Keeping Mum

Mike meanwhile looked backwards and forwards, as if he’d got good seats at centre court.

‘And this whole thing about having the roof off. I mean, we all know it’s going to be great when it’s done, French windows coming off the sitting room onto a roof terrace—great views. Mike’s done an amazing job with the plans, haven’t you Mike? I did tell you that we’ve got to have the roof off, didn’t I?’ Rocco said after a few seconds.

‘I think you may have mentioned it.’

‘Well, they’re going to take the old chimney stack down at the same time, and our builder has got a gap in his schedule and he said if we can stand the noise and the chaos he’ll come and do the roof before the bad weather sets in. I said to your mother that we should have had it done before we had the kitchen, really…’

‘I didn’t know how bad it was, did I? I mean I had no idea—really. I’m not a builder…’

Before they started a full-scale spat, Cass said, ‘Which would be in a couple of weeks’ time, would it? The roof coming off?’

Rocco, cornered, nodded. Mike was about to say something but Cass cut across him. ‘Which would make me being away convenient,’ she suggested.

‘The thing is Cass, we’re prepared to work round you, aren’t we, Rocco?’ said Nita, shovelling the last of the sautéed potatoes onto her plate.

‘They’re taking the roof off, not taking the house down,’ said Cass.

‘You know how much I hate noise,’ said her mother.

‘And dust,’ said Rocco. ‘I mean, can you imagine what it’s going to be like? Kango drills, brick rubble, hairy-arsed builders lolling on around sacks of cement reading the Sun. And you know your mum works from home. The studio is going to be knee deep in rubble.’

‘We were planning to just sheet everything down and move into a hotel or something.’

Rocco nodded in agreement. ‘That’s right, and we’ve booked industrial cleaners for when they’ve finished.’

Mike had the good sense to say nothing.

Cass shook her head. ‘You’ll need to get industrial cleaners in before you move into my place.’

‘That’s not true, sweetie,’ said her mum. ‘Your place is really lovely—so cosy. Rocco was telling me about the choir trip and said you were going to be away for the week. And we just thought—’

‘We wouldn’t be any trouble,’ said Rocco.

‘We thought we’d be doing you a favour.’

Cass looked from one to the other. ‘I should have known that there’s no such thing as a free lunch. This is a done deal, isn’t it? The pair of you have set me up.’

‘No, no of course not,’ Rocco said. ‘As if—think of it more as a happy coincidence, providence smiling on us all. Your mother has always fancied running a shop. What do you reckon then, sound like a good idea?’

‘I mean tell us honestly, what do you think?’ said Nita.

‘That my place is small and full of animals. And my shop is smaller and full of tut?’

‘Uh-huh, well we already know that. We’ve been round to your place before.’ Nita turned her attention to Mike. ‘It’s the most amazing place. A real Aladdin’s cave. You should go some time.’

‘Yes, but not to stay in,’ said Cass. ‘And not to have to deal with the vagaries of the plumbing or root through the fridge or see what I’ve got hidden at the back of the airing cupboard.’

‘Oh come on. You’re just being paranoid,’ said her mother.

‘And, besides, you could probably fit the whole of my house in your kitchen,’ protested Cass.

‘You can, we’ve already measured,’ said Nita. ‘But the good news is it’s not going to come as a surprise. And we love Buster and Mungo.’

‘And this way your shop stays open, and we get to stay sane, pootle through your warehouse and cherry-pick your stock,’ said Rocco.

Her mother got to her feet. ‘Take no notice of him, Cass. I promise you it’ll be fine. You can have a great, stress-free break and we get a dust-and jackhammer-free week. Now I’ve made the most fabulous pudding —strawberry shortcake. Would you like some pudding, Mike?’

He nodded. ‘Sounds great.’

Cass laughed. ‘Be very careful with these two, they lull you into a false sense of security with food and then bam—they’ll be moving in.’

Rocco handed her a clean side plate. ‘We’ll take that as a yes then, shall we?’

Did they really think she was going to be thrown off track by dessert? ‘What about if your roof’s not done by the time I get back from Cyprus?’

‘They’ve promised it will be, but if it isn’t then we’ll just move into a hotel for a day or two,’ said her mother.

Cass stared at the two of them, busy planning and plotting, and smiled. ‘And you’ll keep the shop open?’

‘Oh god, yes,’ said Rocco, waving the words away. ‘You know that your mum has always wanted to dabble in dealing and rag rolling. And I’ll be in and out, keeping the home fires burning, you’ll hardly know that we’ve been there—and besides places get damp when you don’t keep them aired. Especially this time of the year…’

‘And burgled,’ said her mother, sliding a huge plate of strawberry shortcake cut into thick wedges on the table between them. ‘Let’s not forget burgled.’

Mike picked up a cake slice. ‘Shall I be mother?’

Which was one amongst the many thoughts in Cass’s head as they waited for Ms Soprano to check the lyrics of a song they’d sung for the best part of three years and to pitch a note that she had hit every week since.

Since having supper at her mother’s, Mike had rung and left a message on Cass’s machine and she was weighing up whether or not to ring him back, even if he wasn’t her type. Which threw up the question: what was her type, and was it a type she wanted to hang on to?

Fiona meanwhile, moved in a little closer and said in a whisper, ‘So, can I buy you a drink—just a quickie? On the way home? Just to say thank you?’

Cass stared at her. ‘Thank me? There’s really nothing to thank me for, Fee. And besides, I’ve got way too much to organise, you know, what with going away and the animals and the shop and…’ Which was the excuse she planned to use on Mike, too, if he rang again. Cass looked away, deliberately leaving the sentence hanging in the air between them.

Undeterred, Fiona moved closer still. ‘Me too, but this won’t take long, really. I just wanted to talk to you about the other night.’

Which was exactly what Cass was afraid of. Somewhere in the back of her head she thought she could hear a cage door creaking open on rusty hinges, making Hammer House of Horror sound effects. This wasn’t going to end well unless she made a concerted effort to keep her mouth shut. So, instead of words, Cass settled for a grunt.

‘The thing is,’ Fiona said. ‘This is hard for me to say really, but you know what I’m like—a bit of a control freak.’ She pulled a comedy face and then paused, apparently expecting Cass to correct her, but when nothing came, continued, ‘What I wanted to say was that I’m sorry about the other night, and that you were right. Totally. So thank you for that.’ She held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. Pax.

Cass stared at her. ‘Sorry?’ she said, struggling to keep her expression neutral.

‘The other night. Thank you. You were right about Andy and me, and the whole stalking thing. He’s been really stressed at work and things haven’t been right for—well, months really—and then I read in the paper that they’d been making staff cuts at his place and you know what men can be like—bottling things up, not talking about what’s really bugging them. And the move’s been stressful. I mean, he grew up near Cambridge, so we both know the area but it was still a big change. Anyway, I’m certain that’s what has been making him twitchy and a bit preoccupied, the not-knowing if he’s going to be one of the ones for the chop. He says his job’s safe, but you never really know, do you?—and I can’t have helped, being off with him, putting two and two together and coming up with…’ She laughed nervously. ‘Well, you know what I came up with. Andy and I talked about it on Sunday, when we’d got some quality time together.

I said, “Andy, I know there’s something wrong, I want us to talk about it, and I know what it is.” Cass, he went all pale—and I said, “It’s all right, Andy—it’s been all over the papers—it’s all the job cuts, isn’t it? Why didn’t you say something?” And although he didn’t really say very much about it, I could tell he was relieved.’

‘I bet he was,’ Cass said, before she could stop herself.

‘And the upshot of it is that everything is fine,’ said Fiona, ignoring her.

Cass stared at her. ‘Fine?’

‘Uh-huh. Absolutely. I told him about what we’d talked about. You and me. Not all of it, obviously, I didn’t want him thinking he was living with a maniac,’ she laughed. ‘So I just explained that I’d needed someone to talk to and that you told me straight out that I should be talking to him, not to you. Anyway—we talked for a bit; well, I talked and he listened. Andy’s always been a good listener and—’ Fiona smiled—‘and I’ve persuaded him to come to Cyprus with us, with the choir. Isn’t that great? I thought it would be a bit of a second honeymoon.’ Fiona reddened. ‘Not that we had a first one, I mean we’re not married, but you know what I mean. I’ve already asked Alan and he said it will be okay. We’ll just get a room to ourselves. I mean it’s two to a room, I had been thinking that maybe you and I could share—but anyway, Andy’s coming and he’s going to roadie for us.’

‘We’re an a cappella choir, Fee, all we’ve got is us and our voices and a crate of brown ale for Alf.’

Fiona giggled. ‘I know, but I thought it was just what we needed. We could do with a change of pace. We’ve been talking about a baby—well, at least I have. I mean, if I don’t do it soon—tick-tick-tick.’ She tipped her head from one side to the other, miming a biological clock.

If only Fiona’s timing had been that accurate during the introduction to the last number, they’d have it done and dusted by now, and they wouldn’t be having this conversation, thought Cass ruefully, trying very hard not to meet Fiona’s eye.

‘It’s all right for you, you’ve already done the whole parenthood thing,’ Fiona said, managing to make having children sound like a package holiday to Greece. ‘How old is Joe now?’

‘Twenty-one.’

‘And Danny?’

‘Twenty.’

Cass could almost see Fiona’s brain doing the maths. ‘I was nineteen when I had Joe.’

Fiona smiled. ‘See, I wish I’d started young, got it all out of the way, but better late than never—how’re they doing?’

‘Fine,’ Cass began, relieved that across the room Alan was busy tapping the music stand to attract their attention. ‘Busy doing all the things kids do at Uni.’

‘Studying hard?’

Cass smiled; she was thinking more along the lines of getting drunk, running up a huge debt and staying out late, but didn’t say so.

‘It must be lovely for you,’ said Fiona. ‘Seeing them grow up—I was saying to Andy I’d like two, although I’d really like one of each.’

‘Anyone here want to sing or shall we just carry on chatting?’ Alan said, his voice cutting through the din like a band saw. ‘I’d like to remind you all that I get paid whether you sing or not and that the meter is running.’

‘So all’s well that ends well,’ said Fiona brightly to Cass, turning her attention back to Alan.

‘Sorry?’ said Cass.

‘Me and Andy. All’s well that ends well. You stopped me from making a total fool of myself.’

‘After four then,’ said Alan, raising his hands to bring them in again.

Cass stared at Fiona; she couldn’t help thinking that maybe she should say something after all. Although Cass had a feeling that, whichever way she played it, this wasn’t going to end well. Which led Cass on to thinking about what it was she did know for certain, which wasn’t much, and from there to Fiona having a baby and from there on to how very complicated life could become without you trying.

‘Are you with us?’

‘What?’ Cass looked up and realised to her horror that the whole choir had stopping singing and turned to look at her. She reddened furiously. ‘Sorry, is there a problem?’ she blustered.

Alan smiled. ‘That rather depends on how you feel about modern jazz,’ he said.

Cass sensed this wasn’t going to end at all well either. ‘I was singing, wasn’t I?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes. You most certainly were,’ said Alan. There was a pantomime pause. ‘Unfortunately you weren’t singing the same song as the rest of us.’

Cass stared at him. ‘Really?’ She said incredulously. ‘Are you sure?’

Beside her, Welsh Alf and the rest of the lads nodded earnestly. Embarrassed didn’t anywhere near cover what she felt.

Cass’s feelings of preoccupation stayed with her all the way home. And her thoughts were certainly not just about Fiona and Andy. The to-do list in her head was steadily growing longer and longer. Usually they went to the pub after rehearsals, so it would be after closing time when she wandered back home and there would be other people around coming back after a night out, but heading straight back after choir the streets seemed almost deserted. It was cold, the wind busily scouring rubbish up out of the gutters for dramatic effect, and under every streetlight lay a pool of film-noir lamplight, not that Cass noticed. The dog and cat were upset she had arrived back early having planned a night of chase, chew and snore, but she didn’t notice that either and headed up to bed for an early night.

Trouble was that the night seemed never-ending and full of dreaming and waking and thinking and dreaming some more. Cass’s dreams were long and complex, full of Fiona and Andy and the girl in the market, and some kind of giant fish—possibly beginning with H—flapping about on a roof terrace, along with angels and singing and unseen tensions and hurrying, and hiding and a sense of impending doom; by the time the morning came, Cass was completely exhausted and relieved to get up.

Chapter Four

Rolling out of bed, Cass pulled on jeans and a sweater, deciding what she needed was a walk with Buster to clear her head before opening the shop.

Outside, the new day was grey and heavy as an army blanket, but unseasonably warm, so that as Cass walked down High Lane to the river it felt almost clammy.

It was ten by the time Cass opened the shop up, the new day still so overcast that she needed to put all the lights on to shake off the gloom. It didn’t help her mood at all. In the workshop she pulled the dustsheet off the armchair she’d been working on the day before, and took stock of what still needed doing. Cass bought most of her furniture and bric-a-brac in from car boots and at auction, giving things a new lease of life. Sometimes she painted them, other pieces were re-upholstered or just plain old-fashioned restored, giving chairs and tables, beds and bookcases, sofas and sideboards a quirky, idiosyncratic, more contemporary twist, so that everyone from designers through to arty first-time furniture buyers came along to the shop to see what she currently had in stock.

The armchair Cass was working was stripped back to the frame and looked like something you’d find in a skip, although with a bit of TLC it would be just the kind of thing people would want in their home, a handsome feature in heavy corn-coloured linen that just screamed style and luxury.

While she sorted out her tools, Buster settled himself into his basket under the bench and turned his concentration to sleeping, while Mungo the cat curled up on the discarded dustsheet. Hanging on the wall behind the bench in the workshop was a calendar on which Cass had been marking off the days to the All Stars’ concert and tour with big red crosses.

Cass was really looking forward to a little late season sun. There would be dinner and dancing and warm nights sipping cocktails out on the terrace, and the thought of a week of beach life and sunshine lifted her spirits no end. She picked up a little tacking hammer and surveyed the frame of the chair, mentally busy thumbing her way through her wardrobe while her hands worked.

It didn’t look as if she was going to be rushed off her feet, and so Cass pinned up the set list for the concert and started to work her way down through the songs. Buster and the cat studiously ignored her.

Cass liked to practise a little every day even when they didn’t have a concert. When she was alone she’d put a CD of the choir’s current repertoire into her player—Alan recorded all the parts—so Cass sang along as she tapped away at the chair, sang while she replaced the beading, stained and bees-waxed a little mahogany sideboard in the main shop, and sang while she put the undercoat on a little chiffonier that she planned to distress, although Cass had stopped herself humming the tunes under her breath in the street and when there were punters in the shop, because she was conscious that it disturbed people—and there was that whole mad-old-biddy, slippery-slope thing that she sometimes felt herself sitting at the top of.

Cass was halfway through the first set and well into the second verse of Moondance when the shop bell rang.

Buster opened an eye but didn’t bother barking or moving.

‘Some guard dog you turned out to be,’ Cass murmured as she got to her feet. Putting down her hammer, Cass went into the shop, dropping a handful of brass tacks into the pocket of the big canvas apron she was wearing.

‘Hello?’ called a male voice rather tentatively from the front of the shop.

Cass looked at the man for a second, struggling to place his face.

‘Mike,’ he said warmly, heading towards her extending his hand. ‘We met the other night at your mother’s house? Mike? I’m the architect?’

Cass reddened, embarrassed. ‘God of course, I’m so sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘I was miles away—working…’ She didn’t mention the singing, as she indicated the back of the shop with a nod of her head and the last of the tacks cupped in the palm of her hand in case he might need some sort of visual aid. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here,’ she said although, even as she said it, Cass realised it sounded more like, I wasn’t expecting to see you again.

‘Right,’ said Mike. ‘I did ring. I was going to ring again but I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you.’ He tried out a laugh.

And then there was a silence while Cass tried to work out if Mike had dropped by to see her, which was flattering, or whether he was curious about the shop, or had been prompted by Rocco and her mother. It felt awkward, and Cass was just wondering what she should say next when Mike said, ‘Actually, I’m looking for a dresser and your mum said this was a good place to start. You’ve got some lovely stuff in here—apparently.’ His gaze roamed around the shop’s interior. ‘She’s right, it is an Aladdin’s cave.’

‘You could say that. Sorry I didn’t return your call.’ Cass rummaged through various excuses that would be mutually painless. ‘I’ve been up to my eyes with the concert and the trip.’

Mike nodded.

‘I’ve got a couple of dressers in at the moment, one’s out the back in the store, that’s quite nice, small, pine, probably turn of the last century, classic two-drawer two-cupboard. Or I’ve got a really lovely early Victorian one if you’ve got the room. It’s Irish, very rustic and huge.’ She guided him back into the shop, where one wall was dominated by a dresser that was nearly eight feet long and almost as tall, currently decked out with various bits of blue and white china.

‘Wow, that is amazing,’ said Mike appreciatively, running his hands over the deep wooden dresser top that was cut from one great plank of timber. The front edge was uneven where it followed the profile of the tree, and the wood itself had aged down to a rich, dark ginger; it showed signs of a combination of long use and great care.

‘It’s one of a kind.’

Mike nodded and stood back to take it in. ‘Nice…’

‘But a little too big for what you had in mind?’ suggested Cass.

‘No, actually not at all,’ he said, still looking it over. ‘I’ve just finished converting an old chapel in Steepleton and it would look great in there. I’ve got a really nice kitchen—I’m like your mother, I love to cook.’ As he bent down to open the row of doors he revealed a neatly combed-over bald patch, confirming her suspicions that he was nothing like her mother. ‘Actually, it would be perfect. Assuming we could come to an agreement about price.’

Cass watched him thoughtfully as he worked his hand and eye over the old wood. The dresser was one of those things she loved but hadn’t been able to shift. Handmade by an unknown craftsman, it was beautiful if somewhat quirky, with oversized half-moon metal handles and shelves with fronts that followed the shape of the tree the plank was cut from rather than being squared off. Mike picked up the price tag, a little white parcel label tucked discreetly through one of the handles.

‘Will you take an offer?’

Cass considered it for a moment.

‘What I mean is, is this your best price?’

‘It is if you want me to arrange to have it delivered, it is. It weighs a ton,’ Cass said.

Mike hesitated, but if he was expecting Cass to waiver he’d picked the wrong bunny. ‘Fair enough. Would you mind if I measured it up?’ he asked, pulling a tape and pad out of the pocket of his Barbour.

‘Be my guest,’ said Cass. ‘Is there anything else I can interest you in?’

Mike set the tape out along the top of the dresser and Cass instinctively caught hold of the dumb end. ‘How about lunch?’ he said, as he jotted the numbers down.

‘Oh very smooth,’ she said.

Mike’s eyes were alight with mischief. ‘I like to think so—I really enjoyed supper with Rocco and your mother the other night, but it would be nice to talk to you without the dynamic duo filling in the blanks.’

‘And hogging the limelight?’

‘Exactly,’ said Mike.

‘So, looking at my dresser was just a cunning ploy to ask me out?’

‘No, I really do want one and Rocco was right, this would be perfect in the new kitchen. It’s one of the nicest ones I’ve seen in a while. Presumably it comes to pieces?’

‘Uh-huh—the shelves slide out and the top lifts off the base, which divides into two, the bun feet unscrew and finally the fretwork trim and finial top lifts off—mind you, it’s still not exactly a flat-pack.’

‘Will you hold it for me while I just double check that it will fit?’

Cass nodded. ‘Consider it done.’

‘When could you arrange to have it delivered?’

‘Probably by the end of this week—as long as we’re talking cash.’

Mike nodded. ‘Okay. And how about to lunch?’

Cass smiled; the bottom line was that Mike still wasn’t her type. ‘It’s a nice offer, but I don’t close at lunchtime. And I’m hardly dressed for eating out…’ She glanced down at the work shirt and jeans she was wearing under her apron.

‘It is short notice,’ said Mike shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Cass suspected he was about to add, Maybe another time then or, Ah well, never mind, worth a shot, or maybe even suggest they made it dinner instead in which case she had better come up with a good excuse quickly, when he said, ‘Actually, I don’t mind what you’re wearing. I was thinking maybe just grabbing soup and a sandwich. Local greasy spoon.’

‘You really know how to impress a girl,’ said Cass wryly.

Mike laughed. ‘I thought I’d aim low and see what kind of reception I got, bearing in mind you didn’t ring me back.’

Cass winced. Although Mike hadn’t been the only customer she’d had in during the morning, there weren’t that many people about and lunchtime rushes were rare as hen’s teeth except in midsummer. She glanced back at the workshop; there was nothing in there that wouldn’t keep. Right on cue her stomach rumbled. He grinned.

‘Okay, but I can’t be too long.’

His expression brightened. ‘Great, where do you suggest? I don’t know the area very well.’

‘How do you feel about wholefood?’

Cass could see Mike trying hard but he couldn’t quite hold back the grimace. ‘Fine,’ he managed. ‘Are we talking lentils here?’