The Summer of Wishful Thinking
‘Then move.’
‘But what about Leo’s friends – family?’
‘Gemma, does Leo actually have real friends rather than virtual ones?’
‘A couple from school robot club, but they live in the villages, not Bury itself.’ That was one of her big worries. He spent so much time alone.
‘And his grandparents, do they, or do they not, have a car?’
‘They do.’
‘He’s hardly of an age where they’re needed to babysit. You can loosen some of your ties without doing any damage.’ Diana could be blasé about moving, having started in inner city Hackney and moved progressively northeast away from London during her married life, first Harlow and now rural Suffolk.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Will Leo notice?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Then do it. Maybe he’ll find more friends; new place, new people. Villages are usually friendlier than a town.’
Gemma was half persuaded. ‘Maybe.’
‘And it might be cheaper.’
That was a clincher. ‘You’re right. The rent is a drain and I don’t need to be in Bury. I’ll start looking.’
‘Avoid ones on the bus route to make Ray’s life more difficult.’
‘Yes, yes I will.’
The next wedding was a conventional do at a local golf club for a couple of divorcees. Hope springs eternal, thought Gemma as she administered the vows to the sixty-somethings who had found love again. All the paperwork complete, Diana dropped Gemma at the gate to her house and drove off with a perky toot. Looking up at the peeling woodwork of the windows on the first floor and weeds in the front garden, Gemma felt the weight of all her responsibilities settle back on her shoulders, somehow worse after spending the afternoon in Diana’s invigorating company. She was only just surviving financially and each time Ray came by it was like he was a woodcutter taking another hacking blow at her just-managing tree trunk. She could feel the precarious creaking as things shifted. How was she going to replace the laptop? No chance of claiming it on insurance without reporting it so she was stuffed.
‘Hi, darling!’ she called, dumping her bag in the hall and kicking off her pinching low-heeled shoes. Bliss. Wriggling her toes, she padded through to the kitchen-dining room. No Leo. She went upstairs to change but he wasn’t in his bedroom either. He was probably out catching those digital creatures – one of the few things that got him some fresh air so she wasn’t going to chase him up just yet. Other kids might’ve stopped with the Pokémon Go craze years ago but Leo would keep on going until he’d got every one he could, visited every PokeStop and Gym. He was always that little bit embarrassing with his choices – something she knew she shouldn’t feel as his mother, but she remembered who that kid had been in her own school and she died a little to see that her son was taking that role. He minded far less than she did.
‘I’m an awful parent,’ she told her reflection. ‘I should appreciate the fact that my child is an original.’
Feeling the need for a glass of wine to reward herself, she went down to the kitchen and opened the fridge. For heaven’s sake, Ray had raided here too, taking the nearly full bottle that she rationed to last the week. Of course he had. She hung her head over the sink.
‘I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.’
She could almost hear that other voice in her mind, the one that sounded a lot like Diana, saying: don’t get mad, get even. Fine. She reached for the laptop to begin her search for a new place to rent.
Oh right.
With a sigh, she got out her phone and started scanning the local possibilities. She found a site that offered her a price range filter. Plugging in her numbers, only two came up: one a few doors down and another, a cottage back where she’d been for the Elvis wedding in the village of Claremont Magna. The notes were suspicious – in need of renovation – but she was desperate.
Just do it. She sent off an email asking for a viewing and then put her phone on charge. Cheered up considerably by positive action, she began slicing the vegetables for the stir fry she had planned as a quick dinner.
The front door banged.
‘Leo?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Hello.’
‘Hi Mum.’ She could hear him beginning his journey up the stairs.
‘Aren’t you going to come and say hello properly? Talk about what happened?’
‘No.’ His bedroom door banged shut.
‘Can this day get any better?’ she asked the cheery face of Jamie Oliver on her recipe book. ‘Sometimes I hate you, Jamie, you and your perfect family – your Jules and the kids and your mates. But dammit, man, you know how to cook.’ Gemma decided it was pathetic to be talking to a celebrity chef’s photo so flicked on some Ed Sheeran to fill the silence. Suffolk’s most famous son, he was everything Ray had wanted to be. Both had cruised sofas and busked but only one had gone on from there to fill Wembley Stadium.
‘And it wasn’t you, was it, you laptop-stealing arse.’ She toasted the absent Ray with a glass of water.
Chapter 3
Sam was the last to leave the orangery as the final load of Elvises headed away in their minivan. The event had gone OK, though he’d had to offer up his kitchen to the caterer when the power had failed at a crucial juncture. It meant the main course was a little tepid by the time it arrived on the tables but fortunately the guests were well oiled by drink and finding everything hilarious, even cold green beans. Sam had enjoyed seeing old friends from university, though hearing about their kids made him realise how in some ways he’d been left behind. He’d always imagined he too would have children but now it looked likely it would never happen. He wasn’t sure he had regrets as he was convinced he’d make a bad father. When it came to cutting the cake, Phil had made a sweet speech about hitching up with his soulmate; Neil had gone on far too long but everyone knew to expect that and charged their glasses to the brim. Sam had spent the time usefully, chatting up the photographer who agreed that he could use a couple of her best stills for his website if he put her on the list of recommended suppliers for his future bookings.
If there were future bookings.
There had been a moment where it looked like the photographer might stay for a late-night drink but then it had passed, both tacitly realising that if they were to meet professionally again, they should avoid entanglements.
He locked the door on the neatly stacked tables and chairs and swept floor, leaving the rubbish sacks to be removed in daylight. It was a relief not to have to entertain a guest, no matter how attractive. His dating instincts had been frozen for a while now and trying to thaw them out would be painful. It was easier alone. He headed back to his cottage, walking in the dark by memory and night-sight rather than bothering with a torch. His path led from the orangery past the Norman keep in the centre, through the rockery garden that he was reviving in the ruins of the curtain wall, and out across the drawbridge to the carpark. Beyond that lay the wilder parts of the estate. Pausing for a second, Sam looked out across to his woods; he could see in his mind’s eye the remnants of a once great park hidden under brambles and ivy. In his time in the Metropolitan police, he’d got used to patrolling in the small hours so this was a walk in the park by contrast. His own park. Despite the headaches of owning such a place, the thought made him smile. His own shambolic beauty just waiting for him to reveal her true loveliness, He’d seen so much ugliness, he wanted this to be his legacy.
Taking a path on the left to enter his cottage (once the humble home to the estate gardener), Sam switched on the kettle. Things had been left spotless but in the wrong place – that was going to bug him for days. He would have to light a fire under the electrician and get him to sort out the power in the main buildings as a priority because he didn’t want caterers trooping through his home. It would set back the renovations on the cottages that came with the estate – another hoped for source of income – but he had to get his estate up and running as a venue so he could accept more bookings. There had been a bite just the day before from a couple planning a Tudor-themed one. They’d originally booked a marquee at home but when they heard he was opening Claremont for events they had had second thoughts. They sounded perfect and he was prepared to cut them a good deal just for the photo value alone. All the guests were going to dress up: it would look amazing if they were lucky with the weather.
Remembering they’d promised to get in touch, he checked his emails. There were two pieces of positive news. His letting agent had sent a notification that someone had requested a viewing of the gatehouse cottage and the Tudors had confirmed their interest. He did a quick run of the numbers. If both went ahead, that represented the possibility of being able to employ someone to help next month with the gardens. Sam moved to the wall planner to enter the details for the wedding.
9th September.
He hadn’t registered that when he discussed with them about booking the second Saturday in that month. He normally made sure he was somewhere on his own that day, up a mountain or running a half marathon, some activity that pushed him to the limit and stopped him thinking. It was not a day for him to hold the hand of a nervous bride and groom. He couldn’t be needed.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He almost sent an apology that the booking was no longer available.
It’s been five years. Surely you can hold your shit together for twelve hours?
The kettle clicked off, a prod to make a decision.
Don’t be a coward.
Dear Jerry and Mary,
I’d be delighted to host your wedding at Claremont Castle on 9th September. Please fill out the attached booking form.
Hoping he wouldn’t regret it, Sam pressed ‘send’.
Gemma checked her watch. The last client – a death – had just left with the certificate declaring her husband of fifty-five years was no more. She’d seemed surprisingly cheerful at the prospect and mentioned booking a holiday abroad, something her Terry wouldn’t allow as he didn’t like to deviate from their caravan in South Wales. The world was an odd place. Gemma tidied away the forms. The twelve-thirty appointment was running late and she was already cutting it fine trying to view the cottage during her lunch hour. She called up the list on the screen. What was it? A death or a birth? Birth.
The sound of a wailing baby heralded the arrival of the next client. She went out to the waiting room to invite them in directly.
‘Sorry we’re late. Nappy stop. We’ve not got the hang of it yet – poo everywhere,’ gushed the mum. ‘We couldn’t believe how much such a little person can produce – and what a colour!’
You know there’s such a thing as too much information, right? thought Gemma, ushering them to a seat. New parents were very often brimming over with it as it was hard for them to believe anyone else had experienced the miracle of a newborn when it was all so fresh. Gemma recalled the bewilderment of holding Leo for the first time, though ‘gushing’ about how incredible he was hadn’t been an option in her case.
‘Nice to see you all. How old is baby?’ she asked, hitting her routine mode.
‘Two days. Only kicked me out of hospital yesterday,’ said the mum, before launching into a blow by blow account of the delivery.
Gemma had a rule not to judge the people who came to see her – and that was everyone eventually – but she had a good feel for what kind of name was going to come from the parents just by how they dressed. This couple were following the fashion for being tattooed and pierced on every body part, the mum on the large side, Dad skinny and a little vacant in expression – though to be fair that could be just the result of the new phenomenon of sleepless nights. She thought they might’ve been in the year below her when she was at school. Gemma ran a little bet with herself and so far her hit rate was eighty percent correct. The name was unlikely to be a private school bound Charles or Beatrice, more likely an unusual spelling of a not quite normal name – Shanara or Flynnt – and it would be the mum’s choice. Gemma’s contemporaries liked challenging names; she’d been quite boring going with Leo.
‘So what do we have here? A little boy or girl?’ she asked, opening the certification page on her computer.
‘We don’t believe in imposing socially constructed ideas of gender on our little one,’ said the mum, crossing her arms.
Gemma revised her assumptions of where the couple fitted in the social spectrum of East Anglia, from ordinary to politically aware. Activists of some kind, switched on to current debates about gender identity. She hadn’t had the training course on this yet but knew she had to tread carefully. She was not to bat an eyelid.
‘Right, I’ll put “indeterminate”.’ She clicked on the third option on her drop-down menu. ‘So what about the name?’
‘Tobyn, spelt with a “y”, Peace Taylor.’
‘Right.’ She typed it in carefully. ‘Is that Peace with an “ea” rather than “ie”?’
‘Of course.’ The mum looked at Gemma as if she was the one who needed her head examined. ‘We didn’t want to go for anything too predictable, you know? Tobyn is so special – little one needs a special name.’
Welcome to the world of avoiding gendered pronouns for the rest of your life, Tobyn, thought Gemma wryly as she typed in the rest of the information required. She had no problem with the whole fluid gender thing but was always struck by just how awkward it made conversation, like walking over a wooden bridge with far too many planks missing. So easy to tumble through into unintended offence thanks to the limitations of the English language.
Mum appeared to want to chat, Dad was content playing with his child’s tiny fingers. Conscious of the time, Gemma tried to hurry them along but was further delayed by a printer snarl. Keeping a strained smile on her face, she silently cursed the manufacturer as she fished out a scrunched-up document. Pressing ‘print’ again, it then told her it needed a new cartridge and, of course, she didn’t have one to hand.
‘I’m so sorry about this. I’ll just send this to the printer in reception.’
She had to wait behind the receptionist who was printing out the weekend duty roster.
‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered under her breath. It was fifteen minutes at least down country lanes to Claremont Magna and it was five to one already. The landlord was due to meet her at one and she didn’t have a number with her to say she was going to be late because in a rush that morning she’d left the details at home.
‘Here you are, Ms Holder and Mr Taylor, Tobyn’s birth certificate, hot off the press! Sorry to hurry you along but I’ve another appointment.’ All but forcing them out of her office, Gemma grabbed her keys and ran for the car. Surprised by a rain shower and coatless, she was soaked by the time she slid into the front seat. She’d left the directions on the dashboard and took a quick glance at the address again. Gatehouse Cottage. From her phone, it looked as though it was in the middle of the village so all she needed to do was remember how to get to Claremont Magna.
At quarter to two, she was still circling the deserted village. It looked like everyone had fled a zombie apocalypse. Finally, she found someone to ask. She wound down the window to catch the attention of a woman walking her Labrador. The walker had a hearty Duchess of Cornwall air about her with her flicked back ash blonde hair and green waxed jacket.
‘Excuse me, can you tell me where this is?’ Gemma held out the bit of paper she’d scrawled the directions on. ‘My phone can’t seem to find it.’ And if she had a bloody laptop still, she could’ve printed off a proper map last night.
The woman peered at the address. ‘I bet you put in the postcode, didn’t you? That covers practically the whole village and then some. Gatehouse Cottage? That’s easy. It’s at the entrance to the castle. Do you know where that is?’
‘Yes, yes I do.’ Her heart sank.
‘There’s a farm track where you can turn around just down there. Good luck!’
Gemma pulled into the drive of the cottage at the entrance to the castle at one fifty-five only to find no sign of the landlord.
Bloody time waster. Sam hammered the nails into the cold frame he was mending out the back of his own cottage. He’d waited half an hour and the person had been a no show, not even a message to say they’d had second thoughts. If there was one thing he couldn’t abide – actually there were lots of things he couldn’t abide – but one was definitely rudeness.
‘Sorry to bother you, Mr Ranworth.’
He looked up to see the registrar from Saturday, the one with the life meltdown. She was looking a little frazzled, standing there without a coat despite the light shower. ‘Hi.’
‘I couldn’t get a reply from your cottage so followed the hammering.’
‘What can I do for you?’ He got up, conscious that he was wearing the dirtiest of jeans and she was standing there in one of her pristine short-skirted suits, nipped in at the waist to reveal a decent figure and very nice legs. ‘Did you leave something behind? Because if you did, I didn’t find anything.’
She swallowed and looked away. The light hit her face at a new angle revealing her eyes to be an unusual green-grey colour ringed with a darker line.
‘I have to apologise.’
‘For what? You were a bit slow on Saturday, but you were distracted, I get that.’
She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. ‘Oh God, I was, wasn’t I? Sorry for that too. No, it is about our appointment at one o’clock.’
Oh.
‘I can make excuses about running late, getting lost and leaving the number for you at home like the idiot I am, but that doesn’t change the fact that I left you waiting for me – so rude of me.’ She glanced down at her watch. ‘And now I’ve overshot my lunch hour and I have to dash.’
Sam did a quick bit of thinking. He didn’t like the idea of someone he would meet professionally living at the end of his drive, particularly when he happened to know the gatehouse was a mess and barely worth the rent. On the other hand, she represented his best chance at getting enough income to have a serious go at clearing the gardens before winter.
‘It’s OK.’ Not that he forgave her. He had developed an instinctive aversion to women with chaotic lives, having been so badly burned in the past. ‘Why don’t you come by after work?’
She bit her bottom lip. ‘I have to attend a parent teacher conference with my son.’
‘Then bring your son too, either before or after. He’ll be living here as well, right? What time works?’
‘Um, six-thirty?’
‘Fine. I’ll meet you down there then.’
‘Right, OK. Thanks. Sorry.’
‘No problem.’ He picked up his hammer again, which she rightly took as the signal that she was dismissed. ‘You might want to wear more sensible shoes.’
Startled, she looked down at her kitten heels. ‘What’s wrong with these?’
‘The path to the front door – it’s a bit uneven.’
‘Oh, OK.’ Confused, she toddled off back to her little clunker of a car.
‘Didn’t you read the bit about “in need of renovation”, sweetheart?’ he murmured to himself, whacking a nail into place.
Chapter 4
‘So, Leo, how do you think it’s gone this year?’ asked her son’s form teacher, Mr Hilton.
‘Fine.’ Leo was slumped in the chair like a puppet with his strings cut while Gemma sat bolt upright beside him, in vain willing him to offer a little charm or politeness in the cheerless surroundings of the school gym. It didn’t seem that long ago she’d been a pupil here herself and she still felt the humiliation of leaving under a cloud whenever she came into this environment. Didn’t Leo realise that these were the people who would be writing him references in a few years? Of course he didn’t: he was only fourteen.
‘You don’t feel too isolated? The teachers have noticed that you don’t seem to have a special buddy in the form.’ Mr Hilton glanced at Gemma, signalling that the concern was widespread and serious.
Oh God. Gemma wanted to weep. Her son was a social pariah. Where had she gone wrong?
‘Nah, I’m fine.’ Leo studied his scuffed trainers through his sandy fringe. He was in need of a haircut and she would have to have the talk with him about shaving the wisps on his upper lip. His dad would never think to have the puberty talk. ‘I don’t mind.’
But I do, thought Gemma. ‘Mr Hilton, could we perhaps consider moving Leo to another form?’
‘Not so late in the year. School breaks up in a week or so.’
‘Mum,’ muttered Leo mutinously.
‘I didn’t mean now. I meant next year, when they begin their options?’
‘The form won’t spend much time together as they will all be following different timetables. In fact, the shake-up might be just what Leo needs, introduce him to students with similar interests. We pride ourselves on the fact that everyone eventually finds a friend at St Bartholomew’s.’
‘I’m fine,’ Leo said again.
Gemma pleated the loose material of her skirt nervously. ‘I see. I suppose it would be good for Leo to keep with you as form tutor as you understand him.’
‘I’m afraid I won’t be his tutor next year. I’m being promoted to Head of Year 10. We’ve not decided who will be taking over but I’ll make sure whoever it is will be up to speed on Leo.’
‘Oh, congratulations.’
‘And as head of Leo’s year, I’ll keep an eye on him.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m sure this will all pass as Leo gets older and more confident, finding his niche.’
‘I thought he had, with the robot club?’
Leo looked up at the ceiling.
Mr Hilton shuffled his papers. ‘That’s not been running this year since Miss Green left to have her baby.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Mr Hilton’s eyes drifted to the next parent in the chairs behind her. ‘Keep in touch, Miss Whitehall. Email me if you have any concerns.’
Where to start? ‘Thanks.’
Gemma marched stiff-backed out of the gym with Leo slinking along a few paces behind. Mr Hilton was their last appointment. Leo’s academic report had been fine; the form tutor, though, had clearly been delegated by staff to speak up about the social disaster aspect of Leo’s school life.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about robot club?’ she whispered, fixing the ‘everything’s fine and dandy’ smile on her face for the parents she knew from the primary school gate. They had been much simpler days when her oddball son was in a supportive atmosphere where they’d known him since nursery.
‘Because you liked the idea that I went to it.’ Leo sounded so world-weary.
‘So you were, what? Managing me so I wouldn’t fret?’ Her voice sounded shrill. Turn it down, Gemma, turn it down.
‘Yeah. Mum, did you have to embarrass me like that?’
‘Me, embarrass you?’
‘I don’t need special treatment. The students in my class are horrible. Why would I want to hang out with them?’
‘They can’t all be like that!’
‘You don’t have to spend every weekday with them: how would you know?’
That was an argument she couldn’t knock down. She unlocked her car. The Fiesta was so old this was done by the key in the lock. Leo got in quickly, leaving her gazing bleakly over the school fields. She dug deep for her parenting skills, learned from a library book rather than her own judgemental mother and undemonstrative father. Try to accentuate the positive. Keep up the communication.
‘I was really proud to hear how well you’re doing in the sciences, and computing,’ she said as she slid into the driving seat.
‘No, you weren’t.’ He unwound the wire from his ear buds about to shut her out with a retreat into music.
‘No, Leo, I really was.’