Summer With My Sister (27 page)

Leila giggled. ‘I promise,’ she said, skipping into the bathroom and parking herself on the toilet in full view of Polly. ‘Wait, what about Alex’s teeth?’

Polly, who’d swung away at the sight of her niece with her knickers around her ankles, hesitated. ‘Well . . . one night without brushing them won’t do him any harm,’ she decided, creeping into the dark bedroom and treading on something hard and knobbly. Ow. What sort of insane person left
Lego
on their floor, for heaven’s sake?

‘I think you should make him do a wee, though,’ Leila called. ‘He might wet the bed otherwise. You know what boys are like.’

Again Polly hesitated. Actually, she didn’t know what boys were like any more. Not really. In fact, until this evening she’d lost touch with what children were like, full stop, having avoided them like the pox her entire adult life. She looked down at her sleeping nephew, who was surprisingly heavy in her arms, given what a skinny thing he was. His long, dark eyelashes fluttered on his cheek and a tiny smile flickered on his lips as if he was having the nicest possible dream. She’d truly meant to get him and Leila into bed by nine, but then the film had turned out to be so much fun that nobody could quite bring themselves to stop it. And then Alex had fallen asleep right there on the floor, curled up on the duvet pile like a sweet little dormouse.

‘Um . . .’ she said in answer to Leila, turning back towards the landing. Sweet and dormouse-like was all very well, but she did not want to make her nephew ‘do a wee’ as his sister had suggested. She had no idea how one went about such matters and seriously did not want to find out.

‘Just wake him up,’ Leila advised, flushing the toilet and washing her hands. She dried them, then came out of the bathroom and leaned over her brother’s sleeping body. ‘Alex! Hey, Alex,’ she hissed, prodding him. Then she pinched his nose. ‘Alex!’

He woke up, squirming and kicking out, and Polly put him carefully on the floor. ‘Are you okay? It’s time for bed, Alex. Just . . . um . . . go to the loo quickly, then I’ll tuck you in.’

She left him to it while she went downstairs to fetch their duvets. When she came back up, the children were thankfully both in their beds and Alex was already asleep again. She covered him up, and then Leila, and was about to walk away when Leila suddenly wrapped her arms around Polly’s neck and hugged her. ‘Tonight was fun,’ she said drowsily.

Polly blinked in surprise. Fun? At the start of the evening she’d been desperate to get the children in bed and out of sight. But somehow or other she’d ended up quite enjoying herself. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I suppose it was. Goodnight.’

‘Night,’ Leila murmured, her eyes closing.

Polly turned off the light and stood in the doorway for a few moments listening to them breathing. It gave her a strange feeling inside – a sort of . . .
warmth
.

Then she shook herself briskly. Warmth, indeed! She was overtired, that was all. Worn out by looking after those monkeys all evening. She took herself off to bed, hoping to fall asleep before Clare got back and had the chance to quiz her about how the babysitting had gone.

Clare was in a strange mood the next day, and crashed around in the kitchen with a face like thunder, despite it being a sunny Saturday morning. ‘Is it too much to ask,’ she began the second Polly ventured into the room, ‘for you to actually clear up the mess you make in here?’

Ahh. There was the popcorn pan she’d left on the side, along with the unwashed hot-chocolate mugs that she’d dumped in the sink.

‘I mean, I know you’re not
used
to picking up after yourself; I know you probably had a housekeeper or a fleet of staff to do all that for you in London, but—’

‘Good morning to you too,’ Polly said frostily, stalking over to the kettle. ‘I hope you had a good evening in the pub while I was babysitting your children.’ Touché. Have some of it back, Miss Up-Yourself, she thought, watching Clare falter mid-rant.

Clare’s shoulders sagged. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Fair enough. And thanks for looking after the kids. Were they okay? Leila said you watched
Harry Potter
with them.’

‘They were fine,’ Polly said, wanting to gloss over the mention of the film and how late they’d stayed up. ‘How about you? Good night?’

Clare began wiping the table, her back turned. ‘Yes,’ she said after a while. ‘Just the usual – the same girls I always meet up with, but – ’ She clammed up and Polly glanced over at her curiously.

‘What?’ she prompted. ‘You’ve gone all mysterious. Did something happen?’

Clare wrinkled her nose. ‘No, not really.’ She paused, then shook her head. ‘No, nothing. Probably had too much to drink, got a bit carried away.’

Polly watched her, puzzled, wondering what Clare was not saying. Was there some bloke on the scene maybe that Clare didn’t want to tell her about? Some juicy village gossip she’d decided not to share?
Interesting
. Polly would have to keep an eye out for what it could be. Something was going on, that was for sure.

‘We’ve had lots of interest since the open day, although people are saying the price is a little on the high side. Don’t you worry, though, Miss Johnson, I’m sure someone will snap it up very soon. Trust me.’

Polly sighed as she ended the call to the estate agent. Trust him? If only. So now he was saying the price –
his
price, don’t forget – was too high. Great. She shut her eyes, trying to make the calculations. If she lowered the price a fraction, she would still break even, according to her accountant, but then again no one ever actually
paid
the asking price, did they? She couldn’t afford to reduce it by much; she’d be left still in debt. Bloody hell. She leaned back in the deckchair, trying not to wail out loud.

The garden was providing solace at least, even if Vince hadn’t been able to. With Clare and the children out at swimming lessons, Polly had had a nice quiet hour sunning herself out there with Fred at her feet and the next
Harry Potter
to read (Leila had pressed it into her hand over breakfast, telling her she was totally going to love it). It was rather nice living somewhere with a garden, it had to be said, especially when it was turning out to be such a warm and sunny summer. The flowers smelled glorious, the bees were murmuring busily to themselves and the sky was still an early-morning misty blue. She’d never really done this in London, she realized – just sat outside with a book, letting her mind wander. For the vast part of the last twenty years she’d been inside air-conditioned buildings, barely noticing the weather, let alone the seasons changing.

She watched as a cabbage-white butterfly danced through the air before her eyes. In the past she’d never envied Clare anything, had always disagreed profoundly with every life decision her sister had made. Stay in Elderchurch all her life? No way. Marry Steve? You must be mad. Take the most boring job ever, to fit around your kids? Not in a million years.

It was strange, realizing that actually there was one thing she envied her sister for now: this garden, and the calm serenity that came simply from sitting in it. Mind you, she didn’t envy her the chickens, she thought, noticing them strutting about, picking their feet up as if they were goose-stepping, stopping to peck at the ground now and then. They gave her the creeps.

‘Yoo-hoo!’ came a voice just then. ‘Clare! I’ve got you some – Oh. You’re not Clare.’

So much for calm serenity. Polly stared at the old lady who’d just wandered into the garden, brandishing a bunch of carrots. ‘Hello,’ she said coldly.

‘Aha! You must be the sister, am I right? The
grand fromage
, as our French friends would say.’ She tapped her nose, her bright-blue eyes mischievous sparkles in her leathery, wrinkled face.

Polly had no idea who this batty old bag was, swinging those carrots by their long frilly leaves as if they were an organic flail. ‘I am Clare’s sister, yes.’
Now bugger off
.

‘Well, it’s lovely to meet you, my dear. I am Agatha. Clare’s neighbour?’

‘She hasn’t mentioned you,’ Polly said rudely.

‘Oh, thank heavens for that! Too polite to tell you about me getting locked out all the time and talking to my plants and whatnot; that
is
a relief. Anyway. Carrots – incoming. Catch!’

And before Polly could react, Agatha had thrown the bunch of muddy carrots straight into her lap, showering soil all over her bare legs. Then she wandered away, humming to herself in a high pitch.

Polly stared after her. ‘Everyone in this village is bonkers,’ she muttered.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Agatha called back over her shoulder, obviously having overhead.

Babs – or was it Marjorie? – came clucking inquisitively around Polly’s legs, and Polly swung the carrots at her in annoyance. ‘And you can bloody well get lost as well,’ she hissed. ‘Go on, shoo!’

Once Clare and the children were back, along with a powerful whiff of chlorine, Clare draped the wet costumes and towels on the washing line and went into the kitchen, saying something about a picnic lunch. Something struck Polly as odd, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

Leila bounded over, wet hair swinging, her feet slapping in purple Crocs. ‘How are you getting on with the book, Aunty Polly? Are you enjoying it?’

Polly smiled at her. Her niece was actually proving to be rather sweet. ‘It’s great,’ she replied. ‘Very exciting. How was swimming?’ she asked.

‘Cool,’ Leila said, throwing herself upside down in a handstand. She was wearing a red T-shirt with a snarling dragon on it, khaki combat trousers and a silver skull wristband. ‘We’re starting lifesaving skills. We had to dive right down at the deep end to try and pull out this dummy. It was so heavy! Hardly anyone could do it, but
I
did.’

‘Well done,’ Polly said as her niece flicked gracefully over into a backbend. ‘Just like your mum. She was always a brilliant – ’ Then she realized what the odd thing was. Only two costumes on the washing line. ‘Didn’t your mum go in the pool today?’ she asked in surprise.

Leila turned herself right way up again. ‘No,’ she said, scratching at an insect bite on her ankle. ‘She never goes in. I don’t think she likes swimming.’

Polly pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and stared at her niece. Didn’t like swimming? Clare? ‘That’s weird,’ she said. ‘She used to love it. You know she used to be really good at it, right? Swimming for the club and the county, winning loads of races and . . .’ Her voice trailed off at Leila’s blank face. ‘She never told you?’

Leila shook her head. ‘No,’ she said.

‘What sandwiches does everyone want?’ Clare bellowed through the kitchen window just then and Leila skipped away to put in her order.

‘That’s really weird,’ Polly murmured again. Swimming had always been a massive part of Clare’s life. It
had
been her life for a few years when they were teenagers, in fact. It had annoyed Polly that their shared bedroom always had a lingering pong of chlorine, thanks to Clare’s obsession with the pool; it had driven her mad, too, whenever Clare had set the alarm for some ungodly hour in the morning so that she could sneak in an early practice before school. She’d been so tireless and motivated about it, though – amazingly so, now that Polly looked back. She’d cycle to Amberley pool on her own before anyone else in the family was up, swim a mile or so, then cycle back and get ready for school.