by Judy Astley
‘Generally.’ Naomi looked a bit awkward, put her drink down on the window ledge and headed upstairs to check out Rachel’s territory.
James and Marco arrived in a flurry of more flowers and more champagne. ‘Happy new old house,’ James said, hugging Viola.
‘Absolutely,’ Marco added. ‘Blessings on the place.’ He put the bottles in the fridge and then asked, ‘And did you find out who sent that moving-in card, by the way?’
Viola felt cold, thinking of the card with the kittens on it that now lurked in the drawer with the other one. She could have confided in Marco about them both, but he’d be away for a week from tomorrow and she didn’t want to send him on his way with her problems on his mind. There wasn’t much he could do apart from worry, and that never solved anything.
‘No – not yet. It was probably a neighbour, like we said. Someone a bit forgetful.’
‘Ah – that good old standby, lasagne,’ Miles said later. He was opening a bottle of red wine as Viola, fully armed with oven gloves, carefully lifted the steaming dish out of the oven. She felt conscious of him watching her, sure he was expecting there to be a horrific hot-food and broken-dish incident.
‘Don’t watch me, Miles. I won’t drop it, you know.’
‘Glad to hear it. And I wasn’t actually looking at you. I was wrestling with this cork. Is everyone having red? Rachel?’
‘Ugh, no, thanks – got a Coke.’
‘I’m driving so I’m on Coke too, thanks,’ Marco said, clinking glasses with his daughter.
‘Lasagne’s a standby?’ Naomi spluttered. ‘In my young day it would have counted as fancy foreign food.’
‘British cooking at its best can’t be beaten,’ Miles said, sounding rather disapproving.
‘Here we go,’ Kate chimed in. ‘If it hasn’t got potatoes and gravy it’s Not Proper Food. You want to get out there and live a bit, Miles, before it’s too late.’
‘Nobody said it’s not proper food, Kate.’ Rob was sitting at the table, already a long way down his third glass of champagne. Maybe, Viola thought, he’d decided tonight was the ideal opportunity to announce his departure from the family. Talk about a conversation-stopper. On the other hand, it would at least distract everyone from so carefully Not Mentioning Rhys. His non-presence was lingering in the room like the vanilla scent that her tenant had so loved. She could swear there were still traces of that too, struggling to make itself known over the clean smell of new paint. She would invest in some of the richest scented candles from Santa Maria Novella when she got her next pay cheque, and make sure she always blew them out before leaving the room.
‘I’m only saying it’s different from the old days,’ Naomi told them. ‘I didn’t say I wanted to go back to them. I was a war child, remember. Powdered egg and Woolton Pie. When I moved south and discovered Italian food in Soho it was like … wonderland. Talk about exotic. Until then I’d thought spaghetti only came in tins.’
‘What’s Woolton Pie?’ Rachel asked, looking horrified. ‘Is it sheep – you know, as in, like, wool?’
‘You’re not the only one who doesn’t know that,’ Marco told her.
‘It’s sort of vegetable crumble. Must have been perfect if you had a father who grew prize-winning vegetables,’ Miles reminded Rachel. ‘I bet they had to put a security fence round, back then.’
‘Don’t be so daft, Miles,’ Naomi scolded him. ‘Nobody stole. You didn’t. You trusted your neighbours.’
‘Are you going to grow vegetables here?’ Rob asked Viola. ‘That’s quite a long garden you’ve got. You could put a lovely little potager down at the end. Some raised beds maybe, or divide sections up with fancy brickwork. I have a … er … friend who’s done that.’
‘Oh, yes. He certainly has,’ Kate hissed across the table in Viola’s general direction. ‘He absolutely has got a friend with a very swish whopping great garden. You wouldn’t run short of rations there, that’s for sure. Of any sort.’
‘Ooh, am I missing something here?’ Marco asked, eyebrows raised.
Viola gave him a warning look.
‘Okaay!’ he said. ‘Please would someone pass the Parmesan? Lovely supper, Vee. To think when I met you we only ate chips. But hey, that’s love for you.’
‘Oh yuck, Dad, perlease.’ Rachel shuddered.
‘Marco still does eat chips, any chance he gets,’ James told them.
‘I’ll probably grow some easy stuff,’ Viola said, wondering, as Rob topped up his glass, if he and Kate were going to drink enough to end up with their marriage problems spilled all over the table. ‘Tomatoes in pots, a few sugar snaps, that kind of thing.’ And cucumbers, perhaps. She’d put one of Greg’s into tonight’s salad. It may have been her imagination, but she was sure it had more flavour than any she’d tasted. She’d even found herself feeling surprised none of the others had commented, till she told herself not to be so silly – it was just a cucumber.
‘You should get that gardening man friend of yours to help,’ Naomi suggested. ‘The scruffy-looking one who was always hanging around. That garden’s going to need a lot of work.’
‘What man?’ Miles said, looking alarmed. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got another …’
‘Why shouldn’t she?’ Marco challenged. ‘You surely don’t expect Viola to shut down on a sex life at her age?’
‘Bleurgh! Dad, that’s even worse! That’s, like, Mum you’re talking about?’
‘No, really, I haven’t got anyone!’ Viola felt she was being cross-examined. For a few seconds she allowed the mud-streaked image of Greg and his mad, broad, wolfy smile to settle in her head, as if she’d pressed the pause button on an Internet slide show. Then she clicked the image forward to him softly stroking his finger down her face when they planted the tulips. And then kissing him. Goodbye, she told the pictures, feeling a deep punch of pain in her chest. Heartburn, she decided, preferring to think she’d eaten the lasagne too hot to the knowledge that she’d very much miss him.
‘The one from that night, you mean,’ Kate said, ‘with the filthy green Land Rover. Greg someone?’ She was slurring now, heading towards danger mode. Kate could say anything, Viola realized. It would be an absolute miracle if she remembered that the night at the police station was to be kept firmly between the two of them.
‘What night?’ Rob smirked. ‘Have you been out on the tiles, Vee?’
‘Gregory Fabian. And no tiles, Rob,’ she said quietly, then made a desperate bid to change the subject. ‘So – Ireland. Have you checked the weather forecast, Marco?’
‘Fabian? No! Really? Fabian? That’s amazing!’ Kate wasn’t to be distracted.
‘Sun and showers. The usual for August. And definitely usual for Ireland. James bought six umbrellas in Poundland, just in case.’
‘Well, you need to be prepared. You’ll thank me for them, you know.’
‘That man who was in the flat a bit too early in the morning and smells of putty?’ Naomi asked.
‘Six? Why so many?’ Viola asked.
‘In case of gales and resulting brolly destruction,’ James told her.
‘Early in the morning, was he? Interesting …’ Miles gave her a hard stare.
‘No, Miles, it’s not “interesting”.’ Viola gave up on the Ireland and umbrellas question. ‘So you can put your eyebrows back down. But what’s the big deal, Kate? You don’t know him, do you?’ Well, of course she did, if only briefly. Viola wished they’d talk about anything but this. Any second now and the whole night in the police cells thing would be out in the open, and they’d be forcing her to pack a bag and move back to the family version of house arrest. Not a chance.
‘Fabian. That name is on the family tree. Let me see …’ Kate screwed up her face, closed her eyes, concentrating. ‘Dad’s side. He had a sister, maybe just a half-one actually, I’d have to check. Anyway, an aunt we never met; she married a Fabian. The family lived in a huge old house by the river with what used to be a market garden. The house got knocked down in the
early sixties before anyone thought of listing these places, but the old walled garden’s still in one piece, I think.’ Kate rattled it off as if she was reciting quotes she’d had to learn for homework. ‘See? The things you find out when you start delving into this family-history lark. That Greg, he’ll be our long-lost cousin, I bet you anything. So there you are then – think of it as me doing you a favour. I’ve saved you from a spot of incest.’
‘Strictly speaking it wouldn’t be incest – a bit too remote,’ Miles told her, looking serious. ‘But it would hardly be ideal.’
‘Oh, Miles, don’t be so boring. And it would be quite all right. But Viola’s not likely to want to get involved with someone at the moment, now is she?’ Naomi said. ‘Not after everything.’
‘It isn’t even remotely on the cards,’ Viola insisted, starting to clear the empty plates. ‘He’s – was – just someone I met. A nice man. Kind.’ She felt very flat as she shoved cutlery too haphazardly into the dishwasher. Forks fell to the bottom and she stabbed her hand on a knife when reaching over it to retrieve them. There was blood, but not much, and she quickly rinsed her finger under the tap and wrapped a piece of kitchen paper round it. This was supposed to be such a happy evening, this new start in her own home, but it was all turning argumentative and uncomfortable. Nothing that pudding couldn’t fix, she resolved, taking the lemon tart and bowl of raspberries out of the fridge.
‘I don’t really mind if Mum meets someone,’ Rachel said. ‘I don’t want her to be all lonely and thinking only about me all the time.’
‘No, of course you don’t,’ Marco teased. ‘That way you’d never get away with teenage naughtiness. You’d be being watched. Nothing worse when you’re at that essential breakout stage.’
Rachel blushed and started concentrating on rolling her napkin into a sausage shape.
‘We should all get to know him,’ Kate suggested. ‘Invite him over and see if there are other cousins and stuff. A whole new family. Vee? Do you think he’d be up for that?’
‘Er … well, who can say? Really, I hardly know him. And also, I mean, would you want to hook up with a whole bunch of people who claimed they were your relatives, if it was a different way round?’
‘Hmm … I see what you mean. Could be a bit weird.’
‘Most of us have trouble coping with the families we’ve already got,’ Rob said, glancing sideways at Kate.
‘Don’t we just,’ she snapped back.
‘Tensions there,’ Marco whispered to Viola.
‘Oh, there so are,’ she murmured back.
‘Excellent pud, Viola, lovely tart,’ Rob interrupted, giving Marco a suspicious look.
‘Yes, Rob likes a lovely tart,’ Kate snarled.
‘Kate!’ Naomi snapped, putting her spoon down noisily. ‘If you’ve got something on your mind, damn well come out with it. The way you’re being tonight there’ll be blood on the carpet before the end of it.’
‘Well, you like a murder to solve, don’t you?’ Marco grinned at her, and Viola blew him a kiss for trying to keep the mood light.
‘Look, we’re supposed to be celebrating Viola’s new go at life. She and Rachel being back in their house,’ Miles said. ‘Even though some of us think it’s all a bit too … well, soon isn’t the word.’
‘No, it’s not. She shouldn’t be here at all. It’s stupid. Moving on should be exactly that.’ Kate was drooping miserably over her plate, all spirit vanished. Then she looked up, bright-eyed and manically animated suddenly. ‘I know, Viola, why don’t you come out flat-hunting with me on Thursday? We could find somewhere lovely, overlooking the park, live in a gorgeous mansion block, flats adjoining. It would be huge fun!’
There was a pause, nobody wanting to be the first to comment.
‘Sounds horrendously expensive, Kate. Besides, Rachel and I aren’t moving from here, not now we’ve just got back in. Why would we? I’ll help you look if you like, but I can’t on Thursday.’
‘Why? Are you seeing that man?’ Miles asked. ‘Maybe you should give your sister some help when she asks for it?’ Then he murmured so only Viola could hear, ‘God knows, Vee, it sounds like she needs it, and she’s given you plenty of her time.’
‘I’m not seeing that man. No. Actually … I can’t because …’ and she hadn’t meant to tell anyone this, but sometimes, she decided, a bit of bravado could be just what it took to get them off her case, ‘I’m going to Paris.’
TWENTY-THREE
‘HEY, I HEAR you’re off to Paris with Lisa. Good on you! And did you see Benedict Peabody being a drunk posh git in the papers? I wasn’t surprised.’ Amanda’s phone call was the most welcome of several the next morning. Positive thinking like this was what Viola needed, not the warnings of doom and disaster she was getting from Miles and Kate. They had each called her before 10 a.m. (and how Kate managed not to be groaning on her bed with a throbbing headache was a miracle), ostensibly to thank her for dinner, but neither had resisted the opportunity to give her a lecture on Travelling Abroad with Dangerous Strangers.
Thank goodness for Naomi the night before, who had given her a hug as she left and whispered, ‘You know what they say about Paris and lovers. Take advantage while you still can.’ This had made her feel both cheered up and also – if such a thing were possible – cheered down, as it rather implied her days of youth and lovers were numbered. She’d quite like to think she’d got at least the illusion of being young on her side for a few years yet, even if she didn’t intend to look for lovers. Especially not lovers who brought trouble and complications.
‘I did see him, the daft little bugger, though he’s not such a bad kid really. He’ll probably put the pics up on Facebook and his zillion friends will all click “Like”. And yes, I am going with Lisa. It’s only a day trip but honestly, Manda, if you could have heard my brother and sister going on at me you’d think I was making a three-month trek overland to China on a motorbike with a serial killer. They think I’m mad and that I’m certain to be captured for the slave trade, that’s if there is any demand for mid-thirties singletons who tend to trip over things.’
‘Bloody ’ell, do they still think you should be locked away in solitary with your mum guarding your cell?’
‘They do. For my own safety. I so wish I hadn’t said anything, but they were getting more and more nutty over supper and I just blurted it out to stop Kate from going on about the possibility that someone I’ve been slightly sort of seeing might turn out to be some kind of cousin.’
‘Oo er, how very … um … rural – or even royal, come to think of it. Don’t they all marry cousins? But, seriously, does it matter? I mean, unless he’s, like, an actual first cousin, if you didn’t already know him before then he must be pretty remote, cousin-wise, so it wouldn’t be like you were brought up together, playing in the same sandpit and doing the family Christmas thing.’
‘Well, no, it’s not that, exactly. It’s a bit more complicated, I think. Anyway, it’s not that important because I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again.’
It almost made her cry to say that aloud. It actually physically hurt. But whenever she recalled how lovely kissing Greg had been on that night together, she also got the accompanying mental picture of him tenderly nuzzling the head of the tiny sleeping baby and gently placing it in Mickey Fabian’s car.
‘Oh, that’s a shame, but, well, it wasn’t as if you’d got really involved yet, was it?’ Amanda said. ‘Think of it as a trial run. And who knows, Mr Off-to-Paris might turn out to be Mr Perfect. Or Monsieur Parfait. Just don’t get carried away and decide to stay there too long – it’s A-level-results day next week. We’ve got to be on duty at Med and Gib for our poor students, God bless the sweet young things. I hope we get to do more celebrating than consoling.’
‘How was the family supper?’ Greg’s call straight after Amanda’s wasn’t from his mobile number, so it took Viola by surprise, and the sound of his voice made her heart pound.
‘Um – it was OK, thanks.
You know, familyish.’
‘As much fun as being out with me?’ His voice had its usual teasing edge, which always made her smile. Viola felt bad about not being very communicative, but she was putting off the moment when she would have to tell him she knew about the baby and give him her decision about not seeing him again. It wasn’t something she felt should be done over the phone, and yet how else to do it? Deciding to be sensible was a complete pain, but the ditzy airhead she now knew she’d been, marrying Rhys only eight weeks after meeting him, had vanished over the past year, leaving a far more thoughtful and wary woman in her place.
‘A grown-up’ was what she now realized she was, and about time too, even though so far it wasn’t proving to be a whole lot of laughs. She knew she was deliberately denying herself many a lovely moment, all the silly fun that had become such a part of being anywhere with Greg, but it had to be done. She wondered if he might think – when it came to her saying she’d seen him with the baby – that she’d been tracking down either him or Mickey, checking on them. Stalking, even – oh, the irony. Given her own experiences of being harassed by weird strangers after Rhys’s death, she could almost laugh. But only almost.
‘I’ve got five hundred crocus bulbs that would enjoy the company of your dibber, if you fancy it,’ he told her, evidently having given up waiting for her reply.
‘Um … Well, it’s a bit difficult at the moment. I wanted to talk to you about …’
‘Ugh. Sounds serious. Don’t. Hey, though,’ he went on, all enthusiasm, ‘did you ever hear that story about the German prisoner of war who was taken out to help plant a load of cheer-up bulbs on a grassy bank in Torquay, I think it was?’
‘No, what happened?’ She should finish this call but he was laughing now, and she hadn’t the heart just to cut him off coldly. Oh, how she’d miss him. Funny how someone so recently arrived in her life had become so essential. But then, she reminded herself, that had been how it had all started with Rhys.
‘Everyone said how hard he worked and how careful and trustworthy he was, but when spring came the crocuses spelled out Heil Hitler all along the seafront! We should think of some words to plant. Not that message, obviously.’
