Happy Birthday and All That (21 page)

Just what I need, Flora thought, help from some patronising tough guy. She made another attempt at the bolt.

‘Can I help?'

It was a woman's voice. The pink DMs were underwater, but the red spangles on the dungerees were unmistakable. Stella's Puppets and Magic, thought Flora, standing up.

‘I can't get this last bolt off,' said Flora. ‘Hands are too wet.'

Stella pulled out a blue silk handkerchief, and then another, and another. ‘I'll try with these,' she said. As if by magic, the bolt was off.

‘Oh thank you!' Flora gushed. She was close to tears. Together they had the wheel off and the new one on. The rain was stopping and the sun was breaking through the clouds. She could still be on time. ‘Thank you. You're drenched too now. It was so kind of you to stop. I hope your costume's not ruined.'

‘I've finished for the day. Anyway, it has a twin.'

‘You're Stella, aren't you? We've met,' said Flora. ‘You came to my niece's party, Poppy Parouselli, mostly mermaids, in Southampton.'

‘Oh,' said Stella, ‘I didn't recognise you.'

‘I don't usually look like this,' said Flora. There was water running out of her shoes.

‘You look exactly like the princess at the door at the beginning of “The Princess and the Pea”,' said Stella.

Flora laughed. ‘I know the one. Thanks so much for helping. I have to go and get changed, I've got a client to see. I'm so grateful. Thank you.'

They returned to their cars. Stella waved one of the handkerchiefs. The rain had stopped. Flora pulled away into the traffic and was gone.

There were downpours and flash floods in Wiltshire and Dorset too. It took Posy six and a half hours to get to Cornwall.

‘I feel like this is where I belong,' she said. She was stiff after the long drive. The aunts were there to greet them. Isobel was now asleep in the car, having managed to stay awake and moaning for almost the whole journey. ‘Thank goodness we're
here.' It was all just as it should be. She looked about her, stretched her arms wide and inhaled deeply the healing Cornish air. The sun was shining, the sky was blue. The children climbed out of the car, scattering crisp crumbs and raisins. Poppy and Tom hugged the aunts. James stood stiff as a petrol pump whilst he allowed himself to be kissed on the top of the head. He'd soon be holding hands with Is as they gazed into rock pools, and sitting on Bea's knee eating honey toffee.

The North Cornwall Bee Centre wasn't much more than some fields with a garden and some hens. The aunts' house was the Bee Centre, or Bee Museum as people often mistakenly called it. In the grounds were the hives, a meadow and orchard where the donkeys, Barney, Billy and Betsy lived. There were bikes in various sizes and a go-kart, and the huge wooden playpen that had once been Flora and Posy's. Upstairs in the Bee Centre were the exhibition rooms and a café of sorts. Visitors who pushed the ‘PRIVATE - STAFF ONLY' door (and many did) would find themselves stumbling into the aunts' bedrooms.

It was the dustiest, most cluttered attraction ever to appear in the guidebooks, but even so they were doing slightly better than their rivals at the Paperweight Museum down the road. Is and Bea were as busy as bees. They had 400,000 of them. The Cornish gorse and heather, and their garden with its beds and beds of lavender and roses and herbs, and the yellow tree peonies beside their door made, they said, the sweetest honey in England. Posy and Flora agreed that it tasted of the blue sky.

Is was tall for her generation, and her grey curls had once been as dark and wild as Posy's. If she was a queen bee, then Bea was a bumble. It was Bea who made the brown and yellow striped jumpers that sold in the shop, and the lines of knitted bees in black felt wellies and sometimes waistcoats and hats appropriate to their occupations. Gardener Bee held a rake and a trug, Professor Bee had a black-felt mortar board, Doctor Bee had a white coat and a stethoscope, King and Queen Bee had plush purple cloaks and gold paper crowns. Flora and
Posy's favourite was Bee-Keeping Bee with her bellows and veiled hat, made from some gauzy stuff that Bea found in the Centre's first-aid kit. As she grew older the bees' jobs became more absurd, Fishmonger Bee and Fisherman Bee, Javelin and Shotputter Bees, Photocopier Engineer Bee (this one was hard to identify) James Bond Bee …

If you costed the time spent making the bees and the jumpers, the profits would have been negative; but Aunt Bea never did. Anyway she had plenty of time, sitting behind the till in the shop or by the urn in the café, which was sometimes quiet.

‘If I had a penny for every smart alec tourist dad who quips “Not exactly yer tourist honey pot, is it love?” …' Bea grumbled.

‘Or a pound coin,' said Is, pushing a cup of tea towards her. ‘Biscuit?'

‘Actually, I've been thinking about a new line. Donkeys. I think they're just as popular with the visitors as the bees.'

‘Probably more.'

‘Knitted grey bodies, black PVC-coated fabric hooves, little hats with flowers …'

The Parousellis did their best to help in the Centre, but mostly played in the grounds and spent hours and hours on the beach. This was how Posy wanted her children to be: tanned and healthy in shorts, jumpers and canvas shoes that were bleached by the sun and turned crunchy by the salt and sand. When they closed their eyes each night they saw pebbles and shells and seaweed and rock pools behind their lids.

If The Wild Years hadn't been playing at the Gosport Festival, which paid well, Frank would have been in Cornwall too. As soon as he'd calculated that there was no danger of Posy and the children returning, he phoned Melody. The baby was overdue.

Melody answered after two rings.

‘Whoever you are, before you ask,' she said, ‘I'm still bloody here.'

‘I wasn't going to ask,' said Frank. ‘I was wondering how you were.'

‘How do you think I bloody am?'

‘I thought I might come over and see you.'

‘Got some time on your hands, have you? Where's your wife and kids then?'

‘Cornwall. Or nearly in Cornwall by now.'

‘Hang on,' said Melody. He heard Anita's voice in the background. ‘Mum says, have you got the shoe rack and the telescopic duster?'

‘Might have,' said Frank, laughing.

‘S'pose you can come over then.'

‘Be about half an hour,' said Frank. He often felt like calling her sweetheart.

It was Anita who opened the door.

‘Oh hello Frank, it's you, is it?'

‘Seems to be.'

‘Well, you might as well come in.' Frank saw her brighten at the sight of the BettaKleen bags. He realised that if Posy had been in this situation she would have brought flowers or biscuits or something for the hospital.

‘How much is that then?'

‘Er,' Frank looked down at the receipt stapled to one of the bags. ‘£13.89.'

Anita raised her eyebrows.

‘Oh, on the house …' he said.

‘Well, thanks.' He decided not to point out that it was the least he could do.

‘Where's Melody then?'

‘She's putting her feet up. She nodded towards the front room door. Frank took this as an invitation to go on through.

There was something about the room that made him want to lounge. It was all so comfy and warm - ashtrays, the
oversized sofa which had footrest bits that pulled out - you could check out any time you liked, but it would be hard to leave. The dog was asleep and gave only a muffled growl to indicate that it knew and disapproved of Frank's intrusion.

‘What're you watching?' he asked.

‘Oh, I don't know. There's nothing on,' said Melody. ‘It's all bloody lifestyle shows. As if anyone with a lifestyle would be watching this crap. I'm so bored just waiting for something to happen.'

‘Not long till “Countdown”.'

‘What? Oh, that “Countdown”. You would say that. I suppose all you Parousellis sit around competing at
Countdown
everyday. Want a biscuit?' Melody asked, pointing at the tin with her very pink toes.

Frank shook his head. ‘Got your bag packed then?'

‘Mum did it weeks ago.'

‘Anything you need?'

‘Few million pounds. My body back.'

‘Melody, you look beautiful.'

Of course Anita chose that moment to come in. Frank suspected that she listened at doors. ‘That's what I keep telling her,' she said. ‘You soon get your figure back, after the first one anyway.'

‘I've got my flat,' said Melody. ‘Two bedrooms in Canberra Towers. It'll be really nice when I've painted it. I can get the keys on Monday, assuming I'm here.'

‘Which floor?'

‘Seventh. Everyone says the same thing …'

‘Lucky!' said Frank. ‘Is there a view over the water?'

‘It's really nice. We'll be watching all the ships go by.'

‘If you want any help …'

‘My brother's doing it. But maybe. You haven't told her yet, have you?'

‘What, Posy? Well, no, not yet. She's away with the kids for half-term. It just hasn't been right.'

‘She'll find out somehow,' said Anita. ‘These things always come out in the end.'

‘Mmm. Or maybe there are lots that don't come out, that nobody ever knows about,' said Frank.

‘What?' asked Melody.

‘If the time's right I'll tell her,' he said.

‘Huh,' said Anita. ‘I won't be holding my breath.' She picked up the telescopic duster and left the room.

‘And when might the time be right?' said Melody.

‘Look, what good will knowing do her, or the children?' said Frank. He felt like adding, ‘And it's not as though you want me anyway, is it?'

‘I just kind of think that she has a right to know. People always want to know things, don't they? Nobody wants to be the last to know.' He couldn't understand why they were so bothered about Posy, what relevance it had to them.

They didn't even want him at the birth. Anita was going to be the one. Frank wasn't sure whether or not he was pleased about this. And Melody hadn't even been to her ‘parent craft' classes. (When he thought of everything that Posy had dragged him to before Jimmy was born … the NCT and the Active Birth partners' evenings … She had made him go to so-called ‘Refresher nights' for the other three too, despite the fact that when push came to shove she just hissed at his offers to massage her back.) Melody seemed to have the right idea. She said she would take everything on offer when it came to the pain.

Three days later Melody's mum rang him from the hospital. It was a girl. Born after a relatively easy, for a first time, labour.

‘I'll be there in ten minutes,' he said, and started to cry.

Melody was sitting up in bed looking pretty and pink. Her hair was up in a ponytail. He put the huge bunch of pink roses down on the bed and kissed her cheek.

‘There she is,' she said, beaming, tilting her head towards the perspex tank beside her.

‘Hang on. Don't pick her up yet or an alarm goes off.' Melody turned the key that meant he could hold the baby.

‘She is beautiful. Oh, she's wonderful.' How could he have been so stupid not to realise that he would feel like this when he held her. She didn't wake up.

‘Her eyes are very pale blue,' said Melody. ‘She's already done three dirty nappies.'

‘Oh, that's good, that's very good,' Frank whispered. ‘I love her already.'

‘Well I'm the one who gets to take her home,' said Melody.

‘She's gorgeous.'

‘I've settled on a name,' Melody announced. Frank was too busy stroking the baby's cheek to look up.

‘Oh yeah?'

‘Francesca Sapphire.'

He gulped. ‘Are you sure?'

‘Don't you like it?'

‘Of course I do,' he said. ‘It's beautiful.'

Whenever Flora felt in need of spiritual cleansing or grounding she bought herself some wonderful new soap or bath stuff, usually from ‘Michaelmas Daisy's', her favourite shop in Winchester. If she were to run a shop, it would be like this. There were great clothes upstairs where few buggies could venture, and she liked to pick up little treats for Posy (goodness knows, she needed them) and things for the children. It was her main source of presents, as well as the Mexican decorations and Christmas things that she sometimes badly needed for clients. She thought that Daisy, the proprietor, was stunningly beautiful. Flora was a favoured customer.

As soon as she stepped through the door her breathing slowed. In Daisy's shop, in Winchester, there's peace and holy quiet there, she misquoted to herself.

Today she couldn't decide between a cocoa butter soap and a thyme one.

She weighed a bar in each hand, sniffing them alternately.

‘Take them both,' said a voice beside her. She turned and smiled, but didn't recognise the woman with a cloud of dark hair rather like Posy's, soft, very laundered-looking jeans and the sort of classic, white linen shirt that magazines are always exhorting people to invest in. She was Flora's idea of perfect and neat, like an off-duty weather woman.

‘Stella,' said the woman. ‘I don't suppose you recognise me out of my puppeteer's garb.'

‘I do now,' said Flora, ‘and you're right. I'll take them both. I need some of those new mugs as well. As much as anyone can need Cath Kidston mugs that is.'

‘Oh I think one can. Cath Kidston without the kids is what I'm aiming at.'

‘They're for a client, for a present.'

‘I wish people employed you to shop for presents for me. I was just going to get something to eat. Would you like to come?' Stella asked.

The wonderful thing about women friends, about women, is that you can just say things, Flora thought. How nice to have met Stella in Michaelmas Daisy's. How nice to be invited for lunch.