The Secrets of Happiness

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘So, er . . . Rachel said she had a few calls over the weekend,’ Becca said, as the two of them weeded companionably together. ‘Some of your friends wanting to come out gardening too.’

  ‘Ahh yes. I did pass on the number to a few of them. They were jealous, you see, that I’d got to do something fun. Bored silly, most of the time in there. Oh, the staff are kind enough, but they’re so busy that nobody ever does things with us.’ Rita rocked back on her heels. ‘They just park us in front of the television and bring us stewed tea on the hour. It’s not what I would call fun, to be honest.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Becca said. It wasn’t what she would call fun either. ‘The problem is, it’s my sister’s business, really,’ she went on, wishing there was more she could do. ‘I’m just care-taking while she’s out of action. And she’s all for press-ups, and feeling the burn – well, you met her, didn’t you? She’s old-school about exercise, so I’m not really sure what she can do to help. But let me talk to her, all right? Maybe we can come up with a plan between us.’

  ‘Thanks, darling,’ Rita said. ‘In the meantime, I’m going to make the most of you while you’re around. It’s heavenly being back here. I can’t tell you how much I’m enjoying myself.’

  ‘I can see why you like it,’ Becca replied, gazing around. Hours of work had gone into the allotment, you could tell. The rude good health of the plants, the rich brown soil that crumbled beneath her fingers, even the homely feel of the little shed with its kettle and folding chairs . . . it was enough to gladden anyone’s spirits. Everyone had their secret shortcuts to happiness, she had come to realize. For her, it was making something, using her hands, being creative. For her sister, it was exercise and the big outdoors. For Rita, it was clearly gardening that worked the magic: getting stuck into a vegetable plot or flower bed with a trowel, the sun on her face, tending her beloved plants.

  Becca thought back to the unkempt back garden she’d glimpsed at Michael’s bungalow when she’d been round to help him cook, and how it could do with even a tenth of the love and care that had been shown to this particular patch of ground. His shortcut to happiness had been through music, she remembered. A good old song to lift the spirits.

  ‘Have you got a nice garden at home?’ Rita asked just then. ‘I’ll take some cuttings for you, if you want.’

  ‘Well, I . . .’ Becca was about to decline regretfully, not having so much as a windowbox to call her own, when an idea struck her. ‘Actually,’ she said. ‘I don’t have a garden myself, but I know someone who could do with a splash or two of colour in theirs.’

  ‘No problem,’ Rita said. ‘Let’s see. What do you think they would like? Some lavender? These marigolds here? A nice little cosmos?’

  Becca wasn’t much of an expert, but felt pretty confident that just about any plant would make Michael’s garden look better. Maybe that would give him a boost too, as well as his trombone-playing. ‘Yes please – to anything,’ she said. ‘Thanks so much, Rita.’ Then another thought occurred to her. ‘Actually . . . He doesn’t live that far from here. If you’re not in a hurry to go straight back to the home, we could always drop in and see him when we’re done here. That way you could advise him on how to look after the plants, if that’s okay?’ Meddling again? she heard Rachel groan in her head, but shooed the voice away. Yeah, so she was meddling again. What of it?

  Rita smiled back at her. ‘I’m never in a hurry to go back to Willow Lodge,’ she replied. ‘Right, where did I leave that trowel? I’ll put a few pots together for him.’

  Becca hoped that Michael wouldn’t mind them popping by with a few flowers to get his garden going. He might not even be in, for all she knew. But as they walked up to his front door later on, a tray of small potted plants in her arms, she heard the mournful notes of a trombone, which answered her second concern at least. ‘Sounds like he’s at home,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Rita, looking thoughtful.

  Nothing could have prepared Becca for what happened next. When Michael opened the door, he said, ‘Hello again, love! This is a nice sur –’ but then his eyes fell on Rita, and he stopped dead. ‘Rita. Rita Blackwell. It’s not, is it?’

  ‘Michael Jones?’ Rita’s hand flew up to her chest. ‘Well, I never. Is it really you?’

  ‘You two know each other?’ Becca cried. Oh, but this was perfect!

  ‘Well, we used to,’ Michael said. He couldn’t take his eyes off Rita. ‘My goodness me. It must be thirty years or so. Our daughters were best friends for a while, weren’t they?’

  ‘Heavens, yes, they were thick as thieves! All the way through school. It was like having another daughter, the number of times your Shona would be at our tea table, and vice versa.’ She chuckled fondly. ‘Do you know, as soon as I heard that trombone through the open window there, it made me think of you. I nearly said, I used to know a trombonist – and then you opened the door . . .’

  ‘And then I opened the door,’ he echoed. His face split in an enormous smile, and his voice had gone extra-Welsh with the excitement. ‘Come in, anyway. How do you two know each other? Has Becca been teaching you to cook as well?’ He stopped himself. ‘What am I saying? You were always a smashing cook. I remember those birthday cakes you used to bake for Carol . . . Wait till I tell Shona I’ve seen you!’

  They had stepped into the narrow, dingy hall with its dismal bare bulb – Becca really must finish that lampshade and bring it round, she thought – and maybe Rita could detect the lack of womanly presence in the dusty air, because she asked uncertainly, ‘And . . . Christine, was it, your wife? How is she?’

  ‘She died,’ Michael said simply, as he led them through to the living room. ‘So there’s just me now, knocking about on my own. Take a seat, both of you, that’s it. How about . . .’ He scratched his head. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember his name. George, was he called?’

  ‘He died too,’ Rita said, lowering herself to the faded red velour sofa and sitting with her hands in her lap. ‘Seven years ago. Pneumonia, God rest his soul.’

  Becca was starting to feel like something of a gooseberry, perched awkwardly on the arm of the sofa, still holding the tray of plants. ‘It’s a small world,’ she said, when she could get a word in. ‘So Michael, you’re probably wondering what we’re doing here . . . I was just up at Rita’s allotment with her and she offered me some cuttings and I thought of you, and wondered if you might want them for your garden. I can give you a hand sometime, if you like, or . . .’

  ‘Or I will,’ Rita said at once. ‘I’m in a care home now, Michael, can you believe – Willow Lodge, on the other side of town – and I’m bored out of my tiny mind there. I’d love to help with your garden, if you can put up with having me bossing you around.’

  Michael looked positively delighted at the suggestion. ‘That would be wonderful,’ he declared.

  This had been a good idea, Becca thought with a smile. Two lovely people, both rather lonely in their own way, with their daughters and a few pot plants in common. Whether it was just as companions or something else, there was the potential for this meeting to blossom into a beautiful new friendship.

  ‘Tell you what,’ she said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on and make everyone a cup of tea. Michael, why don’t you show Rita the garden, and then we can get stuck in?’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  It was Lawrence’s turn to have the children that weekend and Rachel was rather amused to see that he was every inch the polite, courteous ex-husband as he arrived on time and whisked them away, Harvey bounding into the car boot to accompany them. (After weeks of enforced separation it would have taken a harder heart and a deadlier threat than some extra hoovering at Builth Wells for anyone to try and argue with Scarlet about that.) Becca headed for Birmingham soon afterwards, the two sisters surprising each other with a goodbye hug on the doorstep.

  Rachel had felt somewhat apprehensive about being left to her own devices for the whole weekend, but was determined to manage alone. She had an ear
ly night on Friday, then busied herself with housework on Saturday morning: laboriously and slowly stripping all the beds and putting the linen to wash, tidying Luke’s bedroom, and tackling the ironing. Then she sat down with all the bills that needed paying, a frown pinching her forehead as she totted up the ‘incoming’ figures on her spreadsheet. Despite Becca’s best attempts to keep the business ticking over, it was all looking pretty desperate, unfortunately. And then, once she was fully fit again at the end of July, it would be the summer holidays, and both time and money would be stretched even tighter. She was going to have to ask Lawrence to step up his game, she decided. Pay her more maintenance, for starters, and take the children for a whole week in August so that she could really go for it on the work front, maybe run some kind of holiday boot camp . . . She rubbed her eyes, feeling uncertain and not a little despairing. It was at times like this that she missed having a husband by her side – or anyone! – to say, We could try this, or Maybe this might work, or even a simple Don’t worry. We’ll be all right.

  The doorbell rang just then and she stiffened in her chair. It was two in the afternoon, too late for the postman, too soon for any returning members of her family. Jehovah’s Witnesses? One of her friends trying to ambush her with a surprise visit?

  She hesitated, wondering what to do. She still felt so awkward and self-conscious around other people, she was tempted to ignore whoever it was. Then the letterbox rattled. ‘It’s me!’ came a familiar voice. ‘Open up!’

  Becca? Rachel went to the door feeling confused, certain her sister had said she’d be back on Sunday. And yet there she was on the doorstep, looking shifty, rushing to get in an explanation before Rachel could speak. ‘Don’t be mad,’ she said. ‘But I thought we should all have a chat. I wasn’t sure you would ever get round to organizing it so . . . I did.’

  ‘What?’ Rachel asked, not following, but then the passenger door of Becca’s decrepit car opened and it all became clear. Because there was Wendy clambering out, a vision in a lime-green top and denim skirt, sunglasses pushed up in her hennaed hair. There was just the very faintest flash of nerves in her eyes as she tottered up the drive with a bunch of yellow roses.

  ‘Oh,’ said Rachel faintly. Becca, you didn’t, she wanted to say in exasperation at her meddling sister. But of course she had. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, love,’ Wendy said, and the two of them hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward to give each other a brief, polite peck on the cheek. ‘I hope you don’t mind us turning up like this. Becky assured me it would be fine, but we all know how some of her other impulsive ideas have turned out. That bubble perm three years ago, for starters. So . . . is this okay? We’ll bugger off again if you’ve got plans, obviously. Oh – and these are for you.’

  The roses dumped in her arms, expectant gazes mirrored in Becca’s and Wendy’s faces, it was impossible to refuse. ‘Of course,’ Rachel said, forcing a sickly smile. ‘Come on in.’

  ‘Ooh, I’d forgotten what a lovely house this is,’ Wendy said, taking off her sandals in the hall. ‘We’ve brought refreshments, by the way,’ she added, delving into the voluminous gold shoulder bag she was toting. ‘Vanilla ice cream and bananas.’ She passed a Tesco bag to Rachel. ‘I would have brought cake but Becky told me that eating was a bit tricky, so I thought I could whizz us all up some naughty smoothies instead.’ She pulled one last item from the bag – a bottle of rum – and winked. ‘What do you say?’

  Rachel had been about to offer tea, coffee, elderflower cordial, but she knew when she was beaten. ‘Lovely,’ she said instead, shooting Becca a look that said We’ll talk about this later. If she survived the afternoon, that was.

  It was a mild late-June day – white cloud and soft warm air – so once the first batch of naughty smoothies had been created, the three of them settled themselves around the patio table outside, Britishly making the most of the fact that it wasn’t actually raining. ‘What a smashing garden,’ Wendy said, sipping appreciatively, her blue eyes widening a fraction as the zing of rum hit her. ‘Cor, that’s got a kick. Shall we toss a coin for who drives home later on, Becky? I’m going to be plastered by the bottom of this glass if I’m not careful.’

  Becca started scoffing at her mum, calling her a lightweight (‘You’ve only had one sip, for goodness’ sake!’), but Rachel felt on edge with nerves. Wendy had never been one for pulling any punches or holding back, especially after a drink. She pushed her glass fractionally away, determined to keep her head clear for whatever turn this conversation might take.

  ‘Is that a hammock down there?’ Wendy was saying, squinting down the garden. ‘I’ve always wanted one of those. You’ve got it looking ever so nice here, Rachel.’ She elbowed her daughter. ‘See? This is how grown-ups live, Becky. Not in tiny shoebox flats with sex-pest neighbours and a bookie’s downstairs. Proper nice houses and gardens, with hammocks and shrub roses. When are you going to get on and live like that, eh?’

  ‘Oh Mum, don’t start,’ Becca said. ‘The sex pest moved out a year ago anyway, there’s a nice old lady there now. A nice old lady, by the way, who doesn’t go around making pointed remarks and trying to guilt-trip her own daughter about her so-called shortcomings. Just saying.’

  ‘She sounds like she’s kidding herself to me,’ Wendy sniffed, hitching up her skirt a little as the sun threatened to make an appearance. Then she turned to Rachel. ‘Tell me now, Rachel. I’ve been trying to get this one to sort her life out recently. Has she done anything about finding herself a nice man?’

  Becca groaned loudly, the look of indignation on her face so comical that Rachel couldn’t help a snigger. ‘Well, there is this one guy she seems quite keen on,’ she replied.

  ‘What? Who?’ said both Becca and Wendy at almost exactly the same time.

  ‘He’s Welsh, he plays the trombone and he’s learning to cook,’ Rachel said, unable to resist it.

  ‘Oh, shut up, you, I thought you were on my side,’ Becca said, sticking out her tongue.

  ‘Go on. Sounds good,’ Wendy urged. ‘I do like a Welshman, I have to say.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her, Mum, she’s winding me up. He’s in his seventies, I’ve just been helping him cook a few things,’ Becca said. ‘And before you say it, no, it’s not some creepy dad substitute, so don’t even bother going there, all right? Anyway, I’ve actually fixed him up with a new lady friend.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me this. When?’ Rachel asked. ‘And who’s the lucky lady?’ Honestly, her sister, what was she like? She just could not stop herself.

  Becca looked sheepish all of a sudden, though. ‘Er . . . Well, don’t get mad, but . . .’

  Oh no. Now what had she done? ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Rita. Rita Blackwell.’

  ‘Rita Blackwell, my client?’ Rachel shook her head in disbelief. ‘And how did this come about? Tell me not during her exercise session. Becca?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘After you promised me and everything?’ Her sister’s expression was so rueful and you-got-me that Rachel needed to hear no more. She put her head in her hands and shook with mirth, just at the sheer badness of her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Becca mumbled, shame-faced. ‘But they were so sweet together, Rach. So happy. I think it’s actually going to be a really cool summer romance for them, you know.’

  ‘I apologize for my daughter,’ Wendy said, although she was laughing too. ‘She is a dreadful one for poking her nose in. I can’t think where she gets it from.’

  Becca and Wendy looked at each other then, and it was such a teasing, affectionate sort of look that Rachel found herself experiencing a sudden twist of envy, a pang of longing. She wished she had somebody to be like that with, so easy and good-humoured. She sipped her smoothie and then found herself blurting out, ‘I hope when my girls are grown up, I get on with them like you two do.’ Her cheeks flamed as they both turned to her in surprise. God! How much rum was in that drink?

  ‘What a lovely thing to say,’ Wen
dy replied, putting a hand to her plump brown cleavage.

  ‘You do get on with them. You’re great with your kids,’ Becca told her.

  Rachel pulled a face. ‘Not all the time. And especially not with Mabel right now. Most days I feel like I’m getting it completely wrong.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, take it from me, every mum feels like that,’ Wendy said at once. ‘And you’ve got a teenager now as well – a teenage daughter.’ She gave Becca a meaningful look. ‘We all know how hellish they can be. The things your dad and I had to put up with, with Miss Lady here. You just have to grit your teeth and hope that they come out the other side and turn back into half-decent human beings. And she will.’ She patted Rachel’s hand, a look of understanding in her eyes. ‘In the meantime, there’s always a boozy smoothie to get you through.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ Rachel smiled at her stepmother as if seeing her for the first time. Maybe it was just the alcohol, but she felt almost as if the ice field between them was splintering, breaking apart after years of permafrost. ‘Wendy, I need to tell you something,’ she heard herself saying in the next moment and then rushed straight on before she could change her mind. ‘I found out the truth about Emily – my mum. A woman at the funeral said something weird, and I went digging. I . . .’ Her voice cracked. ‘She wasn’t exactly the mother I thought she was.’

  Wendy nodded, not seeming terribly surprised. ‘Becky mentioned you’d been up to Manchester when –’ she gestured at Rachel’s face. ‘When that happened. I wondered if you’d found something out.’ Reaching forward, she took Rachel’s hand in hers. ‘I’m sorry. That must have been a shock.’

  So she had known. ‘Yeah.’ And the rest. She risked a glance up at Wendy’s face, dreading seeing pity in the other woman’s eyes, but found only compassion. ‘I wish Dad had said something, you know. Told me himself. Why did he let me go on believing a lie?’