‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘Well, you’ll need some tools. A hoe, a rake, a spade . . .’ Sally was improvising madly. Her knowledge of gardening was sparse. ‘Will you do it? It might be a bit late to start for some things, but we can try.’
Dai looked around the wildness, his hands in his pockets.
‘I don’t see why not.’
She went to the ironmonger’s in Peasebrook and bought him everything he could possibly need – trowels and dibbers and gardening twine and a shiny wheelbarrow. She started saving all the vegetable peelings from the kitchen for a compost heap.
To her delight, Dai seemed to respond to her challenge. It was an enormous project and the work was quite back-breaking at times. He pulled out all the old vegetation and dug out the beds; repaired all the crumbling brickwork and replaced all the glass in the cold frames and the greenhouse.
They spent hours in the kitchen drinking tea and poring over seed catalogues, deciding which variety of green bean or tomato to try.
Margot was rather disparaging.
‘We can find a gardener if you want,’ she said. ‘I never imagined I’d end up married to Percy Thrower.’
Dai looked at her. ‘But I’m enjoying it.’
‘Wait till you taste our first potatoes,’ said Sally.
‘Our?’ said Margot, with a little more edge to her voice than was necessary.
For some reason, the garden captured Annie’s imagination too. Sally was pleased. She was still worried about how unhappy Annie said she was at school, and how much she fretted about her exams.
Annie and Dai spent hours together, digging and planting. It seemed to give both of them a rhythm and a purpose to their life. It was the first place Annie ran to when she came home at weekends, to see what seedlings had sprouted while she had been away. Sally was relieved.
Sometimes it wasn’t about revelry and partying and dressing up. Sometimes it was about the simple things.
One Sunday, Alexander took her up to Knapford to see her mum and brothers.
She cried when she saw them, of course. But she was happy to see her mum had a bit more life to her. She had lost the awful dark rings under her eyes, and she wasn’t smoking so much. Time. There was a lot to be said for it. It had been over two years now and the shop was doing well. They’d made a lot of changes and got a lot of new customers. Ray had been out hustling for business and he was good at it.
And it turned out that there had been an insurance policy they didn’t know her father had taken out. There had been some doubt over whether it would be paid out, but somehow the doctor had been involved and had managed to get a verdict of accidental death rather than suicide.
‘It’s not a fortune,’ her mum told her. ‘But it’s keeping the wolf from the door.’
There was a ceremonial rib of beef for lunch, and Alexander joined them, even though Sally said he didn’t have to; that he could come back later and get her. But he seemed happy to get his feet under her mum’s table and share a beer with Colin and Ray.
‘I didn’t know anyone could make better roast potatoes than Sally,’ he exclaimed as he scraped his plate clean.
Beverley glowed. Sally hid a smile. He knew how to charm her mother all right.
And her brothers seemed to like him, which was good. Ray and Colin could take scunners quite easily, and Sally was worried they would think he was a posh git, but they chatted away with him about football (she suspected Alexander was pretending to know more than he did).
After lunch she and her mum walked round to the churchyard to put a bunch of flowers on her dad’s grave.
‘Bloody silly sod,’ said her mother, which was an improvement. The last time Sally had gone with her, her mother hadn’t been able to speak for weeping.
‘Poor old dad.’
There was a pause. ‘I’ve been to the cinema with Artie from the King’s Head,’ said her mum.
Sally was astonished. This was the last thing she had expected. Beverley looked at her, unsure of her reaction.
‘Mum, that’s wonderful.’ She nodded. ‘Honestly. You deserve to have some fun.’
‘He’s an ugly bugger but he’s very kind.’
Sally laughed. ‘Looks mean nothing. Kindness is much more important.’
‘I like your young man.’ Her mum gave her a meaningful smile. ‘He’s very handsome.’
‘He’s not my young man, Mum,’ Sally said. ‘I just work for him.’
‘Mmmm,’ said her mother. ‘We’ll see.’
‘See what?’
‘We’ll see. That’s all.’
As they drove home, Sally felt her heart lighten. She was always so worried, that the shop would have to close, or that her mum would have a breakdown, and she’d felt so guilty about running away. But now she didn’t have to.
‘Thank you for taking me,’ she said to Alexander as they drove back up the drive.
He stopped the car and looked at her. His gaze was intense, and she felt a bit nonplussed.
‘I’d do anything for you, Sally. You know that. Anything.’
She thought he must feel sorry for her, after meeting her mum and seeing their predicament for himself.
‘Mum’s got a boyfriend,’ she grinned. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
Towards the end of May there was a heatwave and the swimming pool came into its own. The four of them spent hours on sunloungers, reading and listening to music and drinking home-made lemonade that Sally had made but Alexander insisted on lacing with vodka.
‘You’ll drown,’ chided Sally, and ended up watering down the vodka without Alexander knowing. She really was too sensible, she thought.
‘We need to start thinking about Mum’s birthday,’ said Phoebe. ‘It’s next month.’
‘We always have a party,’ Alexander told Sally.
‘Another one?’ They never seemed to need any excuse for carousing.
‘This is a proper one. With invitations. And dressing up. It goes on all night.’
‘Of course,’ said Sally. The Willoughbys couldn’t seem to discern between day and night. She sometimes found it exhausting.
‘Books,’ said Annie, who was re-reading Jane Eyre for the nth time for her English Lit exam. ‘We should have books as the theme this year. I can’t believe we’ve never done that before.’
‘Last year was the Wild West,’ said Phoebe. ‘But too many people came on horses. It got a bit out of hand.’
‘Books are pretty safe,’ said Annie. ‘Aren’t they?’
‘Books is brilliant,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ll do some invitations.’
‘Won’t it cost a lot?’ asked Sally, worrying about the bills.
‘Of course,’ said Phoebe. ‘But that doesn’t matter.’
Sally thought it probably did, but she couldn’t say anything. Discussing money really wasn’t her place.
They heard shrieks coming from the garden. They looked up to see Margot racing down to the pool, waving her arms and yelling excitedly. She stood on the edge of the pool, facing outwards.
‘I’ve finished it. I’ve bloody finished it!’ she announced to them as they stared at her from behind their sunglasses.
Then she held out her arms and fell into the pool with a shriek.
Alexander, Phoebe and Annie jumped off their loungers and threw themselves into the pool after her.
Sally laughed as she watched them all leap around, splashing each other and duck diving.
She wondered what sort of a mother it was best to be? A crazy, beautiful career woman like Margot, or like her mum, solid and unchanging, always in the kitchen with a pinny on?
Maybe it was possible to be a bit of both?
29
1967
A fortnight after she had finished her book, Margot went up to town to have a meeting with Niggle. He’d asked to see her and she felt excited. The book she had delivered was the last one in her contract so they would no doubt be discussing the future, the way forward for Margot Willo
ughby. There would be a lovely lunch and champagne, of that she had no doubt. With the advent of such gorgeous weather, the hard work done (she intended to give herself the summer off and start work on the next book in September) and the prospect of a new book deal, she felt in a better mood than she had done for weeks.
She’d even been into the bank to allay the bank manager’s fears with a clear conscience. He’d been frosty at first, but she had talked him round, and they were firm friends again by the time she’d left, and she’d promised his wife a signed copy of her new book. She felt much happier now she’d bought herself a bit of time. All those horrid letters that had been piling up could be forgotten about. They’d given her a burning feeling in her stomach every time she looked at them.
She was surprised to be shown into Niggle’s office and asked to sit down. Usually they would walk out together and go to the latest restaurant for buzz and gossip. Margot was dressed in a lilac shift dress with a matching coat in anticipation of admiring glances.
Niggle looked at her over his glasses.
‘I’m afraid Fanny isn’t happy with The Silver Brooch.’
‘What?’ Margot frowned. ‘Why on earth not?’
‘For lots of reasons. Mainly because she thinks it’s stale. Lacklustre.’
‘Well, I can do another draft. Put in some sparkle.’ Margot smiled at him brightly.
Niggle steepled his fingers. He looked grave. Niggle never looked grave.
‘It’s not just a question of sparkle. It’s more than that. The plot’s flimsy. There are no surprises. It’s predictable. I’m sorry, Margot. There’s not much point in me being euphemistic here, or trying to pretend it’s salvageable.’
‘Salvageable?’ She felt her chest go tight with panic.
‘It’s for the bin, I’m afraid.’
‘You don’t mean it!’
‘It’s not a decision Fanny has made lightly. It’s not in her interests for the book to go in the bin, because it means she will have a big gap in her Christmas publishing schedule. But there’s no point in trying to breathe new life into it. It’s a dead duck.’
Margot looked around his office as she tried to take in what he was saying. On the wall were framed copies of her book covers. Mingled in with other authors, yes, but there were more of hers than anyone’s.
She was the jewel in Niggle’s crown. A big, fat, sparkling diamond.
Her mind was racing. If the manuscript wasn’t accepted she wouldn’t get her delivery money. And if they didn’t publish it she wouldn’t get her publication payment . . . How much had the advance been? How much would she have to pay back if the book was refused because it was not up to standard? Well, she couldn’t, and that was that. Oh God, this wasn’t happening. Nothing like this had ever happened before. She was the golden goose. She was Fanny’s pet. What the hell were they going to live on if she didn’t get paid?
She’d already pinched some money out of Annie’s post office savings account to pay Sally, who needed cash. She was intending to pay it back, of course.
She tried to smile.
‘I think Fanny’s being a bit doom and gloom. I’ve noticed she’s been a bit hard on people lately. Get her to read it again. I could send her some ideas to titivate it.’
‘Margot.’ Niggle looked at her and shook his head.
She could barely ask the question.
‘Will I have to give the advance back?’
‘Not yet. Not if you can deliver something . . . publishable. As soon as possible.’
‘Publishable?’ Margot was indignant. How dare they question her? She had made thousands and thousands of readers happy with her books.
She had to get out. She would get hysterical if she didn’t get out of this office. She picked up her bag, stuffed her arms into the sleeves of her coat, pulled on her gloves . . .
‘Margot . . .’
The tears were coming. Tears of absolute rage and fury at the injustice.
‘I’m sorry. I have to go.’
She stumbled towards the door.
‘Margot – come and see me when you’ve thought things through so we can decide what to do.’
She pulled on the door handle. She couldn’t reply to him. She was too, too angry.
She ran through the streets. The implications of the revelation were too ghastly to contemplate. She thought of all the bills piling up. How had she cavalierly anticipated the arrival of her next payment wiping out all the debt? This was terrible. How many bills were there? And the bank? The house? What would happen? She couldn’t think about it. She stopped at a phone box. Terence would calm her. He would have some sage advice. She had got into the habit of phoning him, on the pretext of talking about work. He always sounded pleased to hear from her but would only indulge her for a few minutes before calling off.
‘Can you come and have a drink?’ she blurted out as Terence answered the phone. ‘I need you.’
His voice sounded amused. ‘Well, that’s quite a declaration.’
‘It’s not funny.’
‘What’s happened?’
She knew if she told him, he might dish out a few bon mots and tell her to get on with it. He was such a stoic. It was part of the attraction. He found her so . . . easy to resist. She was determined to work on him until he crumbled.
‘Come to the Beachcomber. At the May Fair Hotel. I’ll tell you there.’
‘Margot. I’m working.’
‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘This is a crisis.’
‘I can’t.’ He would not be moved. ‘Come to my house tomorrow morning. I’m taking you out for the day. Wear something warm. The forecast is terrible. And sensible shoes.’
Sensible shoes? She didn’t have any sensible shoes. She heard him hang up. She threw the receiver back into the cradle and put her head in her arms, swallowed up with fury and despair.
She arrived at his house in Bloomsbury at nine thirty the next day. The weather had indeed turned. The glorious sunshine had been replaced by a gloomy sky that suited her mood. She had followed his instructions to the best of her sartorial ability: jeans and her lowest heels and a mac, because it looked as if it might rain any moment, and a headscarf and sunglasses. All eventualities covered.
He came out of his house with a picnic basket and led her to his Triumph Herald. She got in without question. She found it quietly thrilling, the way he took charge without saying much. It was such a relief for someone else to be driving things for once.
He was infuriatingly blasé about her bombshell when she told him about her meeting with Niggle.
‘It’s a blip. You’ve done it before so you can do it again. Your ability to write doesn’t just disappear. I’m afraid it’s just a question of knuckling down.’
‘You don’t understand!’
‘Of course I bloody do.’ He scowled. ‘Stop whining and get on with it.’
‘You’re a bully.’
‘You wanted my advice, didn’t you? You know I wasn’t going to stroke your arm and say there, there. Or tell you they were wrong and that your book is a work of genius. I’m a realist. A pragmatist. Don’t come to me for platitudes.’
Margot looked at him. How had she ever thought he would be the person to turn to? He was giving her no comfort at all.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Wait and see.’ He stared at the road ahead, not giving her an inch. It was too late to ask him to turn back. He would be even more cross. Margot huddled herself into her mac and leaned her head back. She would go to sleep. She was exhausted by it all, and talking to him was just making it worse.
She woke some time later and opened her eyes. They were parked up in front of a wide beach, covered in shingle. He led her to a ramshackle hut, the last in a row. He opened it with a key kept hidden under a large grey stone. Inside there was just enough room for a small table and a chair.
‘This is my hideaway,’ he told her. ‘This is where I come when I need to clear my head. No distractions. No one to disturb me. Just
me and my typewriter.’
Margot looked around. It wasn’t the prettiest of beaches. The shingle was grey and cold to the touch. The sea and the sky matched it. Birds soared overhead, crying piteously.
‘Where exactly are we?’
‘Greystone Beach. On the Sussex coast.’
She looked out across the water and shivered. ‘Very aptly named.’
What was he doing, dragging her here? She wanted to be with him in the Beachcomber, drinking cocktails. This was awful. Margot knew she was supposed to be charmed, but she wasn’t.
They sat on a rug in front of the hut. Terence had made egg sandwiches and buttered some fruit cake. The salty breeze whipped around them as they ate.
‘It’s never warm here, even in the height of summer. But there’s something bracing about it. Something that clears the mind and helps you focus. So if you want to lock yourself away here for a while, you can. Spend a couple of weeks away from your family and just get it done. Any time. The key’s under the stone.’
She knew he was trying to help but she felt ungrateful.
‘I’m never going to write another word again.’
Terence looked at her. ‘Do you know what, Margot? Sometimes I think you just need to grow up. Or you might be in danger of losing everything.’
She dug her fingers into the stones. They were icy cold.
‘There’s something else,’ she said.
‘Let me guess,’ he replied. ‘You want to borrow some money?’
30
The deadline for sealed bids for Hunter’s Moon was midday on Friday, two weeks after the open house. Belinda was going to take all the bids over to Hunter’s Moon to discuss the contenders with Sally and Alexander. Sealed bids were a balancing act. The best offer wasn’t necessarily the highest. Besides, a sealed bid wasn’t legally binding, so the buyer could still pull out at any point before contracts were exchanged, if something wasn’t to their liking or if their circumstances changed.
The Forever House: A feel-good summer page-turner Page 22
