New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  ‘That sounds wonderful.’

  ‘She appears quite happy to join in. Not everyone wants to, but your mother seems eager to socialise. Is there any message I can pass on?’

  I feel stupid. Over-protective in every manner. I’m utterly ridiculous, I’m pretending to have a shower to cover up my phone call, and all the time Mum hasn’t a care in the world. Basically, she’s having the time of her life.

  ‘No, no message. Sorry to disturb you,’ I say curtly, eager to end the call.

  ‘No worries, call at any time – you’re not disturbing us. We know it’s a worry when relatives come to stay, and if we can answer any of your concerns, we’re happy to help.’

  ‘Yes, thank you . . . Goodbye.’

  I sound rude cutting her short, but the jitters of guilt are instantly chased away by relief. I shouldn’t worry so much. Mum is fine. I’m now fine. I should call whenever I want, instead of sneaking around up here. Keeping up appearances and worrying what others might think, hasn’t that always been the problem with our little family? Well, no more! I’ll mention my phone call when I go downstairs – no one will judge me for caring, I know they won’t. And Benni really shouldn’t switch off her phone; instead, she needs to find a way to cope. That’s better advice; I should have said that earlier.

  I switch the shower off. What a waste of water, too.

  From tomorrow, I’ll phone first thing each morning. I’ll make a routine of it, then I can be worry-free for the rest of the day.

  I replay the short conversation in my head. I find it strange that Mum seems to be enjoying participating in activities. Whenever I suggest attending social groups or clubs, she flatly refuses, coming up with an endless string of excuses to remain at home with me. And yet now, amongst strangers she’s acting entirely differently. Typical.

  Chapter Four

  Tuesday 21 August

  Benjamina

  I hold tight on to the warm duvet cover. Today, I won’t go to the harbour. I won’t dash down the hill to chat with Ziggy at first light. Instead, I’ll relax, chill out and have a well-deserved lie-in, a rare treat when juggling shifts at the vinegar factory.

  It takes great willpower to remain in situ.

  About an hour ago, I heard footsteps below so assume that either Emma or Ruth are up and about. But I’m going to stay here and enjoy my lie-in. What’s a holiday unless you enjoy at least one lie-in?

  The bedside clock tells me it’s eight o’clock. Hardly late, and yet unusually I’m itching to be up and out of the front door. At this time on a typical weekday, I’d be heading towards the bus stop to catch the bus into Burntwood, followed by the five-minute walk to the vinegar factory. First stop, the changing room, to don my regulation uniform. Never a flattering option, or at least not for the fuller figure. I hate the blue cap with attached hairnet, and the pale blue tabard is simply hideous.

  I close my eyes and watch the daily routine unfold in my head: the white wellingtons, the scrubbed hands and finally the tsunami of employees as we clock on at the main door of the production room. I’m usually on bottling. Not the most glamorous of roles, but the sight of bottles passing by at speed to be injection-filled with malt vinegar is mesmerising. I can watch it all day; I often do.

  I’ve been hired via the agency for so long, I can recall the injection sounds, the pungent smell and the noisy hum of the chattering work force – like a living breathing monster churning out bottle after bottle. They tell me it sells for less than a quid, which seems remarkable given the number they produce each day, month or year.

  I glance at the clock again: 8.18. I wonder if any of the production crew will miss me. Or will the agency send a replacement who’ll quit the shift by 10.30 due to the factory floor banter? I giggle at the very idea. The older women are the worst culprits, always a tad suggestive – verging on crass – with the young males. Strictly speaking, I’ve witnessed one or two near misses with regards to comments verging on indecency but Sandra, the supervisor, possesses the magic touch to bring her wayward ladies back in line. I’m sure the human resources department has been grateful on many occasion for her no-nonsense approach.

  A sudden rapping on my bedroom door disturbs my thoughts.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Benni, have you got a moment?’ asks Emma, her voice muffled by the wooden door.

  ‘Sure . . .’

  She enters looking flustered in a lacy blue shower cap, from which tendrils of auburn hair hang loose, and a plastic bin bag fashioned roughly into a tabard.

  ‘Fancy dress?’ I ask, conscious that I have bed hair and puffy eyes.

  ‘No, I just haven’t brought my chef’s whites with me.’ She indicates her outfit. ‘Do you fancy helping me in the kitchen, just for one day? I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be on my holidays,’ I groan. ‘Can’t Ruth help?’

  ‘She’s not in her room – I’ve checked.’

  ‘So I’m not even your first choice? Jeez, thanks for that,’ I mutter, turning over and pulling the duvet over my head.

  ‘Please, Benni. I’ve made a promise, which I’d like to keep.’

  I can hear the desperation in her voice. I’m intrigued.

  Slowly the corner of my duvet lifts to reveal Emma’s pleading face.

  ‘Go away!’

  ‘I’ll make you waffles for breakfast,’ she coos.

  Sold.

  Ruth

  I frantically erase a huge section of pale blue sky from my drawing. It isn’t right; I’ve over-layered and applied the colours too heavily for the subtle effect I’m after.

  What’s wrong with me today? Nothing’s going to plan, despite my first stop being the art shop to purchase a range of coloured pencils to complement my graphite set. Sadly, my new purchase wasn’t on offer. I’d got up early and hastily made tea and toast before sneaking out of the door without disturbing my sleeping housemates. I felt a tinge of guilt as I snuck out knowing I hadn’t invited them. They’re so generous in asking me to join in and tag along with everything they plan. It’s as if they need to be sure I’m OK with plans of my own before they disappear out the door. Yet, I scurry from the cottage for fear of being spotted. It’s just that I want to submerge myself in my sketching without distractions. I don’t want to explain myself. I’ve spent my entire life explaining myself to others, mainly Mum.

  Last night, I was open about my call to the care home. I’m glad I told them, and relieved that I changed my advice to Benni too. And they didn’t judge me. I knew they wouldn’t. What was it Emma said afterwards? ‘I’m a true believer that you create the weather in your world, if only in your head.’ Instantly, her line struck a chord with me, so today, I chose full sunshine without a single cloud to blot my horizon.

  I also called the care home during my walk towards the marina. Everything is fine; nothing’s changed.

  I quickly select another pencil and begin applying a subtle blend of colour, my hand barely touching the paper to create a blue that is barely visible and yet essential in depicting the delicate skyline. I sit back from my work, turning my head this way and that to view the landscape from various points.

  I like it.

  You can’t always appreciate the effect when you’re in close proximity to a composition, but as soon as you sit back or view it through different eyes, it’s obvious where the flaws and the beauty lie.

  I look around at the surrounding boats bobbing listlessly upon the waves. I’ve never seen the attraction of boats and water until this holiday. But sitting here listening to the tide lapping against the supporting joists of the wooden walkway has given me a new insight.

  My eyes drift towards a boat moored at the far end. Its owner is busy waxing the decking with a vigour that defies reason, and yet his smile is as broad as they come.

  Simple pleasures. That’s where the joys of life l
ie. Drinking decent coffee. Laughing heartily with others. Feeling the sun on your face. Looking at the clock not because you have to administer medication but because you need to know the time.

  Instantly, I feel sad.

  Nowadays I never look at a clock face without thinking about Mum’s routine. When did that start? When will it—

  I stop myself.

  The very thought makes my blood run cold.

  After all she’s done for me over the years, I’m sitting here contemplating a time when . . .

  I retrieve my pencil and attempt to clear my head by defining a small boat in the distance.

  I can’t be thinking like that, not now, not ever. I should be grateful for everything I have. What is it they say? ‘Count your blessings’, and so I shall.

  I have Jack, and Megan, if she’s his choice.

  I have my mother.

  I have my health.

  I have a home, food and enough money to live on.

  What more do I need?

  I don’t answer my own question. I simply refuse to acknow­ledge the situation.

  The spell seems to have been broken and has affected the fine weather inside my head. I no longer wish to draw, so I begin to clear my equipment away.

  If only I’d kept my focus on the water, the reflections and the clouds, I might have finished my sketch.

  Never mind, I’ll come back early tomorrow morning and see if I can complete it in one more sitting. Though if I purchase the watercolour starter set I looked at earlier, I could use this as a preliminary study sketch for painting a much bigger piece. I rarely spend money on myself, which is why I’m holding back. But I’m tempted, very tempted.

  Benjamina

  ‘Don’t beat them like that!’ screams Emma, grabbing the balloon whisk from my clutches and dripping egg yolk on to the tiled floor.

  ‘I beat as I beat, OK? I’m no professional.’

  ‘Be gentle, loving,’ she instructs. ‘It’s a rhythmical action, not an erratic zigzag.’ She returns her attention to weighing a mountain of sugar.

  ‘It’s egg yolks,’ I mutter sulkily, slowing my whisking action to a minimum speed, mocking her instruction.

  Emma huffs for the umpteenth time during our fifteen minutes of prepping.

  ‘It may only be egg yolks to you, but it’s a key ingredient.’ She peers intently at the tiny LED display, tipping minute amounts of sugar from a tablespoon.

  ‘Are you like this at work?’ I ask, wedging the mixing bowl into the crook of my arm and quickening my now rhythmical action. The bowl sticks to the bin-liner overall that Emma has made me don, though my bandana looks more fetching than her lacy shower cap.

  She doesn’t answer, focusing on her task.

  ‘Oh my God, you are! You’re a shouty chef.’ I snigger.

  ‘Stop it. Most chefs are shouty . . . we can’t help it. When it’s a busy shift, food flying in and out of the kitchens and waitresses demanding orders quicker than they can be humanly cooked, then yeah, it gets a bit manic and I can get a bit shouty.’

  ‘Great, and I’m your unpaid lackey for the day.’

  ‘Yeah, but I won’t be . . .’ Emma falters. ‘Forget it, just shout back if I do.’

  Bloody right I will.

  I watch as she clears away milk cartons and egg shells and gathers a medley of dishes and jugs containing chopped figs, caster sugar, double cream and balsamic vinegar into a neat line on the countertop. She meticulously wipes the surfaces, then gathers saucepans from the cupboards and collects utensils from a large drawer.

  ‘For a holiday-let cottage this really is home from home in terms of cooking equipment,’ she says, admiring the array of items on the worktop.

  I don’t answer but simply take in her excited expression. Have I ever looked at a kitchen counter in such a way? Never. Have I ever prepped ingredients before baking like that? No, which probably explains a lot. On the rare occasions when I attempt to bake, I tend to grab each item from the cupboard as and when it’s mentioned in the recipe. Which explains why I have to scrap ideas halfway through when I find there’s no caster sugar, or gelatine, or vanilla pods in the house. I smile. As if I’ve ever lived in a house containing a tube of vanilla pods. Those homes were the same ones that put sticky-back plastic on the weekly shopping list. That said, I’m not entirely sure I know what sticky-back plastic is. And I only know how to use a vanilla pod because I watched a Nigella’s ‘all day special’ four Christmases ago.

  ‘Is this what you’re supposed to do?’ I ask, taking the chance to learn.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Lay it all out?’

  Emma looks puzzled.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That explains it then,’ I say, shrugging. ‘You won’t find this amount of clear workspace in our kitchen, so no wonder we’re all crap cooks.’

  She smiles politely. She clearly thinks I’m joking. I’m not. I’m being honest. Back in the sixties, when our bungalow was built, the kitchen wasn’t the main feature. A spacious lounge with interconnecting doors to the dining room and a tiny serving hatch into the kitchen was far more important. Nowadays, some family kitchens are bigger than our front and rear gardens put together.

  Emma begins to create.

  I lean against the fridge door watching her. If I treat today like a school cookery lesson, I may pick up one or two hints – though given my lack of culinary skills I’d probably mess it up if I try to emulate this back at home. Or spend the rest of my life eating only ice cream which goes against my recent health kick.

  ‘Would these flavours work well alongside chocolate?’ I ask as she begins blending the ingredients.

  ‘Perhaps, though the bitterness of the chocolate would need to be balanced depending on the quality and percentage of cocoa butter.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind experimenting with chocolate. When I was at school, I enjoyed making chocolate truffles for a charity event – I made loads and sold every bag. It’s funny what you remember from your school days.’

  I see her eyebrows flicker, but she doesn’t comment. I don’t ask what she means about percentages; I was never any good with numbers and my teacher provided the block of chocolate for me to melt over a pan of boiling water.

  Within minutes, she’s apparently made a custard, added flavourings and figs. She asks me to gently stir it while she adds yet more cream to the warm mixture on the stove.

  ‘You’ve hardly got a flame,’ I say, trying to be helpful.

  ‘I know. The aim is to avoid scrambling the eggs,’ she says, eyeing me cautiously as she pours. ‘So a low heat is essential.’

  I nod as if I knew that. I didn’t.

  ‘Keep stirring, don’t stop,’ she says, piling her used jug next to the sink. ‘Not until I say.’

  As I stir, I watch her peeling the lids from brand-new plastic boxes. They’re the deep-sided kind that my older brother used to have as a teenager for his packed lunch. He could fit three rounds of jam butties, a Club biscuit and a pack of Mini Cheddars inside and still be starving when he arrived home at four o’clock. I hated jam butties so opted for the tuck shop instead. Two Bountys, one Mars bar and a bag of Twiglets would do for me.

  Emma washes and dries each box, placing them on the counter beside me.

  ‘OK, you can stop,’ she says, nudging me out of her way. I resume my position leaning against the fridge. It’s like baking with my mother – except it isn’t. I’ve never baked with my mother.

  Emma kills the heat, lifts the saucepan from the stove and gently pours the creamy beige contents into the boxes. Nuggets of chopped fig plop into the mixture as it slowly fills the containers. She gives each one a gentle bang on the worktop before looking up at me.

  ‘Here, taste,’ she says, offering me the saucepan.

  I wipe my index finger around the edge of the war
m pan, collecting a bobble of creamy mixture. Emma does the same, her eyes closing as she tastes the rich fig and balsamic vinegar blend.

  ‘That’s delicious,’ I say, wanting more, much more.

  She nods, her expression one of sheer joy.

  ‘We need to let it cool and then pop it into the fridge freezer for about three hours before we deliver it.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yeah, we . . . You helped to make it.’ She beams.

  ‘Benni, help me! We’ve got a problem.’ Emma’s voice is frantic as she knocks on my bedroom door.

  I hastily answer, moving faster than I have in years.

  ‘What?’ I’m imagining the disaster and how much compensation we’ll need to pay to the cottage owners: for fire, flood or an act of God.

  ‘Come with me.’ She grabs my hand, pulling me down two flights of stairs, causing me to trip and stumble in her wake. She drags me into the kitchen, opens the fridge door and says, ‘Look!’

  I look. I observe the inner door containing milk cartons, fruit juice and a half-finished bottle of wine. I view the shelves, neatly ordered by food category, thanks to our resident chef. I don’t understand her issue. I haven’t spilt the milk and left it to dry. I haven’t put an empty juice carton back in the door – one of my brother’s tricks. I have covered the butter pack. I have even cling-filmed the half-emptied tin of beans.

  I can sense her rising panic, but I can’t see an issue. I’m going to have to ask for a clue.

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘The freezer!’

  My gaze lifts to the slimline plastic flap at the top of the fridge, and then shifts to where Emma is pointing to the two deep-sided tubs sitting on the counter.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Her shoulders slump. ‘What a waste of time – they’re going to think I’m an utter fool. Why does this always happen to me? I have such great ideas, yet this kind of thing happens every time I try and accomplish anything in life. This . . .’ she thrusts her hand between slim-line freezer and deep sided tubs of cooled ice cream, ‘. . . is the story of my bloody life!’ Her voice breaks on the final words, hot, angry tears cascading down her cheeks. ‘Every time I try and better myself, improve my prospects in life, or simply enjoy myself – it all goes wrong. Every bloody time!’