The Family Retreat, page 20
‘It was unintentional. An accident in the scuffle. I have never once laid a finger on him in eighteen years. Not once. Never. And now this. And I didn’t need them to come over to tell me it was wrong. Whether accidental or not. I have never felt so bad. I’ll have to live with it for the rest of my life,’ she says, jabbing at her chest, her face pained, ‘it’s on me.’
I stare back at her. I try to explain. To tell her I didn’t make the call. But she’s not listening.
‘Is this your way of helping? You really have no idea what it’s like. How we manage on a day to day basis. How Pete is at breaking point. You people,’ and she shakes her head.
‘What can I do to help? you asked yesterday. The best thing you can do is to go home,’ she hisses. ‘Leave us alone. Mind your own business.’
EIGHTEEN
I wake up thinking about Joyce, her anger – and then her tears at the door. I feel the burn of guilt for something I haven’t done. I decide to go over and talk to her later, after Helen and I get back from Swanage.
We’d arranged to leave at ten. ‘Shall we all go in your car?’ she says, as we walk across the grass.
I’m surprised by the suggestion. Legally, I can’t get four kids in the back. Helen will know this. It’s so unlike her.
I hesitate. ‘The car seats. The booster – I can only really get three in—’
‘Of course,’ she says, ‘don’t worry. I was thinking Ollie could squish up. But you’re right. Just would have been fun to go together.’
Luckily, the kids are huddled out of earshot, otherwise I would have been outnumbered. It feels odd to have the tables turned with Helen. To be the one making the sensible decision, the one who feels like a killjoy.
We park in the main car park in the high street in Swanage, and when we’re walking along, Helen tells Ollie and Lexie she has to go into one of the shops, and then has to talk to someone in an office, to sort something out for Granny’s house. ‘You can come with me,’ she says, ‘or go with Sam and Ruby to the playground?’
As expected, there’s no contest. ‘I’ll meet you there in an hour or so,’ she says, handing me over a bag, ‘some snacks and drinks for them all.’
As they whirl about on the roundabout, my thoughts drift to my father’s birthday lunch. It’s like a hole I have been walking round and avoiding peering in. In the end, I text Gemma. Everything sorted for tomorrow? Rob’s flight gets in early, he’ll get the train and meet us there. How many will we be? Is Max coming?
To my surprise, she rings me.
‘Ten of us, I think.’
‘Ten?’ I say, trying to do a mental add-up.
‘Apparently he fell in love with a large table in the window. The Lavender table. He had to have ten people to reserve it. It looks out over the garden—’
Gemma seems unsure who’ll be there. ‘Max and Barbara aren’t coming. There’s a couple I don’t know coming. Faye and Jonathan—’
Faye and Jonathan? ‘Who are they?’
‘Not sure,’ she says vaguely. And again, as ever, I am the one who feels I’m fussing. Making a drama out of nothing. Making problems when, apparently, there are none.
‘– and your neighbours . . . you two . . . me and Gavin.’ ‘Gavin?’
‘Yep.’
She doesn’t elaborate. So, I don’t ask.
‘Excellent,’ I say, ‘see you tomorrow.’
‘You’ll say a few words?’ she asks. ‘Mum wants me to read a poem.’
Random people called Faye and Jonathan. And Gemma’s new boyfriend, also random. Words and a poem? I slump back on the bench.
Thank God it’s just lunch, is the text I send to Rob.
When Helen comes back, she brings us coffee from a café on the high street. And a bag of croissants for the kids.
She looks flushed. Elated. ‘I have tons of forms to fill in,’ she says, ‘but they had places for all three. And the school looks great. Polly will love it.’
She sits down next to me, closes her eyes and takes a long breath out.
She looks at her watch. ‘I’ll give her a call in a while,’ and then, a few minutes later, her phone rings. ‘It’s James,’ she says as she gets up and strolls over to the edge of the playground. She leans against the railings as she speaks. It’s a short call. ‘He’s just off to Belgium. All good,’ she says, ‘he’s coming on Sunday afternoon.’
She smooths her hands over her face. ‘Well, one thing done. Fifty million other things to do. But it’s a start. I’ve got an appointment later, with the solicitor. And I’ve got a meeting – at the refuge,’ she says, lowering her voice, even though there’s no one else around.
‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘I can take the kids to Swanage beach. Just meet us there when you’re done.’
‘Thank you,’ she says, turning to me, ‘I really appreciate it. I just wouldn’t be able to do this without your help with the kids.’
I wave away her words.
*
Shortly after we get back, I see Joyce walking over from the farmhouse. My heart sinks. I come out before she gets to the cottage and as I start to speak, she shakes her head, and reaches her hands out for mine.
‘I’m so sorry –’ she says, ‘– about yesterday. Can we talk?’
While the kids are watching telly, I make coffee and we sit outside by the front door next to the hollyhocks.
‘It was Pete,’ she says quietly. ‘It was Pete who rang social services.’
There are tears in her eyes.
‘I was very upset about the beach. When I told him what happened, he was – well, to put it mildly, in a bit of a state. He went out that afternoon. Didn’t come back that night. Or the next. He sent a text, saying he was staying at the Thurloughs, the farm where he has the badger meetings. I suspect he’d had a few too many beers.’ She pauses to sip at her coffee. ‘At some point, he made the call. Left a rambling message. He had no idea this would happen. He came back an hour ago. He only just told me.’ She hangs her head in shame. ‘I jumped to conclusions, and I can only apologise.’
I feel the flood of relief. ‘It really doesn’t matter.’
‘It does,’ she says firmly, ‘and I’m very sorry.’
I shake my head. ‘Tell me about Pete.’
She sighs. ‘The difficulties with Leo. The lack of support. The imminent closure of the gardening project, well . . . he was already struggling. And the beach incident scared him. The thought of me not coping,’ she sighs, ‘I shouldn’t have told him. I should have kept it to myself. I’m the rock,’ she says, ‘I’m the one who holds things together. He panicked. Was worried for all of us. Things have really escalated. Leo hates change. He doesn’t understand why he can’t go to Green Shoots every day like he did before. He takes it out on us. And Pete – well, he’s not –’ and her voice cracks, ‘– he’s really not coping at all.’
She drinks her coffee, swallowing down the grief, the tiredness, the relentlessness of it all.
‘I think it was Pete’s way of asking for help.’
We sit for a moment in silence.
‘It’s not ideal,’ she says with a smile, ‘but whatever he said did the trick. I’ve never seen them move so fast. Amazing, really. We struggle to get a response for almost anything over the years, and now I see, all you have to do is shout about risk and safety. Ha! If only I’d known,’ and she laughs. ‘Anyway, it’s done now. I told him there were less dangerous ways of getting help – and he looked at me and said, yeah well, we’ve tried all the others.’ She places her cup down. ‘And I know what he means. I do see the logic. You do the right thing. You ask. You plead. You campaign. You raise money. You write letters. You sign petitions. But no one actually listens. No one actually takes any notice. No one actually does anything. I didn’t know what else to do, was what he said.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I haven’t seen him so angry and upset since – well, since it all began. I’m worried about him really. He keeps it all in. It’s all clenched tight,’ she says, making a fist of her fingers.
‘But so hard for you too,’ I say.
She throws a hand in the air, ‘Exactly! He’s at the end of his tether. I wanted to say, try living in my head for a week,’ and then she laughs. Her big throaty laugh that I have come to know so well.
Then, more seriously, she says, ‘But maybe that’s how things change. Maybe it’s only drastic action. Maybe that’s what we have to resort to, in the end. I did tell him to speak to me first before he hatches another plan. I said, if you’re planning on setting off a bomb at the council offices, can you give me the heads-up first?’ and she laughs again.
‘What will happen now?’
‘Well, there will be a series of assessments and meetings, but already all Leo’s key workers from the project and all his clinical support workers have come forward to back us up. It’s hard to say, but I am hopeful this will blow over. Pete was very clear it was accidental. But he did keep saying on the phone, this is a warning sign. A red flag. That’s the only reason they raced over. They’ve got to cover themselves,’ she shrugs, ‘in case something else happened. But I’m not really worried about them taking him. And anyway, where will they take him? They’ll take him into care over my dead body.’
I pass her the packet of ginger biscuits and she dunks one in her coffee. We sit and watch a long line of geese head out towards the sea.
‘About tomorrow,’ she says, ‘it’s Leo’s day at the project. He’ll be out all afternoon. That is –’ and she pauses, ‘– if you’re still happy to leave the kids with me?’
‘Joyce? Really? There’s no one I’d rather leave them with,’ I say without hesitation.
‘It’s due to be sunny,’ she says. ‘I’m going to get the paddling pool out. Will Helen be going to the lunch? Her two would be really welcome.’
‘I’ll check,’ I say. ‘Last time she said she wasn’t. But I’ll try and persuade her. I think she could do with a break.’
‘It’s easier with all four. They get on so well,’ she says.
*
I bring it up when Helen comes over later after pegging out the washing. The kids are all outside on the lawn playing on the blanket with the Lego.
I tell her what Joyce had said.
‘I know you said you weren’t going to come – but how about it?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ she says, nodding over towards the kids.
And I feel a feel a sudden flash of irritation. For her overprotectiveness. Her carefulness. Her lack of fun. The ordered and methodical way she lives her life. And how, in that moment, I want to see her drop her guard. Drink a bit too much. Maybe say something she might regret. Just be a bit disorganised. I want her to be someone she’s not. I’m ashamed to say, but in that moment, her careful planning and total lack of spontaneity irk me.
Afterwards, I might tell myself a lot of things. I might say I did it for the kids. That they would have a better time if they were playing all together. Or that it was for Joyce; a real show of support and solidarity after what she’d been through. But neither of these would really have been true. The honest truth was that I was irritated with her rigidity. And I wanted to have my way, and a part of me wanted to simply crush her into some kind of submission.
‘It’s only ten minutes’ drive away,’ I say, ‘you could just come for an hour. It might be good to have a break. I know James is away – but I’m sure you could have a nice time without him too. Apparently, the food is delicious.’
She looks unsure.
And then, perhaps most abhorrent of all, I use a tactic my mother employs when she wants to get her own way. I use the children as ammunition.
‘Joyce told me she’s going to put the paddling pool up,’ I say, raising my voice. ‘She’s got one of those water slides you lay on the grass. It’s going to be sunny. Thought the kids would love it.’
Lexie looks up. ‘Can we?’
‘Sure,’ Helen says, ‘we can pop over.’
‘Can’t we go by ourselves? With Sam and Ruby? Their mummy isn’t going to be there, why don’t you go to the grownups’ party?’
Helen is thrown.
‘And we can have our own party.’
There’s a pause.
‘Joyce would so love to have them all – go on,’ I urge, ‘just come for a bit.’
Afterwards, of course, I will think about this moment. How it’s my behaviour that manipulates her into sitting around the ghastly lunch table, while her kids are at the farmhouse with Joyce and Pete. It’s something I will think about and regret for the rest of my life.
It’s Ollie’s look that perhaps does it. ‘Go on, Mum,’ he nods. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Well – OK. But I’ll just come for a bit. And I’ll drive myself, so I can nip back early. I’ll check with Joyce, OK?’
All four kids cheer.
‘Great! That’ll make eleven of us. Philip and Penny are coming too. And my sister and her new boyfriend. Rob will be all mad and jetlagged. And there’s a couple of others I don’t know,’ I say with a cheeriness I don’t feel. ‘If nothing else, it’ll be entertaining . . .’
Helen smiles, the reluctant smile of someone who’s been bamboozled into making up the numbers for a game she doesn’t know how to play.
NINETEEN
Rob and I are introduced to Faye and Jonathan in the car park. ‘Jonny,’ he says, reaching his hand forwards, then pumping my arm up and down.
‘And you are?’
‘Jess,’ I say, ‘one of his daughters.’
‘Ah . . . the author?’
‘No. The other one. The doctor.’
‘So charming of Geoffrey to invite us,’ he says, turning towards the hotel. ‘This used to be a manor house. Restaurant’s Michelin-starred,’ he says, winking at me.
Faye trots after him. ‘We met your father at the marina last time they came up. Jonny has a boat here,’ she says. ‘It’s a timeshare. He has it for the whole of June. They’d just come from your cottage when we met them, said they’d had a lovely cliff walk with the grandchildren. Are the little ones here?’ she asks, peering around.
‘No,’ I say and we head inside and make our way to the table. The Lavender table is appropriately named. I can see why my father liked it. It’s in a separate alcove, with doors opening out onto a courtyard garden. I walk over to the doorway to look out. Pale paving slabs are arranged in a giant circle, and surrounding the stone patio are huge banks of lavender bushes. They are in full glorious bloom in the sunshine, their purple heads swaying in the gentle breeze, filling the air with their fresh intoxicating scent. I stand for a moment, breathing slowly in and out.
Dad is wearing a lurid lime green shirt and a pair of trousers I haven’t seen before. He is ushering people to seats and asking about drinks. My mother is chatting to Philip and Penny. ‘Yes, yes,’ I hear her say. The loud anxious voice quelling anything that could turn into a conversation.
Our waitress has short cropped black hair and a small elfin face.
‘Very Audrey Hepburn,’ my father says as she stands by the table.
‘Sorry?’
‘Your hair. Like Audrey Hepburn.’
‘Oh,’ she says, smiling politely as she offers him a menu.
My father smiles back, reaches out for the menu, but lingers too long before taking it from her hand.
‘Dad –’ I say, when she’s gone. ‘She looks about fifteen. She probably doesn’t even know who Audrey Hepburn is.’
Hurt flashes across his face and he looks shaken for a moment.
I try to backtrack. ‘Although, Breakfast at Tiffany’s – I suppose everyone’s seen that, haven’t they, Rob?’
‘What’s that?’ Rob says, looking up from his menu. ‘Oh yes. Absolutely. A classic.’
Seconds later, he and my father are leaning together listing out all the Audrey Hepburn films on a napkin.
‘Let’s put them in chronological order,’ Rob suggests excitedly.
My father retrieves films I didn’t think he’d even heard of. My mother rolls her eyes. Her inability to contribute leaves her with a detached look of mild displeasure. Rob and my father begin discussing which character the waitress most resembles.
After listening for a while, I shake my head. ‘She has long hair in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’ Rob makes to disagree, but I plough on. ‘There’s a scene, towards the end – just before she’s planning to leave, she’s wearing a pale jumper and Capri pants and her hair’s in bunches.’
‘Bunches? Audrey Hepburn in bunches,’ and Rob is shaking his head.
I nod. ‘Long bunches down to here,’ and I tap at my shoulders, ‘not ones like a three-year-old. The cropped hair look is more Roman Holiday.’
There’s a pause. My mother looks up with a dreamy sigh. ‘That scene in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. At the end when George Peppard finds the cat.’ She sighs again. ‘It’s just wonderful,’ she says, lifting her arms up to give herself a hug.
‘Bonus point for the name of the cat?’ Rob says, looking round.
‘Cat,’ my dad says, and they fist-bump.
Rob is delighted by his new father-in-law. They’d always had a rather distant stilted relationship. Rob always (correctly) felt Geoffrey found his job in film and television frivolous and referred to it with a hint of condescension. It had long been a point of tension and last Christmas Rob had snapped, pacing around their kitchen as he replayed the conversation in hushed furious whispers. ‘How’s work? Must be such good fun. Jesus Christ, he talks about my job like I’m heading up to the park for a kickaround with the kids. Excuse me for not inhabiting the earnest world of aca-dem-ia.’
It hardly seems possible that six months later, they are huddled together in riotous uproar.
Helen arrives just as Rob is reading the Audrey Hepburn list out to the table.
She sits in the chair next to me. ‘Sorry to be late,’ she says, and I introduce her to the rest of the table.
‘Where’s your father?’ she asks.
I shrug. ‘He was here. But now he seems to be wandering about like Lord of the Manor.’
Rob stands up to pour wine. Helen declines.
