‘It’s delicious.’
‘So where are you from, then? Are you a London girl?’
‘No. No, I’m from Knapford.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Bedfordshire.’
‘Is that real? I thought it was made up. Up the wooden stairs to Bedfordshire.’
‘It’s real all right. And it’s very boring.’
‘What did you do there?’
Sally paused for a moment. ‘We’ve got a butcher’s shop. But I didn’t want to spend my whole life cutting up slices of bacon.’
‘So you ran away to London?’
‘Yeah. Because the streets are paved with gold, aren’t they?’
‘They are. If you know where to look.’
‘Really?’
‘I hope so.’
‘So what do you do?
‘A bit of this and a bit of that. I’m chancing my arm at the moment. I suppose I should get a proper job, really.’
He took her empty cup off her and she jumped at his touch.
‘Let’s go. It’s not all that much further.’
He screwed the lids back on, put the thermos back and started up the engine.
Eventually they turned off and the road led them through a tiny town with a wide street and high pavements. Sally gasped at the prettiness: it was like something out of a fairy tale, with its gingerbread buildings, mossy roofs and a brook running through it.
‘This is Peasebrook,’ Alexander told her as they flew over the humpbacked stone bridge. He slowed the car down, and now she could hear him. ‘This is my home town.’
Sally gazed at the pointy windows and the wonky chimney pots; the mellow golden stone. It couldn’t have been more different from sensible, upright, red-brick Knapford, which held no delights or surprises.
‘It’s wonderful!’
‘Nothing much happens here either.’ He gave a wicked laugh. ‘Well, unless we’re all home, of course. You’ve got to make things happen, haven’t you?’
He dropped down a gear and accelerated out of the town, then a mile or so outside Peasebrook turned left into a lane that Sally would never have noticed was there. He went faster and faster between the hedges, which rushed past in a blur of bright green. She held her breath. If anyone was coming the other way, there was no room to pass.
‘Don’t worry – no one comes down here but us!’ whooped Alexander as the car bounced along. Sally didn’t feel remotely reassured.
Then suddenly they were at a set of stone gates. Alexander turned sharply and the car flew along a track lined with winter-bare trees. They turned a corner and the track broadened out, and there in front of them was a swathe of grass peppered with crocuses in front of a house that glowed gold in the weak winter sun.
‘Welcome to Hunter’s Moon.’ He stared with pride, his hands still on the steering wheel.
‘Hunter’s Moon,’ echoed Sally, staring in amazement. ‘What a wonderful name.’
‘Years ago they used to hold a huge party here during the hunter’s moon, because it was so bright everyone could see to get home late at night. Only no one ever wanted to leave, so the party went on until morning.’
It was quite the most beautiful house Sally had ever seen: the yellow stone, the twinkling windows, the plume of smoke from the chimney; the trees, the fields, the hills around that hugged it.
‘It’s like something out of a book.’
‘Well, funnily enough, in a way it is. My mother bought it with her royalties.’
Sally looked at him. ‘Your mother? Is she a writer?’
‘She prefers authoress. She says it sounds more glamorous.’
‘Would I have heard of her?’
Alexander shrugged. ‘Maybe. Probably. She’s quite famous.’
He was so matter of fact about it. He got out of the car and came round to open Sally’s door.
‘Well, what’s her name, then?’
‘Margot. Margot Willoughby.’
‘Your mother is Margot Willoughby?’ Sally stared at him in astonishment. ‘My mum loves her books.’
She could picture her mother reading them. The covers always had raven-haired beauties in revealing period frocks: all tumbling locks and heaving bosoms. Sally had packed them up when they moved but they’d thrown them away in the end because there was no room to keep them and no one wanted a pile of old paperbacks. A lump came into her throat, but she swallowed it down.
‘Well, come on in and meet the family.’
Sally followed Alexander, whose long stride was hard to keep up with, across the crunchy gravel chippings and up the stone steps and through the half-open door of Hunter’s Moon. As she stepped into the hallway she felt a sense of calm and warmth, as if she was coming home. But that was ridiculous, because she’d never been here before in her life.
There was no time to stop and take in her surroundings properly, because Alexander was bounding through the house: she glimpsed a wide hall, with flagstones and a gracious staircase, then followed him along a corridor, at the end of which he threw open a door.
It took Sally a while to discern that this was the kitchen, and that was only because she could see an Aga in the old fireplace. Other than that, it was like an antique shop mixed with a decadent jazz club. A table in the middle was covered in empty glasses still sticky with last night’s cocktails, brimming ashtrays, books and magazines, half-burned candles dripping wax. There was a sink, and across the draining board was a cocked gun. Plates were piled up on the work surfaces, and on the other side there was a Dansette record player blaring out ‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’ by the Rolling Stones. Another wall was covered in portraits, from the size of a postcard to imposingly large, some traditional, some abstract. Some had been added to: moustaches and spectacles had been scribbled on. The effect was of a motley crowd staring at the proceedings. There was a selection of threadbare armchairs, and on the back of one, looking beady, was a grey parrot.
At the table sat a young girl, singing along to the record, pointing a large black hairdryer at what looked to be a frozen chicken, waving it about.
‘Beetle!’ she cried out in delight, but didn’t stop. ‘There’s nothing for bloody lunch so I’m trying to defrost this. But God knows how long it was in the freezer. Hello!’ She beamed at Sally.
‘This is Sally,’ said Alexander. ‘Sally, this is Annie. Otherwise known as The Afterthought.’
‘Did you have to tell her that?’ Annie looked indignant.
Sally could barely find words. The room was in a state of utter squalor, but somehow it didn’t matter, because everywhere you looked there was something to capture your interest. A diving helmet, a mannequin, a bell jar with a little white stoat inside: she’d never been anywhere like this before.
‘Hello,’ she finally managed.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Alexander. He said the words as if he knew that’s what he should be asking but didn’t feel quite comfortable saying it.
‘Good luck,’ said Annie. ‘There’s no milk either.’
Alexander’s face clouded. ‘Hasn’t anyone been shopping?’
Annie shook her head. ‘I didn’t get back till yesterday afternoon because I had a lacrosse match. Dad’s out and about. Mum’s on a deadline. And you know what that means.’
The siblings exchanged glances. Then Alexander turned to Sally.
‘Oh dear. I’m sorry. This wasn’t what I was hoping for. You just can’t ever tell. When my mother’s under pressure everything falls apart.’
He gave a helpless shrug.
‘Not that she’s Mrs Beeton the rest of the time,’ added Annie.
‘True,’ said Alexander.
Sally laughed. ‘Never mind. I’m sure we can think of something.’
‘I’ve brought back some rock buns I did in cookery. But there’s no butter.’ Annie turned off the hairdryer and produced a battered old cake tin. She offered it to Sally. ‘And nobody can say they’re not aptly named – they are like rocks.’
‘Thank you.’ Sally took one to be polite.
Alexander looked in the tin and shook his head. ‘Where’s Phoebe?’
‘Still in bed.’
He sighed and looked around. ‘Bugger. Has she finished those dresses yet? I was going to take them back up with me.’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Annie turned the hairdryer back on and there was a loud bang. She shrieked and threw it on the table.
‘You’ve fused it,’ said Alexander. There was a strong smell of burning.
‘What’s going on?’ There was a voice from the doorway.
Sally turned. There was what she guessed was Alexander’s mother.
Margot Willoughby.
‘Mummy!’ said Annie, her face lighting up.
‘Hell’s bells,’ said the woman. ‘What day is it?’
‘It’s Sunday, Mummy. All day.’
She was tiny, like a little ballerina, swathed in a man’s silk dressing gown that came down to her ankles. Her chocolate-brown hair was piled up in a beehive, half of it falling down, as if she had put it up for a party two nights before, and the fringe was held back with a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. Her face was pale, her eyes huge and fringed with Bambi eyelashes – they had to be false, surely? There were freckles across her nose, and a gap between her front teeth.
Margot noticed Sally and blinked. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, as if realising Sally wasn’t one of her own children.
‘Hello – Alexander brought me.’
‘Did he bring food?’
‘I’m afraid not. At least, I don’t think so.’
Margot’s face fell. ‘I was supposed to go shopping.’
‘Mummy, you are useless.’
‘Well, we know that.’ She looked at the clock. ‘Where’s your father?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘Oh. In the pub, I suppose.’
Sally couldn’t stop staring. She couldn’t imagine anyone less like a mother than this creature. She was a million miles from her own, who at this time on a Sunday would be dressed in a flowered dress with a pinny strapped round her middle and sturdy shoes, pulling trays of puffy Yorkshire puddings from the oven while a hefty rib of beef rested on the side. She blocked the image out of her head.
Margot’s eyes came to rest again on Sally.
‘I’m so sorry – how rude of me. I’m Margot.’
‘I’m Sally. It’s lovely to meet you. My mother adores your books. I think she’s read them all.’
Margot smiled in a way that indicated she’d been told this a million times before.
‘Thank you,’ she said. She gave an enormous yawn, stretching her arms high above her head, and looked at her watch. She floated past Annie and went to kiss Alexander. He took his mother in his arms and squeezed her tightly. Sally could see they adored each other. Margot stepped back and smiled up at her son.
‘Mum. It’s a bit of a hovel in here even by your standards. I’ve only been away three days and it wasn’t like this when I left.’
‘I’m fit for nothing. I’ve got a bloody deadline and I was up all night burning the midnight oil and I can barely see . . .’
‘You know what it’s like when mum’s got A Deadline, Beetle,’ said Annie. She gave the word dramatic emphasis.
‘But you’ve always got A Deadline.’
‘Well, someone has to pay the school fees and the bills and for all the booze.’ Margot ran her foot over the back of a ginger cat that was snoozing by the Aga. ‘We’d all be dead of starvation if we waited for your father to put food on the table.’
Alexander rolled his eyes.
‘Now, you’re to say thank you to Sally. She pulled me out of the gutter on Friday night,’ he told her, to change the subject. ‘I was shamefully ratted.’ He didn’t seem to want to hide the fact he was drunk from her.
‘Oh darling, you are such a little guttersnipe.’ But she was laughing. She turned to Sally. ‘Thank you. He is so irresponsible. Have you come to stay?’
‘No . . . I don’t think so . . . Just lunch, I think.’
‘Fat chance,’ said Annie. ‘I think this chicken is putrid. It stinks.’
She pushed it away. Everyone stared at it.
‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers,’ said the parrot, making Sally jump out of her skin as she had thought it was stuffed. Everyone fell about laughing.
‘So what do we do about lunch?’ Margot looked around for answers, brightly expectant.
There was silence.
‘Have you got a pub?’ asked Sally eventually.
‘Yes – the White Horse,’ said Alexander.
‘No! We’re not going to the pub. That would mean getting dressed,’ protested Margot. ‘And putting a face on.’
‘Most people do get dressed in the daytime, Mum. Most normal people.’
‘Not if they’ve been up all night working.’
‘What I meant,’ said Sally, ‘was maybe we could go and buy some food from the pub. And bring it back here. I can cook it.’
Everyone turned to stare at her.
‘That,’ said Margot, ‘is ingenious. Alexander, drive Sally to the White Horse.’ She put her cigarette in her mouth and rummaged about in her purse, producing two pound notes. ‘There.’
She pressed the money into Sally’s hand and she caught a drift of what she imagined an opium den might smell like – dark and exotic.
Before Sally knew it, they were back in the E-type, whizzing through the lanes, until they arrived at the pub. The landlord greeted them cheerily.
‘I’ll be right with you when I’ve finished serving this lot.’
‘Have you seen my dad?’
‘Not today.’
‘Dad’s one of his best customers,’ Alexander told Sally. ‘He spends all his time either here or shooting things, or helping rich people shoot things.’
‘Doesn’t your mum mind?’
‘Anything that keeps him out of the house.’
‘Doesn’t he work?’
‘He doesn’t need to, with the books. Plus, he’s totally unemployable.’
‘Crikey.’
They explained their predicament to the landlord, who was obviously used to the Willoughby ways.
‘I’ve got roast beef, but it’s all in the oven already,’ he told them. ‘I could cut you off some slices, though. And you can take some spuds.’
They drove home, Sally carefully holding a foil-wrapped parcel of beef and a jug of thick brown gravy on her lap, a basket of potatoes and carrots at her feet. She’d managed to beg some milk, butter and eggs as well.
When they got back there was a large figure sitting at the table. A bear of a man, with wild dark hair and a scowl. Handsome once – and handsome now, probably, if he chose to shave and smile.
‘So you’re Sally,’ he said in a lilting Welsh growl. ‘Welcome to Hunter’s Moon.’ He held out a giant paw and she took it. He almost managed a smile. ‘I’m Dai.’
‘I’ve got him to take the gun out of the sink,’ said Margot. ‘I imagine you’ll need it for peeling the potatoes.’
She clearly had no intention of peeling any herself.
Dai cocked the rifle and looked down it, aiming it at one of the portraits on the wall.
‘Not in the house!’ said Margot.
The door flew open and a girl with the longest legs and the shortest dress Sally had ever seen glided into the room.
‘Phoebe,’ said Alexander. ‘This is Sally and she’s making us lunch.’
Phoebe stared at Sally from underneath an inky black fringe, her eyes smothered in kohl. She smiled and Sally could see she’d inherited the gap in her mother’s teeth. It gave her a slight lisp that made her sound like a little girl.
‘Are you the new housekeeper?’
‘No, she isn’t,’ said Alexander. ‘She’s an angel and you’re to be nice to her.’
‘Of course I’ll be nice. Are you a model?’
Sally laughed. ‘No!’
‘You
should be. You could be.’ Phoebe scrutinised her. ‘Don’t you all think?’
The Willoughbys all stared at her. Sally felt awkward and picked up the potatoes.
‘I’d better start these. Or we’ll never eat.’
Sally was surprised by the whole family’s appreciation when, within an hour, she had prepared roast potatoes, Yorkshire puddings and carrots. They sat around the kitchen table as reverentially as if she had prepared a medieval banquet complete with roast swan and suckling pigs.
‘None of us can cook,’ Annie told her.
‘It’s about the only thing I can do,’ said Sally.
‘That can’t be true,’ said Alexander.
‘You look like a very capable girl,’ said Margot.
Sally basked in their attention. Dai had opened a bottle of inky-purple wine, and just one glass of it made her feel woozy in the most delicious way. She felt cloaked in warmth and happiness. The Willoughbys were barking mad, all of them, but she loved being in their midst. It was like being at the theatre. Or the circus. You didn’t know what was going to happen next.
‘Beetle – we should take some photos of Sally in my new collection. Don’t you think? It would save carting all the dresses round with you.’
Alexander looked at her. ‘It’s a good idea. But buyers like to feel the fabric.’
‘Phoebe’s a dressmaker,’ Margot explained to Sally. ‘And Beetle’s trying to get her into all the shops.’
‘Designer,’ said Phoebe. ‘Well, designer and dressmaker and sweeper-upper. At the moment. Until we get a firm order from someone big.’
‘Wow,’ said Sally. ‘That must be very exciting.’
‘It’ll happen. Don’t you worry.’ Alexander speared another potato with his fork.
‘So Sally – do you work?’
Margot said it in a way that made Sally realise in her world, work could be optional. A world of wealthy fathers and wealthy husbands.
‘Well, I did. Until Friday. But I got the sack.’
‘I can’t imagine you being sacked. Where did you work? What did you do?’
‘I was a cocktail waitress. At the Kitten Club? I’m afraid one of the customers was expecting more than his drink served.’
The Forever House: A feel-good summer page-turner Page 6
