Just a Family Affair (3 page)

Then she commissioned some simple cupboards in oak tongue and groove, held together with huge black hinges she’d found in a reclamation yard. The walls, once a cheery egg-yolk yellow, were now painted a calm and restful duck-egg blue. The ancient Laura Ashley curtains were replaced with a smart Vanessa Arbuthnott roller blind - the fabric had been screamingly expensive, but Lucy had got a remnant and made the blind herself, which had involved a fair amount of swearing. Then she’d treated herself to some new appliances. A new fridge, for a start, with a freezer that defrosted itself. All she’d had before was an ice box that got so full the peas invariably slid out every time you opened it.

By the end of the project she was even more unsettled. There was no doubt the kitchen was stunning. Decluttering it had seemed to double the size and the light, but to Lucy it didn’t feel quite right. She felt faintly embarrassed every time she cooked in it, rather as if she had a new dress on that she wasn’t quite sure about. Everyone who had seen it had exclaimed how fantastic it looked, but she could tell deep down they preferred the previous incarnation, as did she. She sighed. She would get used to it. It just needed distressing; perhaps today’s celebrations would take the gloss off it and make it feel more lived in.

Lucy felt as if she’d been treading water for ages, waiting for the next phase of her life. Surely it didn’t just fade into complete nothingness? She’d heard of empty-nest syndrome, but didn’t that belong to women of a different age - menopausal, grey-haired creatures with thick waists and no dress sense? Technically, Lucy could still have another baby if she wanted. She’d been barely in her twenties when she’d had Sophie and Georgina. This solution to her ennui had occurred to her in a wild moment when she’d folded all the girls’ baby clothes away one afternoon and put them in the attic, but she’d dismissed it fairly rapidly. If not a baby, then the traditional route for a dissatisfied, middle-aged woman was either an affair or an Open University degree. Neither of which particularly appealed.

She checked the warming oven of the Aga to see if her pavlovas had dried out - three dense, chewy discs of meringue as big as dinner plates which would be piled on top of each other with dollops of whipped cream flecked with raspberries - madly out of season but now she had the facilities, she could take advantage of frozen fruit. That would keep the sweet-toothed brigade happy, while the rest could delve into Stilton or Brie. There was a whole one of each resting on a marble slab.

At the prospect of the banquet to come, Lucy felt like her old self again. She sang as she put on the kettle, dancing round the kitchen in her striped pyjamas and bed socks, lighter of heart than she had been for months.

 

Mickey Liddiard stood in the doorway of his transformed kitchen, smiling. His wife still did it for him. She could be sixteen from behind, and not much more from in front, to be honest. Lucy had never used anything more exotic than Ponds Cold Cream, but it had done the trick - her skin was smooth and glowing, her treacle-brown eyes unlined. Her tousled chestnut hair fell to her shoulders, without a hint of grey. She was still as slim as a reed; riding kept her waist trim, her buttocks taut, her arms toned.

He knew she’d been struggling over the past few months. She hated the house when it was empty. Lucy thrived on company, the more the merrier. When the children were young, there had been a constant stream of friends in and out, coming for tea, sleeping over, sometimes staying for days on end. Patrick’s girlfriend Mandy had been one such guest - she’d come to stay for the weekend with Sophie and to all intents and purposes had never actually left. But with Patrick and Mandy now in their own little cottage, Sophie in Australia and Georgina at uni, the stream had dried up. Mickey had watched Lucy almost wither away. Once or twice he’d offered to find her a job at the brewery, but she’d batted away the idea with what was bordering on scorn. She’d be no use at the brewery. She had no idea how it was run. And as she’d never done a day’s work in her life, she’d be a liability. Lucy had no confidence in her own abilities.

And now, thought Mickey, he was glad she hadn’t taken him up on his offer. Business was pretty grim, and he preferred to protect her from the harsh reality of belt-tightening and redundancies. Had she been working for Honeycote Ales, he’d have found it hard to hide the truth.

‘Morning, Mrs Liddiard.’ He affected a cod bumpkin accent.

She turned round with a start. He grinned at her, lounging against the wall in his chambray pyjama bottoms, his shoulders still as broad and his stomach still as flat as the day she had met him, then gave her a lascivious tradesman’s wink as he held up the bottle of milk he’d retrieved from the doorstep.

‘I brought you your usual. Will that be all today, or was there something else you were after?’

‘Oh, thank you, Ernie.’ She played along immediately, her eyes sparkling. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t mind one of your specials today.’

‘Ooh, right, Mrs Liddiard. I’ll see what I can do. If you’d just like to come over ’ere, I’ll start by taking your top off.’

‘Oh Ernie . . .’

She giggled as he unbuttoned her pyjamas. Moments later, ‘Ernie’ had scooped her up and carried her upstairs, dropping her on the bed in a heap.

‘They don’t call me the fastest milkman in the west for nothing,’ he murmured as he ravished her amongst the rumpled bedclothes.

An hour later, Lucy woke with a start. They’d fallen asleep, tangled in each other’s arms.

‘Come on, Mickey. Get up. They’ll all be here soon and I’ve got mounds of potatoes to peel and the table to lay.’

She flew back down the stairs to the kitchen, put the kettle back on the hotplate and drew breath. It wasn’t quite nine by the clock on the wall. She leant back against the Aga for a moment to wait for the water to boil, breathing out a little sigh of contentment. Spring in the air, sex with the milkman, followed by a houseful for lunch. It didn’t get better than that.

 

By midday, everything was under control. Lucy stood back to admire her handiwork. It was unusual for her to be so particular; at Honeycote House, meals and celebrations seemed to evolve by some sort of osmosis that took no planning, underpinned with a slight air of chaos. Today, because there was no one in the house to distract her, no dilemmas to deal with, she could concentrate on the task in hand, which was making her nervous. In the old days, the phone would have been ringing continuously, dogs would be barking as people came and went, an argument over clothing would break out between the girls, Mickey would slope off at the last minute, just when she needed him to carve or bring in some logs . . . but today peace and order reigned.

The table looked stunning. When she’d finished the kitchen, Lucy had reflected that she and Mickey had been using his parents’ old crockery all these years, old-fashioned and chipped and mismatched. They had Wedgwood and the Waterford for special occasions, of course, but in the kitchen they had always made do. It had never seemed to matter before, but now the plates didn’t fit at all. So Lucy had rushed out and bought a dozen cream dinner plates - rustic Provençal china with scrolled edges. And a dozen chunky wine glasses with square bottoms that she’d fallen in love with - for years they had drunk out of the boring goblets they got from the supplier who did the pubs, because glasses at Honeycote House always got broken and there was no point in having any nicer ones.

Now, all her purchases were laid out on the table. There were also soft linen napkins trimmed with lace that Lucy had found in the airing cupboard, and laundered and ironed, another legacy from Mickey’s mother - they didn’t usually bother with such niceties. A huge wrought-iron candelabra sat in the middle, stuffed with proper beeswax candles. Lucy reminded herself to remove it at some stage during the meal or it was bound to get knocked over. Two enamel jugs were stuffed to the gills with white tulips.

Sunlight shone in through the open kitchen window, lighting up the whole room, and Lucy could hear the peal of bells as the Sunday service at the little church in the village finished. Lucy sometimes went, because she knew the church might be in danger of closure if it wasn’t supported, but today she hadn’t had time. She slid a tray of cheese straws into the baking oven of the Aga and rushed upstairs to get changed.

In recognition of spring, she put on a pale yellow linen skirt, a white cashmere cardigan, and white ballet flats. She had a moment to look in the mirror just as the front doorbell jangled madly, shook her hair out with her fingers, and ran down the stairs to greet the first of her guests.

 

It was Caroline and James who arrived first, which was unusual. Their oldest, Henry, hurtled in through the door with a bloodcurdling Red Indian war cry and a plastic tomahawk. James followed, looking awkward with Percy in his Carrytot. He had never been at home with baby paraphernalia but as someone pointed out, Mothercare didn’t do Chippendale car seats. Caroline brought up the rear with two-year-old Constance, who stumped over the gravel and up the steps clinging on to her mother’s finger, solemn beneath her ginger pudding-bowl haircut.

‘Happy birthday. And for Christ’s sake, open it quickly,’ James muttered to his brother, thrusting a bottle of vintage Veuve at Mickey as he deposited the car seat on the kitchen table. Lucy promptly picked it up and put it on the floor. Percy had once rocked his chair so hard it had fallen off the kitchen work top, a fact James never seemed to remember. She popped open the buckle and scooped Percy out. He promptly puked over her.

‘Welcome to my world,’ said Caroline, puffing with exertion, even though there were only three steps up to the front door of Honeycote House. She was terribly unfit.

‘Don’t worry,’ Lucy reassured her, dabbing at her cardigan with a tea towel. ‘It’s only a little posset.’

James looked as if he might be sick himself. Mickey sniffed, wrinkling his nose.

‘I think Connie might have done a poo.’

‘Your turn,’ said Caroline to her husband.

‘How can it be my turn?’ asked James acidly. ‘I changed her just before we came out.’

‘Well, I changed her fifty-nine times last week. So you’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Lucy, popping Percy back into his seat and holding out her hand. ‘Come on, Connie.’

‘You’re a saint.’ Caroline flopped into the big chair at the head of the table. She had on a black wrap dress that had fitted perfectly once but was now two sizes too small. As soon as she sat down the fabric strained, revealing hold-up black stockings and an impressive cleavage. Mickey’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

‘It’s OK. I’ve been there.’ Lucy grinned in response. ‘It must run in the family. Mickey didn’t change a single nappy when my lot were little.’

‘Quite right. Women’s work.’ Mickey worked the cork out of the bottle of champagne. It flew obligingly across the room. Caroline promptly picked it up and threw it back at Mickey, who ducked.

‘I know you’re only trying to wind me up,’ she shouted. ‘But there’s no need.’ And she promptly burst into tears.

Oh dear, thought Lucy.

‘Nappies? Baby wipes?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Shit!’ Caroline wailed. ‘I forgot the changing bag. James, you’ll have to go home and get it.’

James already had his paw around a chilled glass of Veuve Clicquot.

‘No way.’

‘Don’t panic,’ said Lucy. ‘I’ll phone Patrick and Mandy. They can stop off at the supermarket in Eldenbury on their way through. Connie can go without for half an hour.’

‘She’ll piddle on your tiles,’ warned James.

‘She won’t be the first,’ said Lucy cheerfully, ‘and I’m sure she won’t be the last.’

Once Connie had been divested of her soiled nappy and everyone had a drink, Georgina bounded in. Georgina, it was safe to say, did not have her finger on the pulse of fashion. She really didn’t care about clothes, just threw on whatever was closest to hand. Today that was an outsize rugby shirt (Lucy didn’t like to ask whose), a denim miniskirt, opaque tights and pink clogs. Her hair was tied up in two stubby bunches.

‘Glad to see you’ve dressed for the occasion.’ Mickey kissed his daughter absently on the head and handed her a glass.

‘You should have seen what I had on earlier,’ retorted Georgie. ‘Anyway, it’s just Sunday lunch, isn’t it? No big deal.’ She relented, grinning, and thrust a parcel at her father. ‘Happy birthday, Dad. Sorry about the crap wrapping paper.’

Mickey duly unwrapped it. It was a book.

‘Fifty Places to See Before You Die?’ Mickey raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not quite sure how I’m supposed to take that.’

‘I thought it was about time you and Mum did something,’ declared Georgina. ‘When’s the last time you stepped foot outside Honeycote?’

‘In case you’d forgotten, I’m forking out for your university fees at the moment,’ Mickey shot back. ‘Which means we’d be lucky to afford a day trip to Weston.’

‘But thank you, sweetheart.’ Lucy shot her husband a warning look, not wanting dissension amongst the troops. She’d almost forgotten what it was like when they all got together. And they weren’t even all here yet.

 

‘Wow!’ said Mandy. ‘I had no idea. Barbie or the Little Mermaid. Which do you think?’

Patrick rolled his eyes. They were in the middle of the supermarket in Eldenbury, following an SOS call from Lucy. It was astonishing, he thought, how Mandy could turn the most mundane of shopping trips into a retail experience. She was dithering over the choice of nappies as if she was choosing a bracelet in Tiffany’s.

‘Can’t you just get plain ones?’

‘That’s boring!’ Mandy reached out a decisive hand, and Patrick sighed with relief. ‘The Little Mermaid, I think. Or maybe I should get both.’

‘No!’

Mandy gave him a reproachful look.

‘They won’t go to waste. She’ll use them.’