The Impulse Purchase, page 6
‘I don’t think I’ll be pleasantly surprised, Mum. I’ll be devastated.’
‘Well, it might take the edge off it,’ Catherine laughed. The older you were, the less squeamish you were about death, it seemed. Cherry would have done anything to change the subject, but Catherine seemed to relish discussing the inevitable. ‘Just promise me one thing.’
She leaned forward, looking serious, and put her hand over one of Cherry’s.
‘What?’
‘This little nest egg is for you. I want you to spend it on something you want. It’ll be your chance to put yourself first for once.’
‘What do you mean, for once?’ Cherry looked puzzled.
Catherine raised her eyebrows. ‘You do a lot for everyone else. You might not think so, but you do.’
‘Well, of course. It’s called being a mum. And a grandmother. And a great-grandmother.’ It wasn’t like Catherine to be critical. Cherry found it unsettling.
‘Of course, offspring have to take priority a lot of the time. But men? Not so much.’
‘You mean Mike?’
Catherine put her head to one side and looked at Cherry thoughtfully.
‘He would be nowhere without you. You know that, don’t you?’
‘What’s brought this on?’
‘I just want the money to go on something you want, that’s all.’ Her mother’s tone brooked no argument. ‘This absolutely isn’t a criticism. You know I think the world of Mike. But I know how much you’ve done for him.’
Cherry corrected her. ‘For us.’
‘Please don’t take it the wrong way. No one knows more than I do about being the power behind the throne.’
‘Did you mind?’
‘I have had a wonderful life. And your father needed me. You know things weren’t easy for him.’
Cherry nodded. The war had cast a long shadow over so many. Most of his patients had no idea how Dr Nicholson had suffered from the trauma of what he had seen as a medical student during the Blitz.
‘Anyway, I’m just making my wishes known.’ Catherine patted the envelope. ‘This is your nest egg, Cherry.’
‘OK,’ Cherry nodded. Agreeing was the quickest way to end this morbid conversation. She was puzzled, though, by her mother’s insistence. Was it because of what she’d been through herself? Perhaps she felt she had missed out on opportunity, despite her loyalty to her husband. Or was old age making her more opinionated?
What would she say today, if she told her what she had seen at the party? Catherine wasn’t judgemental, but she was very good at putting things into perspective.
‘Men can be silly buggers,’ she would probably say. ‘And he’s at a difficult age. Your father lost himself for a bit when he retired. Thank God for the fishing, that’s all I can say.’
Nigel had spent hours and hours on the banks of the Rushbrook, courtesy of the Culbones who owned the fishing rights along the stretch that went through the village. In the evenings, he had sat tying flies, a fiddly intricate job that kept him absorbed for hours. Cherry and Toby had split the boxes between them as a keepsake.
As she imagined her mother’s words, Cherry reminded herself that Mike was probably feeling vulnerable. And Anneka would have sensed that.
Women like Anneka played wide-eyed and innocent but were actually very predatory because they were needy themselves, and they often honed in on men who were feeling a little uncertain. They had a sixth sense for it. Imminent retirement had made Mike twitchy over the past few months. To no longer have that safety net, that cosy environment, the rhythm to life the university gave him, was probably daunting. Anneka had zoomed straight in on his Achilles heel, flattering him, enticing him.
She was excusing him, Cherry realised. But if she knew one thing, it was that people didn’t always behave well in life. Generally speaking, they weren’t all good or all bad, but a muddy mixture of both, and what they were going through and who they were mixing with and, quite often, how much they had drunk, had a bearing on their behaviour. And forgiveness was a very powerful tool.
She had another choice. She could phone the estate agent. Stop the sale. Tell Mike she wanted to live in Wisteria House. Being back in Rushbrook would feel so right. To be back in the place that was her home. She could go home tonight and pack up what she needed. She didn’t want a scene. She would just take herself out of the picture while she got her head around what she had seen. She couldn’t bear the thought of Mike’s protestations of innocence. She couldn’t even bear to tell him what she’d seen and heard. She certainly didn’t, at the age of nearly seventy, want couples’ counselling.
No, she thought. Going backwards wasn’t the answer. And besides, she couldn’t do it to the Bannisters. She didn’t know them from Adam, but she imagined them piling the last of their belongings into their car. Perhaps a dog being settled into the boot. The doors being closed on the back of a removal lorry stuffed with their furniture. How could she possibly be so cruel? It would be bad karma.
She walked out of the kitchen and into the hall, pausing at the foot of the stairs for a moment. Then she locked the door behind her and posted the key through the letterbox so she wouldn’t be tempted to keep it. She heard it fall onto the doormat, and wiped away a tear with the heel of her hand.
Then she picked a cluster of tulips – white parrot tulips with a ragged raspberry red edge; her mother’s favourite – from the path on the right and walked out of the gate along the road to the little church. The grass was still damp with morning dew as she walked through the churchyard amidst the graves, some of them so worn you couldn’t even begin to make out the words carved into the grey stone. At the very back were the most recent. She averted her eyes, not wanting to see who else had shuffled off this mortal coil since she had last been here. She would know most of the names, even now. She hated seeing the wilting floral tributes, the words on the accompanying cards blurred from the rain. Gone from us too soon . . .
The stone she sought stood out: white marble with jet black letters deeply engraved. A bright new stone to replace the one put up when her father had died fifteen years ago.
IN LOVING MEMORY OF
NIGEL NICHOLSON
AND HIS WIFE
CATHERINE JANE NICHOLSON
TOGETHER AT LAST
RIP
It was simple and understated. They’d agreed that was the best, for where did you stop, once you started trying to say what you wanted to say?
She arranged the tulips in the square stone vase. Their brightness stood out against the white of the stone. It was over nine months since her mother had died. The pain was still visceral. Guilt and regret, the classic post-mortem cocktail. Longing. Overwhelming sorrow. Self-pity, too, though Cherry didn’t allow herself to wallow in that very often. She was all too aware that worse things happened than the slipping away of a ninety-something parent. It was her duty to bear her loss without complaint. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
She breathed in to stop more tears.
‘I need you today, Mum,’ she said. Were Catherine alive, she would definitely have driven down to see her. They would be sitting at the kitchen table in Wisteria House now, cups of tea at the ready, a packet of biscuits sliced open with a sharp knife.
She turned to see a small creature staring up at her, its bright eyes bulging with silent entreaty. Matilda. The vicar’s pug. Left to him by one of his parishioners, the only person she would entrust her beloved companion to. The Reverend Matt had been alarmed by this bequest, for he had not thought himself a dog man. Nor had his husband, also called Matt.
Now the Matts, as they were fondly known, were devoted to the aptly-named Matilda, and she them, although she did have the habit of slipping out of the front door of the vicarage without them noticing.
‘Matilda!’ Here he came now, racing across the graveyard in his dog collar and jeans. In his mid-forties, the Reverend Matt carried the evidence of his husband’s cooking prowess in front of him. He swept in front of Cherry and clipped Matilda’s lead to her collar, then stood up with a smile, wiping the bead of sweat from his bald head.
‘I’m so sorry if she disturbed you.’ He indicated her parents’ grave. ‘This should be a time of quiet contemplation.’
Cherry just laughed. ‘It’s fine. The sale of Wisteria House goes through today. I’m just here to say goodbye.’
‘We do miss your mother.’ The Reverend Matt had done Catherine the most charming funeral service. Poignant, personal, uplifting, kind, and he had done the eulogy himself, for Catherine had taught him everything he now knew about gardening. He had come from an inner-city parish and been overwhelmed by the vicarage garden. She had taken him through it, shown him how to tend it, given him her own seedlings and cuttings. ‘My almost green fingers are entirely down to her.’
He waggled them.
‘I’ve just thought,’ said Cherry. ‘If there’s anything you want from the garden, it’s still mine for the next two hours. So go and help yourself.’
The Reverend’s eyes lit up. ‘I do not need telling twice,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and fetch a trowel.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I don’t suppose,’ he mused, ‘you would consider coming to do the church flowers? Even if it was just once a month? There simply isn’t anyone with your mother’s touch. And I know you have it.’
Cherry had done the flowers for Catherine’s funeral, and remembered Matt’s beady admiration. He’d managed to restrain from asking her this favour on the day.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure of our plans, so I wouldn’t want to commit. But perhaps I could do Christmas?’
‘Would you?’ Matt’s eyes shone with appreciation. ‘That would be a load off my mind. Honestly, the Easter flowers were a dog’s dinner. I could have done better with my eyes shut.’
Cherry smiled as she watched him go. Village life, she thought. Everyone in and out of each other’s pockets. It could drive you mad, of course, but there was something about it she yearned after. She supposed it was because you knew exactly who you were in a village. Your role within it. And what the rules were. In Avonminster, there were no rules. You could behave exactly as you liked. Whilst it was liberating, it meant a certain loss of identity that she now craved. Here, she was still Dr Nicholson’s daughter. Catherine’s daughter. She liked the feeling of belonging.
She stood up. She could see someone had arrived to give the grass in the churchyard its first cut, pulling on the starter string of the lawnmower. Eventually it burst into life, shattering the peace.
There was one last place she had to visit before she went home.
8
Cherry left the churchyard and wandered further down the lane, past a row of cottages that would once have housed farmworkers but were now well out of the financial reach of anyone who worked the land. Over the past few years, since Somerset had become the hot new must-live destination, they’d been snapped up, their window frames painted grey-green, the front gardens full of zinc planters and Sarah Raven bulb collections, shiny SUVs parked outside.
While Rushbrook’s frontage was aspirational and magazine-perfect, the lanes leading off told a far more interesting story: the sprawling farms struggling to survive, the crescent of council houses, the less attractive houses that had been thrown up in the seventies. Yet as a village, it worked well. No one got above themselves and no one had a chip on their shoulder. Somehow, it just wasn’t allowed. A lucky combination of personalities had allowed that to happen. The parish council was broad-minded and pro-active. The Matts, of course, had brought a new energy to the village and the church was fuller on a Sunday than it had been for years.
And then there was the ‘big house’: Rushbrook House, owned by the Culbone family, which had been dogged by tragedy over the years but was now coming back to life. The youngest generation had turned the land into a boutique glamping site, with safari lodges discreetly nestled along the riverbank. Of course people had grumbled at first, especially about the four-wheel drives seemingly without a reverse gear that cruised the lanes once the weather became fine, but actually, it had provided much-needed employment and a boost to the economy. Dash Culbone was scrupulous about only employing locals to look after the lodges and grounds.
Off the back of the glamping site, Lorraine, the owner of the village shop, had installed a deli counter with charcuterie and local cheese and sourdough bread in one half of the shop, while the other half stuck to baked beans, laundry tablets and lottery tickets.
And the village pub benefitted, of course, being within staggering distance.
It was this pub that Cherry was heading to now. The Swan. Behind a crescent-shaped swathe of grass, it was wide and low, painted cream, with a thatched roof, latticed windows and a stout oak front door. She could hear the rush of the River Rushbrook behind, and it lifted her.
You never step into the same river twice . . . The saying came back to her, something she’d read in a book that had stuck with her. Cherry knew that nothing in life stayed the same. That you shouldn’t take anything for granted. But she had also learnt not to be afraid of change. And that when things did alter, you had to mould things to your best advantage. Embrace the change, and the opportunity it brought.
Only today, she didn’t feel like embracing what life had thrown at her. She wanted to go back. To this time yesterday, when she was oblivious and content and looking forward to the future.
She looked up at the pub sign swaying in the breeze. The familiar picture of a single white swan gliding down a river had stayed the same as long as she could remember. Once, the pub had almost been her second home. Maurice the landlord and his wife and all the regulars had been her second family when she worked here. She had learned to add up the cost of several drinks in her head, how to handle unwelcome advances, how to treat everyone the same, from the lord of the manor to the local dustman.
The pub wasn’t quite open yet but she knew Alan would be in there. She pushed open the door, and her heart sank, for in the few weeks since she’d last been in, she could feel the deterioration. It felt empty and neglected and sorry for itself. Everything needed a good wash or a good clean. The chalkboard had lines through most of the dishes. It smelled of old chip fat and stale beer. Despite being May, the air felt chilly. She struggled to recognise the vibrant, lively local it had been. No one would want to linger here for longer than necessary.
She peered through the gloom. There were no lights on at all. And then she saw him, with a mop and bucket, dabbing at the flagstones in the lounge bar. She watched him for a moment, looking for clues. The set of his shoulders told her everything, and she felt dread claw at her.
‘Hey,’ she said, and he turned.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’ He managed the weariest of smiles.
‘No. It was a last-minute thing.’ She leant forward to kiss his cheek. ‘This is a little thank you, for everything you did for Mum.’ She pulled a soft package out of her bag and gave it to him.
‘You didn’t need to,’ he said.
‘But I wanted to. You were so kind. Such a support.’
Every Sunday that Cherry hadn’t been able to go to Rushbrook to be with her mother, in the last couple of years when she had become more and more frail, Alan had plated up a roast and taken it up to Wisteria House. He’d stopped to talk to Catherine and reported back. The Reverend Matt had too, of course, but that was his job, to look after his parishioners. As the landlord of a busy pub, Alan had always found the time to go the extra mile, somehow. And Cherry felt she could never repay him.
He pushed the mop back into the depths of the murky water and ripped open the tissue. Inside was a blue silk cravat with yellow spots. He always wore one tucked into his jumper. The uniform of the country pub landlord.
‘Perfect,’ he said.
Silence hung between them. The elephant in the room could not be avoided any longer.
‘How are things?’ she said.
‘Terrible.’
And she put her arms round him and squeezed him as hard as she could. They stood there for a moment, wordless, for there were no words, really. Eventually Cherry let go and stood back. She cupped his face in her hands, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. He shut his eyes for a moment, enjoying the comfort.
His skin looked grey, she thought. The bags under his eyes were even more pronounced than the last time she’d seen him. And he seemed to have shrunk. The big cuddly bear-ness of him seemed to have deflated.
Darling Alan. Everyone’s favourite landlord. The reason The Swan had once been the most popular pub for miles around. Until fate had intervened.
‘I’ve decided to sell up,’ he said to her. ‘Marcus Draycott’s made me a very fair offer. I’m going to accept it tomorrow. I can’t keep it all going.’
‘How on earth can you, with everything you’ve got going on?’
‘I’ve tried the best I can. The bloody chef walked out on me last month. He’s buggered off to The Feathers in Honisham. I tried to persuade Tabitha Melchior to come back but she’s running the cider business now, at Dragonfly Farm, and everyone reckons she’ll marry Dash Culbone. It’s just a few locals here now. The odd farmer who comes in for a pint. And Clive, of course. He’s keeping me going.’
Alan managed the ghost of a smile. Clive came into the pub at seven o’clock sharp every evening and had a pie and two glasses of Chateauneuf du Pape which Alan kept behind the bar for him. He allegedly made a small fortune trading stamps from a tiny shop in Honisham. Some said he was a money launderer. He was certainly an enigma.
‘I’m so sorry,’ sighed Cherry. It was so cruel.
‘If I sell up, I can be her full-time carer. I don’t want anyone else looking after her. I love her to bits, and it breaks my heart watching her. And at least if I sell now, we can set everything up how we want it, and maybe do a few trips before . . .
He broke off and Cherry saw his chin quiver. ‘Before she gets too bad,’ he went on.
Cherry couldn’t bear it. She could feel her heart breaking for him. Alan’s wife Gillian had been diagnosed with bowel cancer three years ago. She’d dealt with her treatment with grace and dignity, and Alan had spent as much time with her as the pub allowed. She’d had the all-clear after six months. But just after Christmas, a follow-up scan revealed it had come back. The prognosis wasn’t good.
