Going Home (4 page)

Mike picked it up and considered it. ‘I dare say. It’s got a dent in the middle, though, hasn’t it? Look.’ He held up Tom’s masterwork, fashioned in blue with ‘Unkle Mike’ in a childish, uneven script. As a drinking vessel it wasn’t an unqualified success – goodness knows why we still used it. It sloped on one side and the handle bent in on itself, which made it difficult to hold. ‘Looks as if it’s had one or two too many, if you ask me. Can I take it back to New York?’

‘Of course you can,’ Tom said, rather chuffed. ‘Sorry I forgot to wrap it.’

‘So that’s the way the land lies, is it?’ Mike said. ‘
Très charmant.
No presents, after I come all this way.’ His head drooped. ‘Oh, well…’ He brightened, taking the cafetière out of my hands. ‘I haven’t got you chaps anything either, so we’re evens. But Rosalie and I are going to stop off in London before we fly back. We’re staying at Claridges. How about we take you shopping, get you each a present, then treat you to dinner? Jess too.’

‘Oh, do Jess and Lizzy have to come?’ Tom asked. I kicked
him. ‘Ouch! Blimey, Mike, that’s really kind of you. Are you sure? Claridges, eh?’

‘Well, in for a penny, in for a pound,’ Mike said. ‘Can’t do these things by halves, can you? Let’s give the coffee to the thirsty troops. And ssh – don’t mention it to the others. It’s a surprise for Rosalie and I don’t want her to find out.’

If you’d told me eight hours previously that I’d spend the rest of Christmas Eve watching the World’s Greatest Film with Mike’s new wife, I’d have said you were mad. But that was what happened. Rosalie hadn’t made a very good first impression – unless a brunette version of Anna Nicole Smith in a twin-set is your idea of a good first impression – but I had to admit she might turn out to be not too ghastly.

She helped with the sprouts and adopted the Walter tried and trusted technique – remove the outer leaves and cut a cross in the base, which helps them cook better. I love sprouts. Rather unsociably, Dad and Mike had disappeared into the study for a catch-up. I bet you any money you like that at no time did Dad say, ‘So who on earth is she, bro?’ No, they’d have been talking about some shares of Grandfather’s that were currently worth zero, and whether the wall in the kitchen garden needed rebuttressing.

‘So,’ Rosalie said, toned thighs clamped round a bowl as we all sat in the side-room, intermittently roaring with laughter at the film, ‘Suzy, you’re a doctor, right? Where?’

‘I’m a GP at the local surgery,’ said Mum, deftly whisking off a rogue stalk.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Rosalie, looking blank.

‘She’s a family doctor at a clinic,’ said Tom. He had performed a remarkable
volte-face
and become Rosalie’s new best friend. He was even speaking with a semi-American accent.

‘Wow,’ said Rosalie. ‘That’s hard work, right?’

‘Right,’ said Mum. ‘I’m lucky, though, I’ve got three days off for Christmas.’

‘Gaahd!’ screeched Rosalie. ‘I don’t know how you do it. I have such admiration for doctors and nurses and those who help.’

My mother and Kate shifted closer to each other on the sofa.

‘Er, yes,’ said Kate. She cleared her throat. ‘So, Rosalie, what about you? What do you do?’

‘Me? Oh, gosh, nothing real interesting. I’m an attorney with Wright Jordan Folland. That’s how I met Mike. I head up their commercial property arm,’ Rosalie said casually, tossing a pile of uncropped sprouts into her lap.

‘Really?’ we said in unison.

‘Are you serious?’ Chin said.

‘Sure, why?’ said Rosalie.

‘I just…’ mumbled Chin. ‘No reason.’

‘Well, that must be a much more stressful job than mine,’ said Mum. ‘Good grief, you’ve done so well to get so far, and you’re so young! How old are you?’

‘Oh, my God, my favourite bit!’ yelled Rosalie, neatly deflecting the question as Tony Curtis cycled towards the hotel after a night spent kissing Marilyn Monroe.

‘He’s brilliant,’ said Tom.

‘Creep,’ I muttered under my breath.

‘Tony Curtis! What a man!’ Tom continued, unabashed.

‘I was his attorney a few years ago when I was living in California,’ Rosalie said. ‘Nice guy. Some asshole was trying to screw him around on the money and I guess I ironed things out. He gave me one of his paintings.’

‘Oh, my God!’ said Tom. ‘You met him?’

‘All part of the job, honey,’ said Rosalie, tossing her hair off her face and putting the bowl on the floor. She smiled
at me as she looked up again and I smiled back, unable to resist her. ‘So Lizzy,’ she said suddenly, ‘I want to know more about you. You got a boyfriend?’

The room fell silent – apart from the rise and fall of Gibbo’s breathing as he dozed in the corner.

‘No,’ I said.

‘But what about that David guy? Doesn’t he live round here?’

‘David?’ I asked. How did she know about David?

‘Mike and I met him for a drink in New York. I liked him.’

The atmosphere was as thick as stew.

‘You met David?’ breathed Jess. ‘You saw him?

‘David…Lizzy’s—’ Mum broke off. ‘David Eliot?’ She made it sound as if she barely knew him.

‘I’m sure that was his name.’ Rosalie looked confused. ‘You guys dated, right? Journalist? Kinda cute, short brown hair, real tall?’

‘Argh!’ I said, in a kind of strangulated scream.

Chin sat up straight. ‘Well, actually, Rosalie, we don’t talk about him any more. Do we, Lizzy?’ she said.

‘No, we do not,’ I said, as firmly as I could, though the mere mention of his name made me feel as if someone had scooped out my insides.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rosalie. ‘Hey, Lizzy, I hope I didn’t—’

I raised my hand. ‘Don’t worry. David and I finished last year. He went to New York but his mother lives just over there,’ I said, gesturing towards the window, ‘in the village.’

His mother has a little orchard where David had kissed me in spring, surrounded by gnarled little apple trees, festooned with white blossom, and told me he was going to New York.

‘Right. I’m sorry. Is that how you met? Down here?’ said Rosalie.

‘Yes,’ I replied, plaiting my fingers in my lap.

Although I’d known his younger brother Miles for a while, I hadn’t met David until he ran over my bike in his car after I’d left it outside the post office on a baking hot summer’s day. When I’d heard the crumple of steel and loud swearing, I’d appeared at the doorway with an ice lolly to see it buckled round David’s bumper. He took me for a drink to say sorry. We ended up spending the night in a room above the pub and the next four days together.

‘Why did you split up?’

‘Ask him,’ I said flatly.

‘I did,’ said Rosalie. ‘But he went kinda weird and said I had to ask you.’

I’d deleted the email Miles had sent me, only four months ago, confirming that in New York David had slept with Lisa, a friend of mine from university. I didn’t want it in my computer: I knew the temptation would be to come back to it, like picking a scab. My best friend Georgy still has it, though, and has said she’ll forward it to me if I need to read it again.

‘Ha,’ I said bitterly. ‘Ha. No disrespect to newly-weds, Rosalie, but all men are bastards.’

‘You’d better believe it,’ said Rosalie. ‘Apart from your uncle, honey – that man is good through and through. My first husband though. My gosh, that man was bad. Turned out he only married me so I couldn’t testify at his trial. There. All done.’

‘Blimey,’ said Kate, recovering her poise before the rest of us. ‘Er. thanks for doing those, Rosalie.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Rosalie, stretching herself on the sofa and patting my hand. ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out, honey. But look at you – so pretty. You’ll find someone much better. I did.’ The irony was lost on Rosalie but not on us. ‘Come on, let’s watch this darned film,’ she said.

Dad and Mike appeared, rather flushed, as Geraldine,
Daphne, Sugar and Osgood were sailing away. Mum stood up and went over to them. ‘OK?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely,’ said Mike. He dropped into the armchair next to me and yawned. ‘I’m shattered, though. Er…Rosalie?’ he said, as if he wasn’t sure that was her name.

‘Heigh-lo,’ said Rosalie.

‘You all right, old girl?’

‘I’m just fine, Michael darling.’

‘I’m pretty tired,’ said Dad. He took my mother’s hand and held it. ‘Look at the sky,’ Mike said. ‘It’s clear as you like, look at the stars.’

Mum turned off the overhead light. I always forget how many more stars you can see outside London, and there was a new moon, the thinnest sliver of a bright white crescent in the sky. ‘It’s Christmas Day,’ she whispered. ‘Happy Christmas, everyone.’

‘Happy Christmas,’ we murmured back.

‘I’m off to bed,’ she said, and padded out of the room. As I turned away from the window, I caught Rosalie gazing at Mike. I’ve never seen such naked, all-consuming love on anyone else’s face. It lit hers, but there was something unsettling about it, which I couldn’t put my finger on. When I told Tom on our way up to bed, he said, ‘But they’ve just got married. Of course she’s in love with him, you strange girl.’

But that didn’t explain why it had been scary.

I stopped by the old bookshelf, picked out a Georgette Heyer I hadn’t read for years, then went to my room, undressed and got into bed. How lovely it was to sit in bed, to feel my feet push down, along the clean, smooth sheets, to feel as snug and warm as anything in my new fleecy pyjamas, and not to have to worry about work, about crazy Jaden, about my boiler, which was on its last legs, about tidying the flat, about making sure Ash at work was
all right. It was Christmas Day. I was at home. All I had to do was enjoy being here, in my bedroom, which smelt of lavender, with the presents I’d half wrapped scattered across the floor and
Devil’s Cub
on my knee.

I started to read: ‘There was only one occupant of the coach, a gentleman who sprawled very much at his ease, with his legs stretched out before him, and his hands dug deep in the capacious pockets of his greatcoat…’ But my eyes were growing heavier and heavier, and I must have fallen asleep, because in the middle of the night I woke up and had to turn the light off, and the book was still on my lap.

When I woke again, bright sunlight was flooding into my room and I could smell cinnamon. I pulled back the faded curtains and my heart leaped. It was a bright blue day, and the view to the village was as fresh and clear as it was on a spring morning, but coated with the glittering frost of winter.

I showered and dressed in the clanking old bathroom, singing ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ very loudly, and rushed downstairs, eager for some pre-church bonding with my family. But everyone was already in the hall, putting on their coats.

Mum appeared with a plate and thrust it under my nose. ‘Grab one of those muffins and let’s move it,’ she said, then pulled on her gloves like a member of the A-Team. I declined: I’m of the strong opinion that, when it comes to breakfast, if it doesn’t have Marmite on it, it ain’t worth it.

Jess came down the stairs, rubbing her eyes. ‘Come on, Jess, we’ll be late,’ said Mum testily.

Every year my relatives get themselves into a frenzy about being late for church. I have no idea why. It’s a twenty-minute walk, and we always leave with half an hour to spare. Now,
short of a hurricane, driving snow, frogs dropping from the sky, we would be sitting in our pew with ten minutes to spare while every other member of the congregation rocks up fifteen minutes late, and stand in the aisles chatting and exchanging pleasantries.

Old habits die hard, and we set out straight away, crunching across the terrace flagstones. Dad opened the gate and Gibbo appeared barefoot in the doorway, trousers trailing on the ground, hair whipped up into a storm around his face. He wasn’t coming to church, he said. It made him fall asleep. ‘Bye, you guys,’ he called, and waved, a piece of toast in his hand.

‘What’s he going to do?’ asked Jess, a little enviously.

‘He’s a great cook,’ said Chin. ‘He’s sorted it with your mum. He’ll start the Christmas lunch so it’s all ready to go when we get back.’

I doubted that Gibbo could start a fire with a can of petrol and a match, let alone a Christmas lunch for ten people, but I kept quiet.

It was a beautiful walk, along the well-worn path through the fields. We owned the first, and the rest of the land before the church was the village common, a long sloping expanse of meadow with a stream at the bottom. This morning it was frozen at the edges, though a little water trickled through the centre and a forlorn-looking robin hopped from branch to branch.

Mike was just ahead of me, humming, Rosalie’s arm tucked through his. They made a comforting picture, his checked wool scarf wound tightly round his neck, Rosalie in her beautiful pale coat, little heels clicking on the hard ground alongside him. The crown of his head showed beneath his thinning hair and I felt a rush of affection for him, with a kind of protectiveness. He and Rosalie stopped and turned. I caught up with them and Mike put his arm
round my shoulders. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Lizzy,’ he said. ‘God, it’s nice to be home again, you know?’

‘It’s great to have you back,’ I said. ‘I wish you’d come over more often. Can’t you go part-time and supplement your income with bar work over here?’

‘Good idea,’ said Mike. ‘Bar work. Haven’t been back for ages, you know.’

‘A year,’ I said.

‘Pah! Not a year – I came back at Easter.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ I said. ‘You were going to, for Dad’s birthday party, but you had to cancel.’

Mike appeared to be in the grip of some unpleasant memory. ‘You’re right, Titch. Matheson deal. Phones ringing off the hook. Screaming. I don’t think I left the office for three days…’

‘Ooh, Mike,’ I said, ‘you’re
so
important and hardworking, aren’t you?’

Mike had been supposed to make the speech at Dad’s party, which had also celebrated my parents’ silver wedding anniversary (I
know
! You do the maths…) but, typical Mike, at the last minute he had to cancel his trip and Chin made the speech. The party was good, but Chin was a bit of a flop, drunk and rambling. And, besides, she wasn’t Mike, who would have told a story, played the kazoo, got the audience to sing along, then probably slipped over and lain, with aplomb, on the floor unconscious for the rest of the evening.

‘Well, you’re back now,’ I continued, seeing that he was looking rather depressed.

His face twitched into a smile. ‘And I can’t imagine how I stayed away so long. I could give it all up and live in the shed in the garden just to be near the old place. Does that make sense or sound completely crazy?’

‘No, it makes sense,’ I said, because I’d been thinking that
more and more often lately. ‘But you can come back any time. You know it’s always going to be here.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Mike, darkly. ‘Your dad might sell it and move to a bungalow on the coast.’

‘Or form a nu-metal band,’ I said.

‘Or join the Rotary Club,’ Mike replied, jamming his trilby on his head and smiling.

‘Or the Steven Seagal fan club. Why did you meet David for a drink in New York?’ I asked suddenly, hoping to catch him off-guard.

‘Ah.’ Mike stopped and looked down at me. ‘Did Rosalie say something? I’ve met up with him a couple of times, actually. Since…er…you two…He’s a nice bloke.’

‘Bollocks,’ I said.

Mike corrected himself: ‘Sorry. He’s Satan’s master-worker, and I hope his eyeballs dry up, but that aside, he’s a pretty nice bloke.’

We were approaching the village. Mike patted my arm.

‘I’m sorry, Lizzy, my love, I should have told you but it isn’t a big deal. Look at it this way. He doesn’t have any friends, he’s been ostracized from normal society, so that’s why he doesn’t mind meeting up with me.’

I released Mike’s arm. ‘Does he ever ask about me?’

Mike looked alarmed, as if this was some kind of test and he didn’t know the answer. Then he said, slowly, ‘He’s mentioned you, but I’ve told him not to. He’s a great bloke in many ways, but he’s weak. The way he treated you…Bit crap, really. So we just don’t…Well – you know. It’s over, isn’t it?’

I nodded.

‘Dear girl, have I said the wrong thing?’

‘No, no, not at all,’ I replied. ‘In fact you’ve said absolutely the right thing. Don’t worry.’

Mike was saved by Jess running past. ‘Come on, people,’
she called. ‘We’re nearly there – and it’s Sandringham time.’

Every year we play Sandringham Church, a game Jess invented when she was a teenager and obsessed with
Hello!.
We all pretend to be a different member of the Royal Family walking to church on Christmas morning, waving to the crowd of well-wishers, though to those who choose to wait outside in the freezing cold on Christmas Day to see Prince Edward I say, Think about what you’re doing and whether you need medical assistance.

Anyway, Mike is brilliant as Princess Anne, while I always get landed with someone totally duff. This year I’d got Sophie Rhys-Jones, Tom was Fergie, which is great (mad eyes, shunned by the others and sucking a finger as a toe-substitute), and Mum was an impressive Prince Philip, shouting at imaginary foreigners. We had to keep stopping to laugh and help Rosalie with her portrayal of Mrs Simpson (she offered).

The organ was playing and there was a buzz of excitement, and Mum, Dad and Kate paused to kiss people and chat. Tom, Jess and I grabbed two pews and watched our parents gesturing to Rosalie, smiling and explaining about Mike’s new wife as something they were all over the moon about. Rosalie was loving it all, you could tell the words ‘quaint’ and ‘cute’ were hovering on her lips as she gazed at the stone carvings, the little gargoyles above the arched windows and the pretty stained-glass picture of the flight into Egypt.

‘Is that Mary and Joseph?’ she asked, sitting next to me and pointing as the other grown-ups chatted in the aisle.

‘Who? Oh, yes, and that’s Jesus. They’re fleeing from Herod,’ I said, niftily disguising that almost all my Bible knowledge comes from
The Usborne Illustrated Bible Stories.
‘Into Egypt.’

‘Praise be,’ said Rosalie, solemnly, bowing her head.

Kate had sat down and was tapping her watch crossly because the service was late starting and she
hates
that. It applies to all events in which she is participating but not the leader – church services, concerts and dinner parties.

A few seconds later the organ stopped, there was a shuffling sound, and it started up again, wheezing into ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’. We stood up and sang as the choir shuffled down the aisle. As always, Silas Hitchin, the oldest member, brought up the rear, about fifteen feet behind the rest, singing a different carol – I think it was ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’.

Tom and I were convulsed with laughter and Mum turned to frown at us. I snatched my glove out of my pocket to shove it into my mouth, and the other sailed out to land in the pew behind.

Someone tapped my shoulder. ‘Disgraceful behaviour,’ a familiar voice said. ‘Here’s your glove.’

I look round and then blinked, to see if I was dreaming.

It was David. My David. David Eliot.

He was smiling at me, holding out my glove. I dropped my hymn book.

When I was eight I had nits and was sent home from school early to be deloused. It was horrible. I was one of only three culprits in my year so I was shunned. My parents had only just moved into Keeper House and I was new at the village school. My mother was accosted in the chemist, our doors were daubed with sheep’s blood and we had to move to a new home. Well, not exactly, but I felt like a leper and, worst of all, even after I was 100 per cent nit-free, I had to sit in assembly with a row of girls behind me and the gnawing fear that overly acrobatic lice might leap across the gap. Ever since I’ve had a thing about people sitting behind me, and now was no exception.

As the carol finished, I took my glove and sat down. The
back of my neck felt cold, though the rest of me was hot and my heart felt as if it might burst out of my chest.

The vicar’s Christmas sermon might have been the calendar for the Barron Knights’ next UK tour: I have no memory of the rest of the service, except that I was seized with the desire to run screaming from the church and all the way home.

David Eliot was back. Why? When? How?

As we filed out, Chin hissed, ‘Is that David?’

‘Where?’ I asked casually.

‘Behind you! Leaving his pew! Kissing your mum and shaking hands with Mike! Looking gorgeous in a black coat! With—’

‘Yes!’ I said. ‘Shut up!’ I fingered the silky-thin tassels on my scarf, not wanting to look up. ‘Say something to me, pretend we’re having a great chat.’

‘Hahahahaha!’ said Chin, casting her eyes around the church, which was emptying rapidly. ‘Good one, Lizzy!’

I stared at her in despair. ‘God, you’re awful, aren’t you? Come on, he’s nearly outside. We can go now.’

Gavin, the vicar, was relatively young and trendy. As I passed into the porch I shook his hand and stopped to say hello. Chin drifted off to join the others. ‘It’s Lizzy, isn’t it? I’ve just seen your sister,’ he said.

‘Yes, it is. Happy Christmas, Gavin. That was a lovely service.’

Mrs Kenworthy from the choir brushed past. ‘Sorry, Lizzy. Just getting your uncle Mike a history-of-the-church pamphlet.’

‘Ah – for Rosalie, I suppose,’ I said.

‘Is that his new wife?’ Mrs Kenworthy didn’t sniff, but there was a degree of doubt in her voice.

‘Happy Christmas, Lizzy,’ said Gavin. ‘Well, I hear the carol singers weren’t the only visitors to Keeper House yesterday.’

Rosalie, in her pale pink cashmere coat, was standing nearby, talking politely to Mr Flood, who used to work the Earl of Laughton’s whacking great estate nearby. He’s retired now but must make an absolute fortune; he’s in every single documentary about old agricultural practices, life in a great house before the war, after the war, during the war, and in those village reminiscences that people publish. He’s even thought about getting an agent. The sight of this very old, hairy man grasping the cuffs of his too long shirt in his fists and waving them enthusiastically at the immaculate Rosalie was quite special, and I looked at Gavin, who is perceptive about these things.

‘You’ve met Rosalie, then?’ I said politely.

‘Yes,’ said Gavin, and I knew he understood it was a little strange for us all. ‘But it is the season to be jolly, isn’t it? And to welcome those without shelter into our homes,’ he added, his face pink with pleasure at the relevance of the Christmas message.

‘She’s got an apartment two blocks from Central Park,’ I told him. ‘I don’t call that being without shelter.’

‘People find shelter in different places,’ said Gavin. If he hadn’t been a vicar I might have punched him, but it’s the kind of thing vicars are supposed to say.

‘You’re right. Thanks, Gavin,’ I said.

A voice at my side said, ‘Hello, Lizzy.’

I searched desperately for Chin, and saw all of my family making their way to Uncle Tony’s grave, so I turned and looked up at him. David sodding Eliot, the man who had ripped out my heart and used it as a doormat. He was so tall – I always forgot that.

‘Hello, David,’ I said.