“Without insurance, the event can’t go ahead,” Pippa added. “But we’ll sort it, I’m sure.” For some reason it felt important that Wolfie understood Pippa wasn’t entirely useless.
Wolfie blinked. “I see.” Just then a loud screech tore through the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of spurting water. “Fuck.” He slammed down his glass and sprinted towards the sound. Pippa was close behind him, her heart racing. What on earth had that been? The noise was coming from upstairs and the three of them hurtled up towards it. It soon became clear from where the disruption emanated: the cupboard on the landing that housed the ancient boiler and water tank. Water was spilling out onto the hallway floor via the gap under the door.
Wolfie raced over to the cupboard and yanked it open, cursing as more smelly water bled out into the hallway. He turned to Pippa. “Run downstairs and turn the water off. Stopcock under the kitchen sink.”
“I’ll do it!” Mae yelled, already sprinting back down the stairs.
Pippa joined Wolfie at the cupboard entrance. It seemed like the pipe from the tank had burst at the join. There was some clutter at the bottom of the cupboard; mostly dusty boxes and as Wolfie pulled them out, Pippa had an idea. She hurried to the bathroom and fetched old towels from the storage bin in there, placing them at the foot of the leaking tank to protect the floor. But then a large pipe that ran parallel to the boiler began to make ominous noises too and Wolfie winced.
“That’s a wastewater pipe,” he said with a groan. “Ifthatgoes …”
“Here.” Pippa advanced with a stiff bath sheet poised to tie around the shaky wastewater pipe joint. “We can just—”
“Whoa!” Wolfie held her back.
“What?”
“You have an open cut on your finger,” he said impatiently. “If any dirty water gets on it, you could get an infection.”
“It’s fine!” Pippa said dismissively. She’d wrapped several large plasters around the bandage he’d given her to protect herself when gardening. “I was muck spreading this morning and it’s totally secure.”
“Muck spreading?” Wolfie grimaced as he took the bath sheet and wadded it around the noisy pipe.
“Just a little garden project.” Pippa tried to be nonchalant about it, but she couldn’t hide the glow of excitement.
Wolfie nodded, somewhat disconsolately. “I see.”
“That is okay, isn’t it?” Pippa panicked at the idea she was over-extending her welcome. “You didn’t seem to mind me having a go at sorting the maze…”
“Do what you want,” he said. “It was Joan’s patch, that’s all. I swear she could turn one tomato plant into a thousand. Chuck us another towel, would you?”
“Here.” Pippa handed him a towel. “Speaking of tomatoes, do you remember the Bloody Mary things Joan made for one of the fairs? My dad got so tiddly on those.”
“Remember?” Wolfie said. “I had so many of those cocktails I threw up. I’m still not a fan of tomatoes even now.”
“You threw up?” His confession made Pippa oddly happy. She realised she wasn’t the only person to make a fool of herself from time to time.
“Itwasmy fault,” he went on. “I had no business drinking them at fifteen. God, she was cross.”
“Did she make a lot of things from the vegetable patch?” Pippa asked.
His eyes brightened as he wadded more towels around the pipe. “Tons. Feeding people was her passion. And my grandfather loved her like a sister, so he let her grow whatever she wanted out there.” A soft smile spread across his face, making his chiselled features less severe. “I remember she would always have heaps of courgettes every season, more than she knew what to do with.”
“My mum was the same!” Pippa laughed. “As a kid I ate so many stews with courgette as the main ingredient, I’m surprised my skin didn’t turn green.”
“Joan was genius with them though,” Wolfie said. “She ended up making courgette cakes with them, way before it was fashionable. God, they were good.”
It didn’t escape Pippa’s notice that Wolfie was talking about Joan the way she spoke about her mum. “Sounds like Joan means a lot to you.”
“Yes. Well.” Wolfie folded his arms in a clear attempt to maintain composure, but Pippa could see the wounded look in his eyes.
“Parkinsons is a bitch,” Pippa said sympathetically.
“It is,” Wolfie agreed. “The dementia is just starting to kick in now and…” He exhaled, eyes shining. “Not sure what’s worse.”
“My uncle had dementia.”
Wolfie looked at Pippa sharply. “He did?”
