After eight months Dan’s money had run out and he’d come back. He had been at a loose end for a while until we’d spotted a job at the student travel agency in Brighton. It was perfect for him. He really enjoyed advising people about where to go and what to do when they got there. The cheap flights he got working there were a big bonus too – we’d been on a fantastic trip to visit Dan’s sister Emma in Australia when she was
living in Melbourne. In the last couple of years Dan had organised a few trips abroad with the boys, muddy adventures like multi-day hikes and high altitude cycle rides, and I was happy to leave them to it. I loved hearing the stories when he came home, though. A year ago when he’d finally paid off his credit card bill, we’d rented a small but perfectly formed one-bedroom flat on the second floor of a terraced house. And we’ve been here ever since.
I drew my eyes back from where they’d drifted, to a panoramic photo of Rio we had propped up on the mantelpiece, and returned to more practical considerations.
‘Dan, are you
sure
you don’t mind?’ I asked, turning to look at him.
‘What, seeing you dressed up like a seal in your wet-suit?’
‘No, don’t be silly, I mean the budgeting. I know this is our honeymoon – but like we said, even if you get us a good deal on flights our cash just isn’t going to stretch that far.’
Dan moved the brochures on to the coffee table, nudging a copy of
Brides
magazine out of the way. I’d been reading it earlier that morning, but had put it down when I got to yet another feature about mother-of-the-bride outfits. Why were all wedding magazines so obsessed with her role in things? Dan pulled me closer, putting an arm around me. ‘Jen, I thought we’d already talked about this? The money that we have
is going to go on our wedding, so that it’s the day you’ve always wanted it to be. We only get married once, after all. We’ll have time further down the line to save and go on another trip.’ With those words, he brought back my smile.
‘And you know what,’ he said, reaching for a brochure about Scottish Highland breaks, ‘I’m into this stuff – there’s so much we haven’t seen that’s close to home. We’re going to have a great time, trust me.’ He flicked open the page and pointed to a little hotel room with a balcony overlooking a vast lake, the scenery lush and green. ‘It does look pretty nice there, doesn’t it?’ I nodded, it did.
‘See,’ he said, holding me closer and kissing the top of my head. I looked up. His warm brown eyes had a way of making my worries disappear. ‘Being with you is adventure enough, Jenny. I mean, quite honestly, it’s downright exhausting sometimes …’ I grabbed a cushion and thwacked him around the head with it. He laughed. ‘Dan Yates, it’s not too late for me to pull out of this marrying-you deal, you know.’
I left Dan doing the laundry and got to Alison’s house just before one, resting my bike up against the wall. The house was built from old grey stone and the front garden was untamed, with long grass that crept over the front wall, and blue and purple wildflowers
everywhere I looked. Nature was spilling over into the gravel drive, so the boundaries weren’t clear; it was a world away from the carefully tended window boxes in town. A light rain had started to fall and while I’d been cursing it on the ride over, it brought out the smell of the flowers and made everything fresh. Paint was peeling away from Alison’s window frames and the door frame was a bit wonky, but it all added to the place’s charm.
I’d put a biscuit tin into my bike’s wicker basket before setting out, and at some point along the way it had got jammed. While I was trying to wrestle it free I heard heels on the pathway and a woman’s voice call out. ‘You all right there?’
I turned to see Maggie, serene in indigo jeans, a linen jacket and an amber necklace. Her auburn hair was swept up into a French pleat, highlighting her high cheekbones and the delicate line of her jaw. One hand was holding up a turquoise Japanese parasol, fragile but just perfect for sheltering from the gentle rain. In contrast, my hair was clinging in damp strands to my forehead, I had on the old Reeboks I always wore for cycling and the leggings under my checked shirt dress were splashed with mud. ‘Hi, Maggie,’ I managed, just as the tin came loose from the basket, nearly sending me off-balance. The contrast between us now seemed complete. She smiled kindly at my wobbling and then looked down at the
tin I was clutching to my chest. ‘What have you got there?’ she asked. As she put the parasol down she reached out for the brass door knocker and brought it down with a loud thud.
‘Some fuel for our brainstorming session,’ I said.
‘Aha,’ Maggie replied, with a wink, ‘I like your style.’
‘Ladies, welcome!’ Alison said, opening the door wide while trying to hold back a tall grey dog with one arm.
‘Come in, come in.’
I put a protective hand over my tin; bitter experience has taught me not to trust dogs where baked goods are involved. Alison led us down a hallway filled with enticing cooking smells, to the open door of her bright living room. There was a grandfather clock in the corner and generous sofas scattered with patchwork cushions. A teenage girl was stretched out on one of the sofas reading a copy of
Twilight
, her black hair tied up in a rough top knot, and a younger girl with freckles sat at the other end squashed against her sister’s feet, playing on a small pink games console. She was the first to look up when her mum stepped in to introduce us.
‘Hi girls, here are some new friends of mine. Jenny, Maggie,’ Alison said, motioning to us, ‘meet Sophie and Holly.’ Sophie, the elder girl, nodded her acknowledgement blankly and went back to her book.
‘Hi,’ said Holly with a smile, resting her game down on the arm of the sofa. ‘Are you all going to have
lunch now?’
‘Yes,’ Alison said, ‘but no, that doesn’t mean you can go on the internet as soon as I’m out of the room, Hol. You know the rule on that.’ Sophie gave her little sister a kick, and Holly pinched her leg back.
‘Right, grown-up time,’ Alison said, turning to us with a weary smile, ‘and not a moment too soon.’ She walked me and Maggie into her open-plan kitchen and dining room. Once inside, Alison went over to the oven and took a lasagne out, and the room filled with the mouth-watering smell of it, the windows steaming up with the heat. Everywhere I looked there was colour – bright seat cushions, a large canvas hung on the wall, an abstract painting in oranges and reds. A vase of cut wild flowers, the same ones I’d seen growing out in the front garden, sat in the middle of the chunky wooden table.
‘Wow, it’s beautiful in here,’ I said, looking around.
‘Oh, thanks,’ Alison said, dishing up. There were tiny personal touches everywhere my eyes fell; even her oven gloves had sunflowers stitched on them. ‘I suppose I do like making stuff.’
Maggie raised her eyebrows at the understatement, still taking in the details of the room, and Alison continued, ‘I used to make a lot of clothes for the girls – pinafores, skirts, blouses,’ Alison passed them a plate of vegetable lasagne each and put a big salad bowl on the table and then a jug of
cordial. ‘Tuck in,’ she said, sitting down.
‘I mean, it’s hard to imagine now, isn’t it?’ she nodded in the direction of the front room, and loaded up her fork. ‘But they used to be so happy wearing those things.’ I served myself some of the salad, full of avocado and red peppers – there was definitely more of my five-a-day here than in the bacon sandwiches Dan and I had made for breakfast.
‘I bet they looked adorable,’ Maggie said, spearing a slice of pepper.
‘Yep,’ Alison replied, mid-mouthful. ‘But then secondary school came – and wearing stuff your mum’s made didn’t seem that cool any more. So now, well. We had a clear out and I started making things for the house and for friends instead. The business I have now just grew from there – one day I was making bunting for my sister-in-law’s fortieth, the next I was selling the candles, cushion covers, oven gloves and tea-party things online and through the local boutiques. The painting’s just for fun,’ she said, waving vaguely at the bright canvas hanging next to us. ‘I don’t really get time for that nowadays.’
While Alison glowed as she told us about setting up on her own, Maggie, with one eye on the large kitchen wall clock as she ate, silently revealed the downside of managing a business. She seemed to be struggling
to relax.
‘How old are the girls now?’ I asked Alison, switching the subject away from work.
‘Sophie’s fifteen, Holly’s twelve,’ she answered, scooping another heap of salad onto Maggie’s plate.
‘I keep forgetting Holly’s nearly a teenager, that she’s not my baby anymore,’ she added, shaking her head slightly.
‘Are you and her dad friend or foe right now?’ Maggie asked, intrigued.
‘Good question,’ Alison said, ‘and I’m not entirely sure.’ She took a deep breath and continued, ‘Holly might look like butter wouldn’t melt, but she was caught stealing last week.’ Alison covered her face with her hands and peeked out from between her fingers to show her mortification. ‘The school caretaker found bags of brand new clothes in her locker at school – she and her friend Chrissy had bunked class and gone on a shopping spree with Chrissy’s mum’s new credit card. It turns out Chrissy had nabbed it when the post came in and knew the pin number was her own birthday.
‘Anyway I had to deal with the headmistress yesterday – Pete and I have already had a few run-ins with her about Sophie’s behaviour and the marks she got in her mocks, so it wasn’t great.’ The light went out of Alison’s eyes for a second and I noticed for the first time the fine lines around them. ‘But it was the fact that she kept it from us that was the hardest to take. The girls felt too guilty to even wear the clothes. When we asked Holly about it she told us the whole story
right away. Tears, tears, tears,’ Alison’s face softened at the memory.
‘That’s something at least,’ Maggie said sympathetically, ‘that she realises it was wrong.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Alison continued. ‘And to be honest even though we were both furious, we still felt for her. She’d clearly wanted to put things right but didn’t know how. Anyway, none of this changes the fact that over a month has passed and we’re now stuck with hundreds of pounds’ worth of clothes it’s too late to take back.’
It was the kind of thing that had happened at my school, but Chris and I had never really rebelled as teenagers. Even then we both knew that Dad had enough on his plate.
‘Does that mean it’s down to you to pay this girl’s mum back?’ I asked.
Alison nodded. ‘Yep, it looks that way … But enough of this stuff, you two didn’t come here to listen to my moans about being a mum.’ Alison started to collect our empty plates together.
‘Luckily I’ve got something that might cheer you up,’ I said, bringing the biscuit tin up onto the table and prising off the lid.
Alison tidied the food away and laid my homemade flapjacks out on a gold-trimmed plate and before long the table was liberally sprinkled with oats.
Maggie got a little Smythson notepad
out of her bag and opened it. ‘So I was talking to a supplier in London,’ she started, ‘and I’m going to go up there for a meeting in a week or so – I thought it would be a good chance to check out some of the vintage shops, perhaps go around Brick Lane, pick up a few bargains.’
‘Great,’ I said, before taking a big bite of my flapjack.
‘Alison,’ Maggie started, ‘are you still happy to look at the charity shops round here and maybe go to a couple of the local car boots?’
‘Sure, of course,’ Alison said. ‘I’ll ask my friend Jamie to keep a look out too.’ Maggie was noting this down neatly in her book and I realised it was my turn to say something.
‘I’ve been looking online, at the specialist suppliers and then auction sites like eBay – there are some beautiful things out there, but the prices are pretty high. The experienced sellers seem to have clocked the trend and marked all their stuff up. I reckon that for the real bargains we’re better off sticking with the stalls and car boot sales, just like on Saturday. It may be slower progress but we’ll be able to afford some nice items, and there’s still plenty of time.’
‘OK, sounds sensible,’ Maggie said. ‘Shall we just meet up again in a couple of weeks and see where we are?’
There was a faint knock at the door behind me.
‘Mum,’ the door creaked open and Holly’s freckled face appeared around the side. Their dog dashed
under Holly’s arm and through into the kitchen and began to hoover up flapjack crumbs from the floor.
‘Come in, Hol,’ Alison said, as her younger daughter shuffled through the doorway. I noticed she’d doodled on the backs of her hands in biro like I had done at her age.
‘I got a bit bored in there,’ Holly said. ‘Sophie’s hogging the phone and there’s nothing on TV. I know I’m grounded, and I understand about the internet, but …’ I caught her eye and she gave me a shy smile.
‘OK, come in,’ Alison said, ‘take a seat. We’re just finishing up. Do you want one of the flapjacks Jenny brought?’
Holly sat down on the bench next to me and wriggled around to get comfortable, reaching for the plate. ‘You’re hunting for teacups, aren’t you? Because you’re getting married? Mum told me,’ she said, looking at me, her wide eyes sparkling.
I nodded and smiled.
Alison squeezed her daughter’s arm gently and said, ‘Perhaps when we find them, we should hang on to them for when you and Sophie meet your Prince Charmings?’
‘Awesome!’ Holly said, letting a giggle escape.
Alison rolled her eyes then, turning to me and Maggie, ‘Or at least someone who can turn these two frogs back into my lovely girls …’
‘Keep the teacups for our weddings!’ Holly called out, still giggling, her shyness gone.
As Alison joked with her daughters
I realised that one day they’d probably be having this conversation about weddings for real. As Holly and Sophie planned their celebrations, their mum would be there, to go to dress-fittings, visit venues, and help them work out the table plan. On the day, Alison would be there, proud and more than likely a bit tearful, as she saw her daughters off into married life.
‘You’re looking for others like that teaset, right, more old stuff?’ Holly asked me.