‘Tracey, take this fork, sit down and eat with me,’ insisted Sophie. Tracey obeyed her.
‘In case you’re wondering what’s in the bag, Mrs Braithwaite, the flower lady with the monster crush on Ells Bells, dropped something off at mine for you. One of those snuggle blankets that you put your arms into. She didn’t want to disturb you, she said, and asked if I’d deliver it instead.’
‘That’s very kind of her.’
‘I’ve checked it for poison. If you ever did Greek myths at school you’ll know the story of Nessus and Hercules.’
Sophie smiled. ‘I know all about the poisoned shirt. Is Mrs Braithwaite a vengeful centaur then?’
‘Blimey, you do know your myths.’ Tracey spooned mince and potato onto her plate. ‘It’s still got the price tag on, so she’s not palmed you off with any old tat. I’m probably being mean, but she is the sort that would like you to appreciate how much it cost. It wasn’t cheap.’
‘It doesn’t make me feel very good to know that people are spending their money on me when I don’t need them to,’ said Sophie, pouring out two cups of tea from the pot.
‘You being rich enough to buy and sell them all is not the issue here. You need sanctuary and some kindness and that’s been freely given.’
‘Now the music festival is over, I could go and stay at a hotel somewhere,’ said Sophie.
‘You could indeed, but you’re safe here and established as Pom with no suspicions surrounding you. Plus it’s nice to have the almshouse aired every so often.’
‘I could pay you some rent.’
‘No one stays at the almshouse and pays, Elliott wouldn’t allow that. If Richard Branson turned up needing to use it, Elliott wouldn’t take his money. Look, just accept some help with no strings. Now eat your pie.’
Sophie sighed and stuck her fork through the buttery mashed potato. Mrs Wilson’s cooking really was very good.
‘I promise as soon as I’ve eaten this, I’ll go home and leave you alone. I expect you’re doing a lot of thinking,’ said Tracey.
‘Too much,’ came the answer. ‘I read some newspapers and I feel as if my life is being picked apart.’
Tracey nodded. ‘I won’t lie to you by telling you that you’re wrong.’
‘That bad?’
‘Well, it’s more that the other woman is drip-feeding the press with more and more revelations and rubbishing your husband. If I’m at all representative of the British public, then most of it is thinking that your husband is a top-class idiot and his mistress is a vindictive cow who can’t keep her knickers on. Some of her exes have come out of the woodwork to say what an ambitious and ruthless piece of work she is.’
Sophie closed her eyes and let loose a sigh so long that her whole body seemed to deflate. ‘I don’t even know how to start processing all this.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t, then,’ suggested Tracey. ‘Maybe you should just let things wash over you, pretend that nothing exists outside this patch of Yorkshire. Let your head breathe.’
Sophie considered that and nodded unconsciously. Tracey was right. Let the fire die, let Rebecca tire herself out with her vitriol, let the press get so bored with the taste of the Mayhew name that they turn to something else to refresh their jaded palate.
Let her head breathe.
*
One thing she could plough her energies into whilst she was here was doing something about the garden, because it was a mess and badly in need of some TLC. She loved to garden; it relaxed her, so it seemed the perfect solution, a mutually beneficial project. Sticky weeds were choking the flowers, brambles needed cutting back, dandelions were having a wild party. She’d noticed a shed in the garden and presumed it would either be locked or empty, but further investigation revealed it was neither. It was full of rusty tools hidden behind a thick veil of cobwebs but there was a helpful can of WD40 on a shelf, so Sophie got stuck in to spraying and grappling with the secateurs and shears until they smoothed open and shut and then attacked the overgrown foliage with zeal. She discovered a pair of gauntlets and after bashing them against a wall to remove all the dead insects, they proved handy for pulling at stubborn roots. She ripped and snipped well into the afternoon, energised by Mrs Wilson’s pie. It was so much better than carrying on marinating in gloom.
She worked on the garden until it was too dark to see, then she took a bath, slipped on her waffle robe and tried to do something about the state of her nails. Gone were her lovely long talons, and in their place were short, neat ones – at least, they were after she had used her new emery board and buffer on them. But all the better for getting down and dirty with. Her arms were criss-crossed with welts and scratches from all the prickly foliage, but she didn’t mind. There were no photocalls on her horizon, no reason to keep herself perfect for the cameras.
It was bliss.
Chapter 28
For the next two days Sophie continued attacking the garden, determined to bring it to heel as if it were somehow representative of her whole life. It helped to think of the brambles as the Mayhew family and dandelions as the Calladines. Chopping them down and pulling them out was psychologically cleansing and she exhausted herself battling with them and winning – in a good way. On the Saturday night, she was just about to strip off her very muddy tracksuit, rest her weary bones in the bath, slip into her dressing gown and then toast herself a breadcake for supper when there was a knock on the front door. When she looked through the window to see who her visitor might be, she saw Jade smiling meekly, holding a carrier bag in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other.
‘Hi,’ she said, when Sophie opened the door. She thrust the flowers out. ‘These are late. I wanted to come before but I felt a bit . . . awkward.’
‘Thank you. Are you coming in?’ asked Sophie.
‘Don’t want to intrude.’
‘You aren’t.’
‘Okay. If that’s all right.’
Jade followed Sophie into the bedsit.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?’
‘If it’s no trouble I’ll have a cup of coffee, please. Can I have it really milky? Oh and this is for you, from Dad.’ She put the carrier down on the table. ‘It’s a curry. Dad made extra so he could send you some, it’s his speciality. I said I’d bring it so I could give you the flowers at the same time. They’re from our garden . . . to say thank you for not telling on me, not that he knows that’s the reason.’ She was blushing so furiously that Sophie feared if she didn’t stop, her head would blow clean off her shoulders.
‘Take a seat,’ smiled Sophie. ‘It was our secret. There was no harm done.’
Jade sat down on a chair at the table whilst Sophie put the kettle on.
‘Feels different in this house when someone’s staying in it. Warmer,’ said Jade. ‘I don’t think it likes being empty.’
‘It’s a very nice house.’
‘It’s a nice house for thinking in. That’s why I used to come here,’ said Jade and she let loose a loaded outward breath that signified whatever she needed to think about was deep and serious.
‘I see.’ Sophie didn’t coax her, just made it clear she was listening if Jade wanted to expand on that. Whilst the kettle was boiling, she took a vase out of the cupboard under the sink, filled it with water and put the flowers into it.
‘They are very pretty. Thank you, Jade,’ said Sophie, setting the vase down in the middle of the table.
‘They came from Mum’s flower garden. We’ve tried to keep it as lovely as she did, but she had green fingers. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Ah, yes. Magic. I know this,’ said Sophie, bringing over two mugs of coffee then. Well at least she had Jade convinced that she wasn’t English.
‘I read that things get easier when you’ve been without someone a year . . . you know, when you’ve had the first anniversary of their birthday and Mother’s Day and Christmas and their . . . when they left you, but it hasn’t. Not really. I still miss her so much.’ She coughed, shift
ed in her seat, embarrassed by her show of emotion.
Sophie was in no position to grief-counsel. Not when her method had been to block everything out, keep functioning, rally. She wouldn’t insult the girl by passing on the advice she’d been given.
‘You’ve lost your mother. The most significant woman in your life,’ said Sophie gently, feeling more than hypocritical because the most significant woman in her own life was the school cook that she’d known for only a short while. ‘There is no set time for your heart to stop grieving, Jade. Your feelings don’t fit into a schedule, whatever anyone might say.’ Three months is more than enough, Sophie.
‘The principal at school said I should focus on making Mum proud because she’d want me to look forward. Do you think that sounds right?’
‘I think your principal is very wise. I think your mother would want you to be the very best you can be – for yourself, though. When you find something that you enjoy doing, the rest . . . somehow it falls into place. Do you have any idea what you want to do in life? University? Or look after animals? Be a burglar – or a fantôme?’ Her voice had a twinkle of mischief in it and Jade smiled.
‘I’d love to go to university and do something arty. Not quite sure what course yet.’
‘You have to follow your dreams. Make them happen.’ Which was rich coming from her, since she was hardly a shining example either as Pom or Sophie. Pom was destitute, relying on charity and Sophie was a pale shadow of the woman she aspired to be.
‘I know, I’ve got two years before I’d go to uni – three if I take a year out. I’ve got a job in a café in Slattercove at weekends and I’m saving up like mad. Wage is rubbish but the tips aren’t bad. I’m determined to go, one way or another.’
Jade could teach her a thing or two about following her dreams rather than the other way around.
‘What did you want to be when you were my age, Pom?’ asked Jade.
‘I always wanted to be the owner of a beautiful dress shop,’ came the reply.
‘That’s doable, isn’t it?’ said Jade. ‘If you could get the money together.’
How ironic that it wasn’t so doable in Sophie’s world. She easily had the money to open one; it wasn’t that which was stopping her.
‘I love beautiful clothes. You might not think it to look at me now,’ – she gestured towards her muddy garb, and then patted her heart as she went on – ‘but in here, I’m like the Fairy Godmother in the Cinderella story. I’d want to make people feel like princesses in my dresses. And princes. I’d have a special section for boys in my shop.’
‘You should do it then. Follow your own dream,’ said Jade.
‘One day, maybe.’
Jade stood up, went over to the sink to swill out her cup and then put it upside down on the draining board. ‘Thank you for the coffee, Pom. I hope you enjoy the curry. And thank you for the talk, it helped me.’ She smiled. A smile that had real depth to it.
‘Did it?’
‘Yeah, it did. I do want to make my mum proud and I don’t think I am by crying all the time. I think I’d be getting on her nerves.’
‘Oh, Jade.’ Sophie stood up and put her arms around the girl, pulled her into a tight hug and felt Jade hug her back as if she really needed a woman’s embrace. Then Sophie held her at arm’s length and spoke directly to her with emphasis.
‘Then you have a plan. People who love you want the best for you: to be happy, fulfilled. You will make your mother proud of you by being those things.’
There was a bounce to Jade’s step as she walked out that hadn’t been there when she walked in. Why was it so much easier to give advice than to take it, thought Sophie as she waved goodnight to her through the window.
*
Sophie honoured the obligation to go to church on Sunday but she was the last to arrive and sat at the back. The Reverend Bellringer’s sermon was close to the bone again today and Sophie wondered if he had written it especially for her. It was about trusting God and the example he gave was of a woman crushed by the infidelity of her husband. ‘Life happens,’ he said. ‘God gave us freedom of choice and will and we cannot control our partner’s behaviour. Don’t blame God for what has happened to you but let God take the wheel. He will direct you. It may be that the right thing for the woman to do is to stay and forgive her husband or maybe she needs to move on. Let him guide you and he will.’
She thought he looked over at her once or twice but she didn’t seek eye contact. It felt as if he could see into her head and she might have blushed had she not been so adroit at disguising her true feelings – in public, at least.
As soon as the final prayer had been said, Sophie was first out of the church. It was good that Elliott Bellringer had his faith and he spoke of it convincingly but God had taken the steering wheel of her life and driven her into a ditch. She felt a fraud even walking through the doors here because if He existed at all He would see only darkness in her heart.
Chapter 29
She didn’t see another soul until Tuesday. She was hacking at the long grass with a scythe when a scruffy white van pulled up outside and a man she hadn’t seen before got out. He was dressed like a scarecrow and she wondered why he was here. She edged slightly towards the rake which was resting against the hedge.
‘I passed you earlier on,’ he said. ‘It’ll take you for ever to cut the grass with that scythe even if it were sharp.’ He walked to the back of his vehicle and took out a strimmer. ‘Do you want to strim or mow?’ Then he hoisted out a petrol mower as well. ‘I’m Marshall’s son, Roger. My dad said you made him laugh last week.’
Sophie’s face broke into a smile.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d prefer to mow, if I have a choice.’
‘Aye, I was going to say as much. This madam is a bit keen,’ he said, slipping on some large plastic safety glasses.
He zuzzed around the edges of the garden and Sophie fired up the petrol mower which was ancient and battered but cut through the long grass with ease. Then she went over it all again on the short cut setting. Even halfway to finishing, the difference was incredible and there was now a high compost tip in the far corner. Sophie insisted on knocking up some lunch and they sat on the wall in the sunshine munching on fresh bread rolls from the Loste Things shop, dipped in mugs of soup.
‘Thank you, this is so kind of you,’ said Sophie.
‘My dad used to look after this garden for the church but his back’s not been too great,’ said Roger. ‘He’s been proper depressed having to slow down. He says you were a tonic, you didn’t half cheer him up putting them Bird sisters in their place. He says it was better than the telly.’ He smiled at Sophie. He had three teeth in the top set and three in the bottom, all strangely bright white. Roger actually looked older than his father.
‘My dad volunteered me to come down and help you but this is the first quiet day I’ve had. We passed you earlier on in the car when I took him to the doctors, but you were hard at it. Don’t think you’d have noticed him waving at you.’
‘I didn’t, or I would have waved back to him,’ said Sophie, wondering how a buttered bread roll and a tin of soup could taste so damned delicious.
Roger wiped his sleeve across his mouth and put down the mug. ‘Come on then. Part two. I’ll get the hedge trimmer out of the van and you do a bit of raking.’
Just over an hour later they had finished. Roger stood back to admire their handiwork and nodded approvingly.
‘That’s better. In fact it’s better than it’s been for years, but don’t tell my dad that. Now, I ought to get back to the missus. I don’t want her thinking you’ve stolen me away.’
Sophie smiled again. ‘Thank you for helping me, Roger. The garden looks wonderful after an ’aircut.’
‘They don’t let anyone stay here who doesn’t really need it,’ said Roger, picking up the strimmer. ‘We count our blessings and help where we can, lass.’
That was more than evident. She’d had more doorstep gifts left
recently: a bag of Mills and Boon books, a home-baked loaf, a jar of pickled onions and a block of cheese and a bottle of Radox bubble bath. One night she had lounged in a foaming bath and started reading one of the books but, as dashing as the Italian billionaire hero was, romance was the last thing on her mind.
She wheeled the mower to the back of Roger’s vehicle, noticing that in the dirt someone had written with their finger: ‘I wish my wife were as mucky as this van’ and she laughed.
‘If you haven’t heard that line before, you must have been living on Mars,’ said Roger.
Maybe not Mars, but Sophie certainly felt as if she had been living on a different planet to the one she was inhabiting now.
She was putting the tools into the shed when she heard a familiar voice.
‘Hello lady. Pom. Pom. Lady.’ She looked over at the fence and saw Luke peering through. She walked over.
‘Hi, Luke. How are you?’
‘I’ve got my kitten. Are you coming over to see him?’
‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘I’m a bit dirty at the moment because I—’
‘Oh come now, please . . .’
She saw Elliott appear on the back step, hands going to his waist, head shaking again.
‘How did I know where you’d be, Luke Bellringer,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Pom, is he making a pest of himself?’ He was smiling.
‘No, not at all. He was telling me that he has a new kitten.’
‘Come and see, Pom, pleeeease.’
‘I will, soon, I promise,’ said Sophie.
‘Pleeeease.’
‘You’re going to get absolutely no peace until you do, Pom, you do realise this,’ called Elliott, lifting up his hands in a you’re stuffed gesture.
‘Maybe later. I’ve been gardening.’
‘Tracey’s here. I’ve made a huge pan of celebratory pasta and you are welcome to share.’
‘I don’t want to impose on you,’ said Sophie.
‘You really wouldn’t be imposing, there’s more than enough to go round.’
The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew Page 18
