“Lauren, let them catch their breath, darling,” her mother urges. Glancing past the guests, she brightens, waves, and halloos: “Boys!”
Susan turns to see William, Margaret, and the boys coming up the front walk. Meg deflates a little at being overlooked, but William shouts back, “Hi, Mum! Dad! Napiers all!” and Andrew and Alisdair tumble through the front door, tangling with the dogs and hurling themselves into their grandmother’s arms.
“Ah, my little hooligans!” crows Russell, play-boxing with Andrew for a moment before tossing Alisdair in the air.
“Have you got sweeties?” Alisdair asks his grandmother before even saying hello.
“Not before lunch,” Meg says, bringing up the rear with an armful of Ayden. “Hi, Jules.” She leans over to kiss her sister, but Julia takes one look at the drooling baby and manages only an awkward one-armed hug that keeps her well clear of bodily fluids.
“Hey, Megs,” she responds.
Meg turns expectantly to her father, who smiles fondly and reaches over to tickle the baby under the chin, saying, “You’ve got your hands full there, Meg!”
“Here,” Susan offers, taking Ayden so Meg can embrace their father without putting his linen jacket at risk of infant slobber.
Bernard immediately embraces his youngest and kisses her on the cheek. “You look lovely, Bambi, really well.”
“Oh, thanks, Dad.” Meg’s tone makes it seem as if that’s the best compliment she’s received in a while.
“In, in, come in, everyone,” Russell urges, herding everyone along into the sitting room, which looks like a headlong collision between William Morris and Cath Kidston. Florals everywhere, not all of them matching. Julia actually blanches at the sight, but Susan rather likes it. The colors are bright, the furniture soft and inviting. And there isn’t a hint of Mole’s Breath gray anywhere.
“If you don’t mind, I have to see to the roast,” says Helen.
“I’ll help,” Susan offers, setting Ayden down on the floor and following her and the dogs to the kitchen.
“You’re a darling,” Helen bends down in front of the Aga and pulls out a beautiful roast beef. The rich smell of it fills the kitchen and, like Pavlov’s dog, Susan’s mouth waters. The actual dogs plunk their bums on the floor in unison, as if they think that, by being good, they’ll be rewarded with the whole joint.
“You’ll get yours at the end, you two,” Helen says to them without even having to look up. She probes the meat with one finger and nods. “I think that’s ready for its rest.” She moves it to a cutting board, covers it with tinfoil, and leaves it so the juices can redistribute.
“It smells wonderful, Helen, what do you do to it?” Susan asks.
“Not much,” Helen admits, now poking around a roasting tin filled with vegetables. “A little oil, salt, pepper, and good, strong mustard. Dijon, not English, but don’t tell anyone,” she adds with a mischievous smile. “I find that sometimes simpler is better. Especially when you start with good ingredients. We’re rather blessed with places to get them, in this neighborhood.” She pushes the vegetables back into the oven and closes the door. “If you haven’t already, you should visit the Sunday farmers’ market. There are wonderful stalls selling meats and fruit and jams. And cakes too, but you’re already an expert there, aren’t you?”
“Hardly an expert.”
“Oh, come now.” Helen gestures to the lemon tart Susan brought along. Like the roast, it’s simple and classic, but undeniably delicious. Susan smiles her thanks at the compliment.
“Here, would you mind chopping these for the salad?” Helen asks, rummaging in the fridge and producing a bunch of radishes and a knobby cucumber.
“Of course.” Susan fetches a knife and small cutting board and begins chopping away.
Helen moves to wash her hands and hovers at the window near the sink for a little while, watching her next-door neighbor. The woman’s hacking away at some bushes so venomously that Susan wonders if they’ve personally offended her in some way. Helen shakes her head and sighs. “If she paid as much attention to her marriage as she does to those hedges, maybe Mark wouldn’t have to ‘work late’ quite so often,” she comments.
Susan isn’t sure what to say to that. Luckily, Andrew and Ali come running in.
“Mum’s gone upstairs to feed the baby,” Andrew announces.
“Oh, all right,” says Helen, reaching into a cupboard and retrieving two chocolate biscuits. She hands one to each grandson with the admonition, “Don’t tell your mother!” Both boys nod solemnly, grab their biscuits, and run outside, where they began kicking around a football while cramming the biscuits into their mouths.
Helen sighs, watching them. “Poor lads. It’s quite a strain on them sometimes, with their mother the way she is.”
Susan catches Helen’s sideways glance but keeps her face neutral. She’s not about to be forced into taking sides against her sister, despite her concerns about Meg’s hypochondria. Every little thing—a sharp pain, a headache—sets her off. Susan can only imagine what it’s like when one of the boys gets sick. They’re probably on a first-name basis with every nurse at the children’s hospital.
“You’ve heard about this latest nonsense with the baby, I suppose?” Helen asks, face darkening just at the thought of it.
“No, what’s that?” Susan asks, setting the vegetables aside.
Helen pauses, watching the boys a little longer. “Well, I’m not one to gossip,” she finally says. “Let’s go and pick some lettuce while the meat rests, shall we?”
* * *
They sit down half an hour later at a table barely large enough to hold all the food. There’s the meat, and a mass of roasted potatoes, carrots, swede, beets, and onions, lavished with rosemary and thyme. Gravy, and mustard, and some sort of hot-pepper jelly that Helen insists is absolutely perfect with beef—“you have to try it! Just a little.”
“No, no thank you,” Bernard replies, leaning away from it. “I’m prone to heartburn, you know.”
The salad, and a casserole of green and yellow summer squash topped with crispy breadcrumbs. Crusty bread, sliced tomatoes with basil. (“Bought tomatoes, I’m afraid,” Helen explains apologetically as she sets the plate down. “Mine won’t be ready for a while yet. Too rainy.”)
No rain today; the windows and back door are all open to the patio, to catch the fresh breeze that ripples the lilac bushes, unleashing the flowers’ heady scent.
Susan understands now why William laughed when she wondered if having three extra people to Sunday lunch might be an imposition.
“Mum doesn’t know how to cook for fewer than thirty,” he’d answered. “Sometimes I think she secretly believes constituents might come by and need feeding. Bring friends, if you like. Hell, bring strangers—Dad would love it.”
Russell stands to carve the roast while the rest of the Coxes fall on the dishes, talking over one another while the Napiers sit back, blinking and trying to take it all in.
“Oh, Susan, you really must try the summer squash—they’re so sweet this year. Here, let me give you some.”