The Nothing Girl (4 page)

‘Well, I don’t mean you should hitch-hike across India, for God’s sake. Start small. Here’s an idea. What do you know about buckets?’

OK, no more alcohol for me. I obviously had zero tolerance and it was already affecting my brain. However, I knew the answer to this one.

‘Plastic things,’ I said proudly. ‘In many colours. Or metal. Shiny. They have holes. There’s a … song about it. You kick them when you die.’ And sat back, pleased with the completeness of my answer.

‘Excellent, you’re obviously a leading authority. What are you doing tomorrow morning?’

‘Nothing,’ I said, without hesitation.

‘Good. Meet me outside the post office at 10.30. No, better make it 11.00 – I’ll need a bit of a lie-in. You can help me buy buckets.’

‘
Look out,
’ said Thomas, suddenly. ‘
Incoming.
’

I looked up. A very unhappy looking Uncle Richard was approaching.

‘Yes,’ I said to Russell, and then my uncle was upon us, his gentle face frowning.

‘Russell. I heard you were here.’

Russell stood up, suddenly alarmingly sober. ‘Richard, good evening. Jenny and I have been catching up.’

My uncle looked at me, then at the glass on the table and said in apocalyptic tones, ‘Jenny? Have you been … drinking?’

I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, hiccup, or panic. As usual, everything inside me clumped together for safety and nothing emerged.

‘Good heavens,’ said Russell, indignantly, ‘of course she hasn’t. Unless you count coffee, of course.’ He gestured to the cup and saucer.

‘Jenny, you know your aunt doesn’t like you to drink coffee. It can be very stimulating.’

‘Have a heart, Richard, it’s a party. Let her have a little fun.’

I knew he was laughing at my uncle. I wondered if he was laughing at me, too.

‘Of course, I’m sure just one …’

‘Will not set her on the road to eternal damnation,’ finished Russell.

I stood up and he steadied me while pretending to shake hands. ‘Nice to have met you again, Jenny.’

I nodded, thankful for once that no one would be expecting me to say anything, but very aware of Uncle Richard radiating gentle disapproval. I smiled at Russell who winked at me and mouthed, ‘Buckets! Don’t forget.’ At least, that’s what I think it was.

‘Come along, Jenny. It’s half past ten and your aunt is feeling tired.’

‘Better make that six hundred words,’ Russell called after me as I meekly followed my uncle out of the room. Thomas walked alongside, rather closer than usual, occasionally (and quite unnecessarily) having a quiet snort.

So that was my first party.

Shortly afterwards, I got my first proposal of marriage.

I woke really early the next morning, full of excitement. I had an appointment. I was meeting someone. I had a purpose.

‘
It’s only half past six,
’ said Thomas from the corner. ‘
It’s not light yet and you didn’t get to bed until nearly eleven last night. You’ll wear yourself out.
’

‘Yes, very funny.’

‘
Make yourself a cup of tea and get back into bed.
’

So I did.

Halfway down the mug I began to have doubts.

‘Do you think he’ll forget?’

‘
No.
’

‘He was pretty drunk.’

‘
Not when he was talking to you.
’

‘Do you think he’ll change his mind?’

‘
No, a man always needs buckets.
’

‘Suppose he can’t come?’

‘
Then he won’t be there at 11.00 and you’ll be disappointed because, along with 99% of the human race at one time or another in their lives, you’ll have been stood up. Just like a real person.
’

‘Do you still like him?’

‘
Yes.
’

I drank some more tea, watching him through my eyelashes.

He sighed. ‘
Yes, I think he likes you too. Good grief, it’s like living with a teenager again.
’

I was ready to leave the house by half past nine. Thomas held out until ten, finally giving in, saying we could walk really slowly and window-shop on the way. So we walked really slowly and window-shopped on the way. It was raining, and I kept hitting people with my umbrella.

Eventually, he agreed it probably was best just to go and wait at the post office. ‘
Before you blind someone.
’

We waited an anxious fifteen minutes. ‘He’s not coming,’ I said.

‘
It’s only just coming up to eleven. He’s a single man with a hangover looking for a parking space. We’ll be lucky to see him at all before noon. Just relax.
’

So we stood on the steps and watched people skitter by in the rain. At only a few minutes past eleven, someone tooted. Russell Checkland solved his parking problems by simply stopping wherever he wanted to be and waiting for people to go to him.

I threaded my way through parked cars and he leaned over and opened the door for me.

‘
Umbrella,
’ reminded Thomas, guessing correctly that sensible thinking had taken the morning off. I wrestled away while a cacophony of horns built up and the massed rank of Mrs Pargeter, our Traffic Warden, bore down upon us.

Flustered and wet, I fell into his old Land Rover. It smelled very odd and one of those pine-scented fir trees hanging lop-sided from the mirror had long since given up.

‘Good morning,’ he said, pulling out into traffic to a fresh barrage of tooting. ‘Nasty day. Did you get into much trouble last night?’

I shook my head. I’d slipped away as soon as we got home and I think both Aunt Julia and Uncle Richard were so relieved not to have to dust off their parenting skills that they let me go.

‘
Ask him how he is,
’ said Thomas. ‘
Remember your manners.
’

‘How are you?’

‘Absolutely fine. Slept like a log. Feel great. Jennies to pick up. Buckets to buy.’

‘Why?’

Thank God he understood verbal shorthand and that he could chat enough for both of us.

‘For the roof. It leaks on the north side. My father did most of the roof a couple of years ago and he left that side because it wasn’t too bad but now it is. So, buckets.’

‘Can it be fixed?’

‘Easily, if you happen to have thousands of pounds. I don’t, so a quick trip to the hardware store and a cost of about thirty quid instead. Clever, eh?’

I nodded and we splashed into the car park. I’d never been to one of these places before. I’m pretty certain Uncle Richard hadn’t either and I’m damn sure Aunt Julia never had. I tried to imagine Francesca in something white and gauzy wafting up and down the aisles buying grout and emulsion and failed. Really failed.

‘This way,’ said Russell, striding off and I followed on behind.

Thomas was full of it. ‘
Wow! Look at this. What’s that? Good grief, why have we never been here before? This place is magic. What’s that for?
’

We found the buckets. Plastic and multi-coloured.

‘What colour?’ I asked.

‘All of them,’ he said, chucking eight into his trolley. ‘Let’s nip over to “Gardening” and see if they’ve got any metal ones. They can double up for ashes and Boxer.’

The morning began to take on a slightly surreal feeling.

We got two galvanised buckets and queued up at the cash point. Russell pulled out his wallet and frowned.

‘Problem?’

‘I’m trying to remember which card is least likely to be rejected. Let’s try – the blue one.’

Credit card rejection was a whole new world to me and I waited breathlessly for this new experience. But not today. With an astonishing amount of electronic beeping, we were through.

Russell set off for the exit at only just sub-light speed. Thomas lingered. ‘
Well,
’ he said, looking around one last time. ‘
Who’d have thought it?
’

‘Come on,’ I said, nervous about being left behind. I could easily imagine Russell driving off without us, lost in the excitement of freshly acquired buckets. There was a toot from the car park.

I expected to be driven home, or at least dropped off outside the post office, my day over with, but he turned the other way.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, did you have other plans? It’s just it’s raining so hard I want to get back to catch the drips. But I can easily drop you wherever you want to be.’

I certainly didn’t want to go home yet. ‘No, that’s fine.’

He speeded up again and we racketed down the lanes, through Whittington, and out the other side. He turned off just past the duck pond, up a narrow lane, and there was Frogmorton Farm, exactly as I remembered it from all those years ago.

A long, low rambling building of red brick here, and a bit of stone there, with many chimneys. Oddly shaped windows had apparently been flung at random across the exterior. Various outbuildings of strange construction and purpose huddled around a yard, which in turn opened into a large field.

The gate was open and we pulled straight into the yard.

‘You don’t want to go in through the front door, do you?’

I shook my head.

‘Good, because I can’t get it open. This way.’

We divided up the buckets between us and I followed him into the house.

I remembered the mud room and its distinctive smell of old wet coats and rubber wellies. I was hurried through and straight into the kitchen.

‘What ho, Mrs C! Buckets!’

It was Mrs Crisp. She was still here. She was a little plumper and a little greyer and her eyes were a little more unfocused, but here was another one who didn’t look a lot different.

I remembered how she used to bring us biscuits and juice and how I thought she smelled funny until Aunt Julia came back from a ‘ladies lunch’ one day, and I realised it was sherry. She turned away from stirring something on the stove, wiped her red hands on a tea-towel, and came forward.

‘Miss Dove, it’s very nice to see you again.’ She took my buckets off me, much to my relief.

I smiled and nodded.

‘No time to chat,’ cried Russell, making for the other door. ‘Come on, Jenny.’

She rolled her eyes. I took back the buckets and followed him out.

‘Something smells nice,’ I said to Thomas. ‘Do you think they’ll ask us to lunch?’

He gave me a funny look. ‘
I’m certain of it.
’

Up in the attics I carefully placed my buckets over the damp patches. There were depressing but oddly musical drips. Russell sighed. I looked up. Here and there, I could see tiny chinks of daylight.

‘It’s not so bad,’ he said defensively. ‘The tiles can stay on. The undersides need filling and a waterproof membrane putting across the joists and it’ll all be fine again. But not until the summer.’

‘Because of the weather?’ I asked, glad to show off a bit of knowledge.

‘No, that’s when the rent’s due again.’

I must have looked surprised.

‘I rent most of my land to my neighbour up the lane. For his sheep. He brings them down off the moors in winter and for lambing. For which I expect they’re extremely grateful. I know I am. Anyway, this year’s rent will see to this,’ he gestured to the roof. ‘At the moment I’ve got other things on.’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘Decorating. I’ve got the central heating in; that was last year’s rent. Quite a bit more than last year’s rent, actually. But that’s done, so at least we’re warm now. When I get the roof done that’s pretty well the last of the structural work. Now I’m going to slap on two coats of magnolia all over, polish up the floors, and that’s it until a chimney blows down, or I discover dry rot or something equally shitty. Would you like the tour?’

I nodded with enthusiasm.

‘Come on then.’ He seized my wrist and I was whirled away.

We started downstairs.

The kitchen was a good-sized room with terracotta tiles. Dressers filled with china lined the walls. A huge table with mismatched chairs occupied the middle of the room. Unlike Aunt Julia’s carefully co-ordinated designer desert, everything here was warm, comfortable, shabby, and smelled delicious. There was a huge, old iron-type range that also provided hot water.

‘Big walk-in pantry over there. Through that door is Mrs C’s domain. No one ever goes in there. She has all her past lovers chained to the walls. Sometimes at night, when it’s all quiet, you can hear their piteous moaning. It’s so sad.’

She flapped a tea-towel at him. ‘Go away. Lunch in thirty minutes.’ To me. ‘You do like lamb and apricot casserole?’

‘Am I staying to lunch?’

‘
Told you,
’ said Thomas.

‘Sorry, Jenny, I forgot to tell you.’

‘No,’ Mrs Crisp said. ‘You forgot to
ask
her.’

‘Yes, that too. Jenny, would you like to stay to lunch?’

‘
Don’t even think about saying no
,’ muttered Thomas.

We looked into the dining room, a big, sad room with the shutters closed. Russell pulled one back so we could see better, but it wasn’t worth the effort. He pushed it back again.

Across the corridor was a little morning room. This was much nicer, looking out over the very neglected garden, but much smaller and cosier. ‘Do you eat in here?’

‘No, I usually eat in the kitchen. For a time I slept there too. I like to get value from a room.’

In the old days, the next room would have been a parlour, but someone had knocked down a wall or two and it was now a very large room with two sets of old-fashioned French windows opening into the garden. A big wooden staircase at one end led up into the gloom. The wide fireplace was cold and empty. The furniture was drab and sad.. But it could be lovely. The floor had real wooden floorboards, and there was plenty of room on the walls for books and artwork. I could see this being a very nice room.

It never struck me that Russell Checkland was being  uncharacteristically quiet, watching me take it all in.

There was another set of double doors near the stairs. I pointed.

‘They lead to a small vestibule and the un-openable front door. Very useful for discouraging unwanted visitors. And up the stairs again we go.’

The stairs were beautifully made and steady as a rock but they needed carpet. They were noisy and slippery.