Edie Browne's Cottage by the Sea Read online

  The part where I pull her along on a wave of enthusiasm isn’t working. ‘We’ll do the easy bits, and call in the pro’s when we get stuck.’ Apart from anything else, it’s good for me to get back to practical tasks. Aunty Jo’s day room is only small and the ceilings are low so decorating it should be a great way to ease myself in and progress with ‘the quest’ at the same time.

  When we were kids Tash and I used to scrap over helping Dad with the decorating. I was chief wallpaper paster, and a dab hand with a paint pot, so even if I didn’t run interior jobs I’d know what I’m doing. I slide my fish slice under a join in the design near the floor. As I ease the edge away there’s a wonderful ripping sound, and an entire panel of paper tears free from the wall. I bundle it up and grin.

  Aunty Jo coughs and frowns down at a flake of paint on the floor. ‘It’s looking awfully messy, shall I get the vacuum?’

  ‘For now, why not rip off?’ However much she looks on the verge of a breakdown, this is my kind of fun and I can’t let her miss out. So I pass her a slice and a bin bag. As I dip a sponge in my bucket of suds and slosh soapy water onto the bits of paper still clinging to the wall I take pity on her.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll tidy later.’

  She’s still hesitating, but now she’s staring at my legs. ‘Why not borrow some of Harry’s pyjamas? I’ve got lots of second-best ones.’

  ‘I’m probably okay, thanks all the same.’ Her wearing them is bad enough, but I can’t tell her that so I take a different tack. ‘How about some music?’ I always work better with some trashy pop to help me along. I’d sort it myself but my speaker is upstairs, and, even if I’m ripping her living room to pieces, I’m still very much a visitor when it comes to choosing music and TV.

  She hugs her chest. ‘Would you like some Tchaikovsky? Or Vivaldi’s Four Seasons?’

  ‘Not if there’s anything else.’ We already had The Nutcracker right through our porridge and chia seeds. ‘How about music for cleaning?’

  ‘You mean Housework Songs?’ Aunty Jo’s brow furrows. ‘It’s not something I ever needed. In Harpenden I always had help.’

  Of course she did – how did I not remember? ‘Loaded and spoiled with it’ was how my more robust mum put it, in her meaner, more frustrated moments. She taught French full-time and looked after a family of four, while Aunty Jo, who didn’t work and only had her and Harry at home, had at least two cleaning ladies, window cleaners, personal shoppers and an army of outdoor helpers at any one time.

  ‘Something similar, then?’ My fingers are tightly crossed under my slice. ‘A ‘hills are alive’ nun-in-the-mountains singalong would be good. Or Mamma Mia?’

  ‘Will this do?’ She fumbles in the sofa footstool and comes out with a CD case that she holds out to me.

  And this is why I’m here and not at work. A few simple words for me to read, and any pretence of me being a normal, functioning human adult comes crashing down.

  ‘Sorry, that might as well be written in Chinese.’ I know a few of the letters on their own, but when they’re strung together in a line I have no chance. I take a deep breath. ‘Read me what it says, then I’ll tell you.’

  ‘I can’t bear anything too jolly.’

  I take it that’s an excuse for what’s coming next, not the title. ‘So?’

  ‘The One Hundred Best Tearjerkers of All Time.’

  I give way to a silent WTF? moment. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘It flashed up on my laptop after I lost Harry, it seemed like a sign, so I bought it.’

  That’s modern technology for you. I’m not even going to ask what the tracks are, with my wonky emotions I’m practically crying buckets already.

  ‘They’re miserable, but in a good way.’ She’s already holding the disc up to the light and blowing the dust off.

  ‘Watch out!’ I leap across the dust sheet to grab my shades from the coffee table before the flash hits my eyes. For the first time since I arrived there’s a break in the grey outside. Sun bouncing off things that shine is a whole other issue for me. Who knew one CD could throw up so many problems?

  ‘There you go, Everybody Hurts.’ She presses play then stands back to listen. ‘Aren’t those lyrics lovely? Then it’s Candle in the Wind and All by Myself.’ She’s not even reading, so she must know it off by heart. As for All by Myself, even Tash weeps at that one and she’s got a husband, a job, a house and two kids more than I have, so there’s no chance for me.

  As if that wasn’t enough to make my heart sink to my elasticated ankle boots – which neatly sidestep all that tricky bow-tying that takes so long, in case you’re wondering why I’m not in Converse like everyone else my age – the stare she’s giving me is about as penetrating as a CT scan.

  ‘Which reminds me, I haven’t seen you practising your calligraphy.’

  Why she’s jumped to that I don’t know, but I can’t say the same for her. ‘You’ve been doing enough for both of us.’ Her pile of sheets practically reaches the ceiling.

  ‘And your mum was asking about your reading too.’ Her stare powers up a notch.

  Crap. I hadn’t expected she’d be on my case like this. To be honest, I’ve made so little progress so far, I’d decided to give it a rest for a while. I was hoping if I stopped worrying, when I came back to it in a few weeks’ time I might have made one of those huge accidental leaps of progress. I’m opening and closing my mouth to say that, but nothing’s coming out.

  ‘You’re going to have to put the time in.’ Three more power notches, and her eyes are like saucers. ‘I mean, it’s not going to happen by itself, is it?’ How did I ever have her down as a lightweight?

  ‘Well …’ I’m wondering how to explain that’s exactly what I’m planning, but I’m saved by a knock on the French window.

  ‘Barney! Again! So soon!’ My jump of surprise as I open the door and stand back to let him in sends my slice skittering across the floor, but I still get in first to stop Aunty Jo over-gushing. However much I wish he was anyone else, saying ‘hi’ to him is a damn sight easier than dodging awkward questions from Aunty Jo. I know I don’t have wet patches on my bum today, I’m not crawling through any upstairs windows, and I escaped the embarrassment of getting caught wearing Harry’s cast-offs, but I’m still kicking myself for rushing my eyeliner and skimping on the highlighter. ‘If you’re planning a two-minute trip round the bay that lasts all day, I’m probably too busy.’

  ‘Great to see you too, Edie.’ He picks the fish slice up and passes it back then he turns to Aunty Jo. ‘Sorry – am I missing something here? Are those Christmas reindeer on your pyjama jacket?’

  Some of us would have shrunk in the spotlight, but Aunty Jo stands her ground. ‘They’re Harry’s, he had so many pairs I’m using up the festive ones for decorating.’

  ‘Go, Josie!’ There’s suddenly a sheepish hint to his expression. ‘You wouldn’t like an extra elf for ten minutes, would you? It’s years since I stripped paper, there’s nothing quite like the feeling of ripping it off the wall, is there?’

  ‘Absolutely right, Barney.’ She’s talking out of her Christmas tree-clad bottom here; she’s barely touched a piece of wallpaper yet. ‘Would you like a cup of tea while you’re here?’

  I don’t believe what I’m hearing. As if things weren’t bad enough, Barney’s at my elbow and, without even picking up the spare cake slice, he’s already ripped off three huge lengths.

  ‘There we go.’ He isn’t even giving me the satisfaction of throwing his paper on the floor, he’s bundling it straight into the bin bag, dammit. ‘I’ll pass on the tea though, Josie. I can’t stay long.’

  That’s the best news I’ve heard all morning.

  He rips off two more strips whole, then he stoops to do the next one and ends up holding up a piece the size of a postage stamp. ‘Oops, my beginner’s luck ran out.’

  I put my hands on my hips. ‘Too bad – looks like you’ve hit a superglued bit there, Barney. They’re way less fun.’

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nbsp; ‘In that case I’d better leave it to you professionals.’ He gives a shrug and dips into the back pocket of his jeans ‘Before I forget, I came to give you your scarf. You left it in my sailing jacket.’

  He’s pressed it into my hand and he’s reached the door before it sinks in. First, it’s been washed and beautifully ironed and folded. Second, and way more disturbing, the warmth currently seeping into my palm originated from his tush. As heat transfers go, that one’s too much.

  ‘Happy stripping, then.’ He pauses in the doorway. ‘And have a wonderful Christmas, Josie.’ Then he breaks into a run and, as he crosses the courtyard, for some inexplicable reason he’s punching the air.

  I can’t decide whether to be annoyed he gave up so easily or ecstatic he’s left us to strip in peace. If I’m honest, I’m also struggling slightly with what happened when he whisked me away from Loella’s class. It’s not like I’m a pushover, I wouldn’t last two minutes in my job if I was. And I take a pride in taking responsibility for my own actions, and owning my decisions. More importantly, I’m definitely not a ‘Jane gets dragged through the jungle by Tarzan’ type of woman. Not even in my fantasies. Even in my wildest dreams I never imagined Marcus making me do something I didn’t want to, although I did occasionally fantasise about him helping around the house more. Or him not wanting clockwork sex every single morning. But, coming back to Barney – and even I have to concede the ‘but’ is a huge one – somehow, however it happened, whatever went wrong, I ended up bobbing around in the bay, even though it was not something I’d ever have signed up for, or willingly done.

  However many circles I go around in, I haven’t quite resolved this satisfactorily in my head yet. At best, this was Barney asking for help he didn’t actually need at all, and taking advantage of my better nature, which I was completely aware of by the time I got down to the harbour. In which case, that still leaves me puzzling – why the hell did I get into that boat? I mean, at my age, I assumed I’d be past surprising myself, that’s all.

  Except by the time I’ve peeled the next strip of paper, I’ve remembered. I never actually expected my new job, because I’ve always been a chancer not an achiever, so that was a surprise. Then I shocked myself when I stood my ground and broke up with Marcus. And shocked myself all over again when I walked away from that perfect life we had.

  One thing’s for sure – when you’re picking bits of sticky paper off the wall there’s plenty of time to ponder. As we work our way around the walls we get claggier and claggier, but I’m still no nearer an answer. We’re onto the last wall when Aunty Jo pipes up from nowhere, ‘That’s the other good thing about the classes, you can get a lot of information from them.’

  ‘Really?’ I’m bracing myself for another very long monologue about quilting. After Fun with Fabric she talked about wadding for two hours straight, but that was a relief because it meant I could skip the details about my afternoon.

  The breath she takes is worryingly deep. ‘Yesterday I found out Barney’s not a window cleaner at all – he actually makes shepherd’s huts along the road. That’s impressive, isn’t it?’

  That’s definitely not what I was expecting. I look up at the ceiling, count to ten and get to seven. ‘Maybe it’s significant if you keep sheep, otherwise not so much.’ Given a choice, I’d have preferred sewing tips.

  ‘According to Loella, people your age buy the huts and do Airbnb in their back gardens.’

  ‘Good for them.’ Not even having a teensy terrace to my name, I wouldn’t know. I was a week away from signing for a lease on my own tiny flat when my stroke happened and I pulled out. At least this way I might be homeless on paper but I’m not worrying about covering rental payments when my salary’s all but disappeared.

  ‘Unlikely as it seems, if I ever did have a lawn, a shepherd’s hut would be the last thing I’d buy.’ I might as well get it out there. ‘As garden ornaments go, I suspect they’re a bit like designer tree houses – mega hyped, overpriced and underused.’ Even when I lived with Marcus I never had that much cash to spare because we mostly spent it on his place, on eating out at weekends and on far-flung holidays in obscure places. If I struggled to run to a Hush pineapple sweatshirt – which was reversible, so you actually got two for the price of one – I’m damn sure a caravan you can’t actually tow would never have made it to the top of my shopping list.

  She’s still going. ‘Every hut is unique, handmade by Barney to individual measurements.’

  ‘Good luck to his customers.’ I’m scraping so hard I’m making dents in the plaster. We’re going to have to agree to differ on the sun shining out of that particular bottom, because I couldn’t give a flying fuck. He could be making caravans for that ‘rags to riches’ woman’s fairy godmother, but it doesn’t change the fact that he has no idea about social norms. I mean, who hangs around for a conversation up a ladder when they’re crushed against you to stop you falling off, then takes you off for a boat trip you don’t want, or invites themselves in and starts pulling your wallpaper off? I can only hope he’s more appropriate with his boundaries with his clients than he is with us.

  Aunty Jo has stopped again. ‘Oh dear, visitor alert. With all this rubbish on the floor too.’ Even though the patch of wall she’s stripped is tiny, Aunty Jo and the dust sheet where she’s standing are both plastered in pieces of gluey paper.

  ‘Bloody Barney.’ Not again. As I brush the claggiest lump off her cheek I’m suddenly baking in my sweatshirt. I’m picking the biggest pieces of rainforest out of my hair, but not because I give any kind of a damn. Tugging up my jeans because, whoever’s here, I don’t want to be caught out with a muffin top twice in one day.

  ‘Who said anything about Barney?’ There are wrinkles in Aunty Jo’s forehead.

  ‘What?’ As I follow her gaze and see Loella hurrying across the courtyard I’m ignoring the fact my insides just deflated faster than one of those things that go ‘pop’. She’s got so many kids with her she looks like a school outing.

  As I pull open the door Loella’s smiling over the crowd of tousled heads. ‘Wowsers, are you culling the zebras? Tigers by the sea were never going to work, were they?’ At least she’s overlooked the festive pyjamas. ‘We were dropping Cam off, so I thought I’d pop in. We forgot to say – there’s a book group you might like to join. And the Wild and Blooming Cottage Garden group are having a talk tonight. I could give you a lift down if you’d like to come?’

  There’s that familiar feeling of steel hands closing around my stomach. How the hell am I going to explain my way out of this? Book group was one thing I always loved and really miss. Bella, Tash and I have belonged to the same one for years. Obviously I’m not going again until I progress far enough to avoid a pity party when I turn up. Let’s face it, if I was up to going I wouldn’t be here. Reasons not to go … Words … I’m flailing to get to grips with either, when Aunty Jo jumps in.

  ‘I’m so sorry, my concentration’s shot to pieces, so novels and book group are no-no. Just for now.’

  I’m trying not to gasp at how easily she’s covering for me. Reading is the one thing she still does, her to-be-read pile is under the dust sheet and as high as the sofa and, even if she’s driven me to distraction all day wittering about mess, I want to hug her for this.

  Loella’s reaching out and patting her arm. ‘Of course. I’m so sorry, Josie, I should have thought.’ Her smile is full of warmth. ‘But you will think about this evening? It won’t be late.’

  If Loella bothered to take half a glance at the wreck of the lawn she’d get the picture. Outdoors equals mud, and dirt gives Aunty Jo a hissy fit, so I’m expecting to get a firm ‘no’, but I might as well give it a try. I turn to Aunty Jo. ‘Well, you’ve got a cottage and you’ve got a garden, so shall we try it?’

  I know grow-your-own salad is huge now, but Marcus is the trend-freak, not me. I’d be totally out of my comfort zone here, yet again. But Aunty Jo is definitely brighter for getting out, so I’m up for persuading her.<
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  She’s pulling a face. ‘I don’t know.’

  Loella catches my eye, then leans in closer. ‘You’ve got quite a kingdom here, with your outbuildings too, Josie-pie.’

  ‘They’re next on the list …’ I peel a piece of wallpaper off my jeans ‘… after this.’ That’s on the list in my head, obviously. We haven’t got any further with the one on the clipboard. Realistically, seeing how far we’ve got after a whole day working here, and knowing how far the cottage rambles, and the size of the barns, I’m going to have to pull in some help fast. But with my ‘professional’ head on, I know it’ll be better to wait until we make more contacts. Which is another good reason to get out and mingle with the gardeners.

  Loella’s straight back at me. ‘Great then, I’ll take that as a “yes”. I’ll pick you both up at seven sharp?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. A moment later she’s marching off across the courtyard, followed by her band of children.

  And I’m wondering what the hell I’ve let us both in for.

  11

  Day 142: Friday, 23rd March

  At The Deck Gallery

  Epic Achievement: Pretending to be a gardener, and not being found out.

  If I didn’t know stripping walls was good for you before, I do now – my arms feel like they’ve had a full-body workout, and then some. Not that I’ve actually managed that many of those in my life. If I’m honest, I’m one of those classic fails who signs up for the gym in January then never goes. As I say to Bella, if it wasn’t for people like us, the cross trainers would be horribly overcrowded. But the good news from St Aidan is, we finally wave goodbye to the rainforest in the day room. I’m not the only one around here planning ambushes either. After a meticulous round of tidying up, Aunty Jo literally comes at me out of nowhere me with a pen and paper and an order to do some calligraphy practice. Luckily I get over my horror fast enough to persuade her there isn’t time to do that and get into my Audrey H slim tailored slacks and my little Gap cashmere polo neck. Obviously I will need to work on my writing. It’s just more auspicious when there’s less compulsion and, truly, my biceps have had enough exercise for one day.