by Helen Lowrie
Thankfully the cottage itself hadn’t required too much attention: the two-up two-down was a little tired and the decor needed some updating but it was structurally sound. I’d given it a thorough clean from top to bottom, brightened up the kitchen and bedrooms with a few fresh coats of paint, had the chimney swept, and repaired the guttering. From an estate agent’s point of view Southwood Cottage was characterful, comfortable and situated in an attractive rural location, just minutes from the small town of Wildham and the A1. If necessary it could be marketed as a doer-upper and sold entirely separately from the business. It would be snapped up by a developer easily enough. The nursery and garden centre, on the other hand, might take longer to sort out.
Despite the picturesque setting, Southwood’s was an inhospitable place in which to work out of season. Ever since Dad’s death the team of permanent staff, zipped up in layers of thermal and waterproof clothing, had continued to risk chapped lips, chilblains, and frostbite on a daily basis to keep the place running – even as their employment prospects hung in the balance. With the help of Dad’s life insurance money I was managing to keep paying their wages, for now. But probate could take several more weeks and getting the place ready for sale would be another matter.
I glanced at the clock on the wall above the door. Two more hours to go and the working week would be over. Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day but Jasmine didn’t seem fussed about celebrating it this year. Obviously I’d bought her the handbag she wanted – she’d helpfully emailed me the link so I could order it online and have it delivered straight to her – but I had no idea what, if anything, she might get me in return. A tie maybe? Picking up my mobile again I re-read her text. It wasn’t unusual for her to be off doing her own thing with her friends on a Friday night but it used to be that I would be out having a few drinks with my colleagues at the same time. When had that fizzled out?
My fingers hovered over my contacts list as I considered texting a couple of workmates and suggesting a post-work pint but there was no point. They were both family men now – they preferred to be home in time to read bedtime stories to their kids and help their wives make dinner. I briefly contemplated taking a walk down to the floor below and asking some of the juniors if they were free but instinct stopped me; I’d been promoted and they hadn’t. I was confident there were no hard feelings between us – I’d been careful not to rub their faces in it – but I was effectively their superior now and, in this corporation at least, you didn’t socialise with your boss unless you absolutely had to. In fact, not one of my friends or colleagues from the city had attended my dad’s funeral or sent so much as a condolence card. But I guess that was OK – I can’t honestly say I’d missed them at the time. Relinquishing my phone I sighed. Maybe I would just get in the car and drive straight into the countryside; get a head start on the weekend – Valentine’s Day be damned. I’d arranged a meeting with the nursery and garden centre staff for tomorrow morning and, if possible, I wanted to make a good impression. I wasn’t sure if their loyalty to my father would extend to me for much longer but I needed to find out because, if I was going to get the place smartened up and sold off, I definitely needed the staff onside to help make it happen.
An emotion I couldn’t quite identify intensified in my gut and I turned back to the window, once again craning my neck for a reassuring glimpse of tree without understanding why.
Chapter Five
‘What can I get you Mags?’ I said, raising my voice above the general cacophony of sound.
‘I’ll have a baked spud please, love; I’m trying to be healthy – lose a few pounds before the big day.’
‘Of course! The wedding’s at the end of this month isn’t it?’
‘February twenty eighth – just two weeks now!’ Mags helped herself to cutlery from the pot-full on the counter, while I tapped her order into the till. ‘I was gonna skip lunch entirely but I’m starvin’ and it’s bloody perishin’ out there.’ I glanced through the condensation-streaked windows at all the people bustling past, heads down and chins tucked in as they negotiated sleety puddles. ‘And Sal says I oughta wear a hat since I’m mother of the bride an’ all but I ask you, Rina, can you see me in a hat?’ I smiled as I tried to picture short, stocky Mags in anything other than the jeans and the grey fleecy body warmer she routinely wore. ‘I mean it’s only a registry office after all and she’s already got me wearing this hideous pinky-beige colour that she swears is all the rage. With a hat I’ll look like a sodding mushroom!’ Her face creasing like worn leather and her eyes sparkling, her throaty laugh temporarily triumphed over the hiss of frying food, the roar of the coffee machine and the chattering of the radio and my other customers.
‘You’ll look bloody gorgeous and you know it – just make sure you don’t upstage your own daughter,’ I said.
She chuckled. ‘Fat chance! Anyway, my future son-in-law is taking her out for a romantic dinner tonight – y’know for Valentine’s – so at least that should stop her fussing for a bit.’
I smiled. I was aware it was Valentine’s Day but only because they kept mentioning it on the radio. It didn’t mean anything to me personally – it never had. ‘Do you want beans on your potato?’
‘Bless you, love, yes please. And plenty of cheese and real butter if you’ve got it – none of that bland, spreadable crap.’
‘No problem. Anything to drink?’ Along the counter a guy in a baseball cap was banging a salt shaker on the counter top to dislodge a blockage in the nozzle. I slid another one towards him and he accepted it with a grunt of approval before sprinkling salt liberally onto his meal.
‘A Coke. But better make it a Diet,’ Mags added.
Travis, Vic’s right-hand man, cut in over her shoulder. ‘All right, Rina, Vic around?’
‘Yeah, he should be down soon,’ I said, glancing at the digital clock on the microwave and mentally bracing myself for whatever frame of mind he might be in today.
Vic ran a small empire in this corner of London. Aside from owning the cafe and part-managing the minicab firm near the station, he also loaned money to people and recruited muscle-bound security for pubs and clubs – he had a nicotine-stained finger in every pie. But Vic most liked to think of himself as a ‘Business Facilitator’, taking advantage of various ‘opportunities’ as and when they arose – by connecting the right people. He was popular and, most crucially, trusted, in local circles, wielding a certain amount of power and respect. I was never made privy to any details but over the years he’d introduced thieves to buyers, drug dealers to suppliers and prostitutes to pimps – always securing a cut of the dirty profits without any serious risk to himself.
Having emptied a can of beans into a saucepan on the hob, I served another customer two teas and a ham sandwich while Mags’s jacket potato was cooking in the microwave. Once the large spud had softened up I rubbed it with a little salt and oil before transferring it to the oven to crisp up the skin. I was busy grating cheese with my back to the cafe when Vic, whistling cheerfully, made his entrance. Without turning around I listened intently for any change in his mood as he greeted the regulars by name and casually helped himself to coffee – and cash from the till. It was only as he disappeared upstairs again, with Travis in tow, that I realised, with a start, that I had been grating my own fingers and bleeding into the cheese. Hastily scraping it all into the bin, I wrapped my sore fingertips in blue plasters, cleaned the grater and the chopping board and started again.
Of course I knew Vic was no angel when I married him at eighteen. I was desperate at the time and flattered by Vic’s attention. He wasn’t particularly good-looking – he’d always been a bit short with a lean, hard, wiry sort of body and ginger hair which he bleached white and spiky on top. But he had charisma – a swagger to his step, a twinkle in his eye, and tough-guy confidence with the tattoos to match. Marrying him would provide me with the safety and security I longed for, or so I’d thought at the time. In reality I’d swapped one nightmare for another – trading a
perilous life on the street for a prison of a marriage.
Retrieving the potato from the oven I set it on a plate, slashed it open in the shape of a cross, slathered the insides with butter, ladled baked beans inside and deposited a generous handful of cheese on top. Mags was at the counter before I could call to her, cutlery in hand.
‘Thanks, love,’ she said as I set a can of Diet Coke next to her plate.
‘Would you like a glass?’
‘No thanks, this is great.’ Tucking the can into her armpit, she picked up her lunch and set off towards the table she’d secured.
‘What can I get you?’ I said, smiling at the next customer as I washed my hands.
For the next two hours I tried to forget about the men in the flat upstairs, and whatever business they might be conducting, and simply focused on feeding customers. It was busy, with several orders for cooked breakfasts, toasted sandwiches and hot chips – fuel to stave off the cold outside. But the lunchtime rush had eased by the time Cherry turned up, wearing a thin jacket over a plunging top, a short, gold lamé skirt and very high heels.
‘Ta, Rina,’ she said distractedly as I poured her a cup of tea. Cherry rarely ate at the cafe but often drank copious amounts of tea in between clients. She was currently flicking through a newspaper colour supplement, only glancing at each page long enough to check out the pictures. ‘Hey, you heard about that local actress? Jasmine Reed? Says here she might be doing a movie.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I said. I had no idea who she was talking about. I watched some TV from time to time and leafed through the magazines that customers occasionally left lying around but the entertainment industry, in fact the rest of the world as a whole, seemed so far removed from my own experience that mostly I let it all wash over me. Books though – books were another matter entirely. I hadn’t many – just four dog-eared paperbacks that had been left behind over the years and not reclaimed by their owners – but I’d read each one countless times. In a book I could really lose myself, be someone else for a while – escape. Leaving Cherry to her celebrity gossip I rinsed a cloth out in the sink and started clearing tables.
‘You’ve missed a bit, Rina,’ Vic said behind me, a menacing edge to his voice.
I stiffened and my blood cooled, the cloth in my hand suspended over the table I was wiping. I’d been half listening to the radio and hadn’t heard him and Travis come back downstairs. I was fairly confident Vic wouldn’t cause trouble in front of customers but I couldn’t help being on my guard. The men having a late lunch at the next table glanced up with interest and Cherry gave half a laugh over by the counter. Her false nails tapped out a tune on her mug of tea as I straightened and turned towards him.
He chuckled. ‘For fuck’s sake smile, babe – it’s just a joke. It’s a wonder you ain’t scared all the customers away with a face like that,’ Vic added, his teeth bared in a grin.
‘You made me jump,’ I said, relaxing my shoulders and smiling.
‘Yeah, I got you good din’t I?’ Vic winked playfully at two women sitting in the window, who blushed and smiled in response. Travis disappeared out of the door with a nod goodbye as Vic picked up a discarded newspaper and sauntered back towards the counter. ‘I’ll have another coffee and a bacon butty when you’re ready, babe.’
Despite Vic’s good mood I knew better than to keep him waiting. While I poured his coffee, Cherry relinquished her seat, slithering off the stool and squeezing her feet back into her shiny high heels. She always sat there – in Vic’s favourite spot – as if she was keeping it warm for him. I set his coffee before him and Cherry smiled and rolled her eyes at me in token camaraderie. The bacon spat and sizzled in the frying pan and I buttered some white bread while Vic calmly perused the sports section. Cherry, now settled on the stool next to him, crossed her legs deliberately revealing more thigh from beneath her skirt but he didn’t seem to notice.
I was well aware my husband fucked Cherry occasionally – they weren’t exactly discreet – but it was an arrangement that worked for all three of us. Vic wasn’t one of her paying customers; on the contrary she usually owed him money and, from my point of view, as long as Cherry kept my husband satisfied, it meant I didn’t have to. It wasn’t that Vic had a big sexual appetite – the amount of booze he consumed flattened his libido anyway – but I simply loathed sex. Based on experiences in the past I found it painful and humiliating so I was grateful to Cherry for removing the necessity – so much so that she and I were almost friends, up to a point.
‘Do you have a busy afternoon planned?’ Cherry asked, smiling up at Vic through thick eyelashes.
‘Yes,’ Vic said, without elaboration.
I set his sandwich down before him, sliced into two neat triangles the way he liked it, and accompanied by a bottle of tomato sauce. Setting his paper aside and eyeing his plate, he picked up the bottle and gave it a shake.
Cherry, realising that Vic wasn’t about to offer any distraction, paid for her tea and tottered out the door with a wave goodbye – which I returned and Vic ignored.
Having messily wolfed down his bacon butty, Vic abruptly switched off the radio, drove the last stragglers out into the market, flipped the sign to ‘closed’ and locked the door. As I commenced my usual clean up routine, Vic quietly attended to the contents of the till, his head bowed and eyes narrowed, the sinews in his forearms twisting under his tattoos as he counted. I suppose to a casual passer-by it looked like he was helping, by cashing up the day’s takings, but it was only because he enjoyed fingering his money and scrutinising the till roll for discrepancies. I rarely made a mistake nowadays. Any shortfall not covered by the tips dish I would have to pay for in bruises.
By the time I’d wiped down the Formica tables, laminated menus and moulded plastic chairs, refilled the condiment jars and sauce dispensers, and swept the linoleum floor, most of the market stallholders had packed up and left for the day. Vic had gone too, disappearing out through the back door without farewell or comment.
Allowing myself a brief moment to relax I put the radio back on before tackling the kitchen. Tidying the food away, I loaded and started up the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen surfaces, scrubbed the grease from the wall tiles, de-scaled the sink, and mopped the floors. Finally I carried two sacks of rubbish out to the large bin by the back door and cleaned the downstairs toilet with bleach before heading upstairs to make Vic’s dinner. He was unlikely to be back before midnight and he usually ate out but he liked to have a meal waiting for him just in case he did turn up hungry. Sometimes Vic disappeared for days at a time without warning or explanation, like an alley cat, but there was always the threat of his return.
Having thrown together a spaghetti carbonara, using a packet of sauce, I plated up Vic’s portion and settled myself on the couch to eat alone. But I only picked half-heartedly at the meal before giving up and retreating into the shower. Does Jamie, wherever he is, like spaghetti carbonara? The random thought popped into my head out of nowhere, as so many thoughts of Jamie did. Even after all this time he was never far from my mind. In a futile attempt to expel the fried sausage smell from my skin and hair, I scoured myself with soap before pulling on my threadbare nightshirt. Then, too weary to think, I crawled into my side of the bed to sleep, while trying to keep a cautious ear out for my husband.
Chapter Six
Hugging the slow lane of the motorway, I coasted along at just 65 mph behind an elderly man in a vintage Mini Cooper. I was in no hurry; the closer I got to London the heavier the traffic grew, along with my mood. I’d really clocked up the miles in the past month, dividing my time between the city and the country in an effort to prepare my dad’s estate for sale, while also keeping my boss happy. February had been bitterly cold and grey throughout and, frankly, I was glad to see the back of it.
The majority of my energy had been spent sorting out the family business. It was a nursery really, specialising in the growing and selling of popular garden plants through the modest little garden centre attached, ra
ther than offering anything as grand as giftware or furniture. The seven permanent members of staff that my dad had employed – Frank, Lil, Leah, Barb, Jenny, Priya and Max – were eminently capable and had been wonderfully patient with me, despite being anxious about losing their jobs. Between us we’d managed to keep the business running. I’d planted, pruned and re-potted stock; weeded and swept paths; scrubbed walls and benches; and shovelled several times my own weight in compost and horse muck – I had blisters to prove it (much to Jasmine’s horror) but they gave me a certain sense of satisfaction. Much of the work was familiar to me from my teenage years; the names of plants, pests and diseases sprang up in my mind as if eager to be put to good use and the staff had given me refresher lessons in driving the forklift, fixing the emergency generator and operating the tills.
With the aid of some particularly helpful guidance notes from Dad’s bookkeeper, I’d spent many evenings studying the company accounts in an attempt to get a handle on them: the seasonal variations, the average running costs and the predicted profits. I now had a sound overview of the family business and, as I’d suspected, it was in urgent need of financial investment if it was to make a profit this year. My father’s stubborn refusal to take out a business loan, no matter how small, was almost certainly to blame. But, on the other hand, his reluctance to rely on credit meant that he had virtually no debts, no outstanding mortgage and no money owing to suppliers. There would be inheritance tax to pay once probate was finalised but, with the garden centre’s existing loyal customer base and no significant competition nearby, there was plenty of scope for growth, expansion and considerable profitability. The untapped potential in Southwood’s Nursery made it ripe for sale.
Now, navigating the streets of London on a Sunday evening – expletives from the people-choked pavement mixing with the determined subwoofer bass beat of the car behind and a police car screaming past, its pulsing lights temporarily blinding me – I knew I was going to miss the peaceful serenity of the only place that had ever felt like home.
