Olivia’s Luck (2000) (36 page)

“What’s happening? What’s going on?”

“Nothing, darling, nothing at all. Lie down now and I’ll tuck you in.”

“But what was all the fuss about?” murmured Claudia sleepily as I pulled the duvet back over her.

“Oh, nothing really. It was just – well, a fox got into the garden, that’s all. Went down the rubbish bins, made a bit of a racket. Now go back to sleep.”

“Oh.” She turned over to face the wall. “Mum?”

“Hmm?” I paused, mid-creep to the door.

“What’s – getting your leg over?”

I paused. Turned. “It’s…a riding expression. It’s, you know – how you mount a horse.”

“But why were you talking about it just now?”

“Oh, because…because Mac was thinking of chasing the fox. On horseback.”

There was a brief silence. “But we don’t have a horse.”

“Exactly,” I breathed, “which is why I told him it wasn’t such a good idea!”

She turned back, stared at me as I went to shut her door.

“And a horse has a cute little backside?”

I swallowed. “That’s it!” I agreed brightly.

She smiled, turned back to the wall again. “Nice try, Mum. Really nice try. Very creative.”

I shut the door and groaned. Leant back against it for a moment, eyes shut. Oh God. Sometimes I despaired. Sometimes I really, really despaired.

A moment later I came to, shook my head wearily, and went off down the corridor. To my own room. To bed. And for once, I thought, slamming my bedroom door behind me, I was grateful for the solitude that awaited me there.

The following morning I was decidedly frosty as I delivered the elevenses. As I banged the tray down on the side and made to stalk out, Alf stared in dismay.

“What, no bourbons?”

“Alf, I have to be in an
extremely
good mood to deliver bourbons, and if you must know, I’m feeling distinctly below par today.”

“Ah. Too many late nights,” he offered sagely.

“I don’t think so,” I muttered as I turned to go.

“Ere, hang on, luv. Lance has got somefing to say to you, haven’t you, Lance?” put in Mac quickly, digging his son in the ribs with a chisel.

“Thanks, Dad,” muttered Lance sheepishly. “I can speak for myself, and actually I thought I might do this without an audience.”

“Oh come on,” I said, turning to face him, folding my arms. “I wouldn’t have thought that would affect your performance in any way?”

He paused. “All right.” The eyes that met mine were clear, blue and steady. “I was out of order last night and I’m sorry. It shouldn’t have happened. I’ve got no excuses besides a couple of beers inside me and the fact that you’ve got an extremely provocative neighbour, but I shouldn’t have risen to it.”

Alf tittered dirtily.

“All right, Lance,” I sighed. “Let’s forget it.”

“I’ll say she was provocative,” put in Mac. “Lance here says she had all the gear – you know, corset, suspenders and stilettoes an’ that – had it all on under her jeans, just for comin’ round to babysit!”

I gaped. “You’re kidding.” So that’s what she’d meant by ‘getting ready’.

“Nah, straight up, inn’t that right, Lance? Said one minute she looked perfectly normal, sitting beside ‘im watchin’
Coronation Street
, an’ the next, she’d leapt up, whipped all her kit off, an’ bugger me if he didn’t have Miss Whiplash standing in front of him, legs astride, hands on hips, all in black lace an’ rarin’ to go!”

I groaned. God, no wonder she’d accepted with such alacrity. She’d probably been waiting for just such an opportunity, planned the whole seduction. She’d certainly had her eye on him ever since that first meeting down by the river.

I licked my lips. “Yes, well, I’m sure you didn’t stand a chance, Lance, and I accept your apology, but at the end of the day it takes two to tango, and before you tell me – ” I raised my voice above a cry of protest – “that you were putty in her hands and what’s a poor boy to do – ”

“Too right!” cried Mac.

I grinned. “I’d say we just drop the subject and make sure it doesn’t happen again, OK?”

Lance tugged his forelock and grinned. “It’ll never happen again, Miss,” he said soberly.

“Excellent.”

I bent to pick up the empty tray, hiding my smile, glad to be back on bantering terms with the boys, but also, I realised, glad about something else, too. In a funny sort of way, I was grateful to Nanette. I’d like to think I’d never been seriously tempted by Lance, but having said that, he was, let’s face it, extremely decorative, and fun to have around, and sometimes, in my lowest moments, I’d found myself looking at him with something approaching wantonness. It would be fun, a little voice in my head had assured me more than once, and fun is exactly what you need right now. A bit of uncomplicated coupling, some warmth, some tenderness, but no strings, no commitments, a place where the body and not the heart is the only participant. But seeing Nanette emerge from that caravan last night, crumpled, dishevelled and deeply undignified, made me realise it was just what I didn’t want. Casual sex was not something I’d ever gone in for, and to embark on it now, feeling vulnerable and insecure, would make me feel, I was sure, in the aftermath of the event, even more frayed at the edges, even more alone.

As I went to take the tray out, Mac called me back. “Oh, by the way, luv, I forgot to mention, you had a visitor last night.”

I turned back. “Oh really?”

“Yeah, just before we went out for a curry. Alf was monopolising the karzy in the garden, right, having a wash and brush-up, so I went for a Jimmy Riddle in the garden.”

“Do I need to know this, Mac?”

“Oh, not in yer ‘erbaceous border or anything crass, luv – I’m not a complete heathen – no, I was just takin’ a leak in the shrubs round the side. I’m conducting a little experiment, see, ‘cos did you know that urine can change the colour of a hydrangea? Straight up, pee on a hydrangea and it goes from blue to pink. It’s the acid see, and – ”

“Mac, the visitor!”

“Oh. Oh yeah.” He paused. Scratched his head. “Yeah, well anyway, there I was, havin’ a – Well anyway,” he hastened on, “round the side of the house, as I said, out of sight, like, when stone me if someone doesn’t cough behind me. Well I swung round, right, which was dangerous, like, in my predicament – lucky I missed me shoes – and saw this bird sitting on your terrace. The one at the side which you never sit on ‘cos it don’t get the sun.”

“A bird?” I frowned. “What, you mean a girl?”

“That’s it.”

“Well, who?”

“Well that’s just it, I don’t know, ‘cos I didn’t recognise her, see. But I knew it wasn’t one of yer Mollys or Imogens ‘cos I know them, right, but when I’d tucked me old man away and asked her what she was doing – politely like, ‘cos I imagined she was a friend of yours – she said she’d seen Spiro here in the front drive, on his way out to get some fags, and he’d told her you’d only gone for a quick drink down the road and wouldn’t be long, so why don’t she wait?”

I turned confused eyes on Spiro.

“Ah yes,” he piped up, remembering. “She look so tired, you see. She walk from the station, no car, so I say – ah, I so sorry, she not here, but you wait inside, she not be long, but she say – oh no, I no do that, but I seet in garden if OK. And I say – sure, ees OK, Mrs McFarllen, she so kind, she no mind!”

“But hang on, who was she? What did she look like, Spiro?”

He shrugged. “Pretty, I think, but not so much. Blondie hair, a skirty.” He shrugged again. “I don’t know.”

“You know what I think?” said Mac suddenly. “I think it was his woman. His fancy piece.”

“Whose fancy piece?” My heart lurched.

“Johnny’s, your ower half.”

I stared. “Why d’you think that, Mac?”

He frowned. “Dunno.” He shrugged, suddenly all Inspector Morse’d out; reached for his hammer. “Just a feeling, really.” He put the hammer down. Second thoughts puckered his brow. “Something…about the way she was, through,” he said carefully. “Really nervous, like she shouldn’t be here. Sitting bolt upright on that terrace an’ clutching her handbag. Shit scared too, definitely, eyes dartin’ about everywhere, and she didn’t say who she was neiver, ‘cos I asked, and said I’d take a message an’ that, but she just said she’d popped by on the off chance, hoping you’d be in.”

“And she didn’t say what it was about?”

“Nah,” Mac shook his head. “And she went soon after, too, just up and left. But if you ask me,” he wagged his hammer sagely, “it’s her guilty conscience rearin’ its ugly head!” He nodded triumphantly.

“What d’you mean?”

“Bet you anything you like she’d come round to explain herself. Listen, luv, she knows she’s nicked your husband, but it’s been a few months now, so the glory’s wearin’ off a bit and her conscience is beginning to prick her. She don’t want to be forever branded as the Scarlet Woman or what have you, ‘specially since she teaches at the school an’ it all gets about, so she’s come to get – what is it the Pope deals out?”

“Er, dispensation?”

“Nah.”

“Redemption?”

“That’s it. She’s come for a bit of that, come to make it cosy an’ above board, get it all off her chest. I know you women,” more hammer wagging, “you don’t like skulkin’ about bein’ disliked, do you? You want to be over the garden fence again, eh? Like as not she’s thought to herself – blimey, she used to be friendly to me, at the school an’ that, an’ I didn’t take her up on it. I could go now, explain myself, then we could be all chummy and everyone wouldn’t think what a cow I was. Mark my words if I’m not right.” He grinned, pleased with himself.

“Really,” I said drily. “Yes, well, thank you for that penetrating insight into the female psyche, Mac. I had no idea you were such an expert.”

“What, wiv five daughters an’ her indoors? Do me a favour! There ain’t much I don’t know about the female mind – or the body, come to that!”

Cue much raucous, dirty laughter, which I took as my own cue to leave. I went, shutting the kitchen door firmly behind me.

Funnily enough, though, I reflected as I abandoned the tray to a sideboard and wandered out gardenwards, I’d be loathe to admit it, but I had a sneaking suspicion Mac might be right. Recently, when I’d taken Claudia to school, I’d sensed that our Miss Harrison had deliberately made it her business to seek me out. I’d spot her lurking near Claudia’s classroom, quite out of her normal infant territory, searching furtively for some nonexistent nursery book in the junior bookcase, or on some other equally spurious mission.

I wandered thoughtfully down the lavender path, pulling idly at the fragrant heads and sprinkling the seeds. Likewise, I remembered with a jolt, when I’d gone to watch a ballet display the other day, there she’d been again, making it her business to be bustling around with extra props for the show. She’d obviously been alive to the fact that I’d be turning up, and had tried to catch my eye as I’d walked in. These days I hadn’t felt much like catching it, and had swept on in, head high, to take a seat.

I paused for a moment under the apple tree. And now she’d been here, had she? Looking for me. I glanced back to the side terrace and for a moment, my blood boiled. She’d sat here, in
my
garden, on
my
sacred territory. She’d taken in the glorious delphiniums, the stocks, the jasmine round the door, smelt the nicotiana placed carefully in pots around the house for night scent, seen my secret patch on a summer’s evening in all its glory. How dare she?

And the reason she’d called unannounced, of course, I realised, pulling savagely at a leaf from a low bough, was because she knew that if she telephoned, I might slam the phone down, tell her to bugger off, inform her I had nothing whatever to say to her. I walked on down to the water’s edge and stopped for a moment, gazing across to the other side, to where the dragon-flies were darting in and out of the bulrushes, under the heavy boughs of the chestnut tree. I narrowed my eyes into the sun. Nice to know she’d been a bag of nerves, though. I turned and walked back. Yes, good. And she could prepare to get even more nervous, because actually, I was getting stronger by the day. I wasn’t the cringing, cowering creature of a few weeks ago, grateful just for a glimpse of her skirt because in some warped way it brought me closer to Johnny. No, she’d had that phase, and she’d blown it. No, no,
these
days, she’d find it much harder to track me down. Harder still to confess her sins and hope for – Golly, what exactly did she want? I stopped still for a moment, dazed. An amicable arrangement or something? A civilised atmosphere, an understanding that Claudia could to go to their flat – which I’d point-blank refused to let her do – and for her, Nina, to maybe join Johnny on trips to the zoo with her? For Claudia to treat her as some sort of stepmother or something? To be a nice, big, happy, dysfunctional family?

I felt my cheeks flush with anger as I walked smartly back to the house, ducking under the rose arbour as I went, brusquely dead-heading it on the way. Oh, dream on, Miss Harrison, dream on. You see the last thing I’m feeling right now – I crushed a perfectly good rose bud viciously between my fingers – is papal.

D
ays passed. The weather, if it was possible, grew even warmer and Claudia’s school term began to draw to a close. It occurred to me, as I took her in one baking hot Monday morning, that I only had three more days of avoiding Miss Harrison’s eye before eight weeks of summer holidays, followed by Claudia passing on into the senior school in September, which, although in the same grounds, was in a totally separate building. It also occurred to me, as it had on many occasions, that being at the same school until the age of eighteen was a hell of a long time, and that although I’d rather lackadaisically assumed she’d stay, it might be time for a change. Maybe the High School in town? It was only round the corner and would certainly make life easier for me – in more ways than one. I resolved to talk to Claudia about it.

On the afternoon that Claudia broke up, by way of celebration, my mother and Howard came for tea. Claudia and I had gone to town; making scones, biscuits, a chocolate fudge cake, piling bowls high with strawberries and cream, and setting it all out on a table under the cedar tree. Deeply giggly about ‘Gran and the Man’ as Claudia called them, we sat and waited, with Claudia speculating furiously about what he’d be like – a rather twinkly Des Lynam type, she’d decided, with a bristling moustache – and me, fervently hoping Mum wouldn’t be too nervous.