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CHAPTER TWOJingle BellsDecember |
Bourbon Roses
Originating from an island in the Indian Ocean, these roses are prized for their combination of beauty and scent. With ruffled silky petals and fragrances with undertones of peach melon and jasmine, they are often grown as climbing roses on arches and pergolas. Notable examples include Queen Victoria, a sweetly scented lilac-pink rose with hints of honeysuckle; Boule de Neige, with milky-white curled petals; Madame Isaac Pereire, a deep pink with a strong raspberry scent; and Souvenir de Malmaison, a blush-pink fragrant rose with hints of nectarine, cinnamon, and nutmeg.
It’s Friday morning and I’m in the kitchen trying not to have a complete meltdown; I may need to set myself up with some sort of emergency drip. Perhaps if I lie on the floor with a bottle of gin set on a slow trickle. If only I’d nicked a bottle of Helena’s sloe gin, I’m sure that would do the trick. I’ve lost my main list, so I’m writing an emergency backup one now, and if I could find any gin, I’d definitely give the drip thing a go, or pour myself a stiffener, as Uncle Bertie would say. It’s Moving Day today, and the boys are due back with Pete in a couple of hours, and there’s still loads to do.
I’ve spent the last six weeks driving up and down to Devon, sorting out papers with Mr. Crouch whilst simultaneously keeping an eye on Uncle Bertie and trying to give Ivy a hand, which hasn’t been easy, because she’s been on a manic cleaning mission ever since the funeral. I’m sure it’s some sort of displacement activity, but she’s been washing and polishing like a woman demented. I’ve resigned from school and term finished last week, thank God. I’ve found new schools for the boys, and had a series of increasingly tense conversations with Dad and Roger, who seem to think if they just go on about it long enough, I’ll sign everything over to them. I had to get Mr. Crouch to ring up Dad in the end, to explain that I can’t sign anything over to anyone except Bertie, so Dad’s not speaking to me at all now, except via Mum, which, all in all, is probably a good thing. I’m hoping I’ve made the right decision, for all of us, but it still feels like a bolt from the blue has thrown everything up in the air, just like I felt during the divorce, bobbling along and then suddenly you’re hit by lightning that you didn’t see coming, and you’ve no idea what just happened but you’re left feeling a bit crisp around the edges. I’m not that good at change. I need everything to settle down, just for a while, so I can get my breath back, and then I’ll be fine. Although obviously not today, not with everything being in boxes.
“This is going to Devon, right love?”
Mick, our head moving man, is holding up a plastic laundry basket.
“Yes please. I thought I’d put labels on everything, sorry.”
I’ve been sticking on labels for days, but Mick keeps finding things I’ve missed. Perhaps I should just stick a label on my forehead and go and sit in the back of the van. God knows if we’ll need an old plastic basket which only has one handle, but I’ve got a horrible feeling that what with the B&B laundry on top of the usual endless loads generated by the boys, I’m going to need as many laundry baskets as I can lay my hands on. Right. Time for a cup of tea, I think, since I can’t find the gin. And try to avoid remembering that it’s Christmas next week and I haven’t really started on Operation Tinsel yet.
“I’m putting the kettle on, Mick.”
“Lovely, two sugars, and then you’ll want to pack the last bits in them boxes, unless you’re leaving them here.”
Maybe everyone could just head off to Devon and I can have a nice little lie-down, just for a while, in a completely empty quiet house. How lovely. But the final completion on the contracts went through about an hour ago, and the new people are moving in this afternoon, so they might be a tad surprised to find me fast asleep in the middle of their new living room, like a rather grubby Goldilocks, without the porridge. I feel like I’ve been covered in a thin layer of grime and dust for weeks now, what with emptying out cupboards and trying to clean and pack up here, combined with Ivy washing everything that doesn’t move at the Hall like some mad Spring Clean on fast forward. She even gave Betty a bath the other day, which was rather brave of her. Apparently parrots are meant to like a bit of light sprinkle with warm water, but this was more of a total plunge into hot soapy water in a washing-up bowl. The language was quite spectacular, particularly from Betty, and it turns out there’s nothing quite so bedraggled and tragic-looking as a sopping-wet parrot in a sulk. By the time she’d finished, Ivy was soaked from head to foot, and so was Bertie. Thankfully I only had observer status, so I could lurk in the back of scullery trying not to laugh. God help me if parrot-washing duties are handed on to me at any point in the near future, but I’ll definitely be borrowing Dan’s snorkel.
“What about this bag? In the car or the van, love?”
“In the car please, Mick. It’s stuff we’ll need tonight. Or some of it, there should be another bag somewhere, a blue one.”
“Right you are. First van’s nearly full, good job we started yesterday, always more to go than you think.”
They’re loading everything into three small vans, because their usual lorry would never fit down the drive to the Hall, not without some drastic pruning to most of the trees and shrubs. And pruning over half a mile of rhododendrons was never going to be top of my list today, if I could bloody find it. Although I still think I deserve a gold star for anticipating the lorry would get stuck before we arrived and had to park it by the stables and form a human removal chain to get everything into the house. We’re bringing most of our furniture; there’s a room next to the kitchen which I want to turn into a family room. It’ll be perfect for after-school telly and homework and a playroom for Alfie. Helena used it as an office, so there’s only a rickety old desk in there now, and a couple of chairs piled up with old seed packets and gardening magazines. Although now I’ve seen everything being loaded up, I can’t imagine how it’s all going to fit in, and I’m not sure how much we’ll be able to get up the stairs into the attic, so we might need to use the old stables too, and none of them have what you’d call a complete roof. Either that or we can have a bonfire. Our stuff is mostly what I think the furniture trade would refer to as “old tat.”
I’ve just boiled the kettle when Pete arrives. He’s not meant to be here for another hour yet and I’d hoped to have everything ready to go before they came back. The boys go straight out into the garden to play football, even though it’s cold and they’ll get muddy, which isn’t exactly what I had in mind for our journey to Devon. Damn.
“Coffee?”
“Black, please. I decided to bring them back a bit earlier. Janice and I are going shopping later on. I hope that’s okay?”
What am I supposed to say, “No, it’s not, go away and bring them back later like we agreed?” Despite being surrounded by boxes and removal men, clearly what is most convenient to him is all that matters, as bloody usual. He’s doing it on purpose, I know he is.
“It’s fine. Biscuit?”
“No thanks. Janice and I are on a diet.”
Oh please.
“Won’t that make Christmas rather difficult?”
“We’re poaching a salmon. There’s no need to overindulge, if you don’t want to. Which reminds me, could you make sure there’s something light for lunch on Boxing Day when I come to see the boys.”
“Sure, or feel free to bring your own salmon.”
He raises his eyebrows and gives me his soon-to-be-patented The Headmaster Is Not Amused look. God, he’s annoying.
“Will you be staying for lunch then? I thought you said you wanted to pick them up and head back.”
“I’m not sure; I might just visit for the day. Janice will be at her mother’s, and I think the boys might find it strange staying with me when Janice is away.”
And he’d find it strange having to do all the cooking and keep them entertained, which is what he actually means. The boys weren’t keen on the idea to be honest, he’s only managed to have them stay a handful of times over the last year. They don’t really enjoy it, so we usually stick to Sunday afternoons. So I’ll try to rise above it. Again.
“Mum, can we have hot blackcurrant?”
“No Ben, all the bottles have been packed and they’re in the van. But you can have tea, or hot milk. I’ve got loads of milk left.”
I bought extra, for the removal men, and then forgot to cancel the milkman’s delivery. So milk is one thing I’m not short of.
“Can we have hot chocolate then?”
“Sure, if you can find it, maybe in that box over there?”
He starts rootling through the box by the kitchen cupboard.
“Ta-da.”
“Okay, find me a saucepan, and then give me five minutes.”
“Thanks Mum.”
Pete is not looking happy.
“Do you want some hot chocolate?”
“Hardly. I did just say we’re on a diet.”
“Oh yes, sorry.”
“I know we discussed this, but I still think you should have mentioned it, I want to make that clear.”
“Mentioned what?”
“That you were about to inherit such a large house, and all that land.”
“All that land? It’s only twenty-two acres Pete. Helena sold the rest of it over the years, you know that.”
“Yes, but the house, the stables, everything, by rights you should have declared it.”
“Declared what, when?”
“That you were due to inherit such a valuable property, during the divorce. Why did you never mention it before? Janice and I have been discussing it, and we think it should have been included.”
I might seriously need to find that gin if he carries on like this.
“It was as much a surprise to me as it was to you. A nicer one for me, of course.”
I can’t resist saying this.
“And what about the cottage?”
Bloody hell, he’ll be asking me for a list of the furniture next.
“Yes Pete, the house, the land, the stables, the cottage, although Ivy and Dennis are living in it and they get to stay for as long as they want, but the old gatehouse, or what’s left of it, the gardens, the meadow, the cove, Bertie, the parrot, everything, God help me. I could get Mr. Crouch to send you a complete inventory if you need it? Only you’ll have to pay him for it, he bills by the hour.”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you. But you might have spoken to me, before you decided. After all, I am their father. But I suppose my views don’t count at all.”
God, if I keep trying to rise above all this bollocks, I’ll be bloody levitating.
“Not really Pete. Not now we’re divorced.”
“There’s no need to be bitter Molly, it’s very unattractive.”
“I’m not bitter, far from it. Maybe everything is starting to come up roses after all, particularly given Helena’s famous rose gardens. And this is just what we need, a whole new start. I talked about it with the boys, you know that, and they’re excited, well apart from Dan, and the local schools are good—you’ve read those inspection reports I showed you—and they’ll have so much more space.”
“Yes. All twenty-two acres of it.”
Time for one of Lola’s lines I think. They always hit the spot.
“It’s kind of you Pete, but don’t worry, you can have the boys to stay whenever you like. We can fix up a couple of weeks in the summer holidays too?”
The sad thing is I know he’ll say no to this, or he’ll make arrangements and then cancel. He’s done that for the last two Sundays, so I can’t see him managing a whole fortnight in a hurry.
“Let’s see, shall we. I am particularly busy at the moment. I still think you should consider selling—it must be worth a fortune—surely that would be the best thing to do? I’d be more than happy to help. It would be important to find the right kind of agent, it’s such a unique place.”
He tries a smile.
God, he’s so transparent it’s almost shocking.
“And then if I sold up, you could stop paying maintenance for the boys, is that the idea?”
“Not at all, and I wouldn’t be so hasty you know Molly. It might be worth considering.”
“It won’t, because it’s not an option, the terms of the will make that clear. And anyway, I would never do that to Bertie. I’ll run the bed-and-breakfast, and I might sign up with an agency for teaching work, once we get settled. I’ll need to find a way to make a living, just like I do now.”
His smile has vanished, and he looks cross again.
“If you time it right Pete, it’s only a six-hour drive—five, if you’re lucky—and I know it’s a long way, but you’ll be welcome to come down and stay anytime you like. You’ll find our B-and-B rates are very reasonable.”
He looks horrified.
“I’m joking Pete.”
Actually I’m not. I’m not having him coming down for weekends and expecting me to run around serving him breakfast. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to bring bloody Janice, and there’s no way on earth I’m serving both of them breakfast in their new matching bloody tracksuits.
“There are loads of places to stay nearby. I’m sure we can work something out so everyone is happy.”
I’ve been half hoping he’ll say he minds about the boys being so much farther away. Even though it would have made everything more difficult, I’d have understood if he’d not been keen on that. But over the past few weeks it’s been pretty clear that hasn’t really bothered him at all. Which is so sad and disappointing, I don’t really want to think about it.
“You could always sell some of the land, I suppose?”
Christ. He’s really starting to annoy me now.
“No I can’t, not without Bertie’s agreement, and anyway, I don’t want to. I want to try to make a go of it. Money will be tight, but I’m going to give it my best shot—and by the way, this month’s money is late again. So can you sort it please? I did think about breaking the terms of the will, dumping Bertie at the hotel with Roger, and leaving the boys with you for a few months while I floated round the world on a luxury cruise, but I decided against it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I quite like the idea of a cruise. I think it would be very restful.”
“Apart from anything else, you don’t know the first thing about running a bed-and-breakfast, so I can’t see how that’s going to work. It would have been far better to sell now and save all this upheaval.”
“Pete, I practically grew up in the hotel, and I worked there every holiday for years. I should be able to cope with a few B-and-B guests.”
Actually I’m pretty nervous about this aspect of our new life, but I’m not letting him know that.
“Yes, but…”
“Please stop being so negative, Pete. It’s a great failing of yours, you know, and it’s very bad karma.”
This is another of Lola’s suggestions for ways to annoy him, and it seems to be doing the trick.
“Now, are you sure you don’t want some hot chocolate? I’ve got loads of milk. Call the boys in, would you? Theirs is ready, and we really need to get a move on.”
“I’ll just say good-bye and then I must be going, I’ve got a great deal to do today.”
“Right.”
Christ. Still, no use crying over spilt milk, as they say. Which is a good job, because I manage to pour a fair bit over the kitchen counter while I make the hot chocolate. Right. Find my list. One last check in all the rooms. And good-bye Pete. And good riddance, as Lola would say if she were here. God, I wish she were here. I might need an emergency backup call before we set off. Either that or find that bloody gin. Just a sip would help—I don’t want to get arrested for drunk driving. Or I could drink the whole bottle and give one of the removal men my car keys. I think I’ll make do with hot chocolate for now, and see how it goes.
By the time we’re finally in the car, heading to Devon, I’ve found my list and everything is relatively peaceful.
“How much longer Mum?”
“Quite a while yet Alfie. Listen to your tape love, and then we’ll stop for some food in a bit.”
Dan sighs.
“I suppose that’ll be pasties all round then.”
“Pasties are a speciality of Cornwall, you idiot. They were invented for miners so they could hold the pastry when their hands were dirty and just eat the filling.”
“Thank you, Wikiben. Mum, you’ve got to stop him using the computer all the time. He’s turning into a total nerd.”
“Shut up Dan, and that’s great Ben, did you find out anything about Devon?”
“It’s famous for clotted cream.”
Dan sighs again.
“That’s so much better.”
“Dan, stop it, please. Nobody is going to force-feed you clotted cream.”
“Good, because I’ve already told you I don’t want to live in bloody Devon.”
“No, but you don’t want to live in London either. You don’t want to do anything except moan as far as I can work out. And please stop being so rude. We’ve already talked about that today. Just give Devon a try, that’s all I’m asking. We were always going to have to move when we sold the house, you know that, love. Be fair.”
“Alright, alright. I said I’d give it a go and I will. But you owe me one Mum, big-time.”
“Fair enough.”
“Can I have a motorbike when I’m sixteen?”
“No. But if you don’t like your new school, you can go to Hogwarts.”
He grins.
“Okay.”
He spent ages trying to convince me that Hogwarts really existed after we read the books. He was sure if he could persuade me to enroll him, he could be the next Harry.
“I’m putting an owl on my list for Father Christmas. Just so you know.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, Dan. But Father Christmas doesn’t do pets, you know that.”
Thank God I had the sense to invent this Santa Claus disclaimer, or I’d be living in a bloody menagerie by now.
“He might, in Devon.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath, love.”
We stop at a café recommended by the movers, where they can get sausage, eggs, and chips and huge mugs of tea for less than the price of a packet of coffee and a muffin in a motorway service station. There are lorry drivers from every nation sitting side by side, eating and looking tired. But the food is delicious, and we’re clearly a bit of a novelty, because the woman behind the counter gives the boys a free doughnut each. Alfie gets sugar everywhere and makes me promise we will come here every single time we go in the car, which might make the school run a bit tricky, but I play along for the sake of in-car harmony, and eventually he falls asleep, still covered in sugar.
“Can we turn the music up a bit?”
Ben clearly wants to enjoy his turn in the front seat.
“No, Alfie’s just got to sleep—please let’s leave him that way. He was up really early this morning and it’s going to be a long day.”
“Good job he’s asleep. I wish I was too, listening to Ben’s crap music.”
“Dan, when it’s your turn in the front, you get to choose, okay? Or else I’ll choose for the both of you.”
“Great, so that’ll be ‘The Wheels on the Stupid Bus,’ totally awesome way to arrive in the Land of Clotted Cream.”
Ben sighs.
“Shut up Dan, or she’ll throw apple juice at you. Again.”
“I didn’t throw it; it just squirted out of the carton. And don’t say ‘she.’ ”
“Shut up Dan, or Mum will throw apple juice all over you again.”
His blue T-shirt is now covered with dried brown spatters. But the look on his face when it happened was almost worth the laundry nightmare I will no doubt be having when I try to restore the T-shirt to its former glory. Because of course it’s one of his best ones. Of course it is.
“I don’t know why you made such a fuss, Dan. It looks just like that one you tried to con me into buying you when we got your new jeans.”
They both tut. United tutting. Great. This is going very well so far. Dan mutters “completely bloody hopeless” under his breath.
“Mummy, Dan said ‘bloody,’ and that’s a rude word isn’t it? Can I say it, because if he can say it, I should be able to—that’s fair, isn’t it? It’s important to be fair you know Mummy. Can I have some juice?”
Ben and Dan both sigh.
“Mum?”
“Yes, Dan?”
“I think the Kid has woken up.”
“Yes, thanks Dan, I’d spotted that.”
“Just like to keep you informed. Shall we dope him up again? Where’s the Calpol?”
I know without turning round that Alfie is now sitting up a little bit straighter in his seat, eyes widening at the prospect of his brother doping him up.
“Stop teasing him, Dan, and pass him a drink. There’s a carton of juice in the bag, and be careful with the straw.”
“Are we nearly there yet?”
“Not yet love.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I don’t want fruit. And I don’t want Calpol.”
“I know, love. Dan was only joking. You only have Calpol when you’re feeling ill, you know that.”
“I know. And I don’t want it. I want vodka.”
“I have taught you well, O little one. Go forth and share thy wisdom.”
“Don’t do your Darth Vader voice Dan, you know it scares him. Can anyone still see the removal vans?”
Bugger. A series of roundabouts seem to have separated us from the vans.
“Great, so not so much of a convoy after all then Mum, given it’s just us.”
“Thanks Ben. I had worked that out for myself. Ring them would you Dan, and check they’re still on the right road.”
“Heading back to London, if they’ve got any sense.”
Alfie starts to sing.
“Put a sock in it, would you?”
Alfie carries on, and there’s a muffled sound, and then a shriek from Alfie.
“Mum, Dan put his sock in my mouth. Right in my mouth.”
“Dan, stop it.”
Dan has been taking his socks off ever since he was old enough to be wearing them. I used to spend ages retracing my steps around shops looking for tiny baby socks, which he’d pop onto the nearest shelf while I was trying to read the ingredients on the jars of baby food. Although why I bothered, God alone knows. He seemed so fragile, and giving him organic carrots seemed so important then, but now he’s nearly six foot tall, with enough testosterone to power an entire flotilla of teenage landing craft, it doesn’t seem to matter quite so much.
One minute you’re pureeing veg, and the next you’re into the sex-and-drugs-and-rock-and-roll chats, and trying to make sure you eat at least one meal together every day. Or most days, when nobody has stormed off upstairs in a sulk.
I really want to make sure we carry on with our family routines at the Hall, even if we have to adapt them to include Bertie and a mad parrot. Family mealtimes are the only way to really keep track of what they’re up to, and I need all the help I can get. When they were babies, it was all so much easier. It didn’t seem like it at the time, but it was. Dan was only two when Ben was born, and then Ben never slept, literally never for more than about fifteen minutes at a time for the first few months. He had terrible colic, and then eczema, and then just as he started to grow out of it and they were both at school, Alfie arrived. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Alfie was nothing to do with Pete at all. We all have brown hair and dark-green eyes—in my case, hazel—but Alfie’s my blond and blue-eyed boy. Pete’s brother Sam is the same, so that’s the genetic clue which averted a steward’s enquiry. Although Sam took one look at his family and promptly buggered off and joined a band. He’s quite a famous music producer now, so we only see him once in a blue moon. I must remember to send him our new address. He can come down for the weekend; at least we’ve got the room now. Unless we’re packed to the rafters with all our tatty furniture of course. Oh God, I’m dreading all the unpacking.
“Mum?”
“Yes Alfie?”
“It’s not fair I can’t sit in the front.”
“Mum?”
“Yes Alfie?”
“It’s very rude to ignore people.”
Ben sighs.
“Give it a rest, would you? She heard you, we all did. Since we’re not allowed to have my music on loud enough to drown out whining brothers, we haven’t really got a choice.”
“I can’t drive with loud music Ben, it’s dangerous, and we’d all be deaf by the time we got to Devon.”
“That might work actually; I wonder how you say ‘Annie Rose’ in sign language.”
Alfie reacts instantly to the dreaded Annie Rose name and an apple comes sailing over the top of Ben’s seat and lands on the dashboard.
“Alfie, that’s very dangerous. Don’t ever throw things in the car. Ben, don’t you dare throw that back, and Dan, stop teasing him. Honestly Alfie, only babies throw food.”
He’ll hate being called a baby, but I can’t drive all the way to Devon dodging fruit.
If we were richer, we’d be in one of those huge cars with DVD players for every passenger seat, but we’re not, so they’re stuck in a small family hatchback with not much in the way of in-car entertainment, unless you like dodging fruit. Although to be honest I’m not sure a childhood where you’re never bored for more than five minutes is ideal preparation for life. I’m pretty sure a bit of being bored and just having to get on with it is probably better for you than being treated like a VIP who has to be constantly entertained. What happens when you start your first job and nobody has thought of how you can be entertained during a boring morning? It must be such a shock.
“Yes?”
“Thanks for not retaliating.”
“That’s okay Mum, he can’t help being such a total wanker.”
Alfie’s screeching now.
“Be quiet Alfie, right now, or there’ll be no cartoons at all tonight.”
Actually there may be no cartoons even if he does stop yelling as God knows what channels the telly gets, but I’m not telling anyone that until after we’ve arrived.
“And Ben, if you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all.”
When they were born, I had visions of being the kind of mother who inspires creativity, whilst simultaneously making perfect scones and soothing furrowed brows with a cool hand and a peaceful manner. Little did I know that what I really needed was a mixture of the kind of nerves of steel more usually associated with fighter pilots. Judging the perfect time to deploy your countermeasures is pretty vital too: use your ammunition too early and you miss your target; too late, and it can hurtle straight back at you. You need to keep your eyes on the horizon whilst simultaneously scanning your instrument panel to see where the red lights are flickering, before the engine bursts into flames and you have to press your emergency ejector seat, only to discover you’ve left your parachute at home underneath a pile of coats in the hall. I’ve always thought family cars should have ejector seats. Never mind the DVD players, I’m sure a button that propels your nearest and dearest into a nearby field would be a guaranteed winner in the family-vehicle market.
Alfie is still yelling, and Dan and Ben are now joining him.
“The next person who yells or says anything rude about their brother loses all their pocket money this week.”
This is risky because Ben sometimes does a quick calculation and decides that five pounds is a price he’s willing to pay to repeatedly call his brother a wanker, but I know he’s saving up for a computer game, so I’m in with a chance.
“There might be extra pocket money for anyone who is being extra nice though.”
“Mum.”
“Yes, Ben.”
“I thought you said bribery was a bad thing.”
“For the police, yes, and for banks. Not for mothers.”
“But when the police stopped us that time…”
I once got stopped for speeding, and they’ve never forgotten it. Forty-three miles per hour in a thirty-miles-per-hour zone, hardly likely to get me featured on the next Police Camera Terrifying Drivers television special. But still exciting when you’re small and there are blue lights flashing.
“I was trying to get home before Alfie woke up and needed feeding.”
“Yes, and then you handed him to that policeman.”
“Well what was I supposed to do, leave all three of you in the car on your own, sobbing?”
“I wasn’t sobbing, and neither was Dan.”
“You soon would have been if I’d left you locked in a car with a screaming baby.”
“He let you off though, didn’t he? And that’s bribery, using a baby to bribe the police. I bet that’s against the Highway Code Mum.”
“No it isn’t Dan, the Highway Code was written by men, so there’s no mention of babies.”
Actually the police let me off with a warning and they both saluted as they drove past. The older one told me he had two girls under four at home and sometimes did extra shifts just to get a bit of peace and quiet.
“Babies can’t drive, so why do they need to be in the Highway Code? That’s just stupid.”
“No it’s not Ben. Babies should at least get a mention, since they’re a major driving hazard. You could have special passes for your windscreen if your baby is about to wake up, or your toddler is about to wee all over the backseat, so you’re allowed to use the bus lane and get home in half the time. Never mind buses and taxis, anyone trying to get home before their toddler goes into meltdown should definitely get priority.”
All three of them tut. Time to change the subject.
“I know, let’s play a game. I Spy?”
“I spy with my little eye something beginning with W.”
“Dan, it better not be anything that rhymes with ‘banker.’ ”
“Give me a minute, I’ll think of another one.”
Bertie is standing at the door when we arrive, with Betty perched on his shoulder.
“Hello my dears. Welcome all. Brought enough vans with you? Come in and have a sharpener. Need a decent drink on a busy day.”
“Thanks Bertie. A cup of tea would be lovely.”
“Need more than tea, small glass of something warming?”
The removal men are all nodding.
“Let’s start with tea please, Uncle Bertie. Hello Betty.”
“Bugger off.”
Dennis appears with Tess, his sheepdog, who starts barking and running round in circles, trying to herd us into the house. The boys are thrilled, particularly Ben, who’s always wanted a dog. So now we’ve got a parrot doing high-pitched whistling and telling the dog to bugger off, and a hysterical sheepdog alongside three boys letting off steam after being stuck in the car for hours. Perfect.
The next couple of hours pass by in a blur of boxes and removal men asking where to put things whilst simultaneously trying to give Betty a very wide berth—apart from Mick, who seems to have taken a bit of a shine to her. Bertie has thankfully stopped trying to give everyone a drink, although I have a sneaking suspicion Mick has already enjoyed a glass or two of something on the quiet. Not that anything is exactly quiet, particularly with Betty around, entertaining us all with her full repertoire, including a very realistic impression of the telephone ringing, so I have to keep rushing to answer it only to find it’s not actually ringing. Mick seems to find this particularly amusing.
“Nice place this is, love, and that parrot’s a bit of a card, isn’t she? I should think you’ll do alright here—good B-and-Bs are hard to come by, me and the lads have stayed in some shockers. The parrot will be a nice feature, make people remember you.”
“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.”
“That Ivy was saying your aunt only went in for it as a sideline.”
Mick has also spent a fair amount of time in the kitchen, helping Ivy unpack boxes.
“Yes, the garden was her pride and joy.”
I’m half tempted to wander out there myself; at least I’d get a bit of peace.
“You can see that love, even this time of year, laid out lovely it is. Take a bit of looking after I shouldn’t wonder, a great big place like this.”
I think that may be the understatement of the century. A late-Georgian manor house, with more egg-and-dart cornicing and fluted columns than you can shake a stick at, even just doing a quick Hoover round takes hours, never mind all the polishing. There’s even a ha-ha, which Alfie has already fallen into twice playing football; the new definition of “goal” now appears to be if your brother drops out of sight into the four-foot ditch at the end of the lawn. I think “a bit of looking after” won’t even begin to cover it.
“Right, well, this won’t get that last van unpacked.”
We’re walking across the hall towards the front door when all the lights go out.
Bloody hell.
“That’ll be the fuse box love. Too many lights on, I shouldn’t wonder. Where is it?”
“I’ve got no idea.”
Ivy appears, thank God, followed by Bertie, carrying a ship’s lantern.
“Always comes in handy, this.”
“Don’t you worry, Miss Molly. Dennis is down the cellar and he’ll fix it in no time, happens all the time.”
Bugger, so that’s something else to add to the list: sort out the electrics and the fuse box, so we don’t have to keep trooping down to the cellar in pitch-darkness. And get Dennis to show me what to do if it happens when they’re not here.
“Mum?”
“Yes, Dan.”
“It’s going really well so far, isn’t it? When are we having supper?”
By the time the removal men leave, all our furniture appears to have been swallowed up by the house. I still can’t quite believe it, there seemed so many boxes, but they’ve all fitted in somehow. I spent ages planning who would have each room with Ivy before we arrived, so the boys could feel at home with familiar things. Dan was keen on having a room in the attic, but I’ll need to sort out the heating and the roof before he can escape to a different floor from the rest of us. There are eight bedrooms, and the staircase divides halfway up. There’s a door on the upstairs landing dividing the two halves with four bedrooms in each, which is a particular blessing since it means we’ll be separate from the guests. Bertie has a huge room to the right, with a dressing room and his own bathroom, and then there are three B-and-B bedrooms: two doubles and a single. One of the doubles has a sea view and an en suite, and the other one looks over the front of the house and shares a Jack and Jill bathroom with the single, although why they’re called “Jack and Jill” I have no idea, particularly if you’re a complete stranger to the Jack or Jill who comes wandering in while you’re in the bath. The rooms are large and rather grand, if a bit faded, and all the windows have shutters, and there are working fireplaces in each room, with lovely old tiles and antique grates. There’s so much potential to make something glorious, if you had endless money, but even without any money I’m still going to aim for glorious. It might just take a bit longer.
The other four bedrooms to the left of the stairs are similar. Actually there are five if you count my dressing room, which used to be Helena’s, but I’m trying not to think about that. We’ve moved the beds around, and put a couple of old mattresses up in the attic, and I’ve spotted an old brass bedstead up there which I’ve got my eye on, but we’ll see. I’ve got a huge bathroom too, with an enormous cast-iron bath, and then there’s a family bathroom for the boys to share, thankfully without doors opening into anyone’s bedroom. There’s a walk-in linen cupboard too, by the stairs to the attic, and I’ve already had quite a few peaceful moments in there amongst all the piles of linen and dried lavender; it will be a perfect bolt hole when it all gets too much. I can pretend I’m counting sheets when I’m on the verge of hysterics—although if today is anything to go by, I’ll be spending a fair bit of time in there, so I might see if I can fit a chair in. It can be my very own version of a meditation zone, but without the annoying music or beanbags. But first I better start on supper and baths, particularly for people who have fallen into the ha-ha playing football.
By nine Ben and Alfie are upstairs and officially in bed, but are probably unpacking toys and reuniting themselves with long-forgotten treasures. Dan is having his precious extra half hour watching telly. Ivy’s booked the telly man to come tomorrow to sort out the satellite, so for now they’ve had to content themselves with just four channels, which hasn’t gone down well. I’d like to sort out televisions for the guest rooms too eventually—I’ll add it to the list. But the new family room has worked out, and all our stuff doesn’t look as tatty as I feared. I did wonder if the mix of cheap and cheerful Ikea in amongst all this Georgian glory might look a bit pathetic, but it’s fine, probably because we’re in the servants’ quarters, right by the kitchen and the scullery, with the old chipped sink and the washing machines, so there’s a bit less in the way of ornate cornicing. The walls could do with painting, and the fireplace has a battered old electric fire, which I’ll definitely move before anyone tries to turn it on and burn the house down. But so far so good.
“Shall we have a drink Ivy?”
“I was just putting the kettle on.”
“Lovely.”
“I could fancy a drink too Mum. Have we got any lager?”
“Don’t be cheeky, Dan.”
Ivy smiles.
“Get away with you, and here, take these up, there’s a dear. Put one in each of your beds, take the chill off.”
Dan trots off clutching three hot-water bottles.
“Thanks so much Ivy, for everything today. I don’t know how I would have managed without you and Dennis.”
“I’ll just rinse these things, and then I’ll be back up in the morning, around seven suit you?”
Bloody hell, that’s early.
“I think we’ll have a lazy start tomorrow.”
She sniffs.
“I don’t hold with stopping in bed. I like to be up and about.”
“Right.”
“And Mr. Bertie has his breakfast at half past seven.”
“Okay.”
“I wasn’t sure what the boys like, so I got some extra bacon, and eggs? I haven’t got any mushrooms, though, I didn’t like the look of them in the farm shop.”
“Bacon will be lovely, Ivy, only you don’t have to cook for us. We’ve already talked about that. If you just carry on looking after Bertie, that would be great, but we’ll be fine.”
“Let’s see how we get on.”
This is what Ivy says when she’s about to completely ignore you.
“I’ll cook breakfast for the boys, and then we’ll make our plans for the day—how does that sound?”
She nods, and there’s a ringing noise.
“What’s that? Is it Betty?”
I’m definitely going to get a new phone system, with cordless phones I can carry with me, preferably with parrot-proof ring tones.
Ivy gets up and walks towards the door.
“It’s one of the room bells upstairs. I expect it will be one of the boys.”
We both look up at the board on the wall, and sure enough the Bedroom 3 bell is flashing, and making a piercing ringing noise.
Christ.
“I didn’t know they still worked.”
“Oh yes, although that silly bird can do them too, so you’re never sure.”
“Great. Can’t we disconnect it or something? The bells, not the bird. Although on second thoughts.”
She giggles, not something I’ve seen her ever do before.
“Shall I go up then, see what they want?”
“Definitely not Ivy. You go home, and we’ll see you tomorrow. Leave it to me.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“Absolutely.”
The bell rings again.
“Alfie, you’re not to do that. Ever again.”
“But I need a drink of water and I didn’t know where you were.”
“I was down with Ivy, and that’s not the point.”
“Yes, but I called you and you didn’t come, so I had to press it. Dan told me to.”
“Well I’ll talk to him about that, but if you need me, come and find me.”
“It’s dark.”
“No it isn’t. The light’s on in the hall, and downstairs, and this is our house now, Alfie, just like our old house. What did you do if you wanted me at our old house?”
“I came and found you.”
“Yes. So that’s what you do here. But not just to pretend you need a drink.”
“I do, I really do.”
“Just this once then, but not every night, Alfie. And if you need a wee in the night, you know where the bathroom is, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, I’ve already done a wee.”
“I know, but if you need another one?”
“I’m not a baby Mum.”
“Sorry.”
“And Mum?”
“Yes love?”
“Can I have a snack, because I’m starving?”
“No. You can’t. And if you keep on, you won’t get a glass of water either.”
He sighs.
Christ, I’m going to have to watch it or all three of them will be ringing for room service. I might as well start learning to bloody curtsy.
I’m filling a glass with water in the kitchen, when Dan appears.
“Hi Mum, are you getting him his drink, then?”
“Yes, and thanks for telling him to ring the bell, that was so helpful. Next time just come and find me, would you?”
“In this great big old place? No thanks; it’s probably haunted.”
“Of course it isn’t.”
“I thought the bell would be handy. Save him whining at me and Ben.”
“Sure. But it’ll cost you. How about one pound every time he uses it? I can take it from your pocket money. Unless you want to be the person who answers it every time he rings?”
“That’s so not fair.”
“No, and neither is me becoming a housemaid racing round answering bloody bells. It’s bad enough with that stupid parrot. So think about it.”
The bell rings again.
“That’ll be your brother—shall I go, or will you?”
“I hate this house.”
“No you don’t. And tomorrow we can talk about how you want your room done. We can choose some paint if you like, and get you a proper desk.”
“And I can have my own computer, in my room?”
“Yup.”
I’ve been pretty strict about TVs and computers in bedrooms, but he’ll need a computer for his homework and I want to be encouraging.
“You can have a laptop, but it needs to be back downstairs on the kitchen table by ten thirty every night.”
“Ten thirty?”
“That’s the deal Dan, otherwise you’ll be up all night watching God knows what, keeping us all awake.”
“I can wear earphones.”
“That’s not my point, and you know it. Ten thirty or no laptop. And I’ll be checking. Take it or leave it.”
“And the others can’t touch it. It’s just mine?”
“Yes, love.”
“Okay. Thanks Mum.”
The bell rings again.
“You better go love, or you won’t get a tip.”
“Don’t worry Mum, I’ll be giving him a tip of my own.”
“Yes, but don’t frighten him Dan. Remember, he’s a lot littler than you.”
He grins.
“And then we can get your laptop, tomorrow maybe.”
He gives me a hug.
“I’ll be up in a minute. Night, love.”
“Night Mum. I think it might be alright here, you know.”
“That’s good. So do I.”
I finally get to bed at two a.m., after making the mistake of opening just one more box and unpacking clothes. I’m so tired I walk into the bathroom door, and now it feels like I’ve broken my toe. It’s cold, and hearing the sea is oddly familiar, like when I was little and we were in the staff flat at the hotel, so I’m half expecting Mum to come in and ask me why my light is on, or to make me a milky drink. Actually a hot drink might be a good idea, but I can’t face hobbling down to the kitchen and I’m a bit nervous of that bloody AGA cooker. I know they’re very fashionable now, but I’m bound to lift the wrong lid and then it will be stone-cold by morning and I know they’re a total bugger to turn back on. We had one years ago before Mum got her new kitchen, and after watching her spend a fair bit of time crouching down peering into it, twiddling dials to get the stupid thing hot enough to actually cook things, I’m pretty keen to avoid Ivy coming in tomorrow morning to find me doing the same.
And it’s not just the stupid AGA. God knows what I was thinking moving us down here. I’m never going to be able to pull this off. At least in London I had a job, and a grown-up life, of sorts. Now I seem to have turned myself into a glorified housekeeper, and not a very good one if I can’t even face making a milky drink, and seeing Pete earlier didn’t help either.
I’m sure he wasn’t such a total arse when I married him, but maybe he was and I just couldn’t see it. Or I was so keen to get away from here, I ignored it. And now I’ve come back to where I started, with three boys and no money to speak of, and I know you’re not meant to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it’s hard remembering to be grateful when the horse arrives at full gallop and tramples you into the mud, and I’ve got a feeling our new country life is going to involve a fair bit of mud. And I’m running a B&B, and catering to the great British public, who everyone knows are completely bonkers. I’ll spend years dealing with people whining on about how they want their bacon and why can’t I stop it raining, in between trying to stop Bertie causing a major coast-guard incident by firing his cannon at the wrong moment, and simultaneously fending off a mad parrot who keeps telling me to bugger off.
Christ, what have I done? If my toe didn’t hurt so much, I’d run away, right now, in my PJs. There must be somewhere a woman on the edge can go until she can pull herself together. Or there bloody well should be. They have rescue homes for cats and dogs who’ve got a bit frayed round the edges; there must be something for women who’ve Had Enough. Actually maybe that could be my theme for the B&B, I can still go for the nautical stripes and pale seaside tones I was imagining, but I can specialise in providing an escape for women in urgent need of a break. No husbands, partners, or kids. Just a few days peace and quiet, with nobody asking you a single question apart from what would you like for breakfast. It wouldn’t need to be fancy, just warm and quiet like one of those convalescent homes they set up in grand country houses during the Second World War, where people who’d survived the Blitz could sit in a wicker chair and try to stop shaking. Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile. I’m humming to myself now, which is helping, a bit. So that’s a start. But still. Bloody hell.
“Mum?”
“Yes Alfie?”
“I can’t get to sleep, and my duvet’s gone all faffled.”
“I know just how it feels.”
“Yes, but can I be in your bed, just for tonight. Please Mum.”
“Just for tonight.”
He wriggles about a bit, and I keep a firm grip on the duvet, or he’ll roll himself up in it like a sausage roll, and I’ll end up frozen stiff.
“Mum?”
“No.”
“I didn’t even get to say my thing.”
“It’s very late Alfie. Either go to sleep or go back to your own bed. You can save any questions for morning, that’s the deal. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Night love.”
“Night Mum. But if I get my own parrot, it can sleep in my room with me, can’t it Mum?”
Bloody hell, another parrot? I don’t bloody think so.
“Nobody is getting a parrot Alfie. Betty wouldn’t like it, and neither would I. Now go to sleep, or go back to your own bed. I’m counting to ten.”
“I’m asleep now, nearly. Count slowly.”
Alfie is up at the crack of dawn the next morning, as usual, and I briefly surface, but he seems quite happy pottering about unpacking boxes of toys, so I treat myself to a lie-in, and then wake up at eight, to silence. The boys must be downstairs already, and I’m dithering about whether to get dressed before I go down. It feels wrong to be going downstairs in my dressing gown, a bit like that dream where you’re doing an assembly with the whole school and it’s all going fine until you look down and realise you’re not wearing any trousers. But we live here now, and I’ve got to get over the idea that Helena will wander in from the garden at any moment and give me one of her Looks. I just wish I had smarter PJs on though. I think I may need to invest in what I think the fashion police call leisure wear: velour tracksuits in pastel shades, that kind of thing, so I can get dressed quickly in the mornings, although if we ever get any bookings for the B&B, my wearing a velour tracksuit will probably be the least of my worries.
Ivy’s serving breakfast to the boys in the kitchen when I get downstairs, wearing a floral apron and humming to herself. Damn. I’ll have to make sure I get up earlier from now on. Not that it isn’t lovely of course, but I don’t want them thinking everything has changed, and apart from that they’ll be ordering light snacks and running her off her feet.
“Thanks, Ivy, we usually just have cereal, so this is a real treat.”
“Shall I put some more toast on?”
“Please. And then Dan, when you’ve finished, you clear the table. And Ben, we’ll go up and make the beds. Alfie, you come too. And then we’ll get more of the unpacking done.”
“I can manage, Miss Molly. You just go ahead.”
Damn, she’s back to her “Miss Molly” routine. I thought we’d had a breakthrough on that front yesterday.
“I know you can, but you really don’t have to, Ivy, because Dan is going to help you. Aren’t you, Dan?”
He nods, thank God. This would not be a good time for one of his “Why do I have to do it?” routines.
“I thought we’d head into Ilfracombe later for some Christmas shopping, or maybe Barnstaple? Come with us if you’d like to, Ivy?”
“Ooh, that would be lovely, only could it be this afternoon? I thought I’d make a chicken pie for lunch and I’ve still got the veg to do. There’ll be more than enough to go round, so there’s no need to worry about lunch, dear.”
Good, we’re back to “dear.” Maybe we’re just going to have one “Miss Molly” each day. I can probably live with that.
“Perfect, and Ben’s great at peeling veg, aren’t you, Ben?”
He nods, whilst trying to shoot me dagger looks at the same time.
“That’ll be champion then. Nice to have a bit of help. After your breakfast you can nip out and see what Dennis has got in the garden, there’s a good boy, only don’t let him tread mud across my scullery floor—he’s a devil for keeping his boots on when he brings the veg in. Do you like turnips? Mr. Bertie is quite partial to mashed turnip with a bit of white pepper.”
Ben is clearly surprised to find himself talking about vegetables quite so early in the morning, but he rallies and soon they’re discussing cabbage and sprouts, which Dan seems to be finding highly amusing as he starts to clear the table.
“Do you like turnips too, Daniel? I like to see boys eating up their veg.”
She pats his hand.
Bless.
My Christmas shopping list gets longer over the next few days, but at least we finally unpack all the boxes and I’m starting to feel like we actually live here now. The boys aren’t spending all their time glued to the television, partly because the satellite still isn’t sorted, but also because they’ve taken to roaming around with Bertie, patrolling the cove and exploring the old stables and generally becoming much more pink-cheeked and tired in the evenings than they used to in London, which is brilliant, and just what I was hoping for. Even if there is far more mud involved than I ever thought possible.
Tess has been a huge hit too, and seems delighted with the three new family members who will throw things for her. She’s taken to leaving a pile of sticks by the back door, ready for action. And Betty hasn’t taken a nip out of anyone yet, so we’re doing pretty well on the animal front—apart from the stupid chickens, who go into a major squawking and flapping meltdown whenever I open the door to the henhouse to feed them. In fact they go all beady-eyed and psychotic-looking whenever any of us even approaches the vicinity of the bloody henhouse. I’m seriously hoping they’re going to calm down soon and get over it, or I might rethink the poultry thing and go in for something more relaxing. Like buying our eggs at the farmers’ market and letting someone else handle the squawking and flapping.
I’m in the garden with Dennis. He loves the roses, but the beautiful old walled kitchen garden has always been his exclusive domain, and he’s very proud of it. Lots of the beds are empty at this time of year, but there are carrots and Brussels sprouts, and kale and cabbage, and he’s just shown me the leeks and celery and something called winter spinach, which looks exactly the same as ordinary spinach to me, but with thicker leaves.
“What are these pots for Dennis?”
“They’re forcing-pots, for the rhubarb. Cost you a fortune nowadays. These ones are antiques, been here as long as I can remember, but they do the trick. You put a layer of straw over the crowns, and then the pots bring them on a few weeks early. Mr. Bertie is partial to a bit of rhubarb.”
“Right.”
Ivy comes out to find us with a coat on over her apron.
“Are you two ready yet, because I’ve got ever such a lot to do you know?”
“Sorry Ivy, we’re just coming.”
Ivy’s decided we should tour the house, with Dennis showing me all the jobs that need doing so I can write things down, which in theory is an excellent idea, but I’d much rather stay outside and look at the veg—it’s so much more peaceful. My To Do list is already more of a booklet than a list. Actually, maybe we should take some brandy; I think that’s meant to be the thing for shock.
As we walk through the dining room, Dennis points out where the radiator burst a couple of years ago.
“Should replace them all by rights, and those shutters need taking down and oiling, but they do keep the heat in, I’ll say that for them Miss.”
“Okay, Mister.”
“What did you call Helena?”
“ ‘Lady H’?”
“You did not.”
“Sometimes I did, or ‘Madam.’ Sometimes a few other things, behind her back.” He smiles. “She could be difficult, you know, when she didn’t get her own way.”
Ivy smiles.
“We will try Miss Molly—oh, I’ve done it again. It’s hard though, after all these years.”
“I know Ivy. It’s mainly in front of the boys. You can call me whatever you like when they’re not around.”
“They’re lovely boys, all three of them. Your Alfie’s a bright spark and no mistake, and that bird has taken to him, never seen anything like it.”
“I know. He’s on about wanting a parrot of his own now, but I really don’t think we want two.”
Dennis smiles.
“Don’t you worry. I can always get my air rifle down from our loft.”
Ivy tuts.
“You’re not to let those boys see that Dennis, I’ve told you.”
“Yes Dennis, I have enough trouble getting them into bed as it is. I wouldn’t stand a chance if they knew where you kept a rifle.”
“It only fires pellets, just give you a sting. But point taken.”
We’re all smiling as we walk upstairs.
“Thought we’d start up in the attics and work our way down?”
“Good idea.”
“Watch yourself Miss. There’s dust everywhere.”
I think my Just Call Me Molly campaign is going to take a while. I don’t want to make them uncomfortable, but what with the bloody parrot “Hello Dollying” me all the time, I’m starting to feel like I’m in a weird episode of Upstairs Downstairs and I’m the famous Music Hall act who’s visiting for the weekend. Good Golly, Miss Molly, with a song for every occasion.
“She would never let me clean up here, so it needs a good tidy-up.”
“I’m putting it on the list Ivy.”
“Cobwebs as big as your hat. And those trunks need a good clear-out too.”
Dennis is clearly not impressed.
“Never mind about a bit of dust, woman, it’s the roof she wants to worry about, not you and your dusting.”
We start at the end of the corridor, going into a series of small bedrooms with tiny windows under the eaves of the roof, with old latches firmly stuck shut, and old bed frames stacked up against the walls, including the brass one I’ve got my eye on for my room, if we ever make it that far down my list. There’s plaster coming off the walls in places, and a smell of damp.
“That guttering needs sorting, but that’s easily fixed, and we’ll need a few new tiles for the roof.”
“I’m writing it down.”
“I’m not too sure about the wiring up here, what with the rain getting in.”
We all look at the assortment of old bowls and a tin bath in one corner of the room, and the old brown Bakelite light switches.
“I bring a torch up here when the weather’s bad, just in case. Those switches are ancient, and you don’t want to touch any live wires by mistake, do you?”
“Not really, no. Do you know a good electrician, just so we can make sure it’s not dangerous while I work out a proper plan of what I can afford to do first?”
“I can ring old Ted. He won’t charge you a fortune. He’s a good man.”
“Thanks Dennis.”
“He could have a look at the gatehouse too, if you’d like?”
“That would be great. How long has it been empty now?”
“A good few years. Old Mr. Parsons used to be Head Gardener in the old days—different world back then. He’d gone by the time we arrived here, and that was over twenty years ago now. I came out of the navy at the same time as Mr. Bertie, and he offered us the job here, and we’ve never regretted it, have we Ivy?”
“No, we haven’t. Although there’s always more things that need doing than there are hours in the day.”
Dennis nods.
“These big old houses need a small army of help, indoors and out. Mr. Parsons had a team of three Under Gardeners, and a lad. There are old ledgers in the library, and you can see all the names of the staff. Beautiful handwriting they had back then. Mind you, it must have been hard. He lived in the gatehouse with his family—four children I think they had—and there’s no bathroom to speak of, just the old back boiler so you had to keep the fire on if you wanted hot water. I’ve kept an eye on it over the years: the roof wants sorting out soon, or it will be beyond saving. There were plans drawn up to renovate it a few years back, but it was too expensive.”
“It would make a great holiday let, if I can afford to do it up.”
Ivy nods.
“It’s poor Mrs. Parsons I feel sorry for, having to do all her washing in that old copper boiler and lugging that old tin bath around. Still, it was all different years ago—you just got on with it, you had no choice. When I think of the prices they charge now, for renting out old cottages, they’re asking nearly five hundred pounds a week for a poky flat overlooking the harbour in the summer. With people wandering about right outside your window eating their fish and chips. They want their heads examined.”
Dennis nods.
“I’ll ask Mr. Stebbings to come and have a proper look for you, shall I? We’d like the see the old place fixed up, wouldn’t we Ivy?”
“We would, only would they want their breakfasts cooked, do you think, Molly?”
She pauses for us all to acknowledge she has called me “Molly.”
“No, they’d be self-catering. That’s one of advantages of rentals: more income and a lot less work.”
“Well that’s a blessing because we’re busy enough with the B-and-B guests, and some of them are never happy. I had to get Dennis to have a word with one of them last year, didn’t I Dennis?”
“Yes, thought he could wander down at half past eleven and click his fingers for a full cooked breakfast. I soon set him straight. Now then, the water tanks are in the next room—they got replaced about twenty years ago I think, so they should last a bit longer. If everyone runs a bath at the same time, the pipes sometimes bang. But apart from that, they should be alright.”
“Are we nearly done up here, because I’ve got pastry to roll out, and you don’t want to be worrying her sick, Dennis. Just a quick tour round is all we said, not you worrying her out of her wits.”
“She’ll want the full picture.”
“Yes, but she’ll also want her lunch, is all I’m saying.”
I’ve noticed they do this quite often, talk about me as if I’m not there. I’m taking it as a good sign, that I feel familiar to them now—either that or it’s like parents talking about a child, making sure she’s not getting up to any mischief.
There’s an old chest of drawers in the corner of the last bedroom, in faded pine. It’s dusty, but I bet with a bit of polish it would be lovely.
Ivy nods.
“There’s some nice trunks too. You should have a look through them, full of old clothes, things from years back, when they used to have grand parties here. Helena never went in for any of that. She used to say she had enough of it in the navy, what with Mr. Bertie being an Admiral and them having to go to all the big dinners in London. But her mother used to entertain.”
“Yes, she used to tell me about the parties. They sounded very glamorous.”
“Her grandmother danced with the Prince of Wales you know, at a ball in London. You should have a look at some of the frocks, evening things, some of them must have taken days to make, beautiful embroidery and beads. The keys are all in the jar in the pantry.”
Ivy and I have been trying to gradually sort through the huge jar and reunite miscellaneous keys with various locks around the house and then write labels. Ivy very much approves of this, and has made Dennis put up a pegboard with a series of hooks so we can proudly display our new orderly system.
“I’d love to, once we find the keys.”
“Some of those old clothes can be valuable, you know. Good job they’ve been in the trunks, stop the mice getting at them.”
Dennis tuts.
“Tell me off for worrying her and then you start on about mice. Don’t you worry, it’s just a few field mice. They come in each winter, but I put the bait down and that soon sorts them out. And they don’t tend to open trunks, not as a general rule. Now then, there’s just one bathroom up here, hasn’t been used for years, so I wouldn’t try the taps if I were you.”
“Okey doke.”
Oh God. Something else for my list.
By the time we’ve finished the complete tour, with a break for lunch, it’s starting to get dark and I definitely need a drink. With broken sash cords, sagging shutters, damp plaster, chimneys which don’t draw properly in an east wind, and haven’t done since the War, cracked tiles, wobbly floorboards, ancient electrics, and antique plumbing, it’s a wonder the place is still standing. And that’s before I get to the B&B bathrooms, with their faded floral wallpaper and stained ceilings from old leaks. They’re tidy enough, but basic, so getting them looking a bit more respectable has got to be a top priority too. Helena only did B&B during the summer months, but we’ll need to do better than that if we’re going to make enough money to keep everything going. I can do most of the decorating myself, and Dennis knows all the local builders, so that will give me the expert guidance I’ll need before I start on anything which could bring the entire ceiling down. And if I can afford to sort out the gatehouse, that will make a huge difference; it’s tiny, but it could be lovely, and as a holiday let it would bring in loads more than the B&B. Helena refused to have inspectors from the guidebooks and tourist schemes visit, so it’s all been very much word-of-mouth so far, with regulars rebooking and only the occasional new guest. I’m not going to rush into making any big changes straightaway, not until I’ve done some more research, but there’s definitely lots of potential. And a huge amount to do.
But I’m still feeling a glimmer of excitement in amongst all the blind panic as I walk down to the cove to retrieve Bertie and the boys. At least Bertie isn’t firing the bloody cannon today; I’ve already broken two cups and a plate due to unexpected cannoning. It might only fire blank powder, but it still makes a hell of a racket. He’s solemnly promised to never show the boys how the stupid thing works, and Dennis keeps the powder locked safely away, so that’s something. But I’d still like to find a way to push it off the clifftop.
“Mum?”
“Yes Alfie?”
“Look, I’ve found another pebble with a hole in it. Look, right in the middle.”
“That’s a good one, let’s take it back up to the house and you can put it on your shelf.”
Ben and Dan are collecting driftwood for the bonfire I’ve promised we can have for New Year’s Eve, supervised by Bertie, who has firm views on the correct way to arrange a bonfire.
“Put the tarpaulin back on, there’s a good chap. Got to keep it dry, storm brewing tonight, if I’m not mistaken. Hello my dear. Getting quite a collection now, and there’s a few branches drying in the stables, so we can use those too, get a proper blaze going. Fancy a snifter, keep out the cold?”
He offers me his flask.
“No thanks Bertie, it’s teatime, and it’s getting cold. We should be getting back inside.”
“Right you are. Stand to boys, we’ve got new orders.”
We walk back up to the house, with the boys racing ahead.
“How did the tour go? Dennis show you everything, did he? Got your bearings?”
“I think so.”
“One day at a time my dear, that’s the ticket. Great big place like this, always something needs doing. It will drive you demented if you let it. It’s survived this long, and I daresay it’ll last us all out. Don’t let it overwhelm you. Helena wouldn’t have wanted that. Old Dennis is a good chap, but he does fuss. Gets it from Ivy. We’ll muddle along somehow, won’t we?”
“Of course we will.”
“That’s the ticket. Been meaning to say, those boys of yours are quite a tonic. Full of energy. Having a grand time building our fire—you wait and see—quite looking forward to it. Might send old Dennis off for some fireworks, make a proper occasion of it.”
Great. More explosions.
It’s the day after Boxing Day, and I’m sitting by the fire having a peaceful half hour. Christmas Eve was lovely, if exhausting, and Mum and Dad came to tea, which I was slightly worried about because Ivy and Mum have been competing about the perfect recipe for mince pies, so they’d both made a special batch and Mum brought some of hers, and had pulled out all the stops with puff pastry and lattice tops, with Ivy making shortcrust ones with pastry leaves on top, and it all got a bit tense, until they declared a draw, and then had a lovely time bonding over the vagaries of cooking on AGAs. Thank God Ivy made the Christmas cake months ago or they’d probably still be banging on about recipes for that too.
I finally solved the issue of what to get Ivy and Dennis for Christmas by promising to buy Ivy a new washing machine in the New Year sales—not the most thrilling of gifts, but the one they’ve got in their cottage could have made an interesting feature on Antiques Roadshow before it stopped working altogether a few months ago. She’s been putting all her washing in a wheelie shopping basket and bringing it up to the house, and then trundling it back down the drive still half-damp so she can iron it. Ivy’s got very definite views on ironing. She’s got her eye on some terrifying-looking steam-ironing contraption for the house which apparently makes light work of sheets. She’s been leaving me brochures and leaflets in strategic places, so I’m going to have to sort one of those too while I’m splashing out in the January sales. Although I might try to find one that doesn’t look like you could steam-iron your own arm between two giant rollers if you weren’t very careful. But the prize for the most successful present ever has to go to the ride-along lawn mower we got for Dennis; I thought he might burst into tears. I was pretty close to tears myself when I saw the price, but he’s too old to be pushing the old petrol one around. It weighs a ton, and anyway it’s half-broken, according to Bertie. It was Bertie who came up with the idea: one of the old codgers at the naval club was selling it, and he arranged for the delivery and everything. Dennis took it out for a few test runs in the meadow on Christmas morning and was completely thrilled. Even Bertie had a go—which, to be frank, I could have done without—with bloody Betty perched on his shoulder so he looked like a mad gardening pirate. I must remind Dennis to make sure the key is well hidden from the boys, or Alfie will be trying to go to school on it.
Pete came down yesterday, as promised, and was pretty grumpy. They’re staying with Janice’s mother, who lives near Salisbury, so he only had a couple of hours’ drive, but I don’t think he enjoyed Christmas surrounded by Janice’s relatives. Not that his lunch with us was entirely successful either. Ivy insisted on doing her best “Miss Molly” routine, and was practically curtsying when she served lunch in the dining room, which she insisted on doing, using the best china, while Bertie told him all about the Battle of Jutland, for some reason best known to himself, and Betty told everyone to bugger off and gave Pete increasingly malevolent glances.
Dan is sitting by the fire reading, looking a bit smaller and younger than before Pete’s visit.
“I’m sorry Dad had to leave so early yesterday, but it was nice to see him, wasn’t it? Nice he drove all this way just to see you at Christmas.”
“He’s a total twat Mum.”
“Dan!”
“Well, he is.”
“Dan, that’s not fair, he drove all that way, just to see the three of you. And he’d brought you all such lovely presents.”
Beautifully wrapped presents in fact, carefully chosen from the list I gave him of the games and films and books that I knew they wanted. As far as I know, Pete has never organised or wrapped a present for any of the boys in his life, so I’m guessing my list was handed straight to Janice. Some things don’t change.
“Chill out Mum. Seriously, it’s no big deal. Can I have an orange?”
“Yes, as long as you put all the peel in the fire and don’t just leave it lying on the table. And I think you’re being very unfair, he loves all of you very much. And it can’t have been easy coming here and putting up with Betty. But he did it, because he loves you.”
There’s a small smile as he reaches for his orange. I think it’s vital I don’t criticise Pete, a bit like a parental Maginot Line, which come to think of it was so effective the Germans just went round the back, so maybe less of the Maginot and more of the Maternal. A safety zone, so they feel there’s an unbreachable border between them and chaos. There’s nothing like seeing your parents have descended into one long slanging match to make kids feel like now might be a good time to go completely off the rails. I saw it so often at school, and I’m determined we maintain the united moral high ground, still minding about manners and homework, even if one of you has buggered off, and is, as Dan says, a total twat. It’s the small things which add up, like school uniforms. We spent hours banging on about uniforms at my old school, but if we hadn’t endlessly insisted shirts were tucked in and ties done up, some of them would have turned up in the kind of outfits more usually seen in the red-light district of Berlin. And not just the girls. Why Mrs. Trent thought Cabaret was a good idea for the school play is still beyond me. Gareth Finch tried to wear eyeliner pretty much permanently after his debut performance. I had to keep a packet of makeup remover pads in my desk just for him. Still, at least it increased his interest in the Weimar Republic, and he did get top marks in the exams.
“Is there any Christmas cake left Mum?”
“I think so. Bring me a slice too would you love?”
Dan’s discovered a new passion for Christmas cake, once he found out Ivy puts a fair bit of brandy in it.
“A cup of tea would be nice too.”
“What did your last servant die of?”
“Being cheeky.”
I’m looking at the book on roses which Dennis and Ivy gave me for Christmas. I think Dennis is hoping I might discover a dormant horticultural passion, although knowing my luck it’ll be a passion for parrots inherited from the Bertie end of the family gene pool. If I had a choice, I’d definitely prefer roses. The pictures are beautiful, but there does seem to be a great deal more to the wonderful world of roses than you’d ever imagine. I’ve already found myself accidentally triggering quite a few rounds of baffling garden chat with Dennis about Helena’s hatred of modern hybrids, so I sit by the fire and try to concentrate. Maybe I should write myself notes. There are so many different varieties, all with different-shaped flowers; rosettes and quartered rosettes; rounded, flat, or cupped, all the descriptions are lovely, and I’m sure I can smell the various scents. Apricot, fading to cream, with a true rose fragrance. Tones of peach and coral, with a fruity fragrance, good repeat flowering. Ooh, I like the look of the one called Marie Louise, a gorgeous pink rose raised in Empress Josephine’s gardens at Malmaison. I’m daydreaming about gathering up rose petals which fill the house with perfume as they dry, when Dan comes in with a tray.
“Ben says Alfie’s fallen in the sea again collecting pebbles, so he’s sopping wet, and Uncle Bertie says can you send down some dry clothes for him. Or you could just leave it, which gets my vote, because Alfie does it on purpose, you know he does. He’s such a total knob.”
It looks like the rose petals may have to wait.