‘Well, the people are all family. The house is quite grand.’
‘Shut up. You’ve got four-hundred-thread-count sheets, haven’t you, you jammy bugger?’
He laughed again. ‘Very possibly. I’ve also got to worry about the kids scratching antiques and drawing on fancy-wallpaper walls, though.’
‘Quelle horreur. My heart bleeds.’
He’d missed her. Missed the banter. She always brought him up a level, from the depths he felt himself fighting not to sink into. She got to ignore the huge Carrie-shaped elephant in his room because she knew – better than almost anyone – just how big it was. And that normality mattered to him. It was probably why the weird physical thing – whatever it was – that had happened between them had freaked him out so much. He couldn’t risk losing her by getting things confused, by messing them up. She was too important to him.
‘I’m over here drinking wine from a box. From an actual box. With a spout, Nick. And you’re over there playing at Lord Grantham in Downton Abbey. What is wrong with this picture?’
‘We should meet up.’ He’d said it before he’d thought. He wanted to see her.
‘Really?’
‘With the kids.’ For the avoidance of confusion. For a moment she didn’t answer, and he wondered if she was trying to come up with an excuse not to. ‘Why not?’ he dared her.
She hesitated for just a second. Then he heard the smile in her voice. ‘Yeah. Why not? That’d be fun.’
‘Okay. Let’s, then. Why don’t you text me the details of where you’re staying? I’ll figure out what might work – try to find somewhere the kids would like, halfway between us.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. I’ll gift the other adults here a kid-free afternoon. A lot of highbrow paperbacks got splashed around the pool this afternoon.’
‘You just had to get the pool in, didn’t you?’ But she was still smiling. He could hear it. ‘You do that, Nick. I gotta go. I’ve had to walk to the edge of a field to get a good signal. Better get back to the yurt and make sure the kids haven’t been stolen by dingos.’
‘Leave it with me. Talk to you tomorrow. Don’t fall into the fire on your way to the toilet block in the middle of the night.’
‘Piss off.’
Normal service, apparently, resumed. Thank God.
29
Charlie was surprised to realize he’d slept very well. That didn’t happen often any more. He seemed to sleep lightly, waking at small sounds and changes in light, to go to the loo once or twice, or plagued by restless legs and cramping toes. Sometimes he was awake for two or three hours, listening to the World Service, and then he’d fall into a deep sleep from which he awoke, almost hung-over, after nine, which felt lazy. Maybe it was the country air, or the relief of everyone having arrived safely and relatively happily, or the three or four drinks he’d had last night, two or three more than he was used to. It was nine thirty. He stretched at the window, and enjoyed the gentle breeze on his skin, before showering and dressing. The others might appear in pyjamas or tracksuits but he was from a generation that needed to be dressed to face the world.
Lucy had told Charlie she lived with her husband Col in a cottage on the edge of the grounds. She’d said he could pop round, if he needed anything. He had telephone numbers – a landline and a mobile – but since she’d offered, and since he fancied a walk, Charlie strolled over to ask about the floodlights on the tennis court. He might carry on to the village, to the newsagent, to buy a pile of papers. Everyone seemed to read them on their phones now, but he preferred a paper. He wasn’t sure which they took. You couldn’t tell, could you, when they studied their phones? He amused himself by reckoning the FT for Scott, the Mail for Heather, The Times for Laura and the Guardian for Nick. But he might be wrong. He wouldn’t like to voice the guesses aloud. He liked the rustle, and the browsability of newsprint, and he really didn’t like constantly pushing buttons on his phone with his thumbs. His family wouldn’t either, if they knew anything about arthritis. And they were going to know about arthritis, the way they carried on – the kids especially – their thumbs constantly working the keys of their damn devices.
He could hear church bells – a sound he’d always loved, but realized he didn’t hear much, these days. Daphne had arranged for a ring of them, a full glorious forty-five minutes, on the morning of their wedding all those years ago. She hadn’t told him – it had been a wonderful surprise. She’d even tried to persuade him to try campanology. He’d chosen home-brewing instead, much to her chagrin, back in the days before craft beer, when it meant a hoppy smell emanating from plastic vats in the bathroom and a vile yet potent result. A couple of years before she died, Scott had given him ‘a gin experience’ for his birthday: he and Daphne had mixed botanicals in a smart London hotel, overseen by an exuberant gin-maker, producing his own bespoke spirit that Daphne had christened Homebrew 2, the gin they had been drinking last night.
The bells were lovely. He felt light and cheerful as he strolled. So far, so good. Things had seemed easy enough yesterday when everyone had arrived – jolly, even. They had all mucked in. The kids were a great help, distractingly noisy and demanding. The bigger kids had even been chatting – he’d seen them.
Lucy’s cottage was as appealing as the bigger house but in a completely different way. The latter was solid and even quite grand. This one was utterly pretty. They were both lovely places in this very lovely part of the world, where there were still bells. The garden was the star of the show here – it was clearly a real labour of love. Daphne would have been enchanted by it: she had loved cottage gardens. Butterflies fluttered in swathes of buddleia in front of towering sunflowers, and a bed of vividly coloured dahlias was immaculately staked and pruned. There were galvanized metal and terracotta pots of geraniums, pinks and zinnias by the front door, and the knocker was a brass bee, like the one at the main house. The effect was gloriously old-fashioned and welcoming.
Lucy answered the door in a blue linen sundress, her hair piled on her head and contained by a colourful scarf. She was as warm and friendly as she had been the day before. She seemed unperturbed by his intrusion, apologizing unnecessarily for the floodlight issue, and promising to call the electrician first thing on Monday. She was just making tea, she said – her husband Col was mowing the lawn – would he like to join them? Something about her open face made him say yes – it didn’t feel as if she was just being polite. Why not?
Col, it seemed, was just like her in temperament, if not in physicality – he was a big bear of a man, with a shock of salt-and-pepper hair. He abandoned the mower gratefully when Charlie and Lucy rounded the corner with a tea tray, and came over to the shaded patio, smiling broadly. He shook Charlie’s hand warmly, apologizing for his sweaty, dishevelled appearance, and took a seat, stretching his back and crossing his arms behind his head, tilting his face towards the sun. Lucy lightly stroked his arm as she passed him – the affectionate gesture touched Charlie.
‘Is everything all right up at the house?’
‘It’s wonderful. Living up to expectations and some.’