Me and Mr Jones
Dear Reader,
We’ve all done it: fallen blissfully in love and thought This Is THE ONE . . . until you meet the family and want to run a mile. If it’s not the gimlet-eyed mother who blatantly dismisses you as not good enough for Her Precious, it’s the weird uncle who’s always standing that bit too close. Or maybe the evil sibling who keeps mentioning your partner’s ex, and how hilarious and cool they were (i.e. you are neither).
Of course, none of my in-laws are like this (Hi, by the way, if you’re reading this. You are all SO GREAT) but there is something scarily random about the way you are thrown in with your partner’s family once you start a relationship.
I thought it would be fun to write a novel about three brothers – the Mr Joneses of the title – and the women who fall in love with them, who are then absorbed into the Jones family. It felt like rich pickings for an author: so much scope for rivalry, drama and explosive arguments, yet also great potential for humour, unlikely friendships and love.
I hope you enjoy
Me and Mr Jones
as much as I enjoyed writing it. And do tweet me your own tales of family joy or woe @LDiamondAuthor with the hashtag #MrJones.
Love
For Hannah, Tom and Holly,
with lots of love
Contents
Welcome to the website of MULBERRY HOUSE!
Lucy Diamond’s Breakfast Recipes
Welcome to the website of
MULBERRY HOUSE!
Set in the picturesque village of Loveday, with easy access to Lyme Regis, Charmouth and Axminster, MULBERRY HOUSE is a friendly and welcoming family-run guest house. Built in the seventeenth century, with generous-sized rooms, beautiful views and a spacious garden, it is the perfect place to enjoy a comfortable stay.
FEATURES INCLUDE:
Centrally heated bedrooms with
televisions
and
hairdryers
•
En-suite facilities
in most bedrooms
•
Delicious
home-cooked breakfasts
using local ingredients
•
Free
parking
We look forward to seeing you soon! Your cordial hosts, Lilian and Eddie Jones
No dogs or smokers. Thank you.
Chapter One
‘So,’ said Lilian, pushing her glasses up her nose and addressing her husband with the kind of look that generally made his heart sink. ‘The question is: what are we going to do with the house?’
Eddie still hadn’t managed to conquer the dread that always churned inside him whenever his wife asked this sort of loaded question. She was particularly adept at them; would have been a shoo-in for an interrogation job with the Special Forces.
Are we going to get married or what, Edward Jones?
she’d demanded nearly forty-five years ago, one hand on her hip.
Only I’m getting fed up waiting for you to ask me, that’s all.
He could picture her now, wearing the red polyester tabard she had to suffer as part of her Woolworths uniform, her glorious mane of chestnut hair up in a ponytail, those blazing blue eyes fiercely expectant.
He swallowed, just as he’d done back then. ‘Well,’ he said, after a moment’s careful deliberation. ‘I suppose we should see if one of the boys wants to take on the business first.’
She arched an eyebrow. God help him. Lilian’s eyebrows – skinny, plucked and with a beautiful arch to them, even now – could speak volumes with a single brisk twitch. This one, unfortunately, was screaming WRONG ANSWER at one hundred and twenty decibels. ‘I don’t think it’s quite as straightforward as
that
, dear,’ she said, a muscle flashing in her cheek. ‘If we simply
ask
do any of them want to run Mulberry House, then . . .’ She gave a theatrical, damning shrug. ‘Then the wrong one might end up with it. I mean, what if
Charlie
put himself forward, for instance? What would we say then?
Oh – sorry, darling. When we asked if anyone wanted the house, we were rather hoping it wouldn’t be you
.’
Eddie felt hurt on behalf of his youngest son. ‘Why shouldn’t Charlie run the business?’ he asked. ‘Out of the three, he’s the one who could do with a lucky break. And you never know, it could be the making of him. A bit of responsibility might be just what he needs.’
Lilian pushed out her lips in a small, tense moue of disagreement. ‘He’s too much of a risk,’ she stated. ‘And we both know he’s hopeless with money. No, Eddie. Handing over the house to Charlie would be an unmitigated disaster. We might as well give it to a complete stranger. Or burn the place down!’
Eddie sighed. There was no mistaking the firm set of his wife’s jaw, the flint in her eyes. Thirty-seven-year-old Charlie wasn’t a bad lad – he didn’t have a malicious bone in his body. He was just one of those kids who’d always drifted along haplessly without any signs of a master plan whirring elsewhere in his brain. Nothing wrong with that, though, was there? Eddie could relate to such an approach, having plodded aimlessly through life himself. And okay, so Charlie might have been unlucky with work in the past – and money, and women, come to that – but he was still a good boy.
‘Who did you have in mind, then?’ he asked after a moment, not having the energy to wade into an argument right now. He’d learned to pick his battles with care. ‘Hugh?’
Hugh was their eldest son – the undisputed leader of the pack. At the age of forty-two he was a strapping man, just on the edge of portly, who had worked solidly all his life, and now had the job and family life to show for it. Hugh had gone to university – Oxford, no less (my word,
that
had been a proud day) – where he’d studied hard, joined the rugby team and met his wife, Alicia, with whom he’d been ever since. Twenty years down the line they had three children and lived very comfortably in a large Victorian house in Axminster, five or so miles away. He worked as a manager of a midsized engineering works and they enjoyed holidays abroad every summer, as well as piano lessons for the children and an Ocado delivery pass.
Lilian wrinkled her nose. ‘But would Hugh and Alicia
want
the house?’ she wondered. ‘Do they need the business? I can’t see either of them giving up their jobs in a hurry, can you? Hugh’s just been promoted, after all, and Alicia’s . . . well, she’s doing her own thing, isn’t she?’ There was an edge to her voice. Alicia taught biology in a nearby secondary school and had recently been made head of department. She was so thoroughly
nice
and well-mannered that she had never once flaunted her first-class degree or career successes at anyone, but Lilian was still braced for it, all these years on, and stored a few digs about working mothers up her sleeve, just in case. There was such a thing as being ‘too clever’, whatever Eddie said.
‘They might want to buy it as a family home,’ Eddie suggested, although privately he had his doubts. Hugh and Alicia were happy where they were, he knew that. Their road was a safe, friendly one, where the children played out on bikes and scooters, and the neighbours organized street parties with home-made bunting and cupcakes. He wasn’t sure they’d want the upheaval of leaving that behind.
Of course, Hugh had grown up here in Mulberry House, as had Charlie and David, back when the building was the Jones family home. The place had rung with boys’ shouts and wrestling matches, the thwack of cricket balls on willow, the swishing of shuttlecocks over the washing line and, later, the thump of music and slammed bedroom doors during the teenage years. When the boys had all, finally, left home (it had taken Charlie a number of aborted attempts), Lilian and Eddie had felt the space was too large for the two of them, and began letting out the rooms to paying guests.
Fifteen years on, Mulberry House was a three-star B&B and was booked up for months in advance. ‘A charming, family-run establishment with good facilities’ as the AA put it, back in 2003. It had kept them well, this house, Eddie thought fondly, stroking the faded arm of the red velvet sofa as if caressing the head of a beloved child. The guests appreciated it too, if their repeat bookings were anything to go by. Jack and Doreen Willis hadn’t missed a Whit weekend yet, and the Dalgliesh family always came down from Aberdeen, regular as clockwork, for their week in July.
Lately, Eddie had felt weary of the hard work, though. Because it
was
hard work, make no mistake, having a house full of guests to tend to. Lilian managed the laundry and cooking, and they had Mrs Daniels, the cleaner, who helped out during the summer season when they were busy as loons. He, meanwhile, kept the gardens tidy, did the accounts, answered calls and organized bookings, as well as undertaking all the hundred and one maintenance jobs that needed doing at any one time in order to keep the place looking shipshape. He’d always liked being busy, and relished the satisfaction of making people’s holidays that extra bit more pleasant, but over the last year the relentless slog of work had begun to weigh heavy on his bones. He’d hurt his back putting up a new shower rail. There had been that bad cough right through the winter that he simply couldn’t shake off. And was it his imagination, or were people getting . . . well,
ruder
, these days? More demanding? Time was, folks were satisfied with a Teasmade and a hairdryer in their room. Not any more. He’d lost count of the guests who’d complained about there not being satellite television, or Wi-Fi, whatever that was. He felt tired, tired of it all.
