Olivia’s Luck (2000) (25 page)

On this particular morning, I dutifully sat down for the obligatory doodle, sigh, gaze and screw, but as I got up guiltily from the writing desk, pushed open the French windows and ambled out into the blazing sunshine to till my soil, it occurred to me to wonder why on earth I would even
want
to slog to London on an overcrowded commuter train, and spend a back-breaking morning in a stifling greenhouse tilling someone else’s soil, before slogging back home again? It wasn’t as if I needed the money – although of course it would come in handy. No, it was the independence, I told myself sternly. I knelt down amongst the frilly and abundant
Alchemilla mollis
and tugged at a dandelion root. Who was it said that work was the only dignity? Scott Fitzgerald, or someone equally dissolute, but he had a point and, let’s face it, I was pretty short on personal dignity at the moment. I shuddered as I remembered yesterday’s debacle. And of course the ability to write my own cheques without drawing on the joint account would certainly show Johnny. Show him I was making my own way. And then, of course, there was the stimulation, I thought wearily, reaching for my trowel. I sat back on my heels for a moment. Yes, let’s not forget the sodding stimulation, eh? What did that really mean, I wondered? When people bandied that word around? Did it mean talking to people? Because I could talk to my friends, who were far more intelligent than a lot of the gardeners I knew. Using my brain, then? Well, surely a good book would do more for the grey matter than pricking out dahlias? No, what it really meant, I decided, was no longer feeling guilty about doing nothing. It gave one a badge to wear, a tick to put by one’s name. Olivia McFarllen has a job. She occupies her time with more than her house, her garden and her child. She stood up and she was counted. And, of course, at the moment, it was more important than ever that I was seen to have a life, because I couldn’t even include ‘getting my husband’s supper and ironing his shirts’ in the domestic equation, as Claudia had so succinctly pointed out to me on the way to school this morning.

“Mrs Chandler’s got a job now,” she’d informed me sternly, “and Mr Chandler was really impressed by that. Said it was more than his increasingly expensive strumpet had.”

I cast my mind back, at the same time trying not to go up a lorry’s backside. “Mrs Chandler? Chloe’s mother?”

“That’s it.”

“Whose husband left her?”

“Yep.”

“But…wasn’t she the one that went off with some loose-limbed youth from B & Q, whereupon Mr Chandler came back with his tail between his legs?”

“Ah yes, he did,” she twisted excitedly in her seat to face me, “but you see it’s all changed now. Mr Chandler
did
come back, but then his strumpet – ”

“Must you say that word, Claudia?”

“Yes, I like it – his Strrrr-umpet,” she trilled, “mounted a huge campaign, cycled past his factory gates with her shirt undone and no pants on, that sort of thing – and he went back to her.”

“Right,” I’d said weakly, negotiating a roundabout. “So, then Mrs Chandler got herself a job, in – don’t tell me – ”

“B & Q.”

“Naturally.”

“And now she’s selling rotary saws and that type of thing, and all on commission, Mum. Chloe said she made an extra eighty-four pounds last week.”

“Excellent,” I said faintly. “And, um, her young man?”

“Oh, well, Mrs Chandler claims she got bored with him and gave him the boot, but Chloe says she was sitting in the back garden with him only last week and Mrs Chandler came out in a bikini to sunbathe looking
really
hideous – you know, flabby white tummy, saggy underarms and those spongy bits on the tops of the legs, like you’ve got, Mum, only much worse – and Chloe said that Len – that’s his name – took one look, made a face like he was going to be sick, and legged it. They’ve never seen him since.”

“But…” I struggled with this information as I swung into the school gates, “but surely he’d seen Mrs Chandler before?” I was dimly aware I shouldn’t be having this conversation with my ten-year-old daughter, but couldn’t quite stop myself.

“What, you mean nudey?”

“Well, yes.”

“No, because Chloe says they always did it with the lights off.”

“How would Chloe know?”

“Because she peeped through the keyhole, der-brain. Crikey, Mum, get real. We’ve got to get
some
sort of sex education before we go up to the upper school. If it wasn’t for Alice Cassidy’s parents, who are practically naturists and wander round the house naked and do it in the conservatory, we wouldn’t know
what
was going on.”

I pulled to a halt in the car park. “Well, three cheers for Mr and Mrs Cassidy. Sorry Daddy and I were never so obliging. I hope you don’t feel too deprived.”

She shrugged as she got out. “I’ll survive. Oh – it’s OK, Mum,” she said quickly as I went to get out my side, “I’m a bit late so I’ll just run in. Oh, by the way, that letter’s for Sebastian. Can you put it through his door? Plus the one from you, too,” she added meaningfully.

I glanced down at the note she’d left on her seat as she scampered off. So. My daughter no longer wanted me to accompany her to the classroom door. Didn’t want me to make a fool of myself, no doubt. A bit of a loose cannon, these days, Claudia’s mum, and, of course, what with her husband’s mistress up there, who knows
what
she might do. I sighed and picked up the letter. It was sealed, of course; show me a child who doesn’t lick an envelope. I turned it over and wondered what she’d written. Sorry about my barking mother? She really should get out more, sell a few rotary saws and cycle round St Albans with no pants on? I sighed again, put it down. No, she was right. I must pop it through his door, and add sincere apologies of my own, too. I riffled around in the glove compartment for a bit of paper. No point going home and agonising over the Basildon Bond, I’d write one in the car right now, on any old scrap of paper, pop it in, and then that would be the end of it.

I finally found an old shopping list on the floor under my seat, scribbled out ‘Domestos, butter, Immac’, and wrote on the back:

Dear Sebastian,

I’m
so
sorry. What must you think of me? I got totally the wrong end of the stick yesterday, made a complete fool of myself and couldn’t be more ashamed.

Best wishes,

Olivia McFarllen

There. Short, gushing, and to the point. Perfect.

On the way home, I stopped outside his house and ran up the steps. I slipped Claudia’s note through the letterbox, and was about to add mine to the doormat when I suddenly realised I was being watched. I glanced down and saw the mother, her toothy, ferrety face pale and watchful, staring up at me from the basement window below. I hesitated. My note wasn’t actually in an envelope, and she’d most certainly read it, and then what on earth would she think? Why was I so ashamed? So foolish? What stick, exactly, had I grasped the wrong end of? And on a scrappy old shopping list, too. No no, I thought hastily, I’d go home, write it out again, do it properly and then drop it by later.

I tucked it in my pocket and glanced down nervously. I couldn’t actually see her now, but I was sure she was still there, hovering about in the shadows. I hurried back down the steps, feeling those sharp grey eyes in my back all the way to my car. I shivered as I got in. Perhaps Molly was right. Perhaps there was something ‘iffy’ about that whole setup there; perhaps she was his accomplice or something. She certainly looked like she could have been an embalmer in a previous life. I shot off down the road, scurried up the drive to my house, ran in, and shut the door fast behind me. Home.

The day limped on, and by mid-afternoon, the temperature had hit the nineties. Claudia was dropped home by a friend, and lay in a cool bath for half an hour before taking to her bedroom. I, meanwhile, wilted restlessly on the terrace, listening to the sounds of banging and crashing as the boys ploughed on. At one point Lance and Spiro beetled off for more supplies, but other than that, relentlessly, unceasingly, through the heat, with no radio blaring, no chatting, no whistling, no breaks for tea, no stops to execute the perfect roll-up on an upturned milk crate – on they toiled. I was astonished, but deeply impressed. Later, when they’d finally drooped back to the caravan to collapse, I crept in to inspect their handiwork. I was even more impressed. Golly, I thought as I gazed around in wonder, all this in one day. Just shows what they can do when they really pull their fingers out.

The flapping blue tarpaulin had gone, and in its place, the ceiling and walls were pink and plastered. The soggy concrete floor had also been replaced, by a gleaming, reclaimed wooden one. At the far end of the room, the huge, concrete plinth was in situ, ready for the Aga to be enthroned, and around the perimeter of the room, some of Lance’s carefully sculpted oak cupboards were already in place. I scurried across the shiny floor and pulled out a drawer. Smooth as silk. I spun around, a delighted smile slowly spreading across my face. My goodness, yes, it was really taking shape, and it was perfect! Just perfect. And just as I’d imagined, too. Finally, after all these months, it was beginning to come together.

The old sash windows had been restrung, deep skirting boards were nailed in and ready to be painted, granite work surfaces were propped up waiting to be fixed, but what really surprised and pleased me was that I could get pleasure from it. Yes, even without Johnny here beside me, admiring it too, it made me smile, and I’d thought that would be impossible, you see. Thought it was all tied up with him, this dream house, and I was astonished to realise it might not be. Was I actually getting stronger then, I mused as I wandered around, or was it just time healing, as people so often – and thoughtlessly – told one it would? Perhaps a bit of both.

By way of celebration, I went back to the old scullery, poured myself a glass of chilled Sancerre from the fridge, and strolled out to the garden, making for the cedar tree where I always sat on a summer’s evening. Claudia was tired and had gone to bed early, and all was quiet. The garden seemed to breathe at me, to open its arms, and I sank contentedly into its embrace, the air heavy with the musky whiff of tobacco plants and trailing jasmine. Soft cascades of broom brushed my skirt as I sauntered down to the seat beneath the tree, but as I got close, I realised – damn. On the opposite side of the stream, directly in front of me, the lads had spilled out too. Out of their caravan and on to the grass, lying stretched out or propped up on their elbows. I hesitated. I could hardly sit here drinking just a few feet away, could I? Perhaps I should sit on the terrace? But on the other hand, I wanted to sit here. I always did. And this was my garden, damn it. I sat, firmly. Mac turned and caught my eye. I raised my glass.

“Kitchen looks great!” I trilled merrily.

“Yep. It’s coming along.”

Silence. I smiled inanely into my lap.

“You like yer war?” he ventured.

“Sorry?”

“I said, d’you like yer floor?”

“Oh yes, very nice!”

Lance glanced across, smiled. I smiled back. Looked down into my lap again. I shifted uncomfortably. Heavens, this was ridiculous. They were only a few feet away, and the whole point of sitting here was to gaze into the sylvan scenery, not at them.

I cleared my throat. “Um, listen,” I called. “This seems rather silly. D’you want to come across and have a celebration drink? There’s some wine and beer in the fridge?”

It was as if I’d cast a magic spell. As if I’d snapped my fingers and – abracadabra – they were across. The stream was leapt – or in Spiro’s case, waded – and in an instant they were beside me; sitting on the grass around my chair, grinning up at me like delighted pixies. Lance instantly became barman.

“Right, lads,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “beer or wine, or shall I bring both?” He looked at me for confirmation.

“Please do,” I purred.

Christ, I felt like Lady Bountiful now, sitting here under my cedar tree with my faithful swains about me. I slid my bottom off the chair and shifted down to the grass. That’s better, I thought, hugging my knees, chummily. Much less us and them.

Lance disappeared, only to reappear moments later with a tray of glasses, a bottle of wine wrapped in a fabric cooler that he’d found God knows where, a six-pack of cold Stella, and a huge bowl of Hula Hoops. Crikey, he really was Mr Fixit, wasn’t he? I thought admiringly as he set it all down on the grass, and looking particularly attractive this evening in khaki shorts and a baggy white T-shirt. Clean, too, I noticed, as actually, I realised, glancing around, they all were. Did they have a power shower in that TARDIS of a caravan, as well as satellite TV and beds that came whizzing out of the wall? I must ask Claudia.

A moment later the air was filled with snapping and fizzing as ring-pulls were zapped back and a cork was popped, then the happy sound of contented glugging as Stella went down dry red necks, and a cumulative – “Aaaahh…” as the business of thirst was attended to. Even Alf looked slightly less wretched as he downed his can without troubling a glass, and lay down to shut his eyes.

“How is he?” I whispered to Lance.

He shrugged. “He’s OK. It’s the shock more than anything, and I think that’s starting to wear off. And he’s not so bad here, you see, working with the boys. It’s just at home. Empty kitchen, bedroom, you know.”

I took a slug of my wine. Oh yes, I knew. And how.

“Ees so very, very like you, ees it not, Meesis McFarllen?” said Spiro, on my other side, muscling in on the conversation and warming to his theme again.

I groaned inwardly.

“And always it happen to the good people,” he mused. “Nice people, smiley people, like you and Alf. He just like you, always if I ask – can I have a ciggy, Alf? – he say yes, or – can I borrow radio, Alf – he say yes, yes!”

“Well, maybe that’s the problem, Spiro. We’re too free with our yeses.”

“And you know,” he hissed in my ear, “he only forty-eight! Ees incredible, no? And he still very fit and able to do things.” He smiled at me, flashing perfect white teeth, and suddenly, I saw the way Spiro’s mind was going. Alf, my fit and able labourer, my eighteen-stone, glass-eyed, flatulent of bottom and gushing of armpit bricklayer, was being offered in my general direction. Alf, good, Alf,
smiley
Alf, Alf, the man who liked to say yes, was being proffered for my delectation by his friend, the woolly-hatted, perpetually sobbing Greek.