The Carmichael house is a short drive on from a quaint town in rural Berkshire.
It was like driving through a film set: thatched cottages; shops called ‘Ye Olde’ something; a far cry from the identical three-bed semis and shopping precincts I was used to growing up. I spotted a theatre currently home to a touring production of Blithe Spirit. A lot of charity shops.
I park on the road – there’s ample space, this being a quiet road with just a few houses, all differing in design and era – and decide to leave Jack’s things in the car for now. I can’t carry everything in one go.
I’m about to release the latch on the front gate when my phone rings, the piercing tone spoiling the idyllic surroundings. Fiddling with the car key, I unlock the car and sit back behind the steering wheel. It’s my mum.
‘Happy birthday!’ she shouts, my dad echoing the words closely behind.
‘Thank you – but remember, I’m putting me birthday on hold this year,’ I remind them.
‘Did your cards arrive?’
‘Mum, I just said—’
‘I know what you said but I can’t not send me daughter a card on her birthday, can I?’
‘I’ll check when I get back. Just out at the moment.’
‘Oh my God! Chloe! You’re there, aren’t you? Bernie? She’s there!’ And my mum lowers her voice to a stage whisper. ‘Patricia Carmichael’s house.’
‘Just got here, so I should go—’
‘Oh I can’t believe it, love. I just can’t believe you’re there. In the countryside. Patricia Carmichael’s house. What’s it like? Is it double-fronted? Bet it’s double-fronted. And is there an annexe, you know, as if they built a pool and sauna once she got famous and the money started rolling in? Bet they never use the sauna. Who even enjoys a sauna? I’m sweating cobs just thinking about one.’
‘There’s no annexe, Mum. Not that I can see. It’s quite modern—’
‘Modern?! You mean like something on Grand Designs?’
‘No, more like our Kit and Gareth’s house but about five times bigger.’
‘You mean it’s got orange bricks?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh love, I wasn’t expecting that. And what a shame; no pool and sauna.’
‘Well, I’m not here for a spa weekend, Mum.’
‘Hold on, Chloe. Shush a sec. Your dad wants to say hiya …’
There’s a scuffle, muffled exchanges down my earpiece, a mild sort of tug-of-war; then I hear my dad’s singsong phone voice, as if he’s answering a call for Bernie Roscoe Taxis.
‘Alright Tilly Mint! How’s the birthday girl?’
‘I’m okay, Dad. But I should go—’
‘Say no more, say no more, my love. We know today’s not gonna be easy for you and we just wanted to tell you that we love you. Pick a date, any date, and we’ll take you for a meal, pretend it’s your birthday. Or we could get a Chinese banquet …’
There’s another scuffle; more muffled voices. I pull the phone away from my ear.
‘Chloe? You still there?’ It’s my mum again. ‘Now what car have they got?’
‘Mum, I’ve really got to go—’
‘Why? Is she there? Trish? Is she … Hiya Trish!’
‘She’s not here, Mum! I’m sat in Beth’s car.’
‘Well get out then, soft girl! What you doing sat in Beth’s car?’
God, how I wish I could hang up.
‘You know, we’ve been thinking about Trish a lot lately, haven’t we, Bernie?’ my mum says. ‘She hasn’t been on the telly since … you know.’
‘I know.’ Although in truth, I only realise now. I look through the driver seat window towards the house. So much sadness will have taken place in there: the loss of a son. A child. It doesn’t matter that Jack was thirty-eight when he died. He was Trish and John’s child. No wonder she hasn’t been on the bloody telly since. I’m surprised she’s left her bed.
‘Anyway, give her all our love,’ my mum says, and my dad reiterates it in the background.
‘She’ll be thrilled,’ I say. ‘Bye Mum, bye Dad. Love you millions.’
‘Love you more,’ they say in unison.
I walk up the front garden path and don’t need to ring the doorbell. John Carmichael is sitting in an armchair by the front window and gives me a cheery wave. He stands and calls out, but I can’t hear what he says. He’s in a warm woollen jumper, a small zip pulled up beneath his chin. He waves again and as I return the gesture, the door opens.
‘Freddie – hiya!’ I say. I’d presumed I’d never see this fella again.
‘Hey. Come in. I can’t tell you to make yourself at home, though. This isn’t my house. I don’t live here. Not any more,’ he says, not making eye contact. He’s lost weight and looks very much like he does live here. He’s wearing a dressing gown and slippers. ‘I’m just here for a few days. Got my own place, river view.’
‘That sounds lovely, Freddie.’
John has walked into the hallway, which is vast and minimalist. It’s not the cluttered interior of the country manor I envisaged at all. It’s more like a show home, as if photos have been taken down from the walls, flowers taken out of vases. John is holding a mug with both hands, so he nods his head and smiles; no words. I follow suit: nod and smile. As neat as I recall him being in those few sad times last summer, he has a serene glow about him today, his hair longer and a little fuzzy around the edges, as if he’s decided to boycott the barbers. He throws another smile my way before slowly returning to his armchair by the window. Freddie has sat himself upon the stairs, his elbows resting on his knees, his head hanging low.
Trish appears from the opposite side of the house: the kitchen, I presume. Her trademark earrings dangle from each ear: peacock feathers. Her glasses are hanging on the gold chain around her neck. The spikes are still in her hair, but the colour is less vibrant, the grey more prominent. Like Freddie, she has lost weight, her beige trousers hanging off her like jogging bottoms, a knitted waistcoat cuddling her like a blanket.
‘Ignore the state of the place,’ she tells me straight off. ‘It’s got no atmosphere, I know, I know. We’re leaving. Not for good. Just for a while. I refuse to spend Christmas in this damned house. This damned country.’
Freddie emits a growl and heaves himself up by pulling on the banister. He begins to flop his feet up the stairs when Trish plants her hands on her hips.
‘And where do you think you’re going?’ she asks her son.
Trish takes my elbow and walks me forward, like a debutante being presented at a ball. Freddie’s eyes burn into his mother’s and I’ve no clue what the dynamic is between them; it doesn’t feel good. I should get the bags out of the car and go.
‘Freddie, put some proper shoes on and help Chloe bring Jack’s things in,’ Trish says, softening her tone. ‘Then I’ll make you some eggy bread.’
Freddie’s whole body slumps and he jerks his head back, groaning, ‘Fine.’
Off he goes, ducking beneath the staircase to sift through a small mountain of shoes: various types and sizes from wellies to trainers. Trish is watching his every move, analysing how he stoops, how he ties his laces, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. Then she opens the front door and herds both Freddie and me out like cattle. We trudge the bags into the house and leave them – as directed by Trish – by the shoe pile.
‘Now go and sit with your father,’ Trish tells Freddie.
He obliges, oozing reluctance. He lies flat down on the sheepskin rug beside John’s chair and starts to scroll through his phone. John, who’s been staring out of the window, turns his head towards us and gives a sleepy, closed-mouth smile to his wife. Trish returns it with a thumbs up.
‘Follow me, Chloe,’ she says. ‘Coffee?’