by Fiona Gibson
He nods, grinning, and follows me as I step out into the breezy morning. I stare, speechless for a moment. Our once unlovely yard has been filled with tubs of blooms, and a wrought iron table bears yet more pots of flowers. ‘My God, Morgan, this is beautiful …’ Pale pink roses cling to a trellis. It is a perfect miniature garden. Tears spring to my eyes as I stare, taking in the muddle of colours and scents.
‘Like it?’
‘Yes, of course I do. But how did you—’
‘Oh, I had it all planned,’ he says airily, ‘and I was right on schedule till you phoned this morning. I had to work like mental to get it finished. God, Mum, the stress you cause me sometimes!’
‘I’m sorry, love,’ I say, laughing.
‘… So I called Paul to give me a hand …’
‘Paul helped you with all of this? But … how did you manage to buy everything? It must’ve cost a fortune …’
Morgan shrugs. ‘It was actually his idea. He had loads of spare plants and he asked me if thought, y’know … you’d like them.’
‘Like them?’ I gasp. ‘I love them, thank you.’
‘… and I picked up the table yesterday. There was a card in a newsagent’s window, an old man was selling it. Paul took me over in his van.’ He pauses. ‘I felt a bit crap, to be honest, about your birthday. Jenna gave me such a hard time, y’know, about that list I gave you …’ He rolls his eyes in a women, what can you do? sort of way.
‘But you don’t have any money, Morgan. You can’t have been paid yet …’
‘Nah, I sold my unicycle.’
‘Oh, darling!’
He shrugs awkwardly. ‘It’s okay. Dan wanted it. He’d been on at me for ages. And I thought, y’know, it’s a bit like the spy stuff in that box. I mean, God knows why you’ve kept it all …’
‘It’s just … I don’t know. It’s hard to let go sometimes.’
‘Yeah, but it’s a bit childish, Mum. The unicycle, I mean. And I reckoned, well …’ He beams at me, squinting in the sun. ‘I’m going to be a dad, aren’t I? So I thought it was time I grew up.’
Paul arrives to ‘finish off’ the garden, and I’m taken aback by how thrilled I am that he’s here. ‘It’d have looked even better if you’d come home this evening, like you’d planned,’ he teases, crouching as he eases delicate blue plants into the spaces in a tub.
I pour our coffees at the wrought iron table. ‘It couldn’t look any better than this,’ I say truthfully. ‘You’d better tell me what everything is, though, and what I need to do to look after it.’
He grins. ‘Morgan can take charge of maintenance. He’s a good kid.’
‘Yes, I know he is.’ He takes the seat beside me and sips his coffee. Despite his heroic efforts on the gardening front, I am sort of relieved that Morgan decided to call Jenna when Paul showed up, and that the two of them have headed off to York for the day. ‘To look at baby stuff,’ Morgan explained. ‘Yeah, I know it’s a bit soon but we want to be prepared, you know? Get an idea of what we’ll need.’
You don’t need much, I wanted to say. Just each other. But I knew he’d roll his eyes, because what does a 44-year-old dinner lady know about love?
‘So how was the festival?’ Paul ventures.
‘I loved it,’ I say. ‘The bands, the atmosphere, the amazing food … I really need to start cooking more interesting stuff. I have all the recipes from Wilton Grange, and I should teach Morgan to cook for himself – for his family …’ I break off, realising I’m babbling. ‘Maybe I could cook you a proper French meal?’ I add, all in a rush. ‘To thank you for all this, I mean?’ I cast my gaze at the explosion of flowers. ‘How are you with mussels? And poulet en cocotte bonne femme? Excuse my accent,’ I add. ‘It actually means housewife’s chicken. Not very glamorous, huh?’ I laugh, catching myself. Christ, will he think I’m asking him out? Maybe I am. I look at him, and my heart turns over when he smiles.
‘That sounds delicious,’ he says. ‘So, um, did it work out? The date part of the festival, I mean?’
‘Oh that didn’t really …’ I tail off. ‘It wasn’t quite what I thought, what I wanted …’ I shrug.
‘Audrey,’ he says, ‘I’d really love to come to dinner but—’ Ah, here we go.
‘I could make us a French lemon tart,’ I barge on. ‘Everyone likes lemon tart, don’t they? Mine was a bit bumpy – frumpy really – but I’m sure, if I tried it again and took it slowly, step by step …’
‘You know, I can cook,’ he cuts in with another disarming smile. ‘What I wanted to say is, why don’t you have some time off and I’ll cook for you? Come over later, if you like.’
‘Oh! Yes, that would be lovely …’
‘About seven okay?’
‘Sounds great,’ I say.
‘And could you remind Morgan that we’ve got an early start tomorrow?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say, smiling. It’s not a date, I tell myself, glowing with happiness as Paul climbs into his van. It’s just dinner with a friend.
This time, I don’t stress about what to wear. I don’t feel the need to dress up, to try and youth-ify myself, as I did on those motorway dates, setting off in the gravymobile in a dress, heels and stockings, for crying out loud. And nor am I compelled to pick my least sexually provocative dress – the one with the prim neckline and below-the-knee hem, as worn to dinner with Brad. No, tonight, I’m just going as me. After all, Paul has mostly seen me at work, tending to Mrs B. He won’t be expecting a new-improved Audrey, dressed up to the nines. So I pull on jeans and a top patterned with tiny flowers, and when I go to sort out my hair, with the intention of possibly dabbing on some product or other of Morgan’s, I realise it doesn’t need any attention at all. It’s fine, just as it is.
With time to spare, I flip open my laptop. Not to Google Stevie or Hugo, or even Wilton Grange, but to browse eBay. It’s been so long since I’ve bid on anything, it takes three goes to remember my password. Now I’m logged in, not to browse the spy kits or Action Men but the woodwind section …
Yamaha clarinet. Some signs of cosmetic wear but fully operational, case included. I close the page and open it again. I pace around the living room and pick up a stray sock from the floor. Then I fetch my make-up bag and slick on some lipstick: the one Kim bought for me. Although it’s scarily bright, I think I can carry it off. I pull out my hand mirror and flash myself a big cherry red smile, and place my bid.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Classic French Cuisine
He chops onions like a true professional, knife rapping briskly against the wooden board. I watch, sipping the chilled white wine he’s handed me, wondering why, despite it only being my second visit here, I feel instantly at home. ‘Bit behind schedule,’ Paul explains. ‘Sorry, I planned to have everything ready, but Victoria dropped by and I needed to talk to her …’
I take a seat at the small pine kitchen table and glance at the jaunty crockery neatly arranged on a shelf. ‘It’s fine, Paul. I’m not in a hurry to rush off, you know.’
He catches my eye and smiles, triggering a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. ‘I’m very glad to hear that.’
‘So … Victoria. Don’t tell me she’s had an offer on the house?’
He shakes his head as he drops the onions into the pan, plus a crushed garlic clove and a generous slosh of brandy. ‘No, it’s not even on the market yet. In fact, it’s not being sold.’
I stare at him, incredulous. ‘Has she changed her mind?’
‘Not exactly,’ Paul says. ‘It’s more a case of … well, you’ll find out.’ He breaks off to lift a dish of chicken from the fridge, which he proceeds to toss into the pan with a sizzle.
‘Paul, what’s going on?’
‘It’s just a thing I made up,’ he says, stirring the pan and deliberately misunderstanding, I suspect.
‘Um … can I help you at all?’
‘No, no, it’s fine. It’s all under control.’ He laughs. ‘At least, I think it is …’ He checks h
is watch, then chops a mound of tomatoes and throws them in too, plus a scattering of fresh herbs and a generous slosh of wine. ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘would you mind keeping an eye on this, just for a few minutes?’
‘Yes, of course. But is everything okay—’
‘Just keep it simmering gently,’ he adds.
‘I’m sure I’ll manage,’ I say with a smile.
He flushes. ‘Yes, of course you will.’ He laughs distractedly. ‘Look, sorry, my timings are all to pot. I need to pop out for a minute. Help yourself to more wine …’
‘But where are you going—’ I start.
‘I meant to say,’ Paul cuts in, taking a big sip of his own wine – the way I do, when I need Dutch courage – ‘we have another guest joining us for dinner. I hope you don’t mind.’ Before I can ask anything more, he’s rushed out of the door. I frown, wondering who he’s invited. Surely he’s not planning to set me up with one of his friends? He doesn’t strike me as the matchmaking sort and I absolutely don’t want to be set up, thanks very much. I sip more wine and try to quell the disappointment that’s gnawing away at me.
Trying to focus on the pot on the stove, I bestow Paul’s deliciously-scented chicken concoction with the rapt care and attention I’d normally reserve for a baby – someone else’s baby, that is. Always a far scarier prospect than looking after your own. Maybe I’ll be like this with my grandchild, at first: over-attentive, as if handling a grenade that might blow up in my face. No, it’ll be fine. While it’s a long time since I’ve held a baby in my arms, how scary can the child of Morgan and Jenna actually be? As the tomatoey sauce gradually reduces, I add more wine, and taste, taste, taste, as per Brad’s instructions. How can you possibly create a beaudiful dish if you don’t know what it needs?
It needs more herbs. On closer investigation the little piles of chopped greenery on Paul’s worktop appear to be thyme, parsley and, I think, tarragon. Home grown, obviously: more bunched herbs fill a wooden box, along with green beans and soil-speckled potatoes, on the worktop. I fill the kettle and click it on, beginning to relax again in the cosy, well-ordered kitchen. I rinse and top and tail the beans, glancing at a shelf crammed with cookbooks: well-worn, by the look of them. In a space between them sits a hand-drawn Father’s Day card, its edges curling. TO THE BEST DAD IN THE WORLD! it reads, in wobbly capital letters.
The beans are simmering away now. I turn off the heat and drain them; don’t want to boil them to oblivion. Then – just because it seems like a Wilton Grange thing to do – I tip them into a bowl and add a generous dollop of butter and plenty of paper and salt.
The door opens. I turn to see Paul, with a protective arm around a very smartly dressed Mrs B. ‘Our dinner guest,’ he says with a grin.
‘Oh! Lovely to see you, Mrs B.’ I catch a hint of floral fragrance as I kiss her cheek, then stand back and look at her. I hope it doesn’t seem rude; I just can’t help it. The colour has returned to her cheeks, and her eyes are bright and sparkling. She looks as if she has just returned from a long holiday.
‘You too, Audrey.’ She smiles and looks around the kitchen. ‘Mmm, something smells good in here.’
‘I think we’re almost ready,’ I add.
‘Sorry, Aud,’ Paul says quickly. ‘I know Mrs B doesn’t like to eat too late, everything was a bit rushed …’
‘It’s fine, I was enjoying myself here.’ I turn to Mrs B. ‘Where would you like to sit?’
‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ she says. ‘It’s just good to be out. I never go out to dinner these days.’ Either she has forgotten the fish bone incident, or conveniently shut it out of her mind. We take our seats at the table as Paul lights a candle and checks the dish on the hob.
‘Good work, Audrey,’ he says with a teasing smile, then quickly sets the table for three. ‘Will you have wine, Mrs B?’
She frowns at him. ‘Of course I will. What did you think I’d have? Lemonade?’
‘But your medication—’ I start.
‘Audrey,’ she says firmly, ‘you’re not on duty this evening. You’re not taking care of me.’
‘No, of course not,’ I say, my cheeks reddening.
‘I’m sorry …’ She frowns and touches my hand. ‘I was appalled, you know, when Victoria said you weren’t needed any more …’ She nods tersely as Paul serves her with a small portion from the earthenware pot.
‘It’s okay, Mrs B. I’ll be fine, you know.’ I smile my thanks as Paul hands me a serving spoon, and scoop chicken, plus beans, onto my plate.
‘I mean I’m sorry you don’t have your job any more, Audrey,’ she adds.
‘It’s fine, honestly. I’ve loved working here, but I probably need to move on – from both jobs, I mean—’
‘Really?’ Paul exclaims. ‘But why? You’re dinner lady of the year …’
‘Yes, but ten years is long enough, I think. It’s time for a change.’ I look at Paul, aware of those butterflies starting up again. I clear my throat and turn back to Mrs B. ‘Can I ask you … what’s happening with your house?’
She chews noisily, then sips her wine. ‘Nothing,’ she says firmly.
‘But, I thought, I mean, Victoria said …’
‘We’ve talked it through,’ she interrupts. ‘Mmm, this really is good, Paul. Better, even, than last time …’
I stare at him. ‘You mean …’ I start.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs B says. ‘I’ve had this before. Paul often brings me these tasty things to the house, it’s all very French around here …’ She laughs, and it strikes me how right it feels, the three of us eating together as if we do this kind of thing all the time. ‘I’m not moving, Audrey,’ Mrs B adds.
‘But I thought—’
‘Yes, I know Victoria thinks she knows best, and I agreed to sign the house over to her.’ She pauses. Another swig of wine. Blimey, she can put it away. ‘It made sense, you see, and she does want what’s best for me – or what she thinks is best …’ Her pale grey eyes bore into mine. ‘But do you honestly think anyone should let their child dictate how they live their life?’
I pause, a bean speared on my fork. ‘No, I don’t. I mean, I’d do anything for Morgan but I wouldn’t let him make those choices for me, not if I could help it …’
‘Well, I can help it,’ she exclaims, rapping the table, ‘and I’m staying. The only way I am leaving this house is in a coffin and, well, I have a proposition for the two of you.’ I swallow hard, already a little giddy from the wine, as Paul tops up our glasses. ‘Victoria’s right,’ she continues as he clears our plates. ‘The house is too big, it’s neglected, unused … such a terrible waste.’
He sets a perfect lemon tart, its surface utterly flawless, on the table. ‘Ooh, this looks good,’ she says approvingly. ‘So … could we set up some kind of café or tearoom, do you think?’
A small silence settles over the room. ‘What do you mean, Mrs B?’
‘I mean, I don’t know …’ She shrugs. ‘Somewhere people would love to go.’
I pause, wondering if her thoughts are beginning to wander now. Yet she seems razor sharp. ‘You mean … somewhere in town?’
‘No, here. No, not here – in my house, I mean. In the garden. What do you think?’
‘I … wouldn’t know what’s involved,’ I start, glancing at Paul.
‘But you could find out. You could manage this, Audrey. You’re far too smart to be my carer. You shouldn’t be spending your time cleaning my kitchen and washing my hair—’
‘I’ve always been happy to wash your hair,’ I cut in.
She peers at me as Paul cuts her a slice of tart. ‘I want to see this old house brought to life again,’ she goes on. ‘That’s what I’ve been wanting to tell you, Audrey. I don’t need daytime naps, or to be fussed over all day. I want to feel part of something …’ She breaks off and jabs a piece of tart into her mouth. ‘Paul,’ she adds, ‘we have a glut of herbs and vegetables here. I don’t know what you do with them all—’
‘Well, Audrey
has some,’ he points out.
‘Yes, but we have more than we can ever use between us.’
I sip my wine, remembering Brad with his plans for the pub: okay, so maybe we’re not talking cheese, bees or cider. But we could start … something. I turn to Mrs B, my heart quickening. ‘You know, I think you’re right. I’m sure the three of us can do something amazing here …’
‘I know we can,’ she asserts. ‘But for goodness’ sake, could I ask the two of you one thing?’ Her sharp tone stings us. I look at Paul, and under the table his fingers brush against mine, sending a shiver right through me. ‘Please stop calling me Mrs B,’ she says, draining her glass. ‘It’s Elizabeth, all right?’ Her face softens, and she beams at the two of us. ‘I’d like you to call me Elizabeth from now on.’
‘Okay, Mrs – Elizabeth,’ I say with a smile.
‘Thank you. I’d appreciate that.’ She turns to Paul, her eyes glinting mischievously in the candlelight. ‘Now Paul, could you stop gazing at Audrey for a moment and please refill my glass?’
Eight Months Later
Dear Mum,
Thank you so much for the beautiful baby dresses you sent for Mia. I couldn’t believe you’d kept them after all this time, and had stitched in those embroidered name labels in every one. Jenna was amazed. She didn’t know my maiden name. She thought they’d belonged to the real Audrey!
I’m sure they’ll soon fit Mia perfectly. She is a gorgeous baby and Morgan and Jenna are doing incredibly well as new parents. They’re so much more relaxed than I was. They’re now living in the house in Castle Street and I have moved in with my newish boyfriend, Paul, in a cottage in the grounds of the big house where we both work. I am managing the café we’ve opened and sort of overseeing things with the lady who owns the place. She says I’m her right-hand woman.
