Knit One Pearl One Page 33

  “Max already put me on alert this morning, so there’s a courier delivering tomorrow. More of the baby cashmere and cotton, and some new patterns I thought you might like to see. But are you sure you’re not overdoing, Grace? You are taking rests and everything, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, we’ve hired a nurse, who does my blood pressure, and everything is normal, so there’s quite enough fussing going on with Max and her without you joining in, thank you. Tell me all the news. Max says the town won a medal?”

  “Yes, for the Best Seaside, everyone’s thrilled.”

  “And?”

  “Not much else really. We survived the school holidays, we had a couple of days in Devon, with Daniel Fitzgerald actually, and now they’re back at school and I’ve ended up with a knit-a-Nativity project, so that’s a bit worrying.”

  She laughs. “So he’s finally spent some proper time with Pearl. Good for him, not a total loser then after all. And?”

  “Sorry?”

  “How much time did you spend with the lovely Mr. Fitzgerald, one-on-one?”

  “Grace, I don’t.”

  “Don’t try to kid me, darling. I know him. There’s no way he’d be able to resist his very own Madonna and Child. You know he’s not good enough for you, don’t you? He might show some potential on the father front, I can see that, and he’d be mad not to, she’s such a poppet. But he’s nowhere near ready for anything else.”

  “You mean if I turned up on his doorstep, with the kids, and said, Right, here we are, he’d have the mother of all panic attacks and be on a flight before I’d even got the bags out of the car?”

  “Exactly. Good for you, darling, I always forget how sensible you are.”

  “Can I ask you something? And be honest. If I was, well, more like you. Beautiful and—”

  “Please don’t, darling, or you’ll have me in tears. I’m very tearful at the moment, the slightest thing can set me off, it must be all those fucking hormones. But if you were the most beautiful woman in the universe, it would still be the same. And by the way, nobody is ever as perfect as they want to be, ever. That way lies total madness.”

  “I sort of knew that, I just wanted to ask.”

  “You’re way out of his league, darling.”

  “I know, I just—”

  “No, you idiot, you’re way above his league. You play for real; he’s still stuck in the imaginary world of beautiful light and getting the perfect shot. Trust me, I know the type, I’m pretty similar myself, although I’d never admit to it. But you’re more real than that. You just have to look at your kids to know that.”

  “What a lovely thing to say.”

  “My pleasure. It happens to be true. And anyway, I don’t want to lose my knitting coach.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll see you when we’re back.”

  “Lovely.”

  “And darling?”

  “Yes Grace.”

  “Tell him to watch his fucking step from me, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  The boys come home from school on Thursday with some sort of mystery bug, so I have to race home early from my Stitch and Bitch group to rescue Gran from Archie, who always makes a huge fuss at the slightest sniffle. They spend the whole of Friday whining and moaning with slight temperatures and lots of coughing and sneezing, and then annoyingly perk up on Saturday, once they’re sure it’s not a school morning, whereas I feel like death warmed up. Archie brings me up a wet flannel, and a cup of tea made with cold water, which is obviously delicious, and then asks me if he and Jack can make pancakes. I can’t actually think of anything better designed to get a sick mother belting downstairs than the prospect of two small boys flipping pancakes in a red-hot frying pan and filling the kitchen with smoke. I’ve been waiting for the cavalry to arrive in the form of Gran, with soup, for what seems like hours, but it’s Martin who arrives, wearing his tragic anorak and looking completely filthy.

  “I’m sorry to turn up like this, I’ve just been down to the boat to check everything was okay and Trevor got a bit excited.”

  He looks like he’s been dragged through quite a lot of mud, which, knowing Trevor, he probably has.

  “Where is he?”

  “Dad took him home to wash him; he’s in no state to go visiting.”

  He’s grinning. “Mum will go nuts when she finds out. Anyway, can I come in?”

  “Of course, sorry.”

  Bugger. I’m feeling worse and worse, but I can hardly let him in and then crawl upstairs and collapse, he’ll think I’m making a point. So we sit in the kitchen, and he doesn’t appear to notice that I’m still in my dressing gown and constantly sneezing while I make the tea.

  “I am very sorry, you know, about the last time we spoke.”

  “It’s fine, Martin.”

  “I just don’t want to be dull old dependable Martin. I’m not a total pushover, you know.”

  I look at him, and he grins. “I might not be around forever, you know.”

  “Where are you going then?”

  “I don’t know, I might go somewhere on the boat.”

  We both smile.

  “I realize I need to make more of an effort, with us I mean, our relationship.”

  “I don’t think it should be an effort, Martin.”

  “No, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just think we should spend more time together; we could have a rota or something, make sure we go away for a weekend occasionally. Once I get the barn sorted, we can spend some of our time there too. We could write a list of things we want to do, places we’d like to visit, and then make sure we do them.”

  Great, another bloody list.

  I pour the tea and hand him his cup.

  “Thanks. I think we need to make more of an effort, that’s all I’m trying to say.”

  Actually, the only effort I can make at the moment is to stay sitting upright, but he’s oblivious.

  “I do know what you mean, Martin.”

  “Do you? That’s great; because I’m not sure I’m explaining it very well. Anyway, I should be able to get loads done on the barn when this job’s finally finished. I’ve earned a fortune in overtime.”

  “That’s good.”

  He starts telling me all about the plans for underfloor heating at the barn, and I can see he’s so relieved we’re back on what I’m sure he’d call an even keel given his newly found passion for nautical terminology that I haven’t got the heart to stop him. Not that I want to. I just don’t want to feel like we’re back in a rut. But I’ll have to talk to him about it another day, because I’m feeling on the point of hallucinating when Gran finally makes him leave and marches me back up to bed, with hot lemon and lots of lovely tablets. I catch sight of myself in the mirror on my chest of drawers and realize that I have a bright red nose, and my eyes are all puffy. So that’s rather mortifying. But at least the upside of Martin being a tiny bit oblivious to normal social signals is that it doesn’t matter if you happen to look like the dong with the luminous nose when he pops round for a chat. I’m still confused about Daniel, and whether I should be telling Martin about Devon, or if it doesn’t count since we weren’t technically seeing each other then, what with him being off in a megastrop. Maybe when the room stops spinning and I’ve had a sleep, it will all become clear to me.

  Or possibly not.

  I’m still feeling shaky on Sunday, but less feverish and tragic, not least because Gran has insisted on practically moving in with Reg and making me stop in bed all day. Just one more reason why I can’t imagine how I’d ever cope without her. She’s downstairs making egg and chips for supper; she sent Reg home for her chip pan earlier on. The boys are thrilled, and so am I. Egg and chips was our favorite supper when Vin and I used to come to stay with her for our summer holidays.

  Jack comes up, holding the phone.

  “It’s Daniel, Mum.”

  “Oh, right. Thanks love.”

  He races back downstairs to keep an eye on the progress
of the chips.

  “Hello Daniel.”

  “I gather chips are on the menu.”

  “Yes, we’re all thrilled.”

  “So I gathered. Well, save some for me. We might be down near you next week. I’ll nip in and see Queenie if that’s okay, for that job where we were looking at locations near you the last time I visited. The one that was on, then off, then back on again.”

  I know the feeling.

  “How’s it going, angel?”

  “Crap, to be honest. I’ve had a horrible cold, I’ve still got it, actually. I look like the dong with the luminous nose, and I feel like it too.”

  “Had any thoughts about moving up to town?”

  He’s sounding nervous now. And I know, without him saying anything, that he’s changing his mind, he’s less keen on the idea now. And I don’t even really mind.

  “Yes. I’ve put the house on the market, but I’ve been thinking, and we should get married before we move in, don’t you think?”

  He’s silent, but I’m sure I can hear him panicking.

  “I’m joking, Daniel.”

  “Christ, you had me going there.”

  “So do I take it you’ve started to go off the idea? Be honest, Daniel.”

  “Maybe a little. Is that okay, angel?”

  “Of course. You were never going to want to settle down, with a ready-made family and a middle-aged woman with creaking knees.”

  “I like your knees.”

  “Daniel.”

  “Well I might not have entirely got it out of my system, this wandering-around-the-world thing. Not entirely. I might not be ready to totally embrace family life, in all its glory. But I want to be a proper dad.”

  “Yes, and I’m all for that, you know I am, as long as you don’t keep appearing and disappearing, and making her feel insecure. Because if you muck her about, I’ll have to kill you.”

  He laughs. “Yes, but are you sure?”

  “We’re not just talking about Pearl, it’s me and the boys too, and that’s quite a lot of pressure for one little girl. And anyway, I think we’re worth more than that, Daniel.”

  “More than what?”

  “More than living together. Because we like each other, and you love Pearl.”

  “I love you too, angel, I really do. I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t. You’re so real.”

  “I know, and I love you too, but it’s not real life. And when I’m even more real, in ten years’ time? Can I ask you something Daniel?”

  “Sure.”

  “How many women do you think you’ve had flings with, over the past ten years?”

  “I don’t know, angel, honestly. A few.”

  “And how many in the next ten years, if you were living with someone real and the kids were teenagers, and being, well, teenagers? How many models and bright young things would have moments in Venice, or Devon, or pretty much anywhere?”

  “I don’t know, angel. I’d try, I really would, but—”

  “I’m not trying to catch you out. It’s fine, but it’s not the way I want to live. I’ve already done that with Nick. I don’t want to feel second best, or feel that the thing you love most about me is my daughter.”

  He’s silent again. “Good for you, angel.”

  “We can be friends, and Pearl’s mum and dad. That’s pretty good, isn’t it?”

  “Bloody amazing. You’re the first woman I’ve ever really been able to say that about.”

  “I should bloody hope so.”

  “No, I mean the friends thing. I’ve never really seen the point before.”

  I laugh.

  “Men don’t, angel. They say they do, but they don’t really. We don’t want friends, not like women do. We can’t sustain it. Too much talking, not enough, well, not enough not talking. But I don’t want to miss being her dad, racketing around the world. I’ll wake up and she’ll be all grown up.”

  “Well don’t then. We’ll be friends and spends years and years watching her grow up, and being there for her, and each other, whatever happens, and I think that’s brilliant, don’t you? There’s just one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “Don’t parade a series of gorgeous young things through my kitchen every time you come to see Pearl, okay?”

  He laughs. “Deal. And you’re still my jumbly girl, you know that, don’t you? See, I read that bloody nursery rhyme book to Queenie so many times I know it off by heart now.”

  “Good, because for a minute there I thought you meant it looks like I get my clothes in jumble sales. But if you’re quoting Edward Lear, that’s okay.”

  He laughs.

  “Jumble sales are Vintage, angel, very cool.”

  “Night Daniel.”

  “Night angel.”

  I have a quiet moment, feeling tearful, but I’m sure that’s just this bloody cold. There’s a part of me that wishes things were different, that I was ten years younger and I didn’t know what I know. But only a small part.

  “Mum.”

  “Yes Jack.”

  “The chips are ready.”

  It just goes to show, to every cloud there’s definitely a silver lining.

  “Lovely darling, I’ll be down in a minute.”

  It’s half past seven in the morning, and I’m trying to finish the list for the birthday party tomorrow. I can’t believe it’s the middle of October already, and Pearl is nearly two and Jack is going to be ten. Ten; it’s ridiculous, it seems like only five minutes ago when he was a baby. The past few weeks have passed in a blur of knitting and Nativity plans, but we’ve finally settled on Jack’s favorite party theme, which is what he wants every year although he likes to take his time before he finally decides. A bonfire fancy-dress party with a Halloween theme, with Pearl being allowed to have her own cake and a share in the celebrations. I’m sure when she’s bigger we’ll be Princesses a-go-go, but this year she won’t really care as long as I don’t try to dress her up as a pumpkin.

  I call Ellen for a catch-up chat.

  “I’m sorry we won’t be there, darling.”

  “You’d be mad to miss the chance of a few days away, all expenses paid.”

  “I know, but the hotel is full of telly people, and Eddie didn’t sleep that well in his travel cot last night. I’ll have to book him and Harry their own room for tonight if he carries on; there’s not much point spending all day in the spa if I’m awake half the bloody night. And I’ve got to give a speech later, Broadcasting Tomorrow Today, some bollocks like that.”

  “We’ll see you next weekend, and we can have another birthday moment then.”

  “Okay, so you’re sorted with the Village Hall and everything?”

  “Yes, Gran fixed it. They get really booked up, but there was one Sunday afternoon slot pending for the Bowls Club, so she nabbed it. We can use the field at the back for the bonfire, Reg and Jeffrey are in charge of that, and the fireworks, and Elsie’s volunteered herself for sparkler patrol.”

  “What’s sparkler patrol?”

  “Making sure nobody sets fire to their gloves.”

  “Good plan. Did you find the Halloween tablecloths?”

  “Yup, and paper plates, paper everything, so in theory we can fill a couple of rubbish bags at the end and we’ll be done. Mark’s doing the cakes, and bringing some of his butternut squash soup for the grown-ups, and I’m doing loads of baked potatoes. Christ, I better add more baking potatoes to my list.”

  “Darling.”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember to breathe.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, you haven’t got nearly forty kids and God knows how many adults coming to a tea party. Just pray it doesn’t rain, would you?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  It’s not raining. Hurrah. Martin’s finally back from the last bit of his tour of the major cities in the U.K., so he’s out in the field with Graham, rearranging the bonfire while Reg and Jeffrey set up the fireworks. They’re enjoying themselves
so much they were seriously discussing buying walkie-talkies for better coordination last week; I’m surprised they haven’t bought special jackets.

  The noise in the hall is indescribable. Gran and Betty are in charge of musical chairs, and then we’ll move on to pin the tail on the Halloween donkey, and then musical statues to calm them down before we sit them at the trestle tables for tea. I’ve got three pass the parcels wrapped in my bag, just to keep everything going. If only the bloody cocktail sausages would cook in the antique oven, which seems to do stone cold or tepid as its two temperature options, we’d be fine. Pretty much everything else is ready.

  “Do you need a hand?”

  “No thanks, Tina. I’m just waiting for the sausages to cook and we’re all done.”

  “You’ve put on quite a spread; it must have taken you ages.”

  “Gran and Betty love making party food, it’s mostly down to them.”

  “Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “Yes please, that would be great.”

  She puts the kettle on and rinses out the big catering teapot. “How many bags do I put in?”

  “Six, and then everyone can have a cup, if they’re not in the middle of musical chairs that is.”

  I give the sausages another anxious check, but the oven’s finally warming up. “Ten more minutes, I think.”

  “Have a breather, love. Here, sit on that stool. I meant to tell you, have you heard the latest about Mrs. Bentley?”

  The new classroom assistant for Archie’s class has turned out to be a bit of a star. Mrs. Berry loves her; she’s always been a great teacher and handles Archie brilliantly, but with Mrs. Bentley as backup, they’ve been doing all sorts of new projects. She’s not only helping out with the knitting but she’s also turned out to be Mrs. Bentley-Harrington, part of the local posh Harrington family, so Annabel has naturally assumed she’d become part of her coterie what with the snooty name and a rather good line in imperious glances. But the person she’s been most imperious with is Annabel, which we’ve all been enjoying immensely.

  “We were talking about it in the salon with Jane Johnson, and apparently Annabel invited Mrs. Bentley to one of her ‘little kitchen suppers,’ you know, those ones where she goes all posh and gets the silver out, like that one Cath went to by mistake when she first moved down here, only she turned her down flat, in front of Jane. She said it was brilliant, and Annabel was so furious she broke her pencil, snapped the end right off, Jane says.”