Paradise Fields (4 page)

‘The trouble is, I'm not,' said Nel.

‘Yes, you are!' Fleur and Vivian spoke as a team. ‘You're lovely. Especially since you had highlights put in,' added Vivian.

‘Look, I'm all right! I know I don't frighten the horses or anything, but no one is going to convince me that “all men” or even “any men” are going to find me sexually attractive at my age! Anyway, I found a grey hair the other day.'

‘But that's not a problem with the highlights,' said Fleur. ‘The grey doesn't show.'

‘I know that, but it wasn't in my head!'

There was yet another horrified silence. Nel had never been one to shock people on purpose, but she seemed to be doing it a lot today.

‘Age has nothing to do with it,' went on Vivian. ‘Women can be sexy in their eighties.'

‘Really?' This time it was Nel and Fleur sounding amazed.

‘Of course, I don't know that from personal experience,' went on the thirtysomething Vivian, ‘but I'm sure it's true. It comes from within.'

‘There's no point in my going on a course, then,' said Nel.

‘That is the point I am trying to make, sweetheart. If you
felt
you were the sexiest woman on earth, you would become her.'

‘Would I?' The man who had kissed her batted back into her mind like a persistent moth on a lightbulb. She realised she had taken in the fact that he had very curly eyelashes as well as the ability to affect parts of her she'd forgotten she had.

‘Well, it would make a difference,' said Vivian.

‘I'll have a look in the bookshop and see what they have in the self-help line.' Vivian and Fleur were still regarding her in the way that made Nel feel nervous. They did tend to gang up on her rather. Any minute
now they'd insist on her having her colours done and she'd never be allowed to wear black again. To distract them, she said, ‘What I really need, of course, is a book called
Fit for an Affaire
. You know, that would tell you what to do to your body if you're thinking about having sex again after years without it. I bet it doesn't exist.'

‘Mm, I could write it, though,' said Vivian thoughtfully. ‘I could think of all sorts of good tips. And not just the ones everyone else would think of.'

‘What like?' asked Nel.

‘You know, like putting leave-in conditioner on your pubic hair. Or in your case, a little hair dye.'

Nel ignored this dig. ‘You don't do that, do you? Put conditioner on it?'

‘Yes! And why not? We all spend a fortune on our other hair. Why not pay some attention—'

‘Honestly!' Fleur, who by now had finished putting on her make-up, forced the zip of her bag closed and got up. ‘Sometimes being with you two is like living in an episode of
Sex and the City
.'

‘Yes, you may take my eye-shadow to London,' said Nel, who had spotted it in Fleur's stash, ‘if you promise to ring me the moment you get there.'

‘To London, or to Jamie's house?'

‘Both. And—'

‘I will. I'll phone, I'll be the perfect houseguest, and I will be careful in London, and I'm only going for two days. Sam's taking me to the bus.' Fleur laid her cool cheek against her mother's. ‘Love you. See you later. Well, Christmas Eve.'

‘I think it's time to move on to wine, now,' said Vivian when the sudden quiet told them the house was now empty except for themselves. ‘Have you got any, or
shall I pop out for some? There's none in the rack.'

‘There's an emergency “bogof” behind the cornflakes in that cupboard. I have to hide it, or the children keep taking it to parties. People say life is too short to drink cheap wine. I think it's too long not to. I'll just finish this, then I'll try to find a corkscrew.'

‘The day I can't find a corkscrew, I'll become teetotal. It's in this drawer, isn't it?'

‘It might be. It should be, but it doesn't necessarily follow,' Nel said doubtfully.

‘It is!' Vivian was triumphant. ‘So, are you and the kids going to eat all that cake?'

‘Good Lord no! It's for the hospice Christmas raffle. Viv, you don't think there's anything different about Fleur, do you? Not extra jumpy, or anything?'

‘No. She's lovely as ever, and getting more like you every day.'

As Nel and Fleur were constantly told how alike they were, and as neither of them could see it, she ignored this. ‘It's just that Simon thought she was the other day, and asked me if she was on drugs.'

‘I think it's highly unlikely.' Vivian paused for a minute. ‘Are you just worrying because her boyfriend lives in London? They have drugs in Bristol, you know. Here, too, actually.'

‘I know! It's just that round here, if anything happened, I could be with her in minutes.'

‘Do the boys smoke dope or anything?'

‘Probably, but they don't do it here, and don't let me know anything about it.'

‘They're very protective.'

‘Yes. But what about Fleur? You really don't think there's anything different about her?'

‘No, I don't. I think Simon worries too much. And he makes you worry too, which is worse.'

‘He means well.'

‘I always think that's the worst thing anyone can say about anyone.'

Nel ate a misshapen holly leaf she didn't want. ‘I didn't mean it in a bad way. Simon is a good man. He's concerned for my family.'

Vivian patted her friend's arm. ‘I know. But I'm sure he's got lots of good points as well.'

Later, alone, Nel, waiting to wash the floor after the dogs had licked up all the spilt icing, thought about the water meadows.

She had taken the children there the first summer they arrived. It was the school holidays, and she was struggling to do something nice with them. Something normal.

There were children already playing, ranging from toddlers to school-age ones. Some of the older ones were organising the younger ones into a game of rounders. A group of mothers established round a bench smiled at Nel, encouraging her to place her rug next to theirs. They asked her if she was new to the area and clearly felt a little awkward when she told them she was a widow.

‘Oh God,' said one. ‘We've just spent the last half an hour complaining about our husbands and their irritating ways.'

‘It's all right,' said Nel. ‘My husband used to think it was helpful if he rinsed out his coffee mug, completely unaware that he hadn't washed the rim at all and there were drips all down the side.'

‘And now you'd do anything to have him leave drips down the sides of the mugs?' said another woman.

‘And hear him snoring, and farting in bed, and all the other disgusting things that men do.' Nel paused to regain her composure. ‘But it was still very irritating at the time.'

‘What did he do?'

‘Something in the City.' Nel shrugged. ‘To be honest, I always wondered if the pressure of work had something to do with him getting ill.'

‘Oh? Was it a heart attack?'

Nel shook her head. ‘Cancer. It was very quick.' Then she smiled, to keep back the tears which were threatening. ‘Very good insurance pay-off though!'

A woman, who perhaps saw how close to weeping Nel was, said, ‘So you can afford the chocolate therapy then?'

Nel nodded, biting her lip. ‘Unfortunately, my hips can't.'

It had been a golden afternoon, a turning point for Nel and her family. From then on they felt embraced by the community, and while their grief was still omnipresent, it became more livable with.

At last the dogs, a trio of Cavalier King Charles spaniels, having made their ears disgustingly sticky, decided that there wasn't anything left on the floor, and Nel started with her mop. Once she had washed one bit of floor, she decided she might as well do the rest. Simon had said he might pop round and ‘might' often meant ‘would', so Nel really had to make the necessary adjustments to the house. She would have preferred a quiet evening on her own.

She had told Simon early on that she couldn't bear
the thought of a stepfather for her children, not while they were living at home. Her two sons were away most of the time, at university, or travelling, or just out, but she knew they would resent a man in their house, telling them what to do. Nel wasn't sure she liked the idea either. She might have to make changes, and she didn't want to. But Simon was kind, took her out for meals, and did the sort of jobs that were easier for taller, stronger people. Being on her own had made her very independent, and able to tackle most jobs around the house, but sometimes it was nice not to have to drag out the ladders, but simply hand over the appropriate tools instead.

Her cosy kitchen had been partly built by her (in that she had put the flat-packs together herself). She had also created a wine rack out of a crate, and a useful cubby-hole for cleaning materials out of a painted wooden box which the Girl Guides had thrown out. It was cluttered, but that was how she liked it. A twelve-year-old Fleur had stencilled flowers round the ceiling, but fortunately they had now faded to an acceptable dimness. When it was tidy, which was hardly ever, it was extremely attractive. In fact, people would never get out of it, which was trying if Nel was cooking for a dinner party, and didn't want to be watched. It was sunny in the mornings; and big enough for the family if everyone was in a good mood, and to entertain in (just about), provided people weren't too formal. Fortunately, Nel didn't know any formal people.

Through the door was the sitting room. It had two sofas, an armchair, a fireplace and a television: too much furniture really, but the lavish number of table lamps, pictures and books made it snug in winter. And in
summer, the window, which ran the width of the room and had a deep window-seat in front of it, filled the house with light. Of course, it too looked better when it wasn't littered with newspapers, drinks cans, games machines and pet hairs, but when she lit the candles on the mantelpiece (in spite of Simon pointing out her habit was turning the ceiling black), it gave Nel a lot of pleasure.

Upstairs there were four small bedrooms. Hers was almost full of the double bed she had shared with Mark, her husband. After his death, when the family had moved into the house, they had all shared it, clinging together in their grief, until, worn out with weeping, they decided it was time to get on with their lives.

The kitchen floor clean (at least where it showed), Nel moved on to the sitting room and hoovered up the worst of the dog hairs. She didn't really have the energy for entertaining, having spent all day icing Christmas cakes, but her last telephone conversation with Simon had ended badly. She had been annoyed with him for not reacting suitably when she rang him to tell him about planning permission being reapplied for on what she had always thought was land belonging to the hospice. He had said – rather sarcastically – that she could always lie down in front of the bulldozers. He had also made her worry, possibly unnecessarily, about her daughter. As Vivian had pointed out, Nel's worrying gene was quite well developed enough without him agitating it. But to assuage her guilt, if he did come round, she would offer to cook him a meal.

She dialled his number, hoping something had cropped up, and that he couldn't come. It hadn't.

‘It's not going to be anything exotic,' Nel warned him,
trying to put him off. ‘But the children are all out of the way, so we can have a bit of peace.'

‘You should be able to have peace when they're home, Nel. It's a lovely house, or it would be if it wasn't so full of their clutter. They've all got bedrooms. And they're not really children any more.'

There was a silence. Even if Nel had wanted Simon to move in, her non-interventionist child-rearing methods would have put him off. Fleur was due to go to university next autumn, like her brothers, and Nel was aware she'd have to make a decision about him soon. But now didn't seem the right time. ‘Children are always children to their parents, Simon. Think of your mother.'

He chuckled. ‘I do, frequently. Now, what time do you want me to come round?'

‘About eight. I'll make us a cheese soufflé.'

‘A man could marry a girl for her cheese soufflé, you know.'

Nel laughed awkwardly and said goodbye. After her chat with Vivian and Fleur, while she'd been sweeping and plumping cushions, she'd thought about her moribund sex life, and whether, or how, she should revive it. But having a sex life was one thing, getting married quite another. Besides, Simon's mother would be the sort of mother-in-law bad comedians made jokes about.

Now she fetched kindling to light the fire, wishing there was a child around to do it for her. Nel was perfectly capable of lighting a fire, but long ago her children had decided they were better at it, and as she was hopeless at getting them to do chores, she was grateful for any they undertook for themselves.

When they first began to get to know each other,
Simon let it be known that he thought Nel indulged her children, but told her kindly it was probably because she was a single parent and they had no father figure. Nel had been furious, stating she'd indulged them just as much when Mark had been alive. After that, Simon had kept his opinions about her children to himself for quite a long time.

By the time Simon arrived, there was a superficial order. The dogs were nestled on freshly shaken throws on plumped-up sofa cushions; there were new candles alight; and the fire was going well enough not to make Simon's hand itch for the poker. Nel had even remembered to place the logs from front to back, so he wouldn't feel obliged to tell her this was the best way.

After she had sat him down in front of the fire with the paper and a glass of wine, she retreated to the kitchen. While she was grating cheese and measuring flour, Nel thought yet again about what Fleur and Vivian had said that day. ‘Use it or lose it,' Vivian had told her, after Fleur had gone. Now could be the time. Perhaps she should put a bottle of white wine in the fridge, to add to the one that Simon had brought. Perhaps she should redo her already redone make-up, and make eyes at him.