A Family Holiday (14 page)

‘People these days are very busy but what they’d really like to be doing is planting, growing and eating their own organic veg, but it ain’t that easy. I think if someone was to come along and say here’s an allotment, you do as much as you have time for and I’ll do the rest, they’ll pay for that. In case you weren’t sure, the person that comes along would be me,’ said Duggan as Fleur continued to display a glazed expression. ‘My dad says they’d be paying for the dream,’ said Duggan with a snort, and he downed the rest of his pint and looked hopefully at Fleur. By rights it was her turn to get a round in.

As she stood at the bar she had a horrible thought, that perhaps she was the only person who really did have absolutely no idea what to do with their life. The shock that even Duggan had a life plan was quite mortifying and made her pledge then and there that she would make some changes, set some direction, and it was all going to start from… tomorrow.

Fleur rarely ventured into her father’s study, unless it was to distract him, but he was in his London offices today. She was a woman on a mission and she came out of the small room with her arms laden with stationery supplies. She staggered to the kitchen table and put down her procured treasures. There was a large pad of flipchart paper, marker pens in a variety of colours and equally brightly coloured sticky notes. She laid everything out, picked up a marker pen and stared at the large expanse of white paper. After twenty minutes of inactivity she realised that this brainstorming technique was harder than it looked. She’d looked it up on the internet and now knew all the possibilities it could deliver, but the key thing was having some ideas to brainstorm in the first place. Something she was clearly lacking in.

Fleur’s mind was starting to wander to the summer dress she’d seen in Selfridges when her mother arrived home. She looked the epitome of domestication, wearing smart navy trousers, a crisp white blouse with an expertly knotted patterned scarf and carrying a wicker basket in the crook of her arm.

‘Ooh, now this looks exciting. What are we doing?’ asked her mother, placing the basket on the floor and pulling up a chair to sit down next to Fleur.

‘I’m brainstorming ideas for my new business venture. I’m going to run my own business,’ said Fleur in a matter-of-fact tone that would have sounded a lot more convincing if she hadn’t just spent an idea-free twenty minutes staring at the blank paper.

‘Excellent, what have we got so far?’ asked her mother, scanning the pristine flipchart for clues.

‘Nothing as yet. I’m still thinking them through.’

‘I think you’re meant to do it quick fire. Like biscuits.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Biscuits. Write it down, it’s an idea, you have to say the first thing you think of.’

‘No, that’s word association, Ma,’ said Fleur, trying hard not to be too unkind.

‘No, I meant biscuits could be a business. You used to make lovely biscuits. You could make biscuits, decorate them and sell them,’ said Mrs Van Benton, who looked very pleased with herself.

‘I was what? Twelve at the time?’

‘It’s an idea, write it down,’ she said, tapping the paper impatiently.

Fleur stared at the shoal of sticky notes swimming across the flip chart. This was hopeless, she thought. She was about to give up and go to bed when she heard her father’s car swing onto the gravel drive.

‘Hello love,’ he said, coming inside, ‘I wasn’t expecting to find anyone up at this time.’

‘I thought you were staying in London?’ she said, as a giant yawn escaped.

‘No, I’d rather be home, if I can. So what’s all this?’ he said, placing his hands on her shoulders and leaning over for a better look. Fleur groaned.

‘I tried brainstorming to get some ideas of what sort of business I could set up, but Ma joined in,’ said Fleur, tilting back her head to look at her father and widening her eyes.

‘There are some good ideas here. Which are you going to develop?’

‘Er, that would be none of them!’

‘Come on,’ he said, giving her an affectionate pat on the arm as he slid into the seat next to her. ‘What about pretty saddles?’ he pointed to a blue sticky note in the middle.

‘Don’t, that’s one of Ma’s, along with dog-walking, biscuits, horse whisperer…’

‘Right, let’s see what we can do with it,’ he pulled across another sheet of flip paper and picked up a marker pen. ‘Tell me about pretty saddles,’ he said, his pen poised.

‘They’re pretty and only exist in Ma’s fluffy world,’ said Fleur, slumping back into the chair and realising that hours spent on a hard kitchen chair weren’t kind to your back whatever age you were.

‘So, they’re pretty,’ he said, as he wrote down ‘pretty’ and drew a circle around it. ‘What makes them pretty?’ he asked. Fleur shrugged. ‘Come on!’ he said, looking like he’d just got up after a long peaceful sleep rather than a gruelling day in London. Fleur felt a pang of guilt for her father’s enthusiasm and her lack of it.

‘I don’t know. I guess… their colour,’ said Fleur with another shrug.

‘Great, what colours?’

‘Could be pastels, fashion colours…’

‘Like luminous. That comes and goes with the trend,’ he said, writing it all down.

‘We could personalise them,’ said Fleur, sitting up, ‘we could emboss the leather with patterns or initials or names,’ she said, her enthusiasm building gradually.

‘And who would be your customers?’ he said, drawing another circle.

‘Kids?’

‘Middle-class children with wealthy family like parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles. Anyone really,’ he corrected and carried on scribbling at speed. ‘Where would you sell them?’

‘Stables, riding schools, specialist equine shops?’

‘Definitely and online. This could easily go global. The Americans love eccentric British goods, especially if they’re good quality.’ He put the cap back on the pen and put it down on the table with a sense of accomplishment. ‘I think you really have something here, Fleur. Well done, love. I’m really proud of you.’

Fleur stared at the words ‘pretty saddles’ on the flip chart. She was proud of herself too and slightly stunned.

Fleur almost bounced out of bed the next morning, she was that excited. It was like the pretty saddles idea had fermented in her brain overnight and now she could picture it all. She could see the designs, the colours, the whole thing. She was soon joined in the kitchen by her parents, who were all smoochy, and she turned away quickly.

‘Eugh, someone trying to eat here, people. Let’s keep it clean,’ she chided.

‘Morning, Fleur.’

‘Pa, I’m glad you’re up. What do I need to do first? How do I get this business started?’ she asked.

‘First of all, you need a business plan.’

‘All right.’ She wasn’t exactly sure what that was but it didn’t sound too scary. ‘What else?’

‘You’ll need to do some market research, check that there are enough people out there willing to buy your product. You’ll need to do some costing so that you can work out your profit margin. Before that you’ll need to have prototyped your product. You’ll need to think about manufacturing and BS kite standards.’

Fleur started to feel as if she was drowning in his words and her expression reflected her thoughts.

‘But you can help her with all that, can’t you?’ said her mother, nodding faster than a wobbly-headed dog in a grand prix car.

‘Of course,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘Not right now, though.’

Once her father had left, Fleur was determined that she wasn’t going to sit still and do nothing until he got home; she wasn’t completely helpless, she could Google the things he’d said and a few sites were bound to pop up with some advice.

While Charlie was sorting breakfast, Ted appeared and did a secret-agent check that there was nobody else about.

‘I’ve had an idea about blackmailing Ruthless,’ he said with a gleeful look, as he stuck his head in the fridge and surveyed the contents.

‘Ted, some respect please. It’s Aunt Ruthless.’ Ted dragged his head out of the large American-style fridge long enough to smile at Charlie. ‘Granted that the rest of her kind are living under bridges terrorising little billy goats as we speak, but she still deserves some respect.’ Ted broadened his grin. ‘Come on, what’s this amazing idea?’ said Charlie, getting out the cereals.

‘We get Granddad Roger to threaten to cut her out of his will,’ he said, waving a box of grapes at her as he popped them down his throat, showing the same speed and flare that Charlie could when consuming a box of chocolates.

‘Slight problem with that one. Ruth already has Power of Attorney.’ Ted gave her his ‘I don’t comprehend’ look. ‘He’s signed over all his legal and financial rights to Ruth anyway, so no dice.’

‘Huh. I’ll have another think,’ he said, popping in three more grapes.

‘Okay, well, do it with the fridge door shut, could you?’

As Ted shut the door it revealed a ‘caught in the act’ George, who was doing an over-exaggerated creeping-away manoeuvre.

‘Hello George,’ said Charlie, without turning her head, ‘how much did you hear?’

‘All of it. Sorry,’ said George.

‘Don’t suppose you know any dirt on Aunt Ruth, do you Squirt?’ asked Ted.

‘Mmm, no, sorry…’ He disappeared up the stairs at high speed.

Charlie had been making pasta pictures all afternoon with Millie and now that she had finally got the glue and paint off Millie and herself she was running a little late for school pick-up. She had Millie on her hip when the phone rang and her first instinct was to leave it, but she couldn’t. She let out a growl of frustration as she picked it up – it was probably going to be one of those very annoying callers who always started the conversation by saying they weren’t trying to sell you anything, which was the golden clue that that was exactly what they were about to do.

‘Hello Charlie, it’s Jonathan Steeple,’ said the familiar voice.

‘I’m about to leave the house. Can I call you back?’

‘No, I won’t be more than a few seconds,’ Jonathan said quickly.

‘Okay, fire away,’ she said, hopping around in a futile attempt to hurry him along. It really was bad timing. Thirty minutes ago she would have loved a break from gluing down pasta.

‘Look we haven’t had this conversation, Charlie. But, as the primary carer of the Cobley children, I think you should be aware that someone has formally approached us as the Cobley executors and requested that we relieve you of your duties.’ Charlie stood motionless, apart from her left hip, which was moving involuntarily as Millie happily jigged up and down on it.

‘Charlie, are you still there?’

‘Ruth can’t sack me, though, we’ve been through this.’

‘We have, but now she’s asking us to do it and technically we could do that, assuming we also had Mr Felix Cobley’s agreement.’

‘It’s just a matter of time, then?’

‘I’m sorry, Charlie, that’s why I thought you should know.’

Charlie didn’t see the very large red four by four as she pulled out into its path. Thankfully the driver saw her and leant heavily on his horn. Charlie waved an apology out of the window and returned to gripping the steering wheel tightly. Thoughts of the Antigua holiday the Cobleys had booked before the accident bounced around her mind, she had clearly run out of straws to clutch at. It was difficult to hide her turmoil as she picked up the children. George was oblivious and had another scintillating cricket tale to tell everyone, but Eleanor and Ted noticed immediately. Charlie waved away their concerns by saying she had a migraine. When she finally found a parking space in their street and moored the car within walking distance of the kerb she tapped Ted’s arm. He pulled one ear bud out.

‘We have a problem,’ she said, her voice matching the despondency she felt. Ted nodded; he was quickly becoming a good sounding board, for which Charlie was grateful. She let the other children out of the car and they walked up to the house, apart from Millie, who skipped.

‘Tell me while they’re getting changed,’ said Ted, pointing at the party of three in front. Charlie nodded.

As it turned out, the problem was about to get even bigger as she listened to the answerphone message from Camille. Camille sounded like she was dispensing the best news in the world, so Charlie guessed it was probably her idea. Camille was suggesting that Ruth do some baby-sitting as a chance to spend some quality time with the children and enable both Ruth and Social Services to see how she coped. Charlie wasn’t sure if Camille was still on her side and, if she was, perhaps this was an opportunity to showcase Ruth’s epic failure. Well, that was how she was going to play it, anyway.

As the children thundered upstairs to get changed, Charlie shoved Ted into the living room and shut the door.

‘I think Ruthless is pretending to Social Services that she’s going to look after you all. I bet that’s what the conniving cow is up to,’ said Charlie in hushed tones, even though the other children were out of earshot.

‘Then she’ll say she doesn’t need you and kick you out,’ said Ted.

‘And later she’ll claim she can’t cope, what with her busy high-flying business and four troubled children… sorry, no offence.’

Ted didn’t appear to have taken any. He slumped into the nearest sofa. ‘We’re going to end up in care, aren’t we?’

‘Don’t think about that. What we need to do is come up with a plan – and fast,’ said Charlie, trying to push the pictures of white sand beaches and swaying palm trees to the back of her mind.

Charlie had called Camille back and enthusiastically accepted the offer of Ruth’s baby-sitting and suggested that if Ruth could come round that evening they could start tonight. Camille had rung back to say Ruth was equally keen and that she would be round at six o’clock sharp and she was true to that word, at least.

Charlie was completely professional as she took Ruth through the house and explained what needed to happen. Ruth didn’t speak, in fact she just followed Charlie around, checking her watch at two-minute intervals. Charlie was hoping her request of same-day baby-sitting had been inconvenient for her. The woman only had to cope for two hours and all she had to do was keep the children amused for an hour or so and then start putting them each to bed. It wasn’t the most taxing thing.

Ruth stood next to Charlie as she put on her jacket. It had been trying to rain all day and, knowing Charlie’s luck, it would start to pour down as soon as she stepped outside. Charlie had written her mobile number on a post-it note, which she handed to Ruth. The children all filed into the hall like the Walton family, but with glum faces every one. Charlie kissed them each good-bye and Ruth tutted.

‘Good God, woman, you’re not leaving the country,’ she scoffed. Charlie gave Ruth her best death stare and left. It was all down to the children now.

For the first ten minutes peace reigned until Eleanor screamed loudly.

‘What is it?’ shouted Ruth, but she got no reply other than more screaming, so reluctantly she went to investigate. Eleanor was in the main bathroom standing on the toilet seat pointing into the bath at a huge spider. Ruth took a slightly closer look.

‘It’s a toy,’ she stated and looked Eleanor up and down. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I thought it was real, one of those deadly Australian ones that kill you with one tiny bite,’ said Eleanor, as if she was at an amateur dramatics audition.

‘Silly girl. You might as well get washed and go to bed whilst you’re here.’

‘It’s not time yet,’ and she scurried quickly past Ruth and out of the room.

Ruth trudged back downstairs to the living room, where she’d left Ted, George and Millie quietly watching the television, but there was no sign of them and the television was blathering on to no one at all. She turned it off and looked around the now-quiet room. She checked behind a sofa in case someone was about to jump out and surprise her but nobody did.

Ruth followed the faint sound that was coming from the kitchen. She found Millie sitting happily on the kitchen floor.

‘I make cake. Want some?’ she asked, waving a clump of something in Ruth’s direction. Ruth stared, her expression one of disbelief. In the two minutes she had been upstairs it would appear that Millie had found a large bag of flour and a container of milk.

‘How did you open the fridge?’ asked Ruth with suspicion in her voice, but Millie merrily carried on mixing her ingredients on the floor with her hands as Ruth stood and stared at the vastness of the mess. Not only was the floor a mass of white goo but the kitchen stools were covered in white lumps too and so were a good selection of the kitchen cupboards.

‘Edward!’ bellowed Ruth, but there was no reply. Millie looked up briefly and carried on stirring her hands in circles and giggling.

Ruth bent down to tackle the mess when Wriggly came hurtling down the stairs at high speed. Ruth tried to intercept him but it was like a very one-sided rugby match of schoolboy versus England professional as Wriggly gave her a false dodge, charged past her and ran through the milky puddle and out into the garden, where he started to frantically roll around on the grass. Ruth stepped around Millie and followed after the dog. He soon came to say hello once he’d had a good roll and was now nicely coated in grass cuttings and looked like a neatly clipped bonsai bush version of himself.

‘Edward!’ screeched Ruth, louder this time. She looked at the now-green Wriggly and touched a small patch of grass-free fur – it was slimy and coated in something. Wriggly started to scratch and clumps of grass flew in Ruth’s general direction. ‘Edwaaaard!’

‘Hiya,’ said Ted, casually appearing in the kitchen, ‘Oh dear, you didn’t leave Millie unattended did you? Tut, tut, tut,’ he said, shaking his head wisely.

‘Don’t be cocky with me. Clear this up,’ said Ruth, pointing at Millie, who responded by throwing a handful of goo, which landed expertly on Ruth’s shoe. Ted resisted the urge to laugh but gave Millie a thumbs-up when Ruth looked down at her shoe and Millie giggled. ‘Where are the other two?’ demanded Ruth, trying to shake off the sticky white mass.

‘Playing with someone’s phone I think?’ said Ted casually. Ruth nodded, then as if realising the implications went back up the stairs quickly. In the living room she found George and Eleanor laughing hysterically as they quickly hid something behind a cushion.

‘Give me back my mobile.’

‘Here you go,’ said George with a smile and he handed Ruth the phone before trying to make good his escape. Ruth grabbed him and Eleanor by an arm each.

‘What have you been doing?’

‘Nothing,’ said Eleanor, but a quick scroll through her recent call list and her emails would later reveal that that wasn’t strictly true.

‘You can go and wash the baby and the dog right away, and no funny business otherwise there will be trouble. Do you understand me?’ her voice was quivering and sounded as if she was bordering on losing control. George and Eleanor stopped smirking so that Ruth would let go of them, then quickly left the room before bursting into fits of giggles.

After a lot of shouting Millie and Wriggly were sharing a bath and being supervised by George and Eleanor whilst Ted finished cleaning the kitchen under the watchful eye of Ruth.

Ruth checked her watch.

‘Are you counting down the minutes until you can hand us back?’ asked Ted.

‘Not at all. I know what you’re trying to do and it’s not working.’

‘And we know what you’re doing too,’ said Ted pausing mid-scrub.

‘I’m doing what’s best for your future.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘I know you don’t want to hear this but I suspect Charlie conned her way into your mother’s affections. Helen was always a pushover for waifs and strays. But I can see through Charlie’s thin façade and identify her as the scheming gold-digger she is.’

‘That’s unfair. She loves us!’

Ruth’s eyebrows arched. ‘I doubt it and anyway that’s not a nanny’s job. I am determined to find someone better to care for you. I need to do it for your mother.’

‘You weren’t exactly close,’ scoffed Ted.

‘That’s as maybe, but Helen knew that if she ever needed me I would always have been there. It is unfortunate that the time she needs me is after her demise, but it is therefore even more important that I ensure that you all have the best possible care.’