Chapter Sixty-Four
I didn’t tell Freya about my plans to move into Catkin Cottage with Dylan. It hadn’t been the right time. But I did pick my moment with the children and, a whole week later, gave them my big news.
They were surprised but unfazed. Strangely, it was a bit of an anti-climax on my part.
‘What were you expecting us to say, Mum?’ said Tim.
We were gathered around the kitchen table enjoying a family Sunday dinner. I’d held off inviting Dylan. I’d wanted to talk to my children first – just in case any of them wanted to throw a hissy fit about the family home being sold, and their mother going off to live with a man they hadn’t yet met.
‘I’m not sure,’ I shrugged, answering Tim’s question. ‘I thought you might be annoyed. Or upset. Or think it… not right,’ I added lamely.
‘What’s not right about falling in love?’ said Ella dreamily.
‘Mum meant the sex,’ Ruby smirked. ‘Which, when you stop and think about it’ – she frowned – ‘is a bit gross.’
‘Then don’t think about it,’ I said crisply.
God.My daughter.
‘Do Granny and Grandad know?’ asked Ella.
‘What, that Mum is having sex?’ said Ruby wryly.
I pursed my lips.
‘Rubeee,’ I chided. ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘They don’t know anything about my decision.’
‘What about Aunty Freya and Uncle Vernon?’ asked Tim.
‘Nope,’ I shook my head again. ‘Not yet.’ I was still biding my time with my sister. Making sure the dust had well and truly settled between us. I made a mental note to tell my parents, sister, and brother-in-law all together. Two birds, one stone – that sort of thing.
‘Do you think Aunty Freya and Uncle Vernon still have sex?’ mused Ruby aloud.
‘Now that really is gross,’ said Ella. She helped herself to some tomatoes and salad. ‘Uncle Vernon is so ancient.’
‘Will you two please stop,’ I said in exasperation.
Archie and Joshua gave each other a quick look and tried not to snigger.
‘Archie, pass the garlic bread around,’ I said briskly. It was time to get off the subject of anyone over thirty-five being too decrepit for sex. ‘Josh, if you could do the same with the cold meats, please, I’d be very grateful.’
It had been too hot a day to do any proper cooking. Plans for the usual Sunday roast had gone out the – open – window when the temperature had soared to a sticky thirty degrees.
Bess and I were currently walking at silly o’clock in the morning to beat the heat. I’d also had her clipped – much to Tim’s horror.
‘Her beautiful coat!’ he’d lamented. ‘Gone!’
‘It will grow back,’ I’d pointed out. ‘She’s happy because she’s cooler. After all, no one wears a thick coat in the height of summer.’
My daughter-in-law now brought me back to the present moment.
‘When are you moving into Catkin Cottage?’ Steph asked.
‘Soon,’ I said happily.
The previous Monday I’d telephoned the local estate agent. By Tuesday, the house had been photographed. The property’s description and floor plans hadn’t even been uploaded online when I had received a telephone call from the senior buyer.
‘Mrs King,’ he’d purred down the line. ‘We have a small waiting list for properties like yours. This agency prides itself on being pro-active. We always tell prospective buyers what’s coming to the market.’
‘Er, right,’ I’d said. ‘Does that mean you have a viewing for me?’
‘My dear lady,’ he’d said importantly. ‘I have three viewings for you.’
‘Wow.’
I’d also said wow the following day. All three viewers had wanted to make offers and it had gone to sealed bids. I’d secured the sale at fifty thousand pounds over the asking price.
‘Dylan has already moved into Catkin Cottage,’ I said to Steph. ‘However, I’m holding off joining him for now. There’s a lot of sorting out to do here – like overseeing furniture clearance. I need to prepare for vacant possession. However, first I need to go through every single cupboard, wardrobe, and drawer.’
I’d never considered myself a hoarder until I’d started emptying out the hot cupboard. How many towels were folded upon its shelves? And how many spare changes of linen did I possess? There had been enough to start a small haberdashery shop.
I was also very aware that Greg’s clothes were still hanging in one of the wardrobes. I’d cleared some of his belongings immediately after he’d died. Donated his suits, ties, shirts, and shoes to a local charity shop. But a goodly proportion remained. Jeans. Hoodies. T-shirts. His dressing gown. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to part with that. And then I thought of Dylan. He’d kept nothing of Jennifer’s.
‘They’re clothes, Maggie,’ he’d said, when we’d had such a conversation. ‘Bits of material sewn into a blouse or a dress. They’re not Jennifer.’ He’d taken me in his arms. Hugged me tight. ‘I didn’t need to keep her stuff, because she’s here.’ He’d tapped his head. ‘And here.’ He’d then touched his heart.
He was right, of course. And yes, I would eventually let that dressing gown go. It would just be the very last thing.
‘Anyway,’ I said brightly. I glanced at everyone around the table. ‘If there’s anything anyone wants – furniture, paintings, whatever – now is the time to speak up and claim it.’
There then followed some squabbles about who was having the mirror on the landing, Greg’s prized desk in the study, and the grandfather clock in the lounge.
I listened to my children compromising with each other. Loving the noise. The camaraderie. Also wondering how I would fit everyone into Catkin Cottage when they visited. Plates on laps and bums on floors came to mind.
My thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing.
‘Hello?’ I said.
‘Mrs King?’ said a well-spoken male voice.
‘Yes,’ I frowned.
‘Hello. My name is John and I’m a paramedic. Please don’t be alarmed, but I’m at your parents’ house. A neighbour telephoned Emergency Services. Your father has had a fall. Rather a nasty one, I’m afraid.’