by Gil McNeil
‘Wouldn’t be surprised, young man. Disgraceful. But a silver is not to be sneezed at, I suppose, especially two years running. Gold next year, even if we have to bang them.’
Oliver chokes on his Coke as I put the cape patterns down on the table.
‘I think you might mean bung, Lady Denby.’
‘Do I? Quite. Still, I’m sure your window display helped again, so well done. Thought you’d like to know.’
‘Thank you, that was kind of you.’
‘No trouble at all. Nice to meet you all. Good to see young people learning something useful. Excellent skill to have, knitting; never know when it will come in useful. Good afternoon.’
I follow her downstairs to find Elsie trying to keep Algie and Clarkson at arm’s length by keeping the counter between her and them. Clarkson’s edging round the corner as Lady Denby takes over and yanks him back.
‘Thank you, Enid.’
‘It’s Elsie, actually, Lady Denby.’
‘Is it? Are you sure?’
Elsie looks momentarily confused.
‘Always had you down as an Enid. Must dash – left George in the car. Lord alone knows where he’ll have got to by now. He will get out and go for wanders. So annoying. Still, the boys usually track him down.’
She yanks the leads again, and off they trot.
‘You’ll have to tell her.’
‘Sorry?’
‘She can’t keep bringing those dogs in; it’s not nice.’
‘Any ideas how I’m going to pull that one off, Elsie?’
She smiles.
‘Are they behaving themselves up there?’
‘Beautifully. One of the boys wants to knit something for his mum.’
‘Does he? Well, bless his heart. I always loved the things my Martin made for me. We still use the little table he made me in woodwork, you know, and they did seem very polite, I will say that for them.’
‘They are, they all seem really nice.’
‘Well, I’ll give it a chance, I’m all for giving people a chance, you know that. But if there’s any funny business I’ll call you, shall I?’
‘Sure.’
‘I used to see one of them when he was little. Always in with his mum, he was. He was mad on Thomas the Tank Engine and she used to knit him jumpers. She made him a dressing gown too, I think.’
‘Well, for heaven’s sake don’t ask him about it now – he’s trying to impress the girls. God, I’ve got all that to come, haven’t I? With the boys.’
She smiles.
‘Your Jack will be fine; it’ll be your Archie who’ll need watching, he’s such a charmer. Shall I go up and see if they’d like a biscuit? I saw you’d got a new tin of shortbread, and they’re always starving at that age, aren’t they? I could make a cup of tea, if you fancy one?’
Excellent.
I knew the tin of shortbread would lure her up there sooner or later.
By lunchtime on Sunday I’m exhausted. An emergency supermarket sweep after I realised our summer-holiday routine of soporific days on the beach with picnics, in between sessions in the shop and trying to get the salt out of the boys’ hair at bathtime, is all very well, but it does tend to mean that things like what we’re actually going to eat at my birthday picnic slip right off my list.
Ellen and Harry are due later, and most of the Stitch and Bitch group are meeting us on the beach later, along with Connie and Mark, who are coming with the kids once Mark’s finished the lunches in the pub. They’re closing the restaurant this evening. Sunday night’s always pretty quiet and there’ll be bar snacks for anyone who’s desperate.
I’ve told Mark not to worry about making anything for the picnic, which I’m really starting to regret now. I’ve made vast quantities of potato salad with chopped chives, and I’m marinating salmon steaks in honey and ginger and a splash of soy, actually a bit more than a splash since the nozzle on the bottle wasn’t quite as small as I thought. The chicken can be plain for the people who like to pick chives out of their mother’s potato salad, but after I’ve got all the food in Tupperware boxes there still doesn’t look like enough, and I’m running out of plastic boxes. I could ring Gran, who has an epic collection of useful containers, all with matching lids, but then she’d Help, and I wanted to do most of the food myself, even though she’s insisted on making the cake.
‘Mum.’
‘Yes, Archie.’
‘It should be fancy dress, your party.’
‘It’s a beach party, love.’
‘Yes, but we could all be fishes. Can I have a fish costume for the party, please?’
‘No.’
‘Or I could be a cowboy with my potato gun. Where is my potato gun?’
‘I don’t know.’
And even if I did I wouldn’t tell him.
‘I think fishes would be better. And Mum?’
‘Yes?’
‘When’s lunch? I’m starving.’
Bugger. I’d forgotten about lunch.
‘Have some cereal.’
‘For lunch?’
‘Yes.’
He looks at me, and finally starts to recognise the signs of a mother close to crisis.
‘I don’t want Shreddies.’
‘Don’t have them then, have Weetabix.’
There’s a fair amount of tutting and sighing, but I’m too busy banging saucepans and trying to stop the rice from going into sticky clumps while I get the skin off the roasted peppers and the peas come to the boil to bother about tutting.
Jack wanders in.
‘What’s for lunch?’
‘We’ve got to have cereal.’
‘What?’
Archie gives him a Look.
‘I don’t want Weetabix.’
‘Have Shreddies, Jack, and then you can both help me get all this into the car.’
‘Have you got balloons, Mum?’
‘No, Jack, I haven’t.’
He tuts.
‘It’s not a proper party without balloons.’
‘Well, don’t come then.’
They both sigh.
If anyone starts trying to whistle again I think I might start throwing sticky clumps of rice.
Ellen arrives at three, with Harry, who’s in disgrace after arriving home with a traffic cone on his head at half-past five this morning. He’s lying on the sofa ‘helping’ the boys with their Lego while Ellen and I retreat to the kitchen.
‘Jesus, how many people are coming?’
‘I don’t know, stacks.’
‘Well, they won’t go hungry, darling.’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘Have you made your potato salad?’
‘Yes, but don’t tell Archie it’s mayonnaise or he won’t eat it. It’s salad cream; he thinks it’s like ice cream.’
‘Sure. I’m starving. Bloody Errol had me on that running machine for hours yesterday. I’d sack him, only I’d be the size of a house if he didn’t bully me so much.’
She’s wearing a tiny white sundress with pink polka dots, and looks like an advert for something slimming. Even her hair looks slim.
‘You look great.’
‘Thanks, darling. So what are you wearing?’
‘This?’
‘No, you’re not. Those trousers are terrible. It’s your party – wear something nice.’
‘They’re cool.’
‘Not from where I’m standing they’re not. Please. Wear the dress you had on at the wedding. That looked great on you.’
‘At your wedding, you mean, the violet silk one? No, I’m saving it.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘Good point.’
By five it’s starting to cool down, and the light’s gone all soft on the beach when we arrive. There are still quite a few people sitting inside their windbreak encampments, but you can hear the sea in amongst the noise of people chatting or packing up for the long drive home; it’s my favourite time on the beach, especially when the tide’s out like it is t
oday.
‘Here, give me the big bag. It’s down these steps, right? Where’s the beach hut?’
‘About halfway along. Oh.’
Gran and Reg are here already and have covered the hut in streamers and balloons, much to the boys’ delight.
‘Hello, pet, hello, Ellen. What do you think? We thought we’d make a bit of an effort. What are you doing carrying those bags? Reg, get them off her before she does herself a mischief. Sit down and have a cup of tea.’
‘There’s more in the car.’
‘We’ll get it in a minute. You’ve got to pace yourself – I keep telling you. Sit down, Ellen, love – I’ll go and fill the kettle. All mod cons we are here. Cup of tea coming up.’
Ellen smiles, and hesitates by one of the parrot sun loungers.
‘Christ, where on earth did you get the chairs?’
‘Gran and Reg.’
‘I’m glad I’ve got my sunglasses on.’
‘They’re very comfy.’
‘They’d have to be.’
By six the beach is lovely, still warm, but without the chilly breeze that sometimes blows in at the end of the day. I’m wearing my grey mohair shawl with the silver beads around the edge, and everyone’s complimenting me on my dress. Ellen’s even painted my toenails for me, which I’ve pretty much given up on until I’m less spherical, and she’s making her special punch, which is usually lethal so I’ve been adding lemonade when she’s not looking. Not that I’m going to be drinking any, but I’m not sure any of us are quite ready for a completely plastered Elsie.
‘God, this is perfect. Fuck spending hours in departures and then twelve hours on a bloody plane when you get a view like this.’
The tide’s gone right out now, and the kids are building sandcastles and army bases to some complicated plan of their own devising, running backwards and forwards to the sea with buckets of water. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, and I’ve got more birthday cards than I’ve had since I was little. They all seem to have brought a present, which is sweet; Maggie from the library has given me a lovely old copy of Mrs Beeton, after we were talking about how much we love reading recipe books at last week’s Stitch and Bitch, and Tina and Linda have brought me posh-looking bath stuff for pregnant people, and are busy admiring my fabulous new cream-leather handbag from Ellen. Olivia and Polly are giving it very longing looks in between trying to sneak glasses of punch when their mothers aren’t watching.
The food has all worked beautifully, mainly because Mark arrived early and arranged rosemary twigs on the barbecue and did something clever to the chicken with olive oil and herbs. But the best bit is how relaxed it all is: everyone seems to be having fun, without me feeling like I’m in charge. People are sitting on blankets they’ve brought with them, chatting or wandering down for a paddle, or in Tina’s case trying to stop Travis from swimming off into the sunset.
Fireman Graham is helping with the barbecue too, and Maxine and Bruno have arrived with a beautifully wrapped bottle of Calèche, which is my favourite perfume, as Maxine cleverly winkled out of me ages ago, and Bruno’s sharing dog tips with Martin while Tom and Jerry and Trevor dash in and out of the sea with the kids. It’s perfect, and I can’t believe we’ve only been here a year, because it feels like we’ve lived her for ever.
I’m having a paddle when Maxine says she and Bruno have to get back to Grace.
‘But thanks, Jo. This was great.’
‘You’re welcome, and thanks so much for the perfume.’
‘No problem. I haven’t been to a beach party where people actually eat anything for years. It was great – nice normal people, really relaxing.’ She turns to smile at Ellen, who’s been busy trying to bond with her in the hopes of landing an exclusive with Grace. ‘Good to meet you again, Ellen, and if she decides to do an interview you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Really?’
‘No.’
Ellen laughs.
‘Fair enough. But I promise I wouldn’t do a hatchet job.’
‘I know, and I’ll add you to the list, I promise. Jo, I’ll call you.’
She kisses me, and we walk up the steps with them and wave as they drive off, with Bruno tooting.
‘Nice woman. Always a good sign when the PAs aren’t desperate to tell you what bitches their bosses are. And Dovetail seemed to be getting on really well with Bruno.’
‘They like sharing dog tips, and stop calling him Dovetail. He doesn’t talk about wood nearly so much now.’
‘He does if he’s telling you all about his bloody barn conversion. What’s it like?’
‘Very muddy at the moment, but I think it’ll be beautiful.’
‘You should get a move on. I was watching him earlier – where did he get that tan?’
‘Working on his roof.’
‘Well, take him out, get him drunk, and see what happens. At least you won’t have to worry about getting pregnant.’
‘Ellen, please.’
‘Please what? Nice bit of flirting won’t do you any harm. I know, let’s dump the kids and go out clubbing. What are the choices round here?’
‘Bingo.’
‘Or?’
‘Going home and making hot chocolate.’
‘Dear God. I should have brought my slippers.’
‘You haven’t got any.’
‘I have. Mules. With feathers on. Harry bought them for me. One of his guilt presents after one of his disappearing acts. Let’s bring Dovetail home with us and play strip bingo then.’
‘Mum, tell Jack to stop bossing me. Boss, boss, boss. That’s all he does.’
‘Ignore him, love. You’re not spoiling his game, are you?’
‘No, me and Nelly are doing our own boat, in the sand. And it’s much better than his. Come and see.’
Ellen’s talking to Gran as I collect up the bowls from the barbecue. She looks very pleased with herself.
‘Right, that’s all sorted.’
‘What is?’
‘Your gran will take the boys home, and we can go off for a drink. I thought we’d head to a bar in Whitstable. There’s bound to be somewhere there.’
‘I suppose, but –’
‘It’s fine, the kids are fine. Shut up.’ She turns to Martin. ‘Do you fancy joining us?’
‘I’d love to, but I’ve got Trevor. I could ask Dad if he’ll take him home for me though.’
‘Great.’
Ellen winks at me.
Oh God. Poor Jeffrey.
Whitstable’s pretty busy when we arrive, at least the wine bars and restaurants are, but Ellen somehow manages to wangle us an outside table on a terrace overlooking the beach; being Britain’s Favourite Broadcaster definitely has its advantages.
She’s introducing Martin to a selection of her favourite cocktails while Harry tells me how much he wants to move out of London.
‘What are the prices like round here? Maybe we could get a weekend place, something with a view of the sea.’
‘It would set you back a fair bit in Whitstable, but there are still a few villages near by that are pretty reasonable.’
‘I’ve always wanted to live by the sea. What do you think, darling? Shall we buy a house down here?’
‘No, I’m trying to get Jo to move back to London, not the other way round.’
‘I’ve told you, Ellen, I like it down here.’
‘See? She’s not moving, so what do you say, light of my life? Fancy a weekend cottage?’ He starts kissing her shoulder.
‘No way.’
‘We could get something to do up, like Martin.’
‘Yes, except DIY isn’t exactly your strong point, is it, my darling? Unlike Martin, who knows what he’s doing.’
‘Well, we’ll get the experts in then, and I’ll have you know I sanded my uncle’s boat one summer, and that went all right. And we varnished it as well. It took bloody days.’
Martin puts his glass down.
‘What kind of wood was it?’
They’re off, talking about boats and special deck wax as Ellen shakes her head.
‘Let’s order something else.’
Ellen turns to look for the waitress as a woman comes over and stands staring at her, swaying slightly.
‘Are you that one off the telly?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
She goes back to her friends.
‘Bloody hell. I definitely need another drink now.’
The waitress comes over, and returns with something involving vodka in three tall glasses.
‘Are you sure you don’t want anything? Another juice?’
‘Actually, what I’d really like is tea, but I don’t suppose –’
‘Sure, no problem.’
Brilliant. I’m out on a Saturday night in my best frock, being a grown-up, and I can still have a cup of tea.
Ellen’s laughing.
‘Cheers, darling.’
‘Christ.’
‘What’s the matter, Martin? Is the vodka starting to hit home? Drink it slowly and you’ll be fine, darling – Aunty Ellen will take care of you.’
‘No, it’s Patricia.’
‘Who?’
‘My ex-wife. With Phil.’
Ellen and I exchange glances, and turn towards the doors on to the terrace. There’s a tall woman in a minuscule dress, with dark hair. I always thought she’d be blonde. She’s hesitating, looking for a table, and then she sees him, and so does Phil, in his casual shirt and jeans with slightly too high a waist.
Martin seems to be shrinking into his seat.
‘Oh no, she’s coming over.’
Ellen laughs.
‘Let me handle this, darling. Just follow my lead, OK?’
I give her a warning look. Which she ignores.
‘OK. Bandits at ten o’clock. This is going to be fun. Harry, put your arm around me.’
‘Why?’
‘For fuck’s sake, just do it. Christ, you really can’t get the help any more.’
He smiles and puts his arm across her shoulders as she moves her chair a bit nearer to his.
‘Just watch it, OK? I don’t want anything kicking off – I’m too knackered.’
She smiles.
Oh God.
‘Martin.’
‘Hello, Patricia.’
‘Fancy seeing you here.’
