Ten Years On (18 page)

I feel that tidal wave of grief inside me. ‘He died in a motorbike accident.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeats. ‘If I’d known, I …’

I want to put him at his ease. ‘It’s OK. You weren’t to know.’

‘I can’t imagine how you feel.’

He looks relieved when Peta joins us. ‘Oh good, you two have met,’ she says.

Rupert clears his throat. ‘Rebecca was telling me about her husband.’

‘I know. Poor thing. It’s so sad, isn’t it?’ She strokes my back. ‘But the thing is, Rebecca, as awful as it is, you’re still young enough to meet someone else.’

Rupert excuses himself, looking deeply uncomfortable.

I walk past her and out of the room. Time to go home.

With a trembling hand I open the door to Joe’s bedroom and stare at the bed, covered in jackets and handbags. Mine would be right at the bottom! I consider leaving without it. After all, it’s just a fucking jacket.

‘Becca,’ Joe says, entering the room. ‘Are you going? What’s wrong?’

I’m shaking. ‘Nothing,’ I reply, tossing another jacket out of the way, and another …

‘Here. Let me find yours.’ I stand back and allow Joe to sort through the pile.

‘That’s mine,’ I say when he reaches the bottom of the heap. My black jacket now looks as squashed as a
dead bat. He places it round my shoulders. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asks again, this time more gently.

‘It was …’ I swallow hard. ‘It was just something someone said.’

‘What did they say? Was it Rupert? I saw you talking to him.’

‘Maybe I wasn’t ready for tonight.’ I can’t tell him it was Peta. ‘It’s too soon.’

‘What happened? What did Rupert say?’ Joe persists, his arm placed protectively around my shoulder.

‘It was me,’ says Peta, standing at the doorway. She comes in and sits down on the bed, putting herself between Joe and me. She reaches for my hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Rebecca, if I offended you. I really am. I wasn’t thinking. The last thing I wanted to do was upset you.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘Perhaps there was a misunderstanding,’ Joe suggests.

I nod. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Forget what she said, Becca,’ Olly tells me as I’m driving back to my parents.

I press my foot down hard on the accelerator and wind down the window, in desperate need of fresh air. ‘I miss you, Olly.’

‘I know. I don’t know what to say.’

‘That’s a first.’

I hear him laugh, gently, before … ‘Slow down,’ he warns.

‘I can’t believe it. You’re still side-seat driving.’ I wait for him to make some quip, but hear nothing. ‘Olly?’

‘Sorry, I was thinking. I’m worried for Joe. He needs to get out of that relationship before she gets her claws well and truly stuck in.’

24

I sniff the milk and look at the best-before date. ‘Where are my bloody glasses?’ Dad is saying upstairs, as if someone has hidden them on purpose. He has an antique fair today, at the Guildhall in Winchester.

‘Have you checked your pocket?’ Mum suggests.

‘Yes!’

I flush the milk down the sink and, while I’m at it, pick out some more dodgy-looking items in the fridge. Cottage cheese. Off. Hummus. Two weeks old. Chuck. Deeply suspicious-looking tartare sauce. Definitely bin. Soon I’m taking out everything in the fridge and examining the labels.

Mum comes downstairs as I’m about to chuck away a packet of ham. ‘What are you doing?’ She swipes it from my hand. ‘It’s perfectly all right. The twins can have it for lunch, with baked beans.’

‘It’s three days past its sell-by date.’

‘They won’t notice.’

‘Fine,’ I snap.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

We hear a howl from upstairs, as if Dad’s just stepped into something nasty.

Mum takes a deep breath. ‘How was the party last night?’ she asks, looking towards Dad’s jacket and scarf, hanging on the banister. She walks over, feels inside one of the pockets. ‘They’re here, you old fool!’

Dad emerges at the top of the stairs. ‘But I checked there!’

The telephone rings. Mum picks up. ‘No, I don’t want a new kitchen.’ She slams the phone down.

‘I’m going out.’ I edge my way past her.

‘Could you help tidy up first?’ she demands. Dad comes downstairs, takes his coat sheepishly. He informs us the fair ends at four o’clock. He’s hoping to sell his Davenport inkwell.

Ignoring Dad, Mum continues barking, ‘And bring down any washing that needs doing, will you. I’m putting on a dark load in a minute.’

Dad leaves, dressed in his smart trousers, shirt and pink cardigan.

‘I’ve got so much to do!’ Mum hurls breakfast mugs and cereal bowls into the sink. ‘Pippa will be here any second, and everywhere I look, there’s mess!’

‘Why the hell doesn’t she get some proper help then? It’s ridiculous, Mum! Todd can afford it!’

‘That’s not the point,’ Mum says coolly. ‘I enjoy it.’

‘Do you? It seems way too much. They’re here all the time. I love the boys, but …’

‘Todd’s a control freak. He doesn’t even like Pippa working, let alone a stranger looking after their children.’

‘Well, that’s his problem.’

‘Rebecca!’

‘You’ve looked after Pippa and me. Why are you doing it all over again?’ I glance out of the kitchen window, see Pippa’s Volvo estate pulling up outside. She opens the passenger door, unbuckles the seat belts. Theo jumps out first, dressed as Batman, waving his Happy Hopper cow in the air. I know I should stay. Tidy up, bring down my washing and offer to help Mum with the twins. I think of the party last night, what Peta said …

I need to walk. Anywhere. I don’t care.

I make for the back door.

I march through the water meadows. The view of the river, the swans in the distance and the beauty of St
Cross Church should make me feel at peace, but my mind is still spinning. I decide to walk up St Catherine’s Hill. When I reach the top I scream. Then I turn round and walk down again.

When I return home, the washing is hanging neatly on the line outside, my maternity knickers next to Dad’s old-fashioned pants. I open the back door and walk into the kitchen to find Oscar and Theo enjoying their baked beans, cheese and three-day-old ham, in between pulling faces at each other. I encourage them by sticking out my tongue and wiggling my fingers on my head to make bunny ears. They giggle. I catch Theo secretly feeding Audrey a chunk of ham under the table.

‘I was worried,’ Mum says, when I hand her some flowers, bought from the market. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Walking. I’m sorry, Mum.’ When I attempt to explain she says, ‘Not now,’ gesturing to Oscar and Theo. I can see how tired she is, close to tears. I’ve hurt her. ‘Sit down and finish your lunch,’ Mum orders, when Oscar slides off his chair and runs towards the door. She rushes over to the table, drags him back. ‘Sit down! Lunch isn’t over. I’ve made strawberry jelly.’

‘Here, Mum, let me do that,’ I say, taking the cloth
from her and wiping the sticky tomato sauce off Oscar’s podgy little fingers, telling him he must be good for Granny.

When lunch is over I tell Mum to have a rest. I’ll entertain the boys. She looks grateful, saying she wouldn’t mind going upstairs for an hour.

Oscar, Theo and I play Grandmother’s Footsteps in the garden. I’m always the Granny. They laugh when I turn my back to them and wiggle my bottom. I can hear their feet thudding towards me. When I turn … ‘I saw you move, Theo! Back you go!’

After twenty games, I lie down on the grass, and they crash down beside me. Theo touches my tummy. ‘When will it be ready?’ he asks, as if my baby will pop out of the oven when it’s cooked.

‘Well, it’s September now, and my baby’s due in late December.’

‘How many sleeps is that?’ Oscar asks.

‘I tell you what. It will be ready around Christmas time.’

‘Wow. Will Father Christmas bring it down the chimney?’ Theo asks, wide-eyed.

‘Not exactly.’

‘Is it a real baby?’ Oscar continues.

‘Very real. It’s a boy.’

‘Will Olly be back at Christmas to see it?’

I look away. ‘No.’

‘Why not? If it’s real, he’ll want to see it.’

‘Mum says Uncle Olly’s gone away, but where’s he gone?’

I catch my mother standing at the garden door, listening. ‘Why don’t we watch a film until your mummy gets here?’ she says.

Alone in the kitchen, Mum arranges the flowers into a vase. Her blonde hair is held back loosely with two clips, accentuating her blue eyes, and she’s wearing a soft cream jumper with jeans.

‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ I say. ‘I really am grateful for all you and Dad are doing for me, and I promise –
promise
– never to take you for granted again. Look at what you do for Pippa and for me, and those lucky boys.’

‘Maybe you have a point,’ she reasons, confiding that she and Dad have got into such a routine looking after the twins that it’s hard to unravel it. ‘Your father thinks the same. I do enjoy them, but I am tired. I might have a word with her.’

Relieved to have cleared the air, we hug. ‘I wonder
how Dad’s doing?’ I ask, picturing him standing poised behind his trestle table, ever hopeful.

‘He called while you were in the garden,’ she tells me, a sparkle in her eye now. ‘A couple of Japanese collectors came in with a wad of cash and bought virtually all his stock. He’s over the moon, said he’s taking us out on the town tonight.’

‘Oh, Mum, I’m working,’ I say, mildly relieved. ‘But it’ll be nice for you and Dad to go on your own. When was the last time you did that, went on a date?’

‘Rebecca, we’re too old for dates.’

I laugh, and tell her I’d better get ready for the wine course. ‘You know you’re not, Mum. We only live once. Wear that silver dress I love,’ I call over my shoulder.

25

Adam is the first to arrive at the wine tasting, modelling a bright purple sweatshirt with jeans. Janet follows closely behind, on the arm of her chauffeur for the evening, Michel. Michel is in his seventies and has known and worked for Joe’s father for many years.

Janet’s wearing a royal-blue wool dress with pearls, her hair has been washed and set and puffs out like a peacock’s feathers, and pinned to her dress is her precious regimental brooch. Michel tells Janet her carriage will await on the dot of ten.

‘What a charming man,’ she sighs, watching him leave. I kiss her on the cheek, inhaling the smell of lily of the valley. ‘Most interesting too. He comes from Syria, but only lived there for three weeks.’

I lead her over to Adam’s table and introduce them. ‘Wow, you look like the Queen,’ he says.

Henry is the next to arrive. Tonight he’s wearing a tweed jacket with an antique silver watch chain dangling from the breast pocket. I point him in the direction of Janet. Luckily she won’t be able to see his unfortunate nasal hair.

Monica is the last to arrive, slipping in discreetly at the back and sitting next to handsome Australian, Scott.

‘Chardonnay is a misunderstood wine,’ Joe says, as I hand round glasses containing either vanilla pods, knobs of butter, honey or melon, all key characteristics of chardonnay. The students sniff before passing on to their next-door neighbour. This exercise is encouraging them to identify flavours in wine. When Janet smells the honey she lets out a blissful sigh. ‘It reminds me of my childhood.’

A couple of the students laugh mockingly, so I could hug Joe when he says, ‘Janet’s made an excellent point. Wine is evocative and can remind us of a childhood memory. Who in this room likes Chardonnay?’

‘No, I don’t think I do,’ says Janet, matter-of-fact.

‘Not all Chardonnays,’ Adam replies. ‘You have to pick and choose carefully.’

‘Good, Adam, that’s right, because there are so many varieties. OK, Rebecca is going to hand round some
smoked salmon. Just take two pieces,’ he gestures towards Henry.

‘Oh, how delicious!’ Janet cries.

‘Now, we talked earlier about how dishes with a high acidity and lots of spices, like Thai food, work really well with a Sauvignon Blanc. What I want you to tell me now is which wine, out of the Sauvignon and Chardonnay, is a better accompaniment to the smoked salmon. One is going to really complement the fish, cut through it and refresh the palate. So, pick up glass number three.’

‘Glass number three,’ Janet repeats, and Joe’s about to help her, but Henry and Adam beat him to it. ‘I’m blind, you see,’ she’s apologizing to them.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Adam shrugs. ‘My mum Mavis says I’m different, but it doesn’t matter either.’

‘Here we go,’ says Henry, carefully handing her the right glass. Nasal hair or not, Henry is a kind man.

‘Now for a bit of blind tasting.’ Joe claps his hands, to stop the group from talking. ‘Pick up glass number ten.’

‘Now, which is that,’ I hear Janet saying in a muddled voice, accompanied by a chiming of glasses.

Henry discovers he’s in a muddle too.

Adam, remarkably cool, helps both of them out.

‘Splendid. This is such fun.’

Janet is holding her glass upside down. Oh dear. Janet doesn’t do spitting.

‘Right, so you’re in a restaurant and the menu has a “Pouilly-Fumé”. What’s it going to be?’ Joe asks, wrapping the evening up with a quiz.

‘Sauvignon Blanc!’ Adam calls out with confidence.

‘And where’s the spiritual homeland of Sauvignon Blanc?’

‘The Loire,’ chorus Adam and Henry. Scott and Monica are whispering together at the back.

‘La la la la Loire,’ says Janet, who’s been drinking steadily for an hour.

By the end of the evening she’s fallen asleep on Henry’s broad shoulder, every glass empty and an ecstatic smile spread over her face.

Janet thanks Joe and me again, her skin aglow from the evening. ‘My taste buds haven’t had as much fun in a long time.’ I watch her totter towards the stairs on the arm of Michel.

‘Take care of her, Michel!’ I call out. ‘She’s precious cargo.’

*

At the end of the night Joe walks me home. I tell him about Dad needing the car to take Mum out on the town, courtesy of a couple of Japanese buying his porcelain. Joe finds this funny. His father’s passion was fishing.

It’s a chilly evening and I think of Janet, back at home, alone in the darkness. I admire how she has coped all these years without her sight and without Gregory. Hopefully she’s fast asleep, dreaming of vineyards in the south of France.