The Great Village Show (23 page)

‘Ooh,
really
?’ And Mum makes a noise like the verbal equivalent of big, intrigued eyes – she never could resist hearing about other people’s personal stuff.

‘Yes, that’s right. You see, Meg and I didn’t get off on the right foot at first.’

‘Well, you can’t blame her, darling; it’s been a very long time since my Megan had a man. She probably just needs a bit of practice.’
Oh please, somebody shoot me and get it over with
. ‘In fact, there was a time when I thought she might be –’ and Mum lowers her voice again before mouthing – ‘the other way …’

‘The other way?’ Dan clarifies, and I just know from the way he’s said it that he’s got an amused look on his brutish face. I bet he’s thoroughly enjoying this; perhaps he isn’t so nice after all. Hmm, but then he must be feeling humiliated and a bit embarrassed too, after having my mother offer him the chance of a job ladling giant mountains of paella around one of those massive metal tureens for tourists. She clearly has no idea who he is. Come to think of it, he was actually very modest in not pointing out this fact to Mum, while I failed, spectacularly, to get a word in edgeways during lunch as I tried several times to let her know.

‘Oh no, but she certainly isn’t the other way,’ Mum hastily adds, sounding panicky now. ‘Definitely not. Well, she can’t be, can she? Not now she has you!’ And at this precise moment my foot slips on the mat over the stripped wood floor, so I end up catapulting myself across the whole width of the bath. Help! I go to grab the window frame, but my hand knocks the handle instead, which in turn makes the window bounce backwards on the frame. Oh no! They’re bound to have heard and will now know that I’ve been eavesdropping. They’ll assume I’ve slammed the window on purpose in a fit of temper or whatever. I very quietly prop the window back open as if to imply that it was an accident – no fits of temper in here, no eavesdropping at all, oh no! I’m a perfectly calm and rational human being when my mother is around. Hmmm!

There’s a ringing in my ears; I must have banged my head … or is that the phone? I manage to reinstate myself into an upright position and I’m straightening my hair in the mirror when I can hear Mum talking.

‘Laaaaaaawrence!’ Ahh, it was the phone and Mum has taken the liberty of answering it. ‘We were just talking about you!’
Mother! Jesus, the woman has no tact whatsoever.
‘Yes, hold on, he’s right here.’ There’s a short silence. And Dan is talking now.

‘Yep. Thanks Lawrence.’ Another silence. ‘OK, I’ll do that right away.’

‘What is it darling?’ Mum asks Dan.

‘I need to make an urgent call – I better go and ask Meg,’ he says, sounding distracted.

‘Oh, no need. Here,’ and I assume Mum is handing the phone to Dan. I hesitate, and then curiosity gets the better of me and I sit back on the closed toilet seat. Besides, I’m not ready to face my mother again, just yet. ‘Make the call, and don’t mind me, it’s time for my siesta in any case,’ Mum chortles. ‘I’ll pop upstairs and find a blanket for myself, Meg is taking for ever – she must be doing a number two.’
Oh, for crying out loud!
‘Won’t be a mo, darling. I’m looking forward to snoozing in the garden.’ And she chuckles some more as I die a little more inside.

Mum comes indoors and I assume Dan is making his urgent call. I stand up, feeling ridiculous for still hiding like this, and I’m just about to open the bathroom door and go back into the garden when I hear Dan talking in a soft voice.

‘Hey, no need to apologise, it’s fine. I’ve missed you too.’ My hand freezes on the door handle. Who is he talking to? One of his sons, perhaps? ‘I’ll be back very soon, babe.’ No, it must be a woman, he wouldn’t call one of his sons ‘babe’! There’s a pause. ‘I can’t wait to see you either, darling, and don’t worry, we’ll sort it all out … I’ve missed you as well.’ Silence. ‘Nothing important. Just working. Yes, I love you too, sweetheart. You’re everything to me.’

I freeze, and stand motionless by the door, listening to the sound of my heart hammering inside my chest. My hands feel numb.

Babe.

Sweetheart.

Just working.

Nothing important.

I feel like such a fool. A fool for even considering that something happened between Dan and me down in the cellar. I clearly read it all wrong. And no wonder he hesitated and changed tack after his ‘don’t change’ line. He’s been playing me. Well, thank God I didn’t make a fool of myself and respond to his flirtations, I was right to be wary, to be cynical. He clearly has a girlfriend. And now I have to face him and act as if nothing has changed. He may be brazen enough to carry on like that, but I’m definitely not.

I take a deep breath before splashing some cold water on to my face, willing my hands to stop shaking, but I feel so humiliated, and I wonder if his girlfriend knows that he’s been here, in my home, sourcing ingredients to cook lunch for me, and bringing me flowers, flirting and kissing me passionately on the lips, which I must now assume was clearly just for show – to embarrass me in front of my mother. Talking of which, where is she?

I eventually manage to get it together, and quickly head upstairs to grab a blanket for Mum (they’ll know I was listening if I go outside without one), then make my way back out into the garden. I needn’t have worried about facing Dan, as he’s gone. There’s no sign of him anywhere. I look around, like a character doing a comedy double take. No, definitely no Dan. Just my mother is here and she’s snoring gently in a deckchair, a champagne bottle in one hand, my favourite patchwork blanket clasped in the other and her mouth hanging open.

I push the blanket around her shoulders and slip the bottle from her hand, before flopping into a deckchair too and finishing the last of the bubbles.

‘
Salud
, indeed, Mother!’ I tilt the top of the bottle in her direction. ‘And, for the record, Dan looks nothing like Hugh Bonneville.’

T
he following morning, when I come downstairs, there’s no point in even attempting to get any sense from Mum – to find out why Dan left without even saying goodbye to me. She’s still fast asleep; there was a brief interlude last night where I managed to walk her in from the garden and on to the sofa in the lounge, but there was no way I was going to manage to steer her up the stairs to the spare bedroom, she was far too wobbly. So, after tucking a blanket around her, I rolled her on to her side (I read an article once about drunk people inhaling their own vomit and dying, so I worry about it), and propped some cushions under her before leaving her to it.

I finish my breakfast – boiled eggs with Marmite soldiers – and, after making my packed lunch, I tiptoe past the pulled-to lounge door on my way out to school, pausing briefly to check that Mum is actually still breathing. She stirs as I open the door.

‘Why didn’t you wake me, darling?’ she asks, pulling herself upright, the imprint of my hand-stitched appliqué owl cushion embedded on the side of her face. ‘And why am I huddled up like an old woman?’ she then complains, tossing the blanket away in disgust.

‘Because, Mother … you were drunk!’ I tell her, picking the blanket up and folding it away on to the armchair.

‘Oh, I do wish you wouldn’t exaggerate, darling. I only had a few drops of champagne.’

‘And completely showed me up in front of Dan.’

‘Did I?’ she asks, incredulously. ‘Gosh, I’m very sorry if that’s true.’

‘It is. Why else do you think he left so abruptly?’ I ask, thinking I really should get going – I want to get to school in plenty of time to make sure today’s activities are properly organised. Pete is bringing a couple of his calves down for the children to feed and pet, which is bound to impress the inspectors. And Sybs is due in this afternoon to do some more crafting work with the children on their secret project.

‘Did he?’ Mum asks, looking vague.

‘Yes. Do you mean to tell me you were
so
plastered that you can’t remember?’ I admonish, sounding like Mrs Pocket ticking off a child. Mum huffs and crosses her arms. I take a big, deep breath and stare at a flower in the middle of the floral wallpaper on my feature wall – I really should replace it soon; it’s looking a bit dated now. Mind you, if my school closes down and I’m out of a job, then I’ll have all the time in the world very soon to make home improvements. And then something strikes me. ‘Mum, how long are you planning on staying?’ I brace myself, waiting for her answer.

‘Ooh, I’m not sure yet, Megan. Why? Are you trying to get rid of me already?’

‘No, of course not,’ I half-fib, folding my arms across my chest and hating how I always seem to regress back to a sulky teenager whenever Mum’s around for any length of time. I’m a grown woman, not the nineteen-year-old girl I was when she scarpered off to Spain, telling me it would be ‘an exciting adventure’ when I first balked at the idea of being left on my own with the responsibility of a house to run. I soon got used to it, of course, I had to; and then being a lone parent with a baby wasn’t easy either, but I coped. And she’s right when she says that Lawrence has been good with me, although I wouldn’t have phrased it quite like that – he’s been a wonderfully kind friend over the years. And he was here, which is more than I can say for her.

I inhale sharply, feeling mean and ungrateful, as it’s thanks to Mum that I have this lovely little cottage, not forgetting the glorious holidays Jack and I have enjoyed with her. I just wish sometimes, in a way, that I could be a bit more like her perhaps. Gregarious and outgoing. I always feel inadequate around her, prudish and prim. Yes, if I was different, less of a home bird, more adventurous, I could join Jack in South Africa for the summer. Mind you, I’m not sure he’d want me muscling in on his adventure, but it’s a possibility. But really I like normality: routine, familiarity, my home, my garden – I find comfort in the certainty of knowing the snowdrops, daffodils and geraniums will appear along my front path in early spring, followed by the glorious pink peony blooms on the bush beside my washing line in April. I like things to stay the same, the way they always are. It makes me feel safe and secure and actually very happy.

‘Jolly good. We are going to have so much fun,’ Mum says, sounding very chipper as she cuts into my thoughts, and I smile, relenting. Perhaps it won’t be so bad having her around. She means well, and she can be quite good company – if she steers clear of the bubbles, that is.

‘So you have no idea why Dan left then?’ I try again.

‘I’m sorry, darling, I’m not sure. My memory isn’t what it used to be …’ Mum does her tinkly laugh.

‘Hmm, so nothing to do with you being sozzled then?’ And I give her my best scary teacher face before shaking my head and smiling.

‘Oh Megan, don’t give me that look – he’ll be back … and in the meantime we can enjoy some girly time together. How about we paint on some face packs and watch a rom-com? There’s a box of churros in my case – from the patisserie near my apartment that you like. We could heat up some chocolate to make a dip. Come on, it’ll be such fun,’ she beams, hopping across the room to pat her hair back into place in the mirror.

‘I have to go to work,’ I say, feeling a little exasperated now. And why hasn’t she got the hangover from hell? By rights, she should be feeling very fragile this morning. If I had drunk as much as she did yesterday, then I’m sure I’d be hiding underneath my duvet right now, refusing to move.

‘Of course! Silly me,’ Mum chirps. ‘Well, I’ll just have to manage on my own then …’ And she near leaps back on to the sofa and reaches for the TV remote control. ‘Would you be a dear and pop the kettle on before you leave?’

Ten minutes later, and having begrudgingly popped the kettle on, I’m cycling past the allotments near my school when I spot Jessie over in the far corner, wearing jeans, a T-shirt and pink polka-dot wellies. She’s bent over pulling cabbages from a patch – for the food bank, I assume – and the triplets are chatting and giggling away as they form a little production line, passing the cabbages along to each other before loading them into a selection of wooden crates on the ground, next to a van with the words ‘Sam Robinson, Landscape Gardener’ inscribed down the side. Ahh, that’s nice that he’s helping her out.

‘Hi Jess,’ I yell, ding-a-linging my bell, but she mustn’t be able to hear me, and carries on with the cabbages. I glance at my watch and see that it’s just after eight – far earlier than I had realised – so I swing my legs off the bike and rest it against the fence, figuring I have plenty of time to stop for a chat – the inspectors don’t usually tend to turn up until at least nine o’clock.

I’m making my way down the tiny gravel path that snakes in between the centre of the allotments, flanked either side by the most gloriously golden buttercups, some of them nearly knee high, when a man appears from the doorway of the potting shed. It’s Sam. And for some reason, I instinctively stop moving. Jessie is walking towards him. Beaming, he hands her a mug. She takes it from him and then he says something that makes her laugh, before gently lifting a stray strand of hair away from her face. And the way Sam does this, so intimately, makes me turn away. I feel like an intruder, interrupting a tender moment, as if I’m spying, so I go to walk back to my bike. I’ve almost reached the fence when I hear my name being yelled by one of the children.