Chapter 11
11
LISA
The following morning, Lisa found herself grinning at her reflection in the hall mirror. She hadn’t felt this positive about herself for a long time. For years she’d woken each morning with a sense of dread that she might be about to have another seizure, that she was going to end up in hospital again, unable to care for her girls. That any anxiety, any pain and nausea she might be feeling, could be the start of another remission into porphyria. Not forgetting she’d had a good nine months or so of Sorrel being bloody hard work, of being constantly called into Beddingfield High before Sorrel’s eventual expulsion. Thank goodness for Mason Donoghue, who’d been prepared to take her youngest daughter on at St Mede’s, despite her awful record of attendance and bad behaviour. She’d miss Sorrel so much if she was accepted at the Susan Yates Theatre School but just a bit of her was looking forward to the prospect of having the house to herself; at having a new independence after years of being at the helm of single motherhood.
She hadn’t even seen Jayden off on his way up to Newcastle after he’d repacked his overnight case and left Jess’s spare room the other day. Had even forgotten he was round there, so excited was she about getting on with her life and all the things she wanted to do with it. She actually laughed out loud at the realisation that finally, finally she appeared to be totally out of love with the man who’d been at the very core of her life from the age of seventeen. She continued to smile to herself as she made her way upstairs to the shower after spending a good hour cleaning and tidying both rooms downstairs and the little box room she’d slept in for the past couple of days after giving up her bed to Robyn and Fabian.
She’d been down to the new gym in the town centre and seen the fabulous 25m pool, the huge studios where she was going to have a go at Pilates and t’ai chi and something called Sh’bam, which, when she’d watched through the window, had appeared a bit energetic. Nevertheless, she’d told herself, she was up for it.
Lisa smiled at her reflection again, piling her long dark hair up on her head and pouting somewhat coquettishly before moving to turn on the shower. Hearing a sudden bang in Sorrel’s bedroom, she stopped dead, straining to hear the sound once more. She’d packed Sorrel off to school with a plate of scrambled eggs inside her, seen her get into Robyn’s little Honda for a lift to St Mede’s, heard the pair of them say their goodbyes to Fabian, who’d been determined to be first on the doorstep of the estate agent when it opened at eight thirty. If it wasn’t Sorrel, who the hell was it? Not burglars? Lisa hesitated, her pulse racing at the thought. Well, let them have what they wanted: the keys to her battered old Fiesta were on the kitchen worktop where they lived in a basket, and they could have the TV if that was what they were after. As long as they didn’t run off with Roger Rabbit.
She stood at the door dithering, uncertain what to do. Whether it wouldn’t be a good idea to actually lock herself in the bathroom. Then Sorrel’s bedroom door flew open and her daughter pushed past her into the bathroom.
‘Sorrel?’ Lisa turned as her daughter stood heaving, making little mewling noises at the lavatory before vomiting into the bowl.
Relieved that she wasn’t about to face an axe murderer, Lisa hurried over to Sorrel, pushing back her hair and holding her head as she had all three of her girls when they’d been ill. ‘What is it? Something you’ve eaten? I do hope there wasn’t salmonella in those eggs. I did get them direct from Joe at the farm down the road.’
‘I’m OK.’ Sorrel stood, turning to the sink to rinse her mouth before wiping her face on a towel. ‘I got an Uber back from school.’
‘But, Sorrel, Robyn said you weren’t well yesterday. That you came home early from school yesterday too?’
When Sorrel didn’t answer, but simply gazed at her own reflection in the mirror, Lisa went on: ‘Is it nerves at the thought of the audition next week? You’ll be fine; Robyn’s going with you. Or are you still worried about Joel? I can understand both…’
‘I feel anxious all the time. And, Mum, I’ve got a pain here…’ Sorrel indicated and rubbed at her abdomen through her school sweater. ‘And now I’ve actually been sick. Mum, I googled it…’
‘What? What did you google, darling?’
‘The AP thing.’
‘But why? My porphyria is something I’ve been landed with. There’s no evidence it’s hereditary.’
‘You don’t know that. You were adopted. You’ve no idea if your real parents or grandparents could have had it. And, anyway, it is!’ Sorrel hissed the final word. ‘Look it up. The first thing it says is acute porphyria is passed down through families.’ Sorrel scrabbled for the phone in her blazer pocket, hitting the keyboard with the speedy deftness of all teens. ‘Look!’ She passed her phone over to Lisa.
Porphyria is usually inherited. One or both parents pass along a changed gene to their child. Although porphyria can’t be cured, medicines and certain lifestyle changes may help you manage it…
Lisa didn’t have to read the words: she’d researched the condition herself many times over the years, always worried for Jess, Robyn and Sorrel.
‘See.’ Sorrel put her hands in her head. ‘Mum, I feel awful.’
‘Right, OK, let’s get some tests done to put your mind at rest. We’ll get Dr Matt onto it…’
‘I don’t want to know. I don’t , Mum.’ Sorrel glared at Lisa. ‘I’m just going to pretend it’s not happening. And it’s all your fault if you’ve given it to me.’
Lisa felt the balloon of happiness she’d been floating on for weeks begin to deflate. Sorrel was right – it was her fault if she’d passed on the awful condition to her youngest daughter. Just when everything seemed to be going so well, when she herself was feeling almost reborn, surely this couldn’t be happening now to her little girl?
* * *
Robyn
‘OK, Mr Carrington, Ms Allen, that appears to be that, then. Nine months, initially, and then you can make any further decisions about extending the rental on the property after that.’ Geoffrey Brampton of Brampton and Hornville, the oldest, and generally thought to be the most prestigious, of the two main estate agencies in Beddingfield, proffered a hand. ‘The owner, I’m sure you understand, would have much preferred a longer let – twelve months minimum, really – but your reputation goes before you, Mr Carrington. Good to have someone famous in the village at last.’ He smirked knowingly.
‘My reputation? Famous?’ Fabian frowned and, seeing his discomfort, I quickly jumped in.
‘Sorry, I’m going to have to get back to school. Bell for afternoon school will be going in…’
‘Oh yes, it’s not every day we get a world-famous legal eagle in one of our properties. I followed the case of the Soho Slasher from the start. Such a shame you gave up on it, Fabian.’ Geoffrey patted Fabian’s arm chummily, but his tone was ingratiating and I saw irritation cross Fabian’s face. ‘Tell me,’ Geoffrey went on, lowering his voice, ‘are you moving into the village – and just for nine months – because there’s some big local case you’re taking on? Hmm? Leeds? Bradford? York, maybe? Local interest?’
‘ Local interest?’ Fabian repeated the words. He eyeballed the estate agent, taking in the greying comb-over doing little to disguise the man’s shiny pate, and his inquisitive, pale, porcine eyes. ‘You could say that, Mr Brampton.’ Fabian lowered his own voice conspiratorially. ‘It’s because I’m shagging the most beautiful local woman in your village.’
‘Was that really necessary?’ I snapped crossly once we’d walked down the cottage path. Glancing at my watch, I saw I’d exactly ten minutes before I was in front of 8TR taking them for PSHE.
‘Probably not.’ Fabian sniffed irritably. ‘But for heaven’s sake…’
‘What are you going to do now?’ I asked, still feeling embarrassed.
‘I’m going to check out what basics we need in the cottage, then I’m going to try and get in touch with the Richardsons. And then I’m going to have to get back to Harrogate for clean pants and the like. There’s stuff I need to do over there.’
‘We need furniture! A bed. Sheets. Pots and pans.’ Hell, where to begin? ‘And the Richardsons?’ I was already unlocking my car door.
‘Who own Hudson House. I want to see if it’s a done deal with these Sattar people.’
I smiled. ‘You do that.’
‘Now you’re being condescending, Robyn.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be. I need to go.’ I moved to kiss him. ‘And, Fabian, I’m so glad we’re doing this. Even if it’s just for a few months until we both know where we really want to be. Give us a bit of breathing space?’
‘I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing.’ Fabian gathered me up in his arms, bending to kiss every bit of me until I was helpless with giggles and heads were turning in our direction. ‘I really don’t see why we can’t move in straight away.’
* * *
Lisa
‘Mum?’ Jess, showing round a couple intent on finding the best possible care for an elderly relative, excused herself as Bex opened the front door and she caught sight of Lisa’s anguished face on the doorstep. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m fine.’ Lisa attempted a smile. ‘I’m going to tidy up that garden of yours if that’s OK?’
‘Why?’ Jess frowned, obviously unsure whether to hand over the visitors to one of the carers so she could see to Lisa. She looked at her watch, making a quick decision. ‘I’m just going to show Mr and Mrs Connor round. Why don’t I make you a coffee, Mum, and I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes? Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’
‘There’s no need, Jess,’ Lisa said irritably. She needed to tell Jess and Robyn about Sorrel’s – and now her own – fear that history might be repeating itself with the porphyria. But now, when Jess was so busy, wasn’t the right moment. ‘I will get a coffee, if that’s OK,’ she said, ‘but I’m perfectly capable of getting it myself, darling. And then I’m going to take it out to the garden. I’ve got my gloves and I’ve brought my tools.’ She held up a sturdy pair of gardening gloves and indicated the heavy bag at her feet. ‘Your roses need deadheading.’
‘They’re not my roses…’ Jess broke off seeing Lisa’s determination to do the job she’d come for. She knew if there was one thing that would help her mother when she was anxious or upset – which she appeared to be right now – it was gardening. ‘OK, you do that and I’ll come and join you as soon as I can. Mind you,’ she added in an undertone, ‘not sure why I’m still bothering to show people round when the place is probably going under.’ She turned encouragingly towards the couple. ‘D’you want to follow me?’ Jess looked back at Lisa. ‘And for God’s sake, Mum, don’t overdo it. Just remember how ill you were back in September.’
Lisa beamed at a couple of residents who were holding hands as they made their way to the lounge area. She must ask Jess whether Neil and Pat had come into Hudson House together. Were they married? And, if so, how lovely to be still wanting to hold hands after years of marriage. Or had they lost original partners and had now found new love here? Never too late to find love, Lisa smiled to herself, even though, after Sorrel’s little bombshell, smiling was the last thing her face felt able to do.
Lisa made herself a coffee and went straight out into the cold early afternoon air carrying her mug in one hand and her bulging bag of gardening tools in the other.
Oh, these fabulous roses. Someone in the past had adored this rose garden; had known exactly what they were doing. She supposed, in the heyday of Hudson House, there’d have been a whole gang of full-time gardeners on the payroll. Maybe even a head gardener who ruled the roost, terrifying the local boy who came in after school and in the holidays to help for a few pence? Before, Lisa assumed, his going into Hudson’s Textile Mill like the rest of his family once he left school at fourteen.
How could anyone who knew the first thing about floribundas and these fabulous climbing roses have allowed this decline? There, against the far wall, soaking up as much of the weak winter sunshine as was possible, were a Danse du Feu and an Alchymist if she wasn’t mistaken. But, like prisoners in an exercise yard, they were intent on fighting off their restraint, bidding for freedom by going over the top. The prisoner analogy brought a smile at last and, aware that worrying about Sorrel wasn’t going to help her own health, she determined she’d speak to Matt as soon as she could, leaving her to concentrate on what she was doing here. Maybe Sorrel just had a bug? She’d been lucky, bringing up the girls – they’d rarely been ill, rarely having time off school like some other kids.
‘Lucky?’ Lisa realised she was actually saying the words out loud. ‘Having Jayden who was there, but never really there? Why the hell was that lucky ? And why the fuck…’ Lisa, unused to using such language, actually whispered the expletive ‘…didn’t I ditch him years and years ago?’
She threw the remains of her coffee onto the grass but, try as she might to stop worrying, continued to carry the thoughts in her head as she surveyed the rose garden in front of her.
She pulled on her thick gardening gloves and set to with her pruning tool, clipping carefully at first and then, realising much of the woody stems and overgrown roots needed to be cut back, bent to her bag for the cordless pruning shears, going for it big time.
Oh, but this was so cathartic: snipping, slashing, stabbing, cleaving, dissecting. She was sweating now and, despite it being a particularly cold January, she took off first her gilet and then her jacket, continuing to slash and prune, getting rid of all the anger she should have directed at Jayden himself. Or was it the bloody Foleys? Mother and Father. Ha! Slash, stab, slash!
‘And, for heaven’s sake,’ Lisa continued the one-way argument with herself, ‘Sorrel isn’t sixteen yet. Far too young to be starting with porphyria.’ And, she reassured herself, once she’d thrown up, Sorrel had appeared much better and, rather than staying at home, which Lisa had said she should, she’d insisted on Lisa dropping her back at school. Said she just had to get back to school as she was sitting mock GCSEs in the next couple of days.
‘Oh, my little girl.’ Lisa put her hand to her face and realised she was crying. Bad enough talking to the roses, but now actually crying was not a good sign. And hell, she didn’t appear to be able to stop. She fished for a non-existent tissue, wiping her eyes and nose on her shirt sleeve.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Lisa sniffed and turned, trying to smile at the newcomer who’d appeared almost silently at her side. ‘Oh, Eloise. Hello.’
‘Have we been introduced?’ Eloise looked puzzled. ‘And Granny won’t be pleased that you’ve been at her roses, you know.’ She handed over an embroidered handkerchief. ‘Here you are. Nothing’s ever as bad as you think it is.’