The Sweetest Thing (34 page)

‘I’ll cover it up,’ she says, heading off to put on her wellies. Adam goes upstairs to run a bath, reminding me that I really must do something about having a shower installed.

‘What are you going to do, Sophie?’

‘Can I make the Pass the Parcel?’

‘I didn’t know we were having one.’

‘We always have a Pass the Parcel.’

‘All right then – you do that while I make the cake. I’m sure we can find some things to put in it.’ I’m hoping I haven’t left it too late to bake and ice Georgia’s cake.

Rainbow cakes are another family tradition. When I’d suggested that I do something more sophisticated this time – I had my eye on some free advertising, with Georgia’s new friend coming for tea – the birthday girl declined.

It’s a modified Victoria sponge recipe, with butter, eggs from our hens who are now each laying one a day, caster sugar, self-raising flour, and a splash of milk to adjust the resulting mixture’s consistency. I line two tins. Sometimes I make a single deep cake, sometimes two shallower ones which you can sandwich together with plain icing or chocolate butter cream. I opt for the sandwich version today – Georgia has a sweet tooth.

I divide the mixture into three, adding vanilla to the first, a splash of cochineal or the equivalent to the second and cocoa powder to the third, then stir the ingredients together, ending up with three colours: cream, a virulent pink, and brown. I drop spoonfuls of
each colour into the lined tins then, using a fork, gently swirl the colours together, taking care not to overdo it, to avoid muddying the mix.

I contacted Maria earlier to see if she could run some colours through my hair when she cuts it later. I’m still seeing Guy, after all. I don’t want him thinking I’m letting myself go.

When I’ve finished, Georgia’s cake isn’t subtle or professional in any way. Sophie helped me decorate it, and it looks decidedly homemade with its bright colours and collar of icing which has slipped down and spread across the cake board. The layer around the bottom is too thick, the layer on top too thin.

‘Never mind, Mummy, it looks like a cheerful cake,’ Sophie says. ‘Can I do a wedding cake now?’

‘I think you need a little more practice,’ I say, smiling. ‘Do you want to make the jelly while I whizz up some pizza?’ I’ve got the dough proving beside the Aga.

‘Okay,’ she says brightly, and soon there’s sticky jelly everywhere.

The kitchen looks like a bombsite when Maria arrives with her daughter, Camilla.

‘Hi,’ Maria says. ‘How are you?’

I take to her instantly. She’s a few years younger than me, slim with pale skin and strawberry-blond hair. She wears a turquoise and cream tunic top with leggings, and Converse shoes with sequins on them, the real thing.

Camilla is well-built with a big smile to match. She wears her hair, which is the same colour as her mother’s, in a neat French plait. She’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.

‘Camilla didn’t dress up,’ Maria says apologetically.
‘Georgia texted her to tell her not to worry – they’re planning to build a muck heap.’

‘I think she’s already started,’ I say, looking out of the kitchen window. In one corner of the paddock, there’s a sizeable pile of muck and Georgia’s standing on the top, rearranging it with a shovel. ‘I’d better let her know you’re here.’

We all go outside, and Georgia joins us.

‘Happy birthday,’ Camilla says, handing over a present.

‘Thank you,’ says Georgia, opening it. ‘Oh, that’s great.’ It’s a horsey stationery set, and a book entitled
Ponies Behaving Badly
. ‘I’ll be able to write to Granny, and train Bracken to be good.’

‘Is that your pony?’ Maria points towards Bracken who’s grazing on the far side of the paddock.

‘That’s Bracken,’ Georgia says adoringly, as if she’s talking about the love of her life, which I suppose she is.

‘She’s a nice-looking pony, but rather fat,’ Maria says. ‘You should bring her into the stable every day, so she can have a rest from all that grass.’

I put her bossy manner down to the fact that she’s a Pony Club mum. Georgia told me that, hoping, I think, I’d see my way to becoming one too.

‘I hear she’s been rather naughty, though, tipping you off and breaking your arm like that, Georgia.’ Maria looks at me, but I remain silent. I can’t say how I really feel about that creature with its untamed mane and beady bug-eyes, not in front of Georgia, and certainly not on her birthday.

I do talk about her later, when the girls are eating cake – Adam’s taken himself off – and Maria’s finishing my colours.

‘I’m sorry I messed you around, asking for colours on a Saturday,’ I say.

‘Oh, I don’t mind. I need all the custom I can get. It’s my hairdressing income that pays for the ponies.’

‘How many have you got?’

‘Three – there’s Camilla’s old pony, her current one and my horse.’

‘And I thought I had trouble with one!’

‘I wouldn’t be without them.’ Maria folds and sticks the last paper into my hair. ‘I can help Georgia with Bracken when she’s got that cast off.’

‘I’m not sure,’ I say.

‘I like a challenge. Jennie, I’d be careful. I wouldn’t put Camilla on any mount I thought was dangerous.’

‘It was –’ I’m breaking out into a cold sweat even talking about it ‘– really scary.’

‘Georgia said she napped then bolted.’

‘I don’t know the technical terms, but we couldn’t do a thing with her. I don’t understand – Delphi said she was a good pony.’ I try to recall the description she used. ‘Forward going.’

‘Ah, that’s a euphemism for “pulls like a train and has no brakes”.’ Maria smiles. ‘She’ll probably turn out okay. Ponies are often a bit silly at first when they move homes.’ She changes the subject. ‘Seeing the cake there, Georgia says that you run your own bakery business. I wondered if I could order a cake for Camilla’s birthday. It’s in three weeks’ time.’

While we’re waiting for my colours to develop, I show Maria my leaflets and portfolio, taking her through to the lobby to be out of earshot of the girls.

‘I do a “Princess” range,’ I say, ‘but maybe Camilla’s too old for that now. Perhaps she’d prefer something with a pony theme.’

‘A pink pony would be perfect,’ Maria says, and the deal is done. An order for a cake in part exchange for a cut and colour.

Maria rinses the papers from my hair, under the handheld shower attachment in the bath. Standing up, I wrap a towel around my head and we go back downstairs to the kitchen. I sit on one of the chairs and Maria picks her scissors and comb out of her bag.

‘How do you want it?’ she asks. ‘Do you want a trim or a restyle?’

‘Oh, I’d like a cut that makes me look ten years younger,’ I say lightly.

‘Wouldn’t we all? How about having an inch or so off all round, and some layers put in to give you some more body?’

I agree to her suggestion, and Maria’s soon tweaking and snipping at unnerving speed.

‘Do you see much of Guy?’ she asks suddenly.

‘I did see him every day, walking up and down with the cows, but they’re indoors now for the winter.’ I turn away, to hide the blush that I can feel spreading up my neck. ‘Do you know him then?’

‘We used to go to Young Farmers together.’ Although I can’t see Maria’s face, I know that she’s smiling. ‘We used to have such a laugh.’

‘Guy seems quite serious to me.’

‘He’s taken a few knocks. He and his father had some kind of power struggle going on, then his wife ran off with his brother, and now his mum’s ill. I went out with Oliver for short time – we all did. Oliver played the field, whereas Guy had one girlfriend before Tasha, and that was it.’ Maria pauses, scissors hovering. ‘I met my husband at Young Farmers. Neil’s
an agricultural engineer – he leases and repairs tractors and combines, that kind of thing.’ She tugs my hair over my cheeks, checking the length. ‘I think that’s about the right length.’ She plugs her hairdryer into the nearest socket, switches it on and continues talking while she blasts my hair.

By the time she’s finished, I feel that I know everything about her and she knows almost everything about me, apart from Guy’s and my secret passion.

Later, when Camilla and Maria have gone home, Georgia is sitting in the kitchen, reading her book.

‘You know, Mum,’ she says, looking up, ‘I reckon Bracken’s been mistreated in the past. She’s had a bad experience and it’s put her off being ridden. I don’t think she was being nasty. This book says that ponies don’t think like that.’

‘If you say so, darling.’

‘It says that most problems can be solved if you go back to basics. Bracken isn’t a bad pony.’

I’m beginning to mellow towards her. She whinnies now whenever I go outside, and she’ll stand at the fence to have her head rubbed. Maybe I’ll let Maria do some work with her sometime.

‘By the way, I like your hair, Mum.’

‘Thanks.’

‘In some lights it looks palomino and in others it looks chestnut.’

‘Right … I wasn’t intending it to come out looking like a horse.’

‘I wasn’t saying you look like a horse,’ Georgia says, smiling as she turns to the next page in her book. ‘Do you think you’d better get Maria to colour your eyebrows next time?’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘Because your eyebrows don’t match your hair any more.’

I chuckle to myself. You would have thought some of my lying ways would have rubbed off on my kids, wouldn’t you? Yet they’re always so frank.

‘Mum,’ Georgia says, her expression serious, ‘you know all this about Daddy wanting us to go and live with him?’

My heart sinks. The girls know about the situation – David has talked to them at length via Adam’s webcam, against my wishes because I thought it would be far kinder for him to have spoken to them in person. I was hoping that it wasn’t worrying them too much.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m not going back to London.’

‘Georgia, darling.’ I kneel down beside her and slide my hands around her waist.

‘I’m not going because of Bracken. I’ve told Daddy.’

‘And what did he say?’ I ask tentatively.

‘He said I’d be able to see her every other weekend when I come and stay with you.’ Eyes glittering, she bites at her lip then utters a wail of grief that tears me apart. ‘I don’t want to live with Alice! I want to live with
you
, Mummy.’

‘Oh, Georgia …’ I hold her tight, rubbing her back and tangling my fingers through her hair, like I used to when she was a baby. ‘We’ll work something out. Me and Daddy, we want you to be happy.’ I close my eyes, suppressing a sob. We just have different ideas about how to go about it.

‘Got anything to eat, Mum?’ Adam interrupts, coming into the kitchen. He takes a chocolate brownie off the rack where they’re cooling and bites into it.

‘Hey, hands off!’ I’m going to serve them up with ice cream and chocolate sauce. ‘They’re for later.’

‘What’s wrong with my little sister?’ Adam walks up and gives her a playful pinch, entirely inappropriate, considering how upset she is, but it does have the effect of distracting her.

‘Leave her alone, please,’ I say. ‘She’s having a moment.’

‘You girls are always having your moments,’ Adam says scathingly.

‘It’s better to let it all out sometimes,’ I say, gazing at him, ‘to share your worries, not bottle them up inside.’ Sadly, I muse as he walks away, I don’t think I’m getting through to him. I bite my lip. I’m not sure if I ever will.

I’ve been so involved with Jennie’s Cakes and seeing the solicitor, a rather droll old man, Mr Tarbarrels, who has an office in Talyton, that I haven’t done much about the way Adam is distancing himself even further from the family. He hates his new school. I’ve suggested he invites his classmates home for tea, but he’s disdainful of his peers, who belong to Talyton Young Farmers and get their kicks from seeing who can throw their wellies the furthest.

Today, the last Friday before the October half term, his pastoral leader has been in touch to ask why Adam wasn’t in school, something which is just as much of a surprise to me as to her because I dropped him off a short walk from the school gates this morning.

‘We’re worried about his attendance, Mrs Copeland. Since you last came in to see his tutor, he’s had two more days’ unauthorised absence and he’s appeared at student welfare with various ailments clearly linked to his lessons with Mr Hughes.’

I’m worried too, and deeply disappointed and
concerned for Adam’s safety, because if he isn’t at school, where is he? ‘Where is he?’ I ask.

‘We were hoping you might be able to tell us,’ the pastoral leader says.

‘I’m sorry, but I haven’t a clue, unless …’ I suppose he might have gone to see the cows, but I’m sure Guy would have been in touch then to let me know he wasn’t at school. It crosses my mind too that he might have decided to take off back to London to see David, or Josh. Or – I try not to think about it – he might have gone for a long walk with a few cans of lager or a bottle of spirits, to drown his sorrows.