My hand flew to my mouth. ‘I'm so sorry!’
‘Don't be. It amused me.’
‘So stupid.’
He shrugged. ‘You weren't to know. And maybe you were right. Maybe I was an older man in a cool car cruising for chicks. It certainly made me think.’
Older. Was he older? Not than me, surely. Just Estelle.
‘Well, under the circumstances,’ I blustered, ‘who can blame you if you were? You must be lonely.’
‘No, no,’ he got to his feet suddenly and I realized I'd gone too far. ‘No, I'm very busy. Life's… very full.’ He walked to the shelves and realigned some books unnecessarily. ‘Lots of friends, lots of plans.’ His profile was to me now. A strong jaw. Strong nose, slightly hooked with faintly hooded eyes like Charles Dance's. But dark. Better. I could see him in Baghdad, head down, running across sniper-watched streets, his film crew behind him: no guns, of course, so vulnerable; his beautiful French wife, camera around her neck, racing along beside him, or just behind him. Was that how it happened, I wondered. Was he running ahead of her, heard her cry out, turned to see her crumple, fatally wounded in the dirt? Or had he not been there? Had he got a call, raced to the teeming, overstretched hospital, pushed through the banks of wailing, shrouded women, to see her being rushed in on a stretcher, or in someone's arms, bleeding, head lolling back. I wondered if I could decently, or even indecently, steer the conversation… No, of course not. Well then, maybe I could steer it back to how life was for him now, how he'd coped, moved on, but his stony profile didn't invite enquiry. I opened and shut my mouth a few times, uncharacteristically stumped for an opening gambit, and then, just as I thought I'd found one, admittedly along the rather gauche lines of how come you're living in my street, the door flew open.
On a gust of wind and eau-de-something-strong, my mother burst into the shop, jogging. She was in her pink catsuit, jogging as she turned and shut the door, jogging up to the counter, gasping for breath.
‘Evie! What are you doing here?’ She jogged on the spot in front of me.
‘Waiting for you. Malcolm had to pop out, so I said I'd hang on, but you were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.’ My voice, I knew, had become unattractively sharp. But then I was ridiculously disappointed to see her for some reason. ‘But don't worry,’ I rushed on in a much chummier, gentler tone. ‘It couldn't matter less. I wasn't doing anything and, anyway, you're here now.’ Hopefully he'd see me as a nice girl now. I glanced across to the shelves, but he'd gone: melted around the archway into his half of the shop.
‘I know, I'm sorry,’ she puffed, still jogging, ‘but I decided to run, and it's further than I thought. But, darling, you're supposed to be with Felicity. Why haven't you got the lights on?’ She lunged for the switch. Illuminated the shop.
‘Mum, could you please stop jogging? It's making me feel ill.’
‘Sorry, wanted to do my full hour.’ She glanced at her watch. Surreptitiously jogged a few more steps.
‘Felicity?’ I frowned.
‘Yes. Remember you said you'd do meals on wheels for me? She'll be waiting for you at the Civic Centre. Sixty-four liver and bacons gently congealing.’
I stared at her. ‘Bugger!’
I scrambled to my feet, shoved them in my flip-flops, and grabbed my handbag. I made for the door. ‘God, how stupid! Sorry, Mum. So sorry!’
‘Don't worry, you'll make it. Am I here on my own?’
‘In this bit, yes, but Malcolm will be back in a minute.’
‘No Ludo? Incidentally, I can't think why you dislike him so much, I think he's charming.’
I turned at the door and made crazy eyes at her, pointing my finger into his half.
He was at the back, behind his desk, reading in the light of his Anglepoise. I caught his eye. He looked a bit shocked. I fled.
19
‘Felicity! I'm so sorry!’ I yelled out of my car window as I pulled up in the Civic Centre car park.
She was already loading what looked like dozens of polystyrene boxes from a stainless-steel trolley into the back of her old green Subaru. She glanced up in relief.
‘Oh, Evie. Thank heavens.’
‘I'm so late!’ I wailed.
‘Don't worry, I'm just pleased you're here. I had a nasty feeling you'd forgotten, and of course I should have rung you last night, but your mum assured me there was no—’
‘No, no need, and you absolutely shouldn't have rung. My fault entirely, it just went clean out of my head. Now. What can I do?’ I got out, slammed my door and hurried across to her.
‘Well, there are about ten more of these boxes on another trolley in the kitchen.’ She jerked her head back towards the town hall, a crumbling crenulated stone affair behind us. ‘But if we go together, we can carry them, and then we won't have to wheel the trolley out and back. We'll be out of here in a jiffy.’
Together we swung her empty trolley round and hurried it through the back door, through another set of swing doors, and down a corridor to the kitchen. In a vast, operating theatre-style, stainless-steel emporium, we found the remaining boxes. I took half, piled up high in my arms, and we headed back down the corridor, turning to push open the swing doors with our bottoms. I wrinkled my nose in disgust.
‘Yuck. School food.’
‘Takes you back, doesn't it? And, of course, all these old dears expect it right on the dot of twelve, just like in kindergarten.’
‘Back to their childhood. So what have they got today?’ We hurried to the car.
‘Oh, all sorts. Nothing as simple as one meal for all. They all have something different,’ she said, as we loaded them into her open boot.
‘Good heavens, why?’
‘Different dietary requirements. Some are no pork, some are no fowl or no fish, some have to be puréed – no teeth – and some, no beans or onions,’ she raised her eyebrows, ‘for obvious reasons.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘And the coloured dot in the corner of the box tells you what's what. Here's your crib sheet.’ She shoved a piece of paper in my hand.
‘Crikey. I'd no idea it was so complicated. And you do this every week?’
‘Every week. But always two of us. One drives, one delivers. Makes it quicker. I'd better drive this week since it's my car, so you pop in with the meals, OK?’
She was already in the driving seat, strapping herself in. My God, she was efficient. I'd forgotten how efficient. Thank heavens I hadn't let her down. I would have done if Mum hadn't reminded me. I beetled round the other side and strapped myself in beside her. She was still talking nineteen to the dozen, looking immaculate in a pale blue twinset, pearl earrings and a soft suede skirt, her honey-blonde hair beautifully highlighted and swept off her face.
‘They're all elderly, obviously,’ she was saying, glancing in the rear-view mirror and reversing out smartly – note to self: use rear-view mirror more – ‘and they're always the same. The complainers always complain, the sunny ones are always sunny, some haven't seen anyone all day – or all week, even – so you might have to linger a moment, OK?’
‘Yes, fine,’ I mumbled. I felt humbled. I did nothing. Nothing. No committees, no charity work. Ah, yes, back to you, Evie. As usual.
‘And then of course there's Caro's cakes, which they love.’ She jerked her head towards the back seat.
‘Cakes?’
‘Yes, well, the puddings are so filthy, usually prunes and congealed custard, or spotted dick with the consistency of brick, so Caro made cakes for us one week, which went down brilliantly. They wolfed them down, so now she does it every week. I've just picked them up.’
Lordy. It would take me years to catch up. Years. I shrank down in my seat feeling about six inches high. But I would do it, I would. I'd become a better person.
‘Only last week they were a bit hairy.’
‘What were?’
‘The cakes. That ancient sheepdog of Caro's – Megan – is moulting like billyo, and your mum and I had to brush them off a bit.�
�� She grinned. ‘Not that the old dears would probably notice, or care.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘And I'm not even sure if some of them eat anything, but they're pleased to see someone, at any rate.’
‘Yes. I bet they are.’
She frowned at my tone; glanced across. ‘What's up?’
I shrugged. ‘Oh, just thinking how good you all are. And you're all so busy. You and Caro, anyway.’
She gave me a look. ‘I'm not good, Evie.’ She turned away, narrowing her eyes into the traffic, which was heavy as usual. ‘But I suppose I'm busy. But you know what they say: ask a busy person…’ She paused. ‘Your mum's busy too, you know. You left her off your list.’
I smiled. ‘I know. Her jogging, her reiki. But yours is proper stuff. Giving lectures, holding seminars, that sort of thing.’
‘Well, each to their own. Don't decry what your mum does, Evie. She's a better person than I'll ever be.’
I struggled with this, as I always did when Felicity praised Mum from the rooftops. She knew what I was thinking. She smiled.
‘The thing is, Evie, you tend to confuse being clever with being nice. It's often not so. The nicest people are often the least intellectual.’
‘The least intelligent.’
‘No, the least academic.’ She looked at me. ‘You've no idea how poisonous clever people can be. Your mother's the complete antithesis of that. That's why I like her so much. She doesn't have a mean bone in her body.’
I nodded. Yes, that much was true.
‘And don't feel guilty about your own lack of Good Works either.’ She swung the car around a mini roundabout and headed off down a suburban street. ‘You have your own problems at the moment.’
‘She told you?’
‘She did.’
‘And?’ I sat up.
‘And what do I think?’
‘Yes.’
We'd pulled up outside a row of tiny bungalows that seemed to stretch on for miles, into infinity. She sighed and turned the engine off. After a moment, she said, ‘I think that if I'd had one child, I'd be the happiest woman alive. If it turned out I had two, like Ant, I'd be delirious.’
I gazed at her. I'd never thought of it like that.
‘And if you were me?’
‘I'd look at it as one and a half. Which is still better than one.’
I swallowed. It occurred to me that Felicity, like Stacey, was an outsider who had integrated into our family. She'd adopted us. As we'd adopted her. And what a success that had been. What a runaway success. My heart began to purr down a runway, to pick up speed, then soar. All the lights went on. I felt alive suddenly, electric: plug me in and I'd light up every bungalow in this street. Yes, look what Felicity had done for our family. She'd made us. Completed us. Complimented us. She, a ‘step’, had so wonderfully extended us.
‘You're right!’ I said, eyes shining as she got out of the car. I sat there for a moment or two in dazed wonder. Then I hurried round to join her at the boot. She handed me two polystyrene boxes. ‘You're right, Felicity, and I'd never looked at it like that. Never thought of her as an asset!’
‘Well, one step at a time. You've yet to meet her, but you're getting the idea. Now. This one for Mrs Carmichael at number six – no fowl – and this one for Mr Parkinson, see the blue spot, no red meat, next door. He's quite a distinguished old boy. Just to give you a flavour, when he filled out his original order form, under “Any Special Dietary Requirements”, he put, “Red meat and good claret.”’
I grinned. ‘Good for him! So what's he getting?’
‘Lentil stew and rice pudding.’
‘Oh.’
‘He's got gout.’
‘Ah.’
As I beetled up the path to his door, I wondered briefly if he'd prefer to be gouty and take his pain relief in the form of a very fine Fonseca '66, or to be pain free and sucking lentils. Mine was not to reason why, though, and anyway, I was miles away. My heart was still up there, at three thousand feet, soaring through the stratosphere, cutting a dash through the clouds. Trust Felicity. Trust Felicity to turn on all the lights. She was right. She was always right. And don't tell me that had nothing to do with being clever.
‘You're late. Seven and a half minutes.’ A snowy-haired man, almost bent double with arthritis, opened the bevelled glass door with a shaking hand.
‘Yes, I'm sorry about that.’
‘What?’ He cupped his ear.
‘Sorry about that! Shall I put your lunch in the kitchen for you?’
‘Always take it in and put it down,’ Felicity had said, adding, ‘Never let them take it from you. They drop it. I've never handed a meal over to anyone over seventy-five and not been scraping it off the carpet two minutes later.’
I slipped past him. ‘In here?’
He grumbled as I whisked through to the kitchen – mistake, tiny galley, no table so I slipped back into the sitting room whilst he was still shutting the front door. I put the box down on the ring-stained coffee table. The smell of old people, stale pyjamas and unaired bed linen pervaded. The television was on, but the sound off, as if there was only so much reality, or perhaps reality TV, he could take. I watched as he slowly shuffled in: his cardigan stained, trousers baggy, old eyes tired. I bet he'd been in the war, brave, strong and upright. Now cross and alone. Sad. A shrinking life. A shrunken life.
Next door, the same smell, but a wary, toothless old woman – puréed – and then next door to that… I hastened back to the car as Felicity kerb-crawled along… a nice old couple who chortled with delight when I told them it was lamb stew today. Well, she did. He was prostrate on the sofa, a vacant smile on his face, but she shuffled over to him to relay the good news, bent right down beside him and they clasped hands, their eyes wide with delight, as if they'd both won tickets to Acapulco.
‘It's our favourite,’ the sweet old dear confided, turning back to me, taking my hand too. Now we were all holding hands. Hers felt like a few silver teaspoons, wrapped in thin velvet. ‘Lamb stew's our favourite!’
‘Oh, good,’ I beamed trying to match her skippy enthusiasm and smiling at her husband, who smiled weakly back, raising a quivering, triumphant hand, eyes pale and watery, unable to do more, it seemed.
‘Is he all right?’ I whispered.
‘Oh, yes. Just having a lie-down.’
When would it become her favourite stew, and not theirs, I wondered with a lump in my throat as I let myself out and walked back to the car. Not long, surely. If only couples like that could go on for ever together. Die together. I'd like that for me and Ant, I decided, as I stood for a moment on the pavement in the hazy sunshine, the mist taking its time to clear. You did hear of that, didn't you? The husband going on a Monday, the wife on the Friday, the latter losing the will to live. Yes, we would be one of those couples, holding liver-spotted hands and drifting up to heaven together. Well, hopefully heaven. My heart seemed to be on fire. Was it Felicity's wise words, or was it charity work? Either way, I liked it.
‘All right?’ shouted Felicity through the car window.
I came to; ran towards her. ‘Yes, fine. I'm getting the hang of this. You don't have to get out. What's next?’
‘No fowl, number ten. No lumps, number sixteen,’ she barked.
‘Right.’ I beetled to the boot; set off with my booty.
Two minutes later I was back. ‘OK. Go again!’ I yelled, having delivered the last two at racing speed. I adopted a ‘Ta-dah!’ pose on the pavement, dusting off my hands as she consulted her list. Too quick for her, you see.
‘Two no fish – yellow dot – number twenty-two. A couple of ageing lessies. Watch your back. Quite an eye-opener. They fight like cat and dog and the butch one's convinced we're after her girlfriend, who's a toothless eighty-five. Don't forget the cakes. They adore them.’
No fish, yellow dots, cakes. Right. I could do this. I mean, more. Each week. Take another day. Maybe Sally Powell, down the road, would do it with me? She did al
most as little as I did. Not quite. I'd tell her about the lovely feel-good glow. She'd love it, I thought as I raced up the path, a halo over my head.
‘You're late.’
Predictable. ‘I know, I'm sorry. In here?’
A decidedly masculine old woman with trousers up to her armpits was determinedly blocking my path. Cropped hair and a cravat. Very Noel Coward. Certainly not the distaff side. The place stank of gin and cats.
‘Shall I…?’ I managed to sidle past her, turning left into the sitting room as she looked over her shoulder at me suspiciously.
‘You're new.’
‘Yes, my mother couldn't make it today, so I've come instead. Hello there!’ This to a tiny, white-haired old lady, wrapped in a pink shawl and propped in a chair like a doll. Despite being eighty-five I could see she once would have been a doll. Good bones. Her rhuemy blue eyes lit up when she saw me.
‘Hello, dear.’
Noel Coward instantly hastened in to stand between us, hands on considerable hips.
‘Cakes?’ Toothless siren peered around her boyfriend's legs.
‘Yes, cakes in here.’ I put a paper bag on the coffee table in front of her. ‘And your lunch is— Oh…’
Her shaky, bony old hands had already reached out and torn open the paper bag. She was cramming a whole fairy cake in her mouth, spitting crumbs, beaming happily. Right.
‘She likes her cake first,’ her partner explained gruffly.
‘Oh. Yes, well, why not? Except – oh Lord.’ I lunged forward as I spotted one of Megan's long white dog hairs disappearing into her mouth. Would she choke, croak on the floor in front of me? I plucked at it before it disappeared, but her upper lip lifted too, as if I'd caught a fish. I tugged harder. Her lip came up again.
‘Oh!’ I let go suddenly.
‘What are you doing!’ barked Noel Coward.
Heavens. It was attached. I stared at the downy old upper lip, still taking its time to crumple back into place.
‘Nothing. Sorry. So sorry.’
The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton Page 23
