Читать книгу The Bookshop on Rosemary Lane: The feel-good read perfect for those long winter nights - Ellen Berry - Страница 9

The plan had been for the family to spend the night at Rosemary Cottage. Della had changed all the beds, opened the windows to let in a waft of fresh Yorkshire air and set vases of garden flowers on the bedside tables in the four low-ceilinged bedrooms. However Isaac and Noah had kicked up a stink about ‘sleeping where someone’s died’: ‘What if she haunts us?’ Noah had exclaimed. ‘What if she touches my face in the night?’ No amount of persuasion – including Della reminding them that Grandma Kitty had actually ended her days at Perivale House – had changed their minds. Tamsin, too, had admitted that staying there might be ‘a little creepy’, and naturally Roxanne wasn’t happy to sleep in her childhood bedroom alone. So here they all were in Della’s lounge: far too many of them, arranged on the two facing sofas as if waiting for a train.

‘So,’ Jeff said, turning to Sophie, ‘are you really sure about art college? I mean, is it the wisest choice?’

She picked at a burgundy-painted fingernail. ‘Well, yes, Uncle Jeff. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. I’ve got my place, my accommodation, it’s all sorted out.’

‘Yes, but those childhood dreams, whims, whatever you want to call them …’ Della glared at her brother, who was holding court whilst making inroads into a second bottle of red. ‘I don’t mean to rain on your parade,’ he blustered on, ‘but have you thought about the small matter of how you’re going to make a living afterwards?’

‘Jeff,’ Della spluttered, ‘Sophie’s only eighteen. All that can come later.’

‘And we’ve discussed it all with her,’ Mark added, his cheeks flushed, either from the wine or annoyance or perhaps a combination of the two. ‘It’s all been carefully considered.’

‘Dad, please don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,’ Sophie snapped.

Throughout this exchange Mark’s parents had sat jammed close together on one of the stone-coloured sofas, as if they felt themselves unworthy of sitting on it. Val sipped her requested tap water and nibbled tentatively on a tortilla chip. ‘Well,’ Jeff boomed on, ‘let’s hope your parents are prepared to support you when you’re starving in a garret.’

‘Jeff!’ Tamsin exclaimed, turning to pat Sophie’s knee. ‘He’s only joking, darling.’

Sophie turned to her father. ‘What’s a garret?’

‘An attic,’ Mark said briskly.

‘Not just an ordinary attic,’ Della added, refilling her own wine glass. ‘It’s cold and miserable, probably with a bare bulb and a cracked window and the wind whistling through …’

‘Nice,’ Sophie retorted. ‘Sounds perfect, Mum. When can I move in?’

Della forced a smile and touched her brow. It was sticky with perspiration. Actually, a draughty garret did sound appealing right now; it was terribly hot in here, or perhaps her internal thermostat had gone haywire. This had been happening lately – the sudden power surges to her face, and waking up in the night with the sheets clinging to her drenched body. Maybe that’s why Mark had taken to sleeping at the very far edge of the bed. It couldn’t be pleasant, lying entwined with someone bathed in sweat: a bit like sleeping with a fish. Della often tried to reassure herself that this was the case, rather than the possibility that he no longer found her remotely attractive. Anyway, was it realistic to expect a passionate relationship when they’d been together for over two decades?

Tamsin chuckled awkwardly and picked a bobble of fluff off her pink Boden cardi. ‘I think what Jeff means’ – why did she do this, as if an interpreter was needed? – ‘is that maybe, I don’t know, there are more lucrative routes you could take, Sophie. Like, er …’

‘Like banking?’ Sophie snorted.

‘No, I mean like, er … packaging design.’

‘What kind of packaging?’

‘Well, everything needs designing,’ Jeff said loftily. ‘Washing-powder boxes, cereals, labels for jam …’

‘But I don’t want to design labels for jam!’ Sophie exclaimed.

‘What about websites?’ Tamsin chipped in. ‘Everyone needs a website these days, you could make a fortune that way.’

‘But Sophie loves art,’ Della said, more forcefully than she’d intended, ‘and she’s really good. Don’t you believe in following your passion? I mean, isn’t that what being young is all about? Why should she design marmalade labels when she wants to paint amazing landscapes and portraits?’

‘Jeff only meant—’ Tamsin started.

‘Yes, well,’ Della charged on, aware of her heartbeat quickening, ‘there’s the rest of her life for Sophie to grow old and cynical and, I don’t know, worry about bills and drains and the garden fence blowing down and—’

‘Our fence blew down?’ Mark exclaimed. ‘When did that happen?’

‘No, no, that was just an example.’

‘And what’s wrong with our drains?’

‘Nothing,’ Della said sharply.

‘If the shower’s blocked again it’ll be because of your hair. I had to hoick out a great wodge of it last time that happened.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with the drain, Mark!’

‘No need to shout,’ he muttered, glaring at her.

Della cleared her throat, aware of Isaac and Noah giving her foreboding stares, like two miniature policemen about to arrest her for breach of the peace. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s just been … quite a day, that’s all.’

Tamsin smiled sympathetically. ‘Of course it has, Dell, and you managed everything so beautifully.’ She paused. ‘And, you know, you’re right about Sophie following her dreams. Passion is great, of course it is.’ She turned and gave Jeff’s earlobe a little tweak, a gesture that made Della’s stomach swirl disconcertingly. She excused herself, heading for the kitchen where, a little fuzzy with wine now, she poured herself a large glass of water. ‘For God’s sake,’ Sophie muttered, having followed her. ‘All they care about is money, Mum.’

‘That’s probably why they have loads of it,’ Della remarked.

Sophie smirked. ‘Yeah, but what about creativity, doing something you love?’ She shook her head in frustration. ‘I mean, Aunt Tamsin doesn’t even work.’

‘Well, she’s a full-time mum,’ Della reminded her.

‘Yeah, and the boys are, like, ten! They go to school … that’s if a school will have them. What does she do all day?’

Della glanced at her daughter: so like Mark, with her sharply defined cheekbones and wide, generous mouth. Her wavy brown hair was dyed black at the moment, her brown eyes smudged with dark shadow, her red lipstick almost worn away. How Della would miss her fire and spark when she left for college in two weeks’ time. It would be just her and Mark then; the phrase ‘empty nesters’ made her feel more than a little panicky.

‘I’m sure she manages to fill her time, love.’

‘What, with lunches and shopping?’

‘Probably. I have no idea actually.’

‘And they have a cleaner,’ Sophie added. ‘I’d hate that, Mum.’

‘You mean, having someone come in and make your room all lovely and sweet-smelling?’ This was Della’s attempt to cheer her up.

Sophie frowned. ‘No, I mean being completely dependent on a husband, doing what he wants, not having any independence at all …’

‘You’re right, of course you are. I know you’ll never be like that.’

‘I won’t, Mum. God, they’re like the, the … I don’t know. People from the nineteen fifties!’

Della gulped her water. While she was impressed by her daughter’s fiercely feminist streak, she couldn’t help reflecting that, really, her own and Mark’s marriage wasn’t so different. They had remained in Heathfield because Mark’s podiatry practice was here, as was Sophie’s life – friends, school, the tennis and gymnastic clubs she had belonged to until sipping a caramel frappé in Starbucks with a gaggle of friends began to hold more appeal. However, while everything rolled along reasonably happily, Della had often caught herself thinking, is this it? She worked full-time in Heathfield Castle’s gift shop and, whilst she didn’t despise it exactly, never once had she thought, This is what I was made to do. It had never been her life’s ambition to sell polyester tabards and chain-mail snoods.

Sophie swung morosely on the fridge door as Della made a pot of tea. ‘Grab a tray, love,’ she said. ‘Hopefully this’ll stop Uncle Jeff slugging down any more wine. And put out some more cookies, would you?’ Sophie snorted in derision and selected the cheapest packet of biscuits from the cupboard, tipping them haphazardly onto a plate. As they made their way back to the living room, Della could hear Tamsin’s shrill tones: ‘What was that woman’s name, the one with the awful peachy-coloured hair?’

‘Oh, God, Irene Bagshott,’ Jeff groaned, ‘nosying into everyone’s business.’

‘Is her hair dyed that colour,’ Tamsin mused, ‘or is it naturally a sort of washed-out, faded ginger?’

‘You mean the one with the hairy mole?’ Isaac asked. For all their expensive education, the boys hadn’t learned much in the way of manners.

‘Er, yes, I did notice that,’ his mother tittered.

‘Could hardly miss it,’ Jeff added.

‘Is her hair a wig, Mum?’ Noah wanted to know.

‘Honestly, sweetheart, I have no idea,’ Tamsin replied. ‘I didn’t examine her that closely.’

Isaac jabbed Jeff’s arm. ‘Dad, what’s that little fruit, the furry one with a stone inside?’

‘Peach, son.’

‘Nah, nah, the other one.’

‘You mean apricot?’ Tamsin asked.

‘Yeah!’ Isaac spluttered. ‘Apricot wig and a hairy mole!’ Somehow, he managed to fit this instantly into a jaunty tune, reminiscent of an ice-cream van jingle, and now he and Noah were singing it in what felt like an endless loop.

Apricot wig and a hairy mole,

Hairy mole, hairy mole,

Apricot wig and a hairy mole …

Della felt as if a clamp was being applied to her skull. Let’s run down the whole village while we’re at it, she thought tersely, checking the wall clock and trying to calculate how long it might be before she could curl up on the blow-up mattress, which she planned to jam in between the two sofas, and go to sleep. When everyone else had gone to bed, she supposed.

Roxanne turned to her as Della set the tray down on the coffee table. ‘So, what are we going to do, Dell?’

‘You mean, tonight? Well, you’re in the spare room and Mark and I are sleeping down here. Jeff, Tamsin and the boys can have our room …’

‘We’re not staying,’ Terry cut in.

‘No, that’s fine, you did mention it,’ Della said kindly.

‘We can only sleep in our own bed,’ Val added.

‘Okay, Mum,’ Mark said rather curtly. ‘We’re not going to force you to stay.’

Della threw him a quick glare and, as Terry and Val prepared to leave, she found them their coats from the pile in the spare room and escorted them, with Mark hovering distractedly at her side, to the hired Renault they had parked a little further down the street. She felt Mark emit a little sigh of relief as they drove away.

‘I meant,’ Roxanne said, as Della and Mark returned to the living room, ‘what are we going to do about Rosemary Cottage?’ Silence settled around the room. The twins, mercifully with headphones plugged in now, munched absent-mindedly on the remaining biscuits.

‘There’s no rush, is there?’ Sophie asked with a frown. ‘I mean, we’ve only just had Grandma’s funeral.’

‘Yes, but there’s no point in letting things drift on.’ Ignoring the pot of tea Della had brought through, Jeff topped up his wine glass. ‘When winter comes,’ he continued, ‘we’ll be talking frozen pipes and slates falling off that godawful roof.’

‘But it’s only September,’ Sophie countered.

‘Actually,’ Della remarked, ‘Jeff’s right. We might as well deal with it now, rather than putting it off.’

‘I think you’re right, darling,’ Mark said.

‘Yes,’ Roxanne remarked, ‘delaying things will only make it more horrible for all of us.’

Although Della nodded in agreement, it wasn’t quite that. It was this: the gathering of the Cartwright clan, the way Jeff assumed authority as if he were still twelve years old and issuing library fines, and his wife’s snidey remark about Irene’s hair when she had been nothing but kind to their mother, making actual pastry leaves for the lid of that chicken and leek pie, for goodness’ sake. It was as if all that kindness counted for nothing. And what about Len from Burley Bridge Garage who’d fixed Della’s car for virtually no money? It made Della cringe, the way her brother and sister swept in and out of the village as if staying a moment longer would somehow taint them with its ugly, countryish ways. She couldn’t bear the thought of endless meetings and wranglings as the Rosemary Cottage business rumbled on.

‘You think we should put it on the market?’ Roxanne ventured.

‘Yes, I do,’ Della replied firmly.

‘We’ll have to clear it out, of course,’ Jeff added, glancing at Tamsin. ‘There’s nothing we need, is there?’ Good lord, he was mentally divvying up their mother’s possessions already. Della bit fiercely into a Rich Tea.

‘No, no.’ Tamsin shuddered visibly.

‘What about the watercolour over the fireplace?’

‘It’s terribly drab, darling. It won’t go in our place.’ Tamsin turned to Roxanne. ‘What about you, Rox?’

‘I don’t need anything,’ she said, unsurprisingly: her tiny two-bedroomed Islington flat was a shrine to minimalism.

‘Well, I can’t imagine anyone would want all that hefty old furniture,’ Jeff added, raking back his dark hair.

Mark put a hand on Della’s knee. ‘Isn’t it a bit too soon to start thinking about clearing out all your mum’s things?’

Della shook her head. ‘No, we need to get on with it. There’s that auction place in town, some of the furniture and paintings could go there.’ She paused. ‘And while we’re all here together we should look through the smaller things – the mementoes – and decide what we’d like to remember Mum by.’ She glanced at Sophie. ‘You should have something of Gran’s, love.’

Sophie nodded. ‘I’d like that, Mum. Maybe just the plain gold chain she wore all the time.’

‘Oh, the jewellery,’ Tamsin exclaimed, eyes gleaming, then, colouring slightly, she added, ‘Although I expect you’d like to have a rake through it first, Rox.’ A rake through it, as if it were jumble! She turned to Della then. ‘You’re not really an accessories person, are you?’

Della choked on a fragment of biscuit. ‘Well, I’d quite like—’

‘I think we should look through it together tomorrow,’ Roxanne said tersely. ‘You, me and Sophie, I mean.’

‘Good idea,’ Della said, ‘but you two can choose. And Tamsin, you should have a piece too.’

‘Well, maybe those tiny gold earrings, if you’re sure that’s okay?’

Della nodded. ‘No problem.’

‘And the jet necklace? I mean, if no one else wants it?’

‘Er, I don’t think—’ Roxanne started.

‘And the opal ring,’ Tamsin went on, flushing excitedly now. ‘That is, unless it’s particularly special to anyone.’ At some point she must have compiled an inventory of Kitty’s jewellery, Della realised.

‘Actually, I don’t want any of it,’ she murmured.

‘Why not?’ Roxanne exclaimed.

‘Because Tamsin’s right, I’m not an accessories person.’

‘It’s not accessories, Mum,’ Sophie admonished her. ‘This is Gran’s jewellery. You should have something personal.’

‘But I will,’ Della cut in. She stopped talking and stared around the room: at her brother and sister, who were regarding her intently, and at Mark, who still looked rather uneasy about the prospect of problems with the fence and the drains. She glanced at Isaac, who was now badgering Sophie to let them have a proper look at her tattoo again – the cuff of her outsized sweatshirt covered it – and at Tamsin, who was sitting bolt upright, eyes gleaming, as if in anticipation of taking possession of all that beautiful jewellery. ‘I’ll take Mum’s cookbooks,’ Della said carefully, ‘if that’s okay with everyone.’

Mark’s eyes widened. ‘The cookbooks?’

‘Yes, if no one else wants them, of course.’

Roxanne shook her head. ‘Well, I don’t. When did you ever see me cook anything?’

‘And we don’t use them,’ Tamsin added. ‘Haven’t for years. They just clutter the kitchen, get splattered with food, so dirty and unhygienic.’ She winced. ‘So I got rid of them all, dumped them at the charity shop. Now I have this app. You just tap in whatever you have hanging around in the fridge – some pecorino, a bunch of kale, a few figs – and up comes a recipe to use everything up.’

Della tried to look suitably impressed. ‘Amazing.’

‘We never have pecorino or figs,’ Mark said with a smirk. ‘Maybe a bit of old Cheddar and some bendy celery if we’re lucky.’ He squeezed Della’s hand. ‘You don’t need to decide about the books now, darling. I know you’re upset, you’ve had so much on your plate.’

‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘I have decided.’

‘Let Mum have some, Dad,’ Sophie cut in, turning to Della. ‘I’ll help you pick some out, Mum, if you like.’

‘Thank you, love, but I’m having them all.’ The living room fell silent. Della was aware of everyone’s eyes upon her; even the twins were staring as if waiting for her to add, ‘I’m joking of course.’

‘All of them?’ Mark gasped. ‘But how many are there?’

‘Nine hundred and sixty-two,’ Della replied.

He let her hand drop. ‘What? But that’s just … that’s insane!’

‘It’s how many there are, Mark.’

‘So … you’ve counted them? When did you do that?’

‘Years ago, when I was little girl.’

‘But—’ he started.

‘And after Dad left, Mum stopped buying them,’ she added.

Mark shook his head. ‘We can’t possibly keep them all, love. What on earth would we do with them?’

‘Just have them,’ Della said firmly.

He cleared his throat. ‘Look, I know it’s hard for you to let your mum go …’

‘It’s not about that,’ she retorted, a tremor in her voice now. Her eyes were prickling too, perhaps due to it being the aftermath of the funeral, or maybe because the cookbooks seemed to matter so much. They were only books, filled with pictures of fondues and outlandish desserts slathered with cream and set alight at the table. How could they pose such a problem?

‘But, Dell, they’re worthless,’ Jeff added. ‘I doubt if a charity shop would even want them. Oh, they’d probably accept them just to be polite, then chuck them into the wheelie bins out the back.’ Della could sense her heart rate accelerating. It was that tone he used. He really hadn’t changed a bit. I don’t want to fine you but if I didn’t, I’d never get my Guinness Book of Records back … She glared at him, and then at Mark: two Alpha-males who always decided how things would be done. Well, not this time. She was the one who’d cooked with Kitty – and who, more recently, had held her hand tightly on numerous hospital visits – and, by rights, those were her books. No one else had given them so much as a perfunctory glance. Mark shook his head in exasperation and, as way of grabbing a few moments to herself, Della scampered upstairs to make up the futon for the boys.

‘The cookbooks, Dad. Are you going to stop her or what?’ Sophie’s voice rang out from the living room.

‘Yes, of course I am,’ Mark replied.

‘But she seems determined—’

‘Well, it’s just not happening,’ he said firmly. ‘No way are those ratty old books coming into this house.’