The Christmas Surprise (25 page)

‘I heard she had the builders in,’ said Rosie crossly. ‘Making herself the perfect home in the country. For one person to bounce around in all by themselves.’

‘Now, now,’ said Lilian. ‘No point in being bitter about something you never had.’

‘You can talk!’ said Rosie, and they smiled at one another.

‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘I know, you’re totally right, I shouldn’t even think about it. And anyway, we should probably move to town.’

Lilian heaved a sigh and stared for a moment into the fire.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I wonder what Henry would say.’

Rosie looked at her. Henry had a useful way of knowing exactly what Lilian would like.

‘Henry would say, you know, the cottage … it’s not my home any more. This is my home now.’ She looked around. ‘And you made it possible.’

Rosie shrugged.

‘And now you need a home.’ She leaned forward gently and patted Rosie on the hand. ‘You can sell it, you know. You should.’

‘Sell your lovely cottage?’ said Rosie. ‘We were only going to rent it out.’

‘Well you can’t live there, up a ladder. What are you going to do when Apostil starts crawling? When he needs his own room? When he starts eating my roses?’ She placed her hands in her lap. ‘No, it’s quite decided. You must sell the cottage and get yourselves somewhere more suitable, and some of the money can cover me here, can’t it? It’s never had one of those … mortgage thingies.’

‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘Of course we’d give all the money back to you, of course we would.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Lilian. ‘I know you’re not taking a proper salary from the shop. We’ll see what it will fetch, then what I need to stay here for another—’

‘Twenty years,’ said Rosie stoutly.

‘Year or so,’ said Lilian at the same moment.

There was a pause. Lilian looked into the fire again.

‘I do miss him so,’ she said quietly. ‘I do so want to be with him.’

‘We will always take care of you,’ said Rosie softly. ‘And I thought we could do it without you having to give up your home.’

‘Well, you have a family now,’ said Lilian. ‘Nothing but trouble, I don’t know why you bother, much easier without.’

Rosie grinned.

‘And that one is going to be cheeky. I can always tell. I know children. Plus you have that handful of a Stephen Lakeman to look after.’

‘I like doing those things, though,’ protested Rosie.

‘I know,’ said Lilian. ‘Anyway my mind is quite made up. And Angie agrees with me.’

‘What do you mean, Angie agrees with you?’

‘Oh, she’s on the phone all the time, blah blah, you know, Rosie’s house is too small, blah blah, you should really get rid of it, give her a foot on the ladder.’

‘She is AWFUL, my mother,’ said Rosie.

‘Oh no, she’s great,’ said Lilian. ‘Right. Get the estate agent in.’

‘But your lovely things …’

‘What, I won’t have a guest room wherever you go? You’re moving to Darkest Peru?’

‘No!’

‘Well then. I shall see my things. And they are only things, not people.’

She waved her hands as Rosie leant in to give her a
hug. A shrill alarm went off in the sitting room and Cathryn marched past, a stern look on her face.

‘Well, somebody in this room is wet,’ they heard her say, as Lilian, smiling, shook her head, and Rosie leapt up to go and attend to things.

‘So can we go and visit our African school?’

The questions at Lipton Primary hadn’t got any less relentless. Stephen had described for them the hope and the poverty and had even managed to find a video Faustine had of the children of the village singing.

The Lipton children now were completely obsessed, particularly with buying them shoes. Various events for fund-raising had been suggested, including Chloe Carr-Beckley doing a sponsored silence, and various boys volunteering to sit in a bath of baked beans for anything up to a year. Stephen managed to get them back to their quiet morning work, but at lunchtime he allowed them to stay in – it was filthy wet outside, although this didn’t seem to bother most of them, country children as they were, and the playground was a sea of red and black parkas – and several of them followed him to the new music and art room, where he smiled and acquiesced and promised to teach them an African song, then, accompanying them in a clunky fashion on the piano, videoed them singing
‘Jerusalem’ to send back to Faustine. She might be able to show it to the village children on her phone.

So he was in a bouncy mood, despite everything, as he marched back up the cobbled street in the gloom, to be greeted by Rosie telling him about Joy.

‘She said
what
?’

‘Um, she said she was coming back.’

‘When?’

‘She wouldn’t say. Just that she needs to check us all out. And Ap probably can’t come to work with me.’

‘Screw that, of course he can. That’s what babies have been doing for thousands of years.’

‘And she doesn’t like the sleeping arrangements.’

‘Well she can eff off and live in a hut in Kduli,’ said Stephen. ‘And I’ll tell her that when I see her.’

Rosie winced. He would too.

‘What? What’s the problem? You want me to kowtow to the social worker, tell her she’s right about everything and can Nazi into our lives and pass judgement on everything we say and think and do?’

‘Um, kind of,’ said Rosie. ‘Just for a bit, till she leaves us alone.’

‘What’s she going to do?’ said Stephen, some of his old hauteur resurfacing. ‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously, she could take the baby away,’ said Rosie.
‘Lilian says they do that all the time.’

‘Yes, but Lilian only reads newspapers sanctioned by fascists,’ said Stephen. ‘It’s nonsense.’

‘Just in case it’s not nonsense—’ began Rosie, sensing she was on dangerous ground but not quite sure where to stop. Also she had to tell Stephen about the house.

Suddenly there was a sharp rapping on the door. Rosie and Stephen looked at each other.

‘
Heil!
’ said Stephen.

‘Shut up!’ hissed Rosie. The last thing she needed was Joy walking in on a domestic.

‘
Jawohl, mein Führer
,’ said Stephen, and Rosie gave him the feud eyes, but it didn’t seem to make any difference at all. Stephen picked up Apostil defensively whilst Rosie strode over and opened the door.

To her surprise, it wasn’t Joy standing there, clipboard at the ready, but Pamela, who, on seeing Rosie, immediately burst into noisy tears.

‘What’s up?’ said Rosie, ushering her into the cosy sitting room.

Pamela sat down.

‘Can I smoke in here?’

‘No!’ said Rosie.

Pamela looked straight at the fire.

‘That fire is smoking.’

‘Well it’s not choking the baby.’

‘You think?’

‘You can go out the back door!’ said Stephen.

‘Oh, thanks. Family!’

‘Would you like a drink?’ said Rosie tactfully, glancing over to Lilian’s drinks cupboard.

‘Yes. Can I have a martini?’

‘Not sure,’ said Rosie. ‘Is that the one with gin and stuff?’

Stephen marched over.

‘I’ll do it.’

Pamela nodded gratefully and took the outstretched glass, complete with maraschino cherry. Lilian was never without them.

‘What’s up, sis?’ Stephen said, standing with his bad leg nearest the fire, Rosie noticed. The long spells of cold weather did it no good.

‘Oh GOD, our FRICKING mother.’

Rosie and Stephen glanced at one another. Had Henrietta changed her mind?

‘What’s up now?’

‘Oh GOD. Heritage tours this. Roof repairs that. She never stops banging on.’

Stephen nodded sagely.

‘Quite.’

‘I’m a banker, for God’s sake. Why do I want to talk to some dweeb from the National Trust?’ She took a large gulp of her drink. ‘Oh GOD, it’s just so TEDIOUS.’

Rosie covered up the pile of estate agents’ listings she’d received. The brochures did their best, but there was only so much you could do with tired patterned carpets, aubergine bathrooms, and tiny scrubby back gardens pressed up against one another in long rows. She blinked and crossed her fingers. Maybe Pamela was
going to go back to the US and give up on all this nonsense.

‘I’ve made a decision,’ Pamela said.

Rosie and Stephen moved imperceptibly closer together.

‘I’m just going to ignore all her advice. And the so-called historical experts. I’m just going to do it my way. Make Peak House fabulous, worry about the rest of it later. It’s peaceful up there. I like it.’

‘So,’ said Rosie, refreshing Pamela’s drink. She tried to keep her tone conversational. ‘Not heading back to New York?’

‘You know,’ said Pamela, swirling her drink, ‘I am totally going to stay a while. Work online for a bit. Calm down. Get in touch with my family.’

‘Fired,’ said Stephen quietly. Pamela rolled her eyes.

‘
Everyone
gets fired, darling,’ she said. ‘You’re nothing if you haven’t been fired. Fucking regulators.’

‘Don’t swear in front of the baby!’ said Rosie.

‘But he’s a fucking baby.’

Stephen gave Pamela a filthy look until she backed down and apologised. She stayed for another half an hour, talking about how she had all these decent interior designers coming up from London to sort out ‘that freezing shithole’. She seemed not to notice how quiet Rosie and
Stephen were. Rosie went off and gave Apostil his bath and put him to bed, a little fan heater – which was doing nothing for their power bill – blowing hard in his bedroom, keeping the temperature above arctic. But only just.