Chapter 9
NINE
‘Oh, there you are,’ croaked a voice from the depths of a maroon velvet recliner. ‘Close the door, will you, dear. You’re letting in all that optimism.’
Hilda Jory was neatly tucked beneath a crocheted rug, legs crossed at the ankle in satin slippers, a cigarette burning with casual menace in one hand and a champagne glass full of neat gin in the other.
Her silver bob was, as usual, perfectly in place as she read the obituary section of the local newspaper.
‘Sorry it’s taken me so long to get this back to you. You all right?’ Rita said as brightly as she could muster, dropping a mix of clothes and bedding on a side table.
‘Still breathing, so yes, I guess so.’ The old woman let out a rattling cough.
‘Eleven a.m. and on the sauce already; that’s even early for you, isn’t it?’ Rita started to clear glasses from the high table next to her mother-in-law’s reclinable armchair.
‘Darling girl. At eighty-six years young, I’ve earned the right to care not what anybody thinks about what I do and when I do it. Or for any of your madcap schemes, for that matter.’
‘What do you mean? Madcap scheme.’ Rita looked at her mother-in-law in shock – was she a mind-reader?
‘I haven’t seen that glint in your eye or that brightness in your voice since I told you I was moving out of the farmhouse and into here.
’ Granny Jory blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling and gestured towards a stack of packages on the sofa.
‘The man went to the wrong door. Three meditation cushions, some sort of gong, and an incense burner? Why don’t you see if you can get hold of Charles Manson?
Or how about you pop out and daub the chickens with chakra symbols whilst you’re at it? ’
‘Hilda, I’m not starting a cult! I’m thinking more of a retreat. And how come you know so much about that kind of stuff?’
Rita moved the packages near the door so that she didn’t forget them.
Hilda coughed again. ‘I’ve always had a secret fascination for old Charlie boy, dead now but aside from him being terrifying, there was something oddly charismatic about the man. Bit like a few of my exes back in the day.’
Rita shook her head in disbelief, walked over to the open-plan kitchen, ran water into the sink and popped the glasses in to soak.
Hilda waved her iPad in the air. ‘And this, dear daughter-in-law, is my modern-day encyclopaedia. I hope Mr Jobby was proud of his invention.’
‘It’s Jobs.’ Rita smiled.
‘Well, it certainly wasn’t Jory, was it?
’ Hilda flicked her cigarette into a clam-shaped ashtray.
‘Messes with the kids’ heads – all this on tap, incessant knowledge.
Me and my Ralphy, all we needed to know was what the weather was doing.
And when to bring the cows down from the top field. Much simpler then.’
Hilda butted her cigarette and took a swig of her drink.
‘Let me explain something, Rita.’ Here we go, Rita thought, ready for one of Hilda’s rambling stories.
She was sure that her cantankerous mother-in-law had always thought her lazy and assumed that she had all the time in the world to not only listen but be at her disposal.
Whereas in reality, Rita had been the silent backbone of the farm.
Fed the animals. Brought up two kids. Everything had been in such good order. Or so she had thought.
‘Before I met your Archie’s father and gave up my socialite lifestyle for a life of grain and bear it, I was a show girl in Monte Carlo and danced topless in a fountain with a Hungarian ambassador, I’ll have you know.
I’ve had my heart broken, my stomach pumped, and my jewellery stolen, but do you know what healed me? ’
Rita shook her head in dreaded anticipation.
‘Gin.’ The old girl took a huge sip of hers. ‘And distance.’
A laugh slipped from Rita’s mouth before she could stop it.
‘I’m serious.’ Hilda’s fading blue eyes managed a twinkle.
‘People don’t need meditation and green smoothies.
They need distraction. Booze. Sex. A good old-fashioned stroll, a right good chinwag, or even better, some proper sleep and time away from their phones.
None of this let’s-feel-our-feelings rubbish. ’
Rita took a deep breath as she poured herself a glass of water.
‘I hear you, but that isn’t going to pay the bills, so whether you approve or not, the Seahaven Bay Retreat is happening.
I’m going to get the barn cleared, yurts erected on the High Meadow and people are going to pay good money to come here and feel their feelings.
’ Rita was buoyant. ‘I’ve realised it’s so much easier to create a simple website now compared to when I studied for my marketing diploma. ’
‘This is the same woman who can’t even walk into her big lounge as it brings back too many memories, doing all this, is it?’
‘That’s cruel and it’s very different.’ Rita steadied herself.
Hilda sniffed. ‘Well, as long as they don’t do any nonsense near me, I don’t care what they do.’
‘You’ll hardly notice, I promise.’
Hilda put another cigarette in her mouth.
Rita raised a finger. ‘And what did Archie used to say to you about smoking in the annexe?’
The old lady flicked her lighter. ‘He said I’ll burn the place down but it’s that or the grim reaper personally wrestling the cigarette from my lips, so I’ll take my chances.’ Rita rolled her eyes. Hilda then struck like a cobra. ‘So, where’s the money coming from for all this, then?’
Rita’s subconscious did what it shouldn’t have. ‘If Archie hadn’t racked up so much debt, it would be coming from our savings.’
‘But you sold the contents of the cow shed including the cows and our one and only tractor to Hawthorn Acre.’
‘Yes. I didn’t want the bailiffs knocking. I never admitted to anyone but Archie that I’m allergic to them, and I have to live.’
‘I still can’t believe you allowed the bollocking Jenkens to benefit, though.’
‘Hilda! I told you many times. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was desperate.’
‘No wonder your Thom was furious too… he was so close to Archie, that boy of yours.’
Rita thought back to how her firstborn, by three minutes, had mirrored Hilda’s outrage, all because she’d acted without asking him first.
‘And as for being too proud to ask your old mother-in-law for help.’ A tutting Hilda Jory shook her head.
Rita looked at Hilda and decided enough was enough. ‘Hilda, please tell me what happened between the Jorys and the Jenkens.’
Hilda’s lips pursed. ‘It’s passed; it’s gone now.
’ Rita could see pain etched across the old woman’s face.
‘I could have helped you. We’d have managed.
But no, instead you lay dear old Stan off, and sell out to the Jenkens on a whim.
I can’t believe he’s working for them now, and I doubt you’ll find anyone half as good.
He was practically family, Rita.’ Rita knew that was the truth; the loyal handyperson had been Archie’s sidekick and confidant for many years.
But survival mode with a sprinkling of anger took over.
‘I was hurt. Not thinking straight. How dare your son leave us so early and in such a bad financial way! We hadn’t even written a will.’ Rita’s voice tightened. ‘We have two children; we should have written a will.’
‘Ah, there she blows. No wonder I’ve never seen you shed a tear with all that anger inside of you.’
‘That’s unfair. I loved him so much. You know that.’
Hilda’s breath hitched. ‘We all did, but it takes two to tango, dear. So, maybe that anger and blame needs to be directed at yourself.’
Rita harrumphed. She had kicked herself for not having had an open and honest discussion about this eventuality.
But they were still young. Archie had been just fifty-five when it had happened.
Death had seemed a lifetime away. All she did know, gleaned after one drink-fuelled evening together in the Winking Pilchard, was that Archie wanted to be buried in the Seahaven Bay churchyard, and that he was to be carried in to ‘Life is a Rollercoaster’ by Ronan Keating, which had certainly caused a few strange looks from the congregation.
Hilda Jory emptied her glass, replacing it on the side table with a loud clonk. ‘And re this will that wasn’t ever written. Maybe you need to look a little harder. Or you could always get a proper job to get you out of the mire.’
Rita swallowed down her anger.
Hilda picked up her paper to continue studying the obituary page. ‘Ooh good, there’s a funeral at St Margaret’s next week. Maybe you could drop me into town for it.’
‘You know the bus is easier for that side of town,’ Rita replied through gritted teeth, still not understanding the old girl’s fascination with death.
‘Oh and… how about adding to the marketing nonsense that I’m sure you’ll be spurting, where the sea meets your soul?’
And with that, Granny Jory pressed the button on her armrest and reclined like a queen refusing an audience.
Rita shut the door behind her and breathed in a huge glug of optimistic air.
This was part of her new life: having to deal with Granny Jory alone.
And despite all Hilda’s bravado, and while the annexe might reek of mischief and gin, there was still pain.
She wasn’t a bad woman. She, too, was a grieving woman.
Full of loss and longing of what could have been, for not only life with her husband but also her one and only son.
Also, to give her her due, the annexe had been Hilda’s idea.
Once it was ready, she had graciously transferred the deeds of the farmhouse out of her name and moved into the ground-floor rooms of the adjoining building, giving Rita and Archie, then newlyweds, their own space and privacy. And, ironically now, her inheritance.
Throughout their lives, Hilda Jory had been consistent in her outrageousness, and also weirdly dependable in her own way.
Rita understood why Hilda had never remarried.
Because once Seahaven Bay and the farm got under your skin, it stayed there.
And that was why, she resolved, the Seahaven Bay Resort – ‘where the sea meets your soul’ – would happen.
And whether she or the guests liked it or not, Granny Jory came as part of the package.