The Sweetest Thing (40 page)

‘He’s told you …’ I hesitate.

‘About the baby?’ Adam nods.

‘If you’re really sure you want to go and live in London, I’ll let you,’ I say softly, my heart breaking
at the thought of losing my son. ‘I’ll speak to your dad.’

‘I can’t live with him now,’ Adam says miserably. ‘It would be a nightmare with a baby screaming its head off all the time.’

‘Oh, Adam.’ I reach out and touch his shoulder, but he backs away, grabbing his coat from the hook on the wall. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Outside, to fetch my boots,’ he says curtly.

I leave him alone. I’m not a martyr, but sometimes I wonder what foul deed I must have done in a previous life to deserve this.

What do you wear to a wassail? There’s definitely no need for skimpy underwear, and, if I’m honest, I’m relieved by that. It’s been a long time … I go for thermals, a pair of padded trousers which I once used for skiing, three jumpers, a fleece and coat. A hat, gloves and scarf complete my transformation to Michelin Man.

When my mobile rings, it takes me a while to find it about my person, and then it’s only Fifi Green checking that everything is in place for tonight.

Guy turns up at seven, whistling from the front door. ‘Are you ready, Jennie?’

‘Hang on a mo’. I’ve mislaid my torch,’ I call back.

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll be the light of your life.’ A chuckle dies in his throat. ‘Adam? I thought you’d be on your way to London with your dad.’

‘Oh, he didn’t want us,’ my son says gruffly, and my chest tightens in sympathy. Deep down, Adam does care. He cares too much.

‘In that case, you’d better come a-wassailing,’ Guy says kindly.

‘Didn’t you get my text?’ I say, joining him and
Adam under the porch, having checked that Lucky’s shut out of the kitchen and called for the girls to hurry up.

‘I’ve lost my mobile somewhere on the farm. Was it urgent?’

‘David’s changed his mind about having the children to live with him.’

‘He has, has he? Does that mean …?’ Guy gazes at me, his expression beseeching, like Lucky’s when he’s asking for a biscuit, then his mouth curves into a broad smile of understanding.

Sophie turns up with Georgia.

‘Hello, Guy. Mummy didn’t know what to wear so she’s wearing everything.’ Sophie giggles. ‘That’s why she’s so fat.’

‘Sophie!’ I gather up the spare tyre of fleece around my middle to demonstrate. ‘It isn’t me, it’s all the layers.’

‘I could have warmed you up,’ Guy says quietly into my ear, and I notice how Sophie stares at us as if to say, What’s going on?

‘It feels like my bed-time.’ Georgia stifles a yawn.

‘It’s way past mine. Come on, we mustn’t keep Fifi waiting.’ Grinning, he holds out his arm. ‘Your chariot awaits.

‘I thought I’d drive us into Talyton and we’d walk back,’ he says. ‘I’ll pick the Land Rover up tomorrow.’

The procession starts out from Market Square. Fifi is at the head of it, resplendent in a purple robe, a jaunty hat and wellington boots with wedges. She holds a staff in one hand and a hand-bell in the other, and is surrounded by kids carrying torches to light her way.

‘She looks like she’s been promoted from Lady Mayoress to goddess,’ I whisper to Guy.

‘You’re the goddess, Jennie,’ he says gruffly.

‘That’s a terrible line,’ I say, chuckling.

‘I meant it in all seriousness,’ he goes on, but he doesn’t sound that serious to me.

‘Hello, Guy. Oh, and Jennie.’ Maria joins us briefly, holding a lantern up to our faces before greeting Georgia and Sophie. ‘Camilla’s here – she’s over there with Fifi, if you want to join her.’

The girls move away. Adam has already sloped off to join a pair of teenage boys near the tethering stone.

Maria touches my arm. ‘I’ll catch up with you soon. I seem to have mislaid my husband.’

‘Maria has her suspicions about us,’ Guy observes.

‘I can’t see any reason for that,’ I say, although I don’t think she’s the only one to have caught on to the fact that he and I are acting more like a couple than mere neighbours tonight.

‘I think she noticed me pinching your bum.’

‘I didn’t …’ I can’t help giggling. ‘You’ll have to pinch a bit harder.’

‘I hope that isn’t an excuse to make me do it again, Jennie Copeland,’ Guy teases, but he does it again anyway.

The procession moves off, heading out of Talyton St George to wassail the apple trees. Peter the greengrocer plays a drum, Fifi rings her bell and, taking up the rear, someone starts up the bagpipes. Mr Victor is there too, but I notice that he doesn’t bring his parrot. It’s probably far too cold for it.

‘That doesn’t sound very traditional,’ I observe.

‘It is in Scotland,’ Guy says, squeezing my hand.

We take in five orchards in all, Jennie’s Folly being the last one. Just as we did at the other four, everyone surrounds the largest tree, holding their arms up
towards its naked branches and singing the wassailing song, while the owner of the orchard pours cider on to its roots and Fifi beats it respectfully about the trunk with her staff. At the first orchard, I had to stuff my scarf into my mouth to stop an attack of the giggles, but by the time we reach ours, it seems quite normal.

In fact, the combination of the lanterns and torches dancing in the darkness, the babble of conversation, the feeling of being amongst friends and the mixed scents of bruised grass, mulled cider and Guy’s aftershave, send shivers down my spine.

The girls watch, wide-eyed. Adam, I suspect, is pie-eyed by now.

Towards the end of the ceremony for our trees, Fifi joins us.

‘Well, Jennie, thank you for your hospitality. And thank you for the cider, Guy,’ she goes on, turning to him. She purses her lips as if she’s deciding how to phrase what she says next. ‘Far be it for me to interfere, but I hope you’ve thought carefully about what you’re doing. No, don’t try to tell me nothing’s going on. I’m not blind, and neither’s Ruthie.’

‘Fifi, please don’t meddle,’ Guy says sternly. ‘This has nothing to do with you. Goodnight,’ he adds, taking my arm and leading me away.

‘What was all that about?’ I ask him. ‘Why did she mention Ruthie?’

‘I’ve told you before, Ruthie and I are friends. We’ve known each other for years. That’s all there is to it.’ He pauses, whispering into my ear, ‘You’re the only woman for me …’

‘Oh, Guy,’ I sigh as I fight the impulse to throw myself into his arms and ignore the consequences. I’d love to forget about everyone else, but it isn’t fair to
reveal the extent of my relationship with him until the children are ready. They’re only just beginning to get their heads round the fact that their father has rejected them in favour of his new baby. It isn’t right that they should also have to deal with their mum turning up with a boyfriend, even though Guy isn’t a stranger to them.

If I’m honest, it isn’t just about the children though. A tiny niggle of doubt has crept back into my mind, and it’s all Fifi’s fault for making special mention of her … Ruthie. What exactly is her connection to Guy?

When the wassailers have gone, leaving only crumbs and empty mugs in their wake, Guy helps with some clearing up while I make sure Georgia and Sophie get to bed. Adam is home – his bedroom light is on – so I knock at his door.

‘You okay?’ I ask softly.

‘G’night,’ he mutters.

Relieved that he’s stayed at home, rather than gone off with the boys he was talking to before, because I wouldn’t have put that past him, I join Guy in the drawing room, sitting down next to him on the wicker sofa which creaks under our combined weight.

‘This could be exciting,’ he says, smiling.

‘Oh, I hope so.’ I lean against him as he slides one arm around my shoulder, the other around my waist, then rubs his nose against mine.

‘It’s difficult though,’ I mutter. ‘The children.’

‘I know … I suppose they could wander in at any time.’

We sit like that for a while, the house falling silent, until all I can hear is the sound of Guy breathing, and the low thrumming of my pulse. I touch his face, following the curve of his jaw with my fingertips, his
skin rough with stubble, and my chest tightens with desire.

Guy’s breath catches in his throat. ‘I really, really … like you, Jennie.’

Our lips touch, and we’re kissing … and there’s a load of noise upstairs: thudding; a door banging; someone being sick.

‘Adam …’

‘That’s quite a way to ruin the moment.’ Guy smiles ruefully.

‘I’d better go up,’ I say. ‘He might need some help getting back to bed.’

Guy follows me upstairs, close behind.

‘Adam?’ I knock on the bathroom door, trying the handle when he doesn’t answer.

‘Let me try.’ Guy holds on to the handle and gives the door a shove.

‘He’s locked it.’ I knock harder, concerned for Adam’s welfare.

‘Don’t panic, Jennie.’ Guy puts his hand up to the architrave above the door and picks up a key, creating a puff of dust.

‘I hadn’t noticed that before.’

‘We always kept the spare there. In case of emergencies …’ He sticks the key into the lock and gives it a sharp jerk, at which the key on the other side hits the floor with a metallic clatter, allowing Guy to turn the spare key and unlock the door.

I push past him, finding my son lying on the floor in front of the throne.

‘Adam?’ I kneel down beside him but he’s already on his knees, struggling to hold his head up.

‘Mum? Oh, go away …’

‘Adam, you’re drunk.’ I grab a piece of loo roll and
wipe away the string of saliva that dangles from his mouth.

‘I’m so tired,’ he groans.

‘Let’s get him back to bed,’ Guy decides. He bends down, and together we lift Adam to his feet and half carry, half drag him back to his room. We lie him on the bed, pulling the duvet out from underneath him and covering him up.

‘I’ll get him a glass of water,’ Guy says. ‘No, you stay there with him, Jennie.’

Once Adam has had a few sips of water, Guy says that he’ll go home.

‘It’s nothing personal,’ he says. ‘It’s just that I could do with a couple of hours’ kip, and I don’t think Adam’s going to be helping with the milking, do you?’

‘No, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t you be sorry about anything. It isn’t your fault. It’s one of those things.’

‘I should have kept a closer eye on him.’

‘Only by keeping him in manacles.’

‘Why is he so intent on drinking himself into oblivion?’

‘I believe it’s what some people call “having a good time”. He’ll soon learn.’

‘Why do people say that? How many people do you know who’ve suffered a hangover, suddenly wake up and say, “Actually, I’m never going to drink again”? If they do, it doesn’t last.’

‘You’re right, Jennie.’ Guy smiles. ‘On this occasion,’ he adds slyly.

I ground Adam for a week, but a couple of days after the wassail I receive a phone call from school at about two in the afternoon, from the Deputy Head this time. Adam has been making unauthorised absences again. Was I aware of this situation? I wasn’t, and I’m not happy. After the last time, I took to walking him into student welfare every morning to make sure he got there, but since his behaviour seemed to improve – the embarrassment of walking into school with his mother was too much – I’ve relaxed my guard.

‘I’ll go out and look for him,’ I say, sighing as I look at the racks of fairy cakes awaiting decoration. I’ve baked loads, intent on building on the stall’s success at the Christmas market. I take off my apron and wash my hands, grab my coat, scarf and gloves, and call Lucky.

‘Lucky, shall we?’ He flies off the sofa, a blur of dog, his claws clattering on the flagstones, tail wagging like crazy and a smile on his face. If you’d ever told me that
dogs could smile, I would have laughed, but Lucky does, lifting his lip to reveal his teeth.

I plan a route to take in all the places Adam might be: hanging around at Uphill Farm, or at the pond in the copse, or down by the river. I doubt very much that he’ll be in Talyton at this time of day – there are too many busybodies who’ll be raring to report any truants.

I walk smartly up the drive, torn between worrying about Adam – not about his safety because he’s more than able to look after himself, but more about his state of mind again – and being pleased to have this excuse to see Guy. Any excuse to spend any time at all with my lovely – dare I believe it now? – boyfriend.

Boyfriend? It seems so strange. It makes me feel like I’m seventeen again, not forty.

Since the cows have stopped wandering up and down here twice a day, there’s more grass growing up through the middle of the drive. There’s ice on the puddles. They gleam in the pale sunshine – crack under my feet. There are no leaves on the trees; their branches are bare, trunks thick with collars of ivy. When I reach the farmyard, the Land Rover’s there, along with a second 4×4 that I don’t recognise, but there’s no sign of Adam or Guy. Napoleon the cockerel crows from his perch on the wall outside the barn that houses the cows overwinter, and a few chickens wander about, pecking fruitlessly at strands of frozen hay and grain. A cow utters a desultory moo over the distant buzz of a quad bike.