Walking Back to Happiness (16 page)

‘Yes, she comes along most months. She’s amazing for over eighty. She’s the only one who’s read the book, and doesn’t mind giving us what for. It’s like being back in school again!’

God, it was unfair, thought Juliet, momentarily distracted from her annoyance at Diane’s nagging. How come piano teachers could make it past eighty, while fit, outdoorsy gardeners only got thirty-two years?

‘But she doesn’t have dogs,’ she pointed out. ‘Hasn’t she got cats? Those big, white Persian cats – the ones who ate cream from the good tea service, while you lot got horrible old chipped mugs the time you did
The Kite Runner
?’

‘They’re the ones! They are a bit . . . special. Anyway, Mrs Cox is going on one of those Scandinavian cruises and would rather they didn’t go into a cattery. They cry, poor things. I said you’d give her a ring and see about popping in to feed them while she’s off.’

‘Mum!’ Juliet felt hemmed in. ‘Why did you say I’d do that?’

‘Oh, don’t be like that, Juliet. She’s only a few doors down from you in Rosehill. You could do it on your way back from walking Minton and Coco. Here, this is her number. Go on.’

Diane pushed the paper at Juliet. ‘It’s not care in the community,’ she added. ‘She’d pay you. And it’s good for you to get out.’

That, Juliet realised, was the point of all this. Getting her
out
.

‘I’m out now, aren’t I?’ Juliet glared mutinously over the coffees.

It wasn’t so much the act of feeding Mrs Cox’s cats – she didn’t mind that – it was being shoved into someone else’s routine. Making their routine hers, when she’d spent the last few months protecting herself from people and their demands and questions. Juliet could feel her carefully constructed wall of programmes and naps being interrupted and it unsettled her.

‘Think of the cats,’ said Diane. ‘All alone in the cattery, with no home comforts. They hate it. I bet Minton would hate it too. You’d be doing them a favour as much as Mrs Cox. Half an hour twice a day. Come on.’

Juliet took the piece of paper. There didn’t seem to be much point in refusing; she could always ring Mrs Cox and find a good reason to let her down gently. And, she had to admit, the image of the lonely cats did strike a chord. Even if part of that chord was one of fear that she was headed for a life of spoiled pets who needed babysitting while she took herself on singles cruises.

‘Why don’t you call her now?’ said Diane firmly. It wasn’t a request.

Juliet tried to resist, but her energy had gone again. ‘Fine,’ she said.

Mrs Cox sounded delighted to hear from her, which made Juliet suspect that Diane had pre-brokered the deal, and invited her to drop in the following afternoon, ‘to meet my furry dictators’. Minton, she assured Juliet, wouldn’t be a problem, if she wanted to bring him too.

‘They saw off a Labrador at the vet’s last week,’ she chuckled indulgently. ‘They’re no shrinking violets.’

Juliet glanced down at Minton as she finished the call. He was lying by her feet, muzzle on his paws. ‘Poor Mints,’ she said. ‘No one’s asked you if you mind sharing, have they?’

‘He’s a good boy,’ said Diane, and slipped him a bit of croissant under the table.

‘And
that’s
why Coco’s on a diet,’ said Juliet, before she could stop herself.

Back in Rosehill, Juliet let Minton scuttle inside ahead of her to check for intruders or mice, as he always did, as the new man of the house.

It was promisingly quiet. So quiet she could hear the tick of the clock in the front sitting room. She slipped off her shoes and hunted for her comforting sheepskin slippers, already feeling herself sinking into the downward slope of the day, towards evening and bed, and another day ticked off.

There was a black-and-white film on Channel 4 that she’d ringed in her
Radio Times
for this afternoon; it had already started, but it was easy to pick up: some lovely doomed romance between two impeccably enunciated British actors, set during the war with plenty of uniforms and thin moustaches.

Trevor Howard had barely got his stiff upper lip out, however, when the peace of the house was shattered by the sound of two people playing recorders – in more of a competition than a duet.

Juliet closed her eyes. Could she ignore that? With the sound turned up loud on the telly?

No. They were playing at the very edge of her tolerance. And her tolerance was already five points lower than normal, thanks to the Mrs Cox thing.

‘Stay there,’ she called out to Minton. ‘Quick trip next door. Then teatime.’

The recorders got louder as she strode up the path, squeaking with tantrumy fury.

No wonder Alec’s never here, thought Juliet, clenching her fists. He’s probably not even on tour. He’s probably just lying in blissful, solitary silence in the Watford Travelodge.

She banged on the door, louder than she meant to. Then, when no one appeared to hear her, she banged again so hard the panes of glass rattled.

Where does this come from? she wondered, distracted by her own strength. Superwidow. Punching holes through concrete one minute, lying exhausted in front of the telly the next.

There was the sound of footsteps, and then Lorcan swung the door open. ‘Hello there,’ he said. ‘And I’m very,
very
sorry.’

‘You don’t know what I’m here to say yet,’ said Juliet.

‘I don’t,’ he agreed, ‘but I find it’s safer to apologise for them first. Saves time, with four of them on the loose. Frankly I’d rather not know what they’ve been up to.’

There was something about his bewildered expression that made it impossible for Juliet to deliver the killer lines about aural torture that she’d thought up between her front door and his. Also, he had bits of plaster stuck in his curls, and didn’t seem to realise.

‘It’s the recorders,’ she began, and as if for illustration, the playing started up again, this time a solo effort, like a PMT-riddled banshee wailing at the top of the house.

‘Roisin,’ said Lorcan. ‘She thinks she’s the gift. She’s tied a scarf to the end and she’s tootling away like she’s in a band.’ He mimed Roisin’s closed-eye swaying. ‘Very Stevie Nicks.’

‘Well, can you get her to stop?’ Juliet asked. ‘I’d hate to have to snap a recorder over my knee, but I’m willing to give it a go.’

‘I will.’ Lorcan leaned backwards and roared, ‘Roisin! Stop your racket!’ up the stairs.

The noise stopped at once.

‘It’s my fault,’ he went on, rubbing his face. ‘I’m supposed to be supervising music practice. Emer’s had to rush off to the clinic with Spike, and Salvador’s at his football night.’

‘Oh, no!’ Juliet felt bad for making a fuss. ‘Is Spike OK?’

‘Spike? Yeah, he’s fine. Whatever it is’ll come out the other end soon enough, apparently. Hey, will you come in for a cup of coffee?’ Lorcan opened the door wider. ‘We were about to make some tea, just me and the girls,’ he went on, somehow divining her reluctance to deal with a lot of faces. ‘And if you’re talking, Roisin and Florrie can’t be playing their recorders, right?’

‘Um, I won’t,’ she said. ‘I’ve . . . I’ve left Minton. He doesn’t like being on his own. He gets worried that I’m not coming back.’

That was a bit of a lie, one she’d used a lot over the last year. Minton was fine on his own for a while; it was when she fell asleep during the day and was wakened by him desperately trying to lick her face back to life that her heart broke.

‘Fair play,’ said Lorcan. ‘We’ll keep it down, anyway. Must be driving Minton doolally.’

‘Actually, there was something,’ Juliet began, then stopped.

This was a big step, but it was so easy just to ask.

Go on, she told herself. Do it.

‘It’s about the shower.’ Juliet swallowed. ‘When’s a good time to fit it?’

‘Fan—’ He was about to say, ‘Fantastic,’ but he stopped before the whole word came out. Maybe he sensed that it was more than just a bathroom fitting. ‘I can do it this week,’ he said. ‘No time like the present. Now, listen, will you be wanting someone in to tile the wall behind it too? I’ll be making a bit of a mess of it, cutting into the tiles. I know some good quick lads who could sort that out.’

‘Oh. Is tiling expensive?’ Juliet asked. ‘And . . . is it hard?’

‘It’s a bit fiddly. Why? Are you thinking of doing it yourself?’

‘No, it’s just that . . .’ She glanced down at the cluttered porch, with its bags of recycling, then looked back up at Lorcan. He was studying her with his friendly blue eyes, and the honest response spilled out of her. ‘It’s just that
one
, I don’t have a big budget, especially if the rest of the house needs fixing, and
two
, I was meant to be doing this with my husband. We were going to do it together . . .’ She trailed off. How did you tell the builder you’d asked to do some work that actually you didn’t want random builders; you wanted someone to transform your house
with
? Someone to learn with?

‘I don’t want to rush into a major financial commitment just yet,’ she said. ‘I only need a shower.’

‘I hear you,’ said Lorcan. ‘Well, why don’t you start with the shower and see how it goes? What time are you up and about in the mornings? I keep forgetting what’s normal when I’m here.’ He rolled his eyes backwards in the general direction of the Kellys. ‘And I’ve been on a tour with Alec where we actually got
ahead
of the jetlag.’

Juliet thought that sounded cool, even if she didn’t quite understand how it was possible. It was mainly Lorcan’s accent. It could make going to the shops sound pretty rock ’n’ roll.

‘I’m usually up about half seven. Is it Wednesday tomorrow? I’m walking my mum’s dog in the morning.’

‘That’s fine with me. Give me a radio, and lots of tea, and I’m away. I’m not one of these philosopher builders who like to talk . . . Oh, look who it is. Longhampton’s first rock recorderist.’

One of the red-haired twins had appeared behind Lorcan, with the cat following at her heels.

‘Hello, Roisin,’ guessed Juliet. Fifty-fifty.

‘
I’m
not Roisin,’ she said reprovingly. ‘I’m Florrie.’

‘You can tell by the cat,’ Lorcan pointed out. ‘Florrie has familiars, but Smokey’s very scared of Roisin, isn’t she?’

‘Loorrrrcan,’ said Florrie, clinging to Lorcan’s leg but keeping her unsettling blue eyes fixed on Juliet. ‘Lorcan, are you making some chocolate brownies for tea? We always have brownies when you’re here.’

‘I’ve got a
great
recipe for brownies,’ said Juliet.

‘Have you indeed?’ said Lorcan. ‘It’s the only thing I make.’

‘Very domestic goddess.’

‘Well.’ He looked sheepish. ‘I’m better at the ones with added extras. If you know what I mean.’

‘Lorcan lets us clean out the bowl. Mum doesn’t,’ said Florrie. ‘Dad doesn’t even let us have brownies.’

Juliet itched to ask what the set-up was with Lorcan and the Kellys. She knew he was a roadie with Alec and had played in a band with Emer, but why was he living with them now? Was he minding the children? It was clearly something complicated and rock ’n’ roll, and although she was curious, she also felt shy, as if asking would be intruding, displaying her ignorance.

‘Sure you won’t come in?’ he asked again, but as he spoke, a taxi pulled up outside and Emer tumbled out, with Spike in tow. Her tortoiseshell hair was in wild corkscrews, and she was wearing a denim waistcoat over her maxi-dress. It would have looked totally Status Quo on anyone else, but somehow looked fine on Emer.

Spike was wearing a knight’s helmet, with an ‘I was brave at the hospital!’ sticker on his T-shirt. His glasses glinted through the eye slits.

‘He,’ she said, pointing to Spike, ‘has got to stop eating random things! You –’ she pointed to Florrie ‘– have got to stop telling him to. Hi, Juliet. Jayzus, is that kettle on? I’m gagging for a cup of tea.’

She rushed past Juliet in a cloud of perfume, not in an unfriendly way. Spike followed, staring at the huge bandage on his thumb through his helmet. He bumped into the side of the door, straightened himself up, then carried on.

‘Come on in,’ said Lorcan. ‘You can clean out the bowl.’

‘Muuuuum!’ Juliet heard the thunder of feet on the stairs – Roisin, she guessed. In the kitchen, the radio was turned on full blast, and Emer started singing along.

The whole house was exploding into life like a speeded-up flower opening.

This is what Lorcan meant when he said mine was a family house, thought Juliet. Only I’ve got nothing to fill it. Sadness swallowed her in a big gulp, and she needed to get away back to Minton, her wet-nosed, loyal but silent family.

‘It’s OK. Things to do. I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said hurriedly.

‘Will do.’ Lorcan seemed on the verge of saying something else, but changed his mind and grinned. ‘And if you feel like making some of those brownies, I’d be happy to taste-test them compared to mine . . .’

‘I’ll see,’ said Juliet.

As she turned to walk down the path, she caught Lorcan yanking Florrie’s plait from behind, then feigning ignorance when she spun round and yelped.

‘It’s the ghhhhooooossssst!’ he hooted, and she sprinted down the hall, screeching deliriously for Roisin.

Nothing like Ben, thought Juliet. Mum was losing her marbles.

Chapter 11

Louise wished she had a job where lunches were an actual, scheduled part of the business day – a literary agent, maybe, or something in local government – where you could take your work out to meet a nice tricolore salad, and ideally have someone else pay for it.

She knew such lunches went on, because she saw them happening through the window of Ferrari’s, Longhampton’s power-lunching restaurant, on her sprint to the sandwich shop to get the baguette she was supposed to eat without getting marks on the papers she didn’t have time to stop reading if she wanted to leave on the dot of four to get Toby from whoever was looking after him for the day.

Louise joined the queue snaking onto the High Street outside Daily Bread and felt a pang of nostalgia for something that already seemed like a different world. Lunch at home with Toby had been a leisurely affair, with much chatting about aeroplanes and trains going into tunnels, and whether Mummy’s homemade meals were a cut above the supermarket options.