Читать книгу Four Weddings and a Fiasco - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 11

A flurry of weddings over the next few weeks keeps me even busier than usual – so much so that I start to feel I’m neglecting Mum.

But at last, a few days before Ron and Andrea’s wedding extravaganza, I finally grab an hour or two to pay her a visit.

Driving south out of Willows Edge, after a few miles the road climbs steeply and that’s where you get the best view of Clandon House. It was a familiar landmark in my childhood. When Dad was driving us back from days out, I always looked out for it as we crested the hill because that meant we were nearly home.

It seems slightly surreal – but somehow perfectly natural – that Mum should now be living there.

It’s a lovely country house, built in the nineteenth century and developed ten years ago into eight apartments. The adjacent stable block has also been renovated into flats and Mum rents a bijou, two-bed place. I had grave reservations when she first decided she wanted to move there. The rent would take a large chunk out of her modest income and now that Dad was no longer here, I wanted her to have the cash to be able to socialise. Make new friends. Not be stuck in admittedly lovely surroundings but without the finance to enjoy her life.

I agreed to take her for a tour, hoping she’d change her mind.

But in the end, the big smile on her face – as she happily planned where her furniture would go and we took an amble around the leafy grounds – actually changed my mind.

I hadn’t seen my mum smile like that in two years – not since Dad died.

Now, a year later, I’m heartily thankful for Clandon House.

I didn’t even need to worry about a social life for Mum. The country estate is popular with retired people – and in the year she’s been here, Mum’s been made to feel right at home, especially by Grace and Annabeth who both have apartments in the same block.

Driving through the main gateway, I catch sight of Gareth and wave. He’s removing an overhanging branch from a tree near the entrance and I wind down my window, noticing he’s had his dark blonde hair cropped shorter than usual. It suits his tanned complexion.

Gareth and his small team take care of the gardens here at Clandon House, as well as at Mallory’s Newington Hall.

‘Is the lady of the manor at home today?’ I ask, smiling at him through the car window.

He wipes his forehead with the back of a huge, well-used gardening glove and grins at me. ‘She is, as a matter of fact. But I’d try over there first.’ He indicates the woodland area to the right of the main hall.

‘Was she in her tracksuit?’

He nods. ‘She disappeared into the trees with a couple of the other ladies about twenty minutes ago.’

‘Thanks, Gareth. How’s the shoulder?’

He was single-handedly moving a dresser for Annabeth last week and he ended up tearing a ligament. It must have been agonising, but to hear him talk, you’d think he just had a nasty bruise.

‘Ah, nothing wrong with it.’ He brushes off my concern. ‘But don’t tell the doc I’m still at work,’ he adds with a mischievous wink.

Laughing, I tell him I won’t.

I carry on up the winding driveway and park outside The Stables.

Gareth is another reason I’m so glad Mum lives here. He’s the sort of bloke who’ll go out of his way to help. He’s already fixed a leaky tap for Mum and climbed in through a window when she locked herself out once. His easy manner and strong physique have many of the Clandon House ladies coming over all unnecessary, as Mum would put it. But he’s too modest to ever pick up on the signals.

A widower in his early fifties, he retired from the police force when his wife died five years ago and turned his lifelong hobby into a job. I doubt he needs the money. I suspect he set up his gardening company to keep himself busy, and because physical work in the open air really suits him. Actually, it was me who got him the job at Clandon House.

I first met him at Newington Hall, where he gardens for Mallory’s folks, and when Mum said the gardener here was retiring, I had no hesitation in recommending Gareth and his small team.

I joke that his real job is to keep an eye on Mum when I’m not here. And he jokes that really he’s only here to stop himself falling off his perch now he’s retired. Although from the healthy tan and the twinkle in his eyes, I’d say he’s a long way off that. It’s lovely to know he’s on hand if Mum ever needs him.

I shrug into my parka against the chill of the March day and walk across the gravel at the front of The Stables then along a path that takes me into the little wooded area.

The first person I spot is Annabeth. A tall, auburn-haired woman in her late fifties, she’s looking trim in navy track pants and a pink T-shirt and as I watch, she bends to the grass and performs a carefully controlled headstand against the trunk of a horse chestnut tree. My eyebrows rise in admiration. The last time that I did a headstand was in the school playground. I’d probably need a crane lift to get my legs up there now.

Then I spot Mum, several trees away, psyching herself up to do the same. I have to hand it to Annabeth. Under her influence, Mum seems game for anything these days. She’s exercising much more, and even her fashion sense has undergone a make-over. Today she’s wearing the peculiarly youthful, bang-on-trend grey and white patterned tracksuit she picked up a few weeks ago on eBay. Since being forced to tighten her belt financially, Mum’s turned bargain-hunting into something of a hobby. I grin to myself. Today’s edgy outfit is rather more ‘Snoop Dogg at the O2 Arena’ than ‘lady of a certain age’. I love that, at sixty, she doesn’t care a jot.

For her first attempt at a headstand, her legs get no higher than a foot off the ground, and the second is not much better.

Mum scrambles up to remove her glasses and passes them to silver-haired Grace, who’s standing nearby, hands on hips, watching their antics with a mixture of amusement and incredulity. To be fair, despite being slightly older – she turned sixty-three last year – Grace is just as fit, and would probably be joining in if she hadn’t recently had keyhole surgery on a painful knee joint.

On Mum’s third attempt, just as her legs are about to come back down to earth, Grace springs forward, grabs her ankles and hoists them up so that her feet actually make contact with the tree trunk. Their precarious balance is short-lived, however. I’m not sure if it’s the shock of suddenly seeing the world upside down, but Mum starts to list to one side, and she and Grace end up on the grass, shrieking with laughter.

Mum spots me and waves.

‘I haven’t done a headstand since I was about ten,’ I laugh, joining them. ‘What on earth are you up to?’

Grace snorts and murmurs, ‘Ask Annabeth. This is her crazy idea.’

‘Shh!’ whispers Mum, with a quick glance over at Annabeth, who’s still upside down, her eyes closed, I suppose in a sort of meditation.

‘We’re rebalancing our energies by communing with nature,’ Mum says loudly, so Annabeth can hear, but winking at me.

‘It’s the rush of blood to the head I worry about,’ says Grace. ‘Look at that one.’ She nods at Annabeth. ‘She’ll be there for ages, and it’s all in aid of a better sex life.’

‘No, it’s not,’ calls Annabeth calmly. ‘It’s to relieve stress.’

‘Why would you need stress relief?’ calls Grace. ‘You lead a charmed life.’

‘I live next door to you, don’t I?’ replies Annabeth.

Mum laughs and gets to her feet, then helps Grace up. ‘You probably think we’re bonkers,’ she says to me.

I grin. ‘Must be something in the water here.’

Her eyes sparkle with mischief. ‘Oh, do I embarrass you, darling?’

‘Of course. But isn’t that your job?’ I joke. ‘As a parent?’

To be honest, she could prance around on the lawn doing the dance of the seven veils stark naked and I’d cheer her on. It’s such a relief to see her so happy and upbeat these days.

‘Come on. Hurry up,’ says Annabeth, passing us at speed. ‘That programme’s on in a minute.’

‘What programme?’ I ask, as we follow her back to The Stables.

‘It’s about Princess Anne,’ says Mum.

‘You mean The Princess Royal,’ calls Annabeth sternly.

‘She thinks we’re related to royalty,’ mutters Grace, rolling her eyes. ‘It’s a story that’s been passed down the generations and, for some reason, Beth’s bought into it.’

I stare at her. ‘Hang on. Are you two related?’

‘They’re sisters. Didn’t I mention that?’ says Mum.

I shake my head in bemusement and Grace laughs. ‘I know. You’d hardly believe it, would you? We’re like chalk and cheese in everything.’ She pauses. ‘Well, maybe not everything.’

Something in her tone makes me glance over. Her sunny expression has vanished.

But before I have time to wonder, she smiles at me. ‘Did your mum tell you she’s coming for a spa weekend with us?’

‘Oh, lovely. Can I come?’

I’m only jesting but Mum looks at me in delight. ‘Of course you can, love. That would be wonderful.’

Feeling bad for getting her hopes up, I put my arm round her and give her a little squeeze as we crunch our way across the gravel to The Stables’ main entrance. ‘I’d love to, Mum. But I can’t. I’m just—’

‘Too busy. I know.’ She smiles at Grace. ‘This daughter of mine …’

The pride in her voice makes me feel emotional. But also guilty. Yes, I am too busy to take a weekend off. But it’s more than that. I simply don’t have the spare cash. But Mum knows nothing about my dire financial state. And while I tell myself I’m only keeping it from her so she doesn’t worry about me, deep down I know it’s also because I’m too ashamed to tell her.

‘You could come to the séance instead,’ says Grace matter-of-factly. ‘You must be able to take an evening off?’

‘Séance?’ I look from Grace to Mum in bewilderment. ‘What séance?’

The two of them glance at each other and grin.

‘It’s Annabeth’s idea,’ murmurs Mum as we climb the stairs to Annabeth’s first-floor flat. ‘Venus at the yoga class in the village fancies herself a bit of a psychic and she offered to conduct a séance here for free.’

Grace chuckles. ‘She’s hoping Venus might be able to conjure up the spirit of our dear departed Great-Aunt Edna.’

‘But why?’ I ask, mystified as to why anyone would want to try and summon dead people.

‘Oh, Great-Aunt Edna was a practising psychic herself. And Annabeth’s convinced she might be able to confirm whether or not we have royal blood.’

Grace grins. ‘It should be a laugh. Venus is nutty as a fruitcake with extra pecans.’

‘I’m not sure I like the sound of it,’ whispers Mum to me and I make a face in agreement.

‘In here,’ calls Annabeth, and when we walk into the living room, she’s perched on the edge of her chair, eyes riveted to the TV screen.

‘Shall I put the coffee on?’ asks Grace.

Annabeth waves her hand impatiently at Grace. ‘Just look at that chin.’ She points at the screen where the Princess Royal is making a speech at some charity gala. ‘Doesn’t that just prove it?’

‘Prove what, Beth?’ asks Grace.

‘Well, I’ve only just realised her chin is exactly like mine. Look.’ She sticks out her chin, angling her head helpfully.

As one, we all transfer our baffled gaze from the Princess Royal’s chin to Annabeth’s.

‘Well, what do you think?’ The action of thrusting out her chin makes her sound like she’s just had heavy dental work.

Mum tips her head thoughtfully to one side. ‘They’re very, um, similar chins, Annabeth.’

I nod. ‘Very similar. As chins go …’

Annabeth nods at Grace in a told-you-so sort of way.

Grace snorts. ‘If we’re related to royalty, I’m a bloody corgi’s auntie.’

After sitting through the chin programme, trying to keep a straight face, and drinking coffee made by Grace, Mum and I take our leave and go back to her flat.

‘Did I tell you I’m doing Ron and Andrea’s wedding on Saturday?’ I ask, knowing she’ll be interested.

She frowns. ‘Really? Well, you take care. When that man has a drink in him, he’s more slippery than a wet fish. And he does like his drink.’

I laugh. ‘It’s his wedding day, Mum. I’m sure even Ron can be trusted to stay sober and keep his hands to himself on the day he marries Andrea.’

I’d like to think so, anyway.

Mum shudders. ‘Do you know he once propositioned me in the supermarket?’

I nod, smiling. I’ve heard this story a thousand times before. ‘I was a toddler in the trolley and he asked you how to judge a melon’s ripeness.’

Mum nods, looking affronted but enjoying it all the same. ‘When I showed him how to press the end, he waggled his eyebrows at me and suggested we continue the lesson back at his house!’

I grin. ‘If you’d said yes to the melon-pressing, I bet Ron would have run a mile.’

She purses her lips. ‘That’s not the point.’

‘What’s this?’ I ask, noticing a hardback book with a black cover on the side table. Thinking it’s a thriller, I pick it up and my eyebrows rise at the title: Talking to the Dead: Seven Ways to Successful Communication with the Other Side.

I hold it up and Mum waves her hand. ‘Oh, nothing. Just something Venus left behind. She thought I might be interested, what with the séance and all.’

‘She’s been here?’ I ask, surprised Mum hadn’t mentioned it.

‘Oh yes. Annabeth and Grace were coming for tea anyway, and Venus sort of invited herself along.’

I run my hand over the glossy cover. ‘Have you read it?’ I ask curiously. Mum’s always dismissed such things as utter tosh.

‘No,’ she scoffs. ‘As if. I just took it to be polite. I’ll get it back to her at the next yoga class. I think she’s a bit New Age nuts to be honest.’

I laugh. ‘And doing headstands on the grass is normal behaviour?’

‘Touché.’ She smiles ruefully. ‘But that’s just a bit of fun to please Annabeth.’

I get up reluctantly. ‘Right, I’d better go. Tons to do.’

‘Well, don’t work yourself into the ground.’ She cups my face in her hands and plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘And listen?’

‘Don’t be a stranger,’ I chant with a grin.

This is Mum’s motto. She even said it to the postman once – to which he remarked that since her gas bill was due, there was a distinct possibility he’d be back as large as life the next day.

She opens the door and gives me a playful push.

I catch something red and sparkly out of the corner of my eye.

It’s a key fob, dangling in the door.

I stare at it. It’s a cheap thing with a big sparkly letter ‘S’ on it. ‘Where—?’

Mum’s eyes slide away. ‘I was clearing out the spare room and I found it in a box.’ She shrugs and adds, a touch defiantly, ‘I like it. And I needed a key ring.’

I turn to go but Mum grabs my arm.

‘Katy,’ she murmurs. Her tone is tinged with pity, which only makes things worse. ‘When it was you two girls running the business, you seemed to have such fun. It almost didn’t seem like work at all.’ A pause. ‘Don’t you think things would be so much better if Sienna were still here?’

A little bolt of shock zips through me at the mention of my sister’s name.

There’s a pleading tone to Mum’s question, and I can understand her bewilderment. Often, I wonder if she blames me for not trying to get Sienna to come home.

She’s aware we had a major falling out which was why Sienna left, but she has no idea what we rowed about. I’ve certainly never told her and I’d bet my house and all its contents that Sienna will have remained silent on the subject.

On the way home, I think about Mum and her constant hope that Sienna and I will eventually be reconciled. I wish she’d stop it and realise, once and for all, that as far as I’m concerned, that’s never going to happen.

I suppose if Mum knew how precariously I’m living – always looking over my shoulder, in fear of yet another demand for money I can’t pay – she might understand why I still can’t think of my sister, two years later, without feeling sick and shaky.

Sienna is the reason I now struggle daily to keep the wolf from the door.

At first when Sienna left, Mum – grieving over Dad’s death a year earlier – was devastated and tried her best to smooth things over between us. I know she had long talks with Sienna on the phone, although I can only imagine what was said. And she tried to convince me that family was everything. We’d lost Dad. Did I really want to lose my baby sister as well?

But sunk in my own grief and despair over Dad’s death and all that had happened with Sienna, I was in no mood to forgive. My life was in ruins. She’d left me high and dry, committed to paying off the loan I’d taken out to buy equipment all by myself. The loan payments were pretty hefty. Shared with Sienna, they were manageable. But paying it on my own – on the last day of every month – kept me constantly on edge, worrying whether this was the month I’d be forced to admit I couldn’t cope and throw in the towel.

But while the business ended up being a millstone around my neck in many respects, ironically, I think it also saved my sanity.

By the time Sienna left, we already had ten or so weddings in the diary, so I absolutely couldn’t back out, even if I’d wanted to. I could never have let my clients down. So I just dived right in, doing the best job I could, learning as I went along all the particular skills needed to be a good wedding photographer.

I pour everything into giving couples a great service and a beautiful album at the end of it all. I’m busy from early in the morning to late into the evening and I collapse into bed at the end of each day, glad of the oblivion. And working hard does have some advantages. It occupies my mind and keeps the nightmare thoughts at bay.

I know Mum thinks I should put the past behind me. That I should care enough about the baby sister I once loved so much to hold out an olive branch.

On occasion, when I’ve felt especially low, I’ve been tempted to pour out the whole sorry mess to Mum. Tell her exactly what happened to wreck our sisterly bond forever.

But something always stops me.

I think it’s that I know Mum would immediately set out to try to make things better between us.

But as far as I’m concerned, her efforts would be useless …