Читать книгу The Happy Home for Ladies: A heartwarming,uplifting novel about friendship and love - Michele Gorman - Страница 10

Nick can’t help being nice. He’s the kind of person that you naturally want to like. Maybe that’s why, within days of him starting work here, we had the smooth banter of old friends. He made it simple. He definitely gets me, a lot like June does, so going from nought to sixty was so easy. Maybe too easy, because I was mad about him by the time he got his first pay cheque. It took him a little while to catch up but, looking back, I think he did. I only wish I’d realised it at the time. Then things would have turned out so differently.

We’re standing together with June on the back lawn, but he’s got his eye on Terrible Terence, who’s pacing along the border between his property and ours. Terence is watching our waitresses, Mary and Amber, set up the tables in the garden. He knows perfectly well that the visitors come today. And he knows we serve lunch outside on sunny days.

It’s my Saturday to work. Just a half-day, though, and it’s only every two weeks. There’s a weekend cook who does the shifts when I’m off.

Today is when most of our residents’ friends and families come to visit. Not that they couldn’t come any day they like. We run a home for women here, not a prison. But we put on a special programme at the end of each week, so that’s when we’re busiest with visitors. The free lunch probably has a lot to do with their timing.

That’s where I come in, and it might sound simple to feed a bunch of mostly older people, but I promise you, it’s a challenge every single time. I never know how many visitors will turn up, even though we do ask for numbers. And Max, the tight arse that he is, loses the plot if I cook so much as an extra potato. So, getting the amounts right is hard enough.

Throw in everyone’s preferences, allergies and pseudo-intolerances (My psychic says purple food blocks my spiritual healing), plus having to cook for grandchildren right through to octogenarians, and even Prue Leith might struggle.

At least I know by now what our residents like, and what they don’t. Laney won’t eat anything that’s too potatoey. That’s a texture, not an actual food group, which so far includes potatoes – mashed, fried, chipped, baked, roasted, fondanted or skinned – nearly all beans and pulses, polenta and under-ripe bananas. And Sophie has more food-combining rules than she probably has legwarmers.

Where was I going with this? Oh, yes. Visiting Day lunches. Volume isn’t a problem. I was trained to cook three courses for a hundred at a time during catering college. I can make a shepherd’s pie the size of a bathtub and still get the spices perfect, with just the right amount of gravy. That’s why Mum and Dad always had me cater their parties. Not that they wanted shepherd’s pie. Their friends are more tiny food people, mini burgers and one-bite chocolate eclairs and the like. Which I can also do, although not here.

The residents don’t mind trying new things, but God forbid I try anything funny with their puddings.

If there’s anything I miss about my old job at the bistro, it’s trying funny things with puddings. But I don’t like to dwell too much on the past. The restaurant doesn’t even exist anymore. It went up in a puff of smoke, along with my restaurant chef career.

This is more stable work anyway, and even though it’s a madhouse when the families visit, I do enjoy the extra buzz.

Not that it’s God’s Waiting Room on the other days. Between the activities calendar, Nick’s occupational therapy sessions and Sophie’s Zumba classes, these women have more of a social life than I do. Plus, they get trips out in the town and all the dramas you might expect from twenty-two independent-minded women living together.

But it’s at the end of the week that the grandchildren come, and that gives the home a special vibe. It puts everyone in a good mood.

Well, nearly everyone.

Terence is still glowering from the shrubbery.

Technically, as he’s not in our garden, he’s doing nothing wrong. He’s right on the border, taunting us. I just know he’s going to do something. He always does. We never know what, so we have to play cat-and-mouse until he makes his move. And then we try to head him off.

June’s watching him too. ‘If that dirty old bloke gets his todger out again, I’m ringing the police this time. We’ve been way too easy on him lately.’

As the head of HR (as well as office manager, accountant and unofficial Agony Aunt), she takes things like harassment seriously. There was a real ding-dong between her and Max a couple of months ago when he tried to convince her to go easy on Terence. Sometimes I do feel sorry for Max. He’s an incompetent twit, but he doesn’t deserve a father like that.

‘I had hoped the hospital stay might mellow him out,’ Nick says. When Terence came down with pneumonia last year, it was touch-and-go for a bit. He ended up in Critical Care on a respirator. You’d think a thing like that might make him mend his ways. But no. He’s worse than ever.

‘I hoped it would kill him,’ says June. With an impatient swipe, she brushes her blonde curls away from her face. It’s as much a nervous habit as because the wind has picked up. Clouds are scuttling across the sky now. We might have to serve lunch inside after all. ‘But he’s too mean to die.’ Then she glances at me. ‘Sorry, that was probably insensitive, with your mum and all.’

I shake my head to let her know I’m not offended. My emotions have been all over the place since Mum died, but they’re not the ones I expected. I can’t seem to find a manual about how to grieve properly for her. And I need one because I’m doing it all wrong.

Everything I read online says I should let myself feel sad. That would be fine, except that I’m not feeling sadness as much as rage. And it’s not normal grieving anger, either. It would be normal to be furious with Mum for dying and leaving us. Or for not taking care of herself enough to stay alive.

I’m livid with her because she’s not here to be livid with in person.

That doesn’t seem right.

June has been my rock throughout everything. Well, that’s what best friends are for, right? Even so, I really appreciate it. Some people get too uncomfortable about death or sadness to get down and dirty in the emotions with you. Like my dad, for instance.

I worried constantly about him after the funeral. Which is why I may have rung him more than usual. He started avoiding my calls. He’s not being malicious. He’s just tired of me asking how he is, which makes him think about Mum and then he gets sad (he claims, though I’ve still not seen very much evidence). Dad’s always been a stiff upper lip person.

Dad did actually answer my call this morning. Only because June showed me how to block Caller ID. I’ve sunk to stalking my own father.

‘Has Will been to see you?’ I’d asked, even though I knew the answer.

‘Your brother is very busy with work,’ Dad said.

‘Well, so am I, and I’m happy to come see you whenever you like. He could find the time, you know.’ Will works in a bank, not sequencing the human genome or curing cancer. But he’s always thought the world revolved around him, and our parents didn’t help.

‘Your brother is successful, Phoebe,’ Dad explained, like that was any excuse for ignoring your parents. ‘It stands to reason that he’d be married to his job. That comes first.’

‘And that’s okay with you? It’s a double standard, by the way.’

‘No, it’s not,’ he said.

‘Oh, really. I’m successful. I run my own kitchen, I’ve won awards. Yet you don’t expect me to be married to my job.’

‘That’s because yours is an unsuitable match.’

It was like my mother had come back from the dead to insult me. It’s not fair. She shouldn’t still be able to upset me by proxy. ‘I was just checking that you’re all right,’ I murmured. ‘Tell your son to visit you. He owes you for putting him through uni.’

June and Nick are clearly worried by my silence. ‘It’s okay,’ I tell them. Nick is rubbing my arm, sending tingles all up and down. That shoves all thoughts of my parents from my head. ‘I thought maybe Max would move his dad somewhere else when he got out. He’s really not all there anymore. He should probably be in a home. He’s always at his worst on visiting day.’ And he’s no picnic the rest of the time.

But the sun is still shining, so far, and the tables that the waitresses have dotted all over the lawn look gorgeous and very stately-homey.

That’s one of the best things about this place for the women: the space they get without having to be alone. Most of them could live pretty well on their own, as long as they had someone to check in on them, and maybe help with some cooking and cleaning. But if they didn’t live here, then they’d either be tripping over themselves in a one-bedroom flat or, maybe worse, be rambling around their family house with nothing but memories for company. My gran got terribly lonely after Grandad died, even though she lived near Mum and Dad and they visited a lot. Her whole world shrank to Mum’s visits. If I’m lucky enough to live into old age, I just hope the Happy Home for Ladies is still here for me.

We all go back inside to finish getting ready for the visitors. The women are always excited on Saturdays, even when it’s not their own family who’ll be stopping by. They’ve been living together for so long that, in a way, they’ve pooled their loved ones together. Anyone can dip into the mix of visitors and come up with a friendly face to enjoy.

I’m just getting the warming trays out for the buffet when Davey arrives with our Morrison’s delivery.

What can I tell you about Davey so you can picture him but not think he’s a prat? If you saw a photo of him, you’d probably think he was fit, and he is. His hair isn’t as dark as Nick’s, but it’s wavy like his, and he uses some kind of wax or putty to make it stand up all over. He’s got a nice smile and pretty green eyes, and he is in good shape from lifting delivery boxes all day long. The problem is when he speaks. Aside from what comes out of his mouth, he’s got this weird way of shimmying his head, like the dog from the Churchill advert. It makes everything he says seem like an innuendo. So, imagine an okay-looking shimmy-headed guy with muscly arms. That’s Davey.

‘They didn’t have your cod fillets so there’s haddock instead,’ he says, consulting his list. ‘Whose birthday is it? You’ve got candles.’

I snatch the sheet from him. ‘You’re only supposed to deliver the order, Davey, not inspect it. What if there were personal things on there?’

‘Like tampons?’ he says. ‘I don’t mind. You should see some of the orders I deliver.’ Head shimmy. ‘Condoms. Super size. Let’s just say I know who’s getting lucky in this town.’

‘Let’s not say that, okay?’ I sign his scanner.

‘Do you want me to fill your shelves for you?’

He always asks this. He probably makes the same cheesy offer to every woman under the age of fifty on his route. Our orders are always on time, though, so I guess he’s not one of the ones getting lucky in this town. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Well, then how about a quick shag instead?’

‘How about if I make a quick official complaint to Morrison’s instead?’

As usual, my rebuff doesn’t put him off. ‘You know you love my banter. It’s the highlight of your day… you could have it all the time if you’d ever say yes to a date.’

He’s not shimmying his head now. I can see the nice bloke beneath the bluster when he acts normal. ‘I’m okay, thanks.’ Why can’t someone I like pester me like this? ‘Besides, you’re not really interested in me, Davey. You only like the challenge because I always turn you down.’

He rubs his chest beneath his hi-vis vest. ‘Ah, you could test your theory and say yes.’

‘Or I could say no, and we stay the way we are.’ I shift a few things around in the giant freezer drawer to make room for the haddock. I’ll do fish and chips next week, with minted mushy peas. Sophie’s been on at me about superfoods lately. It’s always something.

As if my thoughts of mushy peas have conjured her up, she marches through the kitchen door. ‘Phoebe, may I have a word?’

She’s got on her red and white stripy legwarmers today, with her usual black spandex leggings beneath a purple and green skirt.

‘The blokes in this place are lucky to work here!’ Davey announces. ‘I don’t know how they get any work done.’

Sophie smiles coyly, even though she knows perfectly well that Davey says the same thing to everyone here. ‘Well, I do like to keep fit,’ she says. ‘That’s why I’m here, Phoebe. Are you putting more butter than usual in the food?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Why?’

She shoots a dirty look at the ricotta that I’m just about to season for the lasagne. ‘Is that full-fat? You’re killing us, you know, with your fat and your butter.’

I do admire Sophie’s dedication to her health. A little of the discipline she has would probably do me good. But it’s too much. ‘We’ve been over this already, Sophie. Fat isn’t the bogeyman you think it is. Our bodies need it to be healthy. You know that I balance every meal so there’s not too much fat or too much carbohydrate or too many calories.’

Lasagne has cheese in it. Get over it, I want to tell her.

‘Can you at least use less butter in the mash?’ Sophie especially worries about the mash.

‘Yes.’ Give me patience. ‘I could use chicken stock, but you objected to the salt. I could use yogurt, but you didn’t want the extra dairy. And speaking of which, why do you care about the lasagne anyway? You never eat it.’

‘Excuse me for worrying about my friends’ hearts.’

More gently, I say, ‘I know you’ve got everyone’s best interest in mind, Sophie. This should cheer you up. I’m making mushy peas with mint next week.’

Her owlish eyes shine behind her glasses. ‘Mint is a superfood!’

‘I know, you told me.’

She smiles, forgiving me my buttery trespasses.

‘I don’t know how the blokes in this place get any work done!’ Davey announces again as June comes in. When I roll my eyes at him, he gives me a cheeky grin. ‘Don’t bust my game.’

‘I don’t know how you get any work done,’ June says to him, ‘when you’re always hanging about bothering us.’ But she’s smiling. It’s hard to be really offended by Davey.

‘Want to go for a drink after work?’ she asks me.

‘Sure,’ Davey says.

‘Not you. Phoebe.’

At first, I nod. ‘Actually, no, I won’t if that’s okay,’ I tell her. ‘We’re having dinner tomorrow, right? I’m pretty skint.’ I get by, with a little left over to save for a rainy day or, more often, the occasional holiday. But I’m no celebrity chef.

‘How come you’ll go out with her, but you won’t go out with me?’ Davey asks.

‘I’m cuter than you are,’ June says.

Suddenly, we hear shouting and screaming from outside. We all stare at each other. ‘I hope nobody’s…’ I start to say.

‘So do I,’ June says as we rush out to the lawn. We might not be a nursing home with properly ill patients, but the women are older. There’s always a chance one of them will keel over.

But nobody’s dead. At least not yet.

Nearly all the residents are gathered together, but I can spot only a few visitors with them. It’s still early so, whatever’s the trouble, at least we don’t have to air our dirty laundry too publicly.

That thought catches me squarely in the gut. It’s what Mum would have said. A weird mix of sadness tinged with horror wells up in me. Sadness because, well, she’s not actually here to say it. And horror because no matter how much you promise yourself that you won’t become your mum, eventually it’s bound to happen.

It’s Mary, one of our waitresses, who’s screaming the house down. ‘What’s wrong?’ I shout over to Nick. He’s got his forearms looped around her waist, trying to keep her from reaching Terence. Every time she lunges for him, her sleek ponytail whips her in the face as Nick pulls her back.

Terence is standing impassively just out of reach with his hands in his chinos pockets. Why am I not surprised that this involves him?

‘You want a piece of me?’ Mary keeps shouting as she flails her arms at him. ‘Do you? I’ll give you one!’

‘Mary, will you please calm down!’ I say over her protests. ‘What is wrong with you?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s him, the dirty bugger. He groped me,’ she says. ‘Right there on the lawn.’

‘Technically, you mean right there on your bottom,’ Terence points out. ‘Precision in language is important, my dear.’

‘Terence! You’ve been warned about this before,’ June says.

‘What will you do, fire me?’ he shoots back. ‘Throw me out of my house?’

‘I’d like to clock you, is what I’d like to do,’ Mary says. Then she sees our boss stalking towards us. He must have heard the commotion from the office. This is just what we need.

‘Max, I am not taking any more of this,’ Mary says. ‘Your father has groped me. I’ve got a good mind to ring the police.’

Max’s expression is resigned as he turns to Terence. As annoying as it is for us to have to deal with him, it’s harder for Max. He’s actually related to the old man. He can never get rid of him. ‘Dad, did you?’

Terence waves his hand. I’m just glad it’s out of his pocket now, given what he’s done. ‘She’s overreacting. It was only a friendly pat. I was telling her she’s doing a good job.’ He looks at Mary. ‘You should be grateful for the attention, frankly.’

Her frustrated scream doesn’t need any interpretation. ‘I quit. Max, that’s it. I’m not going to be harassed by that man. Find yourself someone else to deal with him.’ She yanks off her apron and shoves it into the other waitress’s hand. Amber looks like she’s not sure whether to follow her colleague or not. Then she goes back to her phone.

This is a disaster. There’s no way that Amber can handle service on her own. She barely does any work as it is. ‘Wait, please, Mary! You can’t quit. We need you!’ I say. ‘Max, tell her!’

But it’s no use. She’s already striding across the lawn towards her car.

Now what am I going to do? ‘Max, I can’t run the restaurant all by myself. No offence, Amber.’

Amber looks up from her phone. ‘Hmm? Oh, none taken.’ She goes back to crushing candy or whatever she’s doing on that thing.

‘Well, Max? What are you going to do?’ This is his fault, after all. If he’d shipped his horrid father off after the hospital, Mary mightn’t have quit.

Max’s jowly face flashes several expressions as he works out an answer. He’s not great at thinking on his feet. ‘Well, we can always microwave ready meals,’ he finally says. ‘That would free you up to take over for Mary.’

He sees the look on my face. ‘Or put them in the oven?’ he tries. ‘I don’t know. Whatever you do when you cook.’

Whatever I do when I cook? ‘Max. I prepare three meals a day, carefully balanced for the residents’ nutritional requirements. Not to mention their weird phobias and dietary whims. You really think you can replace all that with a few ready meals?’

I can’t keep my voice from shaking. I’ve worked here for three years, and this is all he thinks I do?

‘They have some very good ready meals now,’ he answers. ‘I’m only trying to make a suggestion.’

Everything I’ve done, the exacting planning, budgeting and bending over backwards to make food that the residents will love, has made no difference in my boss’s eyes. I’m nothing but a glorified takeaway delivery person to him.

‘Hey, don’t get upset,’ Nick says. ‘Please don’t.’ His voice is so full of concern that I just choke up more. When he puts his arm around me, it squeezes out a very unladylike sob.

To be clear, though, this isn’t sadness. It’s fury. How dare he.

‘I’m sure he didn’t mean to offend you.’ Nick’s eyes search Max’s, looking for an apology. Meanwhile, I can’t stop thinking about being in the crook of Nick’s arm with his lips inches from mine.

‘Well, he bloody well did offend me,’ I mumble. I haven’t worked this hard to be dismissed by someone who thinks the supermarket sells haute cuisine.

‘God, no, I didn’t mean to upset you, Phoebe. I’m sorry. We’ll get another waitress for you, I promise. We can get a new one tomorrow, right, June?’ He sounds like he’s replacing an ice cream cone that I’ve dropped on the floor.

All this rage can’t only be about Mary quitting, or Max’s insensitivity. Deep down it must be about Mum too, because she put this soundtrack in my head in the first place. ‘You’re Not Living Up to Your Dreams’ was on the greatest hits album, but the B-side included classics like ‘Why Can’t You Be More Like Your Brother’, and everyone’s perennial favourite: ‘If Only You’d Try Harder’. She didn’t want to hear that I was living up to my dreams, and doing the best that I could. Maybe I haven’t dealt with that as well as I’d thought.

‘We’ll get a temp to fill in for Mary till we find a replacement,’ June says, enveloping me in her arms. ‘Don’t worry.’ Like a relay baton, Nick passes me off to my best friend. ‘Want that drink later?’ she asks. ‘I’ll buy.’

‘God, yes, thanks.’

Nick offers to bring Terence back to his cottage. I’m surprised that the old man agrees to go. Whenever Max tries getting him to do something, he unleashes a tirade that would make a sailor blush. Nick definitely has a way with people. As they walk off, I can hear him speaking quietly to Terence. He’s a perv-whisperer.

‘He really is good, isn’t he?’ I say.

‘That’s the best hiring decision I ever made,’ June answers. ‘Aside from you, of course.’