Chapter four
Jackie launched straight into the reason for her call, which was a good thing because my voice sounded extremely chocolatey.
‘So sorry to bother you but did you leave a scarf at Mum’s house yesterday? A red one, with tassels?’
I hoped Jackie had noticed the label; it was what my mum used to call ‘a good brand’. ‘Yes, that’s mine.’
‘Oh, excellent. Mum was adamant it wasn’t hers, but she can be rather forgetful these days. I’ll stick it in the post this afternoon. Where would you like me to send it?’
‘Can you send it to fourteen—’ I stopped. No, this wasn’t my address anymore. My life from Monday onwards was a blank. I didn’t have an address. I didn’t have a bed.
I felt the floor drop away from me. What was I meant to do with all these boxes?
‘Beth? Beth, are you still there?’ A sound like someone clamping a phone to their shoulder to mute it. Then a muffled, ‘I’m talking to Beth, Mum. She says it’s her scarf. Yes! She’s sure.’
The phone was moved back. ‘Sorry, didn’t you say you were moving this weekend? Do you want to give me your new address?’
‘I can’t – bit of a crisis, actually, the house fell through at the last minute, but I still have to move out of here on Friday. I still haven’t found anywhere I can go, so I’m technically homeless!’ I gabbled, trying to get it out before my brain caught up with the reality of what I was saying.
‘Beth! Oh no! How awful for you.’
There was a click, and Martine said, ‘Homeless? Who’s homeless? Have you taken in a homeless person, Beth?’
‘Mum!’ snapped Jackie.
‘What?’
‘Mum, put the phone down.’
Another vivid flashback: I knew exactly where Martine was right now – in the kitchen, on the extension, an old-fashioned, wall-mounted thing with a long cable that had been installed years ago to allow the (female, obviously) user to conduct a phone conversation without breaking off from vital housework.
Martine ignored her. ‘What’s happened? You said you were moving to a lovely new place. Have you been let down?’
I told her, and she said, ‘Oh dear.’ The audible disapproval of both the estate agent and Ashley in those two syllables was a comfort. ‘Can’t the lettings agent find you somewhere else?’
‘There might be something in a few months but not immediately,’ I said. ‘I mean, crazy long shot, but if you know anyone with a holiday home . . . or even someone with a spare room who doesn’t mind dogs?’
‘How big is the dog?’
I looked at Tomsk. There was no point lying. Even curled up, he was the size of a hairy sack of compost. ‘Quite large.’
‘We’ll have a think,’ said Jackie.
In the background, I could hear kitchen cupboards and drawers being opened and closed, briskly, as if someone was searching for something.
‘Jackie, why have you put these eggs in the bin? They’re perfectly good. Sell-by dates are just a guide. Oh! And this ham is fine. You’ve been through my fridge again, haven’t you?’
‘Mum! Stop!’ Jackie sounded distracted. ‘Look, Beth, fingers crossed you find somewhere soon, and if I hear of anything, I’ll give you a call, OK?’
‘Thanks. And—’
The phone went dead.
I looked at the phone, then down at Tomsk, who had uncurled himself from the chair and lain down at my feet, his massive head a precisely judged centimetre from my toes. The thick veil of hair hanging over his face hid his eyes.
He thumped his tail apologetically against the floor, as if he knew how much he was complicating matters. Don’t leave me, the tail said. Please don’t leave me.
I knelt down and threw my arms around him. Keeping my promise to take care of Tomsk was often the only thing I had to feel good about on a bad day. ‘You’re making my life a million times better, not harder,’ I murmured into his bony shoulder. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’
As usual, my mood began to lift after Tomsk and I rounded the corner: I felt the sun on my face, and saw a grey squirrel steal something shiny from a furious magpie, and watched him sniff a hundred different smells. That was the thing about dog walks. There was always something.
I wondered if I should call Jackie back about my scarf.
She’d sounded frazzled. And what would I tell her anyway?
My work address was the only one I had but I didn’t want her to send my scarf there because then I’d have to go and get it.
I could offer to go back to Longhampton to collect it, I supposed, but she hadn’t suggested meeting up.
The possibility of maybe bumping into Fraser, this time with a totally legit excuse, gave me a small thrill, and I parked the idea in the corner of my brain reserved for Fraser-based daydreaming, like a bit of cake saved for later.
The rest of the day was taken up with filing VAT returns for clients, although I kept a couple of tabs open to check on inquiries I’d made about holiday cottages. I tried not to notice that Ash didn’t come home at her normal time.
Then I tried not to think about the romantic dinner she was doubtless enjoying with Leo. Maybe even discussing me in that safely sympathetic way you can, when your own situation’s nice and secure.
By midnight, I was no closer finding somewhere I could move my boxes in less than forty-eight hours, and was about to take myself off to bed for another sleepless night when my mobile rang.
‘Hello?’ I said, stiffly, assuming it was Ash calling from Leo’s to say she wouldn’t be back.
‘Hello, Beth, Martine Henderson here. Is this a bad time?’
‘No, not at all.’ I struggled up to a sitting position. Did Martine know how late it was?
She breezed on, as if it was entirely normal to be calling someone at midnight. ‘I’ve been giving some thought to your little problem, and I might have a solution.’
‘Really?’ I said cautiously. On one hand, Martine knew a lot of people with spare homes, but at the same time, something Jackie had said about her mother getting ‘rather forgetful’ rang a warning bell.
‘It was staring me in the face the entire time! I don’t know if you ever knew, but we have a flat over the garage. It’s where our au pairs used to live.’
I did know about the garage flat; after Fraser and his siblings outgrew the au pairs, it had been the dream teen hang-out, according to him, anyway.
Close enough to the house for fridge access, far enough to be out of earshot.
Long before my time, of course, but it loomed large in Fraser’s favourite tales from his childhood; the Hendersons were big on family tales, recounting them over and over until you forgot you hadn’t actually been there yourself.
‘Jackie keeps telling me I should do it up as one of these Airbnbs,’ Martine went on, ‘but I’m far too busy to get round to sorting it out. And of course, I don’t want just anyone in my back garden!’
‘Mmm,’ I said.
‘But it occurred to me – maybe that might be the solution to your predicament? It needs a bit of a clean – we’ve been using it for storage – but there’s a bathroom, kitchenette and so on. You’re more than welcome to camp out there until you find somewhere better.’
And just like that, a solution, glowing like a unexpected yellow taxi light on a dark, wet night. I didn’t know what to say. It was so easy and generous, a blanket of kindness thrown round my shoulders when I was feeling more alone than I’d ever felt before.
‘Really? Martine, are you sure?’
‘Of course! You were such an angel when I had my mishap in town, it seems only fair to return the favour.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, that would be amazing. And I’m happy to give you the same rent that I’d be—’
She cut that off straight away. ‘What? Goodness me, no. It’s only for a few weeks, isn’t it? No, no. We can talk about wine or plants for the garden or something.’
‘And you’re absolutely sure you don’t mind me bringing the dog?’
‘Not at all. As long as you don’t let him disturb my rosebeds. He’s not a digger, is he?’
I glanced over at Tomsk, upside down on a chair, pretending to be asleep, his languid paws dangling over the arm. ‘No, he’s not a digger.’
‘Well, then.’ Martine sounded pleased. ‘It’s settled.’
I leaned back on my chair, overwhelmed. ‘Thank you, Martine. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I really—’
‘When did you say you needed to move?’
‘This weekend, ideally.’ I’d cancelled the movers, but they’d insisted on keeping my deposit as it was such short notice, so I reckoned I could talk them into re-rearranging.
‘Shall we say any time on Saturday afternoon then? After two?’
‘That would be incredible. Again, Martine, this is so kind.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Martine. ‘I’ll see you and the hound on Saturday.’
And that was that.
Martine hadn’t been exaggerating when she said the garage flat had been used for storage for some time.
A tidal wave had seemingly rushed through the Hendersons’ house, and washed the flotsam and jetsam of family life down to the bottom of the garden: suitcases, empty boxes for computers and televisions filled with packets of photographs, discarded printers, an exercise bike, boxes marked jacq uni stuff and jacq clothes.
Everything in random piles, left where they’d been stacked before the stacker had fled down the stairs and away.
The flat itself, underneath/behind the boxes, seemed in decent repair.
As she let me in, Martine told me that it had once been the living quarters for the horse, the family carriage, and the grooms (in that order), then when a carriage was no longer required, downstairs had been converted into a garage, with rooms upstairs for a chauffeur to live with his wife, the housekeeper.
Now, Martine’s powder-blue Saab sat on flat tyres in the garage, while above it was a bedroom, a bathroom with a cast-iron bath, and a kitchen-sitting room with a saggy sofa that had probably once cost about the same as the car, its chintzy covers hidden by banana boxes of VHS tapes.
The windows needed a clean. It all needed a clean.
But it was somewhere I could stay. And, more than that – much more than that – it was somewhere I’d been invited.