Chapter 22

22

Everything feels better at Shore Cottage once the fire has been lit in the lounge. Soon it’s crackling and glowing, and Shelley has only had to use an entire bucket of kindling, a mountain of newspaper and three fire lighters. Those Girl Guide skills were useful after all. Meanwhile, Pearl has made pots of tea and coffee, and a mug of hot chocolate has been handed to Theo. Further pantry excavations have revealed a large tin filled with cookies, which has perked up the freshly showered and changed little boy. Neither parent seems to care as he shovels them into his mouth, as if stoking an engine.

At least he’s happy now, Shelley decides, and relief settles over her in the cosy lounge. Theo is sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, stroking Stan a little rough-handedly. Neither Frida nor Roger seems notice this either. His father is scratching his beard and poring intently over the hefty folder, filled with information about walks and places of interest, and Frida is sitting bolt upright, eyes closed. Clearly, watching Roger scrub out their car, making sure he didn’t miss a bit, has exhausted her.

Shelley senses that the Sampsons might prefer to be alone now in the lounge. However, she is reluctant to leave as Theo’s ‘stroking’ of Stan has ramped up into more of a vigorous sports massage, sparking a sudden growl.

Frida’s eyes flick open. ‘Oh, is the dog aggressive?’

‘No, not at all,’ Shelley says firmly. Then to Theo: ‘Please be gentle with him. A nice soft, gentle stroke. That’s what he likes…’ When that doesn’t work, and his parents are clearly oblivious to their kid manhandling an animal, she opts for the distraction technique she used to employ with her own children. ‘So what d’you like doing, Theo?’ she asks brightly. ‘What kind of things are you into?’

‘I like driving,’ Theo replies, and his father looks up from the folder with an indulgent smile.

‘He means he likes sitting in the driver’s seat, hooting the horn.’

Ah, how delightful, Shelley muses. Ruining the tranquillity of the Highlands for all. That’s something to look forward to tomorrow. She glances out of the window, where Pearl is pacing back and forth in the garden, wrapped up again in one of Michael’s hefty jackets and lit only by the single outside light. A phone signal can only be found outdoors, and at 4.10p.m. it’s already properly dark. An unfamiliar thick woolly hat is pulled down low on Pearl’s head, her auburn curls barely visible. But she’s wearing lipstick, Shelley notes. Her mood-boosting I-can-do-anything red. Still determined to locate a takeaway dinner option, she is calling more pubs. But Shelley has given up hope now and, after just one short afternoon with the Sampsons, she has started to form an idea.

Now Lena appears, having insisted that this time she would check on the hens. Shelley suspected she craved a little respite from the guests. ‘Would anyone like a drink?’ she asks, and Frida seems to jolt suddenly into full consciousness.

‘Oh, what do you have?’

‘There’s wine and beer,’ Lena starts. She doesn’t know if it’s against licensing rules to serve drinks outside mealtimes – but sod it. The police are hardly likely to bowl up at Shore Cottage and they’re going to have to get through this somehow.

‘I’d love a white wine,’ Frida says, ‘if it’s chilled…’ Have they remembered to chill it? Lena isn’t sure but, as if reading her mind, Shelley nods quickly.

‘Red for me please,’ Roger says, and drinks are poured, and then Niall appears, going to the window where he stands for a moment. ‘It’s snowing,’ he remarks.

‘Snow?’ Theo asks excitedly.

‘Yes, darling, snow!’ Frida announces, as if she has made it happen. ‘ Just like at Grandma’s.’ And Shelley, accustomed to welcoming anyone who comes into the care home, latches onto this as a conversation topic. Frida sips her wine, happily answering her questions about her childhood in a Swiss village, and how she came to meet Roger.

‘I was travelling,’ she explains, ‘all over Europe, all by myself. And I met him in a hostel in Paris. We were so young, weren’t we, Roger? Just nineteen, the pair of us. Twenty-one years ago with the world at my feet!’ She shakes her head in wonderment. ‘I wasn’t sure I even wanted a child’ – charming, Shelley surmises, with your son sitting in front of you – ‘but eventually we thought, why not? We weren’t getting any younger. And the very minute we’d decided, that was that!’

‘How lovely,’ Shelley enthuses, but Theo cuts in.

‘Mummy, I’m hungry.’ What, after eighty-seven cookies?

Frida frowns, and now Pearl strolls into the lounge, looking a little panic stricken. ‘We’ll be eating at around seven,’ Shelley says quickly, ‘but that’s maybe a bit late for Theo?’ She catches her friends’ startled looks. What will they be eating at seven? ‘Would you like some pasta now, Theo?’ she asks.

‘Oh, he hates pasta.’ Frida grimaces. ‘Unusual, I know!’

You could say that, Shelley reflects. Up until the age of seven both Martha and Fin would barely tolerate anything other than spaghetti, to the point that she imagined their developing bones to be 99 per cent durum wheat.

‘Can I have a sandwich?’ Theo asks his mother.

‘I’m sure you can, darling.’

‘Of course.’ Shelley springs up. ‘What would you like in it?’

‘Well, what do you have?’ Frida asks pointedly.

Oh, just the usual. Chickpeas, frozen sweetcorn, leeks? ‘I’m sure we have cheese,’ Pearl announces. ‘D’you like cheese, Theo?’ He nods mutely, and off she goes with the kid sloping along in pursuit.

There is bread, thank goodness, and a wedge of locally produced Cheddar. As she makes Theo’s sandwich he twirls around the kitchen, careering into cupboards, finally settling on swinging haphazardly on the beaded curtain. She smiles benignly, willing him not to snap it. Pearl remembers now that Michael and Rona had brought the curtain back from their travels in India all those years ago. ‘Steady there!’ she says. Theo laughs as he grabs an armful of strung beads, clutching them to his chest and leaning fully back with all of his body weight.

‘I like this!’ he announces.

‘Yes, Michael does too. That’s his curtain, Theo…’

‘Who’s Michael?’

‘The nice man who owns this house. Please be careful…’ Pearl always struggles with the concept of telling off someone’s else’s kid.

‘Wheeee!’ Every nerve in Pearl’s body seems to twang as Theo is now swinging, feet off the ground, from the curtain. I’m glad you’re happy and no longer crying with sick in your hair. But why aren’t your parents looking after you?

‘Here you go, love.’ She hands him a doorstopper sandwich on a plate with firm instructions to take it back into the lounge. Away from the curtain, please!

Having come through to join her in the kitchen, Shelley and Lena exchange looks of panic. ‘My God,’ Lena murmurs. ‘What a family. How long are they here for again?’

‘Till Monday,’ Pearl reminds her. ‘So, look, we’re going to have to serve up a fabulous meal in two and a half hours’ time.’ Beyond stressing now, she rubs wearily at her eyes. ‘I’ve tried all the pubs. No one can do it. Shame really, because there are some amazing-sounding places. But they’ve all been fully booked for weeks. And when I asked if they could just knock out some takeaways?—’

‘No joy,’ Shelley cuts in, and Pearl shakes her head.

‘We’d better get cooking then,’ Lena starts, but Shelley winds her arms around her friends’ shoulders and pulls them to her.

‘Hang on a sec,’ she says. ‘You haven’t been drinking, have you, Pearl?’

‘Not yet,’ she says with a dry laugh.

‘You don’t mind driving, then?’

‘No, of course not. But where to?’

Shelley looks at her friends as Stan trots in to join them, clearly having tired of Theo’s attentions. ‘Okay,’ she starts. ‘What we’re going to do is this. We’re going to tell our guests that there’s been a technical hitch …’

‘What kind of hitch?’ Pearl’s green eyes widen.

‘We can’t cook dinner tonight. The Aga’s fucked?—’

‘What?’ Pearl gasps.

‘Not really,’ Shelley says quickly.

‘Agas don’t break, do they?’ Pearl frowns. ‘They go on and on forever, like tortoises?—’

‘Not this one, darling. Not tonight. Because we’re not using that thing.’ She glances briefly at the cast iron hunk. ‘This isn’t our place,’ she states firmly, ‘and we’re doing our best for Michael. And tonight, no matter what they’ve ordered, everyone’s having fish and chips.’