Every Woman for Herself (20 page)

Of course, when we got the computer printout back he’d scribble all over it again, but the end was in sight.

When I returned from the post office I found Walter arranging a plant delivery in the veranda. There were six coconut palms, one almost touching the roof.

I knew only one person who could afford this kind of extravagant gesture – whatever sort of gesture it was – for there was no message, unless it was something to do with nuts.

I supposed it could just be a final farewell from Matt, in lieu of ducks? But I didn’t think he had the imagination, and anyway, he appeared to have forgotten about me entirely.

So it must be Mace. But what did it mean? Nuts to me? You’re nuts? What’s got a coconut in every bite?

Friday’s copy of
Surprise!
contained what could only be construed as an abject apology and retraction about their alleged Mace and Kathleen item. Of course, when you have only hinted at something it’s very hard to hint that really your
first
hint wasn’t true, but they did their best.

I expected that having Invasion of the Kalmucks in their office did wonders for their powers of retraction.

Father was abstracted when he and Jess got home. I feared inspiration for the next character assassination had struck, although we didn’t know yet who the victim was to be.

I wondered if perhaps he would surprise us by proving that Dorothy actually wrote all Wordsworth’s poetry for him, in a literary about-turn; but then again, maybe not.

Jessica was, I think, miffed that the girls hadn’t missed her more, though they were delighted to see her back, and quite polite about the gifts she’d brought them.

They had had a busy week, and we hadn’t found them any trouble at all: Anne did the school run and subverted them, they’d painted with me, and learned to cook with Em, been for dug-earth-spotting expeditions in the woods, played with the dogs, learned to whittle with Walter and helped Gloria coat every wooden surface in the house with home-made beeswax and turpentine polish.

Clo was showing an interest in photography, and she and Anne had set up a darkroom in an unused back pantry.

They were perfectly happy, just as we all had been, growing up here in Upvale. We’re adults long enough – why start too soon?

Indeed, why start at all?

Jessica found solace in having increased the contents of her wardrobe and shoe collection by about half, which, while lifting her spirits, must have stretched Father’s credit card until it bulged at the seams.

Jessica was trying to assert herself around the house already, the engagement ring flashing on her bony finger.

Of course it didn’t
get
her anywhere, but it was a sign of what was to come.

Walter was spending much time in the small sitting room constructing Christmas presents, and Gloria continually thrust cups of tea into people’s hands, especially mine, and fussed after me so much that I’d even taken to shutting the door at the bottom of the Summer Cottage stairs and ramming a chair under the handle (only I was continually having to remove it to let Flossie in and out).

There was still no word from Mace, unless you counted the nuts, so it looked like the potion had worn off all on its own.

‘The vicar just asked me for Em’s hand,’ Father said on the Saturday, wandering into the kitchen and pouring himself a cup of coffee. ‘I told him he could have any of her he fancied.’

‘He already has,’ muttered Gloria.

‘What?’

‘You didn’t really say that, Father, did you?’ I asked.

‘Of course he bloody did,’ Anne said. ‘He hasn’t realised the implications yet – too full of himself.’

‘What implications?’ Father looked surprised. ‘Em won’t get married. She’s a natural spinster.’

‘Thank you,’ Em said. ‘But as so often in your life, you’re entirely wrong.’

‘But are you
really
going to marry the vicar?’ Jessica exclaimed.

‘I might. We’ve worked out a reasonable compromise about the service. His bishop probably won’t like it, but everyone round here will be fine about it. Anyway, Chris says he doesn’t want to rise in the Church, he just wants to stay here, with me.’

‘Implications?’ muttered Father, looking slightly dazed. ‘And what do you mean, stay
here
: is he moving in?’

I thought he’d pretty well done that already. I was surprised Father hadn’t noticed.

‘No, I meant staying in Upvale. He’s got the Vicarage – I could live there.’

‘Well, I think you’re doing the right thing,’ Jessica said warmly. ‘When are you going?’

Em gave her a look. ‘It’s not decided yet, but after Christmas – so you can keep your nose out of everything until after that, since it’ll be the last real Rhymer family Christmas. Then the place is all yours.’

‘What do you mean, all yours?’ Father said, finally getting to grips with the situation. ‘You
can’t
go, Em! I mean, who’s going to run the house, and cook and …?’ He stopped and stared at her.

‘Your
wife
, of course, silly!’ Jessica said brightly. ‘With Gloria’s help, of course – it
is
a very big house for just us. But I expect we could shut some of it off, and install central heating, and showers, and a microwave, and—’

‘How can we shut it off? We use it all,’ Father said, looking bewildered. He dislikes change nearly as much as Bran.

‘She means after Em leaves, and Anne doesn’t come home any more, or Bran – though it might be difficult to stop him – and I vacate the Summer Cottage.’

‘But why would you all want to do that?’

‘Wouldn’t be home any more, would it?’ Anne said.

‘The Vicarage bungalow isn’t very big, but Chris says we can squeeze everyone in, and my family is his family,’ Em said.

‘Tell that to Bran,’ I said. ‘He’ll just turn up in his old room whatever you do.’

‘Me and Walter go where the girls go,’ Gloria said firmly. ‘Big changes are coming: I saw it in the teacups. It’s started, and nothing can stop it now.’

‘Oh, is that all, Gloria? You had me worried there,’ I said.

‘That was just the general overview,’ she said grimly. ‘And you’re going to need me the most, Charlie; mark my words. Troubles and changes! And it’s all since that Mace North came to Upvale.’

‘That’s quite unfair, Gloria,’ I said. ‘You can’t blame everything on Mace.’

‘Yes I can – I knew he was trouble. He’s the dark agent of change!’

‘What, like a catalyst?’ Anne asked, interested.

‘I thought he was an
actor
,’ Jessica said, bewildered. ‘Ran, isn’t he an actor? Only he writes plays now, too?’

‘Shut up, Jess, don’t let them sidetrack me,’ Father said. ‘Of course the family stays here. If Em does want to go – well, that’s her own funeral.’

‘Wedding,’ Em said.

‘Jess will keep things going here just the same. There’s no need for anything to change.’

Not quite: I thought a healthy, fat-free diet would pall on Father quite soon, but perhaps the girls would take over the cooking when they’d learned a bit more from Em? After all, she’d started running the household when she was younger than they were.

Jessica was looking alarmed and thoughtful, but Father, having comfortably decided that things could go on as before, minus Em (the linchpin of the whole house), simply put it out of his head.

Bran hadn’t taken it into his head in the first place. Em was deep in thought – probably thinking about the practicalities of cooking in the Vicarage kitchen – and Anne was looking like she was starting to miss her nice, spartan London flat.

‘Bloody battlefields!’ she said, getting up and walking out; but at least she had a place of her own to go to. I’d sort of got settled in my cottage, but I was sure Jessica would want us all to go.

Father, who’d been calmly eating his breakfast now he thought he’d settled things to his satisfaction, looked up. ‘I’ve invited Mace and Caitlin for Christmas dinner,’ he announced.

‘But what about Caitlin’s mother?’ I began.

‘Her mother’s going to be on honeymoon in the Caribbean until the New Year, and Mace said his own mother doesn’t celebrate Christmas – she always spends it quietly in a hotel in Bath.’

Bran looked at him and beamed. ‘Christmas?’ he said happily. ‘Brandy snaps? Snapdragon?’

‘Of course, Bran,’ Emily said. ‘Don’t we always?’

‘Mouse Hunt? Hunt the Thimble?’

‘Yes, this time, but it will be the last Christmas as we know it.’

‘Oh, come on, Em!’ Father protested. ‘Where else would you all go? I don’t believe you really mean to marry the vicar!’

‘I do.’

‘You wouldn’t be happy and neither would he. It would finish his career.’

‘He doesn’t want a career. He wants to stay here, in Upvale with me.’

‘Just as well – he won’t have any option, once word gets round about who he’s marrying. I can’t think what’s got into you.’

‘You shouldn’t go inviting single men round to the house, then, you great lummox,’ Gloria told him shortly. ‘Especially men like that actor. Christmas dinner indeed! He’s trouble and change. I saw it in the tea leaves – and more!’

‘Speaking of Mace, I nearly forgot,’ Father said, feeling in his pocket and producing a slightly mangled envelope. ‘He sent you this.’

I took it eagerly, but then he added, ‘It’s your wages for looking after Caitlin.’

It was, too – nothing else. ‘Was there any message?’

‘No. He said he’d already sent you one.’

‘Caitlin looks forward to seeing you again soon. She’s staying with her granny until after the wedding, then Mace is bringing her home,’ Jessica said kindly. ‘I expect you’ll see her then.’

‘I don’t want his money,’ I said shortly, stuffing it back into the envelope. Father looked faintly surprised.

Jessica said: ‘Is it because he thought you’d told
Surprise!
magazine about stuff? That’s all sorted out – he’s not angry with you any more.’

‘Big of him. And I don’t
need
his money. I’m selling paintings again.’

‘
And
we’ve got advance orders for
Skint Old Northern Woman
,’ Em said.

‘Told everyone I know to buy one,’ Anne agreed. ‘And Em’s book, too. Christmas reading. Presents.’

‘Not using
my
telephone, I hope,’ Father said. ‘Some of your friends live on the other side of the world.’

‘Bloody skinflint.’

‘Advance copies should be here next week,’ Em said.

‘Good. Drum up some more sales.’

Father nodded at the envelope: ‘You did the job, didn’t you? Take the money, and if you don’t want to do any more, tell the man when he gets back tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ I echoed, looking down at the envelope and feeling like I’d been paid off. Was I worth the money? He’d probably had better, but maybe not so easily.

I decided I wasn’t keeping it.

Skint Old Beauty, No. 2: Hair Today

More bristles than a toothbrush? Finding a solution to the moustache problem.

1) Professional treatment at a salon – but if you can afford that, what are you reading this magazine for?

2) Plucking. This is excruciating, gives you a pink upper lip, and the hair doesn’t even give up and stop growing back, like eyebrows do.

3) Shaving: not unless you are sure you never want to kiss anyone ever again.

4) Cream. This one has a built-in Catch-22: if you leave it on long enough to work, you get a rash.

5) Bleach. This gives you a white bristly moustache and also, sometimes, an interesting rash. (See also no. 4.)

6) Wax strips. This leaves hair
and
wax behind on your upper lip, thus giving a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘stiff upper lip’. However, excess wax can sometimes be used to shape the hair into a pleasing handlebar moustache.

I spent most of Sunday painting more small, mounted infidels in the veranda.

Just as the light was starting to fade in the afternoon, Mace’s low, dark car slid past down the track, with lowdown dark Mace in it.

It didn’t stop.

Not that I expected it to, of course – and I
wasn’t
watching out for it. It was simply a coincidence that Flossie gave the one sharp yap that was her summons for me to open the door and let her out just as he went by.

Three seconds later the door opened again, and Em walked in, followed by Chris, tastefully (and tastily) attired in motorcycling leathers and dog collar.

‘Close the door, you’re letting all the warm air out,’ I said, putting the brush down again. It really was too dark now to see tiny barbarians … or even whopping great big ones.

‘Mace is back,’ Em informed me, patting Flossie, who’d followed her in.

‘I know.’

‘Hi, Charlie,’ Chris said. ‘Hope we’re not interrupting you?’

‘Not at all,’ I said politely. I might block the door down from the Parsonage kitchen to keep Gloria out, but it didn’t stop anyone walking in the front. My house was like a railway station.

‘Did Mace call in on the way down?’ Em asked.

‘No.’

‘The bastard!’

‘Why? Were you expecting him?’ asked Chris, looking puzzled.

‘No!’ we said in unison, and he recoiled slightly.

‘Chris’s bishop wants to see him,’ Em told me.

‘Perhaps he’s heard about the engagement, and is going to congratulate you?’

‘Someone must have told him about us, but I’m not too sure about the congratulation bit.’

‘I expect he’ll get used to the idea,’ Chris said calmly. ‘He’ll have to.’

‘We’ve been to buy a betrothal ring – look,’ Em said, flashing a large, strangely set yellow stone in my face.

‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘Chris had it made for me – a friend of his near Huddersfield has a jewellery workshop.’

‘Ah, Huddersfield – cultural Mecca of West Yorkshire,’ I said nostalgically. It was ages since I’d been over there.