‘Glad to hear it. It’s a fantastic old place. They did a beautiful job, too, renovating it.’
Charlie nodded agreement. ‘Who actually owns it?’
‘It’s a couple. They have a small chain of clothing shops in London, the south-east. As far as Cheltenham, actually. This was a bit of a project for them. I think she likes renovations, to be honest. They bought this off the old boy who’d lived here for ever about five years ago. He couldn’t cope with it – the place was getting quite dilapidated. He went into a home, to be nearer to one of his kids.’
‘I’m sorry.’ That was probably Charlie’s greatest fear, the dreaded care home.
Col smiled and nodded. ‘He died quite soon – really soon – afterwards. Which was probably what he would have chosen. His wife had died. He’d had enough.’
Charlie knew exactly what he meant.
Lucy looked slightly anxious, keen to change the subject. ‘One of the floodlights isn’t working,’ she said.
‘Oh, no.’ Col sat forward. ‘Want me to come and have a look at it?’
‘No, no. No need. Certainly isn’t urgent. I absolutely don’t want to disrupt your weekend.’
‘I’ll call Ben in the morning.’ Lucy smiled. ‘I’m sure he can sort it.’
Col nodded. ‘Ben’s a great guy. Knows what he’s doing. Have you got keen players?’
‘My daughter-in-law, Heather, is, I think. She’s very keen for her daughters to play too, although I’m not sure they’re quite as gung-ho.’
Col grinned. ‘Got you. Teenagers, are they?’
‘They most certainly are.’ This wasn’t entirely fair on Meredith, who was being Mary Poppins to the smaller children as he spoke, but he reasoned they didn’t need to hear the minutiae of his family dynamics.
They talked easily for a while longer. Col was an accountant at a practice in Cheltenham. He was evidently a few years older than Lucy. He’d bought the cottage before he’d met her several years ago, and she’d moved in with him before she’d got the job as manager at the house. ‘Not that it looked much like this, before she arrived, inside or out. Classic bachelor pad.’ His pride in her was evident.
‘It’s a beautiful home.’
‘The bones were always there, but I’d never had the time, the inclination or the vision to make it look like it should – like it does now. That’s where this one came in.’ He gestured towards Lucy, who beamed at the compliment.
‘So it all worked out beautifully.’ She smiled lovingly at Col. ‘Dream man, dream house.’
Col groaned theatrically. ‘Oh, God. Cringe.’ But his face said otherwise. ‘Sorry, Charlie. I’m well aware that we’re nauseatingly happy.’
‘Why would you apologize for that? I was nauseatingly happy with my wife. It’s rather nice to be in the orbit of nauseatingly happy, just for a while.’
For a moment or two the three of them sat in the pretty garden, each looking out at the bucolic scene, sipping their tea. Charlie hoped the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. He hadn’t meant to make it so.
Lucy broke the quiet by asking if he’d like his tea topped up. What would the English do without their tea and their tea talk? He didn’t want any more, really, but it was easier to acquiesce and let her fuss with the teapot and milk jug.
‘Lucy says you’re with your family for the week.’
‘That’s right. Ten days, actually.’
‘So who is with you?’
‘All three of my kids with their families.’
Col waited, seeming to want to hear more. Perhaps they were interested in the minutiae after all. ‘My eldest son, Scott. He married rather late, found himself with an instant family.’
‘The tennis players?’ Lucy was back now, and had obviously been paying attention, when he introduced them all yesterday.
‘Exactly. Heather is American.’ This was apropos of nothing. Charlie realized he probably needn’t have mentioned it. It made him sound quite old and rather parochial. ‘My other son, Nick – he’s the youngest. He’s the father of the three small people – he lost his wife, Carrie, a year ago. He’s a widower.’ It was a bloody awful word.
‘Oh, God. That’s awful.’ Lucy’s hand flew to her mouth, her shock real. There was nothing you could really say. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you.’ He’d said that a lot. What else might fit the moment? Every time he’d said it in the twelve months since it had happened, the shock and horror of it was reflected back at him from the face of whoever heard it, and each time it reverberated with him anew.
He moved along. And then remembered that now, newly, he had to explain Laura’s family too. ‘And Laura, my daughter – she’s separated from her husband.’ It was obvious Col and Lucy didn’t know what to say to this catalogue of misfortune. He tried to explain. ‘Part of why I booked the house – I’m trying to help them all. And I’m not much good at it, really. Not good at it at all. That was very much my wife’s department. She was the fixer in our family. But I have to try. I figured, I don’t know, proximity … time, space, somewhere neutral, maybe that would be a start.’
He was startled by Lucy putting a hand on his arm. She looked tearful. He hadn’t come for this. He didn’t know these people, whose idyllic Sunday he’d invaded. He put his hand across Lucy’s, patted it, then sat forward on his chair, readying himself to stand, to leave.
‘So, yes, don’t ever apologize for your nauseating happiness.’ He gave a small laugh, hoping to make it less awkward, drawing things to a close as graciously and elegantly as he could manage.
‘I think they’re lucky to have you.’
He wanted to correct her: they were lucky to have had their mum, that’s for sure.
Desperate to change the subject, and to escape now, he scanned for a safe subject. ‘Everything okay for the dinner – the caterer – tomorrow?’
Lucy let him move on. Perhaps she was even relieved. ‘Yes, yes. All good. I spoke with Jen on Friday. She’s fantastic. Calm, organized. And a brilliant cook. She’ll pitch up about five, I think, to get everything ready. Is that okay?’
‘Sounds perfect. Thank you, Lucy. Now I’ll leave you to your lawn and the rest of your Sunday. Thank you for the tea.’
‘It was a pleasure.’
‘Good to meet you, Charlie.’ Col pumped his hand sincerely.
At the side gate, Lucy hugged him. It was a surprising gesture, but a welcome one. Human contact. ‘It’s a lovely thing you’re doing, Charlie. I think so, anyway. I’m sure they do too.’
He felt tearful. He looked at the roses, assiduously dead-headed and already full of new buds. ‘Gertrude Jekyll, right?’ He gestured towards a vibrant pink climber.
Lucy nodded.
‘A favourite of my wife’s. A great favourite.’
This was entirely familiar to him, these days: his rheumy old eyes filled with quick, easy tears far more often. These weren’t so much sad as emotional. Also normal. All his feelings were so much nearer the surface than they had been during the rest of his adult life. He’d have expected to feel embarrassed but he didn’t. Maybe it was easier to talk to strangers, especially kind, gentle ones, in a beautiful garden on a sunny summer’s day. Maybe he was just too old to feel embarrassed any more.