The Summer of Wishful Thinking
‘You want me to be popular.’
‘I want you to be happy.’
‘I am happy. You’re the one who isn’t happy.’
He was right. ‘Maybe this new cottage will be the answer. It’s right by a castle. How cool is that?’
‘Mum, don’t say “cool”. It’s not cool.’ He pulled up his hoodie and went into blocking mode.
Fifteen minutes later, they turned into the castle drive and pulled off into the little slip road that led to the gatehouse. The cottage was hidden by an out-of-control hedge of blackthorn and brambles. Gemma told herself it was mysterious and atmospheric rather than creepy. At least they wouldn’t run short of blackberries come harvest. They were scattered across the bushes like little hard green jewels. The cottage itself was built in the nineteenth century as a miniature architectural echo of the castle behind it, little crenellations over the front door and tall chimneys like a turret. With some care and attention, it would be fabulous. Right now, with the boarded-up window on the first floor and the cracked stonework, it looked barely habitable.
The front door opened as the owner heard the car draw up.
‘Miss Whitehall.’
‘Gemma, please. And this is my son, Leo.’
Leo hadn’t taken out his earbuds. He was scanning the place like he had a Geiger counter and was checking for radiation leaks.
‘Mum, it’s got a gym right outside!’
‘I’m afraid there’s no gym here,’ said Mr Ranworth. Gemma noticed he hadn’t invited her to call him by his first name.
‘Not real, virtual,’ she explained. ‘You won’t have to do a hard sell to my son if it features in Pokémon Go.’
He looked bemused.
‘I take it you don’t have kids then? The game – catch digital creatures on your smart phone? Everyone was playing it a few years ago.’
‘Do I want to know?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Let me show you around.’ He gave her that smile that wasn’t a smile but tolerance.
‘Great. I changed my shoes as ordered.’ She displayed her multicoloured sparkly tennis shoes, an impulse buy in a sale last January.
‘If you take the cottage, you might want to get yourself some boots.’ He pushed aside a ratty door curtain. That would have to go. ‘Obviously, it needs a lot of work. I’m planning on renovating it entirely but for now I’m offering it at a low rent for anyone happy to put up with its current condition. I’ll engage a cleaning service to give it a thorough going over from top to bottom. I think from the evidence of letters on the doormat the last occupant moved out in the 1990s.’
‘The house that time forgot,’ she murmured, walking through the chilly rooms. It was hard to see past the cobwebs and sagging furniture but somewhere under everything was potentially a beautiful home.
‘Most of the furniture will have to be chucked out – not up to fire regulations and possibly home to several generations of mice.’
‘Oh.’ She lifted her hand quickly off the back of the chintz sofa.
‘The wooden furniture in the dining room is fine, as is the kitchen set. The bedsteads are iron so they’re in good shape but I’ll order new mattresses and get the lounge kitted out with basics, that’s unless you have furniture of your own?’
‘No, I’m renting a furnished house. I don’t own much. Can we see upstairs?’
‘Of course. Mind the third stair. I’m going to have to replace the tread.’
She climbed the steep staircase gingerly. It turned sharply which didn’t bode well for getting large items up here. She opened the door off the dark corridor. There was a nice light room overlooking the front drive and up to the castle – that could do for Leo. The master bedroom was a disaster zone: window boarded up and what little light did enter was filtered through obscuring ivy.
‘I’ll get that fixed too,’ Sam said, rubbing his neck awkwardly.
‘It’s not really ready for renting is it?’ No point beating about the bush.
‘The basic house is sound – roof OK. It would only take a few weeks to turn it around.’
Her first impression of him was right: he had bitten off more than he could chew.
‘Heating?’
‘Not yet. I’ll make sure you’re sorted for winter though.’
‘Is the wiring safe?’
‘First thing I’ll get checked.’
He was making a lot of promises. Her experience of men suggested that she should pay no heed to them.
‘So you want your tenant to live here while the work gets done around them?’
‘Will that be a problem?’
‘Not if you drop the rent by another fifty pounds a month.’ Listen to her: bargaining! Diana would be proud.
‘It’s already at the bottom of the price range for round here.’
‘OK, I understand. Good luck finding someone else.’ She headed for the door.
‘All right, fine. I’ll drop the rent while the work is happening, but when it’s done it goes back on again. Agreed?’
She’d pay the fifty pounds extra happily if she were sitting in a toasty refurbished house. ‘Agreed.’
‘You’ll take it?’ He sounded astonished.
‘Isn’t that what we just discussed?’
‘Yes, yes. OK. Oh, and one more thing. You know that I’m turning the castle into a wedding venue and restoring the garden? That will involve lots of building work and heavy machinery. Renting the gatehouse does not equal rambling rights over the rest of the estate. Please make sure your son understands that. I can’t be held responsible.’
‘Fine.’ There were lots of other green spaces if Leo suddenly developed an outdoorsy streak.
‘So, I’ll get the agent to send you a contract?’
‘You promise to have the place fit for habitation by the time we move in?’
‘I said I would so I will.’
‘Then send the contract.’
Driving away, Gemma wondered if she’d made the right decision. The landlord was turning out to be such an unsympathetic character, next to no human warmth, but if he came through with his part of the deal then she would be better off than she was at the moment, paying less in rent and far from Ray. The final task, though, was to convince Leo it would be a great adventure – and that was possibility her biggest challenge.
‘How do you like our new home?’
‘Hmm.’ Leo was flicking through his music.
‘Leo, are you listening? I’ve taken the cottage.’
‘You didn’t! Mum, the place is a dump! And how will I get to school? It’s like miles!’
‘There’s a school bus – I checked. And Mr Ranworth promised he’d have it ready for us when we move in.’
‘But I don’t want to move there.’
‘Well, we are. I can’t live in Bury any longer – can’t afford it.’ She meant that she couldn’t afford Ray’s depravations but allowed Leo to interpret that how he liked. ‘There’s a nice bedroom for you with a view of the castle. That’s, er, whatever I’m allowed to say that’s not cool.’
‘What about the Wi-Fi? Did you ask about that?’
No. And the chances of a house abandoned in the 1990s having it were minuscule. ‘Actually, I didn’t.’
‘Mum!’
‘But we’ll sort something out. Mr Ranworth was very …’ cold ‘… helpful.’
‘I can’t believe you did this to me.’
So much for Leo not caring where he lived.
‘I’m not doing it to you – I’m doing it with you – giving us a fresh start in a lovely cottage.’
‘I’m not leaving Bury.’
‘I think you’ll find that you are.’ Trying not to lose her temper, she pulled into the cinema complex on the outskirts of town. ‘Shall we celebrate with a film – or a go in the bowling alley? We’ve not done anything fun together for ages.’
‘I just want to go home – while I still have one.’ He pulled his hoodie over his eyes and crossed his arms.
‘OK, we’ll do that then.’ She pulled back out and drove home in silence, resolving to check out that library book on parenting again.
Chapter 5
Sam stepped out of the miserable excuse that was the shower over the bath in his cottage to see he had five missed calls from his sister.
‘Hey, Helen? Sorry I didn’t pick up earlier. What’s the matter?’
‘Sam? Oh, thank God you rang me back. Dad’s home has been in touch. It’s finally happened. They’re closing with immediate effect – simply can’t afford to keep going, the manager said. London wages, rising costs and everything.’
Sam sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. ‘That’s bad – a total disaster. He likes it there.’ But not really a surprise – the manager had been saying for a while that their future looked shaky. Sam had been hoping that the home would last long enough for his frail confused dad to live out the rest of his days in familiar surroundings.
‘Michael, get down off of there! Excuse me a moment.’ The phone was dumped on a table and there was the sound of a toddler protesting in the background. ‘Sorry, sorry. Little tyke should be in bed because he’s running a fever but won’t stay put. I think it’s chicken pox. It’s going round his nursery.’
‘You seem to have your hands full.’
‘Tell me about it. Dexter doesn’t know how lucky he is to be deployed right now. Peacekeeping? Someone needs to be peacekeeping right here or I’m going to go crazy. Anyway, I’ve drifted from the subject. Where was I?’
‘You were telling me the bad news about Dad’s home. I’ll get searching right away for an alternative. How long have we got?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you – we have no time at all. The home has been declared bankrupt – they can’t pay the existing staff so naturally, they, poor sods, are leaving. We have to fetch him tomorrow. Social services have appealed to those with family there to do their bit as they have to give priority to those with no one.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Me?’ Helen’s voice went shrill. ‘Sam, I simply cannot have Dad here. I have a toddler with chicken pox, a four-year-old who demands her full share of my attention, and a husband deployed in South Sudan. In what universe is it my responsibility to pick up our father who suffers from dementia and add him to the mix here? In the it’s-always-the-women-who-clear-up-shit universe?’
Sam kicked himself. He was so used to her managing or he would’ve registered her obvious appeal for him to step up earlier. ‘Sorry, yes, you’re right. But I can’t have him here either. I’m living in a building site.’
‘Better that than he gets shingles from Michael. You’ve got to do this, Sam, got to – either that or our dad is the only parent left standing on the doorstep tomorrow with his bits of things in a cardboard box.’
Sam swore under his breath. He hated it when he was manoeuvred into being needed. The only thing that kept him steady was the feeling that he was not responsible for anyone. ‘Helen, I’m not good at this. I’ll mess up.’
‘Sam, you have to stop with the pity party. It’s been years. You are a good man under your selfish git act. You’ll be a hell of a lot better for Dad than some scary social services temporary care. He knows you. Park him in front of the TV with the remote for a few days while you sort it and he’ll be fine.’
‘I don’t have a TV.’ Even he could hear he sounded like he was whining.
‘Then get one. I have to go. Michael is now pelting his sister with Lego. I’m sorry this is landing on your plate but, hey, don’t you think it’s time you got back into actually, you know, caring for someone?’
How to explain that he just wasn’t ready for this? He’d cock it up. ‘Helen …’
‘Love you. Speak tomorrow OK?’ She ended the call.
Sam stood dressed just in his towel, too numb to realise how cold he was on the quarry-tiled floor. Was he really the only option? He booted up his computer and did a quick search for local homes near to Helen in Hammersmith. Nothing available. He repeated the same for ones near to him, not surprised to find there weren’t that many out in the sticks. Some didn’t list if they had room or not so he’d have to ring them in the morning. Dad had special needs with his dementia so they had to be set up for caring for residents with that condition. What was clear was that Sam was unlikely to be able to solve this overnight.
There was one thing he could do though. Following Helen’s hint, he ordered the first TV he could find online, priority delivery, and put in a call to his electrician’s mobile, asking him to bump up to the top of his list sorting out a connection. It would have to be satellite or through a TV aerial as he was too far away from a high-speed broadband cable which had only just reached the village.
The electrician messaged back. So you don’t want me to start on the gatehouse or power in the orangery?
This first, then those jobs. It’s an emergency. And I am made of money, thought Sam sourly.
Not according to the bank. Sam had bought the estate with the money from the sale of his London home. He’d entered the property ladder wisely in the 2000s – a detached house which he’d purchased for a couple of hundred thousand with help from an inheritance from his grandparents and a hefty mortgage, fixed up and sold for two million and change. He’d then completely jumped off the housing ladder in a wild fit and spent it all on Claremont. His friends had told him he was insane but he had known that buying the estate was his last chance at making anything of his life. He was that close to giving up. There were three exits he could see from his predicament: death through alcohol, death through pills, or a new purpose. He chose life and jacked in his job with the police and reinvented himself as castle owner. This was not the moment to become full-time carer to his father but who else was there? His mother was living the life of a spry divorcee in Bournemouth and hadn’t had anything to do with her ex-husband for twenty years. Helen was clearly near breaking point with her responsibilities.
OK, man up, Sam told himself. Fetch Dad, look after him for a few days, find a good home for him, perhaps one near here where it would be easier to drop in and see him. That sounded a plan.
Leo darted up to his bedroom as soon as Mum parked outside their house. He did not want to talk to her ever again, the oppressor! She was so unfair to him, always acting so disappointed and never understanding what it was he wanted to do. She thought he was antisocial but he had loads of friends. He chatted to them every day via the PlayStation, had hundreds of followers for his game footage uploaded on his YouTube channel, and he’d even earned a couple of dollars through advertising. She had no idea. To her, he was poor little Leo Whitehall, class outcast; online he was Lionz, one of the top players in the football league game. He had earned respect.
Dad understood him though. He’d stop this well out of order attempt to move him away from civilisation.
He rang his grandma because Dad didn’t have a phone at the moment.
‘Hey, Gran, can I speak to Dad?’
‘Leo, dear, how was your school meeting?’
He could hear the rattle of pans. Gran was probably doing her usual fry up tea for Granddad. ‘It went OK but I’ve got to talk to Dad.’
‘One moment, love.’
He listened as she shouted in the hall for Ray to get his lazy bum off the sofa and come talk to his son.
‘Leoster, how are you? Giving the teachers hell, I hope? Sorry I couldn’t be there. That place gives me seriously bad vibes, crushes my creativity.’
Dad was so cool. Always talked like school was a prison or something. He really got that these days kids made their way outside conventional education. It was a whole new world online that his mum did not understand.
‘That’s fine and, yeah, I am. Mum was well pissed off about it all.’ He liked his father to think that he was a bit of a rebel.
‘Great. So why do you need to talk to me?’
‘You’ve got to stop her.’
‘Stop who?’
‘Mum. She’s trying to move us to some creepy cottage out in a field somewhere. Says she can’t afford to live in Bury any longer.’
‘Hey, man, that sucks.’ Dad didn’t sound as alarmed as Leo expected.
‘So tell her she can’t.’
‘Leo, you know I can’t tell your mother anything. She doesn’t listen to me.’
‘But she’s lying! You told me that her parents give her two hundred a month to help with my education. She could spend that on rent. That’s enough, isn’t it?’
‘Should be.’
‘I never see any of it – she hasn’t done anything about replacing the laptop and it’s been like two days already.’
‘Yeah well …’
‘You said the only way to get her to buy me decent stuff is to force her hand, like we did with the bike.’
‘Be fair, man, a bike’s a bit cheaper than a new laptop.’
‘It doesn’t have to be new – a good second hand one would be fine as long as it has a reasonable graphics card. The PlayStation and screen is OK but I can’t edit my videos on it. I’ll lose followers if I don’t upload at least a video a week.’
‘We can’t have that.’
‘And now she’s trying to move me somewhere and I don’t even think it has Wi-Fi.’
‘Shit, then that’s a definite deal-breaker.’
He’d been formulating his pitch. ‘So, Dad, I was thinking, how about I move in with you, part-time? I could do my videos on those days and spend the rest of the time out in exile with Mum.’ He loved his mum – he didn’t want to abandon her altogether.
‘You know I live here with Gran and Granddad, right? There’s no room for another person.’
‘Then you could rent somewhere on your own. Why don’t you take over this house? Then I wouldn’t even need to move out.’
‘Leo, man, I’m sorry, I can’t afford to rent somewhere. I have nothing to live on but crappy benefits.’
‘You could … you could get a job maybe? They’re hiring as the new coffee bar. Mum’s friend got a job there.’
‘Leo, do I look like the kind of guy who would be happy making cappuccinos all day?’
‘But if you needed the money for something important …?’
‘Sorry, no can do. I’ve got to keep things loose, you understand? I’ve got a couple of auditions for bands in Ipswich coming up. Maybe something will come of that. I’ll talk to your mother, tell her how you feel about the move. Got to go now. Gran’s putting dinner on the table and you know how she hates us talking on the phone during a meal. Stay strong, man.’
Leo threw his phone on the bed. He hated his parents sometimes – they never understood, never helped him out like he wanted when he had a problem. They did nothing for him. He was not moving, no how, no way. He wasn’t going to talk to his mother, not until she realised how wrong she was.
‘Leo, supper’s ready!’ called Mum from downstairs. ‘I’ve cooked your favourite – burgers.’
He contemplated staying in his bedroom, but his stomach rumbled.
‘Coming.’ Leo picked up his phone, slipped it in his back pocket, and jogged down the stairs.
Chapter 6
‘So kind of you, dear boy, so kind.’ Dad sat in the front seat of Sam’s car looking heartbreakingly dapper. The staff at the home had wept to lose their ‘gentleman’ as they called William Ranworth and dressed him this final time as he liked with his cravat and handkerchief in his top pocket. Now, winding through the country lanes, Sam wasn’t sure his father had the first idea where he was, why he was there, or even who Sam was.
‘We’ll find you a nice new home to live in, Dad. Maybe somewhere with a view of a garden and fields.’
‘I like gardens.’
‘Yes, yes, you do.’ William had spent his career at Kew as one of the head gardeners and inspired his son with his love of plants and landscaping. Sam’s childhood had been spent as much in the greenhouse as inside a schoolroom.
His father hummed something then made an abrupt ‘hah!’ sound. He made these random noises these days which was OK once you got used to them and knew not to get alarmed. Sam wondered if Dad was just testing that he was still alive. It didn’t make for relaxing driving though.
‘I’ve got a garden at my new place, Dad, but it needs a lot of work.’
‘Gardens are ninety percent toil, ten percent pleasure.’ He’d said that often when Sam was growing up. ‘How big is it?’
‘Big. Fifty acres.’
‘Then you’ve got your work cut out for you. Boy, oh boy.’
‘Yes, I have, but the structure is there – mature planting, some interesting shrubs. I’ve just got to strip it back to reveal the beauty.’
‘That’s good. You can’t buy time – that’s what any gardener knows.’
‘True.’
‘Plant a tree and your grandchildren will thank you.’ That was another of Dad’s favourite pearls of wisdom.
‘That’s right, Dad, and someone did plant them for me. We’re turning in now.’
Sam glanced sideways and saw that his dad was admiring the avenue of beech trees with shining eyes. He paid no attention to the castle visible above the trees, his focus was all on the approach.
‘You’ve hit the jackpot here, dear boy. These are wonderful specimens.’
Sam grinned. Maybe having his father here for a few days would work out fine.
The bedside clock showed that it was only six. Sam lay with the duvet pulled up to his ears, wondering what had woken him. The house was quiet, only the clicks from the boiler switching on to heat the water disturbed the silence.
Dad.
Sam leapt up and checked in the spare room. As he suspected, Dad’s bed was empty.
The moat.
Shoving his feet into sandals, he ran for the castle. The moat was low at this time of year and covered in green algae. A confused old man could mistake it for grass and step into it. There was nothing there, no sign of disturbance, only a couple of mallard ducks leaving trails of brown water as they paddled their way peacefully across to the bank.
What other hazards could be death traps? There were almost too many to count. He scanned the battlements but there was no sign of anyone up there and, besides, he kept the castle locked. His dad wouldn’t have had time or inclination to find the key in his son’s desk, surely? The drive? Thank goodness that there was next to no traffic and the builders didn’t start until eight but if he reached the country lane …
Sam sprinted to the gate. There was no sign of his father. He checked the gatehouse cottage, reminded that he had to do something about it as his tenants were arriving in a week. That would have to wait. Dad was now his priority.
He heard a vehicle approaching. Running out into the road, he flagged down a lorry.
‘All right, mate? You OK?’ asked the driver.
Sam only now realised that he was wearing nothing but boxers. ‘Yes – no – I mean I’m looking for my dad. He’s got dementia and goes wandering. Have you seen him on the road?’
‘Ah, bad luck. There’s nobody on the road between here and the village. I’ll drive slowly in the other direction and if I spot him, I’ll bring him back, OK?’
‘Mate, you’re a life saver. Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ The driver pulled away, as good as his word taking the bend with extra care.
Worry that his father might be knocked over subsiding, Sam made his way back to his cottage, calling all the way, alternating between ‘Dad!’ and ‘William!’, not sure which he would recognise. Perhaps he’d over reacted? wondered Sam. Maybe his dad was somewhere about the house or back garden?
The glint of sunlight on the orangery windows caught his eye. Of course. He opened the unlocked door and found what he was seeking. Trowel in hand, Dad was standing over some pots Sam had meant to fill for his front step but never got round to. Dressed only in his Marks and Spencer pyjamas and slippers, he was contemplating his choice of annuals: a tray of pansies and another of petunias.
‘Lovely flowers, simple, some say common, but they’ll give you a splash of colour like no other,’ he said, looking up with a smile. ‘Here, dear boy, see the yellow markings on this one – looks like a little face, doesn’t it?’
Sam bit back the torrent of ‘how could you scare me like that?’ in recognition that for William absolutely nothing had happened. ‘That’s right, Dad.’