Ten Years On (9 page)

‘I can hardly contain my excitement.’

‘Watch.’ The egg white falls into one of the bowls,
he drops the yolk into the second bowl. ‘You see? Separated.’

‘OK. I can do that.’ I take another egg from the box and crack it against the side of the bowl. He’s standing so close to me that I feel nervous of mucking up. Slimy egg white drips into the bowl and down my hand, the yolk wobbles from one half of the shell into the other. ‘Did it,’ I jump up and down proudly.

He grabs my arm. ‘Before you get too carried away,’ he says, handing me another egg, ‘only three more to go.’

‘How come you’re so good at cooking?’ I ask. Joe is the only one in the house who uses the steamer and saucepans, and he’s just bought himself a wok.

‘My mum taught me. When I was growing up, she’d always be telling me how she’d cooked the chicken with cider or tarragon, or how she’d marinated the lamb, and then Dad would be telling us why he’d chosen a certain wine to go with our meal. As boring as it sounds, it did make me appreciate cooking and tasting food.’

‘Are you close to your mum?’

‘Very. Becca, watch out!’

‘What?’

A blob of yellow has landed in the egg white mixture.
‘Oh fuck! Oh no.’ I stand back from the disaster. ‘I’m going to have to start all over again, aren’t I?’

‘Let’s see.’ Joe stands next to me, our arms brush for a second as meticulously he uses a piece of shell to pluck out the blob of yolk from the egg whites. ‘It’s a blow, Becca, but it’s not a knockout.’

As I whisk the egg whites, Joe and I talk about home and how little we visit our parents, considering Winchester is only an hour and a half down the M4. ‘I love my mum, but it’s too intense,’ Joe confides. ‘All I can hear is the ticking of the grandfather clock. I can’t lounge around on the sofa or watch TV. According to Dad, television is a waste of time.’

Our parents live only five minutes away from each other, but their lives have never crossed. Joe’s mum and dad are quite a few years older than my parents, which could explain it. Joe’s father, Francis, was forty-six when Joe was born. Francis was a scholar at Winchester College, and wanted his son to attend too, so put Joe’s name down practically before he was born, hoping Joe would be bright enough to secure a scholarship. ‘I sat the exam when I was thirteen,’ Joe tells me, ‘but didn’t get the scholarship.’

‘But look at you now’ – I pose in my apron – ‘around such elite students at Bristol.’

Joe looks at me in a way that suggests he’s unsure about that.

‘Have I whisked the eggs enough?’

‘Tip the bowl upside down.’

‘What?’

‘Tip it upside down.’

‘No.’

‘Like this.’ Joe wrestles the bowl away from me, both of us laughing. ‘Perfect,’ he says. ‘You see? No damage done. The egg whites remain intact.’

‘You’re lucky, you know,’ I tell Joe as I smooth the meringue mixture into my prepared baking tin.

‘Lucky? Why?’

‘With medicine, it’s pretty clear-cut, isn’t it? It’s like law. You read law or medicine, you become a barrister, lawyer, doctor, whatever. It must be a relief to know what you want to do and—’

‘I don’t want to be a doctor. I hate medicine.’

‘What? Why are you doing it then?’

‘My father’s a surgeon, breast cancer.’

‘I know that.’

‘He’s a god. The things his patients give him. A holiday in the Caribbean, a crate of Burgundy; you should see his wine cellar. He can do no wrong,’ Joe says, anger
rising in his voice, ‘and his son, come what may, will follow in his grand footsteps.’

‘But you don’t have to,’ I suggest, slotting the baking tray into the oven. ‘I mean, if you wanted to do something else—’

‘You don’t know my father,’ Joe interrupts me, and for a split second I see vulnerability in his grey eyes. ‘I’m an only son, Becca; there isn’t anyone else he can mould but me.’

‘What about your mum?’

‘They have a strange relationship. I’m sure Dad plays away. He goes on so many conferences. Mum just turns a blind eye. No one’s ever stood up to him.’

‘But Joe, you could do anything. You’re bright and talented …’

‘I’m average,’ he says sharply.

‘Surely if you talked to him. If you—’

‘You don’t understand.’

There’s a pause. With Olly and me, we’re perfectly happy in silence, but with Joe sometimes I feel this need to fill it. ‘I’m the same, you know,’ I tell him. ‘When I was growing up I had these dreams of being an artist and living in a beautiful studio in Italy, the sun streaming in through the window. I’d paint the olive trees and the vineyards, or there’d be a cafe outside
where I’d sketch the locals drinking and playing cards. I’d have my own exhibitions in the market square. But I decided to listen to Mum and Dad’s advice, give up art and get a proper degree. Shows what an independent spirit I am.’

‘I like that painting of yours, in your bedroom,’ Joe says. ‘The lemon tree.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, glowing inside at the compliment. ‘So, if you hate medicine, what
do
you want to do?’ I ask, pulling up a chair and sitting close to him.

‘What do I want to do? You mean right now?’ he asks. I think he’s about to kiss me, and for a brief insane second I want to kiss him too.

‘Hi, guys,’ Olly says, entering the room. He’s in his blue dressing gown, soft hair ruffled from sleep. He drops a kiss on my head, tells me something smells amazing. ‘What’s up? You two look serious?’

‘Becca was grilling me on what I want to do with my life.’

‘Yeah? And?’ Olly sticks the kettle on.

‘I have no fucking idea.’ He turns to me and smiles, a full proper smile this time, and it is in that moment that I understand what everyone sees in Joe. On the rare occasion that he lets down his guard, it feels like a gift from heaven.

‘You could do anything, Joe, anything you want,’ Olly says, before thanking me for cooking. ‘I’m starving. Aren’t I lucky to have the best girlfriend in the world?’ he says, pulling me towards him.

I wriggle free from his arms, telling him I’d better check on the chicken.

‘Very lucky,’ says Joe, leaving the room.

‘Becca?’ Olly asks me, when we’re alone.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry about last night, for being in a mood.’

‘That’s OK. I understand.’

‘I was thinking I might give Stanley up.’

‘Really?’

He nods.

‘Oh come on, Ol – you’re good and you’d miss it. Don’t let that one idiot put you off.’

‘Becca?’

‘Um.’

‘Do you find Joe attractive?’

I busy myself round the kitchen. ‘Do you fancy bread sauce? Why are you asking me that! I could pop out …’

‘Stop. Look at me.’

‘Olly, what’s this all about?’

‘I don’t know. It’s just …’ He pauses. ‘Well, every girl I know does, so …’

‘He’s good-looking …’ I chuck the mixing bowl into the sink, ‘but he’s not my type.’

‘You promise me?’

I walk over to him. ‘I promise. Cross my heart.’

‘Good,’ he responds to my kiss. ‘Because I’ve told him, if he ever tried it on with you, I’d kill him,’ Olly says with a smile, but I can see he means every word.

10

I find my father in his hut at the end of the garden. When he retired from being a solicitor, Mum feared they’d get on each other’s nerves if they were both in the house, so they decided to build him a shed, where he could keep his mounting stock of porcelain and carry out his admin, as well as keeping a framed print of his pin-up, Audrey Hepburn, after whom the dog is named. Normally I find Dad asleep in his armchair, a hardback book about the D-Day landings or the Russian Revolution open on his lap, but this morning he’s fresh-faced from his recent porcelain-buying expedition with Mr Pullen.

‘Oh, Dad, how much did you spend this time?’

‘Shh,’ he tuts. ‘Isn’t this divine?’ He holds up a small porcelain figure wearing breeches and mustard-coloured stockings and buckled shoes. He’s playing some kind of brass instrument. ‘The French horn,’ Dad informs me.

‘He’s one sexy dude,’ Olly says, making me smile.

‘He’s enchanting, isn’t he? Staffordshire. Dating from 1800.’ Dad lifts an accompanying figure out of the box, a girl playing the tambourine.

‘Very smart hat, can see you in that,’ Olly continues. I’m trying not to laugh now. Dad asks me what I’m up to today.

‘I’m popping round to Janet’s,’ I say. Janet is an elderly neighbour. ‘And then I’m meeting Joe for lunch. Joe Lawson.’

‘Now, Joe is the one who owns this lovely wine bar? I really should take your mother there. Colebrook Dale.’ Dad holds an ornamental basket encrusted with flowers and leaves in front of me. ‘It’s battered, but I couldn’t resist.’

Olly laughs. ‘Mr Pullen couldn’t believe his luck! He hadn’t shifted that basket thingy for years.’

Dad asks me what’s so funny. I hesitate. How do I begin to tell him about Olly’s voice in my head?

Last night Pippa had told Todd that I was exhausted, emotional, grieving
and
pregnant: a toxic combination. She said the imagination can play tricks. I don’t believe she’s right. I don’t think I’m going crazy, but would Dad?

‘Dad?’

‘Um.’

‘Recently, well, recently I’ve been hearing—’

‘Turkish,’ he states, gleefully holding up a rich blue-and-green glazed jug. ‘
Izink
.’

On my way out of the house. ‘Please put that picture back where it used to be,’ Olly says, when I see a frame poking out from beneath the blue chintz curtain. It’s a picture of the two of us taken on Bamburgh beach in Northumberland, near to Olly’s parents’ home. His arm is around my waist, my hair’s windswept, we’re laughing at something. I remember that weekend. It was the first time I’d met his parents. I was a nervous twenty-four-year-old, not sure what to expect. Victor was hibernating in his study, wearing a tweed jacket, half-moon spectacles and trousers too short in the leg. He had wispy hair, with only a few signs of grey, but it was the brown eyes I noticed before anything else because they were just like his son’s. I found him charming, if eccentric. He showed me his enormous collection of weevils in various wooden cabinets that he’d accumulated over the years, and in each collection I marvelled at how he’d written in such tiny writing the date they were found accompanied by a small description of their breed. Carolyn, his mum, was the
normal one, as Olly put it. She loved gardening and growing vegetables. When we stayed the occasional weekend, she’d always be dressed in cords, holey jumpers and wellington boots. Fashion had bypassed her, or perhaps that was because Victor wouldn’t notice if she wore a bin bag. But, like her son, she was musical, taught singing and still does. I have been in touch with her recently to let her know how the first scan went. She’d wanted to know if I was going to find out the sex at my next appointment. ‘I’m unsure what colour wool to choose for a cardigan, Becca,’ she said, her voice growing in strength. She and Victor have promised to help the baby and me financially, in whatever way they can.

‘Don’t cry, Becca. Honest to God, I’m not worth it,’ Olly says as I place the photograph of us proudly back on the mantelpiece, where it used to be, next to the French clock.

‘Becca?’ Dad says. I hadn’t noticed him entering the sitting room.

I turn to him. He glances at the photograph. He seems ashamed, out of his depth as he rattles the loose change in his trouser pocket. ‘Your mother and I, we weren’t sure you’d want to see pictures all over the house, we didn’t know …’

‘He did exist,’ I say. ‘My wedding dress used to be in Pippa’s wardrobe too, Dad. It’s not there anymore.’

He nods. ‘We put it in the loft.’

‘You don’t need to protect me, Dad. Olly’s gone, but I want to keep his memory alive.’

‘I know. Of course. We were wrong. I’m so sorry, Rebecca.’

Armed with a cottage pie, cooked by Mum, I feel like Jane Austen’s Emma taking food to the poor and needy, as Audrey and I set off to Janet’s.

‘Only your family could have a dog that doesn’t like walks,’ Olly says, when Audrey stops in the middle of the pavement, refusing to budge. Olly loved Audrey, but when she got just a little too close, he’d pull back, saying she had to have the worst fish-breath in England. ‘Why stop at England?’ I’d replied, laughing.

‘Come on, sweetheart,’ I say, tugging at her lead. Reluctantly she shuffles on.

Janet lives only two minutes away from my parents, in a small house off a winding narrow road called Whiteshute Lane. Growing up, Janet was a regular guest at Christmas. She had no family close by, since her husband had died and her sister lived abroad. She would have been in her sixties when she first joined us to sing
carols at church, wearing a smart coat, fur wrap and a hat with a jaunty feather. Pippa didn’t like her invading our Christmas. I remember her being put out one time when Janet chomped on yet another silver coin wrapped in foil in the Christmas pudding. I, on the other hand, enjoyed her visits. She lightened up the room when she arrived with her presents and box of crackers. She’d give me sketchbooks and paints and she always wanted to see my art too. ‘You have a gift, Rebecca,’ she’d say. Janet was a dog-breeder, so I’d often visit when one of her dogs had had puppies. Pippa preferred cats.

Mum tells me Janet has macular degeneration now; that she’s been losing her sight since her early seventies. She’s now eighty-four.

When I knock on the door, a dog barks. I wait. And I wait.

‘Well, I’ll be jiggered!’ she says. She’s dressed in an autumn-coloured tweed skirt that falls just below the knee and a longish pale-blue cardigan with deep pockets over a cream silk blouse, but I’m sure Trinny and Susannah would have something to say about her brown sheepskin zip-up slippers that finish off the look.

‘Come in, come in!’

A miniature schnauzer wags his tail and approaches Audrey, only to be snapped at. ‘Audrey! Be nice!’

‘Audrey Fish-Breath really lets the side down,’ Olly says, making me smile again.

Janet leads me down the hallway, past rosettes, doggy medals and paintings of her dogs hung on the wall. Mozart’s Requiem is blasting in the background. ‘That was Jaxmins Claudicus Maximus.’ She points her white stick towards a painting of a giant schnauzer hanging above her fireplace. With his beard and droopy moustache he looks more like an aristocrat than a dog.