by Isla Dewar
She carried Katy to the kitchen where she fed her.
‘Don’t think your dad’s coming home anytime soon. It’s just us again. You’d think they’d invite us round if they’re celebrating the return of Nell and Alistair. But they didn’t.’
She scooped a spoonful of mushy cauliflower cheese into Katy’s mouth. ‘Made it myself. What do you think?’
The child stared at her and opened her mouth at the approaching loaded spoon.
‘We’ll take that as an excellent, then,’ said Carol. ‘Awfully quiet here. I think we should put the radio on.’ She stuffed a third spoonful into Katy’s mouth, got up and switched on the radio then returned to the task in hand. ‘Didn’t think you’d be so hungry.’ She sighed then apologised. ‘Sorry, huge sigh. It isn’t you. I’m just not happy. One, your father’s hardly ever here. Two, when he is here he’s sleeping.’ She leaned towards her daughter. ‘You don’t mind me dumping all this on you, I hope, only I’ve nobody to talk to. You know what the problem is, don’t you? He’s still a kid. And, after having you, I became a woman. That’s the problem.’
Katy grinned. She didn’t talk much yet but was a happy baby.
‘You think that’s funny? I think it’s a bit dire. There’s mushy apples for pudding. Your father gets dressed up every Friday and off he goes into the night looking for a good time like he was seventeen. And don’t tell me there aren’t women involved in this good time. There are. There has to be.’
She fed Katy the puréed apples and told her, ‘I don’t think there’s any actual sex. Don’t repeat that word to either of your grannies. But there will be fondling and kissing. He needs constant reassurance that he’s still good-looking.’ She absently ate a couple of spoonfuls of apples. ‘I can’t complain about money, though. He gives me more than enough.’
Every Friday evening, before he went out on the town, Johnny would take a wad of notes from his pocket, peel off several ten-pound notes and give them to Carol.
Once she’d suggested they open a bank account and start saving.
‘What for?’ Johnny had wanted to know.
‘For a house.’
‘We’ve got a house.’
‘One day we might need a bigger one.’
He had shaken his head. ‘No we won’t.’
Carol had pointed out that they might have more children. ‘A brother or sister for Katy.’
‘We’ve got three bedrooms. That’s enough for any family.’
Carol had gone on to suggest they might need to replace the carpets and the sofa one day. ‘To be honest, I don’t like them. I want to pick my own furniture.’
He’d told her that his mother had picked their furniture and would be hurt if they threw it out and bought something new. ‘I’m not going to get on the wrong side of my mother, and neither are you. I don’t like this house either. It’s not what I’d have chosen. But then, I don’t like my job. It was always assumed I’d work with my dad. Nobody asked me what I wanted to do. I hate selling cars.’
Carol had asked what he’d wanted to do.
‘Something in sport. Perhaps a physical education teacher or a coach. Look, none of this is what I wanted. But I did the right thing. I married you, and I do love my little girl. So here we are. The hideous carpets don’t bother me as much as they do you. I’ve been living with my mother’s taste all my life.’
Carol had pointed out that if he’d sorted the sofa and the carpets, faced up to May, maybe he’d be able to sort out the rest of his life. ‘Your job, for example.’
He’d waved the suggestion away. ‘Here’s the deal. We stay here. We suffer the carpets and the sofa. Friday nights I go out. I need to relax. I give you money. You can buy what you want. Only no new houses, no new furniture and no bank accounts. You pay for everything with cash. OK?’
‘OK,’ she’d agreed. But it was only said quietly to avoid an argument.
She removed Katy’s bib, wiped her mouth, heaved her from her high chair and took her back to the living room. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Johnny is still a kid. He’s angry. You can see it in the way he walks and the way he prowls about the house or sits in front of the television drinking beer. He even mumbles furiously in his sleep. And it’s why he buys all the clothes. Every week a new shirt or shoes or trousers. He’s clinging to his time as a single guy.’ She put Katy down on the rug and handed her several bright red bricks. ‘Build me something. A new house would be good. Maybe you’ll grow up to be an architect. You can do anything you want when you’re big – just don’t get pregnant before you’re married.’
She poured some of the wine she’d brought out to christen the new glasses. ‘Good glasses. They’re just about the only thing in this house that I like. Did you see Nell’s new shoes? God, they’re lovely. Wish they were mine. Still, I didn’t mention them. Didn’t say they were great. God, I’m such a bitch. I’m jealous of my best friend and her life and her new husband.’
She got down on the floor beside Katy and put one brick on top of another. ‘Now you put one on top of my one.’
Katy swept the brick away. ‘Down!’ she cried jubilantly.
‘Ah,’ said Carol, ‘you’re feeling destructive. Well, that’s OK. Gets rid of the anger. Johnny should do that – express his rage instead of bottling it up. You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? He’s going to explode one day. Or I might explode. One way or another an explosion is coming.’
Chapter Twelve
Isn’t Life Fabulous?
The hotel was not as Nell had imagined. But then, nothing ever was. She’d dreamed of a huge mansion fronted by spreading lush lawns either side of a long drive. But this was an old coaching inn set a little bit back from the main road. It looked lonely.
The white walls were now grey, a searing black damp stain rose from the base of the front wall up to the first floor windows. There were tiles missing from the roof, stringy ivy crawled past the main door, paint peeled from the window frames, the small car-parking area at the front of the inn was layered with scruffy gravel. May declared it beautiful, and since nobody disagreed with her – they didn’t dare – she assumed everyone thought so too.
Stepping inside, the word that came to Nell’s mind was rubble. She was reminded of the aftermath in disaster movies. That moment when the survivors of some horrendous explosion emerge from a collapsed building, look round at the destruction, scarcely able to believe they are still alive and not sure, really, if they want to be among the living if this was what they had to contend with.
What Nell saw was dust. A dense cloud floated in the few rays of sunlight that came from the broken windows. There was a scattering of abandoned furniture – bar stools, tables, tattered lamps – and more dust. A forlorn moth-eaten stag’s head loomed over the doorway. A couple of pigeons perched on one of the exposed beams that stretched overhead from one end of the room to the other. They cocked their heads, eyed the intruders with suspicion. After all, they’d had the place to themselves for the past seven years.
Everyone was here. May had insisted the whole family come with her for her first inspection of the new property. She’d brought a picnic.
‘It’s a bit run down,’ observed Nell.
‘Of course it is,’ said May. ‘That’s why it was so cheap. I’m not daft.’
She turned a full circle, arms spread. ‘This area will be the bar, with a big roaring log fire and a fine range of whiskies. Then through there—’ she pointed to a room off the one they were in ‘—will be the dining room. It’ll be exclusive. You’ll have to book a table in advance. The bedrooms, all done out in luxury, will be upstairs, of course.’ She looked up, contemplating the gorgeousness to come. Her entourage – Harry, Johnny, Carol, Alistair and Nell – followed her gaze, but saw only the pigeons and a ceiling with lumps of plaster missing. ‘It’s going to be lovely.’
She walked past the bar, opened a door at the back of the room. ‘This is the kitchen and out there’s the garden. There will be a covered walkway leading fro
m the French windows in the residents’ quarter to the swimming pool.’
The kitchen was small. There was a grease-encrusted commercial range, a long table and beside the door was a selection of bins. The garden outside was mostly brambles and nettles.
Nell wasn’t impressed. ‘What are you going to call the place?’
‘Something French,’ said May. ‘France is where you get the best cuisine. People will be expecting that sort of food. Chateau House, I thought.’
Alistair looked thoughtful. ‘Chateau means big house in French. So you’re calling your hotel House House?’
May gave him the glare, and then continued enthusing. She folded her arms, looked round and announced, ‘I have a vision.’
Alistair followed her gaze and said, ‘A vision is good. You’ve got to have a vision.’
‘Yes,’ said May. ‘I have a vision. It’ll make us a pile when we get going.’
‘You’ll need a lot of staff,’ said Nell, ‘for the bar, dining room and kitchen, as well as people to look after the bedrooms – chambermaids and the like.’
‘We’ll keep it in the family,’ said May. ‘There are Alistair’s aunts, uncles and cousins. There’s you and Carol. We’ll manage. I’ve got it all sorted in my head.’ She tapped the side of the head, proving how sorted it was up there.
Nell said she didn’t want to be a chambermaid. ‘I’m happy selling pens.’ Taking part in the new venture hadn’t been what she imagined. She’d thought she’d enjoy dropping in at a bar where people knew her name and asked if she’d like her usual. Being one of the Rutherfords would give her automatic admission to the in crowd. Scrubbing out lavatories and making beds had no appeal.
It was her turn for the glare.
‘No, you’re not happy selling pens. You just feel safe doing it. You’ve never tried anything else,’ May told her. ‘There’s no future in it. You’re a Rutherford now. You’re life isn’t about you anymore. It’s about us, all of us. You’ll have to roll up your sleeves and muck in like the rest of us. It’s your duty.’
Alistair put his arm round Nell and said he was sure she’d like to help but they were planning on starting a family.
Nell looked at him in horror.
May gripped Nell’s arm. ‘You’re not …?’
‘No,’ said Nell. ‘I’m not. I don’t want to have a baby yet. I want Alistair and me to spend time together first. Alistair wants to have a baby. He keeps nagging me about it. He said he’d stop, but soon as we got back from the honeymoon, he started again.’
May slapped Alistair’s wrist. ‘You leave Nell alone. She’ll have a baby in her own good time. The notion will grab her soon enough. It grabs most women, after all. It’s a curse.’
Alistair looked sheepish.
May put her arm round Nell. ‘This girl needs time to enjoy being a wife before she becomes a mother. Once you’re a mother, you’re a mother for life. The worrying and the caring goes on and on and on.’ She hugged Nell. ‘You stick to your guns. You have a baby when you want. It’s you has to carry it and you that gives birth. Then it’ll be you doing the midnight feeds and the nappies and dealing with the teething and you taking them to school and you helping with the homework and you sitting up worrying when they’re out late.’
Nell thought that this woman alone could solve the world population problem. She’d certainly put her off motherhood, but she loved May for taking her side in the ongoing baby dispute.
‘Still,’ said May, ‘you can both help with the decorating at the weekends. Do you no harm to get familiar with a brush and a pot of paint.’
Johnny said that it’d be a while before they got to the actual decorating. He had his hands in his pockets and was looking down at his shoes, lifting them from time to time, examining them, worried that the muck on the floor would ruin their shine.
May said, ‘Your Uncle Dave will see to all that. He’s got contacts in the trade.’
Harry’s brother Dave was in property. He owned a huge number of flats across Edinburgh that he rented out. Whenever something in one of his flats needed fixed or replaced, Dave got in touch with one of the many workmen he’d met in pubs on the outskirts of town – plumbers, joiners, roofers, painters and many more who were prepared to work for cash. He had names and phone numbers listed in a small red notebook that he kept in his desk at home.
It was Sunday, a month exactly since May had made her announcement. She’d picked up the keys on Friday. This was her first trip out to view her new property.
‘I’m itching to get started, but I have to wait till your cousin Derek draws up the plans. Then we’ll get going.’ May made her way back to the front door, looked up at the pigeons. ‘The pair of you will have to find a new home. Your days here are numbered.’
Alistair followed, pointing out that Derek had not long passed his final exams. ‘He’s fresh out of university. Don’t you think you need someone with a bit of experience?’
‘This will be his first commission. He’s got to make a go of it. Can’t mess up your first job – your future depends on it. Besides he’s family.’
‘This venture is all about family,’ said Harry.
Nell stopped worrying about the effects of dust and rubble on her beloved Italian shoes as she was hit by a sudden inspiration, ‘Then that’s what you should call this place.’
‘What? Family?’ said May. ‘I don’t think much of that.’
‘No,’ said Nell. ‘You should call it Rutherford’s.’
May swooned. ‘It’s so bleedin’ obvious, I never thought of it. Rutherford’s. That’s perfect. Says it all.’
They trooped back to the parking area outside where May unpacked her picnic basket, pulling out a selection of sandwiches, an almond cake, a bottle of Sauvignon and glasses. They uncorked the bottle (May would never forget something as important as a corkscrew). They shouted their toast. ‘Rutherford’s,’ they cried. The sun shone, birds sang and May looked round at the small company, eyes aglow with joy. ‘Oh, isn’t life fabulous?!’
Chapter Thirteen
The Famous
One-Legged Kiss
By late spring, work on the hotel was underway. The rubble was cleared, the walls plastered, the roof retiled and the pigeons sent on their way. May visited every day. Scarlet-lipped and eyes thick with blue shadow, she tripped through the building on six-inch stilettos, hugging her fur coat round her. She beamed at the workmen, telling them to carry on and keep up the good work. She fussed over details, itched to get busy choosing wallpapers, curtains, carpets, ‘and taps,’ she said. ‘Good taps are a sign of a classy hotel. Mine will be gold-plated.’ Always she looked round and sighed. ‘This is going to be lovely.’
Every Friday at four o’clock, Harry stopped by the worksite and pulled a pile of cheap brown envelopes from his briefcase. He paid his tradesmen in cash. He’d tap the side of his nose. ‘Good money for good work and the taxman doesn’t know a thing. Let’s keep him out of it.’
Thursday nights were as they’d always been. The family had their meetings. Alistair went to eat and discuss business with his parents. Nell wasn’t invited. It was so much part of her life with Alistair, she didn’t think about it. Besides, he’d told her it was boring. ‘Just business, business, business and a lot of bickering.’
‘But the food will be good,’ said Nell, because the food wasn’t so good where she went on Thursdays: home to eat with her mother and father. Thursday nights were egg and chips nights. In fact, Nell didn’t really mind. She was beginning to find comfort in the familiar.
She’d go directly from work. The food was always ready and put in front of her as soon as she’d taken off her coat. Every week Nell’s mother would glance at her stomach to see if it was swelling, then the glance would move up to Nell’s face. Their eyes would meet. Nancy would raise her eyebrows, silently asking if a grandchild was on the way. Nell would sigh and shake her head and say, ‘Not yet. Give me a couple of years.’
She and her mother and father woul
d sit at the fold-down Formica-topped table politely passing round the tomato ketchup and sliced and buttered bread. The teapot in its green cosy sat centre stage, and, now that Nell was married, living away from home, and was, therefore, a visitor, they drank from the good china. The place still smelled of cooking fat with an undertow of bleach. These days, Nell found it rather calming.
The conversation was mundane – the weather, Nell’s day at the pen shop, Nancy’s day at the cake shop and things Nell’s father had seen from his vantage point on the sofa. Today it had been a dog peeing on the front gate and Mrs Livingston next door buying fish from the van that came round every Thursday morning. Not a lot, but he made it sound interesting.
Afterwards, her father would go back to his sofa to watch television while Nell and Nancy washed up. As they did, they’d talk womanly talk. Nell noticed that now she was a married woman, her mother spoke of married things. For Nancy this meant instructing her daughter in the importance of cleaning. ‘A day set aside for every chore. Monday for washing, Tuesday ironing, Wednesday the bedrooms, change sheets and …’
Nell lost interest. She’d heard all this many times, and always found it boring. She wondered if there had ever been passion in this immaculate house. Had her mother and father rushed home every evening after a day delivering coal and serving in the cake shop to hold one another, to kiss deeply and swear eternal love? Had they made it a mission to make love in every room in the house as she and Alistair had? Had they shared baths, bickering about who would sit at the tap end? Did they have a song that was their song? Had her mother ever stripped off in the kitchen when a sexy tune had come on the radio, abandoning the lamb chops under the grill as she wriggled and pranced and peeled off her clothes? Nell had done this last week. The chops burned. Watching her mother vigorously wipe plates and set them on the draining board for Nell to dry, jaw clenched, determined not to let a scraping of egg yolk escape the fevered scouring of her dish cloth, Nell decided no, Nancy had done none of these things. The way she bustled and wielded the bleach, she certainly didn’t look like she’d ever done any of these things.
