Simply Heaven (22 page)

So it’s not long into the day – half-past breakfast to be exact – that I get my reminder of just how much of a prisoner I am at Bourton. Because just as I’m about to get into the car for my lift to the station, the phone goes and it’s the Customs and Excise, and Rufus has to go and take the call because he’s the only person in the entire household who knows anything about it, everyone else just wanting to live off the proceeds without having to dirty their hands with commerce. So I’m left hanging about, watching the precious time tick away. I decide to go and hang about in the front courtyard and wait for him.

The rain’s stopped, anyway. I suppose one should be grateful for small mercies, especially in a climate like this. I pause on the threshold, listen to the drip-drip-drip of the drainpipes, sniff the sweet damp air. You can almost smell the cleanness. God, it could be heaven, this place: it’s just amazing how people can make a hell. Folding my arms, I crunch my way across the gravel. I’ve got no idea where I’m going, but I’m not hanging around here for anybody’s money.

Halfway across the yard, I begin to pick up a distinct whiff of nicotine. I can’t see where it’s coming from. But it’s a smell that’s seriously attractive. There’s a low murmur of voices somewhere: two female voices. A giggle, a returning laugh, and someone says: ‘I think the worst thing, on top of all the other humiliations, is having to wear these clompy bloody shoes. I never knew how much I loved my kitten heels till I started falling off the things. I mean, how can anybody feel sexy in rubber-soled moccasins?’

‘You’re right there,’ replies the other voice, which, to my interest, is Australian. ‘But at least you’re not condemned to them for bloody life like I am. Anyway: I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’ve got a basketball stuck up your skirt.’

‘Thanks for the reminder,’ says the first voice wryly. ‘And there was me having managed to forget about it.’

They laugh again. It’s the sort of relaxed, easy exchange that I’ve so far failed to register in my brief time at Bourton Allhallows. Mildly curious, I head towards the gate, because I assume that the voices must be coming from the other side of the wall. And just as I get there, the Aussie voice, raised for my benefit, suddenly says, from the depths of one of those foul variegated evergreen bushes with the shiny leaves that look as though they have been extruded in a plastics factory: ‘And talk of the devil. How’s it going down at the Fight Club, then?’

I take a couple of steps closer, peer in among the foliage. The bush, massively overgrown because it has the space to be so, has created, in straining towards the distant sunlight from its north-facing position, a perfect little outdoor room between itself and the wall, maybe two metres across. And standing inside it, in the process of passing a cigarette from one pair of extended fingers to another, are my sister-in-law, Tilly, and a woman, around my age, whose practical mouse-coloured bob is lifted by streaky golden highlights, and who sports the navy-blue polyester-and-wool uniform of a private nurse above brown boat shoes. She grins: a toothy, open faced grin that goes all the way up to the eyes.

‘G’day,’ she says. ‘Just topping up our dopamines.’

‘For God’s sake, don’t lurk,’ says Tilly. ‘If Mary catches us, there’ll be hell to pay.’

I push my way through the thinner leaf cover by the wall, land up in their damp, composty hideout. The ground is littered with butts. They obviously come here on a regular basis.

‘Hi,’ I say.

‘Hi,’ says Tilly. ‘Please don’t tell anyone. I don’t do it very often. I was just a bit wound up this morning, and—’

‘Not my place to judge,’ I tell her. ‘There are quite enough people turning pregnant women’s bodies into guilt factories without me putting my oar in.’

She looks relieved. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve met Nessa yet, have you?’

The nurse and I shake hands. I’ve caught the odd glimpse of her wheeling Beatrice about the place, but to be honest, I’ve tended to wheel myself off in the opposite direction when I have. ‘Glad to meet you,’ she says. ‘Nessa O’Neill. Welcome to the house of fun.’

Tilly bursts into a peal of half-tearful laughter. ‘God, Nessa,’ she says, ‘I don’t know how I’d get through the day if it wasn’t for you.’

‘Steady on,’ says Nessa cheerfully. ‘There’s always methadone.’

‘Don’t suppose I could have one of those, could I?’ I gesture at Nessa’s packet of Superkings. ‘I’m not having the best day myself, so far.’

She presses them into my hand. ‘You’ll get used to it. Might even start to find it funny, one day.’

There’s an odd, choked little laugh from Tilly. ‘Well, I suppose if car crash vids are your idea of fun …’

‘Come on,’ says Nessa kindly. ‘I keep telling you, darly: treat it like you fetched up in the middle of a drag show.’

Tilly snatches my cigarette from between my fingers, pokes it between her lips. Takes a tiny, teenager’s mouthful of smoke and puffs it out immediately. The baby’s going to get far more oxygen from the hyperventilation than it ever is nicotine, the way she’s smoking.

‘I thought you were going up to London today?’

‘I was. Still am if Rufus can ever tear himself away from the accounts for five minutes.’

‘God, and you must have been looking forward to it so much.’

‘You’re not wrong there. I’m starting to get cabin fever down here.’

‘Castle fever,’ says Nessa.

‘Going to get dry rot of the brain soon,’ I say.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Tilly, ‘if I’m not … you know … I know it must be difficult for you, and really, I can’t tell you how happy I am that Rufus … And you seem really … anyway.’

I wonder, not for the first time, if it’s the hormones that have made her lose the ability to finish her sentences. ‘No worries, Tilly.’ I take the cig back. ‘I’m made of sterner stuff than you think.’

‘Ooh,’ she says, ‘I don’t think you are.’

I’m about to get a bit narky when she stutters, continues: ‘I mean – I mean … sorry. My mouth doesn’t seem to work any more these days. What I mean is, I thought you were made of stern stuff the minute I clapped eyes on you … no, that’s not what I meant, either. But, you know, I’m not under … underestimating … that’s what I mean. Oh God, I wish my back didn’t hurt.’

‘As your medical adviser,’ says Nessa, ‘I think you should go and put your feet up on a large sofa somewhere. Read a book. There must be something you can read in that library.’

‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘Someone’ll come along and tell me I shouldn’t be wasting time lying around reading on a lovely day like this.’

‘It’s not a lovely day,’ Nessa points out. ‘It’s a typical shitty British early winter day. If you don’t go and clock up some rest, I’ll set your grandmother on you.’

‘Oh God. Anything but that,’ says Tilly. ‘Can I …? Thanks.’

I hand her the cig.

‘
Anyway
,’ says Nessa, ‘you’ll be best off in the library. I don’t think any member of your family has ever gone in there in the time I’ve been working here.’

Tilly hands me back the cig, does that pregnant-lady thing of prodding at the small of her back with opened fingers. ‘Daddy sometimes goes in to look up Latin for the
Telegraph
crossword. I’m not sure what there is to read, though.’

‘Books?’ ventures Nessa.

‘I suppose there might be some Dickens in there. And a full complement of gothics.’

‘That’s the spirit. Try
Hard Times
. That’ll cheer you up.’

‘Knowing my luck,’ says Tilly, ‘all I’ll find is the complete
Clarissa
, and strain my wrist trying to hold it up.’

‘Is your back really bad?’ I ask.

Her hands fly immediately to the small of her spine. ‘Awful. Feels like red-hot needles. It’s ’cause the cartilage is softening.’

‘And stress,’ adds Nessa.

‘We don’t suffer from stress in this family.’

‘No,’ says Nessa drily. ‘Well, I can think of certain individuals who have managed to avoid it most of their lives.’

‘If you like,’ I offer, ‘I could come and give it a bit of a rubdown when I get back from London. Your back, I mean. You look like you could do with it.’

Tilly brightens visibly. ‘
Would
you? All this waddling … I don’t know … Bit tense, I suppose …’

‘Sure.’

‘Awfully cold in there, of course …’

Tilly is wearing a maternity sack in weighty corduroy, woollen tights, a thick wool jumper with a roll neck and, on top of that lot, a heavy woollen cardigan. You can’t tell how fat, or thin, she really is. ‘No need. I can do it under your jumper. I can’t really give you the full works in your, um delicate condition, anyway. But I can certainly help your back.’

‘God,’ says Tilly, ‘that would be … yuh. Thank you.’

‘That’s a date, then. Hopefully I’ll’ve got myself fully kitted out in Harvey Nicks’ best designer thermals by then.’

‘God … poor you … gosh. Are you dying?’

‘Not dying, exactly. But my fingers turned blue the other day.’

‘Happens to me every time,’ says Nessa. ‘Though I’m not sure if it’s entirely related to the heating. Go
on
, Tilly, for heaven’s sake. You look like your bladder could do with emptying, as well.’

‘Well … you know …’ says Tilly, clomping from foot to foot, ‘coffee in, coffee out.’ She starts to push her way through the leaves, turns and says: ‘I don’t know why people keep insisting on calling it a delicate condition. I feel like an elephant.’

‘Look like one too,’ shoots Nessa, leans back against the wall, taps another cigarette out into her hand and says: ‘I don’t go on duty for another five minutes.’

Tilly shooshes her way away. Nessa sparks up, raises an eyebrow over the flame and says: ‘So how about you, girl? How you doing?’

‘OK,’ I say.

‘No, really?’

‘I’ll survive.’

‘That bad, eh?’

‘They’re quite a family.’

‘Sure are. You’ve got your work cut out for you there. When I heard Rufus had married an Aussie, I thought, I’ll bet she doesn’t have a clue. Probably thinks they
all
talk like they’ve got lockjaw.’

‘You were right there,’ I say.

‘Always am,’ says Nessa. ‘I mean, how could you imagine a spunk like Rufus could be related to a gaggle of inbreeds like this lot? Tell you what, he’s a credit to himself, that boy. And Tilly, too. Amazing how some people can get hopeless parenting from the word go and
still
come out on top, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. It is pretty amazing, really. But I know quite well that kids don’t always come out like the people who raised them. ‘You know what?’ I continue. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but it’s the way they’re under the impression that
they’ve
got the raw end of the bargain.’

She laughs. ‘I’m afraid that’s pretty much all the English, all the time. I’ve never met such a race for thinking they were giving benediction to the rest of the world. Not quite all of them, mind. A fair number have moved on, especially in the cities, but you get the impression that a lot of them have never got over losing the empire. Still congratulating themselves on bringing bureaucracy to India.’

‘How long have you been here, then?’

‘Eight years, going on. Married a pom.’

‘And you get used to it?’

‘Fairly much?’

‘Where did you come from.’

We’re slipping into the Aussie inflection: one minute talking, and all our statements end with question marks. Except, of course, the questions.

‘Melbourne? You.’

‘Brizzie?’

‘You don’t sound like you’re from Brizzie?’

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘We were in Sydney at first? Then Canberra? We didn’t fetch up there till I was eleven?’

‘Oh, right. I know how that is. We started off in Perth? Didn’t go to Melbourne till I was eight? Your mum and dad OK with you taking off like this, then.’

‘They have to be?’

‘They coming over for a visit.’

‘Sure. I don’t know when, though? Thought it might be an idea to wait for spring?’

‘Wise,’ she says. ‘It’s a lot better here once the days get a bit longer. If you can put them off till June, all the better. They might have some chance of two days on the trot without rain, then. So how you getting on with Mary?’

‘Pass.’

Nessa laughs. ‘Never underestimate the attachment of the
grande dame
to her firstborn.’

I don’t even really notice it at the time. Dismiss it as a slip of the tongue. Firstborn son is what she means, of course.

‘She’s one scary lady,’ continues Nessa.

‘Oh, thank God,’ I say. ‘I was beginning to think it was just me.’

‘Huh-uh. Scares the hell out of me, and I don’t scare for
nobody
.’

‘What do you reckon’s my best tack?’

Nessa considers this. Takes another drag on her ciggy. ‘Keep your head down for forty years and hope for the best?’

‘Thanks. That’s a big help.’

‘I’d move to the other side of the world and change your name. Maybe have surgery?’

The Great Hall door opens and footsteps crunch across the yard.

‘Talk of the devil,’ says Nessa.

‘Oi!’ shouts Rufus. ‘Nessa! Have you got my wife in there with you?’

‘What’s it to you?’ she shouts back.

‘I’ve come to take her to London.’

‘About bloody time,’ I say.

Nessa slouches against the wall again. ‘Just finish this off. Have a good time.’

‘Thanks. Good to meet you.’

‘Good to meet you,’ she says.

I start to push my way out through the foliage.

‘Oh, and Mel?’

I turn to look at her.

‘You know where I am, eh?’

Well, I’m not going to pretend otherwise: I like to shop. I like it a lot. Not to the degree my mum likes it, where it’s near obsessive-compulsive, but after my weeks of freezing rural dowdiness the sight of Knightsbridge is enough to set off a feeding frenzy. Within four hours of touching down at Paddington, I am staggering under the weight of the ankle-length dresses, knee-boots, velvet trousers, high-grade woollens, gloves, vests, hats and coats that will make life bearable in my new world. And with Christmas racing up towards me at an alarming pace, I’ve taken the opportunity to load up with what I hope might be appropriate gifts. It isn’t so easy, buying stuff for people who make it so clear that they don’t value anything that hasn’t been inherited. I have been so enthusiastic that I have amassed a collection of sixteen separate carrier bags, and realise at about three o’clock that I am no longer capable of manhandling them without the help of wheels.