Chapter Seven
Enya plonked the three weighty shopping bags by her front door and flexed her palms, which carried the imprint of the handles, before fishing inside her handbag for her buzzing phone. A text from Jenny filled the screen:
I Have Prosecco And Tiramisu. Why Don’t We Eat Pudding Later And Drink Too Much. We Can Dance In The Kitchen. Whaddya Say?
She smiled at the prospect, thankful, so thankful for her friend, whose messages and visits were indeed bright jewels that brightened up the most ordinary of days.
Am Cooking For The Kids But Come Over – And Yes, We Can Hide The Tiramisu And Plonk! I’ll Dig Out My Abba Cd!
Her friend’s reply was instant:
Ace!
She was already looking forward to it and could hear the comforting notes of ‘Dancing Queen’ in her head.
It helped calm the worry beginning to flare at the thought of the prawns that had been out of their freezer home for at least half an hour now.
This was what Jenny did, made everything feel a little bit better.
It wasn’t lost on her how her friend put effort into being there, into thinking up weird and wonderful ways to give her something to look forward to.
Three weeks had passed quickly, it felt like mere days since she’d been feeling anxious about getting to the airport on time to drop her son off, and now she was feeling anxious about getting to the airport on time to pick him up.
It had been easy to return to the predictability of life, a life edged with loneliness once Dominic’s marital status had been exposed.
He hadn’t been uppermost in her mind, not really, yet now, remembering the car-park incident, she thought about the lovely man who had bashed her door, the lovely, married man who had bashed her door.
Her shame had faded a little and in its place sat the subtle ache of embarrassment at the fact that she had allowed herself to feel so giddy, so physically affected over the smallest and most minor of interactions.
It wasn’t typical for her, she was smarter than that.
‘Morning, Enya!’
‘Oh, morning, Maeve!’ She felt the hint of a blush to have been thinking about HCK at all, not that Maeve had ever professed to have or displayed any mind-reading skills, but still.
‘All okay?’ Her lovely neighbour popped out on to the path that ran between their two houses from where they both accessed the bin shed, and what would in days gone by have been the coal store.
‘It’s so warm, not yet midday and it’s this hot!’ The older woman wafted her tunic.
It always fascinated her, the way people were keen to tell her what the weather was like when she was standing in front of them, as if she were not staring at the same sky, experiencing the same temperature, with her prawns slowly deteriorating and crying out for the chilly interior of her fridge as she searched for her key.
Her bolder self, the one that she kept under wraps, wanted to say, ‘Really? Warm, you say? Well, strike me down! And here’s me in my snow boots and ski snood! But then I am part Arctic fox!’
Instead, she smiled and nodded. ‘’Tis a bit.’
‘Aiden’s home today then.’
Maeve lived next door to the Hudsons and had watched the children on either side of her garden fences grow up and fall in love when in their late teens. The woman felt a lovely sense of connection to the two youngsters, and said often that when they got married, she wanted a front-row seat.
‘Yes! I’m picking him up from the airport in a few hours. I’ve been and got all his favourite bits. Including prawns!’ Enya laughed, hoping her worry might leach from her words and Maeve would advise her not to tarry and go get that seafood in the fridge. But no.
‘Expect Holly has missed him, poor love. Three weeks! It’s a long time.’
Try three years... ‘Yes, although I think she’s taken the opportunity to redecorate their bedroom.’
‘She’s a clever girl, has always been very clever.’
‘She is, Maeve.’
The older woman would never, it seemed, forget that Holly, aged nine, had aced her cycling proficiency while Aiden had managed to fail his spectacularly and had stood in the front garden wailing loudly for all to hear before kicking his bike.
Not his finest hour. A more churlish, overly proud mother might take the opportunity to point out that Holly would be struggling to pay her rent as she tried to get her home-made craft business off the ground, were it not for the hefty wage her cycling-proficiency-failing, bike-kicking, super-skilled son was bringing in each month as a robotics engineer.
He was, however, and in fairness, still a bit wobbly on two wheels.
She could jest about it, but she did worry sometimes that he and Holly had rather fallen into their coupledom without testing the water; had they even dated other people? Not that she could recall. They did, however, seem incredibly happy, and that was what mattered.
‘That’s why I thought a lovely supper here might be a treat. Prawn cocktail to start!’
‘Ooh, lovely. He’ll be looking forward to some home-made grub no doubt.
My Arthur never liked foreign food. I gave him noodles one night for his tea, threw the bowl against the wall he did!
That taught me. Next night I went back to pie, mash and carrots.
And do you remember the Jubilee street party when you tried to give him a taco!
“ Taco! What the bloody hell is that? Are you having a laugh, it’s cardboard!
” That’s what he shouted. Oh dear, that put the kibosh on his celebrations.
I had to quickly go find him a slice of lemon drizzle to calm him down! ’
‘Yeeeeees. I remember. Fun times.’ She smiled, remembering Arthur’s miserable, muttering fizzog that used to appear on this very path on bin day.
‘Aiden actually loves Italian food and that’s where he’s been, Italy, so I’m sure he’s been feasting on pasta and, and.
..’ Her mind went blank. She couldn’t think of any other Italian food.
It happened this way sometimes, a thought hiccup.
‘He wants to watch that waistline, his dad wasn’t exactly a rake, was he? And he certainly doesn’t take after his mum!’
Maeve laughed and Enya reminded herself that Maeve was older and therefore deserving of respect, and that Jonathan would no doubt have chuckled to hear their neighbour of thirty years talk about his ever-expanding girth.
She also took little offence, aware that she was indeed a rake – tall and skinny and about as handy in the garden, her glorious dahlias proof of this.
‘He was not. Used to say he was built for endurance, not speed.’
The irony wasn’t lost on Enya that it turned out her husband wasn’t built for endurance at all.
And just like that, the thought of him, confirming that he was not inside waiting for her, kettle boiling, smile on his face, ah the wanderer returns!
His favourite refrain. She felt the first flush of anxiety, starting in her feet and rising up the back of her calves; her head felt hot, her face clammy and, as ever, the fear of the panic made her panic.
‘God rest his soul,’ Maeve announced with sudden solemnity.
‘Yep.’ She turned abruptly towards the front door, wanting to get inside, away from.
.. people. ‘Anyway, Maeve, I’d, I’d better get this food inside.
’ Again, she plunged her hand into the plum-coloured Radley cross-body bag that Holly and Aiden had bought her as a birthday gift a couple of years ago and which she treasured, trying to locate her key.
It was with blissful relief that her fingers touched the cool, slim metal.
Her neighbour stared at her with a slight look of concern.
‘Give Aiden my love, won’t you, and tell him, welcome home!’ Maeve called over her shoulder as she ambled back towards her house, leaving Enya feeling a new wave of guilt at any negative thoughts she might have harboured.
Maeve was part of this small community in Mablethorpe Road, the cul-de-sac of Victorian railway workers’ cottages in Watley Down, once a market town, now a suburb on the outskirts of Bristol, and the place they had all chosen to put down roots, see out their retirement or raise their kids.
Each house had been remodelled, extended and added to over the years, but from the front they all looked identical, bar the variety of front-door colours.
Theirs was a deep green; Jonathan had chosen it because it reminded him of steam trains and because the cottages had strong links to the railway.
It had made sense to him at least. The houses were, she always felt, rather like the people who lived inside them, a surprise!
No one really knew what went on behind each facade.
‘I... I will, Maeve,’ she stuttered, feeling sweat prickle her skin, ‘and if you need anything, you know the rule, just holler or come right around the back, the doors are usually open!’
‘I know that, my love.’ Maeve ambled inside.
Enya rushed into the hallway and kicked off her sandals, not wanting to mark the freshly mopped oak kitchen floor of the open-plan kitchen-diner at the back of their cottage.
An addition that had eaten up a good chunk of their back garden and their savings, but it was no loss.
She didn’t miss the slab of sacrificed garden and to sit of a summer’s evening with the wide French doors open was a treat in itself.
And when it rained, the water ran in tiny rivers down the windows and beat out a rhythm on the roof in a way that she found quite hypnotic.
As for their savings, her husband’s untimely death and his fastidious attention to their finances meant she need not worry about money.