A Place for Us (8 page)

“It’s been a great summer for gardeners. All the rain. The tree house is practically pulp, but we don’t have any children running around these days, sadly, so no use for it.” Martha pushed open the kitchen door and he followed her. “I’m shutting the door behind us because David’s in his study and he’ll try to join us.”

“Oh. Would that be so bad?”

“He’s got a deadline. He loves being distracted and he’ll hear you and come in.” She ruffled her bob with her fingers. “Do sit down, Joe. Would you like some tea? I was going to make a pot. Have a piece of gingerbread.”

Martha pulled out a large, carved wooden armchair and slid a blue-and-white plate across the table toward him. Joe took a piece gratefully—he was hungry all the time since the accident, and wondered if it might be some kind of delayed shock. He watched as she moved around the roomy kitchen. Behind her a large pair of wooden doors was folded back, leading through to the wood-paneled dining room. A jam jar of hot pink and violet-blue sweet peas stood on the sideboard. Liddy grew sweet peas back at home, obsessively trailing them through the trellis on the wall outside their little cottage. Joe breathed in, smelling their rich, heady scent. He looked around the room as she made the tea, thinking he ought to say something. Show he was engaged, keen, up for this job.

“Is that Florence?” he said, pointing to a watercolor on the wall.

Martha looked up in delight. “Yes. We did it on our honeymoon. Both of us together.”

“It’s beautiful. I studied in Italy. My catering course—we were there for a term.”

“My daughter lives in Florence,” she said. “How wonderful. Where were you?”

“In a village, middle of nowhere in Tuscany. It was great. What’s she doing there then?”

“She’s an art history professor. Mostly at the British College, but she teaches over here too. She’s very clever. Nothing like me. I studied art, but I’m no good at talking about it.”

“You’re an artist too?”

Martha folded her arms and looked down at her wedding ring. “Once, I suppose. David and I both had scholarships to the Slade. ‘Those poor East Enders,’ they used to call us. Terribly posh children from the Home Counties, and us. The girl I shared a bedsit with was called Felicity and her father was a brigadier. Golly, she did go on about him.” She smiled, and her lips parted, enough to show the gap between her teeth. “Now you’d just look it up on your phone, I suppose, but then, I had no idea what a brigadier was. After about a month, I asked David what it meant. He was the one person I could ask.”

“Did you know him from home?”

Martha suddenly snapped shut the recipe book next to her, and stood
up. “No. Different parts of London. But I’d met him before. Once.” Her voice changed. “Anyway, I don’t paint anymore. Not really. When we moved here . . . everything else took over.” She smiled, a little mechanically. “Here’s your tea.”

She doesn’t like talking about herself either.
“When you were doing it though . . . what kind of stuff did you paint?” He corrected himself. “Not stuff, sorry. Works.”

Martha laughed at that. “ ‘Works’ sounds so grand, doesn’t it? Oh, everything. I started off doing pastiches, watercolors, copying famous paintings. Used to sell them in Hyde Park on a Sunday. But latterly it was more . . . woodcuts. Prints. Nature and nurture.” Sun flickered into the room, reflected off a plane high, high above, and her green eyes flashed hazel-gold. “But it was a long time ago. And having children isn’t conducive to being the next Picasso, you know.”

“So, you’ve two children then?”

“Three.” She went over to the sink. “There’s Daisy too. She’s the middle one. She lives in India. Works for a charity—literacy and schools in Kerala.”

Joe didn’t say,
Wilbur and Daisy, I know all about her.
He somehow hadn’t thought that little girl in the cartoons he’d devoured as a child was real. “India. That’s exotic.”

“Don’t think it is, much, not with the work she does. But she’s had some wonderful results out there.” Martha washed an apple, splashing water everywhere. “Right. Do you want one of these?” He shook his head. “Then shall we draw up a list? I had a few ideas, just a couple of suggestions.”

“Will she be there for your birthday?”

She stared at him blankly and sat down again. “Who?”

“Daisy? Your daughter?” Joe said nervously.

Martha started peeling the apple with a knife. “This is a tense moment.” There was a silence as the silver cut through the shining green skin. “I like doing this in one perfect ribbon, and lately my skills are starting to slip.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “Daisy won’t be there, no.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” Joe fumbled to take his notepad out of his pocket, embarrassed.

“No, it’s fine. There’s no big drama with Daisy. She’s always been a bit—difficult. She had a baby very young, an affair with a boy she met in Africa, building wells, I think it was. Nice young boy.” Martha screwed up her face as if trying to picture him. “Giles something. Isn’t it terrible? Nice boy. Very Home Counties . . .”

She stopped as though recalling something. “Anyway. She’s out in India now and she really has made a difference. The area where she helped build the school in Cherthala has equal attendance rates for girls and boys now, and last year we—she, I should say, she did it all—raised enough money to ensure that every school in the area is on the mains system for water. It’ll save about five thousand lives a year. It’s things like that—she’s very driven, when she gets the idea in her head, you see.”

“You know a lot about it.” He was impressed.

“Well, we just—miss her. I’m interested in what interests her. And Cat—that’s her daughter—it’s sad, like I say.” Her eyes were shining.

“She’s never seen her baby? Not once?”

The spiral of skin fell on the table. Martha sliced the creamy naked apple. “Oh, a few times over the years. We raised Cat ourselves. Daisy’s always seen her when . . . you know, when she comes back. She loves being here.”

“When was the last time she came back?”

Martha looked thoughtful. “Oh . . . I’m not sure. Bill’s wedding to Karen? That was four years ago. She was a little difficult. Daisy has the zeal of the convert, do you know anyone like that? It annoys some people. Her brother . . . her sister too, come to mention it. It’s just . . .” She stopped. “Oh, nothing.”

Intrigued, Joe said, “Go on. It’s just what?”

Martha hesitated and looked over her shoulder toward the dining room, golden autumn light streaming in from the garden outside.

“It’s just—oh, Joe, it’s not the way you imagine they’ll turn out when they’re babies. When you hold them in your arms, that first time, and look at them. And you see what kind of person they are. Do you know what I mean?”

Joe nodded. He knew exactly. He could still remember the moment right after the birth, as Jemma lay back, exhausted, and the midwife turned round from the station by the bed and, like a magician
performing a magic trick, handed him this bundle in a towel, which made a mewling sound, a bit like a persistent ring tone.
Waah. Waah. Waah.

“Your son!” she’d said brightly. And he’d stared at his round, purple face, and the eyes had opened so briefly and fixed on something near Joe’s face, and what had crossed Joe’s mind was,
I know you. I know who you are.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “I knew what he was like the first time I held him. Right then just by looking at him. Like I could see his soul.”

“Exactly. That’s all. It’s not . . . it’s not what I wanted for her.” Martha paused and her green eyes filled with tears. She shrugged. “I’m sorry, Joe. I just miss her.”

“I’m sure you do.” Joe’s heart went out to her. He sipped his tea and finished the cake and, for a few moments, they sat in companionable silence. He felt once again that strangely familiar sense of contentment in her presence. As if he’d known her for a long time.

“So, then,” he said, putting down his mug. “I had a few ideas. Want to talk them over?”

“Sure,” Martha said, brushing something off her cheek. She gave a quick smile. “I’m so glad you’re doing this, Joe.”

“Well, I’m glad to be doing it.” He grinned almost shyly at her. “I thought for the family lunch on Saturday we’d do a big tapas selection, loads of dips and meats. Go up to the smokery on the Levels together and get some sausages, salmon, pâté, and the like. And then a suckling pig. Porchetta, fennel seeds, sage, a nice sort of event piece, and I can do loads of veg and all. Fruit salad and a big birthday cake for afters, and a huge cheese board, all as local as possible. How’s that sound?”

“It sounds wonderful,” she said. “I knew you’d get it.” She reached out and patted his good hand. “My mouth’s watering, just thinking about it. You can use herbs from our garden, that’d be a nice—” The door swung open behind them and she turned, half in irritation, half in amusement. “David, darling, it’s been ten minutes! Can’t you—oh,
Lucy
! Hello!”

“Hi, Gran!” A tall, curly-haired girl bounded into the room and threw her arms around Martha. “Oh, it’s nice to be back. Where’s Southpaw?”

“What are you doing here?” Martha stroked her hair.

“Sorry to surprise you, I only decided—oh, sorry again. Didn’t realize you were with someone.”

“I’m Joe,” said Joe, standing up. “Nice to meet you.”

“Lucy. Hi.” She held out her hand, staring up at him, and he shook it. She had big hazel eyes, a creamy complexion, and a wide, generous smile. There was a gap between her teeth, like her grandmother’s, and she blushed as she smiled at him, clamping one arm self-consciously over her chest.

“Oh, what a nice surprise,” said Martha. She hugged her granddaughter again, and kissed the top of her head. “Lucy, Joe’s the new chef at the Oak Tree. He’s going to do the food for the party.”

“How exciting!” Lucy said eagerly. “My stepmother can’t stop going on about you. Says you’re the best thing to happen to the village since she got there.” She took some cake and sat down. “Mm. Gran, it’s so great to be here.”

“Right. Who’s your stepmother?” Joe put another piece of gingerbread in his mouth.

“Well, I think she’s got a crush on you, so watch out.” Lucy was shoveling down cake with aplomb. “Karen Bromidge. D’you know who I mean? Thirties, small, looks like a kind of female Hitler in tight tops?”

“Lucy, don’t be rude,” said Martha. “Joe, are you all right?”

Joe was coughing, trying not to choke. “Bit . . .” He couldn’t speak. “I—”

“Get him some water,” Martha said.

Lucy jumped up, ran the tap, and handed him a glass and he tried to drink, breathing hard, feeling like an idiot.
Nice one
. She thumped him hard on the back and he spluttered, then sat down again.

Lucy wiped the crumbs off her face and turned to Martha. “So, Gran, what’s the big idea?” she said. “With this party, I mean. I got the invite. You sent it to my old address, by the way.”

“Darling, you keep moving. I don’t have your new address. What was wrong with the old flat?”

“Domestic issues,” Lucy said succinctly. “It was time.”

“You were only there three months.”

“This pigeon kept raping another pigeon on the roof outside.”

“What?”

Lucy swallowed the last of the cake. “Every morning. This pigeon with a big fluffed-up neck would chase these other pigeons and they’d try to fly away and he’d fly after them. And I’d be lying in bed and there’d be this screaming cooing noise and I’d look out and feel really bad for the girl pigeons.”

“It’s the circle of life,” Martha said. “Draw the curtains.”

“There weren’t any curtains.” Martha buried her face in her hands and laughed. Lucy ignored her. “I’m living with Irene now. It’s all right.”

“Who’s Irene?”

“Irene Huang? Irene from Alperton? Gran, you met her when we had lunch in Liberty. She’s a fashion blogger. Allegedly. She’s actually pretty annoying. She leaves these notes on the fridge about her cat and his distressed bowels and how I must not, repeat not, feed him anything myself.”

“Lucy!” said Martha, as though she were eight. “No bowels talk, please.”

Lucy shot her a look. “It’s germane.”

“It’s not bloody germane to talk about some cat’s guts.”

“The cat’s called Chairman Miaow. Now, that is germane. It’s actually quite a great name. I was sucked in by the greatness of her cat’s name and now it’s too late.”

“Why did you want to live with her? Apart from the cat?” Joe asked, trying to breathe steadily, though he could still feel exactly where the gingerbread had become stuck in his throat.

“She lives in Dalston. Dalston’s the center of everything these days.”

“Never heard of it,” said Martha.

“It’s East London,” Joe told her. “Very trendy.”

“Imagine the Greenwich Village of the fifties, today,” Lucy said.

“Oh. Right. How’s the job? Lucy works on the
Daily News
,” Martha explained to Joe.

“The job?” Lucy said brightly. “It’s great. Really great. Listen—I wanted to ask you something about it, in fact. Do you think—” There were footsteps in the hall; Joe saw how quickly Lucy flushed, and shrugged, saying quickly, “Actually, never mind,” as the kitchen door banged open and David Winter stood on the threshold, holding the door back with his stick.

“Any chance of some tea, Em?”

“Of course.” Joe saw Martha look at him. “What’s up?”

“I’m having some trouble with Wilbur. Can you come and pretend to be chasing your tail?” He caught sight of Lucy and his face lit up. “Lucy, darling, hello! This is much better. Come into the study, I need you to run around in a circle.” Lucy gave a throaty, delighted chuckle. “And Joe, wonderful! Hello there, sir. Are you here to talk about the plans for the party?”

“Hello, David.” Joe stood up and shook his hand. He felt faint. “Yes. I think we’ve agreed on the menu.”

David leaned against the table. “Well, that’s marvelous. Now I shall take this piece of gingerbread and go back to my study. Lucy . . . ?”

“I need to ask Gran something.” Lucy looked at her grandmother. “Can Joe do it?”

“Joe, please come and run around in a circle pretending to be a dog, won’t you?” David said, smiling, and Joe thought again that you’d do anything to please a man with a smile like that.