Half Broken Things (27 page)

Jean had stooped to pull at a few weeds among the catmint and pansies that grew in one of the stone troughs on the edge of the gravel. She jammed the small green clump into her dress pocket. How stupid of her. Had it looked proprietorial, lifting weeds like that?

‘Oh, never mind. It doesn't matter to me, I assure you.'

‘It was just the office. They needed my input on a decision.'

‘I see. Do you want to come in?' Jean set off to lead the way round to the back.

‘So who did you say was here?'

‘The owner's cousin, that's all. It doesn't make any difference. I'm still doing the job. I'm still house sitting, they're just relations, they're just staying for a while. It doesn't bother me, them being here. In fact, I quite like the company.' She wondered if she were saying too much. Where on earth was Michael?

Just then he called out from behind them and they turned to see him appear from the front door. He sauntered out of the house towards them, his arms folded. He was wearing old khaki shorts and a soft, floppy shirt and sandals. He had tipped his tattered straw hat back on his head but it was still obvious that he needed a haircut. His dark hair gleamed blue-black in the sun and his fringe flopped in his eyes. Pushing his hair away with one hand he beamed a friendly, nonchalant smile and advanced, extending one hand.

‘Well, gosh, how do you do? Umm—Michael Standish-Cave,' he said slowly, with what Jean thought was unnecessary languor. ‘You're the famous Shelley from the agency, I gather? Down for a visit? Good for you!'

‘I, er . . . the agency, we weren't aware that there would be any other occupants in residence during the agreed period. Our client—'

‘Oh, um, yes,
occupants in residence,
' Michael said, carelessly amused. ‘Good old Oliver. He came up trumps, and thank God, quite frankly. I'm his cousin, by the way. On our fathers' side, obviously.'

‘Mr Standish-Cave hadn't made us aware—'

‘No, of course, well, we weren't aware ourselves. We did just rather descend, I'm afraid, Oliver said not to hesitate. We're between flats, actually. I knew Oliver's place was empty so I just rang him up. I admit I was rather relying on him to come to the rescue, don't know what else we'd have done quite frankly. He said oh, go straight on down and make yourselves at home, only for God's sake ring the house sitter first and tell her you're coming or she'll have a fit!'

He turned and laughed at Jean, who laughed decorously in reply. ‘I must say it's grand to be out of town in the summer! And she took it jolly well, didn't you, an invasion of Standish-Caves!' He turned to Shelley. ‘She's doing an
awfully
good job, you know.'

‘An invasion?'

But Michael had started to lead the way down the path between the rose beds and Jean rather delicately dropped back and allowed him to. He was striding along rather fast now. Behind Jean, Shelley struggled along last with a lumpy shoulder bag on one arm and a ladylike black briefcase in the other. There was another volley of
Yankee Doodle Dandy,
which Shelley this time silenced with a couple of exasperated stabs. Jean turned and watched her. She was wearing low-fronted black shoes with heels like short pencils, which gave the impression that her thick legs ended in hooves. With each step her foot sank deep into the gravel, so she was taking dainty little steps, as if doing so would somehow make her lighter. The effect was of a cow trying to tiptoe.

‘An invasion? I mean, Jean, she— How many are there, here, I mean?'

Michael turned and walked backwards without slowing down, as he called back to her, now several yards behind, ‘Oh, just the three! My missus, and Charlie, that's the son and heir, five months. But we'll be gone in another week. I say, you're not wearing the right shoes for the country, are you? Poor you!'

He stopped and waited with his hands on his hips, grinning. ‘Course, we wouldn't have been stuck in the first place without a roof over our heads but God, decorators! They're on another planet, aren't they? Three weeks behind already. Here we are!' He was steering Shelley through the back door into the kitchen. ‘Gosh, you do look hot!' he beamed.

Jean silently filled the kettle, watching Shelley out of the corner of her eye. Michael was right. Shelley's suit was made of something that sparkled very slightly in the sun and was of a light sage green colour. Two thick slices of dark green, like watermelon skins, grinned beneath her armpits. With a tinkle of her bracelet she lifted one hand to move her frizzy hair, which today was sticking to her scalp like clumps of damp wire. Her round face had started to ooze like a carelessly kept cheese. Jean disliked Shelley enough to feel a sharp and unworthy pleasure that she looked such a mess. In fact, it was more than that, Jean realised, with a slight shock, as she set about making tea. Her pleasure stemmed not just from Shelley's wrecked appearance but from watching her in the role of underdog. Michael had taken up his customary place with his back to the Aga, where he stood with his hands on the rail.

‘Do sit down, Kell—er . . . Shelley,' he said graciously, gesturing to a chair.

Shelley sat down, confused. She had stepped out of her car very clear about who was in charge. Of course the owner could invite whomsoever he pleased to use his house in his absence, but the balance was upset. He was under no obligation to do so, but Mr Standish-Cave had not had the courtesy to inform Town and Country that his cousin and family would be appearing out of the blue, and Shelley felt undermined.
‘She's doing an awfully good job, you know.'
That was plain cheeky. It was her place, not his (cousin or not), to comment on how well Jean was fulfilling her duties. This cousin was behaving almost as if he owned the place, and while everyone seemed quite clear that he did not, he had been invited to treat it as if he did, and by the owner. Did that amount to much the same thing? It was confusing.

Shelley looked up at him, his lanky, relaxed body towering above her, and an affable, head-of-household grin on his face. He was being friendly, of course, but she knew that sort of friendliness. He was as status-conscious as she was, friendly only for as long as it cost him no effort. They both knew that at any moment he could decide that it no longer amused him to be charming to her, and could switch the tone of their exchanges to one as if between employer and employee. And Management Visit or not, employees cannot insist on making tours of their employers' premises. Shelley tightened her mouth and breathed noisily through her nose. Jean was no help. True to character, she was flitting about in the background setting out cups and saucers with that sly smile of hers. Jean was either slow and superior in an unassuming way, or unassuming in a slow and superior way; Shelley had never quite decided which. But now that she looked at her properly, she could see that Jean had changed. Shelley reached into her bag for her inhaler and took several puffs.

Jean said, ‘So, these spot checks you're doing. They're a new thing, are they?'

‘Management Visits,' Shelley corrected her. ‘You've grown your hair, haven't you? I knew there was something different about you.'

As she expected it to, this caused Jean a little embarrassment. She was the sort of tight old spinster who would always prefer not to have any attention drawn to herself, least of all if it concerned her appearance, and Shelley was the sort of person who made a point of ignoring such outdated and inexplicable preferences. Nonetheless there
was
something different about Jean. ‘Or is it your dress? Nice to have a change from separates. It's not Marks, is it? Very unusual colour. I've never had you down as a yellow person.'

‘It's not yellow,' Jean said, weak with offence, ‘it's old gold.' She lifted a hand to her throat. ‘l don't wear it very often, only in this weather . . .'

Just then Michael lunged forward from his station in front of the Aga. With a terrifying cry of
'Haaaaaa!'
he dived towards them and banged his hand down hard on the table, just inches from Shelley's elbow. The table shuddered. Shelley's hands flew up to her face and for a moment both women stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless.

‘Gosh, close thing. That,' he said cheerfully, ‘was an earwig. Making a beeline for your sleeve, Shelley. Lucky I saw it!' He dusted his hands together and returned to the Aga rail.

‘I gather they can give quite a nasty nip,' said Jean, smooth and smiling now. Clever Michael. She poured out three cups of tea and pushed one across the table to Shelley. ‘It must have been hiding in the roses.'

‘I hate the fuckers, don't you?' Michael asked, conversationally.

‘Ugh.
Yuck,
' Shelley said, in Jean's direction. She realised that she could not openly complain about being ‘subjected' to ‘language', and was pretending instead not to have heard him. She took a sip of her tea, noting with dismay that it was Earl Grey, and looked with suspicion at the jug of roses on the table. They were already overblown and Michael's sudden mad attack had caused several of the heavy-headed flowers to moult even more petals onto the table. The drooping, denuded remains in the jug were now surrounded by a moat of curling, pink and yellow velvet discs.

‘That's the trouble with garden flowers. You end up bringing in all sorts,' she asserted.

‘Jean does all the flowers,' Michael said. ‘Don't you, Jean? Jean, is there any of your cinnamon and honey cake left? She makes the most marvellous cinnamon and honey cake, you know.'

‘Oh, really? Not for me,' Shelley said, ‘thank you very much.' She gave a professional cough, signalling that she was ready to start ignoring Michael. Quite where she stood in relation to him she could not work out, but she was a busy woman with a job to do and she would not be deflected from it any longer. She cleared her throat again, and reached down for her briefcase.

‘Jean, there's a short questionnaire I'm required to go through with you, it won't take long. This is your opportunity to voice any issues or concerns.'

‘Issues and concerns? Wouldn't I just have told you if I'd had any?' Jean asked mildly. ‘Issues and concerns?' She repeated the words with suspicion. ‘I haven't got any, anyway. Everything's going fine.'

‘I'll say!' Michael chimed in. He had found the tin with Jean's cake in it and cut off a large lump. ‘Sure I can't tempt you?' he offered Shelley, lifting up his fistful of cake and pointing to it with the other hand.

Shelley smiled and shook her head. Because she had scoffed a Kit Kat in the car this morning, she had skipped lunch and was now starving, but she always felt it looked better to refuse anything offered between meals. Looking back at Jean, she said, ‘But it can be useful, can't it, to
identify
issues and concerns in the first place? That's good management practice, pure and simple.'

She had arranged a stapled sheaf of papers in front of her. Next to that she placed her mobile telephone and personal organiser. She now popped the top off a pen.

‘Now there was that breakage for a start, wasn't there? You never did supply the details, Jean, though I do remember we asked. So if you'd just get the inventory, we can action that one, for a start.' She smiled efficiently.

Jean's mind swam. ‘I kept the bits,' she said, hopelessly, ‘it was a teapot.'

‘That's no good,' Shelley said, busy filling in boxes on her form. ‘I need to work off the inventory, so if you can just get your copy.' She looked up. ‘You do have the paperwork, don't you?'

‘Oh well, of course. Somewhere, though I can't quite think . . .'

There had been no time, in the alarming hour between Shelley's telephone call and her arrival, to work out quite what they would do or say if the question of the inventory came up. They had torn around tidying up, removing their group photographs in the silver frames, the funny pictures and messages on the front of the fridge, trying to make the house look less relaxed and lived-in. They had decided that whatever else happened Shelley must not be allowed upstairs. The smell of fresh paint from the nursery that was obvious even on the landing would be difficult to explain; temporary house guests do not usually embark on redecorating, particularly when their hosts are absent. But Michael had been quite bumptious by then.

‘Oh well, if we have to, we'll just wing it!' he had told Jean. ‘Just stay in character. Remember, you're the house sitter, me and Steph and Charlie are Oliver's relations. Just hang on to that and
stay in character
. And wing it!'

That was all very well. But how was she to stay in character and wing it when she actually was the house sitter, one who had filled the house with her own family? And burned the inventory, emptied the freezer, altered whole tracts of the garden, moved into the best rooms, purloined clothes, destroyed photographs, sold furniture and artefacts? It sounded quite unreal, put like that, not at all an accurate way of describing what she had done, but that was how somebody like Shelley would look at it.

‘Jean? The inventory? You're not saying you've lost it, are you?'

Jean felt as if her brain were melting. She shot a look at Michael, who grinned at her. ‘Oh, mea culpa, I expect! Blame us!' he told Shelley, suddenly. ‘I'm afraid we've rather turned the place upside down, descending out of the blue. I have made it clear that Jean's not here to clear up after us, haven't I, Jean, so things are not as pristine as they were. It was hunky-dory when we arrived. Sorry!'

He moved over to the teapot and refilled Shelley's half-empty cup. ‘Tell you what though, I did shift a load of papers upstairs. Didn't I, Jean? Let me see if it's there. Shan't be a tick.' He loped happily from the room.

His absence hung awkwardly between the two women. Jean got up and wandered over to the window. There seemed to be not a single safe thing to say. She grasped for a remark that would be
in character
. ‘They're pretty, aren't they, these windows, with the lavender growing in the border there, just outside, underneath?' she offered. ‘It's a lovely kitchen, don't you think?'