Hidden Cottage (22 page)
Smug git, Jeff had thought when Owen had driven off.
He thought the same now as he joined the queue to pay for his paper and pork pie and watched Owen through the window where he was now outside on the pavement talking to Joe Coffey. Apparently they’d been at school together here in the village and Joe was building a summerhouse for Owen up at The Hidden Cottage. Jeff wondered how that was going down – old school pals and one of them now working for the other. If Owen wasn’t the thoroughly irritating man he was – a supposed paragon of altruism – Jeff would warn him that Joe had a habit of over-charging for any work he did. But in this instance, Joe could rip the client off as much as he wanted.
‘All right, Mr Channing?’
Jeff turned away from the window and realized that he was now at the front of the queue and was on the receiving end of Wendy’s sugary-pink smile. ‘That’s a nice new range of pork pies we’re doing,’ she said, indicating the pie in his hand. ‘Only just started with them last week, but they’ve been flying off the shelves. You won’t be disappointed, I guarantee it.’ Wendy had one of those grating accents that in Jeff’s opinion made her sound a bit simple. She pronounced new as
noo
and every time she said it, he itched to correct her. He never did though. Adopting the friendly voice he always did with her, he said, ‘Morning, Wendy, how are you?’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ she beamed. ‘Anything nice planned for the weekend,’ she asked, ‘other than having Jensen home?’
‘Having him home is pleasure enough,’ he lied.
Joe had disappeared when Jeff shut the shop door behind him, but now Muriel was deep in conversation with Owen. ‘Jeff!’ she called out. ‘Owen’s just come up with a marvellous idea.’
‘Oh yes,’ Jeff said. What now? Had the man discovered a cure for cancer? ‘What’s that then?’ he asked.
‘It’s about the talent show,’ Muriel said, ‘Owen’s suggested an excellent way to bring it bang up to date. Go on, Owen, you tell Jeff.’
Owen smiled. ‘I just thought that maybe you could rebrand the evening and call it Little Pelham’s Got Talent.’
Perfect, thought Jeff, talk about a god complex – now he thought he was Simon bloody Cowell! For the last few years Jeff had been the compere for the annual show, the most important role in his view; it was he who kept the evening from sliding into chaos, and who occasionally, when the acts were really poor, generated the most laughs. ‘I wasn’t aware that it needed updating,’ he said.
Muriel laughed. ‘We all need updating now and then, Jeff. Right, I’ll be off then. Have a good weekend you two. Cheerio.’
Left standing alone with Owen, Jeff said, ‘I think you’ll find that some of the longstanding stalwarts of the talent show are more resistant to change than Muriel.’
The man gave a maddening little shrug. ‘It was just a suggestion. Nothing more. The last thing I’d want to do is tread on anyone’s toes. Are you on your way home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me too. I’ll walk with you.’
Jeff forced himself to smile, all matey geniality.
They fell in step and walked in the direction of Medlar House. ‘What’s the latest on Daisy’s move to Australia?’ he asked.
In a single stroke, Jeff’s forced air of smiling matey geniality was gone. Who the hell was this man to enquire about Daisy? How dare he poke his nose into what was entirely a private matter. ‘Nothing new to report,’ he said coolly, grateful that they had now reached Medlar House.
He was just turning in to the drive when Owen said, ‘Tell Madison I’ll see her tomorrow morning. That’s if she still wants a lesson.’
Tell her yourself, Jeff thought as he went round to the back of the house. What was he now, a ruddy messenger boy?
Parked next to the barn there were two cars he didn’t recognize, probably hat customers for Mia.
In the kitchen he put the bottle opener into his pocket, helped himself to two bottles of beer from the fridge and went back outside, to the area of the garden at the side of the house that wasn’t overlooked by the barn or The Gingerbread House.
Sitting in the sun, his beer opened, his newspaper unfolded, he bit with determined relish into the pork pie. This was more like it. This would help to get his weekend back on track. God knew he needed something to improve his mood. Because ever since he’d returned from his trip to Dubai everything had gone downhill.
He still couldn’t believe that Daisy had lied to him. That she had been lying to him for some months. All that rubbish about her wanting to go to Australia as some kind of adventure she felt in need of had only been half the story.
Marriage. Unbelievable. How could she even contemplate marrying a man ten years older than her? A man they hardly knew. And to think that Jeff had thought he could trust Scott to take care of Daisy, to look out for her. How wrong he’d been.
The shock of what Daisy had done – keeping the truth from him, and such a truth! – cut so deep that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to speak to her for several days. When he’d thought he could trust himself to speak without losing his temper, he’d called her from Brussels. ‘Sweetheart, I just don’t understand why you kept this from me,’ he’d said. ‘Why did you do it? Is it because deep down you know it’s wrong, that you know you’re making a huge mistake?’
‘Dad,’ she’d said, ‘I’m sorry it’s happened the way it has, but I didn’t tell you because you always think you know what’s best for me. You never trust me to make my own decisions.’
‘That’s not true. Not true at all. But listen, if you have to go to Australia, go, just don’t rush into getting married. Take things slowly. One thing at a time. And if it doesn’t work out in Sydney, you can come back. No one will say, “I told you so,” I promise you.’
‘Please, why don’t you try listening to me, Dad? I’m not rushing into this. It’s not like Scott and I are getting married overnight. I know what I’m doing and that it’s right for
me
.’
‘You thought starving yourself to death was the right thing to do not so long ago.’ As soon as the words were out, he’d known he’d blown it.
‘Cheap shot, Dad,’ she’d said, ‘even by your standards.’ She’d then hung up on him, before he’d had a chance to apologize.
Kicking himself, he’d hit redial, but she hadn’t answered. She didn’t later that evening either. Nor the next day. That was nearly three weeks ago. Too ashamed, he hadn’t admitted to Mia what he’d said, saying only that Daisy was refusing to speak to him. Mia’s advice was to give Daisy time and space, which seemed to be her panacea for all family problems.
It wasn’t just Daisy’s betrayal that upset him; it was Mia’s as well. She had known for some days about Daisy and Scott and not told him. ‘I didn’t want to tell you over the phone,’ she’d said. ‘Knowing how it would upset you, I thought it would be better to tell you when you were home.’
Yet more rubbish. She had deliberately withheld the information from him, had deliberately excluded him from the single most important decision of Daisy’s life, a decision that would lead to her making the biggest mistake of her young life. And it was a mistake. He knew it. Marriage shouldn’t ever be rushed into. That was why he’d taken his time with Mia – he simply hadn’t been ready. He didn’t believe anyone was ready until they were nearer thirty than twenty. Marriage when you were too young could only ever end in divorce. No one knew what they really wanted until they’d got some life experience under their belt.
He sighed and took a long draw on his beer. He wished he knew what the hell it was Mia wanted these days. OK, they’d had their moments in the past when they’d had their disagreements, but as far as he could see she seemed intent on pulling in the opposite direction for no good reason other than to be difficult. First her refusal to move to Brussels with him, and now this Daisy and Scott business.
He screwed up the paper bag that had contained his pork pie and drank some more of his beer, thinking how behind his back everything was suddenly changing, with no one seeking his opinion on the matter. It was as if he didn’t count.
For the last fortnight Eliza had been spending Monday to Thursday living back at home while she worked on a new project in Milton Keynes and now Jensen and his girlfriend had some half-baked notion to leave London and move to Little Pelham. They were here now for the weekend, staying in The Gingerbread House while house-hunting.
During dinner last night Tattie had been full of talk about wanting to give Madison a more child-friendly upbringing than the one London could offer. There had also been much talk of the convenience of their work enabling them to live out of London; all they needed was the internet and a reliable train service. To Jeff’s ears it sounded like a lot of head-in-the-clouds thinking.
Mia seemed to think this latest turn of events put paid to his theory that Jensen was merely using Tattie to get back at him. He wasn’t convinced. He wouldn’t put anything past Jensen, not when the boy had a history of lying and stealing from him. Whenever he reminded Mia of the credit card Jensen had taken from his wallet to rack up a bill over the phone for three hundred quid’s worth of computer games, she always said the same: ‘He was sixteen, Jeff. He was young and not thinking straight and he’s apologized many times over to you for what he did. Now let it go.’
Jensen could apologize till his last breath and Jeff wouldn’t let it go, for the simple fact he didn’t believe his son was capable of a genuine act of contrition when it came to him.
Something else Jeff didn’t understand was Mia’s disproportionate fondness for Madison. It was a mistake for them to get too attached, because when – not if, but
when
– it all went pear-shaped, it would be harder still for the girl to cope with the break-up if she saw Mia as a surrogate grandmother.
He couldn’t help but think that for all Mia’s eagerness to analyse a problem into submission, in this instance he seemed to be the only one who was evaluating the situation and seeing the mess that lay ahead. But since no one was asking him for his opinion, all he could do was sit back and let them comprehensively screw things up. He supposed then they’d come crying to him to sort it all out.
He shook his head. His weekends weren’t supposed to be like this. When he’d taken on the job in Brussels he’d imagined he would arrive home on Friday evening and have Mia all to himself – that life, now that the children had left home, would be all about the two of them spending time alone together and enjoying themselves. Not for a second had he thought he’d be vying for his wife’s attention, squeezed out by a blasted nine-year-old girl.
Nor did he imagine that Daisy would be refusing to speak to him.
Where had it all gone wrong?
And why was it only he who could see things so clearly?
While washing up their lunch things, Daisy glanced every now and then over her shoulder to where Scott was stripping the bookshelves in the sitting area. Her visa was now sorted, their flights were booked, but watching him carefully place their things into packing boxes, which would be shipped to Sydney ahead of their departure, made the move seem so much more of a reality. They were really going.
As the days passed and their leaving date grew ever nearer – only thirty-three days to go now – Scott’s excitement grew exponentially. He would be the first to say that he had thoroughly enjoyed his time in England, but Daisy knew that Australia was home for him; it was where his roots were, where his family was and the friends he’d grown up with. She liked knowing that she was soon going to be a part of that world, a world that was his and which he assured her she would love. But really, she would be happy wherever she was, so long as she was with Scott.
The last of the cutlery washed, she pulled the plug out and let the water drain away; she dried her hands and slipped on the engagement ring Scott had surprised her with two weeks ago. ‘I was going to wait until we were in Sydney,’ he’d explained, ‘and, you know, make a big symbolic thing of it, get down on one knee and formally ask you to marry me. I had it all worked out, I was going to take you for a cruise around the harbour and pop the question.’
‘What made you change your mind?’
He’d grinned. ‘I couldn’t wait.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t,’ she’d said. ‘Go on, put it on my finger for me. Do it properly.’
Looking at the solitaire ring now, and turning her hand so the diamond twinkled in the light coming through the window, she experienced a thrill of anticipation for the life that awaited her. All the baggage she’d carried, she would leave behind. It was her chance to start life afresh, to be the person she wanted to be.
‘Hey, look what I’ve just found,’ Scott called to her. ‘I wondered where it had got to. Do you remember I said I couldn’t find it last Christmas?’
She turned to see him holding a snow globe – contained within it was an Aussie-style Santa wearing sunglasses and cut-off shorts and carrying a surfboard on his shoulder. An old friend of Scott’s in Sydney had sent it to him when he’d first moved to England. ‘Make sure you pack it safely,’ she said with a fond smile. ‘Fancy a cup of coffee?’
‘That would be great.’
Filling the kettle, she had an unexpectedly vivid memory of the moment she stopped believing in Father Christmas. She had been seven years old and it was the start of the Christmas school holidays and she, Eliza and Jensen were with Mum shopping for new fairy lights. Seeing the entrance to Santa’s Grotto at the local garden centre, Daisy had pestered to be taken inside, but Mum had said they didn’t have time. Though suspecting it wasn’t the real Santa in the garden centre grotto, Daisy was clued up enough to know that you didn’t come out empty-handed – the previous year she’d been given a pack of felt tip pens. Eager to see what was on offer this year, she pestered until Mum finally raised her voice and told her to be quiet, at which point she began to cry.
Until then Eliza and Jensen had been doing what they always did, rolling their eyes and looking bored. When her crying grew louder, Jensen taunted her with a nasty laugh, which was invitation enough for Daisy to kick him on the shin. He’d glared at her – he never hit her back, because if he did, Dad would go berserk – but Eliza had come to his defence, as she usually did, and said, ‘You always have to spoil everything don’t you? And if you weren’t such a stupid cry-baby, you’d know there’s no such thing as Father Christmas, so there’s no reason for you to go into the grotto where it’s just some silly old man in a silly red suit wearing a silly fake beard made of cotton wool giving out silly presents made in China.’ Ten years old and her sister had sounded so infuriatingly grown up.
