Me and Mr Jones (13 page)

Alicia smiled and pulled on a shapeless black jacket. ‘I hope it wasn’t too much of a busman’s holiday for you tonight,’ she said. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me asking you along, it was just . . .’

‘No way!’ Izzy said. ‘I’m glad you did. Thank you – I loved it. Can I come along next week too?’

Alicia beamed. ‘You’re on.’ Then she paused. ‘Um, I think a few people are going for a drink now – someone I know from work and her friend. Just in the local, nothing wild, but . . . well, would you like to join us?’

Izzy glanced at her watch. Almost nine o’clock. Not late by any means, but she didn’t want to antagonize Mrs Murray, not when she needed to keep her onside. Besides, she couldn’t afford to pay for drinks and any more babysitting, on top of what she’d already shelled out tonight. ‘Sorry, no,’ she replied regretfully. ‘I told my neighbour I’d be back by nine, and I don’t want to mess her about. Another time, though, definitely.’

‘Okay,’ Alicia replied. ‘See you on Saturday then – for ballet, I mean.’

‘See you.’

Izzy walked into the cold night feeling as if she’d made a new friend. An unusual sort of friend, yes – not someone she’d have picked out immediately as being friend material, but she couldn’t help liking Alicia. Maybe something good had come out of the Jones family after all.

Chapter Eleven

Having David to stay was a godsend in Lilian’s eyes. They said middle children were the awkward squad, but he’d always been the easiest of her boys: the sunniest, most good-natured and thoughtful. Hugh was solid and practical, Charlie made everyone laugh, but David was the one Lilian could really talk to – the one she felt was most emotionally engaged with the other members of the family.

It had broken her heart, seeing him so disillusioned of late, so tired of his life. His demeanour had reminded her of a man left in the airport, still staring at the baggage carousel going round and round after everyone else had grabbed their luggage and moved on. Thank goodness she had him under her roof again now. Home cooking and some hard work helping Eddie – that would see him straight.

Eddie, too, appreciated David being there. Charlie hadn’t exactly been dependable when it came to building and decorating work in the past, however well-meaning he was, but they’d always struggled to take him to task on it. Charlie was different from the other two, that was the thing. He’d been a sickly little boy, skinny and weedy, asthmatic from the age of six. Those night-time trips to Dorchester hospital, where he’d wheezed and struggled for breath and she’d actually thought she was going to lose him, had been the cause of her first grey hairs. She was not a religious woman, but she’d found herself praying by his bedside when he was hooked up to the ventilator, watching his oxygen levels until her vision blurred.
Please, God, let him be okay. Please, God, I’ll do anything.

Those days were long gone, of course, and nowadays he was a strong, healthy man, but when she looked into his eyes, she still sometimes glimpsed that frightened little boy, cheeks concave, skin turning blue as he gasped helplessly. You never got over something like that. It changed you.

It was simpler with David. Barring a few dodgy girlfriends, he’d never given them any trouble and was good company, easy to be with. Her favourite photo of him was one taken when he was about ten and they were holidaying in Ilfracombe. There was skinny, freckly David holding a mackerel he’d caught after a fishing trip, with the most enormous grin. Lilian knew that at least half the triumph came from the fact that Hugh hadn’t caught a thing, and Charlie had been repeatedly sick over the side of the boat. Boys, eh?

Twenty-five years later, he’d slotted back into the house as if he’d never been away, and she enjoyed having him there. He wasn’t bossy, as Hugh could sometimes be, or as needy as Charlie; he merely got stuck into whatever needed doing: wallpaper-stripping, plastering, painting, fixing . . . He’d even helped out with the gardening and breakfasts on occasion, always whistling cheerfully as he did so. Already the house felt transformed.

You could see the difference in him too, within a week. His skin had changed from pasty grey to a healthier pink; the bags under his eyes had vanished, as if he was sleeping well. Hard work was good for a person, Lilian had always thought. And he was smiling again, enjoying the satisfaction of making a difference to the house. His home. If only he’d move back for good!

‘I think the country air suits you, David,’ she’d said innocently a few times. He’d put up some feeble argument about loving city life in Bristol, but she wasn’t fooled. Dorset ran in his veins, she knew.

He wasn’t daft, though, her son. Hugh and Charlie might not have noticed anything different about their father lately, but it took just three days for David to realize Eddie wasn’t himself. ‘Is Dad all right, Mum?’ he asked that evening. They were in the kitchen together and he was drying the dishes as she washed them. ‘Only he seems a bit . . . absent-minded.’

Her hands felt numb in the hot water and she floundered for what to say.
A bit absent-minded . . .
Yes. He was that, all right. Just that morning he’d left the tap running in the bathroom sink with the plug in. It was only when water began dripping through the kitchen ceiling that she realized what had happened. It took six bath towels and a lot of mopping before the flood was dealt with.

Then there was the fact that words seemed to escape him. Of course, it happened to everyone sometimes – you’d grasp around for the phrase you wanted, only for it to slip away into the shadows of your mind, tantalizingly out of reach. Eddie seemed to have forgotten some really basic words, though, words so everyday that she wondered how his brain could have misplaced them.

‘Have you seen my . . . my . . . you know,’ he’d asked the day before, pointing at his wrist. ‘My clock – my hand-clock.’

There was a lump in her throat. ‘Your watch, love? It’s on your bedside table,’ she’d replied. She’d had to busy herself hoovering bedroom four for the Flint family, who were arriving that afternoon, to stop herself dwelling on it any further.

Now she took a long breath and looked at David. ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied candidly. ‘He’s been like that for a few weeks now. It’s probably just stress, he’s worked so hard lately. But we should keep an eye on him.’

‘Yeah.’ He was frowning; the exact same frown she’d seen him wear as a boy when he was puzzling something out. ‘It was just . . . We were stripping the wallpaper in bedroom two earlier and he put the steamer on without filling it with water first.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I know it’s an easy mistake, but it could have been really dangerous – would have shorted-out the electrics, if I hadn’t noticed. And when I reminded him, he seemed . . . well, quite confused about the whole thing.’

Lilian was silent for a moment, lips pressed together as she pictured the scene. Confused was a good way to describe her husband right now. A couple of times recently he’d woken in the night and had seemed completely disoriented, sitting bolt upright and staring at her wildly as if he didn’t know her. ‘It’s great you’re here, helping him, love,’ she said finally, hoping to soften the tension on her son’s face. ‘I’m sure that’s making things a lot easier for him.’
Not to mention saving him from being electrocuted or buggering up our power supply.

‘Yeah,’ he said again. ‘Well, I’ll stay as long as you need me anyway. You’re probably right – he just needs a break. You two should book a holiday after the summer, put your feet up for a change.’

She scrubbed at the casserole dish, a hollow laugh bubbling in her throat. A holiday indeed! Chance would be a fine thing. She couldn’t even think about time off, when the Whartons were due on Thursday for a long weekend, along with Mr and Mrs Miller from Suffolk, and then a whole group of young women who were on some cycling tour or other the week after (she hoped they wouldn’t be too much trouble; girls nowadays got so rowdy at the drop of a hat). And then once they’d gone and the dust had settled, their Easter regulars would start arriving: the Brook family from Hampshire and . . . goodness, now
she
was forgetting. Lots of people anyway. Lots of hoovering, lots of cooking, lots of washing. The thought of a holiday was almost enough to make her cry with longing.

‘Seriously, Mum,’ David was saying. ‘While I’m staying, let me carry some of the load. Okay?’

‘Thanks, son,’ she replied. ‘I’m glad to have you here.’

‘In fact . . .’ An idea seemed to have taken root in him. ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking. I’d love to get Em down here for a few days soon, show her how great the house is looking. Persuade her to think seriously about the two of us taking the place on. Why don’t you and Dad get away for a breather sometime next week? Just a couple of days. You could go and see Aunty Jean in Bournemouth maybe. Have a proper break.’

Lilian felt quite overcome. Nobody had ever suggested such a thing to her before. Could she really leave Mulberry House in the hands of her son? She and Eddie never took time off once the busy season started, not properly. Even when it was Eddie’s brother’s funeral, they’d made a day trip of it, all the way up to Nottingham and back, rather than spend a whole night away and put their guests out.

‘You’ll have to let go sometime,’ David pointed out while she wrestled with the thought. ‘This could be our trial run. Emma might fall in love with the place, like I have, and then . . .’

He left the sentence hanging tantalizingly unfinished. And then . . . they might move in for good and take up the reins. And then . . . she and Eddie could retire and live the quiet life.

‘Go on, be a devil,’ he coaxed. ‘Have some fun together. You said yourself that Dad needs a break.’

That was what swung it. Eddie
did
need a change of scenery, a chance to put his feet up and relax. An image slid into her head of the two of them sagging into deckchairs on the front at Bournemouth, watching the tide roll in and out.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘You’re on.’ She swallowed. ‘And about your dad – perhaps it’s best not to mention this to your brothers. For now anyway. We don’t want anyone to worry, do we?’

Chapter Twelve

Dear Mrs Timms,

I’m delighted to be emailing details of our proposal for your fireplace order. As you will see, I am suggesting the Henley Asquith limestone, with the cast-iron insert and granite hearth, which has all the classic beauty I know you were keen to find.

Could you let me know your thoughts sometime this week, please? If you are happy with the style, I can go ahead and order that for you.

Best wishes

Emma Jones

Emma pressed ‘Send’ with a flourish, and ticked ‘Fire-place/Timms’ off her list. She liked her job, but sometimes – just sometimes – she was reminded how ridiculous it would seem to an extraterrestrial. Sourcing the perfect cushion for a client . . . Deliberating for the best part of an hour about the exact paint shade required for a child’s bedroom . . . Costing up an Italian light fitting that was running into the high hundreds (when she knew damn well you could get something similar from BHS for fifty quid) . . . She’d done all of these things within the last week, and each one had made her die a little inside. Pandering to the whims of rich people with too much time on their hands was hardly akin to being a paramedic or a social worker or a teacher.

Her phone rang and, as if to amplify her convictions about her career’s worthlessness, the caller was Jennifer Salisbury, one of her most demanding clients. Jennifer had more money than sense, and was constantly fretting about some trivial design detail or other. Emma wouldn’t have minded if she kept the fretting to the quiet confines of her own head, but she insisted on involving other people – namely Emma – every single bloody time.

‘Oh, hi, it’s Jen,’ she said. ‘I’m having a total trauma about the rug. It’s just not working for me, I’m afraid. Could you come and give me your opinion?’

Emma sighed inwardly. The rug in question was a typically colourful Paul Smith design, made of Tibetan wool, and absolutely gorgeous. The only ‘problem’ any sane person could possibly have with such a beauty was deciding which room was lucky enough to feature it. But after ten years in this business Emma knew that the customer was always right, even if it meant they were a complete pain in the neck.