Chapter 25
When Gemma woke the next morning, she felt an unusual lightness in her chest. Then she remembered the previous evening. Don’t be so silly, she told herself. Just because Barry made polite conversation and gave you a taxi ride home, it doesn’t mean he fancies you. Besides, he’s in the army, which means he will go away. And did she really want to play the waiting game all over again?
‘Gemma!’
Joyce stood at her door, beaming.
‘Hope I didn’t disturb you, dear, but I just wondered if you were going to be around today? I believe you met my Barry on the train. Such a coincidence, isn’t it? Anyway, I thought you might like to join us for lunch. Nothing fancy. Just a roast.’
Gemma hid her smile! Joyce’s attempts at match-making were so obvious as to be worthy of Mrs Bennet, but she felt it would be rude to refuse. Besides, she really wanted to see Barry again!
‘ Guess who I’ve met? ’ she texted Kitty. ‘ Joyce’s son. The one she’s always going on about. He’s v dishy and I’ve been invited to lunch 2day! ’
Kitty’s reply came back almost immediately. ‘Is this variation on boy next door? Wear smthing nice. Not 2 casual bt not over top either!’
She had a point! Gemma rifled through her wardrobe looking for something that wasn’t too dull (like that grey knee-length skirt) or too revealing (like one of Kitty’s cast-off tops). In the end, she settled for a crisp white shirt and pale blue designer jeans that she’d bought in the sales, plus a pair of soft brown ankle boots. Somewhat nervously, she walked down the stairs and knocked on Joyce’s door, feeling as though she should be there to pay her rent instead of arriving for Sunday lunch.
‘My dear girl, come on in!’
Joyce, joined by Barry, ushered her in, past the kitchen, to the rest of the house where the tenants never went. She hadn’t seen this part before. ‘What a lovely sitting room,’ she exclaimed, admiring the beautiful French windows that led out on to the garden.
‘Thank you, dear. Now Barry, do get Gemma a drink.’ Joyce waved her hand towards a cocktail cabinet in the corner that reminded Gemma of an almost identical one owned by her parents. Its surface, like every other piece of furniture in the room, was covered with photographs of Barry and certificates ranging from those for school swimming to the Duke of Edinburgh Gold Award. ‘What would you like to drink, sweetie? Gin, vodka, Pernod? Just name it and my Barry will sort you out.’
She gave Gemma a wink. ‘Men in uniform know how to look after a girl! Besides, we all deserve a celebration drink to welcome back my boy.’
Not sure whether to feel amused or embarrassed, Gemma watched as the diminutive Joyce tried to put her arm around her son’s enormous waist. ‘Our men in the forces are so brave. So very brave.’
‘Mum!’
Clearly poor Barry didn’t know where to look. ‘I’ve only been diving in South America.’
‘Yes, darling, but before that you were in that terrible place. Now what was it called again?’
He gave her an affectionate squeeze and then disen- tangled himself. ‘Let’s not talk about that now, shall we. I’d much rather hear about Gemma’s work at her nursery school.’
If that had been Joe, Gemma found herself thinking, he would be asking her why she did Pyjama Drama at Puddleducks or what was the point of making hedgehogs out of baked potatoes and matchsticks, but Barry seemed genuinely impressed.
However, by the time they all sat down at the dining-room table, laid with gleaming silver cutlery and sparkling crystal, Gemma had run out of small talk and so, she suspected, had Barry. She needn’t have worried. Joyce was more than happy to take over.
‘One slice or two, Gemma? You need building up, sweetie. Needn’t ask how many slices for my boy, need I? Just look at him, Gemma. He eats like a horse but never puts on an ounce.’ She winked again across the table. ‘It’s all those exercises they make him do. Up at 5 a.m., my Barry is, even when he’s home, to do his press-ups.’ Barry gave her an ‘I’m sorry about this’ look across the table, and she tried to make a reciprocal face to show that she understood.
‘Sprouts, Gemma, or broccoli, or both? Barry, pass her the gravy, would you? By the way, that girl round the corner rang this morning to see if you were back yet.’ Joyce sighed. ‘She’s one of many broken hearts that Barry has left behind over the years. Of course, it was a long time ago but they don’t forget, these girls, and it’s not surprising when you look at how handsome and brave he is.’
‘Mum!’
This time there was a warning in Barry’s voice that startled Gemma and actually managed to stop Joyce in her tracks. ‘Sorry, dear. I can’t help it.’ She gave a shrug. ‘There’s nothing quite like the bond between mother and son, you know, Gemma. You’ll find out that for yourself one day if you have one. I can’t wait to see little Ashley again next week. You’re going to adore him, Barry. In fact, he looks a bit like you. I think it’s the ears. Wouldn’t be surprised if it got you broody at last. Now, more wine anyone? By the way, dear, do you have a special man in your life?’
The last question, coming on the heels of all the previous gabble, took Gemma by surprise. ‘No. Not now. I mean, I did but …’
Her voice tailed away and she felt herself colouring up. Joyce, however, was beaming. ‘Isn’t that a coincidence? Barry’s single too. Poor dear, I do worry that he doesn’t have enough time to relax in between his assignments. In fact, I was wondering if …’
‘Mum.’ Barry laid a hand on his mother’s. It was a large hand, Gemma couldn’t help noticing: the type with black sprouty hairs in between the fingers. ‘Why don’t you tell me about your flower-arranging class that you mentioned in your last letter? It sounded absolutely riveting.’
Joyce made a face. ‘Well, it’s all right, dear. But frankly, it’s nothing more than something for me to do until you come back on leave. Now, Gemma, I do hope you have room for trifle. Barry helped me make it. He’s a man of several talents, you know!’
Afterwards, feeling bloated with food and the sheer volume of conversation, Gemma thanked Joyce and explained that she really had to go in order to get ready for school the next day. ‘But you must let me help you clear away and wash up first.’
‘Nonsense, my dear, I won’t hear of it. Now if you must get back, Barry will walk you.’ Joyce spoke as though she had miles to go instead of a flight of stairs.
‘Of course.’
Immediately he was at her side, helping her into her cardigan which she had brought in case it was cold (no need, since Joyce’s part of the house was absolutely baking, with the radiators turned up high). ‘I’m sorry about my mother,’ he said as they walked up towards her bedsit. ‘She does get carried away at times and with my father dead and my sister safely married, she does tend to focus all her energies on me.’
Gemma gave him an understanding smile. Poor man. He must have felt awful. ‘I totally understand. My mother is always asking me if I’ve met Mr Right yet. They don’t understand that these days, we don’t all get married at twenty like they did.’
Barry put his head slightly to one side as though considering it. ‘Mind you,’ he said while she was fishing for her key in her bag, which needed a bit of a clear-out, ‘if you find the right person, there’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’ He touched her lightly on the arm as she finally managed to open the door. ‘I really enjoyed your company at lunch. Thank you. I do hope I see you again soon, Gemma. Actually …’
He stopped.
‘Yes?’ asked Gemma.
‘It’s just that …’ Barry appeared to be hesitating. ‘Well, if you don’t think it’s too forward after my mother’s rather pointed suggestions, I wondered if you’d like to come for a walk along the canal with me.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she really ought to be getting on with her lesson preparation for tomorrow, but it was a lovely bright crisp day outside and somehow she found herself saying yes.
‘Don’t you just love it here?’ Gemma said as they walked down the hill towards the canal. ‘Just look at those boats!’ She pointed to one which had the name Valiant Sailor painted in a gold scroll on its side.
‘They have such magical names, don’t they?’ agreed Barry.
‘Exactly!’ Her eyes shone. ‘I talked to one of the owners the other day. She used to run a shop and then she gave it all up to spend her life on the Grand Union.’
‘Brave,’ smiled Barry. ‘I like the way you can look through the window and see them brewing up tea in those galley kitchens.’
Gemma pointed to the flower pots on the roof of another boat, which were spilling over with herbs and geraniums left over from the summer. ‘Wouldn’t you just love a garden like that?’
He nodded and as he did so, accidentally brushed against her. ‘Sorry.’ He moved away. ‘I’ve always rather liked the idea of living in a boat like that, actually.’
‘Me too.’
‘Really?’ He looked at her as though surprised by this. ‘I thought most women dreamed of bricks and mortar.’
‘I’m not like most women,’ she said before she could stop herself, but he was nodding again.
‘I can see that.’
His hand brushed hers as he spoke. Somehow, that didn’t feel like as much of an accident as the way he had bumped into her before.
‘Mrs Merryfield, Mrs Merryfield!’
A tot with bunches on either side beamed up at her from her tricycle. Jogging towards them was a rather frazzled mother in a blue and white tracksuit and no sign of the usual twin baby slings on her chest.
‘Hello, Daisy!’ Gemma knelt down. ‘Is this the new bike you were telling me about? What a beauty!’
The Puddleduck nodded solemnly and looked up at Barry. ‘Is this your husband?’
Hot and cold flushes of embarrassment surged through her. ‘No. This is Barry. He’s a friend.’
‘But friends can get married, can’t they, Mummy?’ Daisy was looking up at her mother, who had arrived now, puffing and panting. Gemma remembered that she belonged to a walking group that some of the other mums went to as well. ‘You were friends with Daddy first, weren’t you?’
Help me, Gemma wanted to cry, and the mum nodded as though she immediately took in the situation.
‘Yes, Daisy, I was, but that doesn’t mean that all friends get married. Now come on and let’s leave your poor teacher in peace until tomorrow! Bye!’
Gemma didn’t know what to say as they continued walking along the towpath. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could manage.
Barry was grinning. ‘I’m flattered actually, although I am a bit worried about the Mrs Merryfield bit. I didn’t realise you were married!’
‘The children call everyone Mrs, regardless of whether they’re married or not.’
This time, she could swear, Barry’s brush of her hand was not accidental. ‘Theirs is a simpler world, isn’t it?’
‘At times.’
The warmth of his touch had made her feel slightly dizzy.
‘I’m here until the new year. And I’d like to think,’ he added, his hand now firmly holding hers, ‘that we’ll get to know each other a bit better over that time. What do you think?’
Gemma’s voice came out as though someone else was speaking. ‘I’d like that too.’
Kitty’s voice could surely be heard through the wall next to which Joe was probably sitting. ‘That’s fantastic. He sounds fantastic too. Oooh, Gemma, that’s so romantic.’
‘Maybe, but the fact remains that …’
‘Don’t start that all over again. Oooh, Gemma, you will tell me what happens, won’t you?’
Yes and no. There were some things that were private. All she did know was that every time she’d been out with Barry that week, to the wine bar or to the pizza place or the cinema, she’d felt a definite funny-bone tingle. He was amusing and entertaining, not to mention a good son. While she’d been at work he’d taken his mother to visit his sister, and come back bursting with pride at being an uncle. ‘I love babies, don’t you?’ he had said and Gemma had nodded and said that yes, she loved children too, while Joyce smiled her approval across the kitchen.
If only they knew.
Meanwhile, she had Parents’ Evening to think about. Even as a child she had worried about them, although she’d always been so conscientious at school. It had been her brother Tom who was the tearaway. So she understood why the Puddleducks parents now worried about their children’s progress, especially as in today’s world so much was expected of kids.
It was even more complicated these days, with everything having to have an Aim or an Objective, which needed to be measurable. Learning had to be both physical and emotional, which was why they had to focus on sensory activities like the feel of cornflour and water (‘No, Billy, you mustn’t eat that – it’s for touching’) and construction (‘If we put two blocks on the pile, Lily, how many will we have altogether?’) and writing, even if it was just making a mark on the sand. Then there were role plays, which in her day had been called dressing up, and Small World activities, like doll’s houses, all of which required feedback both on paper and across the table at Parents’ Evening.
Gemma found it awkward telling the mother in doggy slippers and a badge saying Kyle’s mum that her son’s role play, which invariably involved the only soldier’s outfit in the box, wasn’t always socially acceptable. It wasn’t the outfit, although that had caused some fighting due to its rarity; it was the dialogue that went with it.
‘Sometimes,’ explained Gemma nervously, ‘Kyle comes out with some unacceptable sentences.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’m going to kill you, you …’
Gemma stopped, unwilling to fill in the three-word expletive. The woman’s slippers shifted uncomfortably. ‘I don’t say stuff like that. Is that what you’re accusing me of?’
Gemma tried to keep her voice even. ‘No. I’m not. But I’ve explained to Kyle that we can’t use words like that, and it would help if you could do the same.’ She gave the woman a firm but reasonably friendly look. Such a fine line to tread! There had been a horrible case recently in the papers about a child who had role-played a scene of domestic abuse. When the pre-school leader had approached the parent, the latter had turned the tables and accused the pre-school leader of committing the abuse. The teacher had to be suspended until the case could be investigated. It was ascertained that the parent was indeed guilty, and the poor child had to go into care. The pre-school leader was reinstated, but her career had clearly been damaged. This woman in slippers, thought Gemma as she watched her walk huffily out, with all five of her children in tow, might be exactly the sort of parent who could have sold the story about Lily to the papers.
No. She mustn’t think like that. It wasn’t fair. She had absolutely no proof. She had heard some of the mothers whispering and wondering if Dilly Dalung might turn up for Parents’ Evening, and many of them had got dressed up for it. Clemmie’s mum’s plunging neckline, Gemma thought, was probably in aid of the promised visit by the so-called ‘dishy’ Reception head. ‘That was his ex -wife, you know,’ she heard her say. ‘Yes, he’s definitely single.’
Bella, who was handling Sienna’s mum (‘I have to tell you that I am not happy about the parking arrangements every morning’), rolled her eyes at Gemma across the room. Gemma had just finished speaking to Poppy’s mum.
Yes, she had read the report that one in five children can’t write their own name when they reach the age of five, but Poppy was doing very well with her outlines – honestly! – and really didn’t need any extra homework. Playgroup was meant to be fun.
Then an extremely tall woman with bird-like features and a haughty demeanour sailed up, wearing a badge saying Danny’s grandmother .
‘Good evening. My daughter-in-law wasn’t able to attend because Danny has a cold, but …’
She stopped.
Gemma did a double take. No. It couldn’t be.
Not her.
‘I thought you were meant to be Mrs Merryfield,’ said the tall lady faintly as she sank heavily down on the child-size red plastic chair, almost missing it altogether.
Gemma felt the room close in on her. It was difficult to breathe, and the silver chain around her neck seemed to tighten. At the same time, her throat began to pulse and her ears felt as though they were popping underwater when she tried to speak. ‘The children call everyone Mrs.’
Patricia’s mouth tightened. ‘What are you doing here , my dear? Please tell me you are a figment of my emancipation.’
Imagination, Gemma wanted to say. It’s imagination. ‘I work here!’ She felt her lips move as though someone else was manipulating them, rather as she manipulated the finger puppets. ‘I’m the playgroup leader. May I ask why you are here?’
But even as she spoke, she had a horrible feeling that she already knew the answer.
‘You can see why.’ The bird-faced woman with hooded eyes pointed to the name badge on the stately bosom which preceded her. ‘I’m Danny’s grandmother. Nancy and Sam moved here because it was within commuting reach of London and …’
Danny’s grandmother? Then … ‘Yes! That’s tight.’
Gemma had forgotten Patricia’s habit of coming out with the wrong words every now and then.
The older woman was leaning forward now, clutching Gemma’s wrist. ‘Danny,’ she hissed, ‘is Sam’s son.’
But he couldn’t be! Sam hadn’t wanted children! That had been the whole reason for splitting up. He’d made his feelings clear, but not until it had all been too late.
‘And he’s still holding a candle for you! He told me.’ The woman was glancing over her shoulder now. ‘That’s why he hates discussing marriage with Nancy.’
Gemma’s head was reeling. ‘Does she know about me?’
Patricia gave her a scornful look. ‘Don’t be silly, dear.’
Gemma was trying to make sense of it all. ‘If Sam still feels something, why hasn’t he tried to contact me?’
There was a heavy sigh. ‘Wish I knew, dear. You young people are so difficult to pin down. I was married at your age with a five-year-old son!’
Something didn’t add up. ‘But I’ve been searching for him on Facebook and everywhere I could think of.’
Sam’s mother’s lips tightened. ‘He dropped part of his name, silly boy. Thought it sounded too grand, even though it’s been in the family for at least two generations. Then he went to the States and New Zealand before finally seeing sense and coming home. He’s got a very good job, you know. Travels all over the place. And he’s very highly regarded by his company.’
It was as though his mother was trying to sell him, but it was the name bit that threw her. Sam’s name was Fortnum-Wright but he had dropped the first bit, which explained why she couldn’t find him on Facebook. But why was Danny, whose lovely long fair eyelashes and brilliant blue eyes were so like Sam’s, now she came to think of it, called Carter Wright without the hyphen? She asked Patricia to explain.
‘The Carter name comes from her . She insisted that if he wouldn’t marry her, they should combine their names.’
No guesses as to who the ‘she’ was!
‘It’s too long ago now,’ said Gemma faintly, horribly conscious that the next parent in the queue was now hovering. Gemma dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Besides, he has a son. I couldn’t break up a family. That’s not me.’
Patricia’s grip on Gemma’s wrist grew tighter. ‘Nonsense, dear. I still don’t know what happened between you. But I do know that he’s not happy with Nancy. Shall I give you his mobile number, dear? Not his work one. The private one.’