The Lucky One

by Caroline Overington

  Fiona’s face flushed red to the roots of her chestnut hair.

  ‘I didn’t realise I was all dried up,’ she said.

  ‘You’re not, my darling,’ said Tim, pulling the cork from a bottle. ‘Who wants wine?’

  They looked around for glasses, picked them up, and stuck them out – all except Penelope, who carried on around the table laying out heavy white plates and bone-handled cutlery, taking special care over the positioning of the centrepiece – a branch from a lemon tree, with three green lemons – and the silver salt shaker and the tall wooden pepper grinder.

  ‘The table looks gorgeous,’ said Sol.

  ‘Oh, but you should have seen the dining room in the castle,’ said Fiona. ‘We had a table for twenty, with all these rough and hairy chairs. Bison skin! You’d love it, Sol. And we didn’t need this cloth,’ she said, taking the Sri Lankan material between her thumb and finger. ‘You could just sit and admire the dings and the iron bolts in the old timber. Even the wine stains. The old table told a story.’

  ‘The old table is too big for this room,’ said Mom, as she went around after Penelope, straightening the bone-handled forks. ‘And anyway, it wouldn’t go in here. You need the cloth and the pale wood, and these Perspex chairs. It’s about making things look airy.’ She turned on her heel. ‘Now, who are we waiting for?’

  ‘Margaret and Dad,’ said Fiona.

  ‘Oh,’ said Penelope, straightening, ‘I’m not sure that Jesalyn wanted your dad to come down.’

  ‘I said that, did I?’ said Mom. I knew her well enough to know that she was faking the surprise in her voice. She was saved only by the crunching of wheels on the pebble drive.

  ‘Aunt Margaret,’ said Mom. ‘Eden, could you go and help her?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  I twisted off my Perspex chair and headed out the front of the house, onto the deck. Great Aunt Margaret had driven herself in from Paso, where she lived in a small retirement village. She was doing her best to extract herself from the driver’s seat without letting go of her cigarettes.

  ‘Come on, hurry and help me!’ she said. ‘I don’t want to fall.’

  ‘I’ve got you,’ I said, reaching out to take her hand, so thin I could feel bones through her skin.

  ‘It’s bad news to fall at my age,’ she said. ‘Goodness, is that really you, Eden? You’ve grown. How old are you now?’

  ‘I’m seventeen.’

  ‘You look twenty-one,’ said Margaret, steadying herself. ‘How old do I look? Be careful what you answer.’

  I looked Margaret over. She was the smallest of the Alden-Stowes, and wore dark-blue denim jeans, with a touch of elastic in the back, and a denim shirt, in a slightly lighter shade of blue, with pearls, and smart boots. Like the rest of us – or like my dad and me, and Pop and Fiona – she’d grown up in Alden Castle, before marrying my great uncle Stan. He’d been a Stoughton who started in beef on a ranch he’d inherited from his father, before jumping on grapes to make Stoughton’s wine. The marriage lasted sixty years before Stan died and his sons took over, prompting Great Aunt Margaret to make her move to Paso.

  ‘You look twenty-one,’ I said.

  ‘Okay. That’s fine. Now, you don’t have to hold my hand. I can walk. And to think you and your mother are both back here! I didn’t think I’d live to see the day.’

  ‘We arrived yesterday,’ I said, pushing back the bi-folds to make sure there was enough room for the two of us to pass into the pavilion.

  ‘And Penelope’s done her best to make her welcome. Is that lamb I can smell?’ Margaret chuckled, gripping the edge of one of the doors as we both stepped through. ‘No, no, everyone stay seated,’ said Margaret, as we made our way into the dining room to find the others rising from their chairs. ‘I’m late. You’re all starving. Come on, Penelope. Bring on the meat.’

  Fletcher kept standing to introduce Sol. Mom rose to say, ‘Hello, Margaret, so lovely to see you again.’ Then, before Mom had even taken her seat again, there was Penelope, standing in the open doorway with the first of her platters: a salad of tomatoes with thick circles of mozzarella and basil leaves.

  ‘The feast is on,’ said Fletcher, rubbing his hands.

  Looking pleased, Penelope put the platter down, went out and came back with fresh bread served on a cutting board with curls of unsalted butter. Then came boiled eggs, cut in half and topped with tiny piles of red caviar. Then a green salad, with thinly sliced peppers. Then roast potatoes, still in the pan, with cloves of roasted garlic. Then, finally – spectacularly – the crown of lamb with its festive paper tips.

  ‘You’ve outdone yourself, Penelope.’ Austin was tucking a linen napkin into the collar of his pink shirt, and smoothing it over his long, ginger beard, as he surveyed the spread. Penelope made her humble face and said: ‘Well, it’s a special night. Everyone back together again after so many years.’

  ‘It’s too much,’ said Mom, sounding dismayed. ‘Will you just look at all this food?’

  ‘No, it’s awesome,’ said Tim.

  ‘I’m with you, Dad. It looks incredible,’ said Fletcher.

  We dug in, and I’m trying to think now: were there any hints during that first family dinner as to what they had planned? What was on their minds, as we tucked in to eat that night? For sure, it was money, although the subject wouldn’t come up for hours. Instead, we all made small talk about the weather, and the food. Austin reached over the table and tore a chunk of bread from the loaf, saying: ‘My God, it’s still warm. How can it be warm?’

  ‘It’s from the Costco bread maker,’ said Penelope, stepping forward to move the board closer to him. ‘The one your mom bought.’

  ‘Oh, I love Costco,’ said Fiona. ‘I sometimes go just to see what they’ve got in stock. One week they have gardening tools. The next week, big-screen TVs. Or ski gear. Or leisure pants and figs. It’s not logical.’

  ‘It’s not meant to be logical,’ said Fletcher. ‘The weirdness is why people go. Are you sure you won’t have lamb, Jesalyn?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Mom, taking up wooden salad servers. ‘That poor little thing was probably frolicking in a field yesterday.’

  ‘You must have eaten meat when you were little, Jesalyn. You weren’t vegetarian when you were growing up,’ said Fiona.

  ‘You don’t have a choice when you’re growing up,’ said Mom. ‘I was force-fed meat. My father loved it. Chops with fat handles. Ugh. And mince. Ugh. Fat and blood and God knows what else, spat out of a mincer.’

  ‘That is gross,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Hey, do you want to know something really gross?’ said Austin. ‘The average person eats six spiders every year. They crawl into your mouth when you’re snoring and you eat them. It’s automatic.’

  ‘That’s a myth. They made that up,’ said Fletcher. ‘And why are you talking about spiders?’

  ‘Who made it up?’

  ‘Some professor. I read it on the internet. She wanted to know how fast a rumour could get around.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I read on the internet that it’s true.’

  ‘Who remembers when Dad decided to get sheep?’ said Fiona, chewing approvingly on the lamb. ‘Boy, did we lose money on that venture.’

  ‘Your father lost money on everything,’ said Tim, cheerfully.

  ‘I remember the sheep,’ said Fletcher, standing to offer more wine around the table. To Sol, he said: ‘We used to come here for vacations when we were kids, to visit Nan and Pop, and there were sheep. Or else cattle. I can’t even remember what else they tried. Pop was really crap at everything.’

  ‘We actually still had one sheep left, until quite recently. Your pop’s Lady,’ said Penelope, returning from the kitchen with a gravy boat. ‘She died last year.’

  ‘I hope this isn’t her,’ said Fletcher.

  ‘This is Beyer’s,’ said Penelope. ‘Your pop would never eat Lady.’

  ‘But he’ll eat lamb,’ said Mom. ‘What do you make of all this food, Eden?’
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br />   I looked around the table, at the wide linen napkins, the heavy china plates, the crystal glassware and the bone-handled cutlery, all remnants of a richer time, all branded A-S for Alden-Stowe, and I looked at my family, together again for the first time in years.

  ‘Everything’s fantastic,’ I said. ‘I’m just missing Pop.’

  And then we heard him.

  ‘Miss me?’ he said. ‘I’m right here.’

  * * *

  Penelope rushed back in from the kitchen. Pop was standing at the top of the glass staircase, directly across from the dining table, with one pale foot in an old corduroy slipper dangling over the landing.

  ‘Is anyone going to help me down?’ he said.

  ‘Good God, it’s Owen!’ said Margaret.

  ‘Heavens, Mr Alden-Stowe. Don’t even try to come down those stairs on your own,’ said Penelope. She was holding her hands up, as if that might prevent him from falling. ‘No, Mr Alden-Stowe, don’t you dare move.’

  ‘I’ll come down if I want to.’

  Pop’s baggy face beneath a thicket of wild hair was indignant.

  ‘Who on earth made the decision to put him up there?’ said Mom. ‘Of course he’s going to try to come down.’

  ‘We had no choice!’ cried Fiona. ‘He needs the walk-in shower. And Tim and I are up there now. It was different when Penelope was in Eden’s room. He can’t be left alone down here. He wanders! But oh, Penelope, now look, he’s going to fall!’

  ‘Can’t you lock him in?’ said Margaret, as she sipped, unperturbed, from her wine glass.

  ‘He won’t fall,’ said Austin, pushing back his chair. ‘I’ll get him.’

  ‘We are going to get one of those chair lifts,’ cried Fiona, ‘except they’re so expensive …’

  Austin and Tim were both standing now, looking up at Pop, obviously worried he might try to come down alone if they stepped towards him. But my heart? It was swelling with happiness. This was a pop I knew. Pop being stubborn as a mule. It had been four years, pretty much, since I had last seen him, and from the look of things, he hadn’t changed all that much. He was thinner, for sure, and paler, like he didn’t get around the estate in the sunshine anymore. But he was wearing the navy dressing gown I remembered from when I was a kid, with the fancy crest on the breast pocket, and I could see his pale chest with the crazy grey hairs poking through.

  ‘I’ll get him,’ Austin repeated, moving towards the staircase. He’d already had probably three full goblets of red wine. ‘Let me help you, Pop,’ he said, as he began climbing the glass staircase unsteadily. Pop grunted, but at least stayed put, while his dressing gown flapped open, revealing a bony body, and his grey-haired jewels on display. Austin took him by the loose skin on his elbow, and they started a precarious trip down.

  ‘Jesus, who designed this thing? Is it even legal to have nothing to hang onto?’

  ‘I designed that staircase with an architect,’ said Mom. ‘Of course it’s legal.’

  Like everyone, except Margaret, who stayed seated, and drinking, and merry, Mom was standing, transfixed by the spectacle of Pop, lean and pale, trying to make his way down in the flapping dressing gown.

  ‘This doesn’t feel right,’ said Austin. ‘It feels as dodgy as anything.’

  ‘Somebody get a chair,’ said Fiona, but Penelope was already onto it, positioning herself at the bottom of the staircase with an old-style wheelchair, adjusting the foot rests and coaxing him in.

  ‘I don’t need that,’ snapped Pop.

  ‘It’s more for me,’ said Penelope, soothingly. ‘Just to be sure I can get you to your spot at the top of the table.’

  Sol shifted Fletcher’s chair from that space to make room.

  ‘Am I sitting down?’ asked Pop as Penelope wheeled him into place. ‘Am I down?’

  ‘You’re down,’ said Fletcher.

  ‘Let me close his legs,’ said Penelope, stepping around to make adjustments.

  ‘What’s wrong with you? I like a little fresh air down there.’

  ‘You’ll catch a cold,’ said Penelope, closing his knees. ‘Austin, get a rug.’

  ‘I don’t need a rug. I’m not a geriatric.’

  ‘Of course you’re not. Why did you come down, Mr Alden-Stowe? Are you hungry?’

  ‘I wanted an orange juice.’

  ‘An orange juice?’ echoed Penelope.

  ‘Yes, what other kind of juice?’

  Penelope hurried back to the kitchen. The rest of them began adjusting to the new arrival by moving platters and plates. I couldn’t wait any longer.

  ‘Hey, Pop,’ I said, smiling. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  He looked around, trying to see where the voice had come from. Then his gaze fixed on me.

  ‘Oh, it’s my bride. Hello, Nell,’ he said, happily.

  ‘No, it’s me, Pop,’ I said. ‘It’s Eden.’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  He still seemed confused, but then he said: ‘How did you get here?’ I took this to be a good sign, Pop realising that I did not live on the estate anymore, but that I’d come back.

  ‘Mom drove me. We got here yesterday. I was going to come up and see you today, but I thought you were sleeping. How are you feeling, Pop? I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Me? I’m fine. Of course I am. I don’t need help. Who are you?’

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ muttered Fletcher, swigging his wine.

  ‘Don’t curse,’ hissed Fiona.

  ‘Yes, Fletcher, don’t curse,’ mocked Austin.

  ‘No, Pop, it’s me,’ I said, trying again. ‘It’s Eden.’

  ‘Eden!’ he said, like he was suddenly clear on the point. ‘Yes, I know who you are. How is your wonderful mother?’

  Mom laughed.

  ‘Heavens! He remembers me!’ she said, gaily swinging her foot. ‘I’m right here, Owen. Good to see you again.’

  Pop looked around at everyone but Mom. Maybe his hearing wasn’t good. He didn’t seem to know where the voices were coming from.

  ‘Who is that?’ he said, suddenly pointing a bent finger at Sol. ‘Why is she naked?’

  ‘This is my girlfriend, Pop,’ said Fletcher, putting an arm around Sol’s bare shoulders. ‘Her name is Sol. She’s from Sweden. She’s not naked.’

  ‘She’s naked,’ said Pop. ‘I’ve seen a nude woman before. I know what one looks like. Why are you naked, Nell?’

  ‘Christ. He thinks you’re my nan. This is Solveig, Pop.’

  ‘You mustn’t sit there in no clothes.’ Pop was shaking his big tufty head. ‘Naked in the middle of the room.’

  ‘She’s not naked,’ said Fletcher. ‘She has a dress on. It’s strapless.’

  Solveig went to stand again, but Fletcher shook his head, saying: ‘Forget it, babe. He has no idea. He’ll be onto something else in a minute.’

  Penelope hurried out from the kitchen, carrying the juice.

  ‘Here you are, Mr Alden-Stowe,’ she said. ‘Just the way you like it.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Pop was eyeing the glass suspiciously.

  ‘Your juice.’

  ‘I don’t want that,’ he said, making a fist to rap the table. ‘I want wine.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Austin.

  ‘No, no, no! He’s not supposed to be down here at all,’ protested Mom, holding up a hand to prevent the pouring. ‘For goodness sake, Penelope, didn’t I make it clear that Owen wasn’t to come tonight?’

  Margaret, looking into her crystal glass, muttered: ‘Maybe don’t talk about him like he’s not here?’

  Pop seemed to agree. ‘This is my house,’ he said, thumping the table. ‘I’ll have what I want.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to have wine, Mr Alden-Stowe,’ said Penelope.

  ‘All of you, telling me what I can and can’t do,’ he cried. ‘I’m in charge here! That’s what you people seem to forget!’

  ‘Well, you can’t have just wine,’ said Penelope. ‘Let me get you a little something to eat. Will you
try the lamb?’

  Pop scowled. Penelope went to the sideboard, picked up a clean plate and placed it in front of him.

  ‘What can I put on there for you?’

  ‘Lamb? Who made lamb?’

  ‘I did,’ said Penelope. ‘It’s me, Mr Alden-Stowe. It’s Penelope.’

  ‘And I’m Fletcher,’ said Fletcher, pulling the cork from another bottle. ‘It’s so good to see you down here, Pop.’

  ‘No, no, I’m not keen on Fletcher.’ Pop was shaking his head, making like a demented old koala. ‘I don’t like him at all.’

  Austin, pushing his glass forward for wine, guffawed.

  ‘I am Fletcher.’

  Fiona put her hand on Fletcher’s forearm, as if to say: ‘Don’t.’

  Pop looked up from his empty plate.

  ‘Let’s not invite him tonight,’ he said. ‘And let’s keep him away from the naked lady. You know he can’t be trusted.’

  ‘I’m already here,’ said Fletcher, irritated.

  ‘Why doesn’t everyone try one of these?’ Penelope came bustling back from the kitchen carrying a tray of shrimp cocktails. ‘I meant to bring them out first and I completely forgot. But they’ll still be lovely.’

  ‘What is that?’ said Pop. ‘Bait?’

  ‘Oh, no, Mr Alden-Stowe, it’s shrimp.’

  ‘I don’t want to eat my meal with Fletcher. That boy is trouble. He came into my room earlier. I told him to go away.’

  I glanced across the table. Fletcher looked furious. I thought: he’s been up? When did he go up? But Fiona kept her hand on Fletcher’s forearm, as if to say: ‘Steady. Stop. Forget it.’

  ‘No. I don’t want any of this,’ Pop said suddenly.

  ‘Any of what, Mr Alden-Stowe?’ said Penelope, buzzing around him.

  ‘Any of this. I want to go home.’

  ‘You are home.’

  ‘To my house.’

  ‘This is your house.’

  ‘He means Alden Castle,’ said Mom, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Let me take you upstairs,’ said Penelope.

  ‘I don’t want to go upstairs. I want to go home. Nell,’ he said, pointing at me, ‘take me home.’

  He was looking straight at me. I got up and went over to where he was sitting in the wheelchair. The old dressing gown barely covered his bald legs. His hair was completely mad, his hands were blotchy and his eyes sad. I knelt down so we were at eye level.