‘What are you doing?’ Tilda had come into Juno’s bedroom (her bedroom, Juno realised, practising the word in her head, not hers and Fraser’s any longer) and was standing watching as Juno picked Fraser’s clothes from the wardrobe.
‘What are you doing,’ Juno snapped, ‘standing on the carpet in those filthy riding boots? Go and get them off this minute.’
The Monday morning after their return from the weekend in Filey suddenly felt just that: very Monday morningish. It was raining, and any hint of spring had also been just that, with the hopeful new season now retreating back into the grip of a chilly north wind blowing down from the Pennines. The kids were off school, already complaining of being bored; the dirty laundry was Everest demanding she either climb or demolish it and there wasn’t a thing in the fridge apart from one half of Helen’s banana cake and an out-of-date pot of guava yoghurt that not even Gabriel would eat. On top of that, she felt hungover from the wine she and the others had knocked back over the weekend and, she realised, she was really missing her sisters’ company. Not having spent such an extended period of time together with Ariadne, Pandora and Lexia (who Juno was learning to love all over again) she now felt somewhat lonely – bereft even – now they’d all gone their separate ways once more.
And she was now a single mother with a failed marriage.
As well as a failed affair.
And it was that that was hurting the most. She longed to see Scott, to have him come into her practice room between patients and plant a single kiss on the back of her neck while standing behind her at her desk under the pretext of discussing one of his cases with her; for the pair of them to be standing talking to Marian at reception and feel his hand, very gently, on her bottom…
‘So, what are you doing?’ Tilda asked once more when she’d returned in her stockinged feet. ‘Shall we go and do a big food shop?’ she went on, not waiting for Juno’s answer. ‘There’s absolutely nothing in the fridge you know. You’re being somewhat derelict in your duty as a mother. Anyway, I rather enjoy buying food. And we could have chips in Sainsbury’s café. I bet Gabe would come with us if we could have chips.’
When Juno didn’t say anything, when suddenly everything seemed just too much and even the prospect of a plate of chips with the kids at Sainsbury’s couldn’t cheer her up, Tilda asked, ‘Why are you doing that with Dad’s things?’
‘I’m just going to pack them up to send them on to Boston,’ Juno said. ‘You see, Tilda…’
‘He’s not coming back again, is he?’
‘Again?’ Juno asked, stalling for time.
‘I think he’s happier being in America, isn’t he?’
‘I’m sorry, Tilda.’ Juno sat down heavily on the bed, one of Fraser’s shirts still in her hand. It was a terribly ordinary shirt: one of the white, serviceable M&S shirts that Fraser had always preferred to the more fashionable, youthful shirts with which Juno had tried to tempt him over the years. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, taking Tilda’s hand. ‘You’re right. Dad and I have decided he’s probably a lot happier in America.’
‘Will we see him…?’
‘Yes of course you will, you daft thing,’ Juno said with forced jollity. ‘He might not be living here with us but you can go out to Boston in the long holiday. He’d like that. You and Gabe can fly out to see him for the summer. And then, next year, he’s more than likely going to be in Aberdeen. That will be nice, won’t it? You can go back up to see all your old pals from school.’
‘Do I have to live there?’
‘No, not unless you really want to.’ (Oh, please don’t say you want to, Juno thought.)
Tilda didn’t say anything for a while then she looked Juno directly in the face. ‘I don’t want to, Mum. I love it here in Yorkshire; much more than I did in Scotland. I’m even losing my Scottish accent, don’t you think? I can say, “ger off” and “bloomin’ heck” and “am off ’ome t’our ’ouse for me dinner.”’ She affected a broad Yorkshire accent and patted Juno’s hand. ‘It’ll all be alright, don’t worry. I won’t need psychological counselling because I’m now the product of a dysfunctional family. So, shall we go for some chips and explain to Gabe what’s happening with Dad?’
*
Although Juno had been really disappointed when the Jesus Christ Superstar production had folded, so much else had been going on in her life this past week she hadn’t really given it a great deal of thought. Pandora had left a message to confirm rehearsals were back on that very evening and ask if Juno had had chance yet to look at the Mary Magdalene score ready for her introduction to the choir in her new role for which she’d volunteered?
‘Volunteered, my backside,’ Juno snorted crossly at Margaret Thatcher, Moaning Myrtle and Miranda. (The actual word in mind was arse but, mindful of the saintly Laura McCaskill pricking at her brain – as well as the girls pecking at her feet – she’d refrained from the latter.) She carefully rooted for and found four lovely brown warm eggs from the hens’ nesting box. Despite the sausage, egg and chips in Sainsbury’s café, Gabe was once again ‘starving’ and already had the omelette pan out ready for action. Explaining to Gabe that she and Fraser were separating didn’t seem to have affected her son’s appetite one jot. He’d accepted the explanation with a nod of his head and a mouth full of food. She’d have to watch him carefully, Juno thought. Maybe overeating was his way of coping with the news: his comfort blanket. But then, he’d always eaten mountains of food and been, she thought enviously, as skinny as a beanpole.
‘He’s shooting up daily,’ Juno explained to Mrs Thatcher who was looking at her through those beady little eyes of hers, head cocked to one side, looking understandably shocked. ‘Oh, no, Margaret, it’s OK: not drugs, his height!’ She laughed and then immediately sobered up. What if Gabe did turn to drugs now? His reaction to losing his father? To being the product of a broken home? Juno bit her lip and frowned. Oh hell, what if she had all that to come in the next few years? Just when Gabe needed a role model, another man around to show him the correct way forward in this world of temptation, she’d allowed Fraser to leave; not fought hard enough to keep his father out of the clutches of String Bean McCaskill.
Get real, she told herself, and at least be honest with yourself. And then, aloud, she admitted to the girls, ‘I didn’t want to fight for Fraser. I was more than happy to give him away. You know, Myrtle, to a good home?’ Myrtle appeared to acknowledge and give her blessing to this little admission and Juno smiled down at her. ‘Where’s Theresa May?’ Juno asked the three hens, still clucking and fussing round her wellington-shod feet in the hope of treats.
Out of the corner of her eye, Juno spotted a movement at the new perimeter fence. At first, she thought it was a ginger tom but, even as her brain was processing this possibility, she knew immediately it wasn’t.
‘Fucking fox,’ she screamed, any lingering empathy she may have been harbouring re Ms McCaskill’s aversion to good old Anglo-Saxon cursing disappearing into the ether as quickly as the errant fox was vanishing into the undergrowth. Juno set off at a gallop, scattering chickens in her wake as she raced across to the gate, leaping up and over it (like something out of the Olympics, she would relate to Ariadne later that evening) in one rather professional (and highly unlikely) move.
‘Bastard,’ she yelled at the fox’s retreating back. ‘Cowardly, fucking bastard. Pick on someone your own size next time.’ Theresa May’s broken, headless form lay at her feet, too late for rescue from the maws of both fox and death and, unfortunately, too late to hide the evidence from Tilda who was already racing across the paddock to join her.
*
‘You’ve told her what’s happening then? With you and Fraser?’ Ariadne whispered, as Juno and a red-eyed Tilda sat down on the hard, plastic chairs in Westenbury village hall that evening. ‘She looks terribly upset.’
Juno nodded. ‘She is. I’ve had to bring the poor little thing with me this evening. I’m concerned that this outpouring of grief over Theresa May might really be a cover. You know, hiding her real feelings for her father leaving.’ Juno was speaking to Ariadne while stroking Tilda’s arm, but she was simultaneously scanning the hall, trying to work out whether Scott Butler was there; whether he’d decided to continue with rehearsals, or thrown in the towel along with quite a few of the other choir members who either hadn’t got the message that all systems were go once more, or just couldn’t be bothered to turn up. Juno checked the Tenor area where Scott usually sat with Declan but, while Declan was there, engrossed in conversation with Graham Madison, the local vet, there was no sign of Scott. Maybe he was still covering the late shift at the surgery although, with Izzy still not here, it seemed unlikely. More likely, she accepted with a heavy heart, he was off frolicking with his new young floozie.
‘Grief for Theresa May?’ Ariadne stared. ‘I didn’t hear the news before I came out. Has Boris finally done for her?’
‘Boris?’ Juno continued to scour the village hall for any sign of those gorgeous green eyes she’d so obviously been taken in by. Was he in the loo? Standing behind her at the back of the hall? Talking to Pandora who, with Hugo at her side, was deep in conversation with the vertically-challenged Granville?
‘Boris Johnson? Has he finally managed to get Theresa May to stand down then?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Juno said vaguely, finally accepting Scott wasn’t going to make rehearsal. She turned to Ariadne. ‘What on earth are you going on about Boris Johnson for?’
‘You started it,’ Ariadne said huffily and rather loudly. ‘Going on about Theresa May.’
‘Shh.’ Juno patted Tilda’s arm and then turned back to Ariadne. ‘Have a little respect, will you? It’s Tilda’s chicken – you know, Theresa May – the bloody fox has had her.’
‘Oh, I see. Little thing.’ Ariadne frowned and leaned over Juno. ‘Tell you what, Tilda, why don’t you come back and stay with me after rehearsal? And then tomorrow, we can drive over to Meadow Hall and have sushi for lunch and I’ll buy you a new top or something.’
‘Really? Thank you.’ Tilda smiled for the first time since her chicken’s untimely demise, and sat up in her chair, waiting for a sight of her beloved Mr Donnington as Jesus.
‘So, are you all ready, Ju?’ Ariadne elbowed Juno. ‘Have you been practising your Mary Magdalene this afternoon?’
‘For the past couple of hours before we came down here,’ Juno nodded gloomily. ‘I’m not sure about this at all though, you know.’
‘Shh, Jesus is about to sing.’ The hall went quiet as Little Acorn’s deputy head made his way up to the stage. Izzy was right: Josh Donnington was good, in fact exceptionally good once he’d got over his initial nerves at being thrust into the limelight.
‘Thank you so much, Josh, for stepping in at this late date,’ Pandora was saying as the rest of the choir clapped and cheered, none louder than Tilda sitting squarely at Juno’s side. ‘I really do think we’re going to be back on track, everyone. Now, we have another surprise: I’m absolutely thrilled that my sister has agreed to take on the part of Mary Magdalene…’
‘Here you go, Juno, up you get.’ Ariadne elbowed Juno once more.
‘… and I’m sure she’ll need no introduction. Lexia, would you join us on stage?’
Lexia? Juno had half risen, encouraged with a push by both Ariadne and Tilda, but hurriedly sat down once more as Lexia, who had been sat right at the very front of the hall, almost hidden behind the somewhat moth-eaten navy velvet curtains, now stood nervously as the hall erupted. There was cheering, drumming of feet and even a couple of whistles and, at one point, Juno wondered if Lexia was going to sit back down again, overcome with nerves and panic. But she walked up on to the stage towards Mr Donnington – Juno couldn’t quite think of him as Josh (or even Jesus) – and, as the first haunting notes of ‘I Don’t Know How to Love Him’ were played by Geoff, the pianist, there was complete, almost palpable, silence in the village hall.
Juno felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand as Lexia started singing the beautiful lyrics and knew that, while she herself could be said to be a fairly competent vocalist, compared with Lexia there was absolutely no contest.
‘Bloody hell,’ Ariadne breathed. ‘I’d forgotten just how incredibly good our baby sister is. Sorry, Juno, you’ll have to take a back seat here, I’m afraid.’
‘Mum, she’s just amazing.’ Tilda was, for once, almost without words. ‘And so was Mr Donnington. Wasn’t he? He’s really good, Mum, isn’t he? Don’t you think he’s good?’
Trying not to feel too miffed that she’d been thrown over for a better offer, Juno smiled and nodded in Tilda’s direction, pleased that at least her daughter appeared a lot happier than a couple of hours earlier. The choir swung into a full run through of all the numbers but, although Izzy had finally arrived, rustling her scores noisily and shifting everyone along so she could sit with Clem, Harriet and Grace, Scott hadn’t put in an appearance. So, that was that then.
Pandora was a hard taskmaster and, because they’d started later than usual and had so much to get through with the new main parts, didn’t even allow a short break but insisted they drink their water and carry on.
Towards the end of this particularly arduous rehearsal, as minds were wandering to thoughts of slaking thirsts over at The Jolly Sailor, Pandora signalled Geoff, the pianist to stop playing. ‘I know we’ve already had a couple of fabulous surprises this evening but—’ she held up her hand like Dermot O’Leary on The X Factor ‘—as they say in showbiz, you ain’t seen nothing yet…’
Who does? Juno mused, still smarting a little from being made redundant as MM before she’d even started. Who said that?
‘… so, take it away, Herod!’
Little Midget Gem Granville (Juno thought the PC army would be OK with her thinking the word midget as long as she made it a prefix of the lovely jewel-like word, gem) appeared to have grown. Was he wearing his wife Janice’s high heels? Quite possibly, because the rest of his outfit and whole demeanour was decidedly camp. Wearing a bright yellow baggy suit, with an Elvis-type purple wig to hide the fact that he was follicular-challenged, as well a pair of huge sparkly sunglasses, Granville minced across the stage and launched into Herod’s only number from the production.
He’d just got to, ‘Prove to me that you’re no fool, walk across my swimming pool’ when Izzy leaned over the three choir members separating herself from Juno and hissed in her direction, ‘Bloody hell, Juno, did you know?’
Juno could only shake her head and watch in bewilderment as realisation finally dawned and Scott Butler, a cross between Julian Clary and Elton John at his wackiest, continued to camp it up across the stage, belting out the song and hitting every note true.
As Scott brought the song to its conclusion with a particularly camp gesture of his hand, the rest of the choir erupted, standing on its feet, clapping, laughing and cheering, none more so, Juno saw, as she turned her head slightly, than the very attractive dark-haired woman standing directly behind her. She was a-whooping and a-hollering and doing that circular hand movement Americans do (and which Juno hated) at ball games.
‘That’s her.’ Izzy leaned over towards Juno once more. ‘You know, the woman he was with in The Coach and Horses the other evening? She’s soon got her feet under the table, hasn’t she?’ she sniffed. ‘Whooping along like a demented banshee.’ And then, seeing her stricken face, patted Juno’s hand sympathetically. ‘She’s young enough to be his daughter, for heaven’s sake. Come on, let’s drown your sorrows in the pub.’
As Juno shook her head, just wanting to go home to distance herself from Scott and his new girlfriend, Izzy patted her hand once more. ‘What about the teacher?’ she asked hopefully. ‘Do you think you could fancy Mr Donnington? Is he free, do you think?’
‘I just want to get off,’ Juno said, trying to smile as the reality of Scott’s situation with this new woman finally went home. Like a bolt in a door she thought. What a ridiculous pushover she’d been, falling for the first man to give her the eye in her newly semi-single status. Embarrassing or what? ‘Tilda’s going to go across to the pub with Ari for a quick lemonade, and then she’s staying the night with her,’ she told Izzy. ‘I’m off. I’ll leave you all to it. See you at work on Wednesday.’
As she left the village hall carpark, accelerating quickly to avoid the choir members spilling out from the hall’s green-painted double wooden door, Juno saw a flash of yellow and purple as Scott, one hand on her arm, escorted his new woman towards The Jolly Sailor.