by CE Rose
I snorted. My hair was hardly Madeleine-like at that moment. I pictured her look of determination as she’d washed and combed it last week. I’d felt so frail, I’d let her treat me like a dolly, but if I’d had a pair of sharp scissors right now, I would slice it all off.
‘You’re an ugly pixie, found under a gooseberry bush, whereas I am a princess.’ Remembering Laura’s regular childhood taunt, I glanced over to where her old bed had been. ‘Yes,’ I said aloud. ‘Cut it off like a pixie’s.’
I came back to the mirror and pinched my cheeks for a touch of colour. Ridiculous, for sure, but I had been a good looking woman once; it seemed important this new George should know I wasn’t as weak and wan as I appeared.
Taking a steadying breath, I strode into the kitchen. Accompanied by a tall glass of milk, my sandwich was waiting. My first random thought was about the clump of weeds from this morning. Had he washed his hands? The second was irritation. Milk; really? Milk was for babies; milk was for weak and wan infants.
Conforming to type, I lifted a corner of the granary bread and peered inside. Ham, tomato and lettuce with far too much butter. But what the hell, I was hungry.
My mind did the maths as I ate. The man was at ease in the kitchen; that much was obvious. Mum had been in her sixties; old but not that old. Attractive, too. The gardener was… what? Early forties or so. Still, there had to be at least a twenty-something-year age gap. Could it really be possible they were in some sort of a relationship? If I was honest, the idea was uncomfortable. Would I even raise it with Laura? We’d been on the same page about the ‘uncles’ as kids, but I had no doubt of her response now: ‘Mum probably liked sex just as much as we do, Ali. A younger lover, eh? Good on her.’
Furtively peering from the side door, I watched the ‘younger lover’ methodically turn dry clods of earth in the vegetable patch. Wasn’t that peculiar? Tending the soil of a dead woman? Did he work at other people’s homes or just spend his time here, visiting the house at midnight, used to being invited in?
The forthright Ali of old flooded back, so I marched across the grass and stood over his crouched body. ‘Could I have a word, please?’
He continued his chore, shaking the soil from a bunch of bright carrots as though I wasn’t there.
‘Hello? Could I have a word?’ I asked again.
He looked up at me then, squinting against the bright sunshine. Close up, his dishevelled mop was streaked with fine strands of grey. Yes, he was older than me, but much younger than Mum. Certainly too much for comfort. His eyes pierced blue beneath his dark frown, and with his sculpted nose, he resembled a cruel master, out of place in a garden. Then he spoke, his accent northern and deep.
‘What can I do for you?’
Putting the veg to one side, he moved on, grasping the next cluster of leaves with long fingers and gently tugging. He’d made it clear I was disturbing his work. He was obviously an arrogant sod, usually a good excuse for my incisive tongue. But now I was here, I didn’t know what to ask or where to start. Why were you here in the middle of the night? Why did you sleep on my mother’s sofa? Why are you still tending her garden? Were you fucking her?
Instead I said, ‘Would you like a coffee or something? With a biscuit?’ Oh God, my voice had emerged imperiously: to my consternation, I’d sounded exactly like Mum.
‘I usually get my own, thanks,’ he replied.
I folded my arms. Should I point out that things had changed, that I might not be comfortable with a stranger coming into the house whenever it took his fancy? But a wave of loneliness struck, so I began to walk away.
‘The cats are at my cottage, if you’re wondering,’ he called after me.
Oh God, I had forgotten about the cats; they’d completely slipped my mind. He must have seen my dismay, as his expression seemed to soften. He stood up and wiped his hands on his shorts.
‘It’s not something you need to worry about right now. I just thought I’d let you know.’ He observed me for a few moments, his gaze thoughtful. ‘If Joe’s asleep, why don’t you get some rest yourself?’
Shrugging, I walked away. Why did everyone treat me like an invalid or a child? I’d had a double whammy, that was all. A birth and a death. One in and one out. I would get better; I just needed time.
I looked in on Joe, then stepped across to Mum’s bedroom. The sun glowing in, it smelled of perfume as though she’d just left. Running a hand over the silky throw, a memory hit me of a happy day I had almost forgotten. It had been the start of spring, our first visit at Easter, and Mum woke us up early. ‘Come on girls. Quickly! Come and look at something special.’
It was April the first, sure to be a practical joke. But when she’d insisted, we’d shuffled to her room. The patio doors were open wide, and immediately ahead was a muster of blue peacocks, their exquisite feathers fanned out. We’d slipped between our parents and the four of us had laughed and laughed; it had been so unusual, so exciting, so far from our humdrum life in Sheffield.
I was six, Laura ten and that moment was perfect. We just hadn’t known it then.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I woke in Mum’s bed to the hum of the vacuum cleaner somewhere in the house. Nancy’s daughter Denise, I assumed. If she was anything like her mum, I needed to be on my best form for inspection, so I decided to hide here instead and do something constructive. Opening the door a crack to listen out for Joe, I glanced around the bedroom, wondering where to start.
The large wardrobe seemed the obvious place, so I opened its solid mahogany doors, unsurprised to see the dresses, skirts and blouses were arranged neatly in sections, just like mine at home. Staring blankly for several moments, I pictured myself as Madeleine, throwing each item into a good, bad or ugly pile. But nothing of Mum’s was bad or ugly, somewhat dated perhaps, but always best quality from Sheffield’s Schofields or Cole Brothers. Few items were new, but they were immaculate and choreographed in colour and design, as were her old handbags and shoes.
Deferring the daunting task, I didn’t rake through the hangers, but went straight to the coat section, pulling out two furs that were hidden there, unused for years. Like a husband and wife, I laid them side by side on the bed. The mink jacket for me, the ocelot for Laura, Mum had always said.
I hesitantly touched the soft ocelot. The thought of wearing animal skin revolted me, but these were a family heirloom, to be looked at occasionally, then stashed away. Opening the boxy pale mink by its invisible hook, I peered at the satin lining. Back in the day, Dad had it made especially for Mum, so her initials were embroidered there. She’d wear it with a floor-length dress to his charity dinners. ‘Doesn’t Mum look a million dollars?’ he’d say.
I slipped the jacket back on its padded hanger. How much had this cost? A small fortune in all probability; Dad clearly had money to burn. Though earmarked for me, Laura could have it if she wanted. I pictured her laughing and saying, ‘I’ll wear real fur and be damned!’ But I didn’t really know if she would; my childhood memories of my sister and the real one had merged; without seeing her in the flesh, it was hard to judge which was which. Like Miles. We had only been apart for two days, but already he felt insubstantial, like someone remembered from my past.
With a sigh, I returned the contraband to the wardrobe and sat on the bed with Mum’s jewellery box. Antique, of course. She’d spotted it in a dusty shop window recently, thrilled to discover it matched the writing box Dad had found at Stalham auction all those years ago.
The haughty glance of the gardener rushed back. Was he really Mum’s lover? And how long for? Did she still think fondly of Dad, or had the feeling of intimacy gone, replaced by the presence of a younger man in her bed? The thought wasn’t just embarrassing and uncomfortable, it was mixed with other emotions I couldn’t quite describe.
Going back to my chore, I opened the lid and peered at the treasure trove. The gemstone and design of every sparkling ring, heavy necklace, bracelet and brooch were so familiar. One or two simple pieces h
ad belonged to my grandparents, but the rest were gifts from Dad. I knew where each exquisite item had been bought and the occasion – Mum’s birthday or Christmas, a short business trip or anniversary. Or just because he loved her. Money again; how he’d showered his wife with tokens of love.
I smiled wistfully at the memory of us girls pawing the sparkling jewels, wearing them, examining them and choosing who should have which. We’d argued and traded and then changed our minds. But I didn’t want Mum’s trinkets or clothes, her house or her money. I wanted her back, to feel her soft cheek comfort mine, to ask what she’d wanted to tell me about.
The strange feeling of lethargy mixed with impatience swamped me again. Another hour had gone by and I hadn’t achieved anything. Taking a brisk breath, I stepped over to the dressing table and opened the drawer. Three ribbon-tied stacks of envelopes caught my gaze, but as I reached to pluck one out, a soft flurry of air swept my shoulders, stopping me short. Certain my wish had been answered and Mum was behind me, I scrunched my eyes and swallowed. She was my dearest mother, but I couldn’t shake off the terror of what she might look like after several weeks in the ground. Still classically beautiful or invaded by maggots?
My heart thrashing, I slowly turned. Nothing was there; just bright sunshine through the windows and the mild aroma of her particular scent.
Shaking my foolishness away, I went back to the drawer, took out the letter bundles, then padded from the room to check on my son. His cot was empty, but I wasn’t surprised, just irritated that the gardener felt entitled to elbow into my life.
Leaving my find on the spindled chair by my bed, I went to the loo, realising for the first time that my body was invisibly repairing itself. I could wee without peas or pain; I no longer felt the drag of my pelvic floor. I dared my eyes to the mirror. Hmm, if only my face showed it; if only my mind would obey too. But I lifted my chin. The Ali before pregnancy and birth was still there; I just needed to find her.
Resolved to assert my authority, I marched to the kitchen, but instead of finding the giant, I discovered Joe in his bouncy chair, clearly spellbound by Nancy. Or perhaps it was the bubbles spilling over the washing-up bowl.
‘Hello, lovey. Just giving my Denise a hand,’ she said, placing a soapy palm on her hip. She nodded to the table. ‘Home-made preserve. Scones were baked this morning and tea’s in the pot. He’s been a happy little soul since he woke up, haven’t you, love?’
Her near-toothless grin would have frightened me as a child, but Joe didn’t seem to mind. He responded with one of his own.
Shamefaced at my irritation, I sat at the table. The baking was still warm and the butter she’d brought was the yellowest I’d ever seen. Glancing at the stove, I breathed through the image the jam conjured up. After Mum’s funeral, I found an old jar of strawberry in the cupboard at home and I’d longed to taste it, to see if it was as delicious as I recalled, but its lid was stuck fast. I tried denting it to break the vacuum, donning rubber gloves, immersing it in boiling water, but nothing worked. When Miles finally arrived home, I had no interest in why he was so late, but begged him to open the pot, which he achieved with one turn. But the zingy smell of alcohol immediately biffed me; the fruit had frothed. The taste was not completely unpleasant, but it was certainly not the flavour of sweet sunshine I remembered.
The memory highlighted the sad passage of childhood, the fermenting of it, I supposed.
I didn’t realise I was crying until Nancy appeared by my side and enveloped me in her arms. She wiped my cheeks with thick-knuckled fingers. ‘There, there lovey,’ she said. ‘It’s better to let it all out, you know. You’ll weep until you think you can’t weep any more. Then you’ll weep again, but not so often.’ She looked soulful, but only for a beat. ‘I still cry for my mother from time to time, but I haven’t set eyes on her for over fifty years. And look at me! I’m still here and still smiling.’
‘Thank you,’ I said stiffly, not used to such close proximity to anyone these days. Even Miles’s hugs felt static; we didn’t fold into each other as we had once. But I understood it was difficult for him; until recently my breasts hurt if he hugged me too tightly and I guessed he didn’t want to imply anything sexual by holding me too intimately. I hadn’t been ready for that and I was relieved he understood.
Nancy buttered a scone and covered it liberally in jam. ‘There we are, love, that’ll bring a smile to your bonny face!’
Now that did make my lips twitch; where I came from ‘bonny’ meant fat, and I was no longer rotund, my post-pregnancy layer a thing of the past.
A red-haired lady appeared with the Hoover. Nancy’s Denise, I assumed. Her pretty face looked familiar; maybe I had met her before. I felt guilty again; these people had been Mum’s friends and neighbours for years and I had taken no notice of them on my visits. I had wafted in and out carrying my sense of self-importance with me. It was having a child that made the difference, I thought. And a dead mother.
Tucking her hair behind her ears, Denise manhandled her chest until she seemed satisfied with her cleavage, then she slicked her mouth with lip balm. ‘I’ll just take a cuppa out to George. He’ll be parched.’
‘Denise doesn’t half fancy him,’ her mum commented when she’d gone.
‘I thought he got his own drinks,’ I muttered, but Nancy was still talking.
‘Mind, all the ladies round here have a soft spot for him, me included. He came down a year or so ago and he wears a wedding band, but no one has ever seen a wife. We think she must have passed away. Why wear a ring otherwise?’
To keep the likes of Denise at bay, I imagined. But still, it was interesting. ‘Where does he come from?’ I asked.
‘Up north. That’s all we know. He doesn’t say much, but he’s a handsome man. A good listener too, and you know how us ladies like to be listened to!’ She peered at me. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’
I focused on her then. Her shrewd eyes looked knowing. Oh God, I was right; something had gone on between him and Mum.
Denise returned through the side door and gave a little sniff. ‘I can’t find him anywhere, but he’s left his tools so he can’t be far.’
He’s probably hiding, I thought, as Joe began to cry.
Chapter Twenty-Six
They were both truly lovely, but I was glad when Nancy and Denise finally left. I wasn’t used to such intrusion in my life and I wanted to make a start on another assignment, get busy and do something practical to stop me feeling sorry for myself.
Padding to the lounge, I stared at the walnut sideboard. As the keeper of photographs, correspondence and documents, school reports, bills, certificates, and everything in between, it seemed to breathe and bulge. But I nodded firmly nonetheless. I’d start from the left; anything financial would be there.
What would a solicitor need? Though I had some knowledge about probate and trusts, my area of the law was crime. I had worked on the defendant side when I first qualified. Initially, my clients had been straightforward car thieves and burglars, but when I moved on to rapists and murderers, I became frayed and demoralised, so I switched from the dark side to prosecuting.
Joe watching from his chair, I kneeled and dragged open the large bottom drawer. Pulling out a chunky folder, I sat back and flicked through it with a frown. It looked as though two separate files had become mingled, one relating to domestic finances – bills, bank statements, tax certificates, savings accounts, cheque stubs and the like; the other more legal – old-fashioned writs and statutory demands, company accounts and official receiver correspondence, even crispy copies of the London Gazette. I peered at the date on the newspaper. It was aeons ago, before Dad died; it was clearly a case he’d worked on for a client. Why Mum had held on to it, I had no idea, but I put it to one side and delved in again.
Sighing at my mother’s inability to throw anything out, I found household instructions, pamphlets, receipts, guarantees and so on, but no house deeds, recent bank or building society statements, so I shoved everything
back. I opened the next drawer, but despite my good intentions, I closed it again. It could wait, surely? As Tom Hague had pointed out, all was in hand bill and staff-wise. I could leave the probate documents until the weekend; perhaps Miles would help me then.
As though reading my mind, the telephone rang. At seven o’clock, I knew it would be my hubby and it was. ‘Miles! I was just—’
‘Is that my stunningly gorgeous wife?’ It was what he always said after a few glasses of wine. ‘How are things going?’
Pleasure spread in my chest; it was so nice to hear his voice. Taking a breath, I considered where to start. Perhaps my fright from last night; maybe the visit to Bureside and the flood of childhood memories. Or the huge volume of paperwork and the need for his input on Saturday. But the sound of music and laughter filtered through. He was clearly in a pub or restaurant, and my hesitation was enough for him to launch into an account of who he’d bumped into since Sunday, soon followed by a blow-by-blow description of his day in court. His trial was going well, he’d scored major points cross-examining a key witness who’d made admissions; the judge had asked pertinent questions – she was so very perceptive and had once been in their chambers – and things were looking pretty damned good.
I was pleased for Miles, but saddened too. Between our two worlds, the crater was still there. Like my childhood and the jam, it felt as though our relationship was slowly decaying. Did we have anything in common any more?
The call soon ended. ‘Someone wants me, I’d better go. Take care, gorgeous. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
And he hadn’t even asked after Joe.
Going back to the lounge, I opened the cupboard on the right. As expected, the photographs were there, the packets labelled and neatly stacked. I reached for my parents’ ivory wedding album. Laura and I had pawed it so many times, it was a wonder the silver tassel had any silky strands left. ‘Dad! Dad! Come and look at your dimple!’ we’d shout.
