by Fiona Gibson
I set to work, making a cheese and pickle sandwich and selecting the best-looking apple from the bowl, giving it an extra polish with a tea towel. I pause, trying to remember the other components that should go in a lunchbox. It’s been years since I’ve packed one for Morgan – he reckoned taking one to secondary school would have resulted in ‘having my head kicked in’ – and we no longer have mini cartons of Ribena knocking about the place. I’d force shallot crisps upon him if I hadn’t given them to Paul … I know: a jar of pecans, for protein. His lanky frame will need building up if he’ll be hacking at branches and strimming undergrowth. Christ, a strimmer. I trust Paul will be issuing him with protective clothing?
Morgan reappears, having ‘got himself ready’; i.e., pulled on wrecked-looking trainers with the laces left undone. ‘I was wondering what to put your packed lunch in,’ I remark.
He glances at the nourishing items set out on the kitchen table. ‘My what?’
‘Your packed lunch, love. You’ll need something to carry it in …’
Air gusts from his nostrils. ‘Guess you could use my Action Man lunchbox.’
I grab a yoghurt from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer. ‘That’d be perfect. Any idea where it is?’
Morgan guffaws. ‘Mum, I’m kidding. I’m going to work, not primary school. I’m not taking a lunchbox and I’m not taking …’ He breaks off and picks up the jar of pecans. ‘What the hell are these?’
‘They’re pecans …’
‘What am I, a squirrel?’ He grabs the cling film-wrapped sandwich and rams it into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘This’ll do.’
‘But what about a drink? It’s going to be a hot day, you’ll be parched, you might get dehydrated …’
‘I’ll drink water,’ he says, already making for the door.
‘But we don’t have any bottled—’
‘Nah, it’s okay, Mum. It just comes out of the tap.’
I arrive at Mrs B’s an hour later, with the rest of his packed lunch in my bag and vowing to myself not to keep an eye on him. I want to, of course, in case he gets a thorn in his finger or prongs himself with a rake. He could run over his own foot with the wheelbarrow. Garden hazards are many and varied and I fear for my son’s safety even more keenly than when he was being pelted with falafel in York.
To occupy myself, I tackle Mrs B’s laundry and make more banana bread, as it’s one of the few offerings she seems to have enjoyed recently. She and Victoria are out in the garden, on a swing chair. ‘Mum needs more fresh air,’ she declared. ‘She shouldn’t be cooped up indoors.’
I don’t point out that she’s usually eager to usher off her mother for daytime naps, or that Mrs B enjoys plenty of fresh air – but in the shady spot rather than in blazing sun. At least she is wearing a hat.
I take them out tea and banana bread, which Victoria pronounces ‘quite cakey’, which I do not take as a compliment. In the distance, Paul and Morgan are working together, clipping an enormous climber that shrouds an entire wall. While Paul nods in my direction, Morgan stares blankly as if he has never seen me before in his life.
It’s clear that I must not acknowledge that we have any connection whatsoever. Obviously, I cannot rush over with the pecans and yoghurt and apple. He doesn’t need me, I decide, and with Victoria here I feel doubly redundant. So I dust the bookshelves and sweep the floors, even though Rosa did the rounds yesterday, and when there’s nothing else to do I make a coffee and sit nibbling at the nuts. The thought of that minibar bill, and the fact that no one else on the course would have been so thrilled as to stash all those goodies in their case, makes them stick in my throat. Three days have passed since my drunken call to Hugo. Bet he swapped numbers with Lottie and Tamara and they’ve all had a good laugh about it. I pull out my phone and scroll through my calls to find the number of his pub. Should I call or not? As he doesn’t have my number he can’t phone me. Probably doesn’t want to, after my inebriated ramblings. But what if he does? The least I should do is apologise for phoning under the influence.
My heart quickens as I make the call. ‘Sorry,’ a girl says, ‘he’s not available right now. Would you like to leave a number?’
‘Sure,’ I say, rattling off my number and asking her to repeat it, to make sure she has it right. I make another pot of tea and carry it out on a tray to Mrs B and Victoria in the garden. Victoria is engrossed in a historical novel and grunts her thanks as I set down the tray. Her mother is asleep, her chest rising and falling softly, cheeks already a little pink from the sun.
My phone rings as I step back into the kitchen. ‘Audrey? It’s Hugo …’
‘Oh!’ I bluster. ‘I didn’t expect you to call back so soon …’ If at all, if truth be known. ‘Erm, I hope you don’t mind me phoning again. I sort of wanted to apologise.’
‘Apologise? Whatever for?’ He sounds perky and bright and not remotely appalled to hear from me.
‘For … for phoning you drunkenly the other night. I’m so embarrassed. It’s just, when I found out you were a chef I felt sort of … stupid, you know? As if you’d been humouring me and—’
‘Well, I’d like to explain …’
‘No, no, it’s fine. It’s none of my business whatever it is you do …’
‘Audrey, can I just say—’
‘No, can I just say, I’m not usually like that, and I’m sorry—’
‘Audrey, stop apologising! Honestly, you have nothing to be sorry about.’
Small silence. ‘Oh. Well, that’s all I wanted to say, really. I guess you’d better get back to work …’
‘I should,’ he says, sounding endearingly flustered now, ‘but I wondered, erm … look, I know this is a long shot. You’re probably busy this weekend …’
‘What is it?’ I ask, intrigued.
‘There’s, um, a festival on. Not a huge thing – I mean, it’s hardly Glastonbury – but should be fun …’
‘You’re inviting me to a festival?’ I exclaim.
‘Yes. Well, if you think you’d enjoy it, of course. It’s not too far from you. About an hour and a half’s drive at a guess. I thought of you straightaway but of course, I had no way of contacting you …’
‘That’s, um, really lovely of you,’ I say, wondering how I’ll break it to him that, while I have no idea how much festival tickets cost, I do know I can’t afford one.
‘I have free weekend passes,’ he goes on. ‘The pub I work for, we’re rolling out food stalls at festivals this summer, it’s our first year …’
‘So you’ll be working?’
‘No, no, not at all. I’m just going for the music, the experience. It kicks off tomorrow night …’
I am astounded by this: the fact that he seems to want to spend the weekend with me. But as what? Are we talking separate tents, or … ‘Oh, I’m meeting friends for a birthday lunch tomorrow,’ I say quickly.
‘Could you come Saturday, then? I’m hiring a tent …’ Yep, he’s envisaging a one-tent scenario, which could, I must admit, be fun: hanging out with Hugo, having a laugh and a dance, a few drinks … and seeing what happens. Only, after the Stevie debacle, I’m not so sure … ‘… Everything’s provided,’ Hugo continues cheerfully. ‘Camp beds, sleeping bags, even lanterns. I guess you’d call it glamping …’ He laughs. ‘I don’t mean, er – what I should say is, it’s a big tent with separate pods for, you know, sleeping …’
‘Right,’ I say, thinking, okaaaay … so he’s inviting me as a friend. Still, there’s the whole festival thing to deal with, and I’ve never been to one before. Oh, I know all ages go; I’ve seen them in magazines, cool middle-aged women in wafty prints and wellies, perhaps with a dash of pink hair colour and lots of jangly jewellery. But how would I fit in with that?
‘… It’s very laid-back and friendly, so I’ve heard,’ Hugo adds. ‘A real mix of ages, fantastic food—’
Hell, why not? ‘Okay, yes – I’d love to come.’
‘Fantastic,’ he says, sounding genuinely deli
ghted. ‘I’ll text you directions. Reckon you could make it by lunchtime?’
‘Sounds great,’ I say, finishing the call, and hoping Morgan doesn’t think I’m desperate, upping and offing as soon as I’m asked to go anywhere. This is different, though. It’s about music and it’s not on the motorway. And it’s definitely just a friendly thing, which is fine – I’m starting to think that being single is good for a person. Kim goes for weeks – months sometimes – between dates and she manages to achieve more than anyone else I know. She is asked to do make-up for so many weddings and functions these days, she’s taking on an assistant. As for Morgan – well, although he’s seen Jenna she hasn’t stayed over since I’ve been back from Wilton Grange, and look at him now, quite the horticulturalist. Well, he’s operated some secateurs …
And of course I’ll be fine at a festival. After all, I’ve been to a cookery school on my own. I visualise myself drifting around barefoot, nibbling on falafel – no, not falafel, I’ve sort of gone off it. Hand-made burgers, then. Little pots of noodly things and probably some earthy, honey-scented cakes. My stomach swirls in anticipation.
I’m preparing lunch when Victoria appears, face pink from the sun. ‘Have you seen Mum?’ she asks briskly.
‘No, I thought she was out in the garden with you?’
‘Well, yes, she was, and I must have dozed off – this whole thing, it’s been so exhausting …’ Her beads tinkle as she shakes her head. ‘And when I woke up she was gone.’
I frown. ‘Surely she can’t have gone very far.’
‘No, well, I wouldn’t have thought so.’
‘Let’s check the house and gardens …’ While Victoria darts upstairs – not that Mrs B ever ventures to the upper floor – I hurry out to the garden where I find Paul tending rows of lettuces.
‘Have you seen Mrs B?’ I ask. ‘She was sitting with Victoria on the terrace and she seems to have wandered off …’
‘Really? That’s not like her.’ He frowns and dusts his soily hands on the front of his jeans. ‘I’ll check the front garden, the sheds, the garage …’
‘I’ll try the back.’ I stride off, scanning the woodland area and dense borders, expecting – or hoping – to see her merely having taken a stroll to smell the flowers. If this were my garden, I’d want to enjoy it my way – in peace – before it was snatched away from me.
I find Morgan, beavering away with a hoe – it’s even the right way up – in a far corner of the garden behind the house. ‘Mum, I’m fine,’ he says brusquely.
‘I’m not here to check on you. Mrs B’s gone missing. Don’t suppose you’ve seen her?’
He shakes his head. ‘Never even met her.’
‘You’ve seen her, though …’
‘Yeah, from a distance.’
‘Well, there’s no mistaking her,’ I say, trying to keep a trace of exasperation from my voice. ‘She’s the only old lady around here, love.’
He shrugs. ‘Been kinda busy, Mum.’ He jabs the hoe into the ground. ‘Is she, y’know, a bit … mad?’
‘No, darling. She’s frail but not at all mad.’
He grins with relief. ‘So I’m not gonna see her, like, wandering naked across the lawn?’
‘No, you don’t have to worry about that …’
‘Thank God for that,’ he exclaims with a shudder.
I find Paul at Mrs B’s front door, having been directed by Victoria to check the nearby streets. ‘She’s called the police,’ he says, ‘and they’re sending someone over. So I’ll start looking—’
‘I’ll help you,’ I say, although I have no idea where she might have gone. Morgan appears, clearly having recovered from picturing an elderly lady wandering about naked.
‘I’ll come too,’ he says, startling me with his eagerness. He glances at Paul, as if looking for approval.
‘Good lad,’ Paul says. ‘The more the better.’
We set off, the three of us splitting up and heading for different streets. My spirits rise every time I glimpse an elderly lady with a puff of soft white hair, then plummet when it’s not her. I don’t understand this sudden urge to wander; while we take her on outings, Mrs B generally seems perfectly content to remain at home, or in her garden. Her care works perfectly well when it’s left to us – but then, Victoria is her daughter, and whatever happens next is down to her.
I check the grocer’s, in case Mrs B has nipped in to buy herself the right kind of biscuits, plus the newsagent’s and bakery in the small parade of shops. No one has seen an elderly lady wandering around alone. Well, not our elderly lady. My mobile beeps with a text, and I snatch it from my pocket. Festival’s in grounds of Rosetta Hall, Little Inchingham, fairly close to Derby. Easy to find once you’re in the area. Any probs call me. Looking forward to seeing you, Hugo. I slip my phone back into my pocket, wishing I could feel more excited but unable to think about anything else than finding Mrs B. Should I start calling hospitals again, like I did when Morgan went AWOL? Surely Victoria’s doing that. I scan a few side streets of neat, red-brick terraced houses. The only people in sight are a bunch of young mums pushing prams, and a couple of elderly men chatting over a garden wall.
My phone rings. ‘Morgan? Have you found her?’
‘Well …’ He stops. ‘There’s an old woman sitting on her own in that café …’
‘Which café?’ I bark.
‘The one no one ever goes to.’
I inhale deeply. ‘Can you narrow it down for me a bit, love? What’s it called?’
‘Uh, it’s the Italian place … hang on a minute … Angelo’s.’
‘You think Mrs B’s in there?’
‘Well, like I said, I’ve never seen her close up but—’
‘What does she look like?’
‘Like an old lady. I dunno. They all look the same to me …’ Now is not the time to inform him that people over the age of 30 are in fact human beings too, each with their own quirks and individualities.
‘Please, just go in and ask her her name.’
‘I can’t do that,’ he bleats. ‘For God’s sake, Mum!’
‘Why not?’
‘You know what old people are like. She’ll probably think I’m gonna snatch her purse.’
‘Of course she won’t. You don’t look remotely like the purse-snatching sort. Just go in now and ask her if she’s Mrs B.’ I wait, phone pressed to my ear, marvelling at how he can get it together to juggle in public yet is frightened to politely approach an elderly lady in a public place. But then, he doesn’t encounter many old people. He hasn’t seen my mother for years; her birthday and Christmas cards are greeted with cool indifference, and Vince’s parents – although generous at birthdays – have a gaggle of grandchildren and tend to focus on the little ones who are thrilled to see them, who don’t play rap music or talk out of the corners of their mouths. It seems a little unfair that Morgan’s appeal as a grandson appears to have dimmed over the years.
‘It’s her, Mum,’ Morgan blurts out.
‘Really? You’re sure?’
‘Well, yeah, she says so. I didn’t ask for any ID.’ I laugh, and call Paul as I make my way towards the café, and by the time I arrive he has joined Morgan and Mrs B, who are all sitting companionably at a window table.
‘We’ve been looking for you, Mrs B,’ I exclaim. ‘Everyone’s been so worried.’
‘I’ve called Victoria,’ Paul says quickly. ‘She knows we’re here.’
‘Never mind that,’ Mrs B says, raising her cup of tea. ‘I’ve been having a chat with this nice young man.’ She beams across the table at Morgan, who grins awkwardly.
‘She was telling me about moving,’ he offers, fiddling with the newspaper that’s lying open at the crossword on the table.
‘You mean not moving,’ she says sharply. ‘Victoria seems to think I’m going to some sheltered place where everyone eats together in a canteen.’ She shudders.
‘Er … so you do know about this?’ I venture.
She fixes me
with a stare. ‘Yes, of course I do. I’ve heard her on the phone. She seems to think I’m deaf. I hear everything,’ she adds, tapping at her right ear.
‘Yes, we know you do,’ Paul says with a smile.
‘Well, I don’t need to go anywhere,’ she says firmly. ‘Why would I? I like my house, thank you very much, and I’m staying right where I am.’
‘I think Victoria’s just concerned,’ I start, ‘because the house and garden are such a lot to manage.’
‘I have plenty of help.’
‘Yes, I know that, and no one’s going to force you to move if you don’t want to.’ Paul gives me an ominous look. How can I say that, when that’s precisely what’s going to happen?
She takes a fierce bite out of a slice of dark, gooey-looking loaf. ‘This isn’t as good as yours, Audrey. The salty banana kind, I mean.’
I smile. ‘Thank you, Mrs B. But maybe, when you’ve finished your tea and cake, we should think about going back …’
‘Never mind that,’ she says with an impatient shake of her head. ‘Now, come on, Morgan, concentrate. Order us another pot of tea and help me with seven across.’ She glances at me. ‘He’s far better at these than you are.’
After Paul has fetched his van and whisked Mrs B back to her house, Morgan and I wander home together. ‘I’m going to a festival on Saturday,’ I say, feeling far shyer about my weekend plans than any time I’ve nipped off to a motorway hotel.
‘A festival? What kind of festival?’
‘Just a festival, love. You know – where there’s music outside and people camping …’
He splutters. ‘You mean one for, like, middle-aged people?’
‘No, for all people,’ I retort. ‘For all of mankind to gather together and have fun.’ He throws me a queasy look. ‘I don’t think there’s an age restriction, hon.’
‘So what’re you planning to do there, then?’
I grin. ‘What d’you think? Just – you know – enjoy the music, hang out, dance …’
