Katie hung the suit on the picture rail and stood next to Carrie, holding her head to her hip and smoothing her hair.
‘Shall I go?’ I suddenly felt awkward and unsure of why I was there witnessing their grief.
‘No, Sylvia, please stay. You’ve been so kind. I don’t know what we’d have done without you these last few weeks.’
‘You must be desperate to get back to your own life,’ Carrie said earnestly, wiping her nose on a tissue.
‘No, not really.’ They both looked at me in surprise. The idea of not having a life worth returning to was clearly an alien concept to them both. ‘I mean, I haven’t got a job at the moment. I’m at a bit of a crossroads, you see, and I’m not sure what I’m doing next. I don’t have any firm plans.’
They glanced at each other and Carrie’s eyes brightened. ‘Could you … would you … stay? At least for a while, until we sort out what we’re going to do with the house and the sanctuary and everything.’ Katie said it as if she could hardly believe this was even a possibility.
I thought for a moment and then said with certainty, ‘Yes, I can do that, but I will need to have my mother’s dog, Hamish, here with me, if that’s all right. She’s not able to look after him any more.’
‘Of course,’ Katie said, nodding. ‘Are you sure you’ll be able to manage?’
‘Yes, I know I will. Crystal will help me when she can. And I’ll look after Igor too.’
Carrie burst into fresh tears. ‘I thought we were going to have to take him back to the dogs’ home,’ she sniffed. ‘Thank you so much, Sylvia. We will pay you, of course.’ She looked at Katie for confirmation and she nodded, leaning down to put her arms around me. Carrie joined in with a side hug and then Igor jumped on us, joining in the game, making us a mess of tears, laughter, dog and cushions.
Tuesday 14 June
The taxi journey from Mother’s flat to Jonas’s house was one of the longest journeys of my life. It was extraordinary the level of adoration and care Mother lavished on Hamish, especially in comparison to the rather offhand manner with which she had always dealt with the well-being of me and Millie. I suppose her little dog had been a safe repository for her love – he couldn’t answer back or change or disappoint her. She fussed and fretted about leaving Hamish in my care all the way across London. And when she couldn’t think of any new points to remind me of, she started again at the beginning and went through them all again.
‘You do know he won’t eat fish, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘And he is not to get wet under any circumstances. He is extremely susceptible to colds.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘And he needs his brown blanket in his basket. When it’s in the wash he will tolerate his blue one, but then he doesn’t sleep as well.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘And you won’t allow the other dog to bully him, will you?’
‘No, Mother. Look, we’re here now,’ I said with relief, indicating to the cabbie to pull up outside Jonas’s. I sensed Mother was about to say something disparaging about the house and gave her a warning look as I picked Hamish up and paid the driver.
‘Here we are! Your new home, Hamish,’ I said brightly as I let us in the front door and set him down in the hall. Hamish snuffled around with interest, freezing when he came face to face with Igor who was standing motionless on the threshold of the kitchen. Mother and I both held our breath. This was the moment of truth, when the dogs would decide between themselves, by scent alone, whether they would get on or not. It was not a relationship that any human could influence and the outcome of this meeting would determine if both or only one of them would be staying. It was a tense minute or so as Hamish growled quietly while Igor stared at him, twitching his nose.
‘You see! They’re not going to get on,’ Mother wailed, ready to throw in the towel as she went to scoop up Hamish.
‘Wait, Mother,’ I said, blocking her gently with my arm. ‘Give them a chance to find out about each other.’
We stood watching them continue their mutual cryptic appraisal until suddenly Igor made a decision and his tail began to flap. Hamish’s stump started wiggling then too and they ran circles round each other yapping with delight. I manoeuvred past them to throw open the back door and they tumbled out onto the patio and did joyful laps of the garden. Even Mother was smiling by then, and I was pleased for her that she didn’t have to worry about Hamish any more. I will look after him for her.
Saturday 25 June
I was at my flat this morning, going through my accounts with a rising feeling of possibility, when Katie rang and invited me over for lunch with her and Harriet. ‘Sorry for the short notice, Sylvia, but we are here and child-free and we thought it would be lovely if you could join us. Carrie might be popping by later too.’
It was perfect timing and I happily agreed and caught the bus over to Forest Hill.
Katie’s house is small but homely, and the white and yellow kitchen has French windows that open out onto a garden filled with the plastic paraphernalia apparently needed to keep children occupied in the summer.
‘We’ll eat in here if that’s OK,’ said Katie, laying the Formica table with a checked cloth. ‘There’s so much junk in the garden. I can’t face tidying it all up only for them to get it all out again when Mike drops them back.’
I glanced at her in confusion and she bit her lip. ‘Mike and I have separated,’ she explained. ‘He has them every other weekend and we are sorting out how the holidays are going to work. He has taken them to see their grandparents today – I mean his parents. Oh, you know what I mean.’ She sat down and stared at the floor. ‘I never thought this would be me,’ she said sadly. ‘I thought we’d last, that Mike and I would make it. That we’d have a marriage like Mum and Dad’s.’
‘Well, those are few and far between,’ said Harriet, returning from making a phone call and ready to bolster up Katie with brisk support. ‘Now, what needs doing? Shall I start on the veg?’
We sat round the table, companionably peeling and chopping and talking and I felt quite at home in the most unexpected way.
‘Of course, Harriet hit the jackpot with her hubby,’ Katie suddenly announced with a mischievous smile as she carried the veg over to the sink. ‘You should see her and Rob together, Sylvia – talk about love’s young dream.’
Harriet blushed slightly, but she looked pleased. ‘Well, middle-aged dream, perhaps. But yes, we are very happy and he is wonderful, and a fantastic dad as well. I’ve been lucky this time round.’
I raised my eyes in interest and Harriet took the cue. ‘I was married before, you see, when I was much younger. It was a complete disaster, Sylvia, and I was an idiot.’
I waited for her to continue, intrigued that such a together person as Harriet had an unexpected blip in her past. ‘What happened?’ I asked finally, unable to hide my curiosity.
Harriet told me all about how she had fallen for an egotistical actor called Daniel when she was just eighteen. How Jonas had loathed him from the start, how her mum had cried at their wedding when Daniel told her Harriet belonged to him now, how he had controlled her and frightened her and taken away all her confidence. How she had finally left him and trained to be a lawyer as she had always wanted to do.
‘I moved back in with Mum and Dad so I could go back to university,’ she said. ‘I was twenty-nine and I had nothing. I was the oldest in my year by miles and I almost didn’t go back after the first day. “I’m too old,” I said to Dad. “It’s too late for me now,” and he promised me that it wasn’t, that age didn’t matter, that I could still follow my dreams and do whatever I wanted to do. He gave me courage and he believed in me. Everything I am now, and everything I have now, it’s all because of him and Mum.’
I stared at her transfixed and moved by her story.
‘And he was a rubbish actor as well,’ Carrie said dismissively, helping herself to a handful of chopped carrots ready for the pot. None of u
s had noticed her slip in the kitchen door while Harriet was talking and she grinned cheerfully as she sat down at the table, her bangles jangling.
‘Where did you spring from?’ Harriet was delighted to see her and gave her an enormous hug as Katie came over to join us.
‘We got back earlier than we expected from Cambridge. Great festival – lots of customers for my reiki. Did you find the ring?’
‘No, not yet. I can’t think where he must have put it.’ Katie tutted and turned to me. ‘We have gone through all Dad’s personal stuff and the whole house and we can’t find Mum’s wedding ring anywhere. I don’t suppose you have any idea where it could be?’
For a horrible moment, I feared I was a suspect, but I quickly realised there was no trace of accusation in Katie’s tone and I felt ashamed for underestimating their trust in me.
‘I’m sorry …’ I shook my head. ‘I’ve never seen it and he never mentioned it to me.’
‘Of course not. Why would he?’ said Harriet, firmly back in the present after her unpleasant trip down memory lane. ‘It’s just so upsetting because we wanted to pass it down to one of our daughters.’
‘Hey, hey, hey! Slow down, lady. I want to wear it as a nose ring first!’ said Carrie winking at me as Katie threw a tea towel at her.
‘The other thing we need to sort out is selling the house,’ said Harriet, when the laughter had died down, and three pairs of hopeful light-blue eyes turned towards me.
Harriet dropped me off at the house around five and I lingered for a while on the pavement outside, looking over the old place with affection. The afternoon sun showed up the missing tiles on the roof, the peeling paint on the window frames and the deeply unfashionable pebbledash. The dilapidated state of the house used to fill me with dismay, but I had come to realise its charm over the last few months and it was beautiful to me now, in its own special way. As I stood watching, the pair of swallows who return every summer flittered to and from their nest under the bathroom window, and the wind chimes hanging from the porch jangled happily, its metal tubes clanging together in the breeze. It had been a birthday gift, long ago, from one of Harriet’s children and I remembered Jonas showing it to me in bafflement, having no idea what it was and having not wanted to ask. I had put it up for him, crossly as I recall, annoyed at being held up by such a petty task as I had some article or another of Prof’s at home that was waiting to be read. But Jonas’s smile when he saw it had been worth the delay.
‘Well, I never,’ he’d said, stroking his beard in awe as I clambered back down the ladder. I’d left him there gazing at it, lost in his own thoughts as I pulled on my coat and said goodbye. And here it still was, twinkling and tinkling – welcoming, comforting, familiar.
I went down the side passage and let myself in via the gate, breathing in the mingled scent of grass, vegetables and flowers. I unlocked the back door to let the dogs out, sleepy after their naps, fascinated as ever by the delights of the garden, and left them to snuffle round and explore while I went to check on the hogs. They were ready for a feed, their shy little faces peeping out of the hay and I saw to their needs as methodically as Jonas and I had always done together, starting with the bottom left cage and working my way round.
‘This way we don’t forget anybody,’ I said out loud, echoing Jonas’s much repeated words on the system.
When I had finished I made a cup of tea and put two biscuits on a plate – one for me, one to share between Igor and Hamish. After my break I wandered round the garden, drawing up a mental inventory of what needed to be done. I noticed there were a lot of weeds springing up in the strawberry patch beside the garage and decided to tackle that first. I went to the shed to find some suitable tools and selected a fork and a trowel from the ancient collection hanging on the wall, along with Jonas’s trusty kneeling pad and gardening gloves.
Having fended off both the dogs, who were desperate for a game, I had just started digging out the dandelions when something bright caught my eye on the handle of the trowel. I took the gloves off and pulled my glasses out of my pocket to have a closer look. Holding the trowel up, I could see quite clearly that, where the wooden handle joined with the little metal spade, there was an extra band. A band of gold.
I turned it over in my hands and saw that Jonas had unscrewed the two parts and put the ring in between them before fastening them back together – it must have been there for years. It had been Jonas’s lovely secret connection to his wife and it made me laugh with joy. I sat back on my heels and ran my fingers around the smooth warmth of the band, thinking of how Jonas had used this tool countless times as he worked in the garden and imagined how close he must have felt to Paula as he dug up the weeds and planted seedlings in the ground. I went straight into the house to ring Katie clasping the trowel to my chest, the dogs running ahead of me, sensing my excitement. I couldn’t wait to tell her that the mystery of their mum’s wedding ring had been solved in the most wonderful way. How delightful it is to have friends to share good news with at last.
Summer
* * *
The hedgehog is often referred to as the ‘gardener’s friend’ because its diet contains so many plant-eating insects. It is particularly during the summer months, when crops and flowers are at their peak, that we are most grateful for their help. Hedgehogs haven’t always been so positively regarded, though. Indeed, in sixteenth-century England there was a pernicious belief that hedgehogs were witches in disguise and that they stole from farmers by drinking milk from their cows at night. A three-pence bounty was placed by the English Parliament on the head of each hedgehog that was caught and killed, leading to thousands being slaughtered across the country.
Another erroneous myth about hedgehogs was relayed by Pliny the Elder in the first century in his Historia Naturalis and was even repeated by Charles Darwin, who really should have known better. The scholarly Roman described how hedgehogs would climb apple trees, knock the fruit down, roll on the fruit to impale them on their spines and then carry them off to hide underground. All nonsense, of course, as hedgehogs can’t climb trees and nor do they store food in their burrows or carry it on their prickles.
Hedgehogs may have been misunderstood in the past, but the truth is that they are precious and harmless (unless you happen to be a slug). Just because they are not easy to stroke and live a secretive sort of life doesn’t mean they are not worth loving. They are just being hedgehogs. And they don’t all have fleas.
Jonas Entwistle, The Hedgehog Year
Friday 21 July (One Year Later)
I sat motionless on the tube train as it made its way overground towards King’s Road station, transfixed by the two French girls who were sitting opposite me and chatting in a way that I knew without a doubt meant that they were sisters. They were engaged in a never-ending conversation about life, just like Millie and I had once been, until it did end, and I still miss that connection even though it has been over a year since that final, awful scene in the car. It is a testament to the skills and patience of Crystal as a go-between that we managed to organise Mother’s move to a residential home and sort out and sell her flat without ever having to meet or speak. Texts from Crystal would specify the exact times between which I could go to Mother’s and choose the furniture I wanted to keep or inform me of the need to arrange a visit to the solicitor to sign the power of attorney papers. We have a rota for visiting Mother now: Mondays and Fridays for me, Sundays and Wednesdays for Millie, with Crystal free to pop in whenever she feels like it – which admittedly isn’t often, but at least she doesn’t have to worry about who she might bump into.
Mother is mercifully unaware of the rift between her daughters, just as she is increasingly unaware of anything that isn’t food-or tea-related. The carers try to keep up her fastidious personal appearance, dressing her in her twinsets and arranging for a hairdresser to come and give her a blow dry once a week, but she is disappearing in front of my eyes. Every time I visit it seems she has shrunk further away from the wor
ld of people and places and things, further into her own skin, her own essential being. She is unexpectedly timid and gentle in her dotage.
I had been warned that, with old age, people become more extreme versions of themselves with no social filter and, deeply acquainted with Mother’s acerbic tongue and judgemental attitude over the years, I was dreading hearing what she really thought of me. She isn’t that way at all, though, she is more like a frightened little girl who just wants me to sit holding her hand while she nibbles on biscuits, the crumbs clinging to the grey hairs on her top lip. I have ached to talk to Millie about her and share the experience of seeing our once formidable mother slowly fade away. But it was made clear, through Crystal, that there was to be no contact, even after my letter, and, although I have never fully accepted it, the loss of her has become familiar to me and stings a little less as time passes.
This evening, though, I knew Millie and Kamal would be there. My wonderful, talented niece had had a painting accepted at a prestigious London art fair and tonight was the opening night – an invitation-only, black-tie event. All of London’s art crowd would be there, along with a thrilling selection of actors, musicians and politicians.
I agonised over whether to go. Crystal had handed me the gold-embossed invite and stated, matter-of-factly, that she wanted me to be there and she wasn’t prepared to choose between me and her mum.
She has spent hours at Jonas’s house over the last year, sketching and painting the dogs and the garden and the hedgehogs. The picture on display was one I hadn’t yet seen, but I knew it was a bright watercolour of Igor lying amongst the potted geraniums on the patio and that it was on sale for a considerable sum. Crystal has already been approached by an illustrators’ agent for children’s books and no one is more stunned than me at the turn her work has taken in such a short time from adolescent, angst-filled black-and-grey wastelands, to whimsical animal portraits. When I asked her about it, she simply shrugged and said she was bored with being miserable and wanted to paint happy things, and I nodded in complete understanding.
Needlemouse Page 22
