Читать книгу To My Best Friends - Sam Baker - Страница 19

Chapter Fourteen

‘Where’s the roasting tin?’

‘Same place as usual, I imagine.’

‘Nu-huh.’ Lizzie shook her head. ‘I’ve looked there, and all the other likely places.’

The two women looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

Jo threw open the kitchen window. ‘David,’ she yelled. ‘What have you done with the roasting tin?’

‘What have I done with . . . ?’ he shouted over the shrieks of two small girls. Having hunted Easter eggs, provided by Jo and hidden by David after they’d gone to bed the night before, Charlie and Harrie were on a carbohydrate high, taking turns to be pushed on the tyre hanging from the old apple tree.

‘Higher, Daddy, higher!’

‘In a sec . . . Nothing. Haven’t touched the damn thing. Do I look like a man who’d know what to do with a roasting tin?’

‘More than Gerry does,’ Lizzie muttered, looking for a cupboard she hadn’t yet searched. ‘Who else would move it? The kitchen ghost?’

She caught Jo’s eye. Jo raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Jo looked tired, Lizzie thought, nothing like herself. The roots were visible in her usually flawlessly highlighted hair and her fringe kept falling into her eyes. She was dressed as if for a ramble: battered biker boots; knackered, not-for-going-out jeans; and what looked suspiciously like one of Si’s fleeces. A fleece? Nicci would have had something to say about that. Maybe that was the point. Nicci couldn’t see them. For the first time in years Jo was at liberty to wear whatever she wanted. They all were. But it was Easter Sunday and the first time they’d all been here, together, since Nicci’s funeral. Lizzie had assumed that meant they’d make an effort. But no.

She felt painfully overdressed. Glancing down at her floral dress and heels, she wondered if there was time to nip home and change.

‘You OK?’

Lizzie snapped back to see Jo looking concerned. ‘Yeah, fine, just spooked myself with the ghost comment,’ she lied. ‘But I didn’t mean it like that. Anyway, if it was Nicci – which it isn’t, obviously – at least she’d have put it back in the right place.’ Jo started to laugh, and after a moment Lizzie joined in.

It was shaping up to be a beautiful Easter weekend, exactly as Jo had hoped. Late April sunshine crept round from the front and in through south-facing windows to throw a strip of gold across the oak table Nicci and David had lovingly sanded and varnished. The Chinese slate floor beneath the table reflected a rainbow of bronzes and gilts. The kitchen was warm from the Aga, the scent of coffee lingered, and the Archers squabbled amongst themselves in the background. Everything was as it should be.

Almost.

When Nicci became too tired to cook Sunday roast for ten, back in the autumn, the others had taken over, with Nicci presiding over the proceedings, passing judgement on the consistency of their stuffing or the sweetness of the apple sauce. And they smiled and gritted their teeth and let her. It was better to go on pretending nothing had changed. All of them – friends, partners and children – had lunched there every Sunday without fail, unless Jo and Si had his kids for the weekend; then they’d appear in the late afternoon after dropping the boys back at their mother’s. Usually just in time for pudding and to help with the third or fourth bottle of wine.

Jo shook the image from her head. ‘Got it!’ she said, emerging from under the sink, roasting tin aloft. ‘Suspect kitchen ghost’s offspring put it there.’

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Mona said, shouldering her way through the back door and kicking it shut with her heel. ‘No reason,’ she added, pre-empting the question. ‘Just late.’

She had once been a year late for Lizzie’s thirtieth birthday party, since when anything less was considered minor.

‘Good to see you.’ Tossing the roasting tin on the side with a clatter, Jo threw her arms around Mona, coat, bags and all; ignoring the look of surprise that flickered across Mona’s face. ‘It’s been too long.’

It had only been a couple of weeks, but that was long by their standards. Lately they weren’t sure which of them was meant to be holding it together. Jo was trying, but it didn’t come naturally. She preferred to watch from the periphery: not so much outside looking in as standing on the edge, with both choices open to her. She wasn’t Nicci; didn’t have that magnetism, the sort that made others gravitate to her.

‘Where’s Dan?’ Lizzie asked. ‘I bought him a tub of Celebrations. He is coming, isn’t he?’

He’s there.’ Mona jerked her head towards the back garden, where her son was already kicking a football. ‘I got organic crumble, real custard, profiteroles and crème fraîche. And organic hot cross buns, just in case.’

‘In case of what,’ Jo laughed. ‘Famine? Apocalypse? Terrorist attack? We’ve got enough food here to feed the entire street.’

Mona’s inedible cooking was the stuff of myth. Since no one could remember ever tasting it, Jo suspected the myth was urban, created by Mona to avoid having to do any. Like Jo’s brother’s famously crap washing-up.

Dumping her coat on the back of a chair, to reveal an embroidered smock over narrow dark jeans and ankle boots, Mona began emptying the contents of her carrier bags into the fridge.

‘What needs doing? More coffee?’ The others shook their heads but Mona filled the kettle anyway. ‘Peel spuds then?’ she offered, and took up position at the sink overlooking the back garden.

For a few minutes the three women worked in companionable silence, Lizzie salting the pork for crackling and slicing apples for apple sauce, Jo chopping nuts for nut roast and Mona peeling a mountain of King Edwards. Bags of carrots, parsnips and broccoli were lined up beside her.

‘Is it me,’ Mona said suddenly, ‘or is this weird?’

‘Is what weird?’ Lizzie said. Her tone made it clear she wished Mona hadn’t put the thought into words.

‘This . . . the three of us preparing Sunday lunch in Nicci’s kitchen, as if nothing’s changed. David and Si and Dan in the garden, Gerry . . .’ Mona frowned. ‘Where’s Gerry?’

‘Rugby. Be here later.’ Lizzie didn’t look up from slicing apples, but Jo noticed her back tense in preparation for the Gerry-related onslaught. Nicci might be gone but clearly Lizzie didn’t think that was about to change.

Jo loved Lizzie. She just wished Lizzie had married someone different. Someone who deserved her.

Mona opened her mouth to say something – probably exactly what Jo was thinking. Jo shot her a warning glance. Back off, she mouthed.

‘It’s you,’ Lizzie said testily. Mona looked at Jo and raised her eyebrows so they vanished into her hair. It was her party trick. Jo stifled a giggle.

‘It’s me what?’

‘You said, is it me or is this weird? It’s you.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Reckon,’ Lizzie snapped. ‘We’re old friends having Sunday lunch together. What’s wrong with that?’

‘You know what Mona means,’ Jo said gently. Where was this coming from? Lizzie was normally resident peacemaker, the one smoothing the sheets and making the tea, not the one lobbing rocks. Maybe Nicci’s spirit was lurking around, hiding roasting tins and making trouble.

‘Come on, Lizzie, you have to admit, it is a bit weird,’ Jo said. ‘Especially the Mona-David thing.’ She glanced around, double-checking little ears – and big ears – were safely outside. ‘I mean, what are we supposed to do about the letters?’

‘Ignore them, that’s what I plan to do,’ Mona banged the potato peeler on the worktop. ‘It’s just another of Nicci’s mad schemes.’ She raised her eyes to heaven, and Jo could have sworn that if Mona had been Catholic she’d have crossed herself.

‘We don’t have to do it.’

‘I don’t know . . .’ Lizzie sounded thoughtful. ‘I feel like we do.’

‘Lizzie!’ Mona said. ‘All you’ve got is a bit of gardening! If Nicci has her way, I have to, well, you know . . . with David!’

‘Mo . . .’ said Jo, but Mona was in full swing.

‘C’mon, Lizzie. Admit it, you got away light.’

‘It might be just a bit of gardening to you,’ Lizzie said tightly, ‘but Nicci knew I can’t even grow a weed! And have you looked out there? It’s a wilderness. How can I get it looking right for David, for Harrie and Charlie?’

Jo and Mona followed Lizzie’s gaze.

It wasn’t strictly true. Although Jo had to admit she’d seen Nicci’s garden in better shape. Not that she could remember even noticing the garden since last September, when Nicci had sat her down in this kitchen, put a large glass of red wine in front of her and told Jo she had cancer.

Since then, the leaves shed in autumn had been swept aside, but not cleared, and were mouldering on the flower-beds. Occasional spring bulbs had fought their way through, but their leaves were straggly as if, with no one to appreciate their efforts, they’d given up trying. Even Nicci’s beloved vegetable patch beyond the apple tree was little more than mud and blown-over runner bean tepees.

Jo was horribly afraid Lizzie was right. The garden looked as desolate as they felt. Somebody had to do something.

‘And even if it wasn’t a wilderness,’ Lizzie’s tone, now verging on hysterical, took Jo by surprise. She looked as panic-stricken as she sounded, ‘I’m not Nicci. I’ll never be Nicci. I don’t know a bromeliad from a perennial.’

The others looked at her in astonishment.

‘What’s a bromeliad?’ Mona asked. ‘Just out of interest.’

‘I don’t know!’ Lizzie wailed. ‘That’s the point. I got a book from the library, and then I got three more. And now I wish I hadn’t. It might as well be Chemistry A level, for all the sense it makes. I mean, it has charts, diagrams, tables.’ Lizzie looked at Jo – the mathsy one – as if she could make it all clear.

Jo had made sure the bills got paid at uni. She divided them up, told you what you owed and you paid. If not for her, the rest of them would have been sitting in the cold, probably in darkness.

‘It can’t be that hard,’ Jo said. ‘Diagrams!’ Lizzie repeated. ‘And tables. You should see the list of things Alan Titchmarsh reckons need to be done by April. Even if I did nothing but garden full time between now and June I couldn’t catch up.’

Jo slid her arms around Lizzie and suppressed a laugh as Lizzie buried her head in Jo’s shoulder. Over Lizzie’s head she saw Mona stuff her hands over her mouth.

‘I mean,’ Lizzie’s words were muffled, ‘how did Nicci fit it all in?’ She let out a wail and Mona, unable to contain herself, dissolved into fits.

‘Come on, Lizzie,’ Jo said, gripping Lizzie’s shoulders and fixing her with an encouraging smile. ‘It’s just a garden. Do it if you want. Don’t if you don’t. But if you decide to do it don’t try to do it Nicci’s way. Otherwise you’re setting yourself up for failure. Do it your way. You know Nicci, she probably just did the bits she wanted to and ignored the rest. That’s how she did everything else. Get out there and scratch the surface and you’ll probably find it’s not as magazine-perfect as it used to look from a distance.’

They were sitting at the refectory table watching Lizzie tear off sheet after sheet of kitchen roll, blow her nose, and toss it aside. She was nursing a mug containing the lukewarm dregs of a pot of coffee. All three women jumped when the phone rang.

It rang three more times before Jo found the handset under a tea towel on the worktop. ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘David Morrison’s, erm . . .’ Jo looked at the others but they just shrugged. ‘Residence?’ she finished.

Mona sniggered and Lizzie waved a hand to shush her. ‘Hello? Hello?’

There was no answer, just a distant click at her third ‘hello’. But just like last time she had a distinct feeling someone was there.

‘Who was it?’ Mona asked.

‘No one. It sounded like there was someone there when I answered but the line went dead when they heard my voice.’

‘Probably a call centre in India,’ Lizzie said. ‘You know how the line goes quiet for a minute or two after you answer, like it’s waiting for a connection. Always freaks me out.’

‘Didn’t sound like that. More like there was someone there, then they hung up. It happened that evening I came round to see David about Charlie and Harrie, too.’

‘David’s got a mystery lover,’ Mona laughed.

‘In your dreams!’

‘I heard the phone.’ David was standing in the open back door. ‘Who was it?’

‘Oi, goalie!’ Dan shouted. David let the door swing shut on Mona’s son’s protests.

‘Nobody,’ Jo said. ‘I’d have called you.’

‘Didn’t they leave a message?’ he asked, crossing the kitchen and checking the little red light.

‘When I say nobody, I mean, literally, nobody,’ said Jo, trying to hide her irritation as he checked there was no one on the line anyway. ‘Like last time,’ she said when he replaced the receiver. ‘Remember? Probably just a call centre.’

‘Are you expecting a call, David?’ Mona asked pointedly.

‘No,’ he said, but he seemed on edge. ‘Just had a couple of strange calls lately, bloody irritating.’

‘God,’ Jo muttered when he’d rejoined the game, ‘what’s eating him? Perhaps you’re right, Mona. Maybe he’s being consoled by a nurse from the hospice.’

Lizzie sprayed her coffee. ‘Stop it, you two!’ she said. ‘David wouldn’t do something like that.’ She pushed the coffee away. ‘It must be wine o’clock by now, surely?’

‘It is by my watch,’ Mona said.

The cork was out of the bottle and three indecently large glasses filled with Pinot Grigio when the phone rang again. This time David was in the kitchen before Jo could pick up.

He listened and then dropped it back onto its charger. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to be paranoid. It’s just I keep having these nuisance calls. They’re getting to me a bit.’

‘You can report them, you know,’ Lizzie said. ‘There’s a number you can call to get your number put on some list that means they can’t cold-call you. I’ll find out what it is, if you like?’

‘Nah, it’s fine, thanks,’ he said, taking a swig from Jo’s glass before heading back out into the garden. ‘I’ll do it.’

Only Jo noticed him pull the wire from the socket before he left.

‘Nom nom,’ Dan said, walking mud across the slate floor. ‘Smells brilliant. What is it?’

‘Roast pork, roast potatoes, veg, apple sauce, nut roast for Mum,’ Lizzie reeled off without taking her eyes off the gravy. There were lumps. There were always lumps. Carefully she chased one to the edge and squished it against the pan with the back of her spatula. Cornflour blossomed white in the golden liquid and dissolved.

Dan was right. The food smelled amazing. The rosemary and thyme that had been tossed in olive oil with the potatoes mingled with the scent of succulent pork, which was now crisping in the oven. Broccoli, green beans and peas were set to boil on the hob, their steam condensing on the windows overlooking the garden.

‘Talking of Mum, where is she? I thought she was in here.’

Jo looked up from the Observer in surprise. ‘Didn’t realise she wasn’t. Where’d she go, Lizzie?’

‘Loo, probably. Dunno, though. She’s been gone for a while.’

‘Typical.’ Dan rolled his eyes and grabbed a handful of crisps from a bowl on the side. ‘She’s always doing that.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Vanishing,’ Dan said. ‘On her mobile a-gain, I bet.’

‘Her mobile?’ Lizzie and Jo exchanged glances. ‘Yeah,’ Dan crunched through a mouthful of crisps and grabbed another handful. ‘She’s always on her mobile or looking at her mobile waiting for a text or a call. Reckon she thinks if she makes calls in the bathroom I can’t hear her. Like, duh . . .’

‘Hey, love, what’s up?’ Si leant over the back of Jo’s chair and wrapped his arms around her.

‘Lunch is up, nearly. Want a drink?’

‘Definitely,’ said Gerry, coming in behind him. ‘What have you got? Hey, Jo, if you don’t mind me saying, you look wrecked.’

‘Cheers, Gez.’ Jo stuck out her tongue. ‘You sure know how to make a girl feel good about herself.’

He was right, though. She did look wrecked. Looked wrecked, felt wrecked, was wrecked. But she’d been hoping to get away without anyone pointing it out. So far, the girls and David had been kind enough not to. Trust Gez.

‘What haven’t we got?’

‘I’m going to open Chablis, if anyone’s interested,’ David said, opening the fridge. ‘In Nicci’s honour.’

Chablis was another of Nicci’s favourites.

‘I don’t mind mixing my reds and whites if you don’t,’ Gerry said.

Over his shoulder Lizzie caught Jo rolling her eyes and muttering something under her breath. From where Lizzie sat, it looked like, Surprise me.

‘Gerry’s right, you know,’ Lizzie said, laying her free hand on Jo’s shoulder as they unloaded roast vegetables into a piping-hot serving bowl. ‘I didn’t want to say anything earlier, but you don’t look yourself. You’re not ill, are you?’

Jo picked imaginary bits off Si’s fleece, deciding how to respond.

Lizzie’s hand snaked down to the bowl and broke off a piece of roast potato, spiriting it into her mouth.

There were many things Jo wanted to say, not least of which was: pot/kettle, Lizzie O’Hara. You must have put on a stone since Christmas