by Beth Morrey
Down in the kitchen I set about making tea, then remembered there was no milk. Seeing me hesitate, Melanie reached into her bag and pulled out a carton. I took it from her, feeling resentful. While the three of them talked about the lovely weather we were having, I made up a pot, put everything on a tray and carried it through to the living room. Sylvie cast a quick glance at the bare walls as she went in, but said nothing.
‘Tea, anyone?’ A perfect hostess, in my elegant day dress, I poured us each a cup and settled back on the sofa, steeling myself for a lecture. Once they were gone I would call another estate agent – best to get a variety of estimates before we fixed on a price. I raised my eyebrows at Melanie, but for once she seemed at a loss.
Instead it was Sylvie who put her cup down, got up and walked towards the fireplace to look up at the portrait of my father.
‘William Jameson,’ she said, patting the frame. ‘I’ve been reading about him. You didn’t tell me he was a war hero.’
The teacup trembled at my lips. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted anyone to make a fuss,’ I said, and took a sip to steady myself, burning my tongue.
‘He rescued twenty-three British and American soldiers from a Ukrainian barn. They all escaped, but he was shot by a Russian guard. The war was already over. He could have gone home. But he stayed.’
‘He hung on,’ I whispered.
‘And your mother, Helena Jameson. She ran self-defence and driving classes for women – secretly, so their husbands couldn’t find out. She taught hundreds of women to drive and defend themselves. She never took payment. All those women, safer and more independent because of her. She was a hero too.’
‘What’s your point?’ The tears were threatening but I swallowed them down with the boiling tea.
Angela took my cup from my hands and held them in her own.
‘Her point is that they helped people. People help other people. You’ve helped me. Now we want to help you.’
‘No one can help me.’ I didn’t see why anyone would want to. I wasn’t a war hero like William Jameson. Or an activist like Helena Jameson. I was just Missy Carmichael.
‘Wrong,’ said Sylvie, slapping her hand on the mantelpiece. ‘I have an idea, and as you know, my ideas are always excellent.’
‘It’s too late. You don’t know the mess I’m in.’
‘Au contraire. I know exactly what kind of a mess you’re in, and I know how to get you out of it.’
Melanie, sitting in her father’s chair, intervened. ‘I told them everything, Mum.’
I glared at her. ‘We’ve been through this before. I’m not moving to some dreadful bungalow in Cottenham, playing bridge with old biddies and getting bussed to the seaside.’
‘Dear me, no,’ said Sylvie heartily. ‘Melanie, I must say that was a terrible plan. Mine is much better.’
‘Dad’s care home costs are huge,’ explained Melanie. ‘Ali and I are happy to contribute, if she’d let us, but even with that …’
Even with that, we couldn’t afford it. I’d done the sums when I started getting the letters from our bank, and knew we wouldn’t be able to manage for much longer.
‘I don’t want to move him,’ I muttered. ‘He’s happy there. In a way.’
‘You won’t have to move him,’ said Sylvie. ‘He can stay right where he is. And so can you.’
I raked a hand through my shorn hair and heard the dress rip under my armpit. ‘How?’
Sylvie smiled. ‘It all starts with the attics,’ she said.
I’d always thought of my house as an asset, but only in the sense that it could be sold, and thus its riches would be realized. Sylvie saw something else. All those rooms, all that space. All that potential to make money in a different way.
‘We’re going to renovate your attics,’ she announced. ‘I have all the contacts, the labourers, the decorators. I’ll design it all. We’ll put a little en suite in, and then you can rent it out, and use the money to pay for Leo’s care.’
‘But who’s going to live in it?’ I asked.
‘I am,’ said Angela. ‘Me and Otis, we’re moving in. I’m sick of my landlord. I’d much rather pay you rent. Plus I’ll have a live-in babysitter on hand, Otis will have a constant supply of biscuits and best of all …’ she tailed off and looked at me from under her lashes.
‘Best of all, what?’
She grinned. ‘We can get a dog.’
All at once I felt a quiver in my heart, and caught my breath, transfixed. ‘A dog? Of my own?’
Sylvie butted in. ‘And there’s your spare room too. We can spruce it up a bit, you can get a student in there. More money. More company.’
‘But, how will I pay for all that? I haven’t got the money to renovate a loft, or redecorate, or add bathrooms or … anything. There’s nothing left.’ I slumped in my seat, deflated once again. For a moment I’d had a sliver of hope.
‘You will pay for it all. For now, Denzil is going to give you a loan. No, wait!’ She held up a finger as my mouth fell open to protest. ‘A loan. He can afford it, and besides, you’re going to pay him back. We’re going to sell things. All the stuff in the attic, for starters. And Leo’s books. They’re worth thousands.’
‘Leo’s books? But …’
‘But nothing. The money will do him much more good than the library. Phillip Kingston is a second-hand book dealer, he’s got a shop on Charing Cross Road and he’s going to get you a good price on all of them. They’re worth a fortune. Simon Charles is a builder, and his wife Maddie is a plumber. They’re waiting to measure up the space, see what they can do. We’re all ready.’
‘They’re waiting …?’
‘They’re all outside, in your garden. Go and look.’
I stood up and walked out, through the hallway, into the kitchen and to the back door. Opening it, I saw a crowd of people and dogs on my lawn next to Bobby’s cypress – Denzil with Badger and Barker, Phillip and Dexter, Simon and Maddie with Tiggy and little Timothy, Octavia, Hanna, and Otis with Decca and Nancy, all standing and chatting in the sunshine. Seeing me there in the doorway, they all waved and cheered. My heart swelled again and I put my hand over my mouth. Here was my Gordian knot, nonchalantly untied, released, destroyed, in a single stroke, by the people I loved, who loved me. They didn’t say it; they didn’t have to, because it shone in everything they did.
‘See?’ said Sylvie in my ear. ‘It’s a pretty good plan, isn’t it? What do you think? Can they come in?’
She, Angela and Melanie were all looking at me expectantly, waiting for a response. But I couldn’t speak, I could only look. Their faces, alight with excitement and affection, bubbling over with their ideas and schemes. I gazed out at all my friends in my garden, ready to devote their skills and their time to me. Help was on my doorstep, and all I had to do was let them in.
‘I think,’ I said finally, turning to smile at Mel and cupping her cheek in my hand as I slowly found my voice, ‘that we’re going to need a lot more milk …’
Chapter 49
‘So the whole top floor has been transformed, you wouldn’t believe the difference. Just washing the windows changed everything – they were absolutely filthy. But now they’re gleaming and the place is so much brighter. We’ve made one side into bedrooms for Angela and Otis – they’ve got one each now, though of course Otis’s is quite small. And then the other side is a little sitting room and bathroom. It all looks simply lovely, Sylvie is so clever.’
I finished arranging Leo’s flowers – honeysuckle from the garden – and stood back to admire them in their vase. He was sitting in his chair looking out as usual, one finger twitching to the Prelude that was playing. I knew he could hear me though, because sometimes when I stopped talking he would grab my arm and make a kind of rolling gesture with his hand as if to say ‘carry on’. So I did.
‘And downstairs we’ve re-painted the spare room and Maddie put a new sink in, so it’s all ready for the young man, Aleksander, to move in. I was hoping Hanna would want th
e room, but she just moved into a new place with her boyfriend. Aleksander is a friend of hers, he’s studying at the Royal Academy of Music and plays the cello. I must say, it will be quite helpful to have a man about the house again, though of course he’s only twenty. We were worried he’d be practising day and night but she says he does all that at the college and just wants somewhere to sleep and eat. Maybe he’ll play for us in the evenings though, that might be nice.’
After giving him his drink, I stacked Leo’s books on the table next to him, and opened a window to let some fresh air in. It was still warm and there were a few hours of daylight left. Smoothing back his unruly hair, I kissed his forehead, and picked up a card that had fallen on the floor, adding it to one of his rows. Then I sat on his bed and, since it was a kind of bedtime, began to tell him a story.
‘Apollo was a handsome god, used to getting his own way.’
The breeze shifted outside, as though the gods were on my side, urging me on.
‘Eleni was a beautiful young girl, but very shy, and one day she was walking in the forest when she bumped into Apollo, who was hunting there. He’d missed everything so far that day, but he took one look at Eleni and decided to make her fall in love with him. He pierced her with one of his arrows and she was instantly smitten, following him round and offering him gifts. But eventually Apollo had to move on, leaving Eleni alone. Devastated by the loss of her love, Eleni became mute and from then on was unable to speak a word.’
I wiped away a rogue tear that threatened to fall and continued. ‘When she was hungry, she couldn’t ask for food. When she was thirsty, she couldn’t ask for water. When she was lonely, she couldn’t ask for company.’
Leo lay back, his hands stilled. ‘Eleni roamed the forest, getting thinner, thirstier and more miserable. Until one day she met a dog called Skyla. Skyla was a good and loyal hound, and she joined Eleni as she walked through the forest. When Eleni was hungry, Skyla would bark at the farmers until they gave her food. When she was thirsty, Skyla would lead her to a stream so she could drink. When she was lonely, Skyla would curl up with her in the moonlight to sleep. Gradually, Eleni grew stronger. She and Skyla became inseparable. But Apollo’s sister Artemis, watching from above, was jealous. She sent an arrow down to Earth and it killed Skyla instantly. Skyla died in Eleni’s arms. But as she wept over the dog’s body, her voice returned. Another passing goddess, Achelois, heard her cries and stopped to listen.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Incensed by Artemis’ cruelty, Achelois turned Skyla into a constellation, and if you look into the sky at night, you can see the Dog Star up there, even now …’
At last, Leo’s eyelids began to droop and his breathing settled into a regular rhythm, so I allowed my voice to lower until it was just a hum in the cosmos. Darling Leo, whose arrow still pierced my heart, a wound I would always live with. And Bobby, my guiding star. Both of them whispering my heart’s song as they always would.
For a while, I sat there watching him sleep and listening to the great oak outside, leaves sighing in the breeze. I imagined, one day, Leo’s spirit might weave its way to join the whispering force, soaring up into the heavens, free at last. Before the tears came, I let myself out and headed back down the corridor, waving to Rachel and walking out into the balmy summer evening.
Rooting in my bag, I fished out the postcard that had arrived that morning. Sylvie was still looking after her mother in the South of France, though the operation had been successful. She’d invited me to go and stay with them for a week and I thought that after we’d got Aleksander settled, a trip to Provence might be just the kind of adventure I needed. Thinking of French bread and cheese, my stomach rumbled and I remembered Angela had said she would try to make a Sunday roast tonight. It was good of her, though the kitchen always looked like a bombsite after she’d finished.
We hadn’t got round to getting our dog, though Angela regularly trawled rescue home websites and showed me pictures of ones she liked the look of. In the interim, we had acquired a cat, Angela bringing him home one night just after they’d moved in. A family nearby were moving up north, and couldn’t take him with them. An enormous ginger tom with wild yellow eyes and a nick in one ear that told a tale, he was called Sourpuss, and lived up to his name – aloof, unfriendly, and occasionally vicious. We were all devoted to him. I still wanted my dog, all the same. We weren’t sure how Sourpuss would react to an interloper, but they’d just have to learn to get along.
I walked up the path to my house – our house – and stopped for a second to gather myself. ‘Move on,’ Leo had written in his letter. ‘Let go.’ Luó – to untie, release. I was getting there.
‘Hello, I’m home!’
As I opened the front door, I could hear Otis making engine noises, just like Alistair used to. Little boys are all the same. Hanging up my coat, I threw my keys on the hall table and went to see what they were up to. I found them in the living room; my rug had been rolled up and shoved to one side, and they were both on their hands and knees, holding pieces of chalk. The wooden floor was covered in white marks. As I looked around and made sense of it, I realized they’d drawn an enormous racetrack, weaving its way all around the room.
‘Look!’ yelled Otis. ‘We’ve drawn roads for the cars!’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Angela. ‘It’ll wash off.’
‘It’s a vast improvement,’ I said, rolling up my sleeves. ‘Now, who’s going to give me a car so we can have a race?’
‘Brum!’ growled Otis, sliding one in my direction. And off we went.
Acknowledgements
Back in 2014, I spent New Year’s Eve with some very dear old friends in Whitley Bay. During the evening we each made three resolutions. Mine were something along the lines of 1) eat less meat, 2) have a baby and 3) write fifty thousand words of a novel. I accomplished the second the following year, but didn’t manage the third until 2016. Still working on the meat thing. But I want to thank those friends – and all my friends – for egging me on. Like a marathon runner nearing the end of a race, any writer needs encouragement to keep them going, and I had lots of flag wavers who were excited simply by the idea that I was giving it a shot. Thank you for that excitement, that enthusiasm. It really made a difference.
To the dog walkers of Clissold Park, bless you for opening up a new world. Before we got a dog, I was barely aware of the park’s existence; now it frames my days and I’ve met so many interesting, funny and brilliant people there, all with leads around their necks and poo bags in their pockets. What a great bunch you are, though you know I’ll always prefer your dogs to you.
To the nursery and primary school staff who look after my sons while I work – thank you for providing the security for me to lose myself in a café for a little while.
Cheers to everyone at RDF, my telly family, and the best training ground any writer could hope to have. And to Jack – you spurred me on; hope I can do the same for you.
A huge thank you to my former Director of Studies at Newnham, Jean Gooder, who hosted me in Cambridge one morning and regaled me with glorious anecdotes to inspire the St Botolph’s party scene, and life at Newnham generally. Jean also directed me to the fascinating Newnham College Library archives, where the staff kindly helped with my research.
Marianne Levy, a fantastic writer and excellent friend, took my submission in hand and gave me wise and robust advice about how to sell my book. It was invaluable. And the marvellous Meg Rosoff, who I’ve idolized ever since I devoured How I Live Now, was kind enough to read some early chapters and critique them. Her encouraging, bracing insights were heartening and helpful in equal measure. Thanks also to Alison Carpenter, who let me text her random queries about various classical references and Latin verbs. To preserve her reputation, any mistakes are mine and mine alone.
I am indebted to the Greek poet Maria Polydouri, who wrote the beautiful poem ‘Because You Loved Me’ that Leo puts in a cracker for Missy to translate. I hope she wouldn’t have minded the liberties
I took with my own translation.
To my wonderful editors, Martha Ashby at HarperCollins and Tara Singh Carlson at Putnam: you joined forces in the finest possible way and every note you gave me opened up a shaft of light. Thank you for your pushing, your pedantry, and your occasional ‘tumultuous rounds of applause’ that made the editing process a total joy. Thanks also to the teams alongside you – the publicists, copy editors, designers and many others who come together to create a book.
Then to Madeleine Milburn … Wow. Personally responsible for two of my best days on the planet (behind getting married, getting a dog and having children, but only just), you are the empress of agents, and quite possibly have supernatural powers. Thanks so much to you, Giles, Alice and everyone at the agency, slogging away to bring our books into the world. You all work miracles.
Edging closer to home, thank you to my mum and dad for providing unfailing support and steadfast devotion to your spoilt only child. Dad, thank you for reading the manuscript and giving your notes, especially the one to lose the last chapter. You were quite right.
Obviously I couldn’t get through this without giving Polly a mention. To my favourite girl, the apple of my eye, my guiding star and muse, thank you for being the world’s best dog. And to my favourite boys, Wilfred and Edmund – the loudest, craziest, funniest and best boys. Thank you for keeping me in the moment, and making those moments utterly awesome.
Finally, to my husband, Tom: I don’t say it enough, but you are also the best. Quite simply, this book would not have been written were it not for you. Not just because you helped make it happen, giving me the confidence and the opportunity to go for it, but because when you’ve run the marathon, you need someone to come home to who’ll rub your feet and say you did great. There’s no one I’d rather do that with than you.
About the Author
Beth Morrey was inspired to write her debut novel, Saving Missy, while pushing a pram around her local park during maternity leave. Getting to know the community of dog owners, joggers, neighbours and families, she began to sow the seeds of a novel about a woman saved by the people around her, strangers who became friends.
