Three's a Crowd: and other family stories Read online

  And when I had a break in the staff room at lunch-time there came a hysterical call on my mobile from Julie saying she was at the school gate and did I have a minute.

  I hurried outside.

  ‘Matthew’s been made redundant. His whole department. As of now. Told to clear their desks. Karen, he’s crying.’

  She burst out crying herself.

  I hugged her, looking at my watch over her shoulder. ‘I’ve got eight minutes. Come and sit down.’ There was a bus shelter just along the road and luckily we had it to ourselves.

  ‘I just had to get out of the house for a little while. I don’t know what to say to Matthew. He’s gone to pieces. He keeps going on about all the extra hours he worked, all the weekends he went into the office. Time he could have spent with Ben and me. And this is the thanks he gets.’

  I kept my arm around her and let her talk.

  Eventually she wiped her eyes and stood up. ‘You’ve got to get back. And Matthew and I have to pull ourselves together before Ben gets home.’

  ‘Shall I come round tonight or do you want to be on your own?’

  ‘No. Please come. Thanks, Karen.’

  I found it hard to concentrate on P1’s reading skills, or lack of them, that afternoon. Of course, Julie hadn’t married Matthew just for his potential earning power, but part of the attraction definitely was that their future children would have all the things that she didn’t have growing up – new clothes, music lessons, foreign holidays. Themed birthday parties. And nothing home-made.

  Then, as Matthew got further and further up the corporate ladder and the future children started, and stopped, with Ben, she had the time and money to reinvent herself as an immaculate, high-maintenance clothes-horse.

  Now that Matthew, with the fickle fall of economic dice, had fallen into the snake-pit of unemployment how would Julie cope?

  When she opened the door to me that night she looked as immaculate as ever apart from a little pinkness around the nose.

  But in the kitchen as I helped her load the dishwasher her eyes welled up again.

  ‘Matthew says we can’t go on holiday this year. And Ben can’t have all the birthday surprises I was planning. And – ’

  Despite the money lavished on him, Ben’s unspoilt, a great kid and I love him to bits. ‘Ben won’t mind. Look how thrilled he was that Matthew can pick him up from school tomorrow. It’s people that matter to children, not things.’

  She didn’t look convinced.

  We developed a code over the next few weeks. I never asked in words if Matthew had any job prospects. I would raise my eyebrows and Julie would shake her head and then we’d talk about something else.

  We stopped having coffee in the shopping centre. She came to me one week and I went to her the next.

  As the eighteenth of June approached, Julie was fretting over Ben’s birthday party.

  ‘I had all these great ideas but now we have to economise I don’t know what to do.’ She picked up a chocolate digestive and put it down again.

  I resisted an elder sisterly urge to slap her.

  ‘You don’t need to spend loads of money to have a good time. Get a grip, Julie. We were happy with Gran and Gramps weren’t we? Even though they didn’t have two pennies to rub together?’

  ‘I hated never having anything new.’

  ‘They did their best. Imagine them, just about to retire and then losing their daughter and being landed with a four-year-old and a baby to look after.’

  ‘I know, I know. But,’ she fell back on her favourite excuse, ‘it’s different now.’

  I looked around Julie’s lounge. There were sliding doors into the dining area. With these open, the floor area would be even bigger. Big enough for a dozen seven-year-olds …

  In the event, the eighteenth of June was a perfect summer’s day and Ben and his fellow astronauts played hide-and-seek in the garden before coming into the spaceship for moon burgers.

  Julie’s lounge curtains were drawn and the central light glowed eerily under a blue and mustard-yellow patchwork shade. At intervals, suspended from the ceiling on lengths of thread, were the planets – round cushions of nubbly tweed covered in silver foil. It all looked great, though we said so ourselves, and had been surprisingly good fun to put together.

  The astronauts looked suitably impressed for about thirty seconds before stampeding to the table.

  In pride of place was a home-made cake shaped like a rocket. Seven whole candles formed a ring of fire on the launch pad.

  As Julie and I were sampling the cake – it was scrumptious – I remembered I hadn’t asked my usual question.

  I raised my eyebrows at Julie and this time she didn’t shake her head.

  Then she did.

  ‘Matthew hasn’t got a job. Although he’s muttering about taking up baking professionally. But I have.’ She grinned at the look on my face. ‘In my favourite shop in the precinct. Personal shopper with management prospects.’

  ‘That’s amazing.’ I stuffed the last bit of cake into my mouth and hugged her.

  ‘I can get you a discount,’ she said. ‘As you’ve just cut up half your wardrobe.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I would appreciate your expert advice.’ I grinned at her. ‘When they’ve got a sale on.’

  I was just about to ask what she thought about taking dressmaking classes when we had to rush to the table to stop two of the astronauts going completely into orbit.

  Actually, some things aren’t so different now.

  Children are just as noisy and messy as they’ve always been. And the secret of a successful birthday party is still a game of hide-and-seek, and a big piece of jammy sponge.

  Published in Woman’s Weekly

  In my dreams

  Yes, I know it’s just a dream but I’m going to enjoy it while I can. I’ve got a lot on my mind I’ll be glad to forget for a while. Besides, it’s not every night that Brad Pitt pops in for a cuppa.

  And it’s not everyone who remembers their dreams. I always do, and on top of that, according to an article I read, I’m an advanced dreamer. I know when I’m dreaming and I can decide, say, to parachute jump, confident that I’ll land safely. Or I can go off into the sunset, if you know what I mean, with Colin Firth, well, Mr Darcy, knowing I’ll wake up next to my husband with a clear conscience, knowing nothing has really happened. Mr Darcy gets a regular guest spot in the world I inhabit after I’ve gone to sleep.

  Brad’s never appeared before, but it’s nice to see him anyway, making himself at home in this kitchen. It’s not my kitchen though. It has a bright pink American fridge, the exact pink of the t-shirt I’ll be wearing tomorrow. Brad explains why he’s here. He met my sister apparently and she told him to look us up when he was in England.

  Funny. I spoke to Izzy on skype this evening, our time, and she never mentioned him! But then she had a difficult afternoon ahead of her. Oh, wait a minute. When I nipped out to the corner shop for eggs and passed the stand of gossipy magazines by the door, I saw Brad on the cover of one because he’s broken up with Angelina, and on another saying he and Angelina want six more children. So that’s why he was in my sub-conscious, why he’s turned up tonight. If the opportunity presents itself I’ll ask him if either of these stories are true.

  I’ve made a pot of tea – Brad’s happy with English Breakfast – and I’m sitting snipping recipes out of a magazine and listening to Brad and my ten-year-old son talking about films. Actually, my son seems to be doing most of the talking, about a film he’d like to make and which he wonders if Brad might invest in. The film will need lots of special effects. It will star, of course, himself, and his friend next door, and they’re looking for someone to play the alien who’s taken over their tree-house. Perhaps Brad … ? I try to kick my son under the table but even an advanced dreamer doesn’t always manage that.

  It turns out though that this dream isn’t really about Brad. Someone else is about to come on stage.

  Probably to avoid handing over some of his hard-earned time and money to the Back Garden Production Company – although in my opinion he’s missing a trick – Brad announces that his dog is in the car, and it’s sick, he’s really worried about it. We insist that he brings it into the house and he goes out and returns with an adorable golden retriever puppy who does indeed look a little under the weather. My son says he has a hang-dog expression.

  But the dream is not about a golden retriever pup either, however adorable.

  My mother comes in and says she will take the dog to the vet.

  The world shrinks, like a film close-up, to Mum’s face, her soft brown eyes and the little worry lines between her brows.

  Keeping her in my sight I walk shakily towards her.

  ‘Mum? Mum, I thought you were … dead.’

  Mum smiles, but offers no explanation as to how this misunderstanding can have arisen. She’s wearing a dress I remember cutting up for patches years ago, a round-necked, full-skirted dress, glazed cotton, purple flowers and green leaves on a white background.

  I’m terrified I’ll wake up before I reach her, but I get there and she’s solid flesh under my arms as I hug her and hug her and cry and cry …

  The tears are still there, running down my face when the alarm clock breaks up our reunion.

  But the kitchen and the pink fridge have disappeared. So have Brad and his puppy. My son is eighteen, away at university. And Mum has gone. I’m in bed, fumbling in the dark to silence the ringing, while trying to will myself back to dreamland for one more hug.

  Then I realise it’s not the clock that’s wakened me. The mobile phone on my bedside table is lit up.

  Izzy.

  It’s been difficult getting used to the time difference since she moved to San Francisco but I told her to ring the minute she heard, whatever time it was here. I pick up the phone as I climb out of bed, quietly so as not to disturb my husband, and pad through to the kitchen with fear in my heart.

  Izzy tells me that it’s good news, that the lump was benign, that the doctor says there’s nothing to worry about.

  New tears come, mine and hers, but then we get a grip and Izzy says it must be one o’ clock with you, were you asleep? I tell her about my dream. Just the Brad bit for now – we’ve had enough emotion for one night. She laughs and promises she’ll send him our way if the occasion arises.

  We linger, not wanting to break the connection.

  ‘I was thinking about Mum,’ Izzy says softly. ‘How brave she was when her news was different from mine.’

  ‘I’ll be thinking of you both tomorrow,’ I say and she wishes me luck before we hang up.

  Pirate, the 57-varieties rescue dog we got to fill our empty nest, is in his basket in the hall. He doesn’t open his eyes but his tail wags slightly. I wonder what he’s dreaming about.

  I slide back into bed and think about tomorrow’s charity run. I’ll wear my bright pink t-shirt and, in my dreams, Mum and Izzy will be there to cheer me on.

  Published in Woman’s Weekly

  Celia’s Surprise

  ‘Jennifer, it’s almost eleven o’clock,’ Simon calls upstairs.

  ‘Just coming.’

  I’m not used to wearing a hat. I adjust it in front of the mirror again. We have plenty of time but Simon makes Big Ben look tardy.

  He’s waiting by the door, jingling his keys. He looks me up and down. Knee length pale green and white dress, emerald green shoes and little emerald green hat. Simon doesn’t say anything but he smiles and raises his eyebrows and I know him well enough to take that as a compliment.

  ‘You’re looking pretty good yourself,’ I say, flicking a piece of fluff from the lapel of his suit, the one he wore when we got married.

  ‘Have you any idea what Celia will be wearing? Not her usual I hope,’ he says, sliding the car smoothly into gear.

  ‘She told me she was going shopping with someone, that’s all I know.’

  He snorts. No doubt he is thinking of Celia’s usual attire of long patchwork skirts, baggy velvet tops and armfuls of bangles. Simon has a horror of anything that could be described as bohemian. According to him, he had a ghastly childhood being teased because his real name is Sylvan. The first thing he did when he was eighteen was to change it by deed poll.

  And no doubt he is thinking too of Celia’s friends and whether any of them could be relied on to help her chose a suitable outfit.

  ‘She’s made a lot of friends over the last four years,’ I muse.

  We’ve met some of them at Celia’s various parties. She loves to throw parties.

  ‘I hope she didn’t mean that Eliot whatshisname she had in tow the last time we saw her,’ Simon growls.

  ‘Eliot was lovely,’ I protest, ‘really interesting, and anxious to be friendly.’

  ‘Too anxious.’ Simon loosens up suddenly and turns to grin at me. ‘Oh well, she’s old enough to choose her own friends, live her own life. But it is her graduation. I hope she makes some effort. Where did she say we were to meet her?’ he asks.

  It’s a typical Celia arrangement.

  If we’re there by quarter to twelve she might be outside the hall but we’re only to wait for five minutes and if she’s doesn’t appear we’re to go in and sit down. She’ll see us in the foyer afterwards and we’ll go out for lunch.

  I remind Simon of all this. He tenses up again, wrinkling his nose.

  ‘I hope we’re not going to that awful bean place she took us to before. Full of students. The place with the sticky forks and no napkins.’ He shudders.

  ‘She is a student,’ I say, ‘but I’ve booked a table at La Maison Rouge, for four in case she wants to bring anybody.’

  ‘Good. At least we’ll get a decent meal.’

  He subsides and concentrates on the new one-way system, then frowns as we join what seems to be a long queue of stationary cars. It’s some time before we move up and Simon keeps checking his watch, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

  By the time we’ve found a parking space it’s exactly quarter to twelve

  Predictably, Celia is nowhere to be seen but suddenly Eliot is there in front of us, a stocky, smiling figure. He’s had his beard and hair trimmed since we saw him last and his golden brown corduroy suit looks new. He shakes Simon’s hand, turns to shake mine, changes his mind and throws his arms round me. It’s like being hugged by a big friendly teddy bear.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ he says. ‘Celia’s sitting with her classmates.’

  ‘Thank you, Eliot,’ I say, since Simon does not reply.

  Eliot has evidently been in the hall earlier and bagged three seats, good seats near the front. One of the privileges of being a Professor, I suppose. He leans forward and looks at us, his hazel eyes alight with mischief.

  ‘Celia has a bit of a surprise for you. Look, she’s coming in now.’

  We turn as a crowd of students comes down the aisle. Celia sees us and waggles her fingers. She is walking tall and proud, her black gown flowing out behind her, but it’s what else she’s wearing that makes Simon and I gasp.

  Her skirt is long but it is black and elegant. Her top is deep red velvet but is fitted and has no embroidery or sparkly bits. She’s not wearing any bangles as far as I can see. She is wearing shoes, not sandals. Most transforming of all is her thick dark hair, up in a neat chignon rather than hanging loose.

  But that isn’t the surprise.

  We watch a seemingly endless procession of graduates go up to the stage. They go in alphabetical order so Celia is nearly the last. I’m so absorbed in watching her stand up as her name is called that it is only when she is on the stage that I realise what the Dean has said.

  Celia Margaret Walker, archaeology, first class.

  Eliot is beaming from ear to ear. Simon’s mouth is hanging open. I expect mine is too.

  A first-class degree. She never told us. Just phoned and said she’d passed and she hoped we would come to the graduation.

  Simon had treated it as a joke, Celia going to university. She’s always had terrific enthusiasms, things she started but didn’t see through. Making jewellery, being a Mediterranean tour guide, doing a computer course, floristry – every time we saw her she seemed to be doing something different. Then it was volunteering at a local dig for Roman remains and the announcement that she wanted to study archaeology. Not with the Open University – she wanted the whole student experience. What she said in her application and at her interview we’ll never know but she was accepted by one of the top courses in the country. She’ll never stick it, Simon kept saying, but one year turned into two, then three and four.

  We sit, dazed, through the rest of the Ws, a Y and a Z. Then it’s all over and Eliot is ushering us through the throng to the foyer where Celia is waiting.

  When she has extricated herself from one of Eliot’s hugs, Celia looks at us. She seems uncharacteristically unsure of herself.

  ‘Simon! What do you think of your old mum then?’ she asks, patting her hair.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us, Celia? You’ve done so well. A first-class degree! That’s terrific,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you, Jennifer darling,’ says Celia, but her eyes are still on Simon.

  My husband does not find it easy to express his feelings. He was brought up in some sort of commune in California, a time he refuses to talk about now. Neither Celia nor he has seen his father since they came back to England when he was seven, when he started to turn himself from a curly-haired wild child (Celia’s showed me the photographs) into the short-back-and-sides lawyer I fell in love with.

  Celia, on the other hand, never got over her hippy phase and has teased her son over the years for being grey-suited and straight-laced and punctual and tidy. But now it seems that she’s anxious for his approval.

  Simon clears his throat. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

  ‘Oh for goodness sake.’ Celia moves forward and holds out her arms and my twenty-eight-year-old husband steps into them like a little boy.

  Eliot puts his hand under my elbow, steers me aside, and makes small talk for five minutes.