The Woman Who Upped and Left

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘It’s fine with my pills,’ Mrs B snaps, eyes flashing angrily. ‘I asked Dr Barlow last time he was here and he said it was allowed, I told you …’

  Victoria looks aghast. ‘Mum, I’m only concerned. I just thought it was best to avoid drinking …’

  ‘… Haven’t been allowed a drink for over a year!’ Mrs B exclaims, turning to me. ‘Can you imagine what that’s like, Audrey?’

  ‘Er, no,’ I manage truthfully, ‘I can’t.’

  Victoria gets up, smoothing down the front of her leaf-patterned dress.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur. ‘I just thought your mum would enjoy them.’

  ‘Well, yes, clearly she did. She’s polished off the whole box.’

  ‘There were only nine,’ I murmur.

  She looks at me levelly. ‘Could I have a quick word in private, Audrey, if you’re not dashing off anywhere?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ In fact, I would like to be heading off now; the thought of wandering around a field, filled with happy people, feels far preferable to being reprimanded like a naughty child. Victoria leads us to the kitchen, where she indicates for me to take the seat opposite her at the huge oak table.

  ‘So,’ she starts, ‘those liqueurs. You are aware that kirsch is something like 70% proof, it’s basically brandy—’

  ‘Look, Victoria, I’m really sorry if your mum’s a bit off colour today, but I’m pretty sure it’s nothing to do with the chocolates.’

  She presses her lips together. ‘Thank you for your diagnosis, Audrey, but it’s always been made very clear to the staff that Mum should not be allowed alcohol.’

  I nod. ‘Okay, I am sorry. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘And I’m sorry,’ she adds, a little tic appearing beneath her left eye, ‘but I’m going to have to let you go.’

  I stare at her, unable to form words for a moment. ‘You mean you’re sacking me?’

  ‘Yes. Well, no, not exactly …’

  ‘… But I’ve helped to look after your mum for four years! She’s used to me, she likes me …’ Of course she does, I realise now, despite – or maybe because of – my crapness at crosswords.

  ‘You’re just a carer, Audrey,’ she remarks. ‘It’s a purely professional arrangement.’

  Something twists in my gut. ‘Yes, I know, but we’ve got to know each other pretty well. I mean, she asks for me when I’m not here. And you’re firing me because of a box of—’

  ‘It’s not just the chocolates,’ she cuts in. ‘It’s, well, as you’re aware, I’m here more these days. I’m looking after things now …’ Right: parking her in the garden in full sun, and not even noticing when she takes herself off for a wander, alone … ‘So we won’t need your help any more,’ she adds. ‘I’ll pay you for the whole of August, of course.’

  Don’t bother, is how I want to reply, but I can’t because I need the money. ‘So that’s that, then,’ is all I can manage as I get up and, with tears prickling my eyes, scurry for the door.

  I glimpse Paul grafting away with his strimmer in the woodland area as I stride along the path. ‘Audrey!’ He waves across the garden. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ I call back, quickening my pace towards the gate and clambering into my car, all the while telling myself it is fine, and I’ll be okay, just like I’ve always been okay. But why the hell didn’t I just give her the ginger cookies?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Sunshine Crêpes

  When crap happens there’s a choice to be made. I could decide I can’t face a night in a tent, pod or no pod, not after being sacked. Morgan was right – the hygiene aspect is concerning – and there must be a reason why people never talk about festivals without mentioning blocked/flooded loos. But then, do I want to be the kind of woman who misses out on new experiences due to concern about toilet facilities? I mean, how very middle-aged. Roughing it never used to faze me. As teenagers, Kim and I set off on a camping trip to Whitby, and when our tent flooded we spent the night in a bus shelter and it was fine. So I drive south, radio on low, congratulating myself on getting fired on a day when I wasn’t even supposed to be there.

  It’s a job that’s exasperated me sometimes (‘In all of my 84 years I’ve never had a flaky scalp!’) but which I’ve become oddly fond of. No, not oddly fond: just fond. I’ve felt useful there, wanted and needed, and now I’m figuring out how to break the news to Morgan that we’ll now have to survive on my dinner lady’s salary until I find another job. Plus his gardening earnings, of course. I can’t help smiling at the irony: that he’s now the one gainfully employed. Maybe he’ll start suggesting ways in which I could increase my skill set?

  I find Little Inchingham easily. Picture-perfect stone cottages border a village green, and a sign proudly announces the winning of the Derbyshire Villages in Bloom award three years running. There’s a tea room, a red phone box which I’ll bet no one has ever peed in, and numerous signs pointing towards Rosetta Fest: Britain’s Friendliest Festival. My spirits rise as the site comes into view: a gorgeous scoop of a valley, surrounded by woodland and almost entirely speckled with tents. A stately home sits proudly in the far distance.

  I pull into the car park and call Hugo. ‘Great, you found it!’ he enthuses. ‘Can you make your way to Willow Field? I’ll meet you at the entrance.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, telling myself it’s okay to be wheeling along a small suitcase, as if I’m off to a Travelodge, rather than having a jaunty rucksack slung about me like the smattering of other latecomers who are drifting towards the camping fields.

  Bunting is strung between trees, and jazzy music floats above the hubbub of chatter and laughter from the sun-dappled fields. I pause for a moment, realising the music is coming from a small group of musicians who’ve set up outside the main festival area. Three teenage girls, all with shiny fair hair and make-up-free faces, are playing a double bass, percussion and a clarinet in the shade of a huge oak. Girls whose music lessons are just normal to them, who were taught proper techniques instead of having to figure things out for themselves. I stand watching, transfixed, until a voice cuts through the air: ‘Audrey! There you are.’

  ‘Hugo, hi!’ Before I can even process how different he looks – he’s wearing a checked shirt over a faded blue T-shirt, plus khaki board shorts – he’s pulled me in for the kind of hug you’d only give to someone you’re genuinely happy to see. ‘So great you’ve come,’ he adds, grabbing my case and wheeling it towards the camping field entrance.

  ‘Well, thanks for asking me,’ I say, seduced immediately by the delicious smells wafting from food stalls and the sense that everyone is here to have fun. Teenagers are strolling in languid groups, and families are picnicking beside their tents. There are jugglers and dogs and numerous, mostly barefoot children scampering about. ‘This is wonderful,’ I add.

  ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Hugo says. ‘Last night was great but the line-up’s better tonight.’ In fact, I’ve already checked the bands on the festival’s website and hadn’t heard of any of them. But no matter. Like my five days at cook school I’ll regard it as an educational experience.

  We arrive at Hugo’s tent, where I’m introduced to his friends – Joey and Mick, jovial beardy types who are manning the food stall – and immediately handed a beer. ‘You can leave your stuff here,’ Hugo says, showing me into the enormous, clearly brand new tent, which does indeed have the promised separate pods. Mine has already been set up with an inflatable bed, plus a pristine sleeping bag and a proper pillow. ‘Look comfy enough for you?’ Hugo asks with a grin.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I say, parking my case and emerging from the tent to glimpse a group of teenagers spreading out a blanket a few feet away. The three girls and three boys – all around Morgan’s age – flop down on it and proceed to tuck into slices of pizza. Someone strums a guitar, and another takes pictures with her phone. ‘Look at those kids,’ I murmur to Hugo. ‘I assumed they’d all be off their faces by now but they’re
having such a cool time.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t think they’ll bother us,’ he says. ‘I was a bit worried when I saw they were in the next tent.’

  ‘I don’t mind being near teenagers,’ I say, laughing. ‘I’m kind of used to it, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, of course you are.’ In fact, I almost wish Morgan were here, to witness these kind of young people: the girls chatting animatedly and one of the boys now – amazingly – sewing some kind of appliquéd patch onto the front of a T-shirt. That’s another life lesson I should have taught Morgan: how to sew. I should have given him a tutorial on my ancient sewing machine – the one Mum didn’t bother taking with her when she left. He could be running up his own clothes now instead of getting his girlfriend pregnant. The sewing boy catches my eye and smiles. ‘All right?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, I’m good, thanks.’

  ‘Perfect day, isn’t it?’ He beams up at the searing blue sky.

  ‘It really is,’ I reply, deciding it is possible for teenagers not to be allergic to adults, and regard us as spoilers of fun.

  Hugo and I set off to explore, meandering through bustling fields and past the acoustic stage, where a girl with her hair secured in dozens of tiny plaits is singing a beautiful lilting song. I whip out my phone and take pictures of a woman in a Flamenco outfit – who poses obligingly – and a man on stilts, hula-hooping with aplomb. Let’s hope Morgan doesn’t see this on YouTube. ‘Documenting everything again,’ Hugo remarks.

  ‘Can’t help it,’ I laugh. ‘I don’t understand why I’ve never done this before. Been to a festival, I mean. It’s such a lovely atmosphere.’

  Hugo smiles. ‘It’s actually my first time too.’

  ‘Really? I got the impression you did this every summer, that you were an old hand …’

  ‘Nope, it’s one of those things I’ve never got around to doing, you know? The opportunity came up and I thought, why not?’

  ‘Like the cookery course?’ I ask, giving him a quick look as we wander past stalls selling rainbow-emblazoned T-shirts.

  ‘Yes, sort of.’ We have arrived at a clearing in the field where families have gathered, all chilling out in the sunshine. We buy beers, and Hugo shrugs off his checked shirt and spreads it on the grass. ‘Here, you can sit on this.’

  ‘On your shirt? I don’t need to, really.’

  ‘Please, you don’t want grass stains on your lovely dress.’ Such manners. After being lurched at by Brad – not to mention three-timed by Stevie – it’s extremely pleasing. ‘Remember there was something I wanted to explain?’ he ventures, plucking at the grass.

  I glance at his handsome profile and nod. ‘About you being a proper trained chef?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He pushes back his hair distractedly. ‘I’m sorry about that. I should’ve said.’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter,’ I say lightly. ‘It’s none of my business …’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he says firmly.

  I shrug. ‘Well, it did seem a bit weird, you know. Being so evasive, I mean.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I wish I’d just been straight with you from the start. But, you see …’ He exhales. ‘When I first saw you, and you were having that washing machine conversation, I was, I don’t know … intrigued by you. You weren’t the kind of person I’d have expected …’ He breaks off. ‘Whatever I say is going to sound awful. What I mean is, I thought it would all be Lottie and Tamara types, like the girls I went to school with, and there you were, a dinner lady …’

  Ah, here we go … ‘Did you think I’d be intimidated by you?’

  ‘No, not exactly. But I thought, she looks interesting, I’d like to get to know her. And I reckoned, if you thought we were in the same boat – you know, beginners together – then I’d have a better chance …’

  ‘A better chance of what?’ I’m smiling now, while Hugo fidgets awkwardly.

  ‘Of getting to know you,’ he says quietly.

  I am dumbfounded by this. ‘You didn’t have to pretend,’ I say.

  ‘No, I know that now. That’s why I asked you here, to make it up to you so we can just, y’know, hang out, have fun …’

  ‘Hugo, it’s fine, really. I’m so glad I came.’ I sip my already tepid beer. ‘So, why did you go to Wilton Grange anyway?’

  ‘To learn classic techniques from one of the best … well, reportedly one of the best … just like you, really.’ He grins. ‘Honestly, it still feels as if I have a lot to learn. So … d’you forgive me?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I exclaim.

  He reaches out and squeezes my hand, and little sparks shoot up my arm. ‘C’mon,’ he says, pulling me up, ‘we should grab something to eat.’

  We find Mick manning Hugo’s pub’s stall, where a sizeable queue has gathered. ‘On the house,’ Mick says, handing me a flatbread crammed with pulled pork and slathered in spicy sauce; it’s utterly delicious. We eat, and we drink, and amble about with no particular destination in mind, the afternoon stretching on in a lovely warm, beery haze. We watch a boisterous Cajun band, and discover three girls with beehives singing impeccable harmonies in a marquee. I glance around at the crowd that’s gathered: all ages, from older ladies wearing their long greying hair loose, to children in fancy dress outfits and dreamy-looking young women carrying their babies in papooses. Bet they’re not the kind of mothers who ‘blow things up’.

  Hugo and I leave the marquee and amble past a steam-powered merry-go-round, its golden horses gleaming in the early evening sun. Somehow, without me realising how it happened – or which of us made the move – Hugo and I are now holding hands. So it’s not just a friends thing, I decide. It’s a date, of sorts. An overnight date, not in a faceless hotel but a tent, with pods, and who knows what’ll happen? ‘Can I get you anything?’ he asks, as we arrive at more food stalls, the air heady with sugary scents from the crêpe stall.

  ‘Ooh, I’d love one of those,’ I say. ‘I’ll get them, you’ve been buying everything—’

  ‘No, no, allow me.’ I smile as he darts off, returning with perfectly golden crêpes on paper plates, plus a bottle of water I hadn’t asked for but which now, after a steady trickle of beer all afternoon, I’m grateful for.

  ‘You’re very kind, Hugo,’ I say. ‘Chivalrous, I mean. I know that sounds terribly old-fashioned.’

  He chuckles. ‘Well, I try, you know. It seems important. I’ve always been that way.’

  I study his soft grey eyes. ‘You mean holding doors open, walking on the road side of the pavement, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He grins. ‘You’re okay with that?’

  ‘I … well, I’m sure I would be. I’ve just never known anyone like that before.’

  ‘You wouldn’t find it patronising?’

  I laugh. ‘No, of course not. Everyone wants to be treated nicely, don’t they? I don’t see anything wrong with that.’

  ‘I’m glad you feel that way. With my ex, Polly, I’d always squeeze out her toothpaste onto her toothbrush ready for her before she went to bed.’

  ‘Wow, that’s so thoughtful.’ Mrs B’s bowl-spitting routine flits into my mind. ‘So … what happened with you two, if it’s okay to ask?’

  ‘Yes, of course it is. She blamed the hours I was working, and she was probably right – I’d be at the restaurant from ten in the morning till 2 a.m. some days. It wasn’t exactly conducive, you know?’

  I nod. ‘So she was at home, doing the parenting thing …’

  ‘Well, no, not exactly.’ A trace of defensiveness has crept into his voice.

  ‘I just meant, you know, being on your own with a child can be tough. It couldn’t be helped, you were working, supporting your family …’

  ‘No,’ he says quickly, ‘Emily’s at boarding school, remember?’

  ‘Yes, but I meant when she was younger …’

  ‘Well, she went when she was seven.’

  ‘Seven?’ I gasp.

  He looks at me and pulls a strip off his crêpe. ‘I can tell you’re shoc
ked. You see, in our families – mine and Polly’s, I mean – it’s just what we do …’

  ‘Hugo,’ I cut in, ‘I’m not judging you. I’d be the last person to do that. Anyway, I guess she always comes home for the holidays …’

  ‘Sometimes, yes, but then there have been summer schools, activity camps, music courses, that kind of thing …’

  I nod as we finish our crêpes. A huge, sprawling family wanders past: mum and dad, plus five children, ranging from a wild-haired toddler to a stunning teenage girl in frayed denim shorts and a bikini top. They are joking with each other in the way close families do, the way Morgan and I would, on our trips to Scarborough when he viewed a whole day with me as a fantastic treat. However far from ideal my own set-up might seem – just Morgan and me, mucking along together – I really wouldn’t have planned things so very differently. Maybe, if he’d had a posh education, he’d have headed straight to university instead of getting his girlfriend pregnant. But it’s happened and, I decide, we’ll all muddle through; I know we will.

  Hugo grabs my hand. ‘Hey, there’s a band I’d like to see at eight. Let’s go down to the front.’

  As we stroll down the gently sloping hill, I tell myself: be open-minded about the boarding school thing. It’s just the way things are done, in Hugo’s milieu. We merge with the crowd before the main stage, and wend our way towards the front. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and I catch a hint of his scent: deliciously cirtrussy and fresh.

  My heart soars as he squeezes my hand, and the band starts up: a band I should have heard of but haven’t, because it feels as if my head has been filled with mundane practicalities for as long as I can remember. I’m transfixed by the bluesy music that seems so right for this glorious August evening. The four young men are throwing themselves into their music, giving it their all just as I did as a girl, standing alone on the dusty school stage. I felt brave then, fearless, actually – even though there was no parent watching proudly in the audience – just as I do now, at the prospect of being a grandmother and finding a new job. It’ll be okay, I decide. I’ve made a proper French lemon tart and fought off an amorous celebrity chef. Really, what is there to be afraid of?