Farewell, My Cuckoo

by Marty Wingate

  She continued to weep loudly as she stepped empty-handed into the cottage ahead of us. Michael and I picked up her bags and rucksack and followed, nudging her aside and stacking everything behind the door. Pammy had taken three steps, which put her in the kitchen, before stopping. She sniffed sharply and turned off the tears as she glanced round.

  “Oh, how sweet,” she said. “Is this it?”

  “Pammy, what’s happened?” Michael asked as I pushed past to switch the kettle on.

  She stuck out her bottom lip. “I’ve left him. I just couldn’t take it any longer—I deserve to be treated properly.”

  Of course that was it—she’d broken up with her boyfriend. What was his name? I couldn’t recall—he was the fourth or fifth since Michael and I met just over two years ago. Each of Pammy’s breakups had been the end of the world, and none of them had been her fault.

  I crossed my arms tightly and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Did he go back to his wife?”

  Michael cut his eyes at me as Pammy scrunched up her face again and wailed, “He promised me he was getting a divorce!” One tear leaked out the corner of an eye, and she cocked her head at Michael to make sure he saw it. “I didn’t know where else to go. Then I remembered you two and how lovely you’ve always been to me. And I thought, perhaps I could stay here? Just for tonight? I promise I won’t be any trouble—you won’t even know I’m here! And I’ll leave tomorrow, really I will.”

  “Could you not go to Pickle’s?” Michael asked. I heard the exasperation in his voice, and it echoed in every fiber of my being.

  Pickle, a year older than Pammy, and the only easy one of the lot, was stability personified—married with two lovely daughters in secondary school. The mother of the four—widow Patsy Sedgwick, an oasis of calm in a sea of diverse adult children—lived with Pickle and her family. So had Pammy—at least for a while.

  Pammy put her nose in the air and harrumphed. “Mum would be fine; she would understand. But she’s been brainwashed by the Queen of Perfection.”

  There you are—so much for our evening. But Michael had a soft spot for Pammy—God knows why—and she was family. His family—although they would become mine, too, wouldn’t they, if we…?

  “Of course you can stay tonight,” I said. “One night we can manage. You won’t mind the sofa, will you, because it’s all we’ve got?” Unless she wanted to curl up in the kitchen sink.

  “Oh, Julia, you’re the best.” The kettle switched off. “Are you making tea?”

  * * *

  —

  Michael took off his coat and tie and put together a salad, and I slipped off my heels and cooked an omelet with shallots and mushrooms for our supper, even though I was still full of wedding cake. We opened the French doors for air, and once or twice or thrice, I glanced longingly out to the back garden. Pammy sat at the table like a baby bird waiting to be fed, and during the meal filled the conversation with royal gossip and her worry that Prince George had difficulty making friends. After, she retreated to the sofa to stare at her phone—hoping for a reconciliation text, no doubt—while we washed up.

  “You know,” Pammy said, at last putting her phone down as we finished in the kitchen, “you aren’t the easiest people to find. I knew your cottage had a bird name, but I couldn’t remember which. Pipit—it’s not one I’ve heard of. So, first, I stopped to ask a fellow with a bicycle.” She flung an arm out in a generally northern direction. “He was a friendly sort, but he’d no idea. In fact, no one seemed to know who you were. And so, finally, I had to go in the pub.”

  “The Stoat and Hare?” Michael asked. Had she been in the pub while we were in the garden at the wedding reception?

  Pammy wrinkled her nose. “No, looked a bit posh, that one. I went over to the one the other side of the green. And I thought perhaps you two might pop in, so I decided to have a drink and chat with the barman.”

  No one at the Royal Oak “chatted” with Hutch, whose conversations consisted of growls and grunts.

  “I asked where your cottage was, and you’d’ve thought I wanted the moon. He said had I tried walking down the high street and looking for myself.”

  There you are—that’s Hutch.

  “So, I did. And I saw your Fiat, Michael, and knew I was in the right place. Did you see I’ve parked behind you? And so, here we are, the three of us—all snug and homely.”

  I surveyed the scene. As she rattled on, Pammy had dug into her shopping bags in search of her toothbrush, and now a pair of trousers lay draped on the back of the sofa and the floor was littered with tops, three mismatched shoes, and several pairs of knickers, making the place look like the reject room from a church jumble sale.

  “Well,” I said. “Early night, what do you say? I’m shattered, for one.”

  “Are we not going down to the pub?” Pammy asked.

  “No, we aren’t,” Michael replied curtly. “You must be exhausted after all your…” He sighed. “Look, do you want to…you know, go up and clean your teeth first?”

  “You’ve only the one loo?” Pammy peered up the steep staircase.

  “Yes, only the one. Upstairs, through our bedroom.” I could hear him grinding his teeth. “Why don’t you go first.”

  It took her a few more minutes to locate all she needed before she made the climb. She closed our bedroom door, and I heard her close the bathroom door, too. Michael took my hand and pulled me over to the sofa, shifting a stack of Pammy’s Hello! magazines that had spilled across the cushions. We sat in silence. He played with my fingers, and I stole a look at him. Worry lines had appeared on his forehead, and his blue eyes—remarkable for their ability to reveal his innermost thoughts—had faded to a dull gray.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, frowning.

  Our evening had turned to dust and blown away, but I reminded myself that although I was disappointed, what about Michael? He was on the verge of asking the big question, and he’d been thwarted by the appearance of a sibling who drove him round the bend, but to whom he couldn’t say no—he was too kindhearted for that. I put my hand on his cheek, leaned close, and whispered, “It’s only for one night.”

  * * *

  —

  The rustling of plastic shopping bags at three o’clock in the morning has to be one of the worst forms of torture ever invented. The darkness seemed to amplify the sound as it made its way up the stairs. Pammy at last switched on a lamp, and the two-inch gap under our door allowed the light to pour in. My tightly squeezed-shut eyelids were no defense. I sighed and got up.

  “Julia,” Michael said, reaching for me.

  “Hot cocoa,” I replied. “You stay, I’ll bring you a mug.”

  I paused for a moment on the landing, adjusting my long T-shirt. Below, I couldn’t see a bare spot of floor. Had Pammy’s bags started to procreate?

  “Oh,” she said, looking up at me. She still wore her short skirt and T-shirt, and the dark circles under her eyes were magnified against her pale skin. “You couldn’t sleep, either?”

  “No,” I said, and took three calming breaths before I could continue. “I thought I’d make cocoa. Would you like some?”

  “Lovely.”

  I picked my way to the kitchen and stayed there as I stared at the pan of milk, willing it to defy the laws of nature and come to a simmer quicker than it should so I could get this downstairs visit over with. Behind me, the bag search finally ceased.

  As I stirred in the chocolate, I said, “Breakups are difficult, I know, Pammy, but I’m sure you realize now—or you will soon—that this fellow probably never had any intention of divorcing his wife. He was playing you.”

  “I’m never going to trust a man again for as long as I live,” she vowed, making her way to the kitchen table. “He said he loved me. He said he was going to buy me a ring. And think of his wife—he lied to her, too.”

>   “You’re well shut of him, I’d say.”

  Pammy collapsed in a chair and watched as I poured the cocoa into three mugs. “Is Michael coming down?” she asked.

  “No, and I can’t stay. I hope you don’t mind, but I have to work tomorrow. Here, you drink this and go to sleep. All right? Tomorrow, you know. Things will look better.”

  I left her sitting in the kitchen, her feet drawn up on the chair and her chin resting on her knees as she gazed at the steam rising from her mug.

  Michael had gone back to sleep. I left his cocoa on the dresser and sat on the floor at the open window, waiting for the dawn chorus to begin.

  Chapter 3

  “Let me help you carry your things to the car,” Michael said to Pammy after breakfast. “I’m on my way now—I’ve got a meeting with Rupert this morning to go over a few things.”

  An appointment he’d made ten minutes ago in the loo with the door closed—probably begging Rupert to work on his day off. But I couldn’t blame Michael for wanting to get away. I was already dressed for work—pencil skirt, white blouse, thin cardigan—and had made an excuse to leave for the TIC straight after breakfast, even though we don’t open until noon on Sundays.

  “No, I’ll be all right, you two go on.” Pammy walked away from her breakfast dishes and sank onto the sofa with her second mug of tea. “I’ll have a shower and then I’ve only got to sort through a few of my things here. I left in such a rush yesterday. I felt it was better that way. I know when I’m not wanted.”

  Michael swallowed. “You’ve got somewhere to go?”

  “I’m going to ring Amy. You remember Amy, Michael? She and Roz have a flat together in Leicester. You remember Roz? I’ll give them a ring. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Well, then,” I said in my perky tourist manager voice. “Good luck, Pammy, I know things will work out. You’ll meet the right fellow, you really will. It’s only, this wasn’t the one.” Michael and I walked backward out the door until we stood on the pavement in the sunshine. “So, there you are then—let us know how things work out, won’t you? And just pull the door closed when you leave.”

  * * *

  —

  At the TIC, I locked the door behind me and switched on the kettle. As I waited for it to come to a boil, my mind filled with an image of plastic shopping bags strewn across the floor of the cottage and Pammy with her legs stretched out on the sofa, phone in one hand and tea in the other. The image disturbed me greatly.

  Having nothing that desperately needed doing, I filled my morning with tidying our wall of leaflets and cleaning out the tiny fridge in our work area behind the counter. I ended up washing the floor on my hands and knees—not really a task one should undertake wearing a pencil skirt, white blouse, and tights.

  At last noon arrived. I unlocked the door, turned the sign to “Open,” and pinned my name tag on just as the bell above the door jangled. I began the afternoon with three women—Finnish ramblers spending the summer on the coast nearby and looking for the longest treks about the estate. I sent them off with maps, as well as brochures about our Wednesday farmers’ market and our well-regarded Smeaton’s Summer Supper, now in its third year, and a family of four took their place.

  The woman wore shorts and hiking boots with a shirt thrown over a tank top and her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. The man, who had a headful of black hair that curled round his ears and his face, carried a beaten leather satchel, with a fishing rod sticking out like an antenna. The boy, about twelve, and the girl, several years younger, looked smaller versions of the adults, and they both had rucksacks slung on their backs.

  “Good afternoon,” I said, reaching for a map.

  “Thanks, but we have one already,” the woman said, waving a crumpled specimen. “We were here last weekend, too. You were all quite busy, and so we found what we needed and slipped out.”

  Nothing made me happier as the TIC manager than to see repeat visitors. “Well, we’re delighted you’ve chosen the Fotheringill estate again—we’ve loads to offer. It would take you a summer full of Sundays, and you still wouldn’t be tired of us.”

  “Sundays are family days; that’s the rule,” the girl said.

  The woman laid her hands on the girl’s shoulders and laughed. “Not only a rule—we actually enjoy it. And as we rarely see Dad during the week, we plan our weekends carefully, don’t we? This one here”—she nodded to the man—“wanted to go south to Margate.”

  “But we took a vote,” the girl said, “and Dad lost.”

  “Majority rules,” the boy said.

  “And I know when to give in,” Dad said, giving his wife a quick smile, which she returned.

  “We thought we’d stop on our way through the village and tell you what a grand day we had last Sunday.” The woman smiled at the children. “A picnic by the abbey ruins, and after that a fine nature lesson from a fellow who lives near there. He was ever so helpful, wasn’t he?”

  The children nodded. The girl drew out a colored-pencil drawing from a pocket of her rucksack and held it up. “He showed me a red squirrel, so I drew this picture for him.”

  “He told me he’d seen a silver-studded blue,” the boy said, and added at my blank look, “butterfly. They’re quite rare. He took Dad off and showed him the best bends in the river for fish—bream and roach, isn’t that right?”

  As the family praised this fellow, it came to me we should have a person of the month on the estate—calling out a resident who went above and beyond in order to share the village and countryside with visitors. As a prize, we could offer the winner a hamper full of Suffolk ham and cheese and a cake from Nuala and perhaps a voucher for dinner at the Stoat and Hare. Fantastic publicity. I made a mental note to contact the Bury Free Press and the Sudbury Mercury—the papers in our two closest towns. I was sure they’d want to cover the story.

  I had learned from Michael how to think big about promoting the estate. I’m usually more of a detail person, but once I caught on, I had trouble slowing myself down, and had added several events and programs to the estate’s calendar that caught on. However, I would need to explain this to Linus before plunging in. He would love it, of course, but he wasn’t that keen on my tearing off in new directions with no notice. I wondered what we could call this new program.

  “Who was this fellow that was so helpful?” I asked, thinking we might have our first candidate for the commendation.

  “Bob,” the little girl said.

  “Bob,” the boy echoed.

  The parents nodded. “Bob.”

  Bob? I’d need a bit more than that to award the prize. “Do you remember his second name?”

  They looked at each other quizzically until the dad said, “I don’t think he told us.”

  Bob who lives somewhere out by the abbey ruins. I’d look into it. There were a couple of farms out that way and a hamlet, Wickham Parva—which consisted of a handful of cottages and a few pensioners. Or did he work on a farm? Still, shouldn’t be too difficult to suss him out.

  “A young man, was he?” I asked.

  “No, not too young,” Mum said. “He looked a bit worn, you know. As if he might’ve lived rough for a while.” She turned to her family. “Right, you lot, perhaps we’ll take a look at the churchyard today. He mentioned it, do you remember? Good wildlife habitat.”

  This Bob knew his stuff when he spoke of the churchyard. Irish yews grown into enormous dark forms provided cover for birds, and thick boundary hedges offered food. Easy spotting for song thrush, bullfinch, wren. Little owls—yes, we’ve got them. The grass was left uncut until late summer, encouraging wildflowers for bees and butterflies. Apparently, a good colony of early purple orchids grew near one of the seventeenth-century graves—with names so worn as to be illegible. The gravestones themselves were home for endangered lichen. And outside the far gate, a pond full of frogs. A new l
eaflet began to write itself in my head—Life in the Churchyard. I’d make a few notes later.

  “Could we have our picnic there?” the girl asked.

  “Hang on, what about my fish?” Dad protested. “We can do the churchyard another time.”

  They readjusted their packs and looked ready to leave. “Have you signed up for the Fotheringill enewsletter?” I gestured toward a notepad on the counter. Launched two months previous, we had only fifty-three subscribers as yet—and most of those from the estate—but I had set myself a goal of two thousand by the end of summer. I was beginning to think I’d been a bit too ambitious. “You may see Bob’s name in there soon—he’s in the running for our monthly commendation called the OFE—Order of the Fotheringill Estate. It’s a new program.”

  “Well, thanks, but—” Dad began.

  “We promise not to sell our mailing list,” I hurried on. “And the enewsletter will let you know of special events you might like to come back for.”

  “I’ll write it down,” the girl offered.

  “Go on, then,” Mum said. “But be firm, so the nice lady can read it.”

  I took the girl over and presented her with a pen just as the bell jingled and Willow arrived, followed like a mama duck by seven Girl Guides and their leader. Low-level chaos ensued as the space became a swarming mass of humanity—it didn’t take many bodies for that to happen. At last, the TIC emptied, but only after Willow made sure no child got away without several of her activity books in hand.

  * * *

  —

  Willow had started at the TIC as an intern, and—even though she taught at the local primary school—continued to help out when she could. With Vesta away on her weekend honeymoon, I appreciated the backup.