Chapter Twenty
Nothing grows there anymore
Party dress appropriate for an eightieth birthday: CHECK. Clean Girl make-up: CHECK. Blue Ikea bag containing carefully wrapped presents for Mother Pells, including the Lakeland heated poncho (plus a couple of freebies for Auntie Viv and Alannah): CHECK. I am nothing if not prepared with peace offerings and distractions, and determined that this reveal will go well, or at least better than the others.
As I set off, a dusting of snow on the pavements makes me immediately regret my kitten heels, although I have it on authority (Gracemagazine) that they are – were – the‘It’ Shoes Of The Winter!It’s only a twenty-minute walk to the house, but I normally do it with either trainers or FitFlops on, carrying not very much, and today I’m beginning to feel I didn’t think this through. However, there isn’t really an alternative, as there are never many Ubers on a Sunday here and I’m not using the local cab company again after Josie told me what happened with Weird Steve and the wheelie bin. And I can’t ask Josie if I can borrow her Kia because, well, things are still a little strained, plus I don’t want to drive as I’m going to need all the Dutch courage/room temperature Chardonnay I can get my hands on when I finally show my new appearance to my family.
My phone pings, so I take a welcome break in a gateway, resting the bag of presents on a wall for a minute to read the message. It’s Keith.
When are you coming out of hiding, duckie?
I’m not hiding…
Well, I haven’t seen you for weeks.
Assuming you heard I have a new look?
Josie told me, yes.
Well, it’s not going down that well.
I heard that too.
Who from? Josie?
Never you mind. The point is, Erica, I’m your friend, which means I’m here for you, whatever misguided choices you might have made.
Thanks a lot.
That was a joke.
I’m on my way to my mum’s right now. It’s a family party.
Have they seen the new you?
No. Anyway, have to go.
I don’t need this right now. Snow is seeping into my kitten heels so I put my phone away and pick the Ikea bag up. It’s really coming down now. Snow when it’s nearly March is the worst kind because a) it’s decidedly un-festive (remember the Beast from the East? If that had been at Christmas it would have been called something much more fun, like ‘Santa’s Snowstorm’) and b) nobody dresses appropriately for it as everyone by this point is thinking about their Coquette Core spring wardrobe. Or maybe that’s just me.
After another couple of streets, I can see Mother Pells’ house in the distance: a cream-coloured detached bungalow at the far end of the cul-de-sac, backed by a field with a stream. It has an immaculate gravel drive and a trellis next to the front door that Father Pells put up when they moved in. It used to have a honeysuckle climbing up it, but nothing grows there anymore.
I slow down as I get closer, which is partly to do with my increasingly numb feet, and partly due to my concerns about the reception I’ll receive. I’ve run over the plan in my head a few times – keep it light, make it part of the celebrations, don’t let anyone get bogged down with details (i.e. being unrecognisable/looking barely older than my own nephews). They’ll know it’s me once I start talking and get the presents out, and after a G&T and some blinis everyone will either be really impressed (unlikely, but you never know) or be asking Simon about his wind turbine to change the subject.
But as the gravel driveway comes into view, and I can see the outline of Eartha, my mum’s cat, keeping watch at one of thewindows, I wonder if this is the right thing to do. Why didn’t I double bag the presents? You should always double bag, Josie says. But I didn’t, and now they are covered in snow and the wrapping paper is going soggy. I’m close enough now to see Auntie Viv in the front room, laughing and hugging one of the boys. Is that Sam? He’s really grown. And there’s Mum with a plate of something – probably those little salmon mousse bite things that are swallowed as quickly as a paracetamol. She’s passing one to Uncle Tony. They’re probably all wondering where I’ve got to…
‘Hello dear! Are you lost?’ I look up to see my mum’s neighbour Dinah, dressed as though she works on the railways in a high visibility waterproof jacket and trousers, and carrying a large shovel. Dinah is slightly scary and refers to the local council as the ‘Clowncil’. Before I can reply, she continues, ‘Clear it as it falls – that’s the key! You never know when you might need to get the car out to go to the hospital.’
What has she got planned, I wonder, watching her scrape the driveway, making a sound with the shovel that’s like nails on a blackboard but worse, and louder.
‘So, dear, are you looking for someone? That’s Sally Pells’ house.’
Of course, Dinah doesn’t recognise me. I was forgetting for a second, preoccupied with the mushy presents.
‘Um… no. I’m…’
‘She’s got the family over today for her eightieth. Much needed. So…’ She looks up from the shovelling, brushes snow from her eyes and gives me a look that says, ‘Off you pop.’
I look at her, then at the house.Much needed?Maybe I – at least in my current form – am not. Maybe they won’t be as impressed as I’m hoping. Maybe after what happened with Father Pells, they’ll be suspicious of the technology – unnecessarily of course, as it’s worked its magic with no illeffects at all. And then I think about what happened with Nandy, Josie and Gabe, and wonder if they will be as shocked as them, or as judgy.
