Читать книгу Mum in the Middle: Feel good, funny and unforgettable - Jane Wenham-Jones, Jane Wenham-Jones - Страница 9

‘Some bastard’s also eaten all the Marmite.’ Tilly waved the offending jar under my nose to indicate its cleanly scraped innards. ‘That’s Ben – he always puts it back when it’s empty. He’s done it to the jam too.’ She gave me a stern look. ‘That’s what you should be investigating, Miss Marple. How he still gets away with it.’

‘I think we’ll need more coffee as well, after last night.’

Jinni had stayed through at least three pots’ worth – liberally laced with the cherry brandy which I’d offered her for the shock! – and it was nearly two when Tilly and I had finally stumbled upstairs. I was still sitting up in bed in my dressing gown, yawning.

Tilly flopped down next to me. ‘Is someone really out to get her? I still think it was those losers outside the pub – getting lairy on the way home.’ My daughter rolled her eyes. ‘You know what boys like Ben are like – can’t take their drink and get all pathetic.’

I frowned at her. ‘Your brother would never break windows.’

‘No Ben wouldn’t,’ said Tilly with laboured patience. ‘Because he’s a lazy twat, for a start, but boys like him – of that age …

She shook her head with the superiority of one four years their senior and wriggled her legs under the duvet. ‘We need bread too. There was only one slice left.’

‘You could see if Jinni needs anything as she’ll be waiting in for the glass people,’ I said as Tilly stretched out. ‘I can’t believe someone like Ingrid would do anything like that. But there has been trouble between locals and those moving in.’

I lifted my empty tea mug as if it might have magically refilled itself. ‘Put the kettle on, darling,’ I said hopefully, as Tilly settled herself more deeply into my pillows. I watched her eyes droop. ‘Okay, I’ll do it then.’

As I stood in the kitchen, curling my toes on the cold tiles, I hoped Tilly was right. Jinni’s theories had grown increasingly wild with each brandy she’d chased down, and had concluded eventually that Ingrid or ‘that wanky son’ had been behind the smashed windowpane. She had regaled us with a number of run-ins she’d had with both of them and admitted she had herself put in an objection when his friend had wanted to build an extension David had designed behind her, so I supposed it was feasible they were annoyed with her …

The young men up the road, on the other hand, had seemed full of good-natured high spirits, more likely bent on getting a kebab than embarking on vandalism.

But surely, Ingrid and this wealthy architect son of hers were too well-educated, too … I searched for the right word as the water reached boiling point. By the time I’d carried two mugs back upstairs, my daughter was asleep.

‘Civilised,’ I said, two days later to Gabriel, who jotted it in his notebook. ‘Would you like another biscuit?’

He gave me a flash of his beautiful white teeth, ‘I’m good thanks.’

‘So where do you come from originally?’ I asked. ‘Are you American? I can hear a slight accent. Does your mother miss you?’

Gabriel smiled. ‘My father’s a New Yorker. He met my mother here and she moved to the States. But we came back ten years ago. I left home ages ago – I did some travelling after uni.’

‘You should still call her,’ I said. ‘Were you the last one to leave?’

‘No, I’ve got two sisters. So, you think Northstone is generally genteel’, he continued, trying to get me back on track. ‘But what do you think about these outbreaks of violence?’

Gabriel sat back in one of my saggy armchairs and stretched out his jeaned legs. He was wearing another sparkling-white t-shirt and had obviously been brought up to iron. Ben’s clothes all had that faded-out, crumpled air. Even Gabriel’s boots were gleaming …

I frowned. ‘Well, it’s not really violence is it? I mean a smashed window – could have been kids.’

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you think of Jinni’s theory that it’s part of an orchestrated campaign to drive her out of town?’

‘Well, I don’t really think … I mean it’s easy to be paranoid, would anyone really …’

‘Has anyone been unpleasant to you, at all?’

‘No, I said, shaking off an image of Ingrid’s chilly smile. ‘I don’t really know anybody …’

Gabriel shone a smile on me. ‘You do now. Did you enjoy the quiz?’

‘I was hopeless, but it was fun …’

‘Do you think the protesters’ concerns are valid ones? Do people like you, moving here from the city and able to afford higher prices, push up the cost of housing?’

‘I don’t know enough about it to say,’ I said guiltily.

‘Well, do you feel you’re contributing to the local economy? Are you using the local shops, for example?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Would you say you have as much right to make your home here as anyone and nobody will frighten YOU off?’ Gabriel looked hopeful.

I shook my head and looked what I imagined was motherly. ‘I know you need your story,’ I said kindly. ‘But I just want to get on with life here and be friends with everyone, if I can–’

I cringed as Gabriel jotted this down. I’d sound like Pollyanna’s grandmother. ‘I use the shops, certainly,’ I added, wondering how far a packet of ham and four loo rolls from the corner was going to boost the Northstone finances, ‘and I only go to London once or twice a week. So although I’m a DFL, technically, I’m very far from being a weekender. This is my new home.’

As Gabriel’s pen moved faster, I had a sudden pang for the house in Finchley. The jumble of coats in the hall. The kitchen with its crowded work surfaces and discarded coffee mugs. The radio playing over the sound of the television in the breakfast room and music coming down the stairs. Always someone there …

‘Which son is this?’ Gabriel picked up the photograph of my youngest leaning back on the old sofa, guitar in his hands.

‘That’s Ben. He’s really good.’ I laughed self-consciously. ‘But then I’m his mother–’

Gabriel nodded. ‘He should come down to the Fox next time he’s here – they have an open mic night. Tell him there’s a Facebook page.’

‘Do you play?’

‘A bit – nothing special. I like to listen, though. So, what do you think of your neighbour Jinni, then?’

‘I admire her. She’s a bit barmy but …’ I clapped my hand to my mouth. ‘Don’t write that down! I mean she’s eccentric in a good way – creative … No, don’t say that either …’

Gabriel put his notebook down. ‘No, of course I won’t. We’re just chatting now. I know she’s crazy.’ Gabriel laughed. ‘I’ve spent quite a lot of time over there. I can’t print most of what she says. Malcolm’s always shouting at me to look up the laws of libel. Are you happy to have your photo taken?’

I pulled a face. ‘Oh no – I don’t think so. And I don’t really want my full name …’

Gabriel nodded. ‘Okay, we’ll just put Tess, and do you mind very much if I ask your age? Malcolm always wants to include it – you know, Tess, 38, said …’

I laughed. ‘I wish. My eldest is 24 – I didn’t get started that early! I was 23.’

‘Early enough!’ Gabriel said. ‘I’m 24 this year too. And I can’t imagine having children right now …’

At 24, I had two of them. And was married with a mortgage. I struggled to picture my offspring in the same position. Oliver was the most grown-up – he and Sam were looking for a flat together right now – but Tilly lived hand to mouth and Ben …

‘I’ll email you the details,’ Gabriel was saying, ‘or come down to the office and I’ll give you a leaflet. It would be great to see some new guys there …’

‘Sorry?’

‘The open mic night. The next one’s the Tuesday after Easter. You said Ben would be home then?’ Gabriel was still smiling despite it being evident I hadn’t been listening. ‘Come into the office anyway. Have a coffee. I’m sure Malcolm would be pleased to see you again.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you can tell him what a great interview we had. He isn’t hugely impressed with my abilities right now,’ he added ruefully. ‘Told me I was useless this morning.’

‘Really? Why?’

Gabriel pulled a face. ‘I should have been here earlier. In his day there were proper journalists not – I quote – kids with their useless media studies degrees his dyslexic granny could have earned!’ He shrugged. ‘I did go to see Jinni on Saturday.’

‘She said you were being very helpful about getting the glass fixed,’ I said. ‘She was ever so grateful.’ I smiled and patted his arm.

Gabriel looked embarrassed. ‘Oh, it was nothing.’

‘It was bloody marvellous!’ yelled Jinni, who had bolted over the road as soon as she’d spotted Gabriel coming out of my front door. She threw an arm around his shoulders. ‘Your friend Sean has been and the window’s all done. And guess who was passing as I said goodbye. I swear she stopped and smirked. Soon scuttled off when I gave her the finger, though.’ Jinni wagged one at Gabriel now. ‘You should put that in your article – the fact that she walks past my house all hours of the bloody day.’ Jinni threw her hair back over her shoulder and snorted.

‘I think my editor would say it’s a free country and it doesn’t prove anything,’ said Gabriel apologetically.

‘Bollocks,’ said Jinni. ‘Ingrid is obsessed with me, isn’t she, Tess? You said yourself she’s always going on about me – putting leaflets through your door.’

‘She did put one through, yes,’ I said awkwardly, feeling Gabriel’s eyes on me.

‘See! It’s her or some loser she’s whipped up into a frenzy!’ Jinni was triumphant. ‘Or the wanker son. He can’t stand me either. And the feeling is mutual, let me tell you.’

She threw her hair even more vigorously over the opposite shoulder and gave a dramatic sweep of her arm. ‘Still, what do I care? I’ve got a new window for nothing and when she sees her name in the paper she’ll think twice about doing that again. You know how she likes to think of herself as a leading figure in the community for all her bloody agitating–’

‘We won’t be able to name her,’ Gabriel interrupted. ‘That would be defamatory.’

‘Be bloody hysterical!’ Jinni gave one of her great honks of laughter. ‘Anyway, my darling boy,’ she boomed, flinging an arm around his shoulders once more. ‘I can’t WAIT to see what you HAVE written …’

The clock showed 4.07 a.m. when I decided I really could. I woke from a disturbing dream that involved Ingrid and a stunted, maniacally-faced son, who were both living in a tent in my garden. Gabriel and Jinni had sauntered in, arm in arm, and told me Tilly had been arrested for libel and had given the police my address …

As I hastily pushed on the bedside light, anxiety gripped at my solar plexus. My mother had phoned at 1 a.m. convinced there was something wrong with her Sky box and asking me to talk her through which buttons to press to re-set it. I’d eventually persuaded her that we could deal with this much better by daylight and had fallen back into a fitful sleep dogged by fresh worries about my parent’s strange little preoccupations and what they might herald for the future.

Last time it had been the tuner on her kitchen radio she said had packed up, although Mo had reported nothing wrong with it when I’d called back to try to help.

I was reminded of the mother I’d read about on one of the online forums, who had to go into a home when she kept turning the gas hob on and failing to ignite it.

All my usual middle-of-the-night agitations – and a few new ones – pressed in on me, squeezing my chest till it thumped. My mother, work, the unanswered emails, the half-painted walls and running repairs and –

Oh God – what had Gabriel written? I remembered my use of the word ‘paranoid’, my simpering about wanting everyone to be my friend, my protestations about using the shops …

Jinni – only my second friend here – would be furious I hadn’t backed her to the hilt. Everyone else in the town would give me a wide berth because I was clearly so needy and the owner of the corner shop would testify I only ever spent a tenner at a time and he’d seen me driving to Waitrose.

Gabriel might have written that I was complaining about Ingrid too, so then I’d get my windows smashed as well. In any event, I’d look like a complete prune and when my children came for Easter they’d be ashamed I’d given birth to them.

I lay listening to the Shipping Forecast, regretting the weak moment in which I’d agreed to forward Gabriel a small head-and-shoulders photo Ben had taken last Christmas. And trying to comfort myself with the fact that Tilly said it looked nothing like me, and ignoring that she’d added I looked as if I’d been admitted to Broadmoor. (I was carrying a tray of roast potatoes at the time and there was a hole in the oven glove.) Barely anybody knew me here anyway, I reasoned, and they’d hardly recognise me with that manic expression. (Would they?)

By six I’d come out in a light sweat. The paper wasn’t out until tomorrow, so if I emailed Gabriel now he could probably make some minor adjustments. He was a nice boy – he wouldn’t want me to worry.

I got out of bed, put on my dressing gown and fetched my laptop and the card Gabriel had left me, made a cup of peppermint tea and headed back beneath the duvet.

With the screen against my knees, I tried to keep my tone light as I explained I was ever so slightly concerned about being misconstrued. If I could just see what he’d written, I suggested, I was sure I’d be completely put at ease, but if he had by any chance quoted me as mentioning paranoia or I’d sounded anything less than totally loyal to, and outraged by, the treatment of Jinni, then could he please amend accordingly, along perhaps with the fact that I found everyone in Northstone very friendly, rather than I wished everyone would be my friend, and if there were possibly room to mention it, that while I did go to the supermarket for major stockings-up, how totally appreciative and admiring I was of the local independent shops and how I intended to make sure I went to my own newsagent-cum-corner shop several times a week …

I hope you are well, I finished. And I will certainly tell Ben about the music night. As a PS I added: It was lovely to be interviewed by you and I hope to see you soon, so he, Gabriel, could show Malcolm, if he wanted to, and he wouldn’t feel that, despite my cold feet, he wasn’t welcome to visit again.

As I pressed send, I felt as if a weight had lifted and I was simultaneously overcome with fatigue. I closed the lid of the computer, put it on the floor beside me and immediately fell asleep.

The next time I woke, it was half-past eight. In theory, I was supposed to be ‘at my desk’ by 9 a.m. in case the office needed me. And Paul – who insisted on landline contact with anyone working from home for this very reason – was not above calling at 9.01 just to see if I was.

I stumbled into the en suite and turned on the shower, taking a mouthful of cold tea on my way. It wasn’t till an hour later that I was finally checking my mail.

There were two messages from @northstone‌districtnews. The first was an auto reply from Gabriel, informing contacts he was out of the office but if the message were urgent it should be forwarded to newsdesk@northstone‌districtnews or editor@northstone‌districtnews, who would be able to assist in his absence.

It seemed, however, that the message had already made this journey without me.

The second email was from Malcolm Priceman, Editor. And consisted of just two words:

TOO LATE.