Every Woman for Herself (7 page)

With one sweep of her muscular arm Em cleared the table, and Flossie found herself under a sudden rain of Cellophane packages. She sat up, looking vaguely surprised.

‘Sod off out of my kitchen,’ Em said. I was relieved she was taking it so well.

Jessica laughed and began to retrieve her goodies. ‘Now, Emily, I know your bark is worse than your bite, so—’

‘No it isn’t,’ I assured her earnestly. One of Em’s bites from a childhood disagreement we had still aches in cold weather, and I certainly don’t come between her and anything she wants, any more than I’d come between a hungry dog and a big, juicy bone.

‘Perhaps we could have pasta tomorrow?’ persisted Jessica. ‘I’ll just put everything in the cupboard, shall I?’

‘You can put it anywhere you like, as long as it isn’t in my kitchen,’ Em said.

‘I – I think I’ll go and see Ran,’ Jessica said, backing towards the door.

‘Do that,’ Em said, and added, ‘Frost’s behind you.’

The great grey lurcher had indeed silently approached up the hall, and was now looming with his sad yellow eyes fixed on her.

Jessica gave a squeak of terror and shot off into the study, slamming the door.

They didn’t emerge until dinner was ready, when Father looked excited and exhausted in equal measure, which I don’t think was caused by writing the book.

The giggly little twins, Chloe and Phoebe, were decanted by someone’s mother at seven. They looked about nine, and were attenuated versions of their mother, with legs like liquorice laces. The presence of Father and Em seemed to subdue them, but once they were sent off to bed they could be heard giggling for ages.

Gloria Mundi (whose only comment on seeing my shorn, silver locks had been: ‘Well, I’ll go to the foot of ower stairs!’) stayed for dinner, but Walter had eaten a coddled egg and several scones in the kitchen and gone off to the pub.

Gloria would generally have gone too, by now, but had stayed in order to make sure I ate enough for ten people, and went to bed early. But then, I always was her favourite – probably because I was the runt of the litter.

She sat opposite, smiling at me, her pale bright eyes glowing in her crumpled face like stars in a net. She was about as close to a mother figure as we’d ever got, and it was comforting that night to have someone trying to mollycoddle me, even if, as predicted, she did make me drink a herbal brew that tasted as if it had been strained through an old sock.

Miss Grinch had been an absolute tower of strength, but Gloria was glorious.

Skint Old Cook, No. 1

How to Tell Your Mushy Peas from Your Pease Pudding

These two northern delicacies are easily distinguishable from each other. Mushy peas are simply, as the name suggests, dried marrowfat peas soaked overnight and then cooked until they go mushy and give off liquid. Much runnier than pease pudding, they are often served with chips or pies. The canned variety can be an interesting shade of green – try them with potatoes and gravy for an enticing mixture of colour combinations. Your dinner guests will never forget it!

Pease pudding is a solid, grey-greenish stodge, sometimes sold in little tubs. Made from split yellow peas boiled to a thick paste, it’s cheap, filling and full of fibre. For the desperately hungry and/or hard up, use it as a sandwich filling.

It tastes better than it looks, as so many regional delicacies do: after all, weren’t jellied eels once memorably described as looking like a bad cold in a bucket?

Chivvied by Em, I walked reluctantly down to Hoo House to meet Inga early next morning before all the children arrived at the nursery. I was worried that she wouldn’t take me on, and worried that she would, but I needn’t have bothered; I suppose if I had two heads or something she wouldn’t employ me, but after seeing some of the other members of the commune with their feet in the trough at breakfast, I wouldn’t bank on it.

They couldn’t know I was a murderess yet – but they might well have regarded it as a sort of minor peccadillo when they did find out.

The nursery was called Rainbow of Enlightenment, which is as close as they can get to the Japanese original. I’ve never heard of it, so it obviously didn’t take off like Steiner or Montessori.

Inga, a squat, damp, limp Scandinavian (no, they’re not all tall, blonde ice maidens) gloomily took me around the two big, square front rooms of the house that formed the nursery, pointing out the arrangement of the equipment: apparently the children have to complete a series of tasks in their right order. ‘Building the Rainbow of Endeavour to the Further Shores of Enlightenment …’ or something.

Susie, the other helper, was setting out paint pots and brushes.

‘We have sixteen childwen,’ lisped Inga, ‘including my own – Gunilla – who is in the gawden, being at one with Natuwe.’

‘Natuwe?’

‘Ja, Gunilla loves Mama Natuwe.’

‘Oh, right. Does she also love the Rainbow of Enlightenment?’

‘Gunilla is being bwought up by obsewving the behaviouw of The Gwoup. But it is also impowtant that she mixes with other childwen. She often chooses to join in with her fwiends as they complete thewe tasks.’

‘I see,’ I said, and so I did; no wonder staff didn’t stay long, if Gunilla was doing her own thing while the other children were put through their very structured hoops. I mean, I knew nothing much about nursery education, but it sounded a recipe for disaster.

Still, maybe Gunilla was a sweet little thing, and it would all work beautifully. Yes, and I’m Pollyanna and everything comes up roses.

I left just as the first children were arriving in a series of mammoth people carriers driven by Mummy or the nanny. The Rainbow must be trendy.

Inga greeted the children by name in the same gloomy tones: China, Poppy, Zoë and Josh were just a sample. I expected I’d get them all hopelessly mixed up.

‘Ah, Caitlin,’ Inga said to one little girl, her voice warming up to blood heat. ‘You awe eawly. Is Daddy hewe? I wanted to speak with him.’

‘Gone,’ Caitlin said succinctly. She was wearing a teddy-bear suit, the head, which I now saw was a hood with ears, pushed back. On her feet she wore flowered wellingtons, like a frivolous Paddington. ‘Daddy wants to be left alone, because he’s writing a play. And resting. And looking after me, while Mummy’s in a film. Then she’s going to marry Rod, and I’ve got a bridesmaid’s dress. Daddy says it makes me look like a meringue.’ She eyed me curiously, especially the limp black drapery and lace-up boots, then informed me: ‘My daddy’s a famous actor – he’s Mace North.’

‘Face North?’ I echoed, puzzled.

‘
Mace
North.’

‘Of course,’ I said, trying to sound impressed, which isn’t easy if you don’t watch films very often, although the name
was
ringing bells faintly somewhere. ‘Then I think I met him behind my cottage yesterday. I’m Charlie Rhymer, and I live at the Parsonage.’

‘I know Em. And Frost. Em gave me a gingerbread dragon with chocolate drop scales.’

‘Em’s my sister.’ And she wasn’t usually prone to like children. What
was
she up to?

Caitlin gave me a look of disbelief, for which I didn’t blame her. I can hardly believe I’m related to three such enormous entities myself.

‘Daddy’s frightened of Em, but I’m not.’

‘I’m suwe youw daddy isn’t fwightened of anyone!’ Inga said. ‘Wun along in; we awe neawly weady to begin.’

I took the hint and left as yet more expensive dinosaurs trundled up the drive to decant their small passengers, and as I walked home through the mushy, melting snow I tried to remember if I’d ever seen Mace North in anything (other than a red duvet).

I didn’t go to the cinema and although Matt was wont to hire DVDs, they were of the violence, sex and nastiness kind, which were not images I wanted stored in my subconscious for ever.

However, that made me think of the actor’s barbarian cheekbones, so at odds with his rather posh, mellow voice, and then I remembered where I’d seen him before: the cover of
Surprise!
magazine, the one Angie’d whipped away again.

Tartar blood, that was it.

When I got back to the Summer Cottage Flossie was just waking up, so I took her for the hundred-yard stroll she considered a strenuous trek, which got us as far up the track as the actor’s cottage (no sign of life) but not quite as far as the farm, although Madge waved from the doorway. Then I set to work to try to turn the cottage into a home.

It was just two rooms, really, built into the hillside, and partitioned off to provide a bed-sitting room and the usual facilities. The décor was a bit flowery – the last mistress’s taste, presumably – and if I was going to be here for any length of time I would have to paint it.

I set up my easel in the veranda, a gesture of hope, and arranged my plants around me, though there now weren’t enough of them to give me quite that being-towered-over-threateningly feeling. I’d brought the tall ones, it was just the thick jungle effect that was missing.

I would have to take a big chunk of the auction money, go to the nearest garden centre – and hope they’d deliver.

It wasn’t very warm, either. The two paraffin heaters were only there to stop the plants freezing, and they gave out a pleasant but strange smell all of their own (a bit like Walter).

I could do with some coconut matting over the stone flags, and electricity so that I could have lighting, and some heating …

Which sort of presupposed I was ever going to spend some time in there painting; but Em and Walter had done their best to encourage me.

I went up the stairs to the kitchen to see if Em fancied a trip out plant-hunting, and Flossie trailed wearily after me, wheezing. I felt sure all the exercise would do her good.

The kitchen was deserted except for Frost, who lifted his head and gave Flossie a leer.

Walter was in the small front room, watching TV and carving a walking stick. He grinned, but didn’t say anything. His wig, never worn, occupied its usual place of honour on the mantelpiece, draped carefully over a polystyrene head.

Father’s study door was shut with his ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on it, though if anyone was already disturbed it was Father.

There was no sign of the Treacle Tart, and the children must be at school, but the sound of hoovering was still audible from above, where Gloria Mundi was singing Gilbert and Sullivan in a falsetto.

She was the very model of a modern major-general.

I found Em eventually in the sitting room, the curtains half drawn, which is why I was well into the room before I saw that she had company.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know you were entertaining, Em. I was just going to tell you I was off to the garden centre.’

‘That’s OK – you know Xanthe, don’t you?’

Xanthe nodded graciously at me; she did look vaguely familiar from her days as Father’s Flavour of the Month.

‘And this is Lilith Tupman and Freya Frogget.’

Lilith looked like she’d been blanched under a pot. Freya was large and clad in billowing white, like over-exuberant ectoplasm.

‘I’ll leave you to it, but let me open the curtains first,’ I offered, taking hold of the heavy velvet drapes.

There was a gasp from Lilith, who held her hands to her temples and exclaimed hysterically, ‘No! No! The light must not touch my face!’

I hastily unloosed the curtains. ‘Sorry.’

Maybe she was a vampire? But then, how had she got here?

‘Would you like me to make you some coffee or something before I go?’ I offered in atonement.

‘Thanks, Charlie,’ Em said. ‘There’s a tray ready in the kitchen – just fill the pot with boiling water and bring it in, will you?’

‘You could join us,’ said Lilith, recovering. ‘If you wished?’

‘No, no, her aura is
blue
!’ Xanthe cried. ‘I cannot have blue near me … it drains my psychic energy.’

If Father hadn’t managed to drain her powers, I couldn’t see how my blue aura would.

‘Ice, I must have ice!’ gasped Freya, in a parched voice.

‘A bowl of ice from the freezer, too, please,’ said Em. ‘Do you want a hand?’

What, the Hand of Death? The Hand Of Glory? The Hand of the Baskerv—

‘No, that’s OK,’ I assured her, backing out, and starting to puzzle over the ice. Still, Em’s friends all appeared to be women of a certain age: Freya might be having a hot flush of mega proportions.

I brought the tray, which contained all sorts of home-baked goodies, plus a pot of some disgusting-smelling herbal brew reminiscent of Gloria’s best, then left them to it.

Flossie was now snuggled up to Frost, the hussy, and showed no interest in accompanying me, to the garden centre or anywhere else.

Tips for Southern Visitors, No. 1

It is possible to have any variety of Northern accent in conjunction with an intellect.

At dinner it emerged that Father had also inadvertently crashed Em’s tea party, barely escaping without being ravished by Freya, Lilith and Xanthe (well, that was
his
version, anyway).

‘Congratulations, Em,’ he said through a mouthful of home-made chicken pie. ‘Not one of your friends is normal.’

‘Speaking of normal,’ Em said coolly, ‘your son is coming home tomorrow for a rest.’

Jessica helped herself to a lettuce leaf, looked at it doubtfully, and put half back again in the bowl. ‘I haven’t met Branwell yet,’ she said. ‘Is he as dishy as you, darling?’

The two little girls, who were doing full justice to the despised stodge, giggled.

‘He’s nothing like me,’ Father said tersely. ‘Charlie’s nothing like me, either.’

‘I’m like Mother, though, and I expect Bran takes after his.’

‘Your mother’s very famous, isn’t she?’ Jessica asked. ‘Big in America. But I do think all this writing books and talking about feminism does more harm than good, don’t you?’

‘Someone’s got to speak out, especially when men are trying to claim great works of women’s fiction as their own,’ Em commented pointedly, but Father refused to rise to the bait.

‘Yes, wasn’t Elizabeth Barrett Browning lucky, having such a clever husband to write her work for her?’ I said innocently. ‘I wonder how on earth she managed before he came along? Perhaps one of her brothers?’