Chapter Thirty-Four
24th December. Kendric House. 11am.
We’ve decided to call it THE JACK BEVAN CHRISTMAS. A special celebration of his life.
The Squad are coming, tomorrow, all of them, not just the original seven but the expanded group. Since this is the last big blow out before The Glyn is closed and everyone is scattered to different care homes, I didn’t want to exclude anyone who wanted to come. Even one of the nurses, the nice one, Lydia Ferguson who typed Jack’s letters. She’s also driving the van – two trips – to transport all fourteen people over.
Everyone is determined to make Christmas a success. Since Evan declared the three days between Christmas Eve and Boxing Day a holiday from house renovation, every able bodied person is helping clean up the orangery so it’s fit and safe for the big lunch tomorrow.
Every time I step outside the kitchen, there’s Ricky hurrying with a hoover to clean up all the cobwebs, or Alex with a ladder so they could reach the corners at the tops of walls. The sounds of work and laughter drift from the orangery all the way to the ballroom. Llewellyn covers the exposed masonry with large posters. Even the professor presides over preparing playlists of Christmas carols, traditional Welsh hymns and other music.
The partners and teenagers have obviously learnt to work well as a team. I swear they’re better choreographed than many dances on stage. I had no idea they all care so much about Jack, they barely knew him. But they care about Bill. He’s the professor’s father after all.
We also invited Jack’s family. DeNiro leant on Cynthia until she gave him the contact details of James Bevan, his grandson and nearest relation. Not very near since he lives in Chicago. Deniro doesn’t hold out any hope; it’s a long way from Chicago, especially at such short notice. So, I am very surprised when I get a call from an American number.
“I wanted to thank you for holding this memorial for my grandfather. He mentioned you and a few other guys who were very kind to him. Do you happen to have the contact for Raphael Lewis and Evan Kendric? I want to call them too.”
“Raphael Lewis is out of the country for few months but I have an email for him.” Just saying Raff’s name feels like a kiss in my mouth. Is there such a thing as an unrequited kiss?
I had only just managed to get through a couple of hours without thinking about him. Now I have to blink, blink, blink while reciting the handbag scene from The Importance of Being Earnest so I can reset my mind.
To lose one parent, Mr Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune, to lose both looks like carelessness.
To lose one boyfriend is a misfortune.
I have of course emailed Raff three days ago to tell him about Jack, but I haven’t heard back. He did tell me they had no internet, not unless they ask to use the satellite link in the producers’ office. It’s unlikely he’s even seen the message. Still, I have checked my emails every few hours in case he replied.
Stop thinking about him.
To be born, or at any rate bred, in a handbag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that reminds one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution.
How long will it take him to forget me? Not long, hopefully. I’d hate for him to be sad. One sad, pathetic person in this break-up is plenty. And I’ve already been cast in that role. Didn’t I say it would be me the lovelorn Hywel, and Raff the unattainable Myfanwy? At least, I don’t write sad poetry, that would be just too pathetic.
Stop thinking about that.
You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter – a girl brought up with the utmost care – to marry into a cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel.
No, the handbag scene isn’t working to distract me. All I can hear is Raff’s voice doing Lady Bracknell.
Better focus on cooking. A Christmas dinner for twenty-six people. The guests from The Glyn, everyone in the house, plus five teenagers who insisted they want to eat with us and not their families. Wyn, of course doesn’t have a choice; he lives here and more recently Ricky has joined him.
He clatters into the kitchen looking for a mop and bucket.
“We have to mop the wall to scrub away all the flaky paint,” he tells me.
I’m miles away, so it takes me a minute to drag my mind into focus. Instead it’s Meredith who jumps in to shout at him when he tries to empty one of the tubs full of pealed potatoes in water.
“Don’t even think about using that.” She plants herself in his way.
“Fuck’s sake, who died and made you Voldemort?”
“Take one from under the sink.” She orders him.
“Why don’t you live under the sink?” he grumbles as he searches.
I wish they would take their squabble away. Just now I’m too fragile to cope.
My wish is not answered because Ricky can’t find what he needs, so he eyes the potato tubs again. “Why do you need so many? It’s just fucking tats. Can’t you stuff’em in a bag.”
“I’m going to tell Haneen and Evan you’re swearing. They’ll kick you out and you’ll have to go back to sleeping in a skip.”
Ricky’s face suddenly turns a blotchy red and he opens his mouth about to retort.
Sigh . This isn’t going to end by itself. Once teenagers start squabbling, it’s a full fight all the way.
“No one is telling anyone anything.” I quickly intervene. “Ricky, there are cleaning supplies in that closet. I put them in there myself.”
He doesn’t move. Meredith glares back at him.
God I could really do without this. “Let me know when the work crew is ready for a break. I can make tea and we have nice mince pies.”
The promise of mince pies finally gets through to Ricky and he unclenches his fists and goes to find the mops and buckets.
I shake my head at Meredith until she goes back to her vegetables.
Meredith who is usually Haneen’s catering assistant, is now my official helper. My only helper because I kicked Haneen out of the kitchen. She cooks for a living, this can’t be a busman’s holiday for her. So she and the children, Henrieta and Rhys are making Christmas wreaths for the orangery.
It will be a memorial to make Jack proud. And a wonderful Christmas for everyone else. No need to rain on everyone’s parade just because I’m leaving, soon. Just because it’s the end of my Welsh dream.
If the Squad can put on a brave face, then so can I. Last month, I came looking for a father but found much more. I should be grateful. And if I know what’s good for me, I’d focus on making this a wonderful Christmas for the Squad before they all scatter.
When the professor comes in for a cup of tea, he finds me in the middle of cutting crosses into the stems of brussels sprouts, sticking cloves into onions for the bread sauce and making mountains of sage and onion, stuffing, apple and walnut stuffing, and butternut stuffing for the vegetarian. And there’s still the gingerbread to make.
“Tea?” I wipe my hands on a clean cloth and start to get up. He drinks gallons of the stuff, popping into the kitchen every hour for another cup.
He gestures for me to stay at the table. “I can boil a kettle.”
“The Earl Grey is in the blue caddy.” I point to where his favourite teabags are. This is a favourite with quite a few people, including me.
He nods but doesn’t say more while he fills the kettle. You never know with the professor, sometimes he’s friendly at other times he makes the Sphinx look chatty. Today apparently is a Sphinx day. So, it’s a surprise when he brings two steaming mugs of Earl Grey, hands me one and pulls a chair to sit opposite me.
Did he know it’s my favourite tea, too?
“Who is James Bevan?”
The question takes me by surprise. I just stare at him uncomprehending.
“Evan’s been on the phone to him for half an hour.”
“He’s Jack’s grandson from America. He just wanted to thank Evan for being nice to his grandad.”
The professor doesn’t look convinced. “Evan has his business face on.”
“Evan has a business face?” But I’m intrigued. Half an hour is a very long thank you. Now that I think about him, yes he has a serious face. The way he handles the teenagers when they’re acting up.
“He told me you might be taking over the conservatory.” The professor says, reminding me of another time Evan must have had his business face on.
“The orangery?”
He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think anyone should use the term unless the place actually has orange trees. Otherwise, it’s simply pretentious.”
Despite everything, this cracks me up. “Exactly what I think.”
“So?”
I put down my knife and sweep the chopped walnuts into a bowl. “Do you mean his café idea?”
He frowns at me. “His idea? Isn’t it your plan?”
“Since I don’t have the money to invest in a new business, it’s not really a plan.”
“How much money do you need?”
I’ve spent every night burning through the internet to research every angle of this, the numbers fly off my tongue. “Thirty thousand minimum. Not only to fit a café and buy the appliances you need for a professional kitchen, but I’ll also need to pay for training in food safety, infection control, get a hygiene certificate and all this before I can even get on a professional cooking course.”
He looks down at his tea and his shoulders droop a little. “I’m afraid, thirty thousand is more than I can afford to lend.”
“No, no,” I rush to explain. “I’m not looking for a loan. I don’t want to be in debt that cripples my business. You know. Borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry .” I quote the line. “And you’ve more than fulfilled your obligations to me. Please don’t think you owe me anything.”
I keep my eyes steady and face clear so he knows I’m not just saying it to be polite.
After a moment, he nods toward the table in front of me. “Your tea is getting cold.”
I take it and gulp it down until the it’s all finished. When I put the empty mug down, he clears his throat. “What do you like about cooking?” he asks in a contemplative voice, as if he’s talking about the weather, wondering if it’ll snow.
But the question makes me think. Isn’t this what teachers do? Ask questions that make you think?
“I like the way something develops and changes. Like the gingerbread.” I glance at the baking tray of small men, stars and trees waiting to go into the oven. “When you start with ingredients, no one cares much. I mean no one salivates looking at a bag of flour or packet of cold butter or even a ginger root. Only you know what they can do. But when you’ve combined them just right, applied the right heat, they change and suddenly,” – I spread my arms wide – “everyone can see how wonderful ginger, flour and butter can be.” I try to find another example. “It’s like when you look at a script, just words, black letters typed on paper. Then you take it, absorb it and what you speak isn’t words. It’s raw emotions, a human experience, pain, joy, fear. Like the gingerbread, everyone can enjoy the result.”
He is silent for so long, I start chopping vegetables again. All the time he watches me as if he’s analysing me. At last, he says. “My dear Leonie, I told you before I have little, if any, family attachments. Even if I did, it’s far too late for me to give you fatherly advice.”
He’s wrong. He does have family feelings; he just doesn’t know how to deal with them. I’ve seen the way he chats to Bill, the way he defended me when Watson called me interfering. And the way he called his father in tears when he was nineteen and scared.
He’s just playing a role, Mr Spock, Professor Higgins, Marcus Aurelius. Pretending to be a man who prefers black ink on white paper to raw emotions.
He continues. “But if you’ll let me offer a suggestion, consider it advice from an older friend who has a little more experience of making a private passion into a successful career.”
He fixes his blue eyes on me, so much like his father’s. So much like mine.
“It seems to me you're not trying hard enough.”
The words are critical but his tone is gentle. “it’s not enough to open the door and stand at the threshold waiting for success to come to you. You have to go after it, run until you're sweaty and out of breath. Why must you wait for thirty thousand pounds to land into your lap? Can’t you start small? A few tables, tea and sandwiches. Select the essential expenses, the legal requirements and the rest can grow over time. Look at Haneen.”
“Haneen has a very successful business and even an assistant—”
“Now, perhaps.” He interrupts me gently. “But she started with borrowed pots and pans and wilted vegetables the local grocer was giving away.”
I hadn’t known that.
“Look at Evan and his huge house. Had he approached a bank with a proposal for a hotel or a shopping mall, they’d have offered him ten business loans not one. But he wanted something else, something to feel passionate about.”
The professor talking about passion? What does he know about it? I could tell him all about my passion. How I feel about starting a café in that unique room with the light. My dream of the day when the terrace has tables overlooking a restored north garden, green and beautiful. Men would book a table when they proposed to their girlfriends. Lovers would take selfies to use as their profile pictures.
He of course has no idea what I’m thinking, he imagines I’m listening to his advice.
“You shouldn’t need me to tell you this, you’re an actress. What do people in your business do? Don’t they chase every opportunity, leave no stone unturned in the quest for success?”
He gets up and returns his chair back into place. Then he lays a hand on my shoulder and unexpectedly, kisses my forehead. “Forgive me, I’m used to lecturing. I’m sure you will know what to do.”
For several minutes after he’s gone, my mind is blank. Then slowly understanding, realisation arrives and with it, shame. Because it’s true, actors fight very hard for every chance, every half chance. Glenn Close almost had to beg to be considered for Fatal Attraction, the part that made her career. Liam Neeson went to L.A, with barely enough money to cover his rent because he knew he had to break into Hollywood. Madonna was told she’d never get Evita, but she wrote a personal letter to the director and convinced him.
And what have I been doing to push my acting career? I’ve sat and waited for my phone to ring.
My father is right. I’m not doing enough.
“Meredith” I ask.
She glances back from her potatoes.
“I’m just going upstairs for ten minutes.”
“Go, I’ll finish these. And I’m going to hide the mince pies otherwise the boys will eat them all.”
Meredith takes her role as deputy very seriously. She works for Haneen but I know she started as a volunteer. She was willing to work for free because she wanted to learn. It’s as if everywhere I look, the universe is sending me signals.
Upstairs, I sit on my bed, phone in hand and take a few minutes to think. What is my passion, how can I make it a success?
What is the minimum I need to start a café. Google has a wonderful AI search function and it gives me lots of answers. Some if it good, some bad.
The good news. There are endless cooking courses on YouTube. Masterclasses I can subscribe to for under ￡100. I can even get my food safety and all certificates online. No need for expensive colleges.
Other good news. I can get all my legal papers and qualifications for less than ￡5,000. That’s the good news.
The bad news comes in the shape of an AI summary assessment.
Catering is one of the most popular business start-ups. Over half of business loan applications are for restaurants, cafes or bars. But 60% of businesses go under in the first year. It's common knowledge that catering is an especially tough industry to succeed in that it has been called the graveyard of entrepreneurs.
Common reasons for business failure: poor location resulting in too few customers. Wrong menu choices for the local customer base, external factors such as crime, noise or disruption…
Noise or disruption. Like building work going on throughout Kendric House every time someone new joined us and decided to renovate a different part. Like major garden clearance with tractors and whatever.
I look up from my phone and stare into space thinking. Trying to find solutions, to turn the negative to positive.
Okay…I can do as my father advised, start small to reduce my risk. The way Haneen did.
But Haneen did her research. She started a takeaway business on a main road, aimed at the hundreds of people driving home through the village after work.
How many customers will drive three miles, over the hill to Kendric Park for coffee and a sandwich?
There are people who already live here, five, maybe six? Even if everyone in the house ate all their meals there, it’s not enough to sustain a business.
Having ￡30,000 would not change these facts.
Even ￡100,000 would eventually drain away.
I put my phone back in my pocket. It’s not a plan. just a dream.
I’m not going to cry, no, never. I’m going to square up to the facts. It’s not as if I have no other career. No other skill.
I’m an actress with ten years’ experience and an agent.
Maybe I’m not cut out to be the next Melissa McCarthy, but I can do better than minimum wage pantomime tours.
Mum was right, even Horrible Howard. I should go where movies are made, and push very hard, make something of myself. Even as the blonde girl, there are lots of actors making a decent living from supporting roles.
I look at my phone, then dial.
My agent answers on the second ring. No surprise he’s working on Christmas Eve. He’d work Christmas Day if any casting directors were around. Another person who works hard.
“I was just thinking of you.” He always starts without preamble, no wasted words on small talk, straight to business. That’s how I should be.
“Have you got something for me?”
He shuffles papers and I can hear his keyboard clicking. “You won’t like it.” He warns. “English prostitute in the new James Bond. It’s a speaking part, three lines with the villain before she gets killed, lots of skin, lots of screaming.”
My revulsion starts to rise inside me like bile. It’s what I told him last year that I will never, ever do. Naked girl roles.
“I’ll do it.”
My gorge rises higher and I stamp on it really hard. Stop being a spoilt little girl . If I don’t want to be a victim, then there’s no room for whining about this kind of offer. It’s a speaking part, at least, not a face in the crowd. And if I had to get semi-naked at least it’s a big movie, it’ll open better doors.
“Get yourself to Ealing Studios for auditions on New Year’s Eve? I can get you the last slot at 4pm.”
“And Jarvis?” I catch him before he hangs up. “I want more movie parts, whatever else is doing the rounds at the moment.”
“If something comes up, I’ll tell you.”
That’s no good, I’m not going to sit and wait for him to remember me out of how many other actors he represents.
“I have some free time, why don’t I volunteer for you, make coffee in your office for you and your clients?”
This’ll put me near the action so I hear of anything juicy coming up.
“I don’t need a lot of coffee, and most of my meeting are online, but if you can turn your hand to filing, tidying up and answering the phone…”
Answering the phone is even better for hearing about any new films coming up.
“Done!”
“You’ll have to be here at 8am every day. I work long hours, so you might be here till late.”
“I’ll be there on the twenty-seventh. Day after Boxing Day.”
Easy, when you push to make things happen. Prostitute or not, it’s a job. And I need to look for a new place to live, until I find something permanent…
I walk around my room as if a good solution might be hiding under the duvet or behind the sofa Wyn and I moved from the north wing.
My heart bangs around looking for a good option, but all it finds are empty boxes and closed doors.
There’s only one choice.
I plop down on my bed, defeated, and text Mum.
I’ve been rather spoilt here, got used to better things. People in Kendric House inspire you to do better, they don’t act like horrible Howard.
But it’s only temporary.
Only temporary.
I’ll complete my Christmas promise here, and the next day…
My heart turns away from the decision but I make it turn back and face the facts.
Boxing Day, I’ll pack my things into my car and drive back across Wales, over the Severn Bridge and into England.
In England, road signs are only in English. How wrong that feels, now.