‘I’m quite tired, actually,’ Maggie says, as something catches her eye out the tall sash window beside her. ‘That man! You!’ She raps on the window. ‘You there, stop it!’
I go to see what’s wrong, even though I think I know. ‘Terence!’ I fling open the window. ‘Terence, we see you.’
‘Not again,’ Nick says.
‘In the rhododendron bushes this time,’ I say. ‘We’ve warned you, Terence. I’m telling Max! That’s not hygienic.’
‘I was going to give those a trim today too,’ Nick grumps.
Terence flips me two fingers from where he’s standing in the border. He doesn’t even bother doing up his flies first. Then, relieved, he saunters back to his cottage. His thick, beige button-up cardigan hangs loose from his shoulders and goes nearly to his knees. I often wonder whether it originally belonged to his wife. He’s always in rumpled beige cotton trousers, one of those checked shooting shirts and scruffy trainers. A casual observer (who hadn’t just seen him wee into the bushes) might mistake him for a kindly grandad.
‘That man needs to be put down,’ Maggie says. ‘It would be the kindest thing.’ Then she rubs her temples. ‘Laney can go back downstairs with you now.’
Just like that. I’d like to tell Maggie where to get off, dismissing Laney like the dog she just called Terence. But Laney isn’t offended, so I keep my mouth shut. ‘Oh, right, well, Maggie, I’ll see you later.’
‘Cook,’ Maggie says as I turn to leave. She knows my name perfectly well. But no, I’m just the domestic help to her. She calls June ‘Manageress’ and Nick is simply ‘you’. ‘Don’t bother with supper tonight,’ she continues. ‘I won’t be hungry. I’ll have breakfast as usual tomorrow. One hard-boiled egg, please.’
I bob my usual curtsy. It’s completely ironic, but it doesn’t faze her.
Everyone sucks up to Maggie around here. That’s because she’s the only resident who pays full price. That also means she gets the biggest room, since the servants’ quarters were turned into suites before I started work here. Although in an old house like this, all the bedrooms are spacious enough for a bed and a little seating area. Maggie also gets to have her meals in her room instead of down in the dining room with everyone else. We’d kick up a fuss about it, but that would only backfire. Then we’d have to spend more time with her. This way, everyone is reasonably happy. Max gets his money, Maggie remains a recluse, and the residents don’t have the Ice Queen with them at mealtimes.
We might never know what made Laney want to go see Maggie when, for everyone else, facing her means drawing the short straw. Laney’s mind works in very mysterious ways.
It’s not dementia or Alzheimer’s. Otherwise Laney might have to go to a nursing home, where they’ve got specialist medical care. We’re more of a tea-and-sympathy type set-up around here. There is round-the-clock help with cleaning, dressing and that sort of thing for those who need it, and the carers keep track of everyone’s medication. Though personal care assistants aren’t exactly sought-after well-paid jobs, so there’s a high turnover amongst the staff. It’s June, Nick and I who really try to make it feel stable and homely here.
At first glance we probably look like an ordinary care home. We’ve got handrails, call buttons and shower seats, but the residents don’t all need care in the traditional, council-approved sense of the word. The women range in age between a sprightly sixty-eight (Laney) to around ninety. I’m pretty sure that’s how old Maggie is, though she wouldn’t let June put her age in her file. Some, like Dot and Sophie, moved in because they wanted the company. That’s a big reason that Mrs Greene, the founder, set up the home. She understood that some women, having raised their children and buried or divorced their spouses, or not having had children or spouses (buried or otherwise), might get lonely as they got older.
It’s much more fun being here as part of a community. Plus, they don’t have to cook or clean.
Nick’s carrying a couple of yoga mats under one arm when he comes into the kitchen to get me for lunch. His other hand is behind his back. ‘These are just in case the grass is wet,’ he says, hoisting the mats.
‘Why, sir, you are so gallant,’ I say in an atrocious southern belle accent, ‘to think of my comfort.’
He laughs. ‘But of course, madam, that’s what gentlemen are for. I’d even strip off and throw my shirt over a puddle to keep your delicate feet dry, should the need arise.’
‘… or you could just use the yoga mats and save your shirt,’ I say, distracted by the idea of Nick stripping off.
‘Oh, right.’
Way to kill a flirty mood, Phoebe.
Then he hands me the three huge white pompom hydrangeas he’s been hiding behind his back. ‘Thanks for doing this. I know I’ve made more work for you. Though I did cut these off the bush out back, so technically I’m thanking you with stolen property.’
‘It’s very pretty stolen property, though, I’ll take it!’ I squeak. I know he’s not trying to be romantic and I’d love to sound calm, like I get flowers from gorgeous blokes every day. I’m not so sad that I’ll save them forever. I am thinking ahead to how I can dry them so they don’t turn brown when they die, though. I’ll probably keep them for a little while – a year or two, definitely not longer than a decade – and then toss them when they’ve all but turned to dust.
‘Get a tall vase from the cabinet, will you please?’ I say. There’s a full cupboard to choose from. Our residents usually get celebration flowers for their birthdays and Mother’s Day, and sometimes guilty ones when their children skip a visit. ‘No worries about the lunch. It is what I do.’
Grabbing the bag that’s already packed with the food and plates – I’ve been ready for an hour –we start for the back garden. It was thoughtful of Nick to bring the yoga mats for the grass, but I’ve got my eye on the wooden bench right at the far edge of the lawn. Not only will it save my legs going numb from sitting cross-legged, it’s not too close to Terence’s cottage, and it’s tucked away from the house down a gentle hill.
Not that we need seclusion to have lunch. I know this isn’t a date. I’d just like to pretend, so I’ll have a double helping of delusion with my quiche, thank you very much.
‘This was a great idea,’ he says, following me towards the bench.
I laugh. ‘You’re not supposed to compliment your own idea!’
‘Then let’s say it was your great idea. I do appreciate it. I know you don’t usually cook extra for your lunchtime. If there’s anything I can do in return…’
I catch his eye, but I can’t tell if he means anything by that. He’s not so much as cracking a smile or raising an eyebrow to give me a clue.
I can’t take the chance. It would be too mortifying to proposition him when he’s only being nice. Instead, I say, ‘If I ever want to brush up on my professional yoga certification, then I know who to ask. That’s right, kill yourself laughing.’ Just because Nick could run a marathon before breakfast and not even break a sweat.
‘Sorry. Sorry. You could exercise if you wanted to,’ he says.
That’s a big if.
He notices my look. ‘I only mean for health reasons.’ He knows how annoying it is to come off as fit and preachy. ‘You look great.’
The sun peeks out from behind a fluffy cloud just as we get to the bench. ‘I very much appreciate your compliment.’
‘No, Phoebe, I’m completely serious. You shouldn’t put yourself down. You do look great.’
My face goes warm. He’s mistaking my comment. I think I look just fine. Do I not? ‘I wasn’t putting myself down. I’m saying thank you. Some people might be built for speed. Some are built for endurance. I’m built for comfort.’
‘And beauty,’ he adds.
How am I supposed to get over him when he keeps saying nice things like that?
Chapter 4
Nick can’t help being nice. He’s the kind of person that you naturally want to like. Maybe that’s why, within days of him starting work h
ere, we had the smooth banter of old friends. He made it simple. He definitely gets me, a lot like June does, so going from nought to sixty was so easy. Maybe too easy, because I was mad about him by the time he got his first pay cheque. It took him a little while to catch up but, looking back, I think he did. I only wish I’d realised it at the time. Then things would have turned out so differently.
We’re standing together with June on the back lawn, but he’s got his eye on Terrible Terence, who’s pacing along the border between his property and ours. Terence is watching our waitresses, Mary and Amber, set up the tables in the garden. He knows perfectly well that the visitors come today. And he knows we serve lunch outside on sunny days.
It’s my Saturday to work. Just a half-day, though, and it’s only every two weeks. There’s a weekend cook who does the shifts when I’m off.
Today is when most of our residents’ friends and families come to visit. Not that they couldn’t come any day they like. We run a home for women here, not a prison. But we put on a special programme at the end of each week, so that’s when we’re busiest with visitors. The free lunch probably has a lot to do with their timing.
That’s where I come in, and it might sound simple to feed a bunch of mostly older people, but I promise you, it’s a challenge every single time. I never know how many visitors will turn up, even though we do ask for numbers. And Max, the tight arse that he is, loses the plot if I cook so much as an extra potato. So, getting the amounts right is hard enough.
Throw in everyone’s preferences, allergies and pseudo-intolerances (My psychic says purple food blocks my spiritual healing), plus having to cook for grandchildren right through to octogenarians, and even Prue Leith might struggle.
At least I know by now what our residents like, and what they don’t. Laney won’t eat anything that’s too potatoey. That’s a texture, not an actual food group, which so far includes potatoes – mashed, fried, chipped, baked, roasted, fondanted or skinned – nearly all beans and pulses, polenta and under-ripe bananas. And Sophie has more food-combining rules than she probably has legwarmers.
Where was I going with this? Oh, yes. Visiting Day lunches. Volume isn’t a problem. I was trained to cook three courses for a hundred at a time during catering college. I can make a shepherd’s pie the size of a bathtub and still get the spices perfect, with just the right amount of gravy. That’s why Mum and Dad always had me cater their parties. Not that they wanted shepherd’s pie. Their friends are more tiny food people, mini burgers and one-bite chocolate eclairs and the like. Which I can also do, although not here.
The residents don’t mind trying new things, but God forbid I try anything funny with their puddings.
If there’s anything I miss about my old job at the bistro, it’s trying funny things with puddings. But I don’t like to dwell too much on the past. The restaurant doesn’t even exist anymore. It went up in a puff of smoke, along with my restaurant chef career.
This is more stable work anyway, and even though it’s a madhouse when the families visit, I do enjoy the extra buzz.
Not that it’s God’s Waiting Room on the other days. Between the activities calendar, Nick’s occupational therapy sessions and Sophie’s Zumba classes, these women have more of a social life than I do. Plus, they get trips out in the town and all the dramas you might expect from twenty-two independent-minded women living together.
But it’s at the end of the week that the grandchildren come, and that gives the home a special vibe. It puts everyone in a good mood.
Well, nearly everyone.
Terence is still glowering from the shrubbery.
Technically, as he’s not in our garden, he’s doing nothing wrong. He’s right on the border, taunting us. I just know he’s going to do something. He always does. We never know what, so we have to play cat-and-mouse until he makes his move. And then we try to head him off.
June’s watching him too. ‘If that dirty old bloke gets his todger out again, I’m ringing the police this time. We’ve been way too easy on him lately.’
As the head of HR (as well as office manager, accountant and unofficial Agony Aunt), she takes things like harassment seriously. There was a real ding-dong between her and Max a couple of months ago when he tried to convince her to go easy on Terence. Sometimes I do feel sorry for Max. He’s an incompetent twit, but he doesn’t deserve a father like that.
‘I had hoped the hospital stay might mellow him out,’ Nick says. When Terence came down with pneumonia last year, it was touch-and-go for a bit. He ended up in Critical Care on a respirator. You’d think a thing like that might make him mend his ways. But no. He’s worse than ever.
‘I hoped it would kill him,’ says June. With an impatient swipe, she brushes her blonde curls away from her face. It’s as much a nervous habit as because the wind has picked up. Clouds are scuttling across the sky now. We might have to serve lunch inside after all. ‘But he’s too mean to die.’ Then she glances at me. ‘Sorry, that was probably insensitive, with your mum and all.’
I shake my head to let her know I’m not offended. My emotions have been all over the place since Mum died, but they’re not the ones I expected. I can’t seem to find a manual about how to grieve properly for her. And I need one because I’m doing it all wrong.
Everything I read online says I should let myself feel sad. That would be fine, except that I’m not feeling sadness as much as rage. And it’s not normal grieving anger, either. It would be normal to be furious with Mum for dying and leaving us. Or for not taking care of herself enough to stay alive.
I’m livid with her because she’s not here to be livid with in person.
That doesn’t seem right.
June has been my rock throughout everything. Well, that’s what best friends are for, right? Even so, I really appreciate it. Some people get too uncomfortable about death or sadness to get down and dirty in the emotions with you. Like my dad, for instance.
I worried constantly about him after the funeral. Which is why I may have rung him more than usual. He started avoiding my calls. He’s not being malicious. He’s just tired of me asking how he is, which makes him think about Mum and then he gets sad (he claims, though I’ve still not seen very much evidence). Dad’s always been a stiff upper lip person.
Dad did actually answer my call this morning. Only because June showed me how to block Caller ID. I’ve sunk to stalking my own father.
‘Has Will been to see you?’ I’d asked, even though I knew the answer.
‘Your brother is very busy with work,’ Dad said.
‘Well, so am I, and I’m happy to come see you whenever you like. He could find the time, you know.’ Will works in a bank, not sequencing the human genome or curing cancer. But he’s always thought the world revolved around him, and our parents didn’t help.
‘Your brother is successful, Phoebe,’ Dad explained, like that was any excuse for ignoring your parents. ‘It stands to reason that he’d be married to his job. That comes first.’
‘And that’s okay with you? It’s a double standard, by the way.’
‘No, it’s not,’ he said.
‘Oh, really. I’m successful. I run my own kitchen, I’ve won awards. Yet you don’t expect me to be married to my job.’
‘That’s because yours is an unsuitable match.’
It was like my mother had come back from the dead to insult me. It’s not fair. She shouldn’t still be able to upset me by proxy. ‘I was just checking that you’re all right,’ I murmured. ‘Tell your son to visit you. He owes you for putting him through uni.’
June and Nick are clearly worried by my silence. ‘It’s okay,’ I tell them. Nick is rubbing my arm, sending tingles all up and down. That shoves all thoughts of my parents from my head. ‘I thought maybe Max would move his dad somewhere else when he got out. He’s really not all there anymore. He should probably be in a home. He’s always at his worst on visiting day.’ And he’s no picnic the rest of the time.
But the sun i
s still shining, so far, and the tables that the waitresses have dotted all over the lawn look gorgeous and very stately-homey.
That’s one of the best things about this place for the women: the space they get without having to be alone. Most of them could live pretty well on their own, as long as they had someone to check in on them, and maybe help with some cooking and cleaning. But if they didn’t live here, then they’d either be tripping over themselves in a one-bedroom flat or, maybe worse, be rambling around their family house with nothing but memories for company. My gran got terribly lonely after Grandad died, even though she lived near Mum and Dad and they visited a lot. Her whole world shrank to Mum’s visits. If I’m lucky enough to live into old age, I just hope the Happy Home for Ladies is still here for me.
We all go back inside to finish getting ready for the visitors. The women are always excited on Saturdays, even when it’s not their own family who’ll be stopping by. They’ve been living together for so long that, in a way, they’ve pooled their loved ones together. Anyone can dip into the mix of visitors and come up with a friendly face to enjoy.
I’m just getting the warming trays out for the buffet when Davey arrives with our Morrison’s delivery.
What can I tell you about Davey so you can picture him but not think he’s a prat? If you saw a photo of him, you’d probably think he was fit, and he is. His hair isn’t as dark as Nick’s, but it’s wavy like his, and he uses some kind of wax or putty to make it stand up all over. He’s got a nice smile and pretty green eyes, and he is in good shape from lifting delivery boxes all day long. The problem is when he speaks. Aside from what comes out of his mouth, he’s got this weird way of shimmying his head, like the dog from the Churchill advert. It makes everything he says seem like an innuendo. So, imagine an okay-looking shimmy-headed guy with muscly arms. That’s Davey.
‘They didn’t have your cod fillets so there’s haddock instead,’ he says, consulting his list. ‘Whose birthday is it? You’ve got candles.’
The Not So Perfect Plan to Save Friendship House Page 4
