‘An old lady?’ Tess had said, amused. Three years ago, the week after Stephanie’s wedding, her father Frank had sold his GP practice and her parents had retired to the coast. Tess had thought they were mad, moving away from home. Still did, especially now she was on the eve of going back there. ‘I still don’t understand why you moved. I mean, the new house is great, but—Langford’s Langford! It’s beautiful.’
‘Of course it is,’ her mother said soothingly. ‘But we wanted a bungalow. Somewhere easy to manage. We wanted to have some fresh air, be by the sea. Take the dogs for walks in peace, and put in double glazing and a satellite dish if we want it.’ She sighed. ‘I was just sick of feeling like a tourist in my own home. Langford’s full of second-home owners and day trippers and tea shops. Sit at the table where Jane Austen sat, and all of that. Trust me, I know,’ she had added, mysteriously. ‘It’s wonderful, Tess dear, but—don’t get sucked into all that heritagey stuff. You’re still young.’
‘Oh, Mum, calm down!’ Tess had told her, slightly indignant. Was it not she who had danced on a bar in Vauxhall the previous week, and done three tequila shots in a row before snogging the barman? ‘I’m thirty. I’m in the prime of my life. I’m not an old lady.’
That afternoon, in the sweet little shop next to the Tourist Centre at the far end of the high street, Tess had bought a tea towel with a map of Langford on it. It was really nice, and she needed some more tea towels; Easter Cottage was lovely but it had virtually nothing in it. But it had cost her six pounds, and she was starting to see her mother’s point. She was pretty broke, and she was lucky to have got this job.
Summer term at the College would be beginning soon; Easter was early that year. It seemed impossible that three months ago she’d been living with Meena in Balham, in the depths of despair, dumped by Will and sacked by work (well, rather smoothly told her job was being ‘folded into’ her boss’s). Added to which, the week before Christmas, a boy who looked about ten had mugged her and taken her purse, just outside Stockwell tube. That had been the final straw.
Well over a month had passed now since she’d found Easter Cottage and she was still without a flatmate. Tess was starting to realize how foolhardy she’d been. People didn’t turn up somewhere like Langford looking for a place to rent. They were either retired, or young married couples, or weekend-home owners. Not like Tess, that’s for sure.
There was Adam. But Adam still lived in the cottage he’d grown up in. He couldn’t afford to rent somewhere else. There was Suggs, Adam’s best mate, but Suggs smelt of stew, and only had one pair of socks, and besides, he lived with Adam. She didn’t really know anyone else. Perhaps she would, soon. Apart from anything else, it was such a lovely cottage. She could be so happy here, she knew it.
Tess sighed, and looked around the sitting room and the tiny galley kitchen. She had tried to make it a cheering sight. Her mugs, gaily hanging on their little white hooks; the old fireplace, which she’d filled with a jug of daffodils; and the framed poster of the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius in Rome hung above the sofa, which was festooned with bright, pretty cushions. It was a cold spring, and she was enjoying the cool nights, enjoying nesting in her small, sweet new home. Usually, she liked it when night came and she could draw the curtains and settle down on the sofa.
But tonight, the fog of gloom that she’d been trying to shake off all day seemed to settle firmly over her head. Tess shook herself. It was the countdown to starting her new job; she just had to tell herself that after Fair View Community College it’d be a walk in the park, teaching middle-aged people about Augustus and gladiators and the Senate. So why was she so nervous? There was an alarm bell sounding somewhere, a note of disquiet, and so she did what she always did in these situations, which was to enumerate her worries out loud to something, an inanimate object. In her flat in Balham, this had been the photo of Kanye West on the kitchen wall (Meena was obsessed with him and knew all the words to ‘Gold Digger’).
Now she looked around for something similar. But Mrs Dawlish, Miss Store’s old friend from whom Tess had rented Easter Cottage, was clearly not a fan of Late Registration. Marcus Aurelius was not suitable—the horse would get in the way. There was an old map of—shire on the wall, printed on oldeworlde textured parchment-style paper, and next to it a print of Jane Austen, the well-known watercolour by her sister Cassandra. It was a pretty shocking print, JA’s colouring resembling that of someone afflicted by a rough bout of seasickness and jaundice combined, but it was considerably better than nothing. Tess nodded.
‘Right,’ she said aloud. ‘Let’s go through it, one by one. OK?’
There was a silence. She felt stupid, her voice echoing loudly in the small room. ‘OK,’ she made Jane Austen say, though she didn’t really think it was the kind of thing Jane Austen would actually say, and she made a mental note to look up the word ‘OK’ to see whether there was any record of its usage in early nineteenth-century Hampshire.
‘I’m worried about my new job,’ she said in a small voice, crossing her legs underneath her on the sofa. When she said it out loud, it sounded—what? Silly? Or even more terrifying than she’d thought?
‘And why is that?’ she heard Jane Austen say.
‘Erm…’ Tess screwed up her eyes and stared at the picture, to try and see that small, pursed mouth moving. ‘Well…I’m worried that, even though it’s supposed to be less of a challenge than my old job, the people are going to be more difficult.’
‘What do you mean?’ Jane Austen asked, sounding a bit like Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins, Tess realized.
‘Well, I’ve got more to lose,’ Tess admitted. ‘I grew up here.’
‘True,’ Jane Austen said, ‘but I’d have thought teaching Classical Civilization in a failing comprehensive in South London and getting some teenagers who don’t care about anything to even remotely be interested in the Roman Empire is worth much more than impressing Mrs Flibberty-Jibbit of Langford, wouldn’t you?’
Tess paused. Then she said, ‘Good point, there, Jane. Do you mind me calling you Jane?’
‘I do, rather. I prefer Miss Austen. Next?’
‘Well, I’m worried about money.’
‘Aren’t we all, dearie,’ said Jane Austen. Tess realized she was now making her sound like someone from a Carry On film. ‘Proceed, my dear Tess,’ she amended.
‘I need a flatmate, otherwise I’m screwed,’ she said. ‘I’m really stupid.’
‘Yes, that is rather naive of you, committing to this house without a companion to share the rent,’ said Jane Austen. ‘Did you place an advertisement outside the inn?’
‘Yes,’ said Tess.
‘Well, why don’t you go down the pub tonight and ask Mick if anyone’s interested?’ That wasn’t quite right. ‘Mayhap you should repair to the inn and enquire as to the results of yon advertisement placement.’
‘I was in there yesterday…and the day before,’ Tess said sadly. ‘He’s going to think I’m stalking him.’
‘Ask Adam to meet you there, then,’ said Jane Austen, rather impatiently.
Tess sighed. ‘I texted him. He said he’s busy tonight.’ She cupped her chin in her hands and said gloomily, ‘He wouldn’t tell me what he was doing, either. I think he’s bored of me. Already. He’s my only blimming friend here and he’s trying to ditch me.’
She breathed out heavily, making a sound like a car engine winding down.
‘Well,’ said Jane Austen reasonably, ‘it sounds to me as if you are in need of some new acquaintance. After all, you left London for a fresh start. Think of what Will would think if he saw you, sitting all miserably by yourself here, moping around?’
That was it.
‘You’re bloody right,’ Tess said aloud, as she stood up. ‘Honestly, Tessa Tennant. What’s wrong with you? Get a grip! You’re out of London, you’re back here in this lovely town. No more tube strikes, no more congestion charge.’ She took a deep breath. ‘No more waiting ten sodding minutes to be served at
the pub, no more strange men staring at you on horrible bendy buses, no more skinny teenagers staring at you in TopShop, and definitely no more horrible boyfriends going off with girls with stupid names!’ She thumped her fist on the wall; it echoed, disconcertingly. ‘You’re back! It’s good! You’ve got a bloody good job and you’re lucky!’
Somewhere in the eaves of the old building, a bird trilled, an early evening call. ‘There you go,’ Tess told herself firmly. She stared at the picture again, and it stared impassively back. ‘Now, go to the pub, get a drink, and cheer up.’ She shut the window and dumped her now-cold cup of tea on the kitchen draining board.
‘Thanks, Jane!’ she yelled, as she headed towards the door. ‘I’m off to the pub! See you later!’
She collected herself. ‘I’m going mad,’ she said softly, shaking her head at the print, which hung by the front door. ‘Sorry.’
CHAPTER FOUR
The Feathers had been in Langford for four hundred years. In its day, it had been one of the great coaching inns, the resting place for the beau monde on their way down towards the great estates of the South-West. Charles I had hidden in a cellar there for a couple of weeks, and Beau Brummell had stayed the night before visiting the Roman Villa and signed the visitors’ book. ‘Passing comfortable,’ he had written. ‘A charming little town, Langford. I pay you my compliments. Brummell.’ Langford, which had always thought of itself as a deeply correct place, and regarded with suspicion the new claims of towns like Bath (vulgar nouveau Regency), Stratford-upon-Avon (American tourists everywhere) and Rye (smugglers’ money!) had col lectively swooned at this, back in the day. In fact, nearly two hundred years later, it still continued to swoon; the visitors’ book was in the great hallway that led through to the dining room; in a glass case, open at the page on which Mr Brummell had flirted with the town. The Feathers was, geographically and symbolically, at Langford’s very heart for this reason.
The dining room had huge wooden settles, carving it up into different sections, so that coachman and nobleman could eat in the same room, but not be troubled by the other. A huge, leaded oriel window, giving out onto the high street, let in the light, and at the back there was another window, with a perfect view of the countryside as the town sloped down the hill, stopping before the valley, with the Vale of Langford opening up before them.
Tess, coming into the dining room on that March evening, armed only with a copy of Persepolis, which she was re-reading, and the paper, was struck once again with the sensation that hit her: the clear, seductive light, the musty, clean smell, the quiet reassuring sounds of a working pub on a slow Wednesday spring night. The bar, a long L-shaped affair, was low and welcoming. Tess pulled up a stool, waiting for Mick to appear, her eyes scanning the blackboard for the day’s specials: she was suddenly very hungry.
And then, from the corner of the bar behind her, someone spoke.
‘Scuse me,’ said a husky, female voice. ‘Can I take this stool?’
Wheeling round, Tess looked up suspiciously to find a girl about her own age looking at her. Of course. It was That Girl. That Girl, as she had wittily christened her in her own mind, was staying at the Feathers, and was the sort of person, based solely on outward appearances, that Tess had always secretly yearned to be. Sophisticated, mysterious, effortlessly glamorous; Tess had seen a Mulberry handbag swinging from her arm as they’d passed in the street a couple of days ago. Tess had been pinning up her advert, wrestling with a rusty pin and a hard wooden board; That Girl had sashayed past, smiling pleasantly at her. That Girl’s long, glossy hair was—well, toffee-coloured, that was the only word for it. Her clothes just sort of hung off her, like they were meant to. She definitely wasn’t a local, That Girl.
‘Er,’ said Tess, pushing the stool next to her away from her, swiftly, feeling like a spotty teenage boy. ‘Here, of course…Yes.’
That Girl pushed her hair away from her eyes, behind her shoulders. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m Francesca.’ She smiled, briefly, and held out her hand. ‘I saw you yesterday, didn’t I? Are you staying here as well?’
‘Um, no,’ said Tess, sitting upright. She wasn’t dwarfishly short, but she was self-conscious about her height, and girls like Francesca made her feel peasant-like, a pear-shaped lard-arse. She smiled and tried to flick her hair out behind her back too, but her thick dark locks were too short and unwieldy. They swung back in her face like bouncing wire wool, so instead Tess shook her head, nonchalantly, trying to pass this off as a normal cool hair-move, and said, ‘I live here, actually. Just moved back from London.’ She felt this was necessary, she didn’t know why. ‘How about you? Are you on holiday?’
Francesca stroked a corner of the small blackboard with her long creamy fingers; the chalk smeared into swirls. ‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘I’m just staying here for a while. I’m from London too.’ She looked down, and was silent.
‘Oh,’ said Tess, not sure what to say next. ‘Well.’ She cast a glance around the almost empty pub. ‘It’s a great town, anyway.’
‘Yes,’ said Francesca, more eagerly. ‘I love it here. Everyone seems really nice. So you—you’re from here, then?’
‘Sort of,’ Tess told her. ‘I grew up here. But I’ve been in London for the last ten years. I’ve just moved back to Langford. I got a new job.’
The words on her lips still sounded so strange, foreign. She would have to get used to them. She didn’t know what else to add to this but her companion said,
‘Wow. So you’ve been back a few weeks, right?’ Tess nodded. ‘That must be great.’ Tess nodded again, slowly. Francesca pushed the blackboard away, and cupped her chin in her hands. ‘But it must be weird too, I bet. Coming back here—are you on your own?’
She said it in a friendly tone, in the spirit of polite enquiry; at least, Tess chose to take it that way.
‘I’m not on my own—I mean, er, I am on my own, yep,’ Tess said nonchalantly. She pushed the ball of her palm firmly over her forehead. ‘I had a bit of a crap time, last few months.’ She hesistated, debating as to how much detail was necessary. ‘And I was unemployed, too. So—I saw this job advertised and I applied and I got it—that’s how I decided to move back. Plus, you know, it was time to leave London,’ she said, getting into her stride. ‘I wanted to live in a proper community again. Escape from the town, shop in local shops, walk everywhere…just be with people who I—you know.’
Francesca was nodding politely. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘That’s so cool of you. Let’s hope they don’t build that out-of-town shopping centre, then!’
‘Oh. Well, exactly,’ said Tess. ‘I know. So—why are you here?’ she blurted, curiously.
‘Oh, I’m just meeting someone for a drink,’ Francesca said. ‘Just someone I met.’ She shook her head. ‘Sorry, you didn’t mean that, did you.’
Tess smiled. ‘I don’t want to be nosy.’
‘God, no,’ said Francesca. ‘The weird thing is, it’s the same reasons as you.’ She gave a little smile. ‘I’m here to escape from London too. Except I was never here in my life before, and I have no idea why I’m here.’ Her eyes met Tess’s; Tess saw something in them, something vulnerable, and she suddenly liked her, this stranger. ‘I’m a lawyer. Well, I trained as a lawyer, but most recently I’m a banker.’ She made a slicing motion across her throat. ‘An unemployed banker. Doesn’t get much more tragic than that.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I was heading for a burnout anyway,’ said Francesca. ‘Seriously, if I hadn’t been given the heave-ho I’d have done something stupid. It’s the best thing to happen to me in years. That’s the weird bit.’
‘Why? What happened?’ Tess said.
‘Can’t remember, really,’ Francesca said frankly. ‘Last few months are a bit of a blur. I was working twenty-hour days. For about two months. Then I went to a wedding, someone at work, and after a drink apparently told one of the partners to fuck themselves. Then I tried to kiss another one. Then…well, the first roun
d of redundancies was before Christmas, and I knew I’d be the first to go, so they didn’t have to pay me a bonus.’ She said it as though reciting a lesson. ‘I got a few months’ redundancy pay. My flatmate’s just moved in with his girlfriend, so I rented out my flat and…I’m here.’
Tess could only gape as the barman appeared. ‘Hi, Mick!’ said Francesca. ‘Get me a gin and tonic, would you?’ She waggled a finger at Tess and looked at her watch. ‘My drink date isn’t here yet. What do you want?’ She stopped. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t even know your name.’
‘It’s Tess,’ Tess said, and they shook hands again, smiling at the formality of it.
‘God,’ came a voice from the door behind them. ‘Francesca, can you ever—Oh. Tess?’ The deep voice stopped. ‘Is that you?’
Tess whirled round. ‘Adam? I thought you were—’
There, striding towards them, was her oldest friend, a look of bemusement across his face. His thick light brown hair was standing up in tufts, as it did when he was in a hurry, or confused, and his eyes were questioning. He smiled as he reached them, and she nodded, behind Francesca, smiling back at him. Of course…of course.
‘This is a nice surprise!’ he said, squeezing her arm, just a little too hard.
‘Yes, isn’t it,’ she answered, taking his hand in hers and scratching his palm with her middle fingernail. He jumped in surprise.
‘I thought I—’
‘You said you were busy tonight,’ Tess said, unnecessarily loudly. ‘How lovely to see you. I just came in to check up with Mick about my ad.’
‘Ah, of course,’ said Adam. ‘Well, lovely to see you, Tess.’ Francesca was looking at them, confusion spreading over her lovely face. ‘Yes, I am busy tonight, as you can see.’
‘Yes,’ said Tess, trying to think of some appropriate comeback, but she had missed her chance for Adam leaned forward, towards That Girl again.
‘I really am sorry for being late,’ he said, smiling at her. Francesca looked up at him, her cheeks flushed, hair falling in her face, her composure momentarily disturbed.
I Remember You Page 4
