CHAPTER THREE If I Had a Hammer January to March

Cabbage Roses

With loose full flowers and beautiful satin petals in tones of pink, violet, lavender, and deep purple, these roses date back to the sixteenth century and are also known as centifolia or Provence roses. Strong and hardy, they have a rich range of alluring fragrances with hints of pear and apple, peach and vanilla. Understandably popular in cottage gardens, they were widely grown, and notable varieties include Cottage Maid, with its masses of creamy-white flowers with pink veining; The Bishop, with its deep-purple-and-lilac flowers which fade to violet; and Napoleon’s Hat, a clear-bright-pink rose with a spiced, rich fragrance.

“Happy New Year darling, I’ve brought fizz. And presents.”

Lola is draped in scarves and wearing the kind of stunning white coat that no woman with children would ever dream of buying.

“How was the drive?”

“Great, once I got over the arctic landscape. I was half expecting to spot a bloody polar bear. Why is it so cold?”

“Because it’s winter?”

“It’s not this bad in town.”

“That’ll be all those central heating systems pumping out heat. We don’t really go in for that down here. Well, not in this house anyway. You did bring your thermals, didn’t you?”

“Yes darling, I even brought a hat, although I’m seriously hoping I won’t have to sleep in it.”

“I lit a fire in your bedroom earlier on, so hopefully not.”

“A real fire, what a treat. Alfie, there you are, come and give your godmother a kiss. Hello, Bertie, lovely to see you.”

She hands him a bottle of champagne.

“Welcome my dear, always like a girl who brings her own supplies. You’re looking in the pink, I must say. Been up to all sorts, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“This and that, Bertie, this and that.”

“That’s the spirit. Surprised some chap hasn’t snapped you up yet, a girl who tips up with her own champagne. Should think you’ve got them queuing up.”

She kisses him.

“Not that I’ve noticed, but I like your thinking. Where’s the parrot? Don’t tell me you’ve had her stuffed and put on a shelf—I was looking forward to a bit of abuse.”

“She’s in the library, in disgrace. Dismantled another television control. She’s a demon with them, have to get one of the boys to change the channels now, most inconvenient. Do bear it in mind my dear. Don’t leave her alone with any gadgets.”

“I didn’t bring my TV remote with me Bertie, but thanks for the tip.”

“She can make short work of those little phones you all seem to carry nowadays, especially the ones with pictures. Finds them irresistible.”

“It’s true Lola. We’ve all got used to keeping our mobiles out of sight. It’s quite relaxing.”

“If one of my clients goes into meltdown and can’t get hold of me it won’t be relaxing, thanks. Bertie, be a darling and tell her if she tries to eat my phone, I’ll arrange to have her stuffed.”

“I’ll do my best my dear, but I can’t promise anything.”

Bertie pours champagne while we open Lola’s beautifully wrapped parcels. Lola is brilliant at presents, and Bertie’s particularly taken with his new cardigan with skull and crossbones appliquéd on both pockets.

“I thought a pirate motif was perfect for you. Molly tells me they used to call you the Red Admiral when you were in the navy Bertie. What was that all about?”

“No idea. I was never that keen on the rules and regulations and all the pomp and ceremony the top brass go in for, but I was never a Red. Knew some excellent Russians though, very good value at parties. Used to give cocktail parties on board, some of them went on for days.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Dan and Ben love their trendy hooded sweatshirts as well as the selection of Japanese cartoons and films from Lola’s recent trip to Tokyo. She’s also bought them both hats with earflaps, which I’m slightly nervous about because I know exactly what reaction I’d get if I tried to persuade them to wear hats with earflaps. Or hats without earflaps, come to think of it. But apparently these are “awesome,” and Dan wears his for the rest of the afternoon, while Alfie goes into a Lego-induced trance. I gave him the castle for Christmas, and Lola has bought every single bit of extra kit a castle could possibly require, including horses and knights and extra cannons with mini cannonballs, which he’s soon firing all over the drawing room floor. She’s bought so many we should be set until next Christmas, which is great, obviously, even if I do keep treading on the bloody things when I’ve been warming my feet by the fire. I even got one stuck inside my sock yesterday, and hobbling about trying not to swear amused the boys to no end.

We’ve spent ages decorating a tea set for Lola. Alfie has painted the cake plates, and Dan and Ben decorated the cups and saucers and milk jug. My pink-and-white-flowered teapot looks rather sedate in comparison, but she seems to love it, and I’ve filled the teapot with tiny parcels, strings of sparkly beads, and mini bottles of nail polish, as well as chocolates, so she’s wearing the beads and painting her nails with silver glitter while I unwrap the beautiful cashmere twin set she’s chosen for me, in just the kind of pale lilac that you never find in Marks and Spencer.

“Promise you’ll only wear it with dark purple, or green.”

“Of course.”

“What have you got in dark purple?”

“A dressing gown and a couple of towels?”

“Just as I thought. Open that one, over there.”

The second parcel contains a long velvet skirt, in a gorgeous deep blackcurrant. It’s so beautiful I want to try it on straightaway. And in amongst all the tissue paper there’s also a tiny dark-green woollen something. Christ, I think it’s meant to be a skirt. Or maybe a big belt.

“Before you say anything, you wear it with woolly tights and boots.”

“I’ll look like Robin Hood.”

“You will not. You’ll look like a postmodern Lady of the Manor. We can go online later and I’ll show you more stuff you need to buy. I’m on a mission, it’s important you look right, you can’t go shuffling round in those terrible jeans.”

“I can. But thank you, they’re all gorgeous.”

“Just get a few things darling, while I’m here to help you choose.”

“Maybe.”

Or maybe not. Lola’s idea of just a few things tends to be what most people would call a massive shopping spree. But I’ll definitely need some woolly tights if I’m ever going to give the green skirt a try. “Maybe I could get some of those legging things, to wear under the skirt?”

“ ‘Jeggings’? Please, darling. Another little joke from the wonderful world of fashion. If you’re fifteen or anorexic, fine. On anyone else they look completely revolting. Trust me, woollen tights are your best bet.”

Lunch is particularly successful since Lola’s brought new supplies of Christmas Crackers, and hers are much posher than ours, with much better gifts inside them. Even Betty gets a cracker present: a small mirror which she sets about dismantling, in between admiring herself. Alfie is thrilled with his whistle, more’s the pity. But at least we’ll know where he is, anywhere in the house.

“Shall we have coffee by the fire?”

“Please, darling.”

“Boys, you can watch a film, or play upstairs, but no charging around. We’ll go for a walk later, so save your energy for that, okay?”

Alfie toots on his whistle, but then trots off with Bertie to annoy Betty. Excellent. Let’s see how long it takes her to dismantle a whistle. Fingers crossed.

“This coffee is delicious, much better than your usual stuff. So how was Christmas, darling?”

“Fine, although I made Ivy and Dennis take Christmas Day off, which took some doing, and then I wished I hadn’t because the turkey took forever to cook and we ended up having our lunch at a quarter to six.”

“And what about your parents—full of festive spirit?”

“Dad’s still sulking. Mum’s popped in a few times though, and she’s fine. And they both came round on Christmas Eve, and then we all went for sherry at the hotel before New Year, which was pretty tense with Roger being bumptious and Dad giving me the evil eye. But everyone just about managed to behave, apart from Bertie. What about you and your mum, how did that go?”

“Fine, I think, I drank so much vodka it’s all a blur. Only way to handle it.”

“Yes, Bertie did something similar. He had Sally in fits when we were at the hotel, telling her rude stories about his exploits in the navy, he ended up sitting in the office, with half the staff crowding in. He was a huge hit.”

“I bet Roger loved that.”

“Oh definitely, he was enchanted.”

“Okay, I’d like the full tour now please. Pretend I’m a guest.”

“You are a guest Lola.”

“A B-and-B guest. Imagine I’ve just tipped up ready to book in.”

“You’re not really the B-and-B type though are you?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Normal, with matching anoraks? Don’t worry, I’ll summon up my inner pleb.”

“Charming.”

“Shut up, and get on with it. I want to see it all—the full guest experience.”

“Of course. Right this way madam.”

“I love the entrance by the way, huge door, proper old-fashioned bellpull and clanging bell, sets the perfect tone.”

“Yes, and Betty can do a pretty good impersonation of the bell, so bear it in mind. She can do the phone too, but we’ve fixed that. I’ve got a new one and Ben and Dan have spent hours putting ringtones on for everyone.”

“Clever.”

“I thought so, but we’ve had so many debates about it, I’m not so sure now. They’d put Darth Vader on for Pete until I made them change it.”

“I like their thinking. What’s he got now?”

“Yoda. They put some annoying singing chicken on for my mobile, until I made them take it off, so now they’ve gone all James Bond. You’ve got ‘Diamonds Are Forever,’ and I’ve got ‘Skyfall,’ which they’re loving, given the subtle chicken connection.”

“And exactly how does lovely Daniel 007 Craig connect to chickens?”

“Chicken Licken, the Sky Is Falling Down—they think they’ve been terribly clever. I’m letting them keep it for now, or God knows what I’ll end up with. They’d put on ‘The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow’ from Annie for Alfie until I deleted it.”

“Has Alfie got a phone then?”

“Nope, but they couldn’t resist, little swine. They keep playing all the tunes, just to be annoying. But the good news is Betty can’t keep track of them—she fluffs up her feathers and goes all sulky every time the phone rings, it’s great. I think that’s why she’s redoubling her efforts with remote controls. It’s parrot payback.”

We’re walking across the main hall and into the entrance hall.

“When was this place built, do you know?”

“Late seventeen hundreds.”

“The staircase is lovely. Is it oak?”

“I think so.”

“You’re hopeless darling, I want snippets. ‘Hand-carved oak, using timbers from a famous ship’—ask Bertie for something suitable.”

“I don’t think you can just make stuff up Lola. It’s just oak, made by local craftsmen, I should imagine. But I can tell you about the floor tiles—Victorian green-and-blue mosaic. I’ve been doing some research to see if I can replace a couple of the cracked ones. They cost a fortune.”

“I bet they do, they’re gorgeous. Right, so we’re by the front door, off you go. ‘Good afternoon, do you have a reservation?’ ”

“Stop it, you’re making me nervous.”

“Pull yourself together darling.”

“ ‘Good afternoon, madam. Why are you wearing so many scarves, have you just arrived from the North Pole?’ ”

“Ho ho ho, very festive I’m sure. ‘I’ve got a booking. My bags are in the car.’ Off you pop darling.”

“ ‘This is a B-and-B, madam. We don’t have a porter.’ ”

“Very good, going for five stars, I see—be rude to your guests. If it works for Michelin-star restaurants, why not B-and-Bs? I like it. So, do I have to sign in, or what?”

“Yes, on the hall table, in this book, just your name and address. And there’s a visitor’s book too, in the guest sitting room. Full of nice comments because Ivy takes out the page if anyone writes anything she doesn’t like.”

“Do you want my credit card?”

“No, because you’re not paying. And we don’t take credit cards yet—it’s on my To Do list. Actually it’s more of a To Do booklet now.”

“I bet. And I am paying; I want to be your first official guest. So shut up. Is the usual drill they pay after they’ve had breakfast?”

“Yes, if we’re open, which we’re not. Helena didn’t open until Easter, so I’m sticking with that while I get things sorted. So you’re not paying, and that’s final.”

“I can see your influence here already you know darling—the twigs and berries in that vase, the Christmas tree and all the holly and ribbons, it’s all gorgeous.”

“I’ve just tidied up a bit so far, I’d like to move some of the furniture around, but I don’t want to upset Ivy, so I’m taking it slowly.”

“This isn’t a remake of Rebecca, darling, even if this place could be a mini Mandalay. There’s no Mrs. Danvers lurking, waiting to set the house on fire.”

“I bloody hope not.”

“It could be stunning. Get a business loan, don’t look at the bills, and focus your energies on making it beautiful.”

“I’m sure the banks will be falling all over themselves to give me a loan with a detailed business plan like that Lola.”

“With the equity you’ve got here, it won’t matter what you say, they’ll be falling all over themselves to sign you up to pay them vast amounts of interest. Bastards.”

I show her the guest sitting room, to the right of the entrance hall, with the breakfast table for the B&B guests.

“It used to be the old morning room, it gets the sun first thing.”

“I’ve always wanted a house big enough to have a morning room. Imagine sitting giving orders to your staff. Six for dinner, let’s roast a brace or two of pheasant.”

“You can try it if you like. Ivy and I can line up wearing our best aprons.”

“I love the huge windows, floor to ceiling Georgian gorgeousness.”

“They’re great aren’t they, and the shutters work too. I’ll show you. Most of the rooms have them, and the dining room has window seats too. When I was little I used to hide in them, pull the curtain across, and make a little camp. Helena used to bring me snacks and I’d sit reading my book, it was perfect. Come on, let me show you your room.”

We walk upstairs.

“I’ve put you in the big double.”

“It’s stunning darling, and thank you for the fire. Very country house.”

“It’s either that or freeze. I’m tempted to start redecorating in here straightaway, but I need to meet the builder first and make sure nothing crucial will collapse.”

“This wallpaper is truly hideous.”

“Yup, William Morris meets the nineteen-seventies. But I think I can do something with the curtains, if I de-floral everywhere else, and go with cream and pale blues?”

Lola is looking at the curtains, which are heavy paisley damask in silver and china blue. She doesn’t look convinced.

“If you say so darling.”

“The bathrooms are old, but at least they’re white, and I can get rid of the terrible old carpets. I’ve already checked and the floorboards are great, so I’ll sand them and give them a pale whitewash and then varnish them. With new towels and blinds I think they’ll look quite good.”

“Sounds great, and the proportions are brilliant with the shutters and the windows. The bones are there, and all the views are wonderful. If you turned the whole place into a country-house hotel, you could make a fortune.”

“Yes, but we’d be homeless, and so would Bertie.”

“Show me your room, and then the attics.”

“Are you sure? It’s pretty cold up there.”

“I want to see it all.”

“Okay, and then I’ve got something to show you which is going to make you very jealous.”

“What? Tell me now, you know I hate surprises.”

“I’ve got a dressing room, off my bedroom, it’s huge.”

“Christ, the irony, I can’t bear it. You know I’ve always wanted a proper-sized dressing room. It’ll be completely wasted on you.”

“I thought I might turn it into a sewing room?”

“Are you taking up sewing then?”

“Probably not, but it sounds nice.”

“Or you could just buy more clothes.”

“You haven’t seen the size of it yet.”

“Shut up.”

“Christ, it’s cold up here.”

“I know, there are only a couple of radiators, just to stop the pipes from freezing. God knows how the servants used to manage. There are fireplaces, but they’re tiny, and I bet they weren’t allowed fires unless they were at death’s door.”

“No wonder they got up so early in the morning, probably the only way to get warm. What’s in here?”

I turn on the light to show Lola the water-tank room, and all the lights go out.

“Bloody hell, is this part of the tour darling?”

“No, it’s the fuse box. It does it all the time, just hang on, I’ve put torches all over the place. There should be one by the stairs on top of that cupboard.”

“Well hurry up. I hope this place isn’t haunted by the ghost of some housemaid frozen to her washstand, because I’m not really up for any more shocks. I’m still trying to get over the idea of you having a dressing room.”

“Here, I’ve found it. Let’s go back down, and then I’ll sort the fuse box. We had too many lights on—that’s the usual reason it trips.”

“Good. And then we can open a bottle of something, good plan?”

“Excellent plan.”

I take Lola breakfast in bed in the morning, and she says she slept very well, and she doesn’t appear to feel fragile at all, which is impressive. If only I could say the same. I’m outside feeding the silly chickens with the boys, and wishing everyone would be a bit quieter. Chickens always look so peaceful on television, pecking and clucking about, but these ones are almost the exact opposite of that. Given half a chance, they shoot past and escape into the orchard, flapping and squawking every time I open the bloody door to feed them. I spent nearly an hour running round last week trying to get the little sods back in for the night, admittedly with Alfie and Ben helping, which probably made things worse. And then when I finally gave up and started walking back towards the house, they all trooped back into the henhouse, almost in single file. I’m sure they were doing it deliberately to annoy me. If chickens can laugh, then the buggers were definitely laughing.

The boys are running round throwing sticks for Tess, while I try to work out how to get back out of the henhouse with having another Great Escape on my hands, when Ivy comes out, with Dennis carrying a bucket of warm water.

“They like a drop of warm water in this weather.”

“They like cider vinegar too Ivy, in their water, I’ve been Googling them.”

Ben is on a mission to help me embrace the wonderful world of poultry keeping.

“I thought Googlies were cricket dear?”

Dennis shakes his head.

“Google not ‘Googlie,’ you daft woman. It’s the Interweb he’s on about. You can look up all sorts on it.”

“And if you tie vegetables on a string, they can peck them and not get bored.”

God forbid we’d have bored chickens.

Ivy is impressed.

“Fancy, did you hear that, Dennis. You’ve got to tie some of your veg on a string. Do you think you can manage that, in between being sarky to me?”

Ben looks pleased that someone is finally taking his research seriously.

“You can hang up old CDs too—they like pecking at them. And if they eat grass you get darker yolks. And raw potato is poisonous for chickens, so you can’t give them potato peelings. And they need lots of water, because eggs are seventy-five percent water.”

“Well I never, there’s a good boy finding out all that.”

I’m still stuck inside the henhouse, trying to work out how to get out.

“Thanks Ben, you didn’t happen to see any top hints on how to open the door without the stupid things all running out did you love?”

He grins.

“Not really Mum.”

“They’re just getting used to you, dear. It takes them a while. They’ll start laying again soon and then they’ll settle.”

“That’s good news Ivy.”

Either that or I might just peel a few potatoes when nobody is looking.

“Morning everyone, what are you all doing? Do they always make that racket darling?”

Lola has emerged, draped in cashmere and looking as fresh as the proverbial daisy.

“When I’m around they do. I thought you were having a lie-in?”

“I got bored. The white ones are lovely, usually they’re that horrible sludge-brown, but these look much more upmarket.”

Dennis nods.

“That’s Vita and Gertie—they’re both Ixworths, rare breed. Them speckled black-and-white ones are Connie and Beth—they’re Dorkings, nice calm hens.”

He pauses to watch Beth race past me, clucking.

“Usually they’re calm. The other three are Speckled Sussex—Penny, Rosie, and the Duchess. We had a flock of over thirty at one point, used to keep quite a few rare breeds, for breeding, but now we just keep a few for the eggs. Good layers, this lot are.”

“All girls? Don’t you need a cockerel as well?”

Our new poultry expert, Ben, steps forward.

“No Aunty Lola, chickens lay eggs all the time, you just need a cockerel if you want them to do sexing and have chicks.”

From the look on her face, I’m not sure Ivy is that impressed with Ben’s latest bit of research, but Dennis nods.

“That’s right, and cockerels make too much of a racket to be worth the bother.”

Lola is clearly trying not to laugh as I manage to exit the henhouse with a nifty move which leaves all the chickens still inside, albeit in mild hysterics. It’s the first time I’ve actually managed this, so I’m pretty pleased with myself. It’s just a shame I’ve left the bucket inside.

Dennis retrieves the bucket by sauntering in, picking it up, and then sauntering back out again, with no mass flappings or screechings. The buggers are definitely doing it on purpose.

“Great names darling. Did you choose them?”

I can tell she’s still trying not to laugh.

“No, Helena named them after gardeners: Gertrude Jekyll, Vita Sackville-West, Penelope Hobhouse, Beth Chatto. There are loads of books in the library; they were a fascinating bunch, from what I can gather. Constance Spry pretty much invented modern flower arranging. The Duchess, after the Duchess of Devonshire, the one who’s mad on chickens, she used to have flocks of them wandering round Chatsworth apparently. Helena knew her years ago; I think they came out together.”

“Came out? Am I missing something here?”

“Came out as debutantes, did the Season, all that malarkey.”

“It’s a whole new world isn’t it darling. Do they lay loads of lovely eggs then?”

“Not since we turned up, no.”

“Maybe you should let them do a bit of sexing then—might perk them up.”

“Thanks Lola. I’ll bear it in mind.”

Dennis laughs.

“They always tail off a bit in the winter. They’ll start up again soon, don’t you worry. Right, I’m off inside for my elevenses. Shall I put the kettle on?”

Alfie starts hopping up and down.

“I need a bacon sandwich, like Dennis, I really do. I never get bacon.”

“You can have one tomorrow, if you come downstairs when I call you for breakfast, otherwise it’s just cereal, I can’t start making bacon now.”

Ivy puts her hand on his shoulder.

“I put a bit of bacon in the warming drawer earlier in case the boys fancied some, if that’s alright?”

Alfie cheers, and hugs her.

“Thank you Ivy, you’re my best person in the whole world.”

Dennis smiles.

“Nothing like a bacon sandwich to set you up on a cold morning, and it looks like rain later, might even be snow. Let’s get back indoors before all the bacon disappears.”

“That’s enough of that Dennis. We don’t want any snow, and there’ll be nobody helping themselves to my bacon, thanks all the same. And I’ll be wanting some leeks for lunch, and some rhubarb, before you come in. I thought I’d make a crumble.”

I glance at Lola to see if she’s recoiled in horror, but apparently her newfound aversion to all things rhubarb doesn’t include crumbles.

Dennis tuts.

“You want to watch yourself Alfie, or she’ll have you out digging up veg in the pouring rain too.”

“You should train Tess. She’s very good at digging.”

“I might try that lad. Save me a lot of bother.”

Dan shoves Alfie, but fairly gently, so I ignore it.

“I think we’d all rather the dog didn’t dig up our lunch, thanks all the same Alf.”

He’s still wearing his new hat with the earflaps, which I am now coveting since it has started to get so much colder.

Perhaps a bacon sandwich might be just what we all need.

I’m sitting by the fire with Lola in the drawing room while the boys are off playing or “helping” Dennis dig up leeks.

“Right, so run me through the money darling.”

“What money? Why does everyone think I’ve got money now?”

“Who thinks that?”

“Pete, mainly.”

“Yes but I’ve told you, the brilliant thing about being divorced is you don’t need to worry about what he thinks anymore darling. What’s your budget, to transform all this?”

“Well we get just under five hundred pounds a year from renting the fields to the local farmer.”

“Are you joking?”

“No, the sheep are lovely and Helena didn’t want to rent to anyone else. Mr. Crouch explained it all to me, there’s a proper business account and everything, and I’m the only signatory. Helena sorted it all out. She didn’t put Bertie on the account, though—she said he’d be too annoying and he’d just write cheques for daft stuff.”

“Good call.”

“Excellent call.”

“So, apart from five hundred pounds, what else?”

“The B-and-B brought in just under four thousand pounds last year, and there’s money set aside in a special account for Dennis’s and Ivy’s wages for the next year or so. God knows where Helena got the money from, but she set it all up so I don’t have to worry about that straightaway. Their cottage is rent-free, but I need to do something about how little they get paid as soon as I can. Overall the house makes a huge loss of course—it has done for years. Helena only really noticed her plants, and then whenever things got tricky, she’d sell something.”

“Is there anything left to sell?”

“Not unless anyone wants to buy a parrot, not really. Helena left some money for Bertie, and he keeps trying to give me cheques, but we’re fine, for now. We got a good price for our house. It would have been a lot more a couple of years ago of course, but by the time the mortgage was paid off, I ended up with over one hundred and fifty thousand pounds—one hundred and fifty-three thousand, four hundred and sixty-seven, actually—after I paid my half of the solicitor’s bills.”

“Christ, is that all?”

“Lola, that’s a huge amount of money.”

“Yes, if someone walked up to you and said, ‘Here, have a bonus,’ you’d be pleased, but not to live on and do up a huge place like this and take care of the boys.”

“Yes, but there’s the money from Pete for the boys. Even if it’s usually late, it does arrive eventually, so I should be able to manage if I’m careful.”

“Or I could invest.”

“Yes, but we’ve already talked about that Lola, and I want to try to do this by myself—well, ‘by myself’ thanks to Helena and Bertie. And anyway I think you’d be a very scary business partner.”

“That’s true. But if you get stuck, you’ll let me know? I could have a word with my bank, or your bloody father could talk to the hotel’s bank surely?”

“Yes, but he’d meddle and then Roger would start trying to boss me about, so I’d rather try to make it a go of it without them if I can.”

“So no nest egg, fabulous house, huge potential, what’s the plan? I know, turn it into a high-class brothel? Aristocratic clients only. Give them rubbish food and someone to wallop them with a riding crop and they’ll feel right at home. You’ll make a fortune.”

“Tempting, but no. If things get too tough I can always sign up for a bit of teaching work if I have to, although by the time I’ve paid for child care that won’t bring in much, and anyway I think I need to be full-time here if I’m going to pull this off. I’ve got a few ideas though. Let me show you.”

“Bugger, do we have to go back outside? I’ve only just got those bloody Wellies off. That’s how you could make your fortune darling: invent something to help weekend guests get their Wellies off.”

“I have. He’s called Alfie.”

We troop up to the stables, with Tess barking and Alfie having an imaginary sword fight with a stick while I show Lola the beautiful wooden beams.

“Lovely darling—shame about the freezing gale blowing through all the holes in the roof though.”

“Yes, but that could be fixed, and they’d make great holiday cottages. With the right plan and a few walls moved, you could turn this into two, maybe even three little terraced holiday cottages. The roof space is huge, so you could put a second floor in for a bathroom and bedrooms. Lots of places have done it and they rent them out all year round for weekend breaks, and then in the summer we can earn serious money renting them by the week. I’ll need to get plans approved and talk to builders, and the bank, but while I get all that sorted, I thought I’d use some of my money to deal with the most urgent things in the house, and fix up the gatehouse, and that way I can rent that out and see how it goes. Sort of test the market. I’ll still keep some money in reserve for emergencies. But it could be lovely, and it’s much less dilapidated than here—well, a bit less. I’ll show you, if you’re up for a walk down the lane. What do you think?”

“I’m finding it a bit hard to think darling, I can’t feel my fingers. I may be in the first stages of hypothermia.”

“It’s not that far, and the last stage of hypothermia is when you imagine you’re hot and start taking all your clothes off, so as long as you don’t start doing that, you’ll be fine.”

“Promise?”

We walk down the lane as the sun starts to go down and the stable roof turns a beautiful pinky orange.

“What does that mean then—a sunset like that? ‘Red sky at night, shepherds’ what?”

“ ‘Delight. Red sky at dawn, shepherds be warned.’ ”

“Of what?”

“I’ve no idea. If you want a forecast, ask Bertie—he’s got all sorts of theories about what the weather is going to do.”

“Is he usually right?”

“Not often, no. Look at the stables now. If you half close your eyes, you can almost see how lovely they could be.”

Lola turns to look.

“I find it works better if you shut your eyes completely darling.”

Alfie starts to yell.

“It’s snowing, it is, it’s snowing.”

And sure enough, it is. Just a few flakes. But it’s definitely snow.

“Bloody hell, I’ve got to get back to town tomorrow, drifts or no drifts.”

“There’s an old tractor, I’m sure Dennis can fix it. He’s been fixing it for years, and he uses it for cutting the grass in the meadow. Or he could take you on his new ride-along mower.”

“To London?”

“No, to the station. You can get the train back, if it gets really bad.”

“Thanks darling. But I think I’ll just strip off now and lie down in the snow. Save time.”

It’s the last day of January tomorrow, and I’m hoping this will herald a change in the weather. We’ve had gales, and torrential rain, which flooded the road into the village, and what felt like weeks of snow, only a light dusting at New Year, but then three days which were so bad all the schools were shut. And last week we had a power cut, so I spent half an hour in the cellar fiddling with the fuse box until Dennis arrived, having cycled up the lane to tell me the power was off from the village all the way along the coast. So the camping torches were back on duty again, because the combination of the boys and candles is just too terrifying to contemplate, even without a resident Mrs. Danvers. We listened to the radio and I kept the fires going, which involved a fair bit of scuttling round with kindling and bags of logs, but at least it kept us from freezing, and I think the boys quite enjoyed it. The one hidden bonus to the house being so cold is the boys have taken to wearing slippers, so their socks are a lot less grubby than usual. Living in a house with flagstone floors in the kitchen seems to have converted them; Alfie’s got Batman slippers with ears, and Dan and Ben are both sporting fleece-lined tartan affairs, which they pretend to loathe but wear pretty much constantly. They’re all washable—I’ve learnt the hard way that if it won’t go into the washing machine at 40 degrees, there’s no point buying it when it comes to boys and clothing. Girls too, probably, but I’m guessing there’s less mud and grass involved, and not so much pushing your brother into the ha-ha to score bonus points.

The last couple of days have been so stormy I’ve been wondering if Bertie has inadvertently shot an albatross with the bloody cannon. He’s been even more Ancient Mariner than usual, muttering about the lifeboats being called out, and forecasting more bad weather. This morning he announced there were two rescues last night, but thankfully everyone got back to dry land safely, so he’s firing the cannon later to celebrate. It’s any excuse really; it’s like living with Admiral Boom from Mary sodding Poppins. He says there’s a longstanding naval tradition of firing cannons out to sea to show a lack of hostile intent, or as part of a celebration, but I think he just likes it.

“Mum?”

“Yes, find your school bag Alfie, and Ben, hurry up please.”

“You know Uncle Bertie’s cannon?”

“Yes Alfie, and don’t just stand there, start looking properly please, and not over there, it won’t be in the fridge.”

“Well it has black powder, so it can’t hurt people. Did you know that?”

“Yes.”

Otherwise we wouldn’t have moved here in the first place. I’m not completely insane.

“Well can we get him a real one, with proper cannonballs?”

Ben sighs.

“No we can’t, you idiot, they’re illegal. You can’t fire real cannons whenever you like—you could kill people. And Mum, did you know they only do odd numbers, Bertie was telling me. If you fire an even number of shots, it means death, or something like that, that’s why they do the twenty-one-gun salute for the Queen, not twenty-two. It goes down depending on how important you are.”

“Well that’s good news because a one-gun salute makes enough racket, twenty-one would probably make the house fall down.”

Another reason to be glad we’re not Royal.

“Come on, please, hurry up or we’ll be late. Dan went for his bus ages ago.”

There are no tractors dawdling along the lanes this morning, thank God, or stupid sheep being moved from one field to another and having mass panic attacks in front of the car, so we get to school with a few minutes to spare. Ben and Alfie have settled in really quickly. Alfie’s enjoying having a big brother in the top class, and it’s definitely helped that even though this is a small village school, at least half the kids weren’t born round here. My old primary school is closed now and turned into houses, so everyone from Launton and the surrounding villages comes here, and it’s strange seeing people I was at school with standing with their kids in the playground. Claire Denman is now Claire Prentice, and still recognisable from her seven-year-old self. But Belinda Trent has transformed herself from being shy and nervous and is now Bella who runs the local pub. Sally says she’s brilliant at chucking out drunks. Her son Arthur is in Alfie’s class, and along with Sally’s Tom they’ve become a little trio, so Miss Cooper has definitely got her work cut out for her with all three of them determined to find ways to make the school day pass more quickly. Ben’s Mrs. Dent gives off a much stronger vibe, but she teaches the top class, and everyone knows you’ve got to have your wits about you when you’re teaching the oldest kids in the school, unless you want to find yourself Super Glued to your classroom chair while your class takes an extended lunch break.

Sally is standing by the fence, holding Tom’s bag.

“I’m such an idiot, I promised him I’d wait until they go in, and now I’m going to be late.”

I hold up my collection of book bags and lunch boxes, which makes her smile.

“Two idiots then.”

“Yup, but at least the weather’s better. We’ve got so many pots and pans and bowls up in the attic for all the leaks it’s driving me crazy. It’s like a very tragic episode of Antiques Roadshow up there, where none of it turns out to be Spode. Mr. Stebbings is due to start the building work soon though, thank God, and Bertie says the storms are over, for now, so he’s doing the cannon thing later to celebrate.”

“Well I hope your Alfie doesn’t tell Tom, because he’s desperate to see it, and I’m on until six this week, so Patrick’s picking him up, if he remembers.”

Sally’s Patrick is setting up an organic butchery business, so he does a variety of stalls at local farmers’ markets, which keeps him pretty busy.

“He only forgot that one time, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but once is enough. Miss Cooper rang me at work. It was awful. You know how teachers carry on and make you feel completely crap. Oh, sorry.”

“It’s alright Sal. It’s the first thing they teach you at college, how to look down your nose at parents.”

“I bet. Oh look, there’s Karen, Dylan’s mum, with the new baby.”

“Christ, she looks knackered.”

“She was a midwife at the hospital in Barnstaple, you’d think she’d have the newborn thing sorted. Just goes to show it’s different when it’s your own. She’s set herself up as a natural birth attendant now, whatever that means.”

“Bit of raspberry leaf tea and a beanbag?”

“Pretty much. She’s alright though, for a hipster. She’s calling the baby Sky.”

We both smile. Things have really changed round here since we were at school. Then it was mostly local families who’d lived here for generations, but now we’ve got more of a mixture: the locals, the rich wives, and the hipsters, as Sally likes to call them. The locals tend to work in tourism now, or catering, and are pretty dismissive of incomers, who drive up house prices and throw fits in the local shops when they can’t find olives. But since most of the ways to make a living round here involve dealing with holidaymakers or new villagers, most people are pretty tolerant.

The rich wives live in the biggest houses, often newly built with mock-Georgian facades and triple garages, and spend their time organising endless rounds of lunch and dinner parties, while their husbands commute a couple of days a week or work from home. Some of the wives work, but mostly they’re ladies of leisure, driving round in giant off-road vehicles, but never going off road, and sending their kids here for a couple of years to save on school fees before they pack them off to boarding schools. On the school run they’re either very smart, with full makeup and matching accessories, like Georgina, or they look like they’ve just got off a horse, which they often have. They’re not popular with the rest of the parents, because they form a definite County clique and tend to be a bit snooty and standoffish in the playground. And then we’ve got the hipsters: artists, surfers, or self-sufficiency fans, they move here for a more sustainable life, and do up tiny cottages, usually very slowly. They’re fond of bartering, since money is short, and the men often wear sandals. We’ve got two aromatherapists, a crystal therapist, and a Reiki healer in the playground this morning, as well as assorted yoga teachers; we’ve even got one who does yoga classes while you balance on surf boards in the sea. But only in the summer, because the winter-weight wet suits restrict your movements too much, and if you fell in the sea without one the only yoga pose you could do would be Frozen Woman in a Leotard. Sally tried it once and said it was brilliant, until you fell in. We’ve also got a former ballet dancer with the Royal Ballet, who teaches Pilates, so all in all it’s a very supple playground.

Sally’s definitely a local, but I’m not sure what group I’m in, and labels are so much harder to shake off in such a small community like this, so I want to start off on the right foot. I’m not really a local, or a hipster, and I don’t want to start an ex-wives category all my own, or be classified as one of the posh lot. I’m definitely not enough of a snooter to pull off the Lady of the Manor routine, even if I wanted to. It’s also vital I don’t start a new Parent Who Is Also a Teacher category, so I’m trying to keep a low profile on the school-activities front. I know how much moaning goes on in the average staff room about parents not pulling their weight, so I’ve joined the PTA, but apart from that the only way I want to find myself sorting out the school library or helping slow readers is if I’m being paid by the hour, thanks very much. I’m sure I’ve made enough of a contribution to the education system with all the extra hours I used to work, without starting volunteering, so I’m aiming for poacher-turned-gamekeeper, as far as school goes. Or possibly gamekeeper-turned-poacher, since gamekeepers tend to get a salary and a bit of respect, along with a gun and a special coat, and I haven’t spotted any of that being on offer for the average mum.

Tom runs past us to check if Sally is still waiting, and she tries to persuade him to do his coat up. I’ve given up on this, partly because there seems to be some mysterious bit of genetic programming which means boys can’t do their coats up unless they’re up to their necks in snow, but mainly because I got fed up repeating the same phrases over and over and being completely ignored. I think one parrot in the family is more than enough.

The head, Mrs. Williams, has emerged with the bell and is surrounded by small people who would like to help ring it. She opts for a small girl with pigtails, who is tiny but still manages to make quite a racket with it until Mrs. Williams manages to retrieve it as the kids start to line up.

“That Mrs. Langdon keeps looking at us.”

“Who?”

“The who drives the silver Mercedes.”

“Oh, right.”

She often parks it right in front of the school, on the yellow lines, which is strictly verboten, but she ignores the filthy looks from the playground. She must have nerves of steel.

“Look out, she’s coming over.”

“I don’t think we’ve met, have we? Lucinda Langdon-Hill. I gather you’ve just moved into the Hall?”

She seems quite pushy for nine fifteen in the morning.

“Yes, that’s right.”

She looks at me expectantly, clearly waiting for details so she can place me in the correct clique.

“If you ever think of selling, you must let me know. Here, let me give you my card. I only handle a few of the more exclusive properties locally, very much a niche market. I’ve never seen inside the Hall, but I gather it’s absolutely splendid. Shall I pop round?”

Bloody hell.

She hands me a card.

“Thank you, but I’m not thinking of selling, not for the foreseeable future anyway.”

“Oh, right.”

She looks disappointed, but rallies.

“I gather your family also owns the Sands?”

Crikey, the gossip grapevine has clearly been busy.

“Yes.”

“Such wonderful views from the restaurant. We were at a wedding there a few weeks ago, terrific. You must come to one of my girls’ lunches; they’re such a super way to get to know people when you’re new to an area.”

Sally has clearly had enough of being treated like she’s invisible.

“Molly grew up round here, so she already knows quite a few of us.”

That will be minus ten points for me, if I’m not mistaken.

Lucinda trills out a little laugh.

“Super. Look, I must dash, but lovely to have met you properly, and I’ll pop an invitation round. So much to do at the moment, but I promise I shan’t forget.”

She barrels across the playground towards her car as Sally makes a snorting noise.

“Sorry Moll, but I couldn’t resist, she’s such a cow. She’s never spoken to me before, you know, not one word. I suppose you’ll be dumping me now, going off with the ladies who lunch.”

“Yup. Definitely. Much more my type. Super.”

We both laugh as we walk back towards the gates, and Lucinda gives me a cheery wave. Oh God.

“There you go, stand by for your invite; she’ll probably upgrade you to dinner.”

“She can invite me all she likes Sal, I won’t be going.”

“No, go and then give me all the details. Please.”

“In the five minutes I get in between trying to stop Bertie firing that bloody cannon and sorting out the kids and the B-and-B you mean?”

“Yes, I want details, it’s bound to be horrible but none of us have ever been asked before, so you can report back.”

“Like a snooter double agent? No thanks. There’s no way I could pull that off, and even if I could, there’s so much to do at the house, which reminds me, did you get a chance to look at those brochures on those bloody ironing things, because Ivy really wants one and she won’t shut up about it.”

“The tabletop ones look better than the roller ones. If you put things in a tiny bit folded, you’d steam creases in and they’d be a bugger to get out.”

“Good point. Less chance of steamrollering yourself by mistake too. Great, I’ll get the tabletop one then.”

“I wanted to get one for the hotel a while back. That laundry is so useless, and we could do loads more in-house, but, well, I didn’t get one in the end.”

“In other words, Roger wouldn’t let you?”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine Sal. I know what he’s like.”

“He won’t let me hire enough girls to do the rooms either.”

“Or boys.”

“Yes, if you can find one who can make a bed properly. We only get twenty minutes to turn a room round sometimes, and that’s for everything.”

“Christ, I’m sure we used to get longer than that.”

“We did, but we had more staff then. You’ll be fine with your B-and-B rooms, though—you can take a bit longer.”

“Good job too, it takes us twenty minutes to get the Hoover upstairs, never mind finish a whole room. Ivy and Helena had their own routines, and it’s an uphill battle to get Ivy to let me change anything. I’m still working on the Tupperware.”

“What Tupperware?”

“She puts all the breakfast cereals for the B-and-B in horrible old Tupperware boxes, and they look awful. It’s on my list, and I want to upgrade our suppliers. I thought I’d talk to Patrick about the bacon and sausages?”

“That would be great, I’ll tell him, and I’ll lend you the hotel card for the cash-and-carry warehouse if you like. They sell all sorts of containers and cleaning stuff, it’ll save you a fortune.”

“Thanks Sal. Any idea how I tell Ivy that we’re going to be a Tupperware-free zone?”

“Sorry, you’re on your own with that one.”

“Morning darling.”

“Morning Lola.”

“How’s tricks?”

“Tricky. The builders have started work, and they’re making a huge mess, which is driving Ivy mental. And old Mr. Stebbings looks like he shouldn’t be going upstairs on his own, let alone up ladders and clambering around on the roof. I’m half expecting Social Services to come round and tell me off. And just getting the basics fixed and the gatehouse done is going to cost a fortune. Mr. Stebbings has sorted out all the permissions from the local council though, so that’s one good thing.”

“Sounds like he’s a bit of a find.”

“He is. It’s just I’d forgotten how hideous this bit is, where everything gets worse before it gets better.”

“You hope.”

“Thanks Lola, that’s very encouraging.”

“I’ve sent you loads of magazines, to help inspire you.”

“I got them yesterday. Sorry, I meant to ring up and thank you, they’re great.”

“I’ve put Post-it notes by the things I want you to get for my room.”

“I noticed that.”

Lola has taken to referring to the biggest double B&B bedroom as her room.

“Do you really want a sofa covered in vintage fabric with rabbits and cabbages?”

“Yes. I do. It’s very Country House Chic.”

“Country House Nutter more like, particularly at nearly fifteen quid a metre. And I’m still stuck on curtains. It seems to be trendy to have none at all, and once the shutters are sorted out and repainted they’ll keep the heat in as long as people remember to close them, but I still think it will look a bit stark. I’m thinking about putting up some plain wooden rails and simple cotton curtains. Mum says she’ll bring her sewing machine and we can make them.”

“So you finally get to use your sewing room, which we are definitely not calling a dressing room.”

“Looks like it. I’ve seen some great material in that shop I was telling you about, very nineteen-forties—little sailing ships and seashells, pale blue and white.”

“Sounds great. It will go with my rabbits. You need a medley of motifs, or it will look too matchy, like bloody Cath Kidston. There are only so many roses you can fit into one room.”

“Not down here, I think you’ll find. But I’m avoiding floral—the garden can take care of that.”

“What did you think of my bathroom selection—gorgeous or what?”

“Gorgeous, I’m saving them all in my bathroom file, for phase two. But for now I’m going to keep it simple, since it’s all I can afford. We’ve already got rid of the horrible old carpets and sanded the floors, which look tons better already, and with new shower units and new towels, you won’t recognise them.”

“I bet I will. Having a huge rolltop bath in the bedroom is the kind of luxury people want.”

“If they like parading round stark naked in front of their travelling companion, maybe, but I’m pretty sure most B-and-B guests aren’t quite that liberated.”

“It would give them an experience then, something to remember.”

“Oh yes, the sight of Pete bobbling about first thing in the morning having a bath before I’d even got out of bed would have put me off my breakfast for sure. I’d definitely remember that. Anyway, Ivy wouldn’t approve.”

“Is she still doing the tutting thing?”

“A fair bit, and Mum’s started popping round to help, which is nice, obviously, but somehow that means she and Ivy are sort of competing to see who can boss me about the most.”

“About?”

“Pretty much everything. Yesterday it was how to get mud off Alfie’s school trousers. I’ve hugely underestimated the amount of mud involved in our new country life.”

“Tell them to bugger off.”

“You tell them. Are you still coming down this weekend?”

“Yes, I need to check my room is being done properly.”

“Great. You’ll be in the single room, unless they’ve started work in there too, in which case you can have my room and I’ll sleep in the…”

“Don’t say it.”

“Sewing room. We’ll move one of the single beds in.”

“Right you are darling, can’t wait.”

“You can try some of my bread. I’ve started making it again, the top of the oven is the perfect place to get dough to rise. Sally has introduced me to her friend Dave, who sells bread at the local markets and he’s going to give me some of his sourdough starter.”

“His what?”

“The yeast, to make sourdough bread. It’s a serious business—some of it has provenance going back hundreds of years. People take their yeast on holiday with them, to keep it going.”

“How charming.”

“It will be, if I can serve fresh bread to guests. I’m experimenting with spelt, and wholemeal—it’s quite addictive.”

“Sounds like I need to get down there as soon as I can before you completely loop the loop.”

After the school run, I catch up with Mr. Stebbings, and we stand looking at the ceiling cornice in the dining room.

“I’m sure I’ve got moulds somewhere in the workshop very similar to these. I’ll bring them with me tomorrow and I can make any adjustments needed. It will look as right as the day it went up when we’ve finished. They knew what they were doing in them days, standards of work you don’t see enough of now. It will be a pleasure to work on a ceiling like this.”

“I bet some of the workers’ cottages were pretty basic though?”

“That they were. Had to go cap in hand to the landlord to get anything fixed, or do it yourself. They weren’t the good old days for the workingman, and that’s a fact.”

“Or the workingwoman, trying to do all the washing for a family with a huge pot of boiling water and an old metal washboard. Ivy was showing me the old one in the gatehouse; she can remember when they still used it. It sounds hideous.”

He smiles.

“We used to stay well out of my mum’s reach on a wash day, me and my brothers, or you’d get a clip round the ear before you knew where you were. She had her work cut out keeping all seven of us fit to be seen.”

“I bet she did. It’s bad enough with three, and they’re still not always fit to be seen. Would you like a cup of tea? I was just going to make some.”

“No thank you Miss. Ivy has seen us right—makes a lovely bit of cake she does.”

“I’d avoid the jam tarts if I were you. Alfie was helping Ivy make them yesterday, so the pastry’s a bit grubby.”

“Right you are. I’ll not tell Jim, though. He’s got a constitution like an ox, bit of grubby pastry won’t bother him.”

He’s chuckling as he climbs up his stepladder to get a closer look at the cornice.

Ivy’s so thrilled I’ve finally ordered the new steam press that she hardly noticed when I said we’d have mini boxes of cereal for guests and stop using the Tupperware. So as long as I manage to avoid steam pressing my own arm and make sure nobody under sixteen ever touches the bloody thing, things are looking up. I’m trying to take advantage of my gold-star status on the domestic front by sorting through the cupboards in the scullery to find some bathroom cleaner, when Ivy comes in.

“I was just looking for some bath stuff?”

“You only have to let me know and I’ll make sure it gets done.”

“I know Ivy, but we’ve talked about this. There’s four more of us now, and the boys make so much mess—we’ll both need to be cleaning if we want to keep on top of it all.”

I try a smile, but she’s crossing her arms and looking annoyed.

“I never had any complaints in the past, and that’s all I’m saying.”

I think this might be a good time to stand my ground, which is tricky when I’m kneeling at her feet, but I’ll give it a go.

“I’m not complaining Ivy, far from it, but I won’t be out in the garden all day like Helena used to. I want to be hands-on. Hands in buckets, if needs be.”

She hesitates.

“As thick as thieves they used to be, her and Dennis. Any money that came in went straight out again on that silly garden.”

“I know that Ivy, and we’re keeping the garden going, of course we are, but the house needs things too.”

“You don’t need to tell me. Times I told her.”

“So how did it work then? Was there a housekeeping budget, for things like cleaning supplies?”

She tuts.

“Not that I ever saw.”

“Right. So did you just settle up each time you bought new stuff then?”

She looks uncomfortable, and opens the cupboard by the door.

“There’s a bottle of bleach in here, I think.”

Oh God, I think I’ve just worked out why there’s such a motley collection of cleaning things—she’s been buying them all herself.

“Ivy, how much have you spent, over the years?”

“It was just a few things now and again. She had no idea what things cost, and I didn’t like to say.”

“Right, well that’s something else that we’re going to change, right now. Let’s go to the cash-and-carry later on, that big one on the industrial estate, and we can stock up. And no more paying for things out of your own purse. Agreed?”

“Don’t you need to be a member to go to the cash-and-carry?”

“Sally’s lent me the card from the hotel. So long as I pay for all our stuff at the checkout, nobody will be any the wiser. Shall we make a list? I’d like to have things upstairs and down here too, it will save us time when we’re cleaning the B-and-B rooms. Does that sound like a good idea?”

“Well, if we got a new mop, that would be handy. That old one’s not much use anymore. Could we go after I’ve given Mr. Bertie his lunch, do you think? Would that give us enough time to be back for you to collect the boys from school? Or we could take them with us—they could push the trolley, couldn’t they, they’d probably like that?”

They won’t, but I can tell she doesn’t want a quick five-minute dash-round.

“Good idea. We’ll pick them up and then go. I’ll leave a note for Dan—he’ll be fine until we get back. Start writing your list Ivy.”

Dear God. Without knowing it, I seem to have waved a domestic version of a fairy wand and Ivy has finally been able to unleash her heart’s desire in the wonderful world of cleaning supplies. I’ve had to bribe Ben and Alfie with cans of Coke while we’ve compared brands of mop, which all look the same to me, and we’ve got enough brushes, sponges, and cloths to last us years. We’ve also got a new bucket on wheels which will transform cleaning the kitchen flagstones into a complete joy, if Ivy’s demonstration is anything to go by, and more packets and bottles and cleaning supplies than I’ve ever seen. Ivy is so happy she’s almost skipping, and by the time we get to the checkout, so are the boys, because I’ve had to promise extra television time to avert a postschool meltdown at my refusal to sanction mock sword fighting with washing-up brushes.

Bloody hell. I’ve just spent nearly two hundred and forty pounds, on absolutely nothing you can eat or wear. Poor Ivy nearly falls over when the girl tells us the total, and she’s all for retracing our steps and putting things back on shelves, but I manage to get her back to the car, still in a daze, clutching a dustpan and brush, for some reason best known to herself. Ben and Alfie are keen to race the new wheelie bucket round and round the car park until I intervene.

“What’s the point of it having wheels then, if you can’t wheel it?”

“It’s to make the cleaning easier Ben, which it won’t be if you two have trundled it through the mud before we’ve even got it home. Get in the car please love.”

“What are we having for supper?”

“Pasta bake?”

He nods, since pasta is one of his best suppers. Pasta anything actually, baked or otherwise.

“I hate pasta.”

“No you don’t Alfie, and get in the car please.”

Ivy is studying the till receipt.

“It’s right dear, and really, when you look at the prices, we’ve saved ever such a lot, only I never thought it would come to that much, I really didn’t.”

“It’s fine Ivy. We needed to restock, and now we’re all set. Alfie, get in the car. Now. Or there won’t be time for cartoons.”

Dennis is horrified when he helps us unpack, and starts muttering at Ivy, who’s looking increasingly stricken.

“I’m sure we don’t need half this stuff. What’s this for?”

He holds up a collection of thin brushes with bristles, joined together with a plastic chain.

“It’s for cleaning teapot spouts. They’re very fiddly, and you can’t get them properly clean with a cloth.”

“Good Lord, what will they think of next?”

I’m starting to feel a bit sorry for Ivy now, and it’s not like Dennis has ever needed to clean a teapot spout. It’s not something I’ve spent a great deal of time worrying about either, but I’m sure it will come in handy.

“We need the right tools for the job Dennis, just like you do for the garden. And it’s about time the house got its fair share, don’t you think?”

Ivy nods.

“That’s right, and don’t you say another word Dennis, or you can make your own supper. She’s been very kind, getting me all sorts that I’ve wanted for years, so don’t you go spoiling it for me, do you hear?”

“I was only saying.”

“Yes, well, don’t. And you can get those dirty boots off my kitchen floor, thank you. Just because I’ve got a new bucket doesn’t mean I want to be filling it up every five minutes, thank you very much. I’ve told you until I’m blue in the face, either take them off at the door or stop outside. Cup of tea, Miss Molly, and a slice of cake? I’ve got a new Victoria sponge in the tin.”

“Thanks Ivy, that would be lovely, and then I better make a start on supper.”

“What about you Dennis, are you stopping in, or what? And don’t you think you’re getting a slice of my cake, because you’re not. It’s for the family, not the likes of you, standing there upsetting everyone.”

“No I’m not, I’ve got things to do in the shed, at least that way I’ll get a bit of peace.”

“Mum, Uncle Bertie says he’s going to do the cannon in a minute, so can I help him?”

How perfect.

“You can’t help Uncle Bertie Alfie, you know that. You can watch, but you can’t help. Only grown-ups can do anything related to cannons. They’re very dangerous.”

Both Alfie and Dennis are tutting as they wander off in search of Bertie, and Ivy and I exchange a smile.

“Dennis will sort them out, don’t you fret. He makes a fuss about it, but I think he enjoys it almost as much as Mr. Bertie does.”

“I think they all do Ivy.”

They’ve developed a little routine now where the boys stand at a safe distance, almost like they’re standing to attention, and then cheer once the stupid thing has boomed out another plate-rattling round. The only useful thing is how much it annoys the seagulls, who tend to stay clear of the house. They’re a menace in the village when people are trying to eat outside the café or the fish-and-chip shop. Actually that might be a good way to raise a bit of extra cash, particularly if we’re going to be visiting the cash-and-carry on a regular basis—I could rent Bertie out as a seagull deterrent. I’m sure he’d love it.

“I’ve done a rhubarb crumble for your supper. Your Alfie asked me for one specially. It’s in the fridge, all ready—just pop it in the top oven for twenty minutes, dear.”

“Thanks Ivy. Have you made one for you and Dennis too?”

“I have, only I might not feel like cooking this evening. He might have to make do with cheese and biscuits. I haven’t decided.”

I’m fairly sure hell will freeze over before Ivy gives Dennis cheese and biscuits for his supper, but she’s clearly still miffed with him, so you never know.

“There’s soup for Mr. Bertie, the one he likes, oxtail. You go and have a sit-down and I’ll bring your tea in. You’ve had a long day.”

I think I might continue to bask in the glory of Ivy’s approval for a tiny bit longer.

“Five minutes’ peace before I start on supper would be a real treat, thanks. And I’ll heat Bertie’s soup when I make our pasta.”

I end up making a proper pasta sauce for supper, mainly because there’s none left in the freezer, but also because I’m hoping a session chopping and stirring might be a good antidote to our busy afternoon. The boys have all snorked back slices of cake before going back outside with Bertie and Dennis, so they’ll last a bit longer before having supper on the table becomes critical. I’m chopping carrots and celery and onion, and trotting backwards and forwards to the pantry, which is probably my top alternative to the linen cupboard when I’m in need of a bit of calm pottering. There’s something about all the jars of jams and pickles and bottled fruit lined up on the stone shelves, next to the big glass jars of flour and rice and all the tins and packets, and Ivy’s epic collection of recycled jam jars and bottles, which gives you an instant housewifely boost. It’s always cool and dark, and there are bowls and dishes and assorted saucepans and fish kettles and double boilers lined up in ranks on the bottom shelves, so if we ever find ourselves needing to cook for a banquet we’ll be in with a chance. The china cupboard has the smaller bowls and plates, but there’s an impressive collection of soufflé dishes and huge serving platters and tureens in the pantry, in a variety of patterns from long-lost sets: willow and Chinese, flowers and fruit with gilded edgings, alongside the blue-and-cream Cornishware I’ve collected over the years and all the plain white I brought with us. Somehow it all combines to look rather grand. The rest of the house might be in need of a face-lift, but the pantry is perfect just the way it is.

I’m retrieving a bay leaf from one of the jars of herbs Ivy dried last summer and making grand plans to make lots more jams this summer with the boys, when Dan comes in.

“Great, pasta again. What a treat.”

“I thought you were outside with Uncle Bertie?”

“I got bored. Is it meat sauce?”

“Tomato. You can have some tuna with yours if you like. Actually, you could make yourself useful and grate the Parmesan.”

“Can I use the food processor?”

“If you clean it afterwards, yes. The dishwasher’s already nearly full. Otherwise use the grater.”

He’s grating the cheese, albeit in a rather desultory fashion, while I open a couple of cans of plum tomatoes and whizz them into a pulp with the handheld blender, when the bloody cannon suddenly booms out and I whizz tomato all over the kitchen counter and halfway up the wall.

“Mum.”

“Yes Dan.”

“You’ve got tomato all up the wall.”

“Shut up and get me one of the new cloths would you, and the new bottle of cleaner, it’s under the sink.”

He tuts.

“If you want supper, then get a cloth. There’s rhubarb crumble for pudding.”

Dan loves Ivy’s rhubarb crumble almost as much as Alfie does. Any crumble, come to think of it.

“With custard?”

“Possibly. But unless you want custard with a hint of tomato, get wiping.”

I think I might just retreat into the pantry to find the tin of custard powder, and reboot myself back into chirpy domestic mode before Bertie Boom and the boys come back in for supper. And then I can have another look at Lola’s magazines, and pretend I can afford to spend ninety-eight pounds on a roll of wallpaper.

“Mum?”

“Yes Dan.”

“Can you make loads of custard? There’s never enough.”

“As you long as you don’t want cereal for breakfast, sure.”

I better make some more bread, so we’ve enough for toast and their packed lunches. Perhaps the magazines will have to wait.

By the time I’m finally in bed, I’m exhausted, but instead of falling asleep I end up having a series of slow-motion panic attacks. What if I can’t make this work and we have to sell up? Where will we go, and how will I ever get over the shame of letting Helena down? Oh God. And what will I do if Bertie goes completely off the rails? He went out on patrol in his slippers again this evening, and came back half-frozen. Thank God Ivy had left by then, and I’ve washed the mud off his slippers in the scullery sink, and they’re drying on top of the boiler, but there’s “charmingly eccentric” and there’s “completely loopy,” and I’d really rather he stuck with “eccentric.”

Right. I’ll get up and make a pot of tea, and update my lists. That’s always calming. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll overdose on Ivy’s Victoria sponge and blame it on the boys. Bloody hell.

“What’s that terrible racket?”

“The builders, fixing the roof. I’m upstairs, sorting through Ben’s old trousers trying to find some for Alfie. He’s having another growing spurt, so he looks like he’s wearing culottes.”

“They’re quite trendy again.”

“Not for six-year-olds they’re not.”

“How is my lovely boy?”

“Fine, apart from the trouser thing.”

“And the house?”

“We’re still at the stage where you wonder if all the mess could possibly be worth it, but at least we won’t get electrocuted or have the ceilings fall down on our heads.”

“Has that Lucinda woman given up yet?”

“Not really. She’s rung twice now, and on Monday she popped round, so I hid and Ivy got rid of her.”

“That was very assertive of you darling.”

“There’s only so many polite reasons I can think of why I can’t go to one of her horrible lunch parties, and now I’ve got Mum ringing me up three times a day about bloody Roger’s Valentine’s dinner at the hotel. It’s all part of his I Will Be Captain campaign. He’s inviting the current vice captain. He wants to make a big show of it. Can you think of anything more lethal?”

“You could always wear your necklace if he wants maximum showing off.”

“What necklace?”

“Hello? Diamonds, emeralds, ring any bells? How many diamond necklaces have you got darling?”

“It’s not really mine, not really, and Roger and Georgina are still upset about it, so it wouldn’t be terribly subtle. Anyway, it’s in the bank.”

“It is yours, unless you sell it to buy new bathrooms, and it might be a laugh. You might meet a stranger of the tall-dark-and-handsome variety.”

“I very much doubt it, not unless he’s had some sort of brain injury. Why else would you be at dinner in the hotel, where everyone is in couples apart from the bloody waiters?”

“You never know darling, it might not be as bad as you think.”

“It bloody will, and if I wear my black dress everyone will think I’m a bloody waitress, and I can’t wear trousers or Dad will sulk all night.”

“I’ll courier you a frock down if you like.”

“I’d never fit any of your things. My trousers are getting shorter by the day, just like Alfie’s, but in my case it’s thanks to Ivy’s cakes.”

“I’ve got an Issey Miyake that might work, silk pleated dress, drapes from the neck to the floor; all you need is high heels.”

“I’ll look like I’m wearing a parachute.”

“There is that. I only wear it if I’m in the right mood. It can be a bit barrage balloon. Ooh, I know, I’ve seen the perfect thing. I’ll order it right away. Dark-plum wrap dress, stretchy fabric, with velvet flowers, a bit like flock wallpaper but on a frock. I was going to get it next month for your birthday.”

“It will have to be very stretchy, but it sounds lovely.”

“It’s a wrap dress darling—it expands, so the fun never ends. You’ll get an occasional glimpse of your bra, which I know will freak you out, so wear a slip if you must, but a lacy one. I want you to ping me a photo before you leave the house so I can check. Deal?”

“Deal. And thank you, millions. At least I won’t look like a waitress.”

“My pleasure darling. Right, I’m off to find you a pumpkin Cinderella. You shall go to the ball.”

By the time I’m ready for the stupid dinner I’m seriously considering ringing up with a mystery illness, but Lola’s dress arrived this morning and it’s lovely, so that’s helping, and Bertie is very complimentary as I’m leaving.

“Off to paint the town red my dear, that’s the spirit? You look—what is it the boys say?”

Christ, I hope they haven’t explained MILF to him. Dan was saying it about some actress last week, but I pretended not to hear.

“I’m not really sure Uncle Bertie.”

“Sickening, that’s it, you look completely sickening.”

“I think it’s just ‘sick,’ unless you think I’m coming down with something?”

“Extraordinary the way they talk nowadays. Can’t imagine telling a girl she looks ‘sick.’ Anyway, you look very fetching, what we used to call an absolute bobby dazzler.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do my dear—should give you plenty of scope. Any chance of a spot of supper Ivy? Been out on patrol and I’m rather peckish.”

“I’ll bring you something in a minute Mr. Bertie, I’m just making cocoa for the boys.”

“Cocoa—that rings a bell. Used to have cocoa on night watches, might fancy a mug myself.”

“I’ll bring you a sandwich too then, shall I? I won’t be a minute. And you have a lovely time dear, you look champion.”

“Thanks Ivy.”

“Polly put the kettle on.”

“Thanks Betty.”

There’s a waiter giving all the women a red rose as we go into the dining room.

Oh God.

Georgina is wearing a sequined cocktail dress, and so many sparkly bangles she jingles every time she moves. Even her eye shadow is glittery. She’s on a mission to persuade me to host a lunch for her ladies’ golf team, which I think is what Bertie would call the thin end of the wedge: once I agree to one lunch, she’ll be pushing to use the Hall as a venue for all her lunch parties and I’d rather stick pins in my legs than become a regular feature on her calendar of snooter events. It takes me ages to convince her that I’m too busy with all the building work and redecorating. Roger is busy trying to be the host with the most with Mr. and Mrs. Vice Captain, laughing too loudly and generally being annoying. But the food is fine, thank God. Dad has a habit of sending things back and making a fuss, but the new chef is definitely an improvement. And then the bloody cabaret starts in the lounge. It’s Dean and the Martins and their big-band sound, only it’s slightly more of a little band since there are only two Martins. They’re regulars at the hotel, and their official name is Nice ’n Easy, but all the staff call them Dean and the Martins. They make such a fuss setting up and doing sound checks they’re definitely not Nice, or Easy. Dean, who is actually called Dave, has very white teeth and a gold jacket, and starts running through his Frank Sinatra/Dean Martin songbook, with Dad tapping his fork along to “Strangers in the Night.” I wonder if he knows it’s about exactly the kind of encounter he would thoroughly disapprove of—especially if she was wearing trousers.

We’re accompanied by “Some Enchanted Evening” as we move into the lounge for coffee, and I’m trying to work out how soon I can leave, whilst simultaneously trying to surreptitiously adjust my dress, which has managed to relax itself to reveal far more lacy vest than I intended, when Roger spots someone he knows and beckons them over.

“Molly, you remember Stephen, don’t you?”

Christ. It’s Stephen Jackson, who I was madly in love with for about three weeks many years ago, when we were both seventeen. Thank God Sally isn’t on duty tonight, or she’d be in hysterics. He used to be a Steve, with a leather jacket and carefully frayed jeans, but he seems to have moved on to being Stephen now, with smart suits and an impressive tan. And here he is, standing smiling at me. Bloody hell. Talk about a blast from the past.

“Lovely to see you again Molly. Roger told me you’d moved back recently.”

Georgina has gone into full-simper mode.

“Stephen is very much a rising star locally, Molly—a very sought-after architect. He’s won so many awards we’ve all lost count. Do join us for coffee Stephen, if your table can spare you?”

“Perhaps just for a moment. We’ve landed a big project, so I’ve brought the team out to say thank you. But coffee would be lovely.”

Roger starts clicking his fingers and summoning more coffee and another chair as Stephen chats with Dad and Mr. and Mrs. Vice Captain. The raffle is being drawn, so Dean and the Martins are taking a five-minute break, and the waiters bring little plates of chocolates round. Ted Fordwich is head-waitering tonight, and gives me an encouraging wink, which reminds me just how much I’d rather be handing round plates than sitting here like a lemon, but Roger is in full genial-host mode ordering brandies and liqueurs.

“Molly, you should talk to Stephen about your plans for the Hall. Such an important house needs expert handling.” He turns to Mr. Vice Captain. “Been in the family for generations, Harrington Hall, you may know it?”

Mr. Vice Captain looks suitably impressed.

Oh God, please let me get out of here without saying anything I’ll regret.

“I’m not really planning anything major, not straightaway.”

Roger gives me an irritated look and pretends to laugh.

“There speaks a woman who has never overseen a major refurbishment.”

“I did up our last house all by myself. I spent hours up a ladder scraping off wallpaper and painting, so I do have some sense of how much work it’s going to take—thanks Roger. Bertie’s got some ideas too, and Dennis and Ivy, so I won’t be on my own.”

Actually the only idea Bertie is likely to come up with will probably involve buying bigger artillery, but never mind.

“Don’t be so modest Molly. You’re doing up the gatehouse too, and there’s potential in the stables, huge potential. Stephen, tell her. She’s got old Stebbings doing the gatehouse, and we know how long he takes to get anything done.”

“I like him.”

Stephen picks up his wineglass and smiles.

“Oh yes, he’s decent enough, just a bit old-fashioned and slow. But look, there’ll be more possibilities than you think, there always are, why don’t I pop round and take a look. I’m fairly busy at the moment, but I’m sure I can make time for an old friend.”

Damn. I can’t help feeling I’ve been set up here somehow. I’m not quite sure how, but Roger looks very pleased and that’s never a good sign.

“Thanks Stephen, but only if it’s no trouble, I’m really not making any big decisions just yet.”

“Oh look, the band’s back. Shouldn’t we all be dancing? Roger, surely you’re going to ask your glamorous wife to dance? Molly, care to join me?”

He stands up, and holds out his hand.

Bugger.

“I’m not sure I know how to dance to ‘You Make Me Feel So Young.’ ”

“Me neither but let’s see how we go shall we?”

He walks towards the dance floor, where a variety of couples in evening dress are twirling round, including one couple who appear to be doing a tango.

“Do you tango?”

“Not that I’ve noticed. Do you?”

He grins.

“Not really, no. What about another cup of coffee on the terrace? It’s not too windy tonight and the heaters work pretty well. How does that sound, unless you’d rather dance?”

“Coffee would be lovely.”

We’re both smiling now.

“Tell me about the house, but only if you’d like to. I’d hate you to think I was touting for business, despite your brother’s best efforts—you know how determined he can be, it took me weeks to divert him from some of his, well, shall we say less-original ideas for the new apartments in the hotel.”

“Oh, did you do those, I didn’t know, they’re lovely.”

They are too—all pale wood and new windows and beautiful bathrooms, a bit too modern and shiny for me, but a huge improvement on the tragic old plastic and hideous carpets.

“We did, I’d have liked to demolish them and start again, but I think we managed to make a few improvements.”

“Definitely.”

“So are you enjoying being back home?”

“Yes, very much, it’s a new start, for all of us.”

“I was sorry to hear about your divorce. Been through the same thing myself—hideous, isn’t it? Portia and I split up three years ago—entirely mutual decision, but still tough. Finn seems okay about it though, and that’s the main thing. You’ve got boys too, haven’t you?”

“Yes, three.”

“I can barely keep up with Finn—I’d have no chance with three. He’s at King’s Park with your son Dan I think? He’s been telling me something about a cannon?”

“That’s Uncle Bertie.”

“Oh right, of course. He’s still as lively as ever is he?”

“Yes, but I’m trying to play down the cannon thing, or we’ll have hordes of kids round every day demanding a show, and trust me, he’d oblige.”

A young man approaches us, looking tentative, and Stephen gives him an irritated look.

“Sorry, it’s just that we were thinking of making a move soon, if that’s okay with you?”

“Just give me a minute. Sorry Molly, but look, I’ll call you, and fix up a time to see the Hall properly?”

“Sure.”

He hands me his mobile.

“Put your number in here—that way I won’t lose it.”

I key in my number, and give him his phone back.

“Lovely to see you again, Molly.”

He winks as he turns to go back towards his table.

Bloody hell. Perhaps I’m not such a disaster after all, particularly when I make an effort and dress up in a Lola-approved outfit. I’m feeling rather flustered as I walk back into the lounge. Stephen Jackson, all grown up and winking at me, even if there is something a bit too slick and polished about him. Crikey. Roger and Georgina are still dancing, thank God, so if I’m quick, I can have five minutes with Mum and Dad and then leave. And that way I won’t have to dance to Dean and the Martins at all. It’ll be win-win, and you don’t often get to say that at one of Roger’s social occasions, not unless you can rent a helicopter.

“There you are dear. Your father has been waiting to dance with you.”

Great.

Sally’s heard all about my encounter with Stephen from the hotel grapevine, and rings for details the next morning.

“He’s divorced you know.”

“Yes, he did mention it.”

“Did he? He must be keen then. He’s got a bit of a reputation locally you know. He’s always got a glamorous woman on his arm.”

“That counts me out then.”

“Don’t be silly, you’re quite a catch. He’ll have heard about you getting the Hall—oh, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You always were a catch, and you still are.”

“Don’t worry, Sal, I know what you mean, and he was pretty keen to come round and give me top-architect tips, that’s for sure. But that might have been down to Roger—you know what he’s like.”

“As long as that’s all he gives you. Oh God, that came out wrong too.”

We’re both giggling now.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten.”

“How he dumped you for Susan Prentice? Yes, but that was years ago. And she did have the biggest chest in the school. Nobody could compete with that.”

“True.”

“He did have a ponytail a while back, but he’s got over that now.”

“Not entirely. There was something a bit ponytail about him last night, if I’m honest. Something a bit too ‘Look at me.’ ”

“Well at least he’s worth looking at—not like some of them with their sports jackets and slacks.”

“Like Roger?”

“No comment. So when he rings, what will you do?”

“I think it’s the house he wants to see, so he can come round for a cup of tea, and we’ll see how Betty gets on with him. Anyway I haven’t got time to worry about that, I’ve got Alfie’s party to sort for next weekend. I know it made sense to invite everyone in his class since we’re new here and everything, but that’s twenty-five kids Sal, and all the little sods are coming.”

“I did warn you. I could try to swap my shifts round if you like.”

“Thanks, but I think we’ll be fine, Mum’s coming, and Ivy. Bertie’s threatened to come too, but I’m trying to avoid that.”

“He might have some good ideas—Stephen, I mean—for the house. He did those new flats by the seawall. Me and Patrick went to have a look, just to be nosy—we could never have afforded the prices they wanted.”

“What were they like?”

“Very glamorous. Lights in the floors and glass staircases.”

“Not really what I’m after.”

“No, but they were impressive. Look, I better go. Tom and Patrick are making breakfast, so the smoke alarm will go off any minute. But good luck with the party. Let me know if you change your mind, and I’ll come and help.”

“Thanks Sal.”

It’s Saturday morning and Alfie’s party day, and I’m seriously wishing I’d fobbed him off with large amounts of cash and a family tea. After days of stripping wallpaper and sanding floorboards in the guest bedrooms I feel like I’m permanently covered in dust with bits of wallpaper stuck to the soles of my feet. Mr. Stebbings has started to make real progress on the gatehouse, which is a bit terrifying because I haven’t even started to think about what it should look like inside. So I’m looking at design magazines and trying not to think about how on earth I can get it all done. And Stephen rang the day after the dinner and is coming round to see the house when he’s back from a conference in Madrid, and I’m trying not to think about that as well.

Mum and Ivy have launched another round of competitive baking, and are both busy cooking for Alfie’s party, which is great, but I can’t help wishing I could find a pause button somewhere. If I could just have a few hours to catch up, I’m sure I’d feel less like I’ve somehow wandered into one of those Benny Hill sketches where the music speeds up and everyone runs round and round waving mops and dusters—or wooden spoons in Mum’s case, since she’s making the birthday cake. She keeps ringing me with cake updates, so James Bond theme tunes keep ringing out at unexpected moments, along with Yoda telling me “Answer the telephone you must” whenever Pete calls. But at least he’s getting better at calling the boys every few days, and he even remembered to ring this morning to talk to Alfie about his party, so that was nice, even if I’m pretty sure it was down to Janice. I know Alfie was pleased, and that’s all that really matters. And Lola called yesterday from Italy, where she’s sorting out some film crisis with one of her director clients whilst simultaneously having treatments in a spa hotel. Nice work if you can get it. The closest I’m likely to come to anything spa-like is the exfoliating effect produced by scrubbing off all that bloody plaster dust.

“Diamonds Are Forever” starts ringing out the minute I step into the bath. If it were anyone but Lola I’d leave it to ring.

“Hello darling. All set?”

“I think so. Hang on a minute, I was just getting into the bath.”

“Getting ready for the party?”

“More like getting the paint out of my hair. I’ve been painting ceilings this morning, trying to keep out of Ivy’s way.”

“When’s the architect due?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Sunday afternoon? Couldn’t you have picked a more useful time?”

“Useful for what?”

“You never know. A quick spot of rekindling might be fun.”

“He’s off to Dubai on Monday Lola, and he’s coming to see the house, not to rekindle anything.”

“Try not to be covered in paint when he arrives. Wear your new skirt.”

“I’m wearing it today, I want to put in a good appearance for all the parents, although I’m still not sure about the wisdom of wearing a dry-clean-only velvet skirt to a children’s tea party. But Ivy and Mum have appointed themselves in charge of the catering, so I’m in with a chance.”

“You could always wear the green one tomorrow, with woolly tights and boots.”

“I’m not sure showing him round the house dressed as Robin Hood is such a great idea. I thought jeans and a clean shirt. This isn’t a date Lola.”

“No, and it’s not likely to be if you dress like a builder.”

“Lola.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Charming. I’m giving you expert tips here.”

“Sorry.”

“Promise me you’ll wear a skirt.”

“Christ, you sound just like Dad.”

“Promise.”

“Okay, I promise.”

I’m crossing my fingers, so it doesn’t count.

“And you can uncross your fingers. You promised, and it does count. And I’ll ring Alfie to check.”

“You will not.”

“I bloody will. Have a lovely party darling, and call me tomorrow, when you’ve de-skirted. Unless you de-skirt with the architect, in which case call me much later. By the way, has Quentin arrived?”

“Yes, he’s at the village hall, and thanks for arranging it, you really didn’t need to you know.”

“Since I can’t be there myself I wanted a big surprise for my gorgeous boy.”

I’m still not sure how thrilled Alfie is going to be with a surprise puppet show, particularly with a puppeteer called Quentin. But Lola swears he’s brilliant, and I can only hope she’s right, or I’m likely to have twenty-five mutinous six- and seven-year-olds on my hands, armed with cake and jelly.

“He’s still insisting Bertie comes, with that stupid parrot. So I think we can pretty much guarantee they’ll all be going home with some choice new phrases along with their party bags.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Lola is right, as usual. We played Pin the Tail on the Parrot, which was Dan’s idea in the hopes that someone would get confused and try it with the real thing, and Pass the Parcel, and Musical Statues, which I know from past experience is much better than Musical Chairs, since nobody gets shoved off their chair when the music stops. But the real triumph was the puppet show, which turned out to be a wonderful mix of magicians and dragons, like a postmodern Punch and Judy without the rather dodgy domestic-violence subplot. Lots of bashing monsters and audience participation, and a finale involving mini explosions and indoor fireworks with copious amounts of red and purple smoke, and loud music, and then a bubble machine, which gets them all leaping up to pop the magic bubbles, because, according to Quentin, the more bubbles you pop, the more the magic rubs off on you. They’re all leaping about to “Puff the Magic Dragon” as the parents start to arrive, and some of the hipster parents are humming along and looking amused as they try to round up their kids. Betty has retreated up into the rafters, and is telling everyone to bugger off, but it doesn’t seem to be working, so in the end I have to ask Quentin to turn the music off or we’ll never get them to leave. Dan and Ben are handing out the party bags, and everyone seems delighted.

Bertie is enchanted.

“Excellent show. Kept the ankle biters completely gripped, didn’t he? Clever chap. Like to have a word with him, just what we need, a show like that, liven up our dinners at the club.”

Dennis doesn’t look keen.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Some of them are on their last legs as it is.”

“Just what they need to wake them up, go down a storm.”

“Yes, or they’ll keel over completely and then we’ll have to have the ambulance back. Like we did the time you made those cocktails and told them they were fruit punch, and old Bob went all peculiar. And most of the rest of them could hardly walk, let alone drive themselves home. I was backwards and forwards in that car half the night.”

“Lucky you were there Dennis. Good chap in a crisis, always said that. Don’t know how we’d manage without you. Do we my dear?”

“No Uncle Bertie.”

Surrounded by indoor fireworks and completely plastered is my guess, but I think I’ll leave this one to Dennis.

“Thanks Dan.”

“What for?”

“For helping and making his party so nice for him. What were you saying to that boy?”

“Jake? I just told him I know where he lives and if he upsets my baby brother one more time I’ll upset him right back, only bigger.”

“Oh Dan, he’s only little.”

“He’s a year older than Alfie, and yes, I know, kids who bully other kids are sad and unhappy and they can’t help it and violence is never the answer and blah blah blah. I’ve heard it all before, but he’s not having a go at my brother and getting away with it. Me and Ben talked about it, and he can’t do it because he’s at the same school and they’re not meant to put the frighteners on the little ones. So it was down to me.”

“I thought Alfie didn’t mind. It was only a bit of name-calling, wasn’t it, nothing more than that?”

Oh God, I’m panicking now that I’ve managed to miss the fact that some serious bullying was going on. I’m halfway into a Motherhood Red Alert before Dan manages to convince me that Alfie’s fine.

“But with kids like Jake, if they don’t get a reaction, they just get worse. It’ll be fine now I’ve had a word. Calm down.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. He’s had a go at Tom and Arthur too—it’s all three of them, not just Alfie. So you’re alright with it then?”

“As long as it’s just talking Dan.”

He grins.

“I know that Mum, but he doesn’t.”

Alfie spends ages making Dan a medal when we get home, which I notice he’s pinned up on his noticeboard in his room when I go in to say good night.

“That’s nice love.”

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t you going to wear it?”

“And look like a total knob?”

“Dan.”

“A total idiot. No thanks.”

“Sweet of him though.”

“He’s alright. Sometimes.”

That’s about as good as it gets from Dan.

“Night love.”

“Night Mum. And Mum?”

“Yes love?”

“When I have my birthday, promise I don’t have to have puppets.”

“Okay. Would you like a magic show instead? Sally knows a good magician. I think she’s booking him for Tom’s party.”

“If he can magic up no parents, loads of booze, and fit girls, then yes, please.”

“Dream on, sweetheart. And lights out soon, and your laptop needs to be downstairs.”

I risk kissing the top of his head and he leans back for a moment.

“It was a good day, wasn’t it Mum.”

“Lovely.”

“It might be alright down here, you know. I haven’t decided yet, not totally, but it might.”

“Diamonds Are Forever” starts ringing out across the landing.

Lola. With more skirt instructions. How perfect.

“Would you like more tea Stephen?”

“No thanks, I might have a sliver more of the cake, though. Did you make it?”

“No, that’s down to Ivy. She went into cake overdrive for Alfie’s party. My cakes are, well, not like Ivy’s. I’m getting into making bread, though, for the B-and-B.”

“That’s a nice touch, although as I’ve said, I think you can go far better than a B-and-B with a place like this.”

“The gatehouse won’t be B-and-B once it’s finished.”

“True, and he’s making a good job of everything, I will say that. Mr. Stebbings has always been reliable for quality work. But you could do something exceptional with those stables. I’m sure you’d get permission to double the space at least, maybe even more, and if you put in a swimming pool and a spa, the house could be turned into luxury suites—with room for housekeeping and a kitchen, of course. You could be looking at substantial income if you did it properly.”

“Which would be handy, since we’d be homeless.”

He smiles, but also looks mildly irritated.

“I promised Helena that I’d keep everything going, if I can. Well, not promised, but you know what I mean. She put her trust in me.”

“Sure, if that’s what you want. Just don’t make any final decisions. Look at all your options before you decide.”

“But if I did decide to keep things simple, and do up the stables rather than anything bigger, would that be something your firm could do—as a job, I mean—because I’d definitely need help with the plans and everything.”

“Of course, we’d be happy to. I tend to focus on the bigger projects, but I could put one of the associate partners on it. Bea might suit you. She does lots of renovations, and she’s got a great eye. But as I say, don’t decide anything yet. I’ll get Bea to give you a call if you like?”

“That would be great.”

I can see he’s not going to give up on his idea to turn the whole place into a luxury holiday-camp/country-house hotel.

“How long are you in Dubai?”

“A week, possibly ten days. We stay in a decent hotel, so I can’t complain. And then we’re up for an award in Madrid, so I’ll barely be home for a couple of weeks, and I hate that. I miss seeing Finn.”

“Mum?”

“Yes Dan.”

“Alfie’s in the ditch again. Sorry, the ‘ha-ha.’ ”

“Well get him out.”

“Just thought you’d want to know.”

He gives us both a rather hostile look, and stamps off.

Stephen smiles.

“I should probably be going, I’ve got work to finish before I leave tomorrow. Shall I say good-bye to Bertie?”

“He’ll be out on patrol. He likes to keep an eye on the beach.”

“What for?”

“God knows. Make sure the French aren’t invading again? Who knows.”

He laughs.

“You can say good-bye to Betty if you like?”

“If I want to be told to bugger off, I can always phone Finn and check on his schoolwork.”

“Mum?”

“Yes Ben.”

“Alfie’s got a bit wet, but it wasn’t his fault, not really. He was the goalie.”

“Not again. You’re supposed to play football somewhere else Ben, you know that.”

“Yes, but it’s the best flat bit.”

“I’ll be there in a minute. Don’t let him indoors with anything muddy on, or I’ll have to clean the floor again.”

“Okay.”

We walk across the hall, and Stephen pauses to examine the tiles again.

“I’m going to replace the cracked ones. Mr. Stebbings is getting them for me.”

“Good, you want them done properly, that kind of patina is hard to replicate. But if anyone can do it, he can. And thank you, for showing me round, and for tea.”

“You’re welcome.”

He leans forwards and kisses me on the cheek. And obviously it’s not the same as the last time he kissed me, at the school disco all those years ago when I was trying to remember what Sally and I had decided was the optimum stance for kissing based on our limited but dedicated research. Obviously it’s different from that, and a good thing too. But it does feel like more than just a social kiss.

“I’ll call you from Dubai, and maybe we can have dinner when I’m back?”

He gets into his car and waves as he drives down the lane.

Crikey. Maybe he’s just being professional, and hoping I’ll decide to hand over the Hall for him to turn into a grand project. And to be honest, I’m not even sure I want to be going out to dinner, the last thing I need is anything complicated. But still, it’s nice to be asked. I can’t wait to tell Sally.