Walking Back to Happiness (2 page)

Diane and Minton trailed after her into the kitchen, which still had no units or proper floor. Or tiles. She and Ben had been brainstorming ideas for their ideal kitchen the day before he died, blithely ripping out the tatty old MDF units, thinking they’d be replaced soon enough. Magazine pages were still sellotaped to the bare plaster, creased and tatty now.

Juliet could sense her mother looking around at the mess, assessing the exposed wires and sharp edges. Her sister, Louise, had been over a few times with Toby, her son, but she kept him firmly in the sitting room, or strapped in his buggy, if she could get away with it.

‘You know, I could ask your dad to come round and sort out the plastering,’ said Diane, as if it had just occurred to her. ‘He’s quite handy with the Polyfilla.’

‘That’s very kind, but it’s OK.’ Juliet unplugged the toaster from the adapter and plugged the kettle in. Her dad, Eric, was already ‘popping in’ to tidy up the garden for her once a week. That was fine; it was a family joke that Juliet had whatever the opposite of a green thumb was, and besides, Dad liked gardening. He said it was because he couldn’t bear to see Ben’s efforts go to seed, but Juliet suspected he didn’t trust her with sharp implements. She was so spacey these days that she’d probably take her own foot off if she had to mow the lawn.

The decorating was something else entirely, though, and she didn’t want any interference from her family, however well-meaning. She and Ben had had grand ideas for the kitchen, the heart of their first proper house. They were going to buy an Aga (cream, reconditioned), with a whistling kettle and clothes drying rack. Minton would curl up against it in winter, and she’d make jam and drop scones on it. If she closed her eyes, Juliet could still hear Ben telling her about renovating the original Victorian tiles, and custom-building shelves, how he was going to make her a baker’s paradise.

They were the plans. For the time being, Juliet was still using the toaster and the travel kettle she’d had at college.

‘It’s better that it’s all left as it is,’ she said stubbornly, feeling her mother’s despairing glances at the chaos.

‘But you’ve got to live here, darling,’ said Diane. ‘Life goes on.’ The word was swallowed up in a guilty gulp. Juliet knew without turning round that her mother had her hand to her mouth; she could see her stricken reflection in the mirror opposite. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

Juliet got out a cloth and wiped the toast crumbs from her breakfast off the counter. ‘I’m going to get builders in. They’ll want to see it as it is. Give them a better sense of what needs doing.’

‘You’ve been saying that for weeks. I know it’s hard, but Ben wouldn’t want you to be living in a house with no proper shower.’ Diane was trying to be firm, but her voice cracked. ‘Let me call Keith. He did a lovely job on our conservatory. You’ll barely know he’s there. If it’s money, your dad and I can tide you over. Just a couple of rooms. Just so I know you’re not living in a building site.’

Something tightened inside Juliet, like cling film wrapping round her heart, suffocating her. I don’t want anything to be changed in here, she thought. She’d got over that initial paralysis, where even experiencing a birthday without Ben seemed like a betrayal, but she couldn’t bring herself to call the builders. This had been
their
project. Their forever house. She didn’t want to turn it into a forever house Ben would never share.

The kettle boiled and Juliet reached out for it, but Diane stopped her.

‘Juliet,’ she said, ‘I can’t sleep for worrying about you. Your dad can’t sleep for worrying about both of us. Please. Let us pay for you to get a decent shower put in.’

‘
Please
don’t worry about me.’ Juliet gently freed her hand and reached for the mugs. Wedding presents. Pink Emma Bridgewater hearts. ‘I’m actually . . .’

The banging set up again from next door, drowning out her words.

‘You’re what?’ Diane yelled over the racket.

‘I’m fine, honestly!’

Juliet guessed that the Kelly children were playing their human Mouse Trap game – or that was what she pictured going on from the clattering, yelling and general muffled noise of small feet jumping over stuff. They did it a couple of times an afternoon, starting from the top of the house, running along the landing, then down the stairs, along the hallway and into the garden, accompanied by whatever selection of animals they were currently looking after for their school.

It never took them long to reach the garden. It wasn’t a huge house, the semi-detached mirror image of Juliet’s. They were Laburnum Villa; she was Myrtle Villa. They were squat houses with elegant double fronts, two storeys plus attic, long gardens with raspberry canes, a compost heap and a shared apple tree, red front doors. They both had wooden floorboards,.

Juliet knew all about the wooden floorboards. One of the Kelly girls had got tap shoes for some birthday or other and practised a lot.

Diane flinched as feet bumped down the bare stairs. ‘What the hell is going on next door?’

‘Don’t worry, they’ll stop at half five. That’s when tea gets dished out.’

‘But I thought your next-door neighbour was that nice old body who ran the mobile library. Wendy, wasn’t it?’

‘She moved . . .’ Juliet had to raise her voice as a particularly loud bang ricocheted off the wall behind them. ‘Wendy moved a while back and the Kellys bought it. They’ve got four kids. He works away. Not sure what she does. I think they’ve a lodger.’

The cacophony moved into the back garden, drifting through the kitchen windows. A girl’s voice was shouting something about ‘clearing the VIP area’, and there was a frenzied shrieking. Minton slunk over to his basket and curled up, paws tucked beneath him. He hadn’t been formally introduced to next door. He wasn’t exactly clamouring to make the acquaintance of the cat Juliet had spotted lurking in her rose bushes.

There was another paint-cracking bang. Diane winced, and Juliet smiled wanly and passed her a mug of coffee.

‘How do you put up with that all day?’ she asked. ‘I’d have back-to-back migraines.’

‘Oh, I suppose I tune it out. At least they’re not playing on computer games.’ Juliet had no idea why she was defending the Kellys. She didn’t even know what all their names were. There were two girls, two boys, she knew that much, and they all had red hair, and one of the boys had asthma attacks. At regular intervals, someone would yell, ‘Quick, where’s Spike’s inhaler?’ and there would be more stampeding.

‘Is anyone in charge of them?’ Diane went over to the window and peered out over what was going to have been Juliet’s vegetable patch, trying to get a glimpse through the ragged box hedge that separated the two long gardens. ‘Dear God, they’ve got a trampoline. They’ve got a
cat
on the trampoline!’

‘Their mum’s around somewhere. KitKat?’ Juliet helped herself and dunked one finger in the hot coffee.

‘Thank you but I won’t,’ said Diane. ‘Dr Dryden’s told me to watch my sugars. Juliet, love, don’t take this the wrong way, but if you’re not going to sort out builders, what about getting a cleaner in? Once a week, just to run a duster over the place.’

‘I’m fine, Mum.’

‘I’d pay for it. It would be a swap.’ Diane hesitated. ‘A favour for a favour, if you like.’

Juliet eyed her mother with some suspicion. ‘Favours’ were usually thinly veiled attempts to prise her out of her house in the name of social rehabilitation. Diane and Louise had let a decent amount of time pass after the funeral, but then they’d started to come up with these ‘favours’ – most recently, a plea to do Diane’s Saturday-morning dog-walking stint at the rescue centre on the hill. Three walks in five hours and as many bacon sandwiches as she could eat.

Juliet had declined. She had her own dog to walk, thank you.

Diane looked more guilty than anxious, though, and Juliet caved in.

‘You don’t need to bribe me to do you a favour,’ she said. ‘I don’t need a cleaner. What do you want me to do?’

‘Look after Coco for me. Just two or three days during the week.’

Juliet frowned. That wasn’t what she’d been expecting; if anything, her mum had been taking Minton for the odd walk, along with Coco, their elderly chocolate Lab. Coco was twelve, and apart from mild flatulence caused by Dad slipping her sausages against the vet’s strict instructions, had absolutely no faults whatsoever.

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m going to be looking after Toby at mine.’

‘So? Coco’ll just take herself off to her bed and watch telly in the kitchen, won’t she? That’s what she does normally.’ Juliet looked down at her mug and realised she’d nearly finished her coffee. It was amazing how fast she could drink coffee these days. It barely touched the sides; somehow the heat didn’t register the way it used to. Another weird side effect of Ben’s death. All her senses felt dulled. Planed down smooth, like the floorboards they’d started to strip down in the sitting room. Sometimes she wondered if she’d ever feel sharp-edged emotions again, and if so, whether that was necessarily a bad thing.

Juliet got up to put the kettle back on. Moving stopped the thoughts.

‘Anyway, can’t Dad take her out for a walk?’ she added, over he shoulder.

‘Well, no. He’ll be out at his Welsh class.’

‘His
what
?’

‘It’s just a summer school, not a full course.’ Since taking early retirement Eric Summers had racked up nearly all the Foundation courses at the local college. As he liked to tell people, he could complain about the food in most European countries. ‘I’ll be on my own.’

‘So? What difference does that make?’

‘Louise is a bit bothered about Coco being around toddlers. She says – and she’s quite right to have her concerns, Juliet; you see it in the papers all the time – she says that dogs that aren’t used to children can never be trusted one hundred per cent. She thinks it’d be nicer for Coco to be somewhere else entirely, rather than shut out in the garden . . .’

‘That’s big of her.’

‘. . . and I thought, since you weren’t back at work yet, it wouldn’t be much of a hardship for Coco to come round here.’ Diane didn’t draw breath, which made Juliet wonder just how long she’d been rehearsing this on her way over. ‘You could take them both out for a walk. It’d do Minton good to get some daylight. Vitamin D.’

Juliet made fresh coffee without speaking and then put her mug down on an old copy of
Ideal Home
from August 2009. There’d been a time when she’d bought them all, every month. It seemed a bit ridiculous now. A Belfast sink was a Belfast sink, and anyway, she didn’t have the money.

‘Say something, Juliet.’ Diane fidgeted with her scarf. ‘You know I hate it when you go silent on me.’

‘I’m not being silent. I’m just . . .’ Not used to talking to people in real time. Answering machines and emails had allowed Juliet to keep everything at a safe distance, giving her time to fashion a response that wouldn’t make her sound mad, as she so often did these days.

She felt a twist of irritation at being put on the spot, especially on account of her sister’s ridiculous Precious First Born-itis. ‘Poor Coco. Booted out of her own house just because she has paws. What’s she going to do? Fart on him? You shouldn’t encourage Louise when she’s like this, you know, Mum. Since she had Toby she acts as if every room’s a death trap.’

Diane winced at the word ‘death’.

‘Don’t. If anyone’s allowed to say that, I am.’ Juliet’s pulse surged with recklessness. She really could say whatever she wanted for the first time in her life: no one seemed to hold anything against her. ‘Coco’s not going to savage Toby. Or has Louise decided that, since she can’t wet-wipe a Labrador, they’re banned?’

‘There’s no need for sarcasm,’ said Diane. ‘She’s entitled to her opinion. You see things differently when you’re a mum.’

Juliet’s fizzing mood flattened in an instant, and she pushed the tip of her tongue against her teeth. This was the single emotion that cut through the general ache: bitter regret for the future she’d lost too. It kept leaping on her when she looked at Toby and saw Peter, Louise’s husband, in his worried eyebrows, and realised she’d never see Ben’s cheeky grin in a chubby baby-face now. His genes were gone, and she only had herself to blame.

Diane was still talking. ‘It’s only fair that I support Louise, the way I’ve been there for you,’ she went on. ‘Not that I begrudge a single second, and I thank God that we’re practically on the doorstep, but Louise needs a hand now, and I think it’s about time you got yourself out and about.’

Juliet opened her mouth to say something about her sister’s need for any help from anyone, but something stopped her. Ben’s gentle hand on her back. He’d defused so many bickering family moments before they sparked into a row.

Juliet had one sister, Louise, who had been perfect from an early age, and one less perfect but equally ambitious brother, Ian, who had emigrated to Australia and married a personal trainer called Vanda, with whom he had two little girls. Louise had the legal career, the two cars and the designer house; Juliet had the happy marriage to her childhood sweetheart, just like Mum and Dad; Ian had the freedom to do whatever he wanted without fear of interference, and a deep tan.

Until Ben had died, and Juliet had gone back to being the baby of the family everyone had to help and talk to as if she was nine. Particularly Louise the control freak, who wasn’t nearly as grateful as she should be to have Peter, a man who . . .

Deep breath, she thought. That’s what Ben had said whenever she’d paused to scream silently into the hall mirror during a phone call. Take one slow, deep breath and imagine you’re a tree with long roots in the cool ground.

‘What’s Louise doing that she needs you to babysit?’ she asked, instead.

‘Going back to work,’ said Diane. Her expression struggled between pride and concern, and finally settled on pride. ‘She’s finally negotiated flexible hours. Don’t look so surprised! She’s been trying for ages. They don’t get many Crown Prosecution solicitors of her calibre round here.’ She nodded towards the local paper she’d brought, still unopened on the counter. ‘And goodness knows we need them. Did you
see
what was on the front of the
Longhampton Gazette
this week? That business about the vandalism?’