Chapter 5
It was Saturday morning, and Jenni opened her eyes to see the sun streaming through the faded Laura Ashley curtains, casting shadows on the pale pink striped wallpaper that she’d insisted upon as a nine-year-old, that had never been changed since.
Old movie posters, exam timetables and postcards from friends had been taken down since she’d left home, but otherwise her old room was unchanged, and Jenni loved the familiarity of the space that had seen her through some tough times.
She’d caught the train from Waterloo the previous evening, and her mum had met her at the station, arriving in a cloud of black smoke created by Bertie, her mum’s ancient red mini.
A thirty-minute drive later, turning the bend, the sight of the red brick and flint cottage, it’s windows tucked up high beneath the slate roof, surrounded by fields and trees, had made Jenni’s shoulders drop in relief, and she’d felt herself relax as she left behind the journey from London.
The peace that had greeted her, with just the birds singing as she’d opened the car door and climbed out, had added to her sense of calm.
Growing up here, she’d taken her surroundings for granted – it was only now that she could see the beauty of the place.
She loved London, and felt lucky to live in an area full of green spaces, but coming home made her appreciate the countryside in a way she hadn’t when she was living there.
Dumping her bags in her room, her mum had made her a hot chocolate and they’d sat together on the old sofa in front of the fire before her mum had sent her off to bed.
Shattered from a week at work that had involved some tense negotiations with the influencers Amy had identified as suitable brand ambassadors, and a rather fraught conversation with Clive to convince him reaching out to Wim Hof was not required, Jenni had fallen asleep pretty much as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Now, shifting so she could reach her phone and check the time, she saw she’d slept in later than usual and it was now ten.
She could hear her mum moving around downstairs to the background mumblings of the ever-on Radio 4.
Occasionally, she could hear her mum talking to herself, and she smiled as she imagined her searching for lost glasses amongst the piles of magazines and books stacked on the kitchen table.
Jenni’s phone pinged, signalling a message and she swiped to read the text.
Oscar grumpy that he had to use the cat flap but I’ve fed him and he’s happy again now. Will pop back later. Hope you’re having a nice time. X
Jenni sent a quick thank you back to her neighbour – Jo was familiar with Oscar’s demands, but refused to indulge his more diva-like behaviour – then got out of bed and headed downstairs to the kitchen.
Her mum was seated at the end of the old pine table, the Telegraph crossword in front of her, battered thesaurus at the ready.
Seeing her daughter, Annie took a long inhale on the cigarette she was smoking before hastily stubbing it out in the ashtray.
Trying to hide the evidence underneath the newspaper while wafting smoke towards the open window, Annie dropped her pen on the floor, then managed to overturn the – fortunately empty – mug on the table.
Jenni laughed. ‘Mum, I can smell the smoke, you know. There’s no pointing trying to hide it.’
‘Oh, I know, love, but I know you don’t like it. It’s just my little treat.’
‘Hmm,’ muttered Jenni, disapprovingly.
Annie, tidying her short hair behind her ears, looked slightly chastened, but didn’t reply, deciding to ignore her daughter. Instead, she stood up and headed for the kettle to make herself another cup of tea – as was her want in any situation, good or bad.
‘Tea, darling?’
‘Yes, please.’
Jenni settled in the chair next to the warmth of the Rayburn, while her mum pulled out Jenni’s old mug.
Lifting the now-whistling kettle off the stove, she filled the cups with boiling water before adding milk – from a bottle not a plastic carton; the village still had a milkman and it was considered bad form if you didn’t support the local farmer – then handed Jenni her drink.
‘I’m going to patrol the borders. Are you going to come out?’ Annie asked, picking up her cup.
Jenni glanced out of the window. The sun was, if not shining, then at least vaguely visible, so she decided to join her mum on her daily ritual – besides, tea in the garden would be rather nice.
‘Yes, hold on, I’ll just get my jumper.’
She left the kitchen and dashed up the stairs, instinctively stepping over the creaky third step from the bottom, and then ducking to avoid the beam at the top, muscle memory taking over.
Hooded jumper and thick socks on, Jenni joined Annie, who hastily stubbed out another cigarette, and they made their way down the winding gravel path to the wooden bench by the back wall, underneath the old pear tree that was just beginning to come into leaf.
Annie greeted each plant like a friend, glaring critically into the borders as they walked slowly along, occasionally reaching down to pluck an offending snail or slug from a forbidden leaf.
‘Oh good, that one’s survived, I thought the frost had got it.’
She bent over, examining one shrub more closely.
The garden had always been her mother’s domain.
Her dad had been happy to let Annie oversee all the planting, only getting involved if a particularly large hole needed to be dug, or there was some difficult landscaping to be done that required some muscle.
Annie had created a beautiful, sprawling cottage garden, where lupins, roses, foxgloves and granny bonnets intertwined to create an organised chaos of colour, which, however much she tried, Jenni could never replicate in her own small patch back in London.
Whereas the garden had stayed much the same since her dad’s death, Jenni had begun to notice all the ways in which the house – more her dad’s domain when he was alive – had changed in his absence.
It had been a gradual process, but without her father there, slowly the balance had tipped in Annie’s favour: plants everywhere, colour creeping in, stacks of books on any surface, topped off by a vase of flowers.
It hadn’t been a deliberate decision, but Jenni could see now how her mum had compromised – willingly and unconsciously – to accommodate the tastes of her husband.
But she could also see how her dad had quietly restored order, and without him books were no longer returned to shelves, dead flowers were left in vases and the quiet, reliable order she remembered from her childhood had vanished.
She knew, though, that her dad would never be completely gone from the house.
By unspoken agreement, the front room was rarely used and her mum’s creative clutter hadn’t spilled into it.
It was the room her dad had used the most; his roll-top bureau was in there, and it was where he’d sat to do the paperwork – ‘be quiet, your dad’s Doing the Money’ – as was his record player and speakers, perfectly aligned so he could sit in the precisely placed chair surrounded by the music he loved.
And for some reason, Jenni could still sense him in the shed; the smell of the old canvas deckchairs and creosote somehow bringing him back to her.
Jenni reached the silvered wooden bench, the old brick wall behind it beginning to warm in the sun, and sat down to wait for her mum, who had been distracted by the sight of a rogue snail impinging on the hostas.
Cupping the still-hot mug, she took in the familiar sounds, feeling the weight of calm.
She could hear goldfinches instead of the paraquets that terrorised London’s skies, and relaxed back against the bench.
Her friend Tim might have mocked her stay in Somerset, but she’d take this over a trip to Hauser and Wirth any day.
Satisfied that the all invertebrates had been vanquished, Jenni’s mum joined her on the bench and took a loud slurp of her tea.
‘That’s better. Nothing like a cuppa to start the day,’ she declared. ‘Now, what do you want for lunch?’
‘Mum, I hate it when you do this. I haven’t even had breakfast yet, I’ve no idea what I want to eat later.’
‘Well, you know I like to plan, and I’ll need to go to Tesco’s as we’re out of butter, and then I need to swing by the plant stall…’
Jenni zoned out as her mum continued to outline the day ahead. She was happy to go along for the ride; to not have to think for a change. Relieved that, for once, she didn’t have to find ways to fill the hours between Friday evening and Monday morning.
‘Why have you been hanging out at the war memorial?’ asked Jenni’s mum with a faintly disapproving tone. As always when she returned to her childhood home, Jenni felt herself regress back to her early teens.
‘Did Mrs Jones ring to tell you? That woman surely has better things to do!’ Jennie replied.
When she was younger, Mrs Jones, the village postmistress and local busybody, was always glaring out of her window at the teenagers in the village, even if all they were doing was talking.
It was ten miles to the nearest youth club – what else were teenagers supposed to do?
‘Of course Mrs Jones hasn’t rung me. She’s been dead for five years! I know she was all-seeing, but even she has her limits.’
Jenni’s mum indicated her phone. ‘You’re on the village Facebook. Jane took a picture of you, look.’
Jenni glanced at her mum’s screen and was horrified, first by the fact that someone had even set up a village page, and then to see a photo of her with the caption ‘STRANGER?’ written in 24-point font underneath – her mum was short-sighted and had enlarged the text on her phone.
She had to admit, she did look suspicious.
In the picture, she was bent over and peering behind the bench, her hair covering most of her face, and she did have a somewhat furtive air about her.
She’d been sent to the corner shop for flour and had, on a whim, decided to walk to the old memorial where she and her friends used to while away the hours when they were younger.
It was also where, years later, she and Alex had sat.
Jenni’s stomach had twisted uncomfortably when she’d remembered being there with him, through rain and shine, chatting, laughing, falling in love.
She’d remembered that he’d carved their initials into the back of the bench – a project resulting in several splinters and a snapped yale key – and, just out of curiosity, she’d wanted to see if it was still there.
It had taken a bit of hunting, but eventually she’d found the outline of the ‘J’ and the ‘A’ both now faded and hard to read, the heart surrounding the initials gone – ironic, really, she’d thought.
She wondered whether, had they still been together, still in love, the carving would have looked fresh and strong, rather than worn away as it was now. Nostalgia was obviously getting to her.
This was the problem with coming home, all the earlier versions of yourself that you thought you’d left behind continued to live there, waiting for you to return.
‘It’s okay, you were recognised so you’ve been taken off the watchlist, and I was tagged,’ continued her mother, pulling Jenni out of her thoughts of the past.
Watchlist? She hoped her mum was exaggerating, but had a horrible feeling such a thing probably existed in a village this small.
Her mother started to tap away at her phone, issuing a status update, not only regarding Jenni’s return for the weekend, but also the state of her camellias, which, she thought people should know, didn’t have as many buds as last year.
The butter, which had been left to warm up next to the Rayburn while Jenni went to buy flour, was now the perfect consistency, so Jenni, settled in the old wicker chair with the saggy bottom, watched the familiar sight of her mum creaming butter and sugar together, making it look effortless, even though Jenni knew from experience that it made your arm ache well before the mixture took on the perfect pale cream colour that signalled it was time to add the flour and eggs.
‘I’m doing double the mixture and then you can take a cake home with you,’ her mum said, dividing the batter between four tins.
‘Thank you, I’ll take it into work with me, everyone loves your sponges. Even Tim and he’s off carbs. Actually, now he’s had the honeymoon he might be back on them. Either way, it will be gratefully received.’
‘How’s work going?’ Annie asked, looking at her daughter for clues, glad to see she looked less pinched around the face today and had a bit more colour in her cheeks.
‘It’s fine, just busy. You know, the usual.’
‘No nice men, then?’
‘No nice single men,’ Jenni said, taking a sip of freshly made tea to prevent further questioning.
The kitchen filled with the smell of warm vanilla and sugar as Annie effortlessly multitasked, preparing the soup they were having for lunch, pulling out the perfectly risen sponges, turning them out onto the wire cooling rack, filling the sink with dirty dishes.
‘Right, let’s leave these to cool. I quite fancy a walk up the Tor before lunch.’
Out of habit, Jenni gave a groan. ‘Do we have to?’
It was a long-established routine between mother and daughter, and although Jenni quite fancied a walk, she had to keep up her side of the bargain so that her mum could run through her lines, which invariably involved the need for stirring stumps and blowing away cobwebs.
But today, to her surprise, the script took a slightly different turn.
‘Well, if you don’t fancy it you can stay at home,’ Annie said with false casualness.
Jenni stopped harrumphing her way through the anoraks hanging in the hall. What was this?
Seeing her daughter’s surprised look, Annie continued, ‘It’s just I usually meet Alan at this time on a Saturday. You’re welcome to come of course, but…’
Well, this was interesting, Jenni thought.
‘Alan?’ asked Jenni.
‘Um, well, yes, he moved here from Bristol a while ago now. We kept bumping into each other when we were both out walking during lockdowns and decided to make it a da—a habit.’
Her mother corrected herself, but Jenni heard the unspoken ‘date’, and her curiosity was further piqued.
Before she could interrogate her mother further, Annie, old waxed jacket on, a handful of toffees in the pocket, opened the back door and stepped out.
Turning back, she said, ‘Why don’t you finish off the cakes for me? The jam’s in the larder.’
And before Jenni could reply, her mum had disappeared up the garden path without her.