Chapter Nine #2
“The Squad look like totally gerris, I mean proper-old. But they…” She pauses, trying to find a way to explain.
Rhian has an unusual slang. I can’t tell if it’s Welsh or just teen-speak. I don’t want to make her feel judged, so I just listen and move down a few steps to start on more ivy. We’ve managed to clear a section of wall about two yards long.
“You some days think”—she starts—“like some people show theirselves not how they really are on the inside. Know what I mean?”
“Just like you and Ricky are much nicer than your schoolteachers thought?” I suggest.
She brightens. “Exactly. When Leonie asked us to help out serving the Squad tea and fruit and collecting laundry, I hated that. I mean, they’re eighty years old or something.
But this old lady, Shirley, she used to be an opera singer and keeps telling me I should stand better.
‘Don’t slouch’, every time she sees me. ‘Your posture is your best friend; respect your back and it will respect you.’ She also says I need to speak better or people will judge me by my colour because my mum was black.
She says my voice is letting me down. What do you think? ”
My heart aches for her. If my guess is right, she thinks her voice and way of speaking makes her sound racially inferior when in fact there’s nothing wrong with her voice as such. Her half-grunt, half-sneering way of speaking is what jars.
I pause and look at her. “I used to be very shy and people often complained they couldn’t hear me properly. At school, I was ignored and treated like a nobody. It wasn’t until I got into broadcasting that I learnt that your voice is your ambassador.”
No, that’s a bad explanation.
“It’s like your clothes and make-up – you can make whatever impression you like by wearing the right things.”
She nods several times in agreement.
“Same with how you speak. Not just your voice but also the way you use it. I’ve learnt how to sound different depending on whether I’m chatting with one person, talking to camera or addressing a group of people.”
She chews her lip for a minute, then asks, “Can you teach, like?”
After all their help with the ivy? “Of course. I can teach you.”
Ricky who’s stopped clearing rubbish, takes an uncertain step closer.
“Both of you, if you like.” I smile at him to make sure he feels included. “Not just voice but how to speak in a way that sounds smart and educated.”
Without warning, Rhian flings her arms around me. “Thank you. That’s brilliant. I hate people judging me like I’m pigeon shit.”
In truth, they both need to improve their grammar and diction but I’m not going to point that out just now.
From memory, nothing is less exciting at their age than grammar.
But this can come later. For now, they seem to have decided to make me their friend and want to give me a full briefing on Kendric House.
I let Rhian talk while I work, listening with half an ear until something snags my attention.
“I mean, a lot of the girls like Osian, but she acts like he’s hers and is super mean to any other girl that even talks to him.”
My hands still halfway through cutting a particularly stubborn stem. I really should not encourage her. Gossip is horrible and ruins lives. I should know. But it would take superhuman strength to resist.
“Why?”
“Because she’s a bitch. And she treats Llewellyn like a doormat. He’s too nice. I wish he just kicked her out,” she says, surprisingly vehement.
I’m lost; who is she talking about? Before I can ask, Ricky is back for more rubbish.
“Don’t let Haneen hear you gossiping,” he says.
“She knows. So do Evan and the gerris—”
“Shhhh!” He looks around nervously, then catches my eye. “Please don’t tell. We’re not allowed to call them geriatrics.”
“No, that’s not a nice name,” I say evenly.
“Okay, the Squad,” Rhian grumbles. “They also know about Nora and just say it because they don’t want to hurt Llewellyn’s feelings.”
“Nora is his girlfriend?” I risk a small question.
“They broke up. She was packing her luggage in her car when Osian turned up and she totally changed her mind and came back.”
So things haven’t changed much since school. He’s still a heartthrob causing competition, jealousy and obsession. Marriage hasn’t changed him.
“She still hasn’t got him.” Rhian isn’t even pretending to work now. “Osian doesn’t have any girlfriends.”
I really need to change the subject. “Can you try that branch behind?” I hand her a trowel to help her pry it off the wall.
“He must be gay because he doesn’t flirt with any of us,” Rhian continues.
“Don’t be stupid!” Ricky argues hotly.
“We shouldn’t discuss other people’s business. It’s not nice,” I suggest, in my best mentor voice.
Ricky huffs, filling the wheelbarrow with more twigs. “Osian isn’t gay.”
No, he’s not. Even without knowing about his past, I can tell he’s straight.
Because there was a moment, a fraction of a moment between us. Upstairs. We nearly hugged, and there was a tiny frisson of interest, and not only from my side. I might not be a player with hundreds of affairs, but I can read sexual tension when it’s in the air.
“Tell me about the Squad?” I ask, to move the conversation away from Osian. It would be awful if he should return to the terrace to find out how we’re using his tools and find us talking about him. It would add proof that I came here chasing him.
We work hard for hours, and Osian never comes.
About 2pm, I stand up and step away, hands pressed into my back to massage the stiff muscles. We’ve cut away all of the vines and the wall is exposed. It curves all the way down, the end spiralling in on itself like a comma.
“What is that writing along the top?” Rhian asks, following the design with her eyes.
The tiles graduate in colour from dark blue to pale. All along the rim there is a border created with smaller chips of tiles in light green and white.
“It’s some kind of decorative border,” I say, looking closer.
“It’s all that crusted shit and glue from the ivy roots.” She really likes using the word shit. I make a note to help her find a better expression later.
She bends down and tries rubbing the tile with her fingers.
“We’ll clean it. Do you want to take a break, first? They must be serving lunch…” My words fade as Rhian and Ricky both sprint up the steps to the terrace and into the house. They must have been starving, poor kids.
The rumbling in my stomach reminds me I’ve had no lunch either. Yet, two steps up and something makes me stop and turn back to the mosaic on the wall.
This is such an unusual feature. If I relax my eyes, there’s some kind of shape.
I walk back down the curving steps for a closer look. They’re words. A long string of words. Too many to be a title like ‘The Garden’ or ‘this way’; it feels more like message.
Years ago, I worked on a project for the National Trust with Dame Maxine Pinkerton-Smith, the best garden restorer in the country. She used to say that every garden has a secret and her job was to discover it.
What is the secret here? My eyes go to the wall, following the border of mosaic writing.
Suddenly, my hunger for lunch is nothing to my curiosity.
I run back into the house.