Little Woodford Page 5

  Ashley trailed up the stairs to his room and then Amy heard the sound of his footsteps pacing back and forth across the tiny floor as he picked up his possessions and began clearing up the mess. He was, thought Amy, a good lad. His father might have been a dud but Ash had turned out all right. Better than Zac Laithwaite, at any rate.

  *

  Zac – the object of Amy’s thoughts – was in his room playing war games on his PlayStation. In a lull in the action he heard his mother’s voice floating up the stairs.

  ‘Zac? Zac?’

  Shit, what did she want now? God, she was always on his case. He quickly plugged the headphone jack into the system and stuffed the earbuds in so he could pretend that he hadn’t heard her. He concentrated on his game until he saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He swung round, ripping out his headphones.

  ‘What?’ He glared at his mother.

  ‘Hello, darling. I’m going to be doing supper soon.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I know it’s early but I’ve got to go out... council meeting. Is that OK?’

  God, every night she said the same sort of dumb things. ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  ‘Good.’

  He didn’t respond and concentrated on his game. Would she now get the hint and leave him alone?

  She hesitated by the bedroom door. ‘And you’ll be all right till your father gets home, won’t you? I’ll have to leave his supper in the fridge for him to heat up...’

  Zac couldn’t be arsed to answer her. Did she think he cared? Her voice petered out.

  ‘So, that’s fine then. I’ll leave you to get on, shall I?’

  Yes, now fuck off. ‘Anything else?’ he asked, pointedly.

  ‘No, no. I’ll call when supper’s ready.’ She left but didn’t shut the door. She never fucking did. Irritated, Zac lunged off his chair and slammed it behind her.

  He pulled his dressing table away from the wall, reached behind it and extracted a small plastic bag, a packet of Rizlas and a pouch of tobacco. Carefully, he made himself a spliff and then opened the windows of his room. He leaned out and sparked up. Slowly he felt calmer, his rage at his mother faded and he felt at peace. He drew in another hit and held it before slowly exhaling the smoke which drifted away from the house. Zac watched it dissipate and wondered what would happen to any birds that flew through it. The thought of the local starlings getting high made him chuckle. He finished his rollie and stubbed it out against the outside wall of the house, under the window sill. He then hitched himself onto the sill and reached up to put the fag end into the gutter above the room. No evidence remained except the reek of tobacco and pot in his room. Zac picked up a can of Lynx and sprayed it liberally. He chuckled again at the thought that his dad hated the smell of Lynx and it would piss him off no end if he caught a whiff when he came home. But not as much as it would if he knew what it was masking. He laughed out loud even more at that.

  *

  Bex slumped on a chair in her new kitchen. It was a lovely kitchen, she adored it and it had an Aga – her idea of heaven although, if she were honest, she wasn’t quite sure how it worked. But it couldn’t be that hard, could it, and the previous owners had left a manual... though where the hell it was was a mystery right now. And an Aga was, when all was said and done, basically an oven. She looked at her watch – seven. Too early for bed although she was tired enough to fall asleep right now but she couldn’t indulge herself like that – she still had far too much to do. The day before, after the removal men had finished, she’d got all the beds made up, they’d had a takeaway from the local pizza parlour and found time to call both sets of grandparents and tell them they’d arrived safely before they’d all crashed out; Bex collapsing in her bed only a couple of hours after the boys.

  Today, her first priority had been to make the sitting room habitable enough so the boys could watch TV which kept them entertained while she and Megan had got on with yet more unpacking. And now they’d all had supper and the boys were in bed, another day of running up and down stairs, shifting boxes and furniture, unpacking and putting away had caught up with her. But there was so much still to be done although she needed a moment to herself before she started again on the packing cases.

  ‘Well, Richard,’ she whispered to the shadows in the kitchen, ‘we made it. Wish you had too.’ She swallowed down a whoosh of self-pity and sorrow. She leaned back in the chair and blinked back tears. The silence was total. Not even a clock ticked and the space seemed big and empty. Even the pile of cartons in the corner, which had almost filled their last kitchen in London, didn’t seem to take up much space here. She suddenly felt very alone. Which is ridiculous, she told herself, with three children upstairs. Maybe it was loneliness rather than being alone. She wished Richard was here to see this house, to know that his dream of moving to the country had come to fruition. How bitterly ironic that it was partly his life insurance that had made it possible. Bex could almost weep at the unfairness of life – and death.

  She sighed and leaned back in the big carver chair, running her fingers over the curved ends of the arms, remembering how Richard had done that whenever he sat in it.

  How she wished he was still alive. It wasn’t just that she needed his strength and stability to cope with this move – Megan needed him too, and the boys did. She couldn’t fill his shoes; she couldn’t be the other parent as well. She couldn’t do this on her own. And yet she had to.

  Sitting here moping wasn’t getting the unpacking done. Wearily she stood up again. She’d promised herself she’d get the kitchen straight tonight but first, a drink. There was a case of wine that she’d directed the removal men to cart down to the cellar. She and Richard had bought it for their tenth wedding anniversary, but he’d died before they’d reached that milestone. Not much point in saving it now. She went to the door in the corner of the kitchen that led down to the basement and flicked the switch at the top of the stairs. A smell of damp and mould and ancient dust wafted upwards and a couple of antique cobwebs, hanging from the sloping ceiling of the stairwell, moved around in the disturbed air. One day, when she had the energy, she’d sort this place out, give it a proper floor, heat it maybe – and it would make the most splendid den for the boys. But it wasn’t on her list of priorities right now and, knowing how much had to be done to get the whole house straight before she could even think about extras like a den for Lewis and Alfie, she reckoned they might be leaving for university before she managed to get around to it. She clutched the handrail and made her way down the steep stairs into the basement. A bare light bulb illuminated the space which was, she thought, disappointingly small, given the size of the house. But there, in the middle of the beaten-earth floor, was the case of wine.

  She pulled open the lid to reveal a dozen ruby-red lead foils. She picked out a bottle and carried it back upstairs, flicking the light off before she shut the door. Back in the kitchen she examined her booty. Bugger – a proper cork. Well, given the quality of the wine she shouldn’t be surprised, but now she had to find the blooming corkscrew before she could enjoy a glass – and that meant more unpacking. She knew she had to get the boxes emptied but she’d really hoped to have a few minutes’ relaxing before she put her back into it again. Bollocks.

  She set the bottle down and pulled one of the big cardboard cartons off the stack and carried it over to the table. She opened the flaps and began to pull out, and unwrap, newspaper parcel after newspaper parcel. At her feet the drift of paper got bigger and higher and on the table the pile of mixing bowls and kitchen tools also grew. She picked out the final item from the box but she could tell instantly from the size and weight it definitely wasn’t a corkscrew. She peeled the protective paper off. No – a Kilner jar.

  Bums.

  Bex gathered up the newsprint and checked that she’d not missed anything before she shoved it back in the box and then bunged it all under the table. Then she went back over to the stack of packing cases, grabbed another one and began the proc
ess over again.

  6

  As Olivia walked back from her council meeting, which had concluded its business with admirable rapidity, she noticed lights on in the upstairs windows of The Beeches. She stopped by the gate and stared at the big old house then glanced at her watch. It was only seven thirty so there was no time like the present. She turned and walked up the drive, scrunching over the gravel.

  It took a few seconds for the door to open after she’d rung the bell.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello. I’m Olivia Laithwaite. I hope you don’t think me presumptuous if I take it upon myself to welcome you to Little Woodford.’

  ‘Er... no. And thank you.’

  Olivia instantly sized up the newcomer to the town and confirmed what she’d thought when she’d caught a glimpse of her getting out of the car the day before; young, very pretty and blonde. She was reminded of someone... who...? Then she got it; Goldie Hawn in her younger days. But if she was living in a whacking great house like this, she was no dizzy blond. Mind you, she told herself, neither was Goldie Hawn, regardless of the image she presented to the world. Maybe this was a second wife, she told herself. A young couple wouldn’t be able to afford a place like this – not unless they’d inherited a mint of money or won the lottery.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy here. It is a lovely town, quite unspoilt really. I was going to call in earlier but... well, the day got away from me.’ She smiled.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the newcomer and stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Bex, Bex Millar. Would you like to come in? It’s chaos, as you can imagine. We only arrived yesterday.’ She opened the door wider to allow Olivia to step in.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Frankly, I’d be glad of an excuse to stop. Although at the moment I’m trying to find a corkscrew so I can have a glass of wine. I had planned to get the kitchen unpacked tonight but I think I’m running out of energy.’ Bex shut the door and led the way along the hall and into the kitchen. ‘As I can’t offer you wine, how about tea... or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee would be lovely. Have you got decaf?’

  ‘Not that I’ve managed to find.’

  Olivia suppressed a sigh. The caffeine would play havoc with her sleep but she’d have to cope. ‘Never mind then, full strength will just have to do.’ She looked around at the chaos in the kitchen. Where was the order? Where was the plan? She wasn’t quite sure what to say, so she opted for, ‘You seem to have done a fair bit of unpacking already.’

  Bex filled the kettle. ‘Not really. Not as much as I’d have liked.’ She plugged the kettle in and took a couple of clean mugs out of the cupboard. ‘And then there’s the children to feed and look after.’

  So where was Mr Millar? Shirking, stuck in a job in another location, off the scene entirely...? After all, a man who had divorced once might be perfectly capable of doing it again. Not that Olivia felt she could pry but she was agog with curiosity. ‘You sound as if you’re on your own.’

  Bex nodded. ‘I am – sort of. There are three children upstairs but I’ve lost my husband. He was killed last year in a traffic accident, on his way to work.’

  Olivia felt awful. That wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting at all. ‘Oh, my dear! I am so sorry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  It sounded to Olivia like she’d had to say ‘thank you’ an awful lot – and she supposed it was true. After all, what else was there to say when people offered you sympathy? ‘I expect you’re finding things very tough on your own. And now a house move. It’s a lot to contend with, without...’

  ‘...without Richard?’ supplied Bex. ‘Yes, it is, but life goes on. Or mine does at any rate.’ She didn’t add the obvious statement that her husband’s hadn’t. ‘I keep expecting things to get easier but they don’t,’ she added, baldly.

  ‘No, no I’m sure they don’t. You’re very brave to move house on your own though. I mean, wouldn’t it have been easier not to?’

  Bex sighed. ‘Not really.’ The kettle clicked off and she began to make the coffee. ‘If we’d stayed in London I would have had to walk past the spot where he died on an almost daily basis, and Richard always wanted to move to the country. He’d lived in a little town like this as a kid and he always wanted his kids to grow up somewhere similar; to do the things he did...’ There was a pause and Olivia wondered if Bex was going to cry but then she flashed Olivia a slightly embarrassed grin. ‘So I kind of felt I didn’t have much choice.’

  ‘You poor thing,’ said Olivia, glad she hadn’t had to deal with an emotional scene. She decided to move away from the subject of Richard; keep things positive. No point dwelling on the unpleasant past. ‘But you’re here now,’ she said, briskly. ‘That’s the main thing and in a week or two I expect you’ll feel as if you’ve been here for ages, and the children will love growing up here. Mine have, I know.’

  ‘Bex?’ quavered a voice from the doorway.

  Olivia swung round. ‘And who is this?’ She stared at the teenager. No way was she the daughter of Bex – not with that colouring and dramatic beauty. Bex was pretty enough in a china-doll kind of way but this girl was in another league. Not that her looks seemed to have given her any sort of self-confidence – she looked as if she’d flee or cry at the least thing.

  ‘This is Megan – my stepdaughter. Megan, this is Mrs Laithwaite. Mrs Laithwaite has dropped by to welcome us to Little Woodford.’

  ‘Hello,’ mumbled Megan, failing to make any sort of eye contact.

  Stepdaughter – so that explained the lack of family likeness. ‘I was just telling your mother how much my children have loved it here. You must meet Zac. I think you and he must be about the same age and I’m sure you’d get on. So, are you going to St Anselm’s?’

  Olivia saw Megan look at her stepmother as if she didn’t know the answer herself.

  ‘Er, no,’ Bex answered, passing a steaming mug to Olivia and then offering her guest the milk carton. ‘Richard didn’t believe in private education so Megan is going to the local comp. She’ll be starting after the Easter holidays.’

  ‘Really?’ Surely not? She poured a splash of milk into her drink.

  ‘Yes, really,’ affirmed Bex. ‘It seems to have a good reputation and it’s what Richard would have chosen.’

  ‘Well, yes... it gets good reports – for a comp. It’s just living here...’ Olivia waved her free hand to indicate the entire house, the neighbourhood, the posh end of town... ‘Well, the type of people who live at this end of the town tend to send their children to St Anselm’s. Let’s just say none of the council estate children go there and St Anselm’s does get truly outstanding results.’

  ‘I’m sure children with ability do just as well at the comp,’ said Bex firmly.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ If that’s what Bex wanted to believe.

  Bex turned to Megan. ‘Did you want something, sweetheart?’

  ‘I came to get a drink of milk.’

  ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Where are the glasses?’

  She pointed to the cupboard by the sink. ‘In there.’

  Megan trailed across the quarry-tiled floor and pulled open the door, before returning to the fridge and slopping milk into the glass. Then she left again after giving Olivia another frightened look.

  ‘Teenagers,’ said Bex, lightly.

  ‘Indeed. Like I said, I’ve got one about the same age and he can be a bit tricky. Hormones, I expect.’

  ‘How many children have you got?’

  ‘Four. But Zac was a bit of an afterthought so he’s the only one at home. His brothers and sister are all off earning their own livings. Well, one is still at uni, doing an MA, but she’ll be out in the big world in the summer. You?’

  ‘Just the three. Megan has two younger brothers... half-brothers. They’ll go to the local primary.’

  ‘Good.’ Olivia nodded approvingly. ‘Lovely school. Very nurturing and caring. Mine thrived there.’ She put her mug down on the table. ‘Look, why d
on’t I give you a hand for a bit? I feel guilty that I’ve held you up and I’m sure, together, we could get these boxes here unpacked tonight if we try.’

  ‘No,’ said Bex. ‘That’s not fair. You didn’t come here to graft.’

  But Olivia had already crossed the kitchen and was hauling a carton off the pile which she brought over to the table. ‘I’ll unpack – you put away. Only...’ she paused as she opened the lid; it was the least she could do to try and help Bex to sort out the mess. ‘Tell me if I’m teaching you to suck eggs but I think we might be better off if you get the stuff that’s already unpacked put away before you do any more. And you ought to decide where you really want things to live, right from the outset. In my experience, it makes things much easier in the long run.’

  ‘Really?’

  Olivia nodded. ‘Really. Now, where do you want your china to live? Maybe near where you are likely to serve food?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘How about this cupboard by this counter?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Good.’ Olivia picked up a pile of plates and put them on the shelf. Really, if Bex was going to get straight before the crack of doom someone had to take control.

  The pair worked as a team and, with two pairs of hands, they first cleared the backlog of items on the work surfaces and then they began on the pile of full cartons, which diminished rather quickly. The corkscrew was found and their coffees were swapped for glasses of wine and it seemed to them both that the work went even faster after that. As they worked Olivia made it her business to tell Bex about all the great things that went on in the town that made it such a wonderful place to live.

  ‘Virtually Utopia,’ said Bex.

  ‘I like to think so.’

  Olivia failed to spot Bex’s slight but disbelieving shake of her head.