Читать книгу The House We Called Home: The magical, laugh out loud summer holiday read from the bestselling Jenny Oliver - Jenny Oliver, Jenny Oliver - Страница 11

CHAPTER 3

Moira was nervous about her daughter arriving. She always got a little nervous around Stella, wrong-footed, feeling ever more the neurotic mother as she tried to make too many plans for their stay. Did the kids want to go to the new model railway, for example, because tickets were hard to get hold of and the queue without them snaked round the block. Stella’s replies of, ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. We’ll decide when we get there,’ would leave Moira wound up like a spring – should she get tickets or not? When they arrived, Stella’s family would breeze into the house in a cloud of barely controlled pandemonium, eat everything in the fridge, traipse sand on the carpet, and uncork more wine than Moira and Graham drank in a month. Quite often Moira would escape to the kitchen to tidy up because the energy of them all was just too much. How many times she’d cleared up the plates at Christmas to the sound of one of Stella’s stories, loud and confident, secretly wishing she had a fraction of her daughter’s strength.

Now, as Moira stood in the kitchen making herself a cup of tea and glancing up at the driveway every time she heard a noise, convinced it was them, she thought how the memory of the few holidays Stella had with them existed in a short, loud blur. Like a rollercoaster – pause for too long and it would all fall from the sky.

She unhooked one of her Emma Bridgewater mugs from the Welsh dresser. It was a collection she’d amassed over the years – everyone buying her one of the decorative pieces for birthdays and Christmas after she’d once expressed a passing interest while flicking through a Country Living. Now she was almost overrun with the stuff, it was hard to know how to tell them to stop. When she’d had the kitchen done, Moira had considered packing it all away but couldn’t face the questions, imagining their faces, almost accusing about why she didn’t like it any more – if indeed she ever had. She wasn’t sure, it had just become who she was to them: ‘Mum, that’s the china you like.’ There would be too much hurt confusion to deal with if she changed.

The kettle clicked off. She poured the water three-quarters full, squished the teabag just so and added a long splosh of milk – far too much for Stella’s taste, which Moira would have to remember.

The day was warming up. She leant over and opened the kitchen window, filling the room with the heady, teasing scent of the jasmine that climbed up a trellis from a big pot by the front door. She stood, inhaling the perfume, her hip resting against her beautiful new rose marble kitchen worksurface – a recent, very expensive addition that Graham had huffed was change for change’s sake, but Moira adored. The smell of the jasmine was intoxicating. It made her want to pack up all that china immediately and go and buy the snazzy hand-thrown cups she’d seen in the local gallery with gold handles and bright turquoise stripes.

Graham would hate them.

Stella would mock them.

Or maybe she wouldn’t. Moira paused. Maybe Stella would like a gold-handled mug. Moira sipped her tea and thought briefly about whether she actually knew Stella at all nowadays. The telephone conversation asking them to have Sonny to stay for a fortnight had been the first time Stella had asked for anything in years. Moira had felt a momentary flutter of flattery but knew better than to ask Stella what had happened. ‘Of course, darling. I can meet you in Exeter if you like, save you the full trip. I’ve just repapered the spare bedroom – a lovely Zoffany gold, did you know they did wallpaper in TK Maxx now? – so he can sleep up there. Have his own little space.’ Waffling on in a nervous attempt not to pry.

But my God, she had wanted to know what was going on. The desire had tickled her insides like beetles. This type of thing didn’t happen to cool, confident Stella. Or ‘Potty-Mouth’ as anyone who read the Sunday News knew her as, one of the genre originators of the slummy-mummy brigade. The worst example, according to the Daily Mail, of resentful, neglectful motherhood with her gin-soaked, laissez-faire attitude to childrearing.

While Moira had tutted over a few of the expletives in Stella’s columns she’d always been quietly proud of her daughter’s success. Stella had worked her way up with no help from anyone. It had been an old friend of Moira’s who’d posted the copy of the local magazine where Stella’s first ever article had appeared along with a tiny headshot, ‘Is this your Stella?’ she’d scrawled on a Post-It, and Moira had had to lie when she’d telephoned her friend back, saying she knew all about it. Then soon followed by-lines in the national papers – Stella texting to say when and where at the request of her mother – and then full-page editorials in the colour supplements. Then came ‘Potty-Mouth’, as divisive as it was loved. But however controversial some elements, Moira would often allow herself the odd snigger when a straight-talking anecdote about the frustrations of motherhood touched a nerve.

But right now she couldn’t help wondering if all was quite as it once was. She’d noticed a slightly more acerbic tone to a few of the columns recently. Nothing too bad, just a touch less light-hearted. Poor little moody Sonny, who was currently upstairs locked in some battle on his laptop computer, hadn’t fared so well in a couple of them. She’d almost rung Stella to say something but hadn’t quite had the nerve.

She thought again of monosyllabic Sonny, sulkily slamming the door of Stella’s car at Exeter Services, trudging over in the torrential rain, hood down so his hair got soaked in a seeming deliberate defiance of his mother, and barely scowling a goodbye.

Moira went over to the bottom of the stairs and called, ‘Do you want a cup of tea, Sonny?’

‘No,’ he shouted back. Then a second later, ‘Thanks.’ As if remembering that he wasn’t in his own home and couldn’t quite get away with his desired level of moodiness.

Moira was still getting used to the open-plan nature of the entire bottom floor of the house. When she and Graham had first bought the place, full of youthful exuberance, it had been part of their grand renovation plans but they’d never got round to it. Then after Christmas Moira had insisted. Determined to get Graham up and doing something, she’d thought it was the perfect project. But never had she heard someone grumble and gripe quite so much and, in the end, she’d put Graham out of his misery and taken over the project herself mid-way. After it was done Graham had complained of a draught from the front door. At the time Moira couldn’t have given two hoots about a draught, high on the fact she’d overseen the renovation almost single-handed – with a lot of help from Dave the builder. But nowadays, while she still adored the light and space, she missed the fact she could no longer shut herself away in the kitchen, imagining herself alone. And, if pushed, she might concede to a slight draught, on a chilly day.

Walking back across the beautifully sanded wooden floorboards, she remembered the look of terror on Sonny’s face when on Day One of his Cornish banishment Graham had stood in the centre of the living room and barked, ‘No hoods up indoors, no stomping on the stairs, and we say “please” and “thank you” in this house.’ Graham had marched over to the bottom of the stairs, glowering across at Sonny who had, a second before, been head down, hood up, stomping up the stairs ignoring an offer from Moira of a toasted teacake, and said, ‘Got that, young man?’

Moira had been standing in the exact same place she was now and had been as shocked as Sonny to see Graham unfurl himself from the sofa and stride across to the hallway to issue his orders.

The new layout had proved an unexpected bonus from that moment. It gave Moira the perfect vantage point to view the gradual development of the Sonny and Graham show, something she would have missed had the great big wall still been in place separating the kitchen and the lounge. She would stand, chopping, mixing, sometimes just pretending to do either, and watch the pair of them in bemused fascination.

It had started after an almost silent evening meal – not uncommon in their household lately – when Graham was back firmly in front of the TV and Sonny slumped in the armchair opposite. Graham had muttered, ‘Bloody phones. Do you ever look up from that thing?’

Sonny had glanced up, eyes narrowed, looking the spitting image of Stella and said, ‘Do you ever look up from that?’ gesturing towards the TV.

Moira, who was drying up her Limited Edition Emma Bridgewater mugs to commemorate the birth of each of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge’s children, had held her breath, waiting to see what might happen. Whether Graham still had it in him to rage at insolence. She’d seen it flit across his face, but Sonny didn’t flinch, just sat, eyes locked with his. The stance intentionally designed to provoke, as if Sonny had gone upstairs after that first telling off from Graham and drawn out his battle plans.

To Moira’s surprise, Graham had reached forward for the remote, turned the TV off and said, ‘Come on then, show me.’

And they sat for hours, Graham having gone to get his glasses then watching as Sonny scrolled through miles on his phone. Moira couldn’t believe there was enough in there to look at. At one point they’d watched something that had them both in stitches. Moira had squashed an urge to go and look at what it was that could make Graham laugh like that nowadays. But just as much she didn’t want to know, she’d wasted enough of her time trying to fathom his moods. Instead she had made herself a peppermint tea in her newly washed-up Prince George mug and considered how much cheaper it was getting Sonny to stay as a way of piquing Graham’s interest than knocking down the entire ground floor.

Now, just the thought of Graham made her furious. Made her wipe down the rose marble with frustrated vigour. Made her slam the window shut, annoyed with the bloody jasmine and its sickly overpowering smell. She thought of him sitting on that sofa barely moving except to come and sit silent and grumpy at the dinner table and chew infuriatingly loudly, scoff at the newspaper, or sigh at building costs and plumbers’ estimates. For the last two years they’d lived under a grey cloud – longer than that if she was honest – and then suddenly he ups sticks and disappears.

Furious was an understatement. In Moira’s opinion he’d gone missing in order to be missed. She paused in her wiping and stared out at the giant hydrangea that lined the gravel drive – pink when she’d have preferred blue, someone once advised she plant a rusty nail in the soil to make it change colour, fat lot of good that had done – and wondered if they could just not find him. If he was old enough to leave, he was old enough to find his way home.

Wouldn’t that teach him a lesson, she thought as she went over and started cleaning the hob, for taking something that for the first time in her life was hers, taking it and stealing it for himself.

It was too hot. Moira walked over to the dining room area and threw open the big French windows, welcoming the deafening sounds of the sea and the unfailingly calming view out over the cliff to the beach.

There was a glimmer of a breeze. Moira fanned herself with her hand considering how, before she had discovered Graham’s note the previous afternoon, she had spent most of the week – rehearsing as she lay in Stella’s old bedroom where she now slept – plucking up the courage to tell Stella when she arrived, ‘I’m leaving your father. I’m starting a new life.’

But Graham had beaten her to it. Stolen her thunder. Kept her firmly where she was, unable to leave while he was missing. Hence why the thought of ignoring his little sojourn teased her so, danced around in her head like an excited imp too wily to catch.

As she stood there smiling, behind her came a great yawn from the sofa. She turned to see Frank Sinatra – the dog – stretch and look up, eyes knowingly guilty as he nestled comfortably in Graham’s usually off-limits seat. Moira watched with no intention of turfing him off. Instead she went over and gave him a little scratch behind the ears.

Frank Sinatra was hers. He had absolutely no interest in Graham. Christened by its previous owner, it was a ridiculous name for a dog. In the past she would never have had a dog, let alone one that made her feel like a fool calling him on the beach. But in retrospect it felt like a symbol. As her friend Mitch said, if she could hold her head up high and shout, ‘Frank Sinatra, come here boy, here!’ she could do anything.

She wondered what Mitch would make of all this. Then she shuddered at the idea of Stella meeting Mitch. She would think him a cliché.

But Moira didn’t have time to dwell on the thought because the sound of gravel crunched outside and there they were, a big black Nissan Qashqai cruising in like a stag beetle.

Moira took a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth.

She’d started doing a yoga class at the church hall. Her breath was meant to ground her.

She went over to the window and watched Stella get out of the car, lift her sunglasses up a fraction, narrow her eyes out towards the sea, then put the sunglasses back on again.

Moira felt a shiver of nerves coupled with the gentle fizz of adrenaline. She itched to present her new more confident self but was all too aware of how easily one simple glance from Stella could shatter it to the ground.

What would Mitch say, she wondered. Probably something about taking strength from the grounding force of Mother Nature. Moira looked dubiously down at the Ronseal varnished floorboards.

Sonny appeared beside her at the window, his hair swept heavy across his forehead, his eyes narrowed to the same slits as Stella’s.

‘All right?’ Moira asked him, placing her hand on his shoulder, wondering perhaps if she could take strength from him.

But Sonny just shrugged in a gesture as much to get rid of her hand as an answer.

Moira straightened up, smoothing down her new skinny jeans she wished suddenly that she’d stuck to her old slacks then berated herself for such immediate loss of courage. Doing one more yoga breath, she walked solidly round to the front door, clicked the old metal latch and the wood creaked open.