‘Thanks,’ she says stiffly, without taking her eyes off the pan.
‘I’ll, um, give you your present after the breakfast rush is over.’ I’m planning to nip out to the gift shop in the village.
She mutters something under her breath. It might have beenthank youbut I’m not sure.
We don’t have time to talk after that as all the guests come down for breakfast at the same time. Nathan and Julia are at one table with Amelia and Evie (the only two still in their pyjamas again – I need to talk to them about that: it’s not professional to let the girls wander around in their nightwear), the Greysons next to them (the younger boy, Will, keeps throwing Amelia furtive glances), the teenage lovers sit by the window (holding hands under the table) and Janice is sitting with Horace (feeding him titbits of sausage when she thinks nobody is looking).
Selena and Dean are yet to emerge and I wonder if they’ve spent the night together. I quickly discount this idea as I can’t imagine Selena would leave Ruby alone all night. I wouldn’t if I was in her shoes.
When all the guests have been served, I broach the subject of Selena to Mum.
‘Did you see her last night? She scarpered as soon as she saw Nathan.’
Mum pours boiling water into a stainless-steel teapot. ‘Maybe she feels shy. She hasn’t seen him in years.’
‘Shy’ doesn’t sound like Selena.
‘Do you know if she keeps in touch with Uncle Owen?’ I try to keep my voice light.
‘Not that I’m aware of. Can you take this to Janice?’ She hands me the teapot and immediately begins filling another, her back to me. Every time I bring up the subject of Selena she clams up. I haven’t forgotten how odd she was yesterday when we were cleaning out the rabbits. Selena had said she’d spoken to Mum over the years; that’s how she’d remembered her phone number. So she must have talked about her life. Yet Mum tried to make out to me that she knew nothing. It’s almost like she’s scared of saying the wrong thing.
When I come back into the kitchen, Mum walks straight past me, carrying a tray. I put the frying-pan into the sink to soak and hear cheering and clapping coming from the dining room. I go to see what all the commotion is about to find everyone, even Selena and Ruby (who’ve just arrived and are forced to sit at the same table as Janice), singing ‘Happy Birthday’. Julia stands up and gives Mum a hug and Nathan shyly passes her a present, kissing her cheek. Mum blushes but looks delighted at all the fuss. She unwraps the present and squeals with delight. It’s a huge bottle of L’Interdit by Givenchy, her favourite perfume.
When Julia and Nathan have returned to their seats, Selena gets up and steps forwards with an expensive-looking orchid. ‘Sorry it’s not much.’ She gives a self-conscious smile.
‘I’m just touched you remembered,’ Mum says, embracing her.
I look over at Nathan, who’s studying his eggs. Julia smiles politely. It would be a good time for Mum to introduce the two women but she doesn’t and Selena slinks back to the table. I notice again the flush to her neck. Julia’s eyes flick to Selena and her expression hardens. Then she looks away and carries on eating, but it surprised me. I’ve never seen Julia anything less than charming.
And then Evie pipes up, loud and clear for everyone to hear. ‘Where’s our present to Nana?’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘Mummy! Where’s Nana’s present?’
I feel all eyes on me expectantly. Julia looks mortified for me while Nathan is smirking and I want to smack him.
‘Yes,’ says Amelia, flicking her hair off her face (for Will’s benefit, no doubt). ‘Shall I go and get it?’
‘It’s – it’s upstairs,’ I lie. ‘I’ll get it after breakfast.’ And then I disappear to the kitchen to hide.
For twenty years I’ve never forgotten her birthday,I fume, as I walk towards the high street.And once, just once, I forget and I’ll probably never hear the end of it. Whereas perfect Nathan and saintly Selena have made sure to give her something. If it wasn’t for everything I’ve got on my plate with running this place, and sorting out my family, I’d have more time.
But with each step I take, my anger abates. It’s my fault. Nobody else’s. I should have been on top of things. She’s my mother, for crying out loud. If it wasn’t for her we wouldn’t have been able to buy and renovate the Old Rectory.
And I’m grateful. I’m grateful. I’m grateful. But sometimes I feel as though I want to scream with all the pressure.
I stop and lean against a tree trunk, gasping for air. I take out my inhaler and breathe in deeply. When I feel better I begin walking again. I’d left in such a hurry I didn’t have time to put on a scarf or gloves. There’s a dusting of frost on the grass. The trees that line the pavements have started to lose their leaves and look spindly, like little old women.
I pull my hood around my neck. It’s so cold, but the sky is that deep wintry blue with the odd hazy cloud and a low-lying mist circling the mountains. As I cross the bridge I glance towards the Seven Stars. In the summer it would be nice to sit outside overlooking the river. Now the tables and chairs are empty, the wood slick with damp, cobwebs clinging to the legs. A few people are clustered outside, smoking. I notice one woman of about my age, trendy mauve hair gathered in a messy ponytail. I recognize her as our neighbour, Lydia Ford – I only know this because when we first moved here one of her letters was delivered to us by mistake. I’d tried to introduce myself, but she’d looked straight through me as though I wasn’t there. Nancy’s with her. Are they friends? I hurry on, remembering my mission. I need to be quick – there’s still so much to do at the house.
The streets have turned to cobbles and I stride past the pharmacist and the café to Dominique’s, where I choose an over-priced candle, some This Works bath salts and a printed scarf with little Scottie dogs on it, from the girls.
As I walk back I sense someone following me. But when I turn there’s nobody there. I tell myself not to be ridiculous. I’m just unnerved by the quiet.
I’m nearly home when I see Mr Collins slumped against his garden wall. He’s clutching his chest and wheezing, his walking stick lying at his feet. There’s something about his chunky beige cardigan and skinny frame that remind me of a much older Uncle Owen.
‘Are you okay, Mr Collins?’ I ask, hurrying to him and picking up his stick. I hand it to him and he leans on it gratefully. He coughs into a handkerchief
‘I’m okay, love, just getting over a chest infection. Spontaneous coughing. Made me drop my stick.’ He chuckles, bending down to pick up his bag of recycling, then groans.
‘Here, let me do that for you,’ I say, as he tries to straighten again with some effort. I reach for the bag, then help him to his front door.
