Out of Step (12 page)

‘Oh good.’ He looked round gloomily. ‘But that’s more than can be said for the rest of the stuff… I hope you like jelly for lunch.’

‘Love it.’

‘Just as well! Shall we begin at once?’

They ate their way through a quantity of sausages and egg sandwiches. Rob cleared away all the fizzy lemonade and produced beer instead. ‘I suppose I could take some of the soft drinks back to the shop,’ he said.

‘And some of the food would freeze,’ Nell suggested.

‘Haven’t got a freezer.’

‘Well, I have. I could store it for you until the next time. When’s Rosie’s birthday?’

‘End of the month.’

‘There you are then!’

‘Thanks,’ Rob shrugged, ‘but who knows where I’ll be by then.’

‘You haven’t found anywhere to rent?’

‘I’m working on it.’ He looked again at the cake. ‘This is a work of art, you know. I’m so grateful to you for taking such trouble over it.’

‘Have you spotted the deliberate mistake?’ Nell asked, pleased.

‘Um… No, what?’

‘Well, you don’t get polar bears and penguins at the same pole, do you? Just as well really, or the one would eat all the others!’

‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure Josh won’t notice that small detail.’

‘No, that’s the point, you see. I’d like you to tell him. I believe children love it when adults get things wrong!’

‘That’s very perspicacious of you.’ Rob was smiling warmly at her. ‘Clever. I’m so glad it will be you, and not that man living here.’

‘Why did you change your mind?’ Nell asked.

‘Because you were right,’ Rob admitted. ‘Simple really.’

Nell thought: Martin would never have said that in a million years! At last I’ve finally met a man big enough to be able to admit that he can be wrong. So, what next?

On 19th April, a week after her move, Bottom Cottage began to feel like home for Nell. By then, all the essentials had been unpacked and put into place and she had begun on the inessentials, which are what really matter. As long as her books were in boxes, and her pictures in bubblewrap, then she was in transit. But once the bottom of the bedroom wall was obscured by bulging bookcases, and higher up by familiar paintings, she knew she had finally arrived.

As she looked out of the upstairs window where Rob had sat each day, she saw the first swallow of the year winging its way across the river towards her, and thought, I must make a note of the date! Then it occurred to her to begin keeping a diary every day to record the unfolding, flowering and withering of all the years ahead. Maybe she would also put up a rain gauge to record the monthly totals, so she would know what was really going on, and whether the weather had genuinely begun to change in response to global warming, as people were saying. Of course many decades of data were required for such studies, but she intended to be there for a significant number of years to come. The idea of accumulating a wealth of information about this one place pleased her. The more knowledgeable she became about it, the more she would feel she belonged, and this was important as it was the first time she had ever been able to put down roots of her own choosing.

Nell lay in bed next morning staring dreamily at a shaft of sunlight which shone between the ill-fitting curtains,
making a pool of light on the wooden floor. April is the perfect time to begin a new life, she thought, when all of the natural world is also starting afresh. A scratchy sound outside the window alerted her to the presence of some animal, and she got up to investigate. In a new place there were strange noises and unfamiliar things to react to, or to learn to ignore. She pulled the curtain aside and looked out, just in time to see a small unidentifiable bird flying away. In the garden below, the last of the daffodils were heavy with dew. All presented their yellow trumpets to the sun, except for the double ones which were bent right down to the ground and seemed in danger of snapping in half. Design fault, Nell thought. They’ve been ‘improved’ so much by hybridising that their heads now hold too much water! Far better to have left well alone.

She sat at her desk, which did service as a dressing table, brushing her hair, and wondering how much of her new garden she would leave to be wild, and how much she would try to impose her will upon. She decided to wait a whole season before doing anything, to find out what was in the soil already, and give it a chance to declare itself. A quicker way, of course, would be to ask Rob, but she had decided to wait for him to telephone her. The last time he had been in touch was the day before she had arrived at the cottage, to say he was in the process of moving out.

‘Where are you going?’ she’d asked.

‘Caravan the other side of Boxcombe,’ he said briefly.

‘But what about your furniture?’

‘In store, what was worth keeping, which wasn’t much. I broke up a lot of it for firewood. It’s behind the woodshed under some plastic sheeting. You’re welcome to use it if you want. Makes good kindling.’

‘You could have got a firm in to clear out the things you didn’t want,’ Nell said. ‘That’s what I did, and I was amazed at how much money they paid for what I
considered to be utter junk. I had a skip too, for the real dross. It’s a ghastly hassle, isn’t it?’

‘Not to be repeated in a hurry,’ Rob agreed.

‘If you ever want to visit…’ Nell hesitated, ‘do drive down.’

‘Thanks. Well, best go. Lots to be done, and all that.’

‘Yes of course. Good luck then.’

‘And you.’

Nell would have liked to talk for longer, but realised that he was probably being terse in order to remain in control of his feelings. Poor Rob, she thought. It must be hell to have to leave here. I’m sure his children will be upset too.

The scratching noise outside began again, and Nell looking up, saw a long-tailed tit gathering the gossamer threads of spiders’ webs from the outside of her window-frame, and flying off with them into the thickest part of her garden hedge. She imagined the new nest in progress, with moss and animal hair being woven together with the cobwebs into the perfect domed shape, and then covered in lichens for camouflage and lined with feathers for comfort. Then she looked at her ancient curtains and the bare floorboards and thought, I could do with a few new rugs underfoot, and the walls do need painting. I suppose a sensible person would have had the place professionally decorated before moving in, but I’d rather it was an evolving process entirely connected with me and my own efforts. I want to do all my nest-building myself.

‘You’ve got terracotta freckles!’ Cassie said, coming in and looking up at Mic’s face. ‘I thought this brand was meant to be non-drip.’

‘It’s this bloody roller,’ Mic said, balancing the paint tray at the top of a step ladder. ‘I dunno how else you’re s’posed to do flaming ceilings?’

‘Looks good,’ Cassie encouraged her. ‘Keep going!’

‘I wouldn’t say no to a cuppa,’ Mic suggested.

‘Nor would I,’ Cassie agreed. ‘Oh I see, you mean you want me to make it?’

‘Well, I’m a bit mucky, like.’ Mic displayed painty hands.

‘Oh, all right then.’

It’s all going pretty well, Cassie thought, as she boiled the kettle. Once Mic has finished the emulsion painting (and that should be later this week, all being well) then there’s the woodwork for her to do in yellow gloss… and then we can move in the two second-hand sofas we bought from the sale room … and maybe my rocking chair as well. I must buy a couple of lampshades – those paper ones that look like hot-air balloons – and maybe see if I can get something to cover that grotty lino …

As she made the tea, the idea came to her. The shagpile carpet with the bound edges which had been on the sitting-room floor at Bottom Cottage … That was hers by right; she had paid for most of it. It probably wouldn’t cover the whole of the floor in the attic room, but it would be good enough. I’ll get on to Rob, she thought, and make him bring it back.

She had last spoken to him at work only that morning – well, ‘spoken’ was hardly the word. She had yelled at him, and with good reason. Her interim maintenance cheque hadn’t arrived
yet again
. Rob had refused to get it organised (like any half-reasonable person) by direct debit, preferring instead to write one out when he felt like it, which was invariably long after it was due. I have a right to that money, Cassie thought. ‘Your children have a
right
to that money!’ she’d screamed at him. ‘But I suppose that thought’s never crossed your tiny mind.’

‘So what happened to the cheque I gave you last month?’ Rob had asked. (He must have been using that oh-so-reasonable voice on purpose, because he knew it drove her up the wall.)

‘That was then. This is now! We do have to eat
every day
, you know, or had you forgotten that?’

‘Why not try inconvenience food then?’ Rob had said. ‘It’s so much cheaper –’

But she’d slammed the receiver down.

That made things awkward now. She was reluctant to put herself in the position of having to make the next move or, worse still, appear to be a supplicant. She always tried to avoid asking Rob outright for (or about) anything; to do so would be an admission of dependency. She usually got her own way simply by reminding him of his duties and her rights. So she was damned if she was going to grovel to him now, but equally determined that he should feel the full weight of his responsibilities as the children’s father. If I demand the carpet back, she thought, he’ll then want his big table. He’s small-minded enough to make it tit for tat, and we need that table.

She voiced her dilemma to Mic as they sat drinking the tea she’d just made.

‘Try sending him a solicitor’s letter,’ Mic suggested. ‘That’d sort him out.’

‘Just an ordinary letter might do…’ Cassie considered the idea. ‘Yes, why didn’t I think of that? Then I can get it all over in one go without him hassling me. You’ve seen how it is. If I try talking to him on the phone, he just bullies me, and then I get into such a state I can’t think what I’m saying. I’ve got to the stage where I can hardly bring myself to phone him at all, but of course I have to for the children’s sake.’

‘Yeah,’ Mic said. ‘That’s really tough.’

‘Right then,’ Cassie said briskly, draining her mug, ‘that’s what I’ll do. You OK carrying on with the painting? I’ll go and get this letter off my chest, and then we’ll both be advancing the cause.’ She thought privately that her task was much the more arduous, but she refrained from
saying so. Mic was doing a valiant job, even if she wasn’t the world’s best painter.

On 22nd April the first orange-tip butterfly of the year appeared in Nell’s garden, and on the 28th the first cuckoo. She recorded them both gratefully in her diary. At least some things were still predictable. There was blossom too on the ancient apple tree, and polyanthus and honesty flowering by the back door, but the very idea of an April shower seemed laughable. They’d had only half an inch all month, and the ground was cracking up as though it were high summer. Not for the first time Nell prayed for rain, and marvelled at ever having taken it for granted.

That Saturday she was busy rubbing down the door of her bedroom, preparing it for paint, when she heard the sound of a child’s voice outside and went to the window to look. In the garden below was a small boy with dark curly hair, going along her back wall, picking up the
objets trouvés
and stuffing them into the pockets of his coat, counting aloud as he did so. Nell was about to open the window to protest when she realised who he must be. She stopped and watched him instead. He was trying to collect them all up, but some were too big to fit into his pockets, and there seemed to be nowhere else to put them. He compromised by piling them into a heap on the ground, and then he turned to the garden gate and yelled at the top of his voice,
‘Dad!’
There was an answering call. ‘Dad? I’m having trouble!’

Nell smiled, and waited for help to appear. Then when it did, in the form of Rob and a little girl, she opened the window and leant out.

‘Would you like a carrier bag?’ she asked.

Both children gaped at her. ‘That’s my dad’s room,’ the boy said reprovingly. ‘You shouldn’t be in there. You’d better come down at once!’ It sounded as though he was reciting something recently said to him by an irate adult.

‘Hush, Josh!’ Rob said. ‘She’s every right to be there.’ He looked up at Nell. ‘Sorry about this,’ he said. ‘I forgot to take the things from the wall. I might have known that Josh here would…’ He looked round for his son, but he’d disappeared.

There was a bang at the front door, and Nell heard the thunder of wellington-booted feet running upstairs. She dodged out to intercept him.

‘Is there something else you’ve left behind?’ she asked him, but he pushed past her without answering and ran into his old room, which was now full of cardboard boxes, with piles of canvases all over her spare bed.

‘Where’s my bed?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nell said. ‘I expect –’

‘And where’s my chair and my –’

‘I had to move them all out,’ Rob said, out of breath, appearing at the bedroom door and putting Rosie down. He glanced apologetically at Nell. ‘Sorry.’ And then back to his son, ‘Look, Josh, you can’t just burst in here willy-nilly. This place doesn’t belong to us any more. It’s Nell’s house, OK? This is the Nell who made you that lovely birthday cake, remember?’

Josh shook his head. ‘Where’s my bed?’

‘I had to put it in store. Come back downstairs and I’ll explain.’

‘No,’ Josh said stoutly.

‘Yes,’ Rob said, equally firmly, taking him by the hand. ‘Come on now, I’m serious.’

‘Willy-nilly,’ Rosie began, giggling. ‘Willy-nilly, nilly-willy, willy…’

‘And you too, Miss Silly Nilly,’ Rob said, picking her up again and holding her on his hip with one arm.

‘Would you like a cup of tea or anything?’ Nell asked, following the three of them downstairs.

‘Miwk?’ Rosie said hopefully.

‘Yes, I think I’ve got enough. You too, Josh?’ Josh shook
his head vehemently. ‘Or orange juice?’

‘No!’

‘No, thank you,’ Rob corrected him. ‘Look, I’m sorry about this invasion. We were only really going for a walk. The shelducks are back in the dunes, you know, nesting in the rabbit burrows. I always think when they’re first prospecting for their ideal nest hole they look so ridiculously conspic –’