The Impulse Purchase, page 24
‘Mike. I can’t tell you how much this means. It’s absolutely beautiful. Thank you. And I really hope you can make it to the opening tomorrow night. It would mean the world to all of us.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Love you.’
She hadn’t, she realised, said that to him since his party. Once upon a time, they’d said that to each other countless times every day. But she did still love him. Of course she did. She sighed for a moment, looking at the sign swinging gently in the breeze, and wondered if the price of what she had done was a little too high.
The sun was blazing in the sky. Flaming June. She walked back over to the others.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We’ve all been working insanely hard. Let’s go for a swim. We deserve a break.’
Maggie and Rose didn’t need a second telling. The three of them dashed through the pub and out through the French doors at the back.
‘Look at my lawn, though,’ cried Rose, glowing with pride and exertion as their bare feet sank into the springy grass. ‘It’s a work of art.’
She had transformed it from overgrown and straggly to velvety and inviting, the immaculate stripes leading down to the riverbank.
They arrived at the water’s edge, panting.
Cherry started laughing. ‘Look at us all. What a state we are. Come on. Let’s get all the muck and dust off before Gertie gets back.’
She started stripping off.
‘Oh my God. It’s going to be freezing in there.’ Maggie looked uncertain.
‘Come on. We won’t be able to do this much longer. Not when we’ve got guests.’ Cherry stepped out of her boiler suit and stood in her bra and pants.
‘Oh, come on, we’ve got to do it properly. Kit right off!’ Rose threw off her dungarees and shimmied out of her t-shirt, then threw off her bra and pants. The three of them followed suit and stood on the bank of the river, stark naked, laughing. Under the willow tree, the river widened out into a deep pool. On the pub side, there was a shallow stony edge, making it easy to get in. Cherry waded in first, not even flinching as the icy water hit her. In three strides she was up to her thighs, then she reached forward and dived into the middle.
‘It’s wonderful!’ she said. ‘It’s like swimming in liquid silk.’
‘Liquid nitrogen, more like,’ said Maggie, dipping a toe in tentatively. Beside her, Rose took the plunge. Not wanting to seem a coward, Maggie followed, gasping with the shock.
The three of them floated on their backs, their hands gently sculling the water. They could see peeps of blue sky through the branches of the willow tree, and the occasional sunbeam wound its way through the leaves, turning the surface to gold.
‘Do you think we look like a Pre-Raphaelite painting?’ asked Maggie.
‘Ha!’ Rose cackled. ‘I should think Rosetti would run a mile.’
‘Cheek!’ Maggie hit the water with her hand and splashed her daughter.
Cherry felt the stress of the last fortnight melting into the water as her limbs relaxed. This was heaven, she thought, floating beneath the twisted roots and the tangled branches, the coo of a nearby woodpigeon soothing her. Her mind drifted back to the summer days of her childhood, when she and her friends would roam the riverbanks with a sandwich and an apple in their pockets. And later on, adolescent gatherings under the bridge, with cider and cigarettes. How lucky she was, she thought, to have this river flowing through her life. She had been right to come back here. But as she gazed up at the tiny wisps of cloud, she knew that more than anything, what she wanted was Mike by her side. What they were doing was incredible, but without him it felt wrong.
Maggie gradually got used to the icy water on her skin and felt the lists that were whirling around her head trickle away. She had done so many launches over the years, but never her own, and her perfectionist nature had always taken over. She knew there were things she should be letting go, but she found it hard not to expect every detail to be spot on. She hoped she was being kind to everyone, but sometimes she knew she was a bit – well, brisk was probably the best word. She made a mental note to get everyone together the next morning, before the opening night, and give them a pep talk, one that made them feel valued. You were, after all, only as good as the people carrying out your orders. And she loved the people she had taken on so far, especially Winnie, who had already made her feel ten times calmer with her cool head and kitchen skills.
And she had a good feeling in her gut about Chloe. She was a little reticent and inexperienced, but she only ever needed to be told anything once, and she asked all the right questions, and handled people with such a gentle touch that they warmed to her immediately. She thought Chloe had the potential to go far. Maggie loved to nurture people, even if the last person she had taken under her wing had stabbed her in the back, though perhaps that had been for a reason – part of a master plan? Either way, her team was starting to gel. With a few key people in place, she could begin to build.
Rose noticed how the cold of the water made her think more clearly, as if she had been shocked into focus. Spending time with Winnie had been a real wake-up call for her. She fed off her energy, and talking to her about what they were going to grow in the garden to use in the kitchen made her feel excited and empowered. More importantly, she found her anxiety had receded, that she had fewer intrusive thoughts and didn’t feel as if she was keeping a panic attack at bay. The self-loathing of a few weeks ago had faded, along with the memory of her transgression with Gaz. She ignored the tiny whisper that still insisted running away was the act of a coward. The Soul Bowl was better off without her; she had learned from her mistake and she was moving on.
She had found it therapeutic, working outside, working with a purpose, and Rose acknowledged the feeling with interest. It was physically tough tending the lawns and hedges, weeding the flower beds, digging in the new roses she’d ordered from the nursery near Honisham that her grandmother had used. She’d filled a dozen zinc dolly tubs with allium and agapanthus to range along the back of the pub, rich deep blues and purples that stood out against the green. Alternate sun and rain meant the garden was looking at its most lush, the grass and the foliage at their most verdant, and the scent, especially in the warmth of the early evening, was almost narcotic: sweet and heady and overpowering.
She remembered Catherine saying that if her great-grandfather had been able to prescribe gardening to his patients, they would have been a lot healthier and happier. The memory of those words planted the seeds of something in her mind. As she drifted on the surface of the water, she wondered if what she was thinking was unrealistic, or if the idea had legs. She would start to investigate, she decided, once the opening night was out of the way.
For the next half an hour, the river held them. A dappled light shone through the trees and the reeds on the riverbank swayed in a hypnotic dance as the three floated on the surface of the water, serene and regal. It was as if they belonged there; as if this was their kingdom, three swans bound together for all eternity.
34
Midsummer’s Eve dawned sulky and brooding, a bruised lilac dawn drawing a veil of rain along the riverbank. Its soft hiss woke Maggie at six, and she ran to open the window. Everything was hiding: the birds and insects, the rabbits and squirrels, the swans on the river. There was no sign of life, and her heart sank. If even the ducks and the dragonflies couldn’t make it out, what hope did they have of anyone turning up tonight? People would take one look at the inclement weather and stick with whatever they were bingeing on Netflix.
But as she breathed in the irresistible scent of warm grass and leaves and earth dampened by rain, she realised there was time, plenty of time for the sun to come out, and a dawn deluge would be good for the garden. There was no point in worrying about it, she decided. She had no control over the weather, so she must focus on what she did have control over. She pulled up her lists on her iPad, a colour-coded chart of strict timings, and ran through them again, still with the nagging sense that there was something vital she had forgotten. Every time she did a launch she always had that feeling, and nothing awful had ever been missed. She was too experienced to make a mistake. It was her equivalent of stage fright: that last-minute dread that some kind of nightmare scenario would unfold, something that was of your own making.
She did what she always did when she felt unnerved, and opened her notebook to write to Frank.
Well, it’s peeing with rain, which doesn’t bode well. If you have any influence up there, could you pull a few strings?!! Otherwise we are poised to find out whether we are going to be a raging success or fall flat on our faces. If it’s the latter, at least we’ve had fun doing it. It’s been so good for us all, being here together, working together. We bounce off each other in a way that must be very annoying to outsiders; the Fabulous Builder Brothers know us well enough to laugh at us, but I can see them looking at each other when we get carried away. Though I think you can remember what it was like! You used to tease us when we had one of our projects. Like when we were decorating the Christmas tree – I can see you and Dad making a hasty exit, disappearing off to the pub, knowing you were both better out of the way or you’d get roped into something you didn’t want to do . . . The poor old FBBs haven’t had any choice but to do our bidding. But they’ve done us proud. No TV makeover show could have had a more dramatic transformation.
I wish you were here to see it. I think you’d really love it. I keep imagining your face when we bring you in to show you what we’ve done . . .
Though the biggest transformation has been Rose. She has lost the tight-lipped, wide-eyed look she got after you went, the one that came back again after Catherine died. Understandably, I suppose – they were so close. But the Somerset air and the sunshine have turned her to gold, and her smile reaches her eyes again. You would be incredibly proud.
I must stop rambling. I need to kick ass. And I need to decide what to wear tonight. Something wildly impractical, I hear you suggest. Something that makes you look like the queen you are.
Maggie laid down her pen, Frank’s imagined words ringing in her head. There was a silk dress hanging in the wardrobe she had bought in the sales last summer: smothered in red and orange and hot pink flowers, it had a tight bodice and bell sleeves and a skirt that swirled as you walked. It was not a dress for a shrinking violet. Today, it was the armour Maggie needed to feel in charge, both of herself and everything else. She jumped out of bed and pulled it from the wardrobe. As she hung it up to look at it, she pricked her ears. Was it her imagination or was the rain subsiding?
35
Rose was in the little kitchen, slicing up a banana to mix into raspberries and yoghurt for Gertie’s breakfast.
Gertie was having a trial day with the Dandelions. Rose had seen the advert in the village shop, and as soon as she saw it, she remembered that it was Catherine who had set up the playgroup for the mothers of Rushbrook all those years ago. As the doctor’s wife, she often came into contact with the mums, and realised there was little support for them in the village; that being a new mother was daunting and lonely. So she had commandeered the village hall and ran the toddler group three times a week, raising funds for toys and books and playground equipment. It was still on the go, but it was a fully fledged nursery now, and fed the village school.
Now they had moved, Gertie was entitled to a place. And while Mrs B had been a godsend, Gertie needed the stimulation of other children and clearly missed her old nursery. So Rose had plucked up the courage to see if there was a space, and there was, so they had agreed she would try it out.
‘Come on Friday,’ said the vibrant young woman who ran it. ‘We’re going for a picnic in the orchard at Dragonfly Farm. We go every year. They get bread and cheese and apple cake, and they get a ride on the donkey. Honestly, she will love it. Pick her up from there at half three.’
Rose put the bowl in front of her daughter and for a moment she felt overwhelmed with emotion. Gertie had picked out her own clothes this morning – jeans and a gingham shirt and rainbow wellies and a baseball hat. Rose loved the fact that by going to the Dandelions, she had a connection with Catherine. She could still feel the legacy of her great-grandparents woven through the village, even though Wisteria House now belonged to someone else. People still stopped her and spoke to her about them. She relished that sense of history. It made her feel strong.
Maybe this was where she truly belonged?
She filled a water bottle and popped it into Gertie’s bag. If she picked her up from Dragonfly Fly farm at three thirty, there would be time to get back and for them to get ready for the opening. Gertie was to be allowed to attend for the first hour or so, then Mrs B was going to come and babysit. She looked out of the window at the rain. She had asked for it the night before, just enough to give the garden a thorough soaking. Hopefully it would stop in time for the picnic, in time for the lawn to dry and the roses to unfurl and the lavender in the border to be warmed enough to throw off its scent.
It was going to be perfect.
‘Guys, you are miracle workers. This is beyond anything I imagined. I don’t know how you did it. It’s as if you climbed into my head and brought it all to life.’ Cherry’s eyes were shining with appreciation. She couldn’t quite believe that yet again the Fabulous Builder Brothers had pulled it off.
‘Oh, man,’ said Tom. ‘We’ve had a great time. We don’t want to go home.’
They’d made the most of their fortnight in the countryside. Cherry had got them permission to go fishing from Dash Culbone, who owned the rights from Rushbrook House all the way to the bridge beyond, and they’d wandered off with their rods every evening, sitting on the bank for hours amidst the midges, putting the world to rights.
‘And you are great to work for,’ Ed admitted. ‘We wish we had more clients like you. Ones who know what they want but trust us to get on with it. Usually it’s the other way round – they haven’t a clue what they want but keep trying to tell us what to do.’
‘And you muck in more than anyone we’ve ever worked for. You don’t mind getting your hands dirty.’
They’d been full of admiration of Cherry’s energy as she set to with her roller, covering wall after wall with a deeply pigmented paint that was completely transformative.
Now, they were doing a deep clean, wiping the last traces of plaster dust from the windows and woodwork and polishing the floor until it gleamed. It was this level of care that made Cherry value them so highly. Lots of builders would have left her to do the clearing up, but they had pride in their work and wanted to see it at its best.
She looked around the inside of the pub with wonder. It was one thing having a vision, it was another thing seeing it realised, and the results were more spectacular than she had dreamt. The walls of the bar were a rich, lacquered green, the colour of the river at its deepest. The cases of fish caught from its banks that had hung on the pub walls for decades had been cleaned and re-hung. She’d had the yellowing photograph of the Rushbrook cricket team from the 1920s blown up to almost life-size and put up on one wall so it almost looked as if the players were in the room. Her father’s collection of fishing flies was mounted inside vintage bamboo frames.
Beyond the bar was a cosy area for people to come and sit with their laptops if they wanted to come to the pub to work. There was a thick oak counter with high stools and plenty of plugs on the wall behind, and two sofas in ochre velvet faced each other next to shelves brimming with books and pots trailing greenery. The cushions on the oak settles in the dining area were re-covered in grain-sack linen with a black stripe. Tables had been dipped and stripped and a zinc top hammered on; chairs were painted a black-green several shades darker than the walls. Richness, texture and the occasional burst of colour were layered up, and here and there was something unusual that caught the eye: a leather pommel bench tucked into an alcove with a kelim underneath; a six-foot wrought-iron candelabra stuffed with church candles in an otherwise dark corner.
And now Cherry was adding the finishing touches. She had goldfish-bowl vases stuffed with bright orange tulips. Every other table was laid up with a soft linen tablecloth, bone-handled cutlery, cream plates with an embossed edge, sparkling etched glasses and a napkin tied with garden twine, a sprig of rosemary tucked in. And she’d found the perfect scented candles: a delicious blend of lavender, sage and bergamot that would cover up the inevitable pub smells.
She felt nervous. She was delighted with the turnaround, but this was just the beginning. It was all very well creating an interior that looked magazine-worthy, but what it needed more than style was people. That was going to be the challenge. If it was still empty and picture-perfect in a month’s time, she would have failed in her mission.
Invitations had gone out to everyone in the village, and Maggie had put sponsored posts on Instagram in a five-mile radius to promote the opening. Winnie had concocted a welcoming cocktail: a Rushbrook Swan, made from elderflower liqueur, milk vodka from a local distillery and bubbles from a nearby vineyard – and Melchior cider on tap. If that didn’t make the evening go with a swing, nothing would.
In the garden the Fabulous Builder Brothers had created an open-fronted gazebo for the hog roast, so food could be cooked and served even if it was raining. The beast was already cooking, turning slowly. In the kitchen, piles of bread rolls were standing by waiting to be filled with slices of hot pork, buttery apple sauce and melting onions. There would be puffed-up salty crackling, too loud for conversation, and bowls of slaw made with red cabbage, fennel and apples.
The idea was that food and drink was free from six until eight, when there would be (brief!) speeches and Maggie would bring out her celebratory pièce de résistance: she and Winnie had worked on it all morning and Cherry wasn’t entirely sure that it was the best use of their time but she had to admit the results were spectacular.
After eight the bar would open and hot pork rolls would be five pounds. Cherry prayed that everyone would stay, happy to put their hands in their pockets.
