2. Mr Dark Skies & Sons
Mr Dark Skies Sons
‘How old are the sons?’
‘I’ve no idea, Chloe. They don’t need a travel cot and asked for the sofa-bed, so they’re adults, I’m guessing.’
‘Hmm, nice, hope they’re good-looking. When are they arriving?’
‘Tomorrow, sometime after two. These are not boyfriend material, Chloe, they’re guests here just for the weekend, remember.’
‘Who said anything about boyfriends?’
I’m racing around the kitchen attempting to tidy up so I can get to work and not return to a bombsite. I sweep crumbs into the bin, wipe the side, put the milk away and add a random sock into the wash-pile. Chloe then decides to tip the entire contents of her bag all over the freshly wiped worktop. Pencil shavings, coins, crushed sweet wrappers, Post-it notes, another random sock, pencils, grubby make-up– and a marble polar bear?
‘Chloe, I’ve just wiped up there.’
‘I NEED to find my bus-pass and I’m late. You’ll have to give me a lift.’
‘Then I’ll be late.’
‘Miles will let you off.’
‘That’s not the point.’ I’m quite cross now. ‘I’m never late and I don’t want to start now just because you’re not organised.’
‘All right, keep your hair on, I’ve found it, bye.’
Out she goes in a waft of attitude, leaving the debris from her college bag where it has landed. I’m now up against it timewise, and I’m racing to the door when I accidentally tread on Harvey the cat’s tail. He does an almighty yowl and flicks a claw that hurts like buggery and puts a ladder in my tights. I don’t have time to change and I’m pulling the door to when Mitzi waves at me frantically through the window. My sister is never up before ten, so I don’t want to know what’s going on, and I especially don’t want to know if I need to get involved.
Pretending I haven’t seen her, I jump in the car and turn on the ignition. That’s when the front door flies open. She is wrapped in what looks like a bedsheet, except it is cowled around her head so it’s taken on a monkish quality, exacerbated by the fact that Mitzi drops to her knees and puts her hands up in prayer mode. I can’t ignore her now.
‘What!’I snap. ‘I’m going to be late.’
‘His mum is coming for tea.’
‘So?’
‘His mum, Janet.’ She is looking panicked.
I sigh. ‘Right. When?’
She’s practically wringing her hands now. ‘Tonight.’
Eurgh.‘All right.’
‘It’s not all right. I said TONIGHT, Janet.’
‘Yes, I heard you.’
‘Help me, please.’ She’s giving me eyes like the cat off Shrek as she shuffles on her knees towards me.
‘What do you need? Do you want me to cook?’
‘Oh, thank God. Yes. Please.’
She immediately leaps up from the ground and pulls out a fag and a lighter from somewhere inside the rolls of her outfit.
‘Anything she doesn’t like?’ I shout as I put the car in a U-turn.
My sister looks blank, as if someone has pushed her on to a stage to deliver a speech without notes or trousers.
‘Me,’ she says mournfully.
‘OK, well, text me.’
My heart is now racing as I mentally check off all the things I need to do today. Number one: I must go to work and be a good dental receptionist. This means I feed the fish, rearrange magazines, navigate the desperate phone calls from people in pain and try to get them emergency appointments. This is increasingly difficult as the Denplan regulars take up 70 per cent of the space as regular clients. Finding them dates and times they want or can manage with work and school is not easy. Miles doesn’t do Mondays after 2 p.m., Fridays, or lunchtimes as he’s cycling. Tony, the other partner, is approaching early retirement and he specialises in being miserable. He now only does Tuesdays to Fridays, no doubt in order to prep himself for the long days of being miserable at home, rather than miserable at work. The hygienist, Mrs Fashanu, is mad about her horses, so she only does Tuesdays and Wednesdays so as to be available for hacks. Wanda, the other hygienist, is Mondays only. The rest of the time she’s dedicated to crochet: according to her and her mum, she pioneered the letter-box topper. You know, those lovely little knitted scenarios you find tucked over the top of a post-box round your way.
If any of the team at Valley Dental is off with a cold, the whole system grinds to a halt and is thrown into chaos.
Phew. On top of all that, there’s the gentle phone manner I need to sustain, to re-direct the poor buggers who are ringing up looking for an NHS dentist. Above all, whatever I do, I have to avoid any intimate or meaningful looks, sighs, glances or accidental touches with Miles. I have no brain space for any of that at the moment.
Number two: today I must focus on becoming a Superhost as I prepare for the arrival of Mr Dark Skies– that’s what he calls himself– Sons. This means supplying a quality welcome basket that over time I have got down to a fine art. The basket contains: milk (semi-skimmed, sorry no oat), bread (50/50 sliced since anything else gets left), butter (never ever margarine), sugar, coffee (mid-price posh instant), dish-washer tablets and clean tea-towels. After preparing the basket I then do a quick spot-check of Lavander Cottage, spray some polish around and turn on the plug-in smelly thing. As a finishing touch, I put on the heating early to bring it up to temperature, since it’s so cold at the moment.
Going for Superhost puts on quite the pressure, but I’m gunning for it. To succeed, I need back-to-back Five and Four Stars over a six-month period. Thank heavens I’m on a half-day today so I can be out for twelve-thirty, leaving me 1.5 hours precisely to pick up everything I need from the shops and get back and go through my checklist.
Number three: today I need to be a good sister and think about what I could cook for Mitzi’s future mother-in-law. Blimey. Carl’s mum. What’s she going to be like? He’s lovely, is Carl, but a bit rough around the edges. I bet she’s hard as nails. Mitzi said the woman doesn’t like her. Let’s face it, they never do.
Most mums take one look at my sister and go straight into Code Red: girlfriend removal. Always the same, even way back when she got together with her first boyfriend, dozy Fred on next door’s farm. I remember him well. Fred had a Led Zeppelin poster on his wall and a working Walkman in his tractor. He had stopped going to school at fourteen and got into trouble with the police for rolling a tractor tyre down Lakey Hill into the allotments– breaking three sheds and Sid’s greenhouse on its way. It’s not as if he was a catch or anything. But his mum, Mrs Sheila Murgatroyd, well, she made life difficult the first time Mitzi turned up holding hands with Fred. She insisted on feeding her tripe so she could be offended when Mitzi gagged at the second mouthful. Then asked her to go and ‘make herself useful’ and collect eggs from the pen, where a giant cockerel called Rambo was running round, attacked her and nearly had her eye out. When my poor sister returned with just three intact and two broken eggs, Mrs Murgatroyd accused her of being lazy and feckless. At that, Mitzi dropped the basket, breaking the other three eggs, and stomped out leaving Fred and two Collies howling.
I laugh, and my mind clears. Steak and mushroom pie... that’s what I’ll do. With mash. It rarely misses.
*
It’s an uneventful morning on reception. I’m not sure if Miles knows I’m in today or not, but I’m not bothered anyway. I’m so busy being a receptionist with a Superhost side hustle that I don’t have headroom to think about anything else for longer than thirty seconds. I’m grateful to hand over at lunchtime to Susan. Especially when I bump into Verity Stamp, full mouth of veneers, coming in as I leave. No one has raised more complaints than Verity, and that’s a face set for combat. I race via the Co-op to pick up some shopping, and before I know it I’m in Lavander Cottage in Superhost mode. I’m wafting scent, plumping pillows and plugging in the extra heater because gosh, it’s chilly. That’s when a text arrives from Miles.
Sorry I missed you today, fancy a drink tonight? Mx
Do I? I certainly don’t fancy being in to meet Carl’s mum.
Yes. 7. Crown? JJx
That’s that sorted. I’m feeling very happy and pleased with myself for being decisive, when within minutes of being in the cottage Mitzi appears.
‘Hi love, need a hand?’ she asks.
I’m in shock. Mitzi never offers to help.
‘Who are you and where is Mitzi?’ I say, peering around.
‘Absolutely no need for that. I’m always available– you just need to ask.’
Yeah right. This is about his mum. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Go and peel me some potatoes and put them in water to soak.’
Mitzi wasn’t expecting this. She looks mortified. ‘Peel? How many?’
‘Ten.’
‘Ten? It’ll take me all day.’
‘It’s either peel some spuds or hoover in here.’
Mitzi stares into the middle distance before deciding, ‘I can’t vacuum, it depresses me, like it’s sucking the life from me.’
I laugh at that. ‘Given I’ve only seen you touch one three times in ten years I think you’ll be OK.’
‘That’s a bit bitchy.’
‘Those are the facts.’
‘Oh, all right. Where do you hide the potatoes?’
By 3.30 p.m. I’ve got some puff pastry on defrost and the pie filling made, with the mash whipped up and sitting on the counter in a bowl ready for a microwave blast. I am enjoying a well-deserved cup of Earl Grey and a lemon shortbread when Mr Dark Skies arrives. I’ve emailed him earlier to let him know the cottage door is ready and open for them, and they head straight to it.
Mr Dark Skies is in his late fifties, I’d guess, dressed in a head-to-toe khaki puffa coat, followed closely by two very tall young men, both equally wrapped up in those full-length duvet coats that look like they could double as an emergency sleeping bag in an Arctic blast. I watch as they walk down the drive, go into the cottage, and then come back out. They disappear back down the drive only to return moments later carrying between them a huge box. I mean a HUGE box.
I’m drying my hands to go and say hello when there’s a tap on the patio door.
‘Hello.’ It’s Khaki Puffa. He’s got very intense grey eyes sunk back in his sockets that make him look very tired.
‘Hello, I’m Janet,’ I greet him. ‘You’re in and settled?’
‘Yes, great, thank you.’
‘OK, well, let me know if you need anything.’ I don’t want to invite too much in the way of cottage critique and, hoping this opening gambit might be enough to steer them on their way, I’m slowly closing the patio door when he speaks up.
‘Do you have a size eighteen Allen key?’
I’m flummoxed. ‘Er . . .’
‘A seventeen, nineteen or twenty-two might do it.’
‘Er . . .’
‘It’s quite important,’ Mr Dark Skies says insistently. ‘It’s the only thing we need. Troika made a schoolboy error and left the toolkit at home.’
‘Ah, I see.’ He’s not moving, I really am going to have to do this now. ‘Maybe I have one in amongst my bike stuff?’
‘Yes. It’s that kind of tool. Thank you.’
He is glued to me as I go round the back to the shed, dig out the toolkit and unpack it. I rummage around and hallelujah find a small plastic box of rusty Allen keys at the bottom. Before I can hold it up or say anything, he whips it off me.
‘Mmm... twelve to seventeen. Right, let’s see.’ And he disappears with the box, leaving me to tidy up.
As I go back to the house, I can hear the sound of muffled music and spot Chloe turn up the drive. I notice she’s got her EarPod things in.
‘You’ll hurt your ears with those, can’t you turn them down a bit?’ I know it’s like a stock phrase mums say to kids, and sure enough, she pulls a stock phrase eyeroll in return.
‘I’ve only got one in!’
I’m aware that Mr Dark Skies might be back at any moment looking for another set of spanners or something, and I need to get that pie in the oven to bake.
‘Mum?’ Chloe follows me into the kitchen, whilst I root through the drawer full of odds and sods, trying to find any more key things because I have a feeling those others won’t do.
‘Mum.’
‘Yes, love, what?’ I’m not really paying much attention: would a tiny electric screwdriver fit? ‘Did you have a good day? Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘I hate tea.’
‘I know, I meant a drink. A hot chocolate? I need a tea.’
I put the kettle on, turn on the oven to get it warmed up and crack an egg, roughly stir it with the pastry brush and brush the egg across the crust of the pie. It looks nice with its crimped edge and a couple of pastry dots I put on for decoration. I return to rifling through the drawer, finding batteries, gift receipts, old birthday cards and candles, a half-empty book of stamps... and yes! Here is another set of the blooming things. I think these were for putting together an Ikea wardrobe. My timing is good because Mr Dark Skies is back at the patio door. He opens it without asking and steps into the kitchen, which I really don’t like.
‘These are no good,’ he says, without a greeting or a nod to my daughter. ‘Do you have any others?’
I walk over and pass him the new set, saying rather crisply, ‘That’s my last bet, I’m afraid. If those don’t fit, you might need to try BQ in Halifax. They stay open until eight, so you should be able to pick some up there. OK, thanks, must get on.’
I give a forced smile and physically edge him out the door and close it on him. I don’t want to be rude, but I do want him out of my kitchen. I stick the pie in the oven, get milk out of the fridge for the tea and as I turn around, I realise my daughter is sitting at the table with big fat tears running down her face. My heart drops to my boots.
‘Chloe sweetheart, what’s wrong?’ I pull up a chair next to her and wrap my arms around her. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, I was distracted and didn’t realise you were upset. What’s up, darling?’
‘Mum.’ Then she weeps some more.
‘Love, come on, tell me, you can tell me. Honestly. Whatever it is, I promise we can sort it out.’ But this just makes her cry harder.
‘Oh, Mum.’
I’m really worried now. It must be something serious, as Chloe is not a crier. In fact, I’ve only seen her well up very occasionally, and that’s usually when an unexpected donkey adoption video pops up between adverts. I’m on absolute pins, what can be wrong? Seeing that she’s building up to say something between sobs, I rush round, snatch up some tissues and hand them to her one by one.
‘Come on, Chloe love, it can’t be that bad.’ What if it is? What is it?
She’s at the point of spilling the beans when Mitzi swans in wearing a floral tea dress that sweeps the ground, her hair pinned up in a wonky updo, looking like Helena Bonham Carter disturbed mid-nap. My sister immediately seizes on the drama like a magnet and is all over Chloe, smothering her with kisses. I’m physically wriggled out of my seat, so Mitzi can get a better position in front of Chloe.
‘Breathe it out, breathe it out, shake it out, come on, stand up with me, you too, Janet, let’s all stand up, let everything hang, that’s it, shimmy and shake, come on, let it all go.’
We are all now standing up, flopping our arms and heads about, arms up in the air, fingers wiggling, twisting our hips, twisting our feet, tongues out now.
‘Aaah, repeat after me, Aaah,’ my sister shrills.
Chloe smiles, then she giggles, which encourages Mitzi and me to get even sillier. We are leaping about making daft noises and shaking ourselves like loons when I turn around and notice that Mr Dark Skies Sons are standing in the kitchen staring at us. I stop, Chloe stops, Mitzi is of course reluctant to stop but finally comes to a steady brake.
‘Just letting you know that set fits,’ Mr Dark Skies says.
‘Great,’ I answer breathlessly. ‘Thank you.’
‘We’ll get set up now then. Thanks for everything, the bread et cetera. The cottage is champion.’
‘Good, very pleased, you’re welcome.’
They awkwardly back out of the patio door and Chloe, Mitzi and I all turn to one another and laugh as soon as the door is closed. Eventually the giggles peter out and I take a hold of Chloe.
‘Come on, tell us what’s up, sweetheart?’
Her bottom lip wobbles. ‘I hate my course, I want to drop out of college. Mum, I don’t know what I want to do.’
My heart sinks but I mustn’t let it show. ‘That’s nothing to worry about. We can sort it.’
‘I just don’t like it there, Mum.’
‘I see.’
I ponder over all the things I’ve not enjoyed during my lifetime. The parade of awful bosses and crummy jobs is like The Generation Games conveyor belt: the pie-making one where I permanently hurt my wrist, the card-folding one with the train of bitter old women who gossiped mercilessly about you in front of you. The shoe-packing, the spiteful lechers, the pickled onion factory, the scary night-time office cleaning. The list goes on and on.
I pull myself together. ‘Well, let’s get out the prospectus and see if there’s any other course you fancy. It’s always possible to change course.’
‘I don’t want to do another course, Mum. I just want to leave.’ Delivered in monotone, matter-of-fact, entirely deadpan.
Mitzi, of course, can’t wait to put her oar in. ‘Education is over-rated,’ she says. ‘Life is where the experiences are.’
I give her a hard stare and flick my eyes meaningfully towards the oven. She picks up the hint, and hastily follows her words with, ‘Although it does generally mean higher wages and much better prospects.’
‘I want a break from school,’ my daughter tells us. ‘I’ve had enough. I’m gonna look for a job.’ Having got that off her chest, she then gets up, blows her nose, throws the tissue in the bin and looks in the oven. ‘I’m starving, what’s for tea?’
‘Not the pie. Do NOT go near that pie.’ Mitzi leaps in front of the oven, bodyguard-style.
‘That’s for Carl’s mum,’ I explain. ‘Mitzi’s cooking a pie.’
‘Mitzi’s cooking?’ Chloe makes sly progress toward the oven, but Mitzi is on her.
‘Yes,’ she hisses, ‘so you can just turn around and leave this general area, or I’ll insist you stay at college.’
I rustle up a pizza for Chloe, then battle with a fast shower with the nozzle set low to avoid my hair. I select a rather crumpled gypsy-ish type of dress and dangly earrings for my date. I haven’t time to iron the dress and am hoping the pattern is so busy that Miles’s eyes will be preoccupied roaming around the Paisley pattern, which is dizzily pointing every which way.
I’m spraying a bit of perfume and hurrying down the stairs as Carl’s mum Rowena arrives. She’s not what I imagined. She’s tall, with big blonde hair– in those waves that look as if a professional has been on it for hours, and those puffy lips you see on a lot of women these days. She’s in quite a fancy outfit– a tight-fitting shirtdress thing and heels. Heels. I feel like we misjudged it with pie: this is much more of a Caesar salad woman. Too late now, I try and compensate for what’s coming with a slightly OTT hello.
‘Hello, so sorry I’m flying out, nice to meet you.’
‘Rowena Bellingham, we have met. I had a crown fitted a couple of years ago now.’
‘Oh right, yes of course.’ (I don’t remember.) ‘How is it?’
‘It’s still there, put it that way, though it’s a pain to get round with the brush.’
‘Yes, we find that, they’re a magnet for debris.’
‘Right. You not stopping, avoiding the in-laws?’ She smiles with a hint of menace.
‘I already had plans, sadly,’ which is, after all, the truth. ‘Hopefully we’ll have a chance to catch up properly another time. Mitzi is very entertaining, she’ll look after you.’
Carl has his arm draped around Mitzi in the kitchen doorway; he looks relaxed, smiling, but Mitzi has a rigid grin attached to her face that’s not reaching her eyes. Carl guides his mum through to the kitchen. Mitzi maintains the grimace as I get my coat. She doesn’t move.
‘What’s up?’ I whisper.
‘Carl’s invited his kids round too, they’re on their way.’
I gulp for her. ‘Oh well, get it over with, I suppose. There are some chips in the freezer, so maybe throw some in? How old are they?’
‘Ten, twelve and thirteen.’
‘In that case, I’d definitely get some chips on. Well, good luck.’
‘I’m gonna bloody need it. Hurry back?’
‘Of course. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ (I am so lying.)
I get in the car and text Chloe with all the details about tonight’s guests. She sends me lots of laughter emojis and promises to diss the goss on my return. I’ve no idea what she’s on about but I reply with a smiley face.
My thoughts turn to Miles. Do I honestly think there’s any mileage in a relationship with him? There’s no point in starting things and complicating my life if I’m not really sure. Once you’re older, like we both are, you have stuff going on. People have people who will judge and complain and get in the way. Look at poor Mitzi, entertaining a crowd of strangers and grumpy ones, I bet. She’s useless with kids– unless they’re rebellious ones– and she never understands mothers, since she never wanted to be one. She wants to hug Carl’s bones off him and that’s pretty much it. That engagement announcement Carl put on social media– that was a mistake. That is what’s brought all these relatives to the door.
Then I relax and tell myself: ‘You’re going for a little drink, Janet. I don’t think you need to be worrying about wedding favours just yet.’
*
Three hours later and Miles and I jump out of the taxi and stagger up the drive, both giggly as I scrabble in my bag for the keys. Miles is cupping my bottom in the most comical way whilst tickling my neck deliberately with his breath. I’m mightily distracted, trying very hard to keep the noise to a minimum when I drop the keys and suddenly find a torch beam illuminating them on the drive. I blink, look around and pick out a group of crouching figures that I realise must be Mr Dark Skies Sons, all positioned on the lawn by a giant telescope that is pointed at the sky.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper, as I pick up the keys and simultaneously push Miles away and attempt to straighten up in order to open the front door.
‘Mars retrograde, boys?’ Miles casually throws out. I can tell he’s being mischievous.
‘No. Saturn shift.’
‘Ah, I thought so.’
‘Shut up, Miles.’
I nearly fall over, and the torchlight flickers up to reveal that Chloe is one of the shadowy figures. She too is crouching on the ground, her eyes on the stars.
‘Chloe love.’ I cringe and feel myself sobering up as the cold creeps in, and I instinctively create a gap between myself and Miles.
‘I’m stargazing, Mum. It’s good. Don’t lock the door.’
I manage the key at last, and collapse into the hall, giggling away with Miles. I am returning a long leisurely kiss when the landing light powers on and Mitzi’s head drops over the banister. FFS!
‘Oh, hi, Miles. I just thought I’d tell you first, Janet. The wedding’s off.’
I’m shocked. ‘Oh gosh. Was the pie that bad?’
‘It’s for the best. I’ll tell you tomorrow. Night.’
The light then goes off, plunging us back into darkness. I start to compute the myriad of scenarios that must have gone wrong for Mitzi or Carl to be calling the wedding off, but I don’t have long to wonder as Miles pulls me into his arms and though I can feel his ribs, I worry my tummy is wobbling like a giant whoopee cushion. Chloe is outside rolling on the ground with strange men, Mitzi is up to her usual; nothing stands still long in this lifetime whirl of chaos. Miles’s lips are planted on mine, I’m not worrying any more about anything, and reflect that that delicious second bottle of Sauvignon really did the trick.
***** Five Stars
Helpful hosts. Dark Sky friendly. Plenty of Allen Keys. We’ll be back.
Thanks, Mr Dark Skies Sons.
Privacy. When you run a BB you don’t really get any. This can be hard to live with.
Strangers are sort of in your house. You’ve got to be able to live with this and also be strong enough to push them out of the door.
Guests are unpredictable. They bring things like telescopes and ask for stuff you haven’t anticipated. Like Allen Keys. So be prepared for every eventuality. I know that’s impossible. Get a big drawer.
Kids too are unpredictable. They do things like drop out of perfectly good college courses for no reason. They leave mess everywhere. Be ready for constant change. I know that too is impossible. Get big drawers for all the big pants you’re going to need to wear in order to cope with your kids.