‘Your bathroom?’

‘I took the papers home to read last night. Left them upstairs.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘Sorry, too much information, it’s just I often read papers in the bath. I find a rush of blood to the head helps the grey matter.’

‘Fair enough, I read novels in the bath.’

‘Although I seem to remember I didn’t quite get to the Shilling bundle, I only got as far as the dusky bag handler. I do apologize, Mrs Shilling, you’ve come on a wild goose chase. Not only hasn’t your solicitor read the papers, he’s left them at home.’ He turned from the screen and held out his wrists across the desk. ‘Cuff. Or slap.’ He put them down and looked grave. ‘Or even fire, possibly. I would.’

I smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not fussed. I’m not sure I’m up to discussing wills yet, actually, but one of my friends insisted.’

‘Did she? Oh, well, unless you’re totally insolvent there’s no immediate hurry. Nothing that can’t wait. Come back when you’re ready, if you like.’

‘Really?’ I stood up gratefully. ‘Thanks. I might do that.’ I had no idea if I was solvent or not. Just put the bills in a drawer. ‘It may even be a few weeks yet.’

He too got to his feet. ‘Which gives me plenty of time to retrieve your precious bundle from my laundry basket and give it the attention it deserves – couldn’t be better.’

We both smiled, equally pleased, I suspect, with the outcome of the meeting: both feeling we’d got a result. He went quickly ahead of me to hold the door as I picked my way back across his floor – him apologizing for the mess and me assuring him it couldn’t matter less and that it was a bit like playing Twister with my children – and as I went through Janice’s room and towards the stairwell, I was aware of him watching me from his doorway.

Outside in the street, Jennie was hunched at the wheel looking stressed, her car on a double-yellow line.

‘Well?’ she demanded, as I popped Archie in his seat beside Clemmie, buckling him in. I got in the front.

‘Yes, it was fine.’

‘What d’you mean, it was fine? Oh, piss off!’ This, to a traffic warden who was attempting to take down her number plate. She lunged out into the traffic to thwart him amid a blare of horns.

‘I mean, it’s fine, it’s all in hand. But there are a few incidentals to be sorted out, so I’m going to pop back in a few weeks.’

‘A few weeks!’ She turned to look at me, horrified.

‘Days. I mean, days. But I’ll manage, Jennie, now I know where the office is. I’ll be fine on my own.’ I felt exhausted suddenly. Really lie-down-on-the-pavement exhausted.

‘Well, I’m surprised you have to go back at all, to be honest,’ she said hotly, raking a hand through her hair. ‘Wasn’t it all there at his fingertips? Didn’t he just read it out to you? The will? He’s not disorganized, is he?’ She shot me a quick look.

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘Only someone – I think Laura Davy – said he’s a bit chaotic. She went when they took her mother’s appendix out instead of her hernia and said he was all over the place. You do realize he’s not Phil’s solicitor, don’t you?’ she said sharply.

‘Er …’ So many questions.

‘No, he died. This is the nephew, who’s inherited the practice.’

‘Ah.’

‘I checked it all out when I made the appointment, because I didn’t think the name corresponded to the letterhead. The uncle was well known locally apparently, whereas this one is a bit of an unknown quantity. He was in a big City firm in London but his wife left him and he came out here for a quieter life, wanted a change of pace, which is all very well, but just because we’re parochial doesn’t mean we’re stupid, does it? And if he can’t get his head round a simple will …’ She set her mouth in a grim line and shook her head. ‘He’s got to shape up, I’m afraid, or he’s toast.’

I thought of the pink shirt, slightly strained at the shoulder seams.

‘He’s in quite good shape, actually,’ I said vaguely. ‘And he’s extremely organized. I think he’ll do very well. What’s his name?’

She turned, aghast. ‘You don’t even know his name?’

‘Of course I do, I just forgot.’

‘Sam Hetherington.’

‘That’s it. Don’t bully me, Jennie, I’m feeling a bit all-in as a matter of fact.’

I was. Truly tired. Relieved to have got that over with but exhausted with the effort. And I certainly wasn’t up to my son wailing again from the back seat. Since when had he started to cry so much? He used to be such a good baby. I leaned back on the headrest and shut my eyes.

‘There’s a carton of juice in my handbag,’ Jennie told me.

I opened my eyes. Turned my head slowly to her. ‘D’you want it now?’

‘No, but Archie might,’ she said patiently.

‘Oh.’

I leaned down and fumbled obediently in her handbag at my feet, found the Ribena and handed it to Archie, sticking the straw in first. He put it to his lips, squeezed the carton with his fist and the juice went shooting out of the straw, all over his face and down his front. For some reason Clemmie, beside him on her booster seat, burst into tears.

‘You forgot to say don’t squeeze!’ she wailed. ‘You always say don’t squeeze!’

Archie gazed at his soaking-wet jumper in dismay, opened his mouth as wide as he could and roared, dropping the juice on the floor. Jennie swore under her breath then reached behind for Clemmie’s ankle, stroking it and making soothing noises, reaching for Archie’s too. As we drove home, amid the inexplicable cacophony of my fractious children, Jennie shot me an exasperated look which I caught in surprise. Was there a law, I wondered, as I gazed out of the window at the increasingly bare branches of the trees as they flashed past, the sun appearing between them like a searchlight, against just sitting quietly the while? About having a little hush?




7

That evening, at eight, the inaugural meeting of the Massingham book club took place at Angie’s house. Peggy, Angie, Jennie and I assembled in the vast, beautifully converted barn kitchen where Angie and Tom had entertained so splendidly and raucously over the years: sixteen for dinner sometimes and a lot of laughs. This evening, however, it was just the four of us who sat at the huge oak table under the high, vaulted ceiling, criss-crossed with original beams, the twinkle of many tiny down-lights upon us. Outside the huge picture windows, darkness had fallen, but in the soft glow of a coach light, Angie’s horses could be seen behind the post and rails, already rugged up for winter, standing nose to tail. Inside, candles had been lit above the fireplace and in great urns beside it, whilst the fire crackled comfortingly in the grate. Michael Bublé crooned softly in the background.

‘So. Everyone got a pen and paper?’ Angie, sitting at the head of the table, had clearly decided to take the chair – her house, after all. She was looking particularly stunning tonight in her delicate, Jane Asher way: red-gold hair shining, elegant despite jeans and Ugg boots. We all nodded. ‘OK. Well, we’re here tonight primarily to discuss who we want to join our club,’ she said importantly, crossing her skinny knees.

‘And which books,’ Jennie reminded her, unused to playing second fiddle.

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ Angie was deflated in an instant. ‘Which books to read. Anyone got any ideas?’

‘Who’s Who?’ drawled Peggy. We all looked at her. ‘Then we could determine if there’s anyone within a radius of twenty miles worth hitting on.’

‘Anyone got any sensible ideas?’ went on Jennie smoothly, ignoring her. ‘Angie?’ she asked diplomatically, having usurped her so very recently.

‘Well, I have given it a bit of thought, actually,’ said Angie, going a bit pink. She’d clearly rehearsed this. ‘How about Silas Marner? It’s by George Eliot, so heavy, but look how short it is.’

She just happened to have a copy handy and whipped it out of a drawer from the side, the better for us to marvel. It certainly was delightfully slim. Not more than a hundred pages.

‘And then we could say we were reading Eliot,’ mused Jennie, flicking through.

‘Exactly,’ said Angie triumphantly. ‘And look, half of it’s Introduction, which we don’t have to read, and quite a lot of Index. Or there’s Pride and Prej?’ she said, rather warming to her role of literary doyenne in her salon. She leaned back expansively in her chair and waved her pencil about. ‘I mean, I know we’ve all read it, but just to kick off with, you know? To get us in the mood and –’

‘Who’s read it?’ interrupted Peggy.

Angie and Jennie looked smug. They stuck up their fingers. Looked rather pityingly at Peggy.

‘Poppy, you have too.’ Jennie nudged me.

‘Oh.’ I stuck up mine. I’d been looking at a spider crawling up a rafter into the roof.

‘Really?’ Peggy asked. ‘You’ve all read it, have you?’

‘Of course,’ said Jennie.

‘Or have you just seen the film?’

Three fingers wavered slightly. Then lowered.

‘I’ve seen both versions,’ said Angie defensively. ‘The Keira Knightley one and the old one.’

‘Come on, let’s not kid ourselves that we’re going to wade through the classics,’ Peggy said drily. ‘I vote we kick off with Wilbur Smith.’

Jennie looked pained. ‘Yes, we could, but the idea is to stretch ourselves a bit, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’ Peggy lit a cigarette. ‘I thought we were here to enjoy ourselves. Thought we were doing this for pleasure.’ She blew out a thin line of smoke. ‘OK, how about Lawrence, then? He’s a bit more stretching, although admittedly mostly in haystacks.’ She gave a throaty chuckle.