as him for most subjects, apart from music. She plays the piano and the flute, and Ben doesn’t play anything at all, although he did go through a thankfully brief phase of wanting to learn to play the trumpet. I think Dan’s quite enjoying having Ben with him. They often eat lunch together, from what I can gather, and Alfie doesn’t seem to have minded Ben’s departure. I think he likes not being the little brother, at least at school, and he’s been having a great time working on his new project on Betty. He was trying to measure her yesterday, but she kept trying to eat his ruler, so in the end Bertie made her lie down while Alfie drew round her. She’s still sulking about that. Ben has been helping him, and we now know she’s a Yellow-headed Amazon, and the really bad news is they can live to be eighty. Bertie thinks he’s had her for about twenty years, so we could still have sixty years to go, which is quite a long time to be told to bugger off every day.

  I’m sitting on the sofa in the drawing room, writing my shopping list for tomorrow. It’s nearly bath time, and Alfie will want another chapter of Stig of the Dump. Dan’s doing his homework, and Ben’s watching telly while I try to visualise what’s in the fridge, a bit like that annoying game where you have to memorise all the objects on a tray and then some sod covers them with a tea towel and it turns out you can only remember four things. I better go and look p
roperly.

  “Diamonds Are Forever” trills out as I walk into the kitchen.

  “How’s it going darling?”

  “Fine, thanks. How about you, did you see Frank?”

  Lola’s been having a few teething troubles with Frank, who doesn’t appear to have grasped quite how much attention she requires.

  “He’s off the list. Too full of himself, and constantly asking me to book things for him, or get presents for people, like I was his bloody PA. Seriously darling, do I look like someone’s happy helper, ready to rush round doing all the boring stuff so they don’t have to?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Exactly. So I told him, if I wanted a job as an executive secretary, I’d have learnt fucking shorthand. How about you?”

  “I don’t do shorthand either.”

  “Heard from the Man Who Wouldn’t Be King?”

  This is Lola’s new nickname for Eddie, after Edward VIII, for some reason best known to herself. She’s also taken to calling me Wallis, presumably as a tribute to Wallis Simpson, although it’s also possible she’s thinking of Wallace and Gromit. Either way, I’m ignoring it.

  “He’s not enjoying Germany.”

  Eddie’s developed a little routine over the past few weeks, where he sends me texts or random pictures of things which have amused him.

  “And?”

  “He sent me a picture of the supper they were given yesterday, with five different kinds of sausage. I must tell Ben never to go to Germany without backup food supplies.”

  “I didn’t know you were looking for a pen pal Wallis.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “Or you could go for Friends with Benefits?”

  “Definitely friends, at least I hope so. I’ve got no idea about the benefits—we’ll have to wait and see when he’s back in the country. But I’m fine with that. And whatever happens, I’m way too busy to sit around obsessing about it. I’ve got to finish the business plan—I’m having meetings with Bea and Mr. Stebbings, where they talk about bricks and drainage and timetables and I write things down.”

  “Sounds fascinating.”

  “In a weird way it is. And we’ve got Ivy’s surprise birthday party next week. I’ve spoken to Michael on the phone now, and he sounded really excited. And then I talked to Christine, who burst into tears when I told her how much we were all looking forward to meeting her, so I’m taking that as a good sign. Mum and Celia are busy working out what food to make, and Mum’s ordered a special birthday cake from the posh patisserie in Barnstaple. So I think we’ll manage, and Ivy will finally get to meet her youngest grandson.”

  “She’ll love it.”

  “I just hope we can keep it a secret that long. Mum and Celia are talking in code now—you’d think they were on a Special Forces mission. I’ve got no idea what they’re going on about half the time, but I think quiche and sausage rolls might be on the menu.”

  “Will Bertie be making a special cocktail to commemorate the occasion?”

  “I bloody hope not. The poor things won’t stand a chance on top of jet lag.”

  By four o’clock on the day of Ivy’s party the tension is starting to get to me. Celia came up with the brilliant idea of telling Ivy we’ve got a journalist coming to write an article about the garden, with a photographer, and Lady Bobby might be popping in for tea. So we’ve been cleaning and polishing all week to get the house ready, and Ivy’s had her hair done and is wearing her best frock, ready for the photographs.

  “It’s such a shame we’ve got guests arriving—we could do without having to fuss round B-and-B people today. Do you think they’ll want to take any photos in here Miss Molly?”

  “In the kitchen? I don’t think so.”

  “Good, because we’ll want to make Lady Bobby a cup of tea and suchlike, won’t we, so the kitchen will be messy.”

  “It’s spotless Ivy.”

  “I made a batch of my scones earlier and we can have some of the new jam.”

  “Lovely.”

  We can add the scones to the cakes and buns and sandwiches and quiches and God knows what else Mum and Celia have got in the Tupperware boxes in their cars, waiting to be unveiled once the mystery guests arrive.

  Celia comes into the kitchen, looking flushed.

  “There’s a car driving up the lane.”

  Oh God, here we go.

  “It’s probably the B-and-B guests Ivy. Come and help me settle them in would you?”

  She drops her tea towel and heads towards the door.

  “Yes, and we better be quick about it. I hope they won’t want a cup of tea. I know you like to offer, but I can’t be doing with it today. Not when Lady Bobby could arrive any minute.”

  We walk across the hall and open the front door just as the taxi stops, and the front passenger door opens. A man gets out who looks just like a younger version of Dennis, and Ivy suddenly goes very still.

  “Hello Mum. Happy Birthday.”

  She makes a choking noise, and grips my arm as he bounds towards us and throws his arms around her. She’s still holding my arm very tightly, so he ends up sort of hugging both of us, and we all end up in tears—gentle, happy tears mostly, with a touch of proper sobbing in Ivy’s case. Dennis appears from the side of the house, with Bertie and Celia and Mum, and stands dabbing his eyes with his handkerchief, with everyone else doing a fair bit of dabbing too. And then Michael stands back and Christine walks towards them and joins them in the group hug, as two rather tired-looking little boys emerge from the taxi and stand waiting to meet their gran.

  Oh God. We’ll all be in proper sobbing floods if this carries on much longer.

  “Let’s get everyone inside, shall we?”

  A frantic half hour follows as we set the table in the dining room and blow up balloons. Alfie has insisted we can’t have a proper birthday party without balloons, so we leave Ivy and Dennis to have a quiet moment to say hello properly, and Alfie makes friends with Joshua and Jason, with the balloons helping them get over their initial shyness. And then we all sit down and make a start on the birthday feast. Although Mum and Celia have made so many delicious things it’s hard to know where to start. At one point Alfie has so much piled on his plate he starts using his empty juice glass as an extra receptacle for cheese straws.

  I’m stacking plates in the dishwasher and making another pot of tea when Ivy comes into the kitchen.

  “There you are. I wondered where you’d got to.”

  “I thought I’d get these plates out of the way.”

  “I wanted to say thank you.”

  “It was Dennis who thought of it Ivy.”

  “That’s as may be, but you made it happen—everyone knows that. And, well, I feel so happy. I can’t remember when I’ve ever been happier.”

  “So you forgive us, for the white lie about the journalist and Lady Bobby?”

  “Oh yes, and that was very clever of all of you, making sure I’d had my hair done and the house was nice and tidy. You want to look your best on a day like this, don’t you?”

  “You certainly do.”

  She smiles.

  “Did you see the presents they got me, and the lovely album with all the photos?”

  “I did Ivy.”

  “And aren’t the boys lovely?”

  “They are.”

  “Our Joshua is getting so big, and he’s got lovely table manners, did you see?”

  “Yes, he could definitely teach Alfie a thing or two on that front.”

  Michael appears, looking even more like Dennis now that he’s relaxed.

  “Mum, the boys would like a walk, and Dad says he’ll show us round, but Christine says we can’t go without you.”

  “Off you go Ivy.”

  She turns to follow him, and smiles at me, and whispers “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”

  So that’s me standing crying again. She’s so thrilled, she doesn’t even stop to rearrange the plates I’ve put in the dishwasher. I do
n’t think I’ll ever forget her face when she first saw him getting out of that taxi. God forbid I’m ever in the same position and haven’t seen one of my boys for years. But if I ever am, I know I’ll look exactly the same when I finally get to hold him again.

  “Mum, Uncle Bertie says he can’t find his whistle.”

  “Thanks Alfie. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  I’m guessing another round of cannoning is on the horizon.

  Excellent.

  “So how’s the prodigal visit going darling?”

  “Great, thanks. They’re only here for a few days, Michael couldn’t get more time off work, but they’ve invited Dennis and Ivy over for a few weeks at Christmas. Actually they spent ages online yesterday looking at flights, and they’ve booked them: the day after Boxing Day, for two weeks, God help me.”

  “And Ivy’s still getting on with the daughter-in-law?”

  “Yes, so miracles can happen.”

  “I know, and I’ve got more good news: Pippa finally got the report back from her experts, and she reckons an estimate of forty thousand pounds would be the right reserve to put on the necklace.”

  “Bloody hell Lola, that’s amazing.”

  “I know. I wrote it all down. Apparently it’s Belle Époque: rose-cut diamonds with faceted and cabochon emeralds, whatever that means. And they’re of a particularly fine quality, and were probably a wedding set. I can check with another auction house just to make sure, but I know she’s pretty good and she definitely wouldn’t cheat you.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t.”

  “Some of them tip off their contacts and sell stuff at a reduced price. Or they put things in the wrong sale so the price is lower. It all makes a big difference. But her idiot husband has written a screenplay and I’ve said I’ll take a look at it, if she gets a top price, so I’m pretty sure she’ll do her absolute best for you.”

  “Thanks Lola.”

  “No problem, as long as you promise to buy at least one nice thing with the money.”

  “A new boiler for the house would be great.”

  “You’re absolutely hopeless.”

  “You won’t be saying that when you don’t have to wear your woolly hat next time you visit us in the middle of winter.”