Chapter Sixteen
The weather held for the second week of the holidays, so Harriet was able to boot everyone out to the garden for hours at a time. They sowed seeds and planted flowers and ate every meal they could, lounging in the grass, drinking in the sunshine.
Miraculously everyone seemed to be getting along—mostly. The occasional squabble broke out, of course, but was thankfully, usually silenced pretty quickly. It was hard to be cross when the sun was shining and a puppy was frisking about.
During the week, Harriet also painted the children’s bedrooms, allowing Chloe her beloved elephants, which did look like gray blobs—and that was being generous. She didn’t care about interior decorating, though, or having the house look like something out of a style magazine. She just wanted it to feel like home. And slowly, slowly, it was starting to.
The Friday before school started again Harriet got a letter in the mail, ominously thin, marked Oxford University. She opened it alone in the kitchen, with the children out in the garden with the puppy, her heart starting to beat its way up her throat, which was not all a pleasant a feeling.
Dear Ms. Lang, We regret to inform you…
The words blurred before her eyes. It was stupid, of course, to be disappointed. It was utterly absurd. She’d known she wouldn’t get that job. She’d accepted that she wasn’t remotely qualified. And yet… part of her had obviously still been hoping, for her to feel this crushing disappointment now. She’d been so hoping, so counting on, things finally starting to go her way. Everything to.
But of course everything wasn’t. And it was just one job, and she’d looked at the classifieds tonight, but… Harriet took a deep breath. It still felt hard.
The children burst through the French windows like bullets from a gun. “Daisy keeps weeing!”
“I know,” Harriet said tiredly.
Daisy had been a wee machine since they’d brought her back from Wold View Farm. Harriet stuffed the letter back in its envelope and then tossed it in the recycling bin.
“No, I mean, really weeing,” Mallory said, her tone serious. “Every few minutes. And she’s whimpering a bit. I think she has some kind of infection.”
“Oh.” Harriet glanced down at their little puppy that, now that she was looking at her properly, seemed more than a bit woebegone. As if to prove the point, Daisy whimpered and then did a tiny bit of wee. “Oh, sweetheart.” She crouched down to stroke Daisy’s little head. “I think you’re right, Mallory.”
Which meant a trip to the vet… and the only one Harriet knew was Tom Roberts. A kindly receptionist offered her an appointment that afternoon, and so an hour later Harriet had bundled kids and puppy into the car and was driving towards the veterinary surgery’s off the high street.
“Will Daisy be okay, Mummy?” Chloe asked tearfully as the puppy whimpered and weed—again. Even William looked anxious.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine. She probably has a urinary tract infection, poor thing.”
“What’s a urinary tract infection?” William asked.
“She has to wee all the time, duh,” Mallory snapped. Her oldest daughter was, as usual, choosing to act angry rather than afraid.
“Listen,” Harriet said as soothingly as she could. “Daisy is going to be fine.” She glanced down at the puppy nestled in the foot well of the passenger seat, and felt a tug of sympathy as well as a pang of guilt. She’d been getting annoyed with Daisy when the poor thing had some infection—and she knew how much one of those hurt.
Tom Roberts’s surgery was in a pretty little cottage of Cotswold stone, with the sitting room converted to a pleasant waiting room and the back rooms of the house into an office and examining room.
Mallory kept Daisy on her lap with Chloe cooing to her while Harriet nervously flicked through a magazine and William drummed his heels. She didn’t know how she felt about seeing Tom Roberts again. Of course, he was a professional, and this situation was entirely different from the dinner party at Colin’s house. Not that anything had even happened at that party.
They’d chatted awkwardly, that was all. But she still felt nervous—and, yes, she could admit it—a tiny, tiny bit excited. For what, she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say. Daisy was most likely going to wee on her and at least one of her children would do or say something awkward. There was nothing whatsoever to be excited about.
A few minutes later Tom appeared in the doorway of the examining room, a wide smile on his face.
“Harriet. Nice to see you again.”
“Wait, what?” Mallory said, her voice sounding sharp and loud.
Chloe blinked slowly, looking from Tom to Harriet. “Mummy, do you know him?”
“We’ve met.” Harriet rose from her seat. “Thank you for seeing me—us—on such short notice.”
“My pleasure.” Tom touched her shoulder lightly as she squeezed past him into the examining room. “But my recollection was that you didn’t have a dog.”
“We got one rather unexpectedly—”
“It wasn’t unexpected,” Mallory interjected. “We’d been on a waiting list for eight months.”
“Yes, well, I’d forgotten about that part,” Harriet said as lightly as she could. “Anyway, this is Daisy, and I think she has a UTI.”
“Does she? Poor thing.” Tom crouched down to Daisy’s level and gave her a friendly smile. “Let’s check you out, sweetheart.”
William craned his neck to view the proceedings. “How are you going to do that?”
Tom looked up with a smiling glance. “Easily enough. I’ll get a bit of her wee.”
“She wees all the time,” Chloe confided. “But not much comes out.”
“It certainly sounds like a UTI.”
What an enlightening conversation this was. Harriet raised her eyebrows. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Well, maybe. Let me see if I can get a sample the regular way. If not, I’ll need you to hold her still while I insert a needle into her bladder.”
That didn’t sound like much fun for poor Daisy and so Harriet stood back, shepherding the children against the wall, while Tom crouched down with a clean vial and waited for Daisy to do her business.
He really was quite good looking, Harriet couldn’t help but notice. Thick, wavy hair—a little long, admittedly, but still quite nice. And warm, brown eyes the color of toffee, and a nice smile. A nice butt too, since she was looking.
Harriet let out a startled oof as she received a sharp poke in the ribs from Mallory.
“You’re staring,” her daughter hissed, with a meaningful nod towards Tom’s posterior.
Harriet blushed. And then felt a twinge of shame, followed by a surge of defiance. All right, yes, she was staring. Ogling, even. But why shouldn’t she? She and Richard were separated. She was doing her best to move on. She might not have got that job, but she could get other things.
And what a naughty thought that was. Not a particularly appealing one, but still.
“Got it,” Tom announced, and held aloft a vial with a few drips of wee inside. “Now to test.”
Mallory scooped up Daisy as Tom took a reagent strip. “Yes, it’s exactly what it looks like,” he said. “A UTI. I’ll prescribe a course of antibiotics and she should be as right as rain in a couple of days.” He aimed a smile at all three children. “So no need to worry.”
“Thanks,” Mallory said with genuine relief. Daisy squirmed in her arms.
“Right, yes, thanks.” Harriet gave him a distracted smile, conscious of how his attention had turned from the children to her.
“I’m going to take Daisy out to the car,” Mallory announced. “I don’t think she likes it in here.”
“Okay, but wait—” Before Harriet could say anything more Mallory marched out, followed by Chloe and William, leaving Harriet alone with Tom.
If she hadn’t known her daughter better, she would have thought she’d done it on purpose. Although she did know her daughter, and Harriet had more than a sneaking suspicion that Mallory had done it on purpose… for some nefarious reason of her own.
“Thanks,” Harriet said again, and then cleared her throat, the universal signal for this feels awkward and I don’t know what to say.
“I’m glad I’ve seen you again,” Tom said. “I was feeling badly about the other night. I think I really put my foot in it.”
“No, no,” Harriet said hurriedly, “I was overreacting. I know I was. I’m legally separated from my husband. If it’s not common knowledge, it probably should be.”
“Oh.” Tom looked startled, and then pleased.
Belatedly Harriet recalled that they hadn’t actually talked about Richard. And now Tom probably thought she was letting him know she was available.
“I know how hard it is,” he said. “Been there, done that, unfortunately.”
“Right.” Harriet managed a smile.
She didn’t know Tom’s story at all, but she didn’t feel that he could equate hers with his. He was divorced, a done deal, his marriage in the dust. She definitely wasn’t there yet. Then she remembered the set look on Richard’s face when he’d spoken about still seeing Meghan. Maybe she’d be there one day. One day soon.
“But if this doesn’t freak you out,” Tom was saying, and Harriet clued back into the conversation, having the sinking feeling that she’d missed something important. “Do you want to come to dinner sometime? Or go out for a meal? Just as friends, of course, since I know it’s probably too soon for you…”
Harriet’s mind spun. “Umm…”
“Just an idea,” Tom said, half-mumbling, and Harriet realized it had taken a fair amount of courage for him to ask.
“Sure, why not?” she said impulsively. Why shouldn’t she go out with a friend? Richard certainly had. “I’d love to.”
They exchanged mobile numbers and a few minutes later Harriet headed for the car, catching Mallory shooting her a look that managed to be both smug and suspicious. Harriet raised her eyebrows back at her, all innocence. It wasn’t as if it was a date. And if it turned into something vaguely date-like… perhaps that would be no bad thing.
*
The rest of the weekend was a manic frenzy of trying to locate uniform and PE kit, get the house somewhat tidy, and do a supermarket sweep for lunch box necessities. In between sorting mismatched socks and digging out lunch boxes that hadn’t been cleaned in two weeks—William’s still possessed a festering yogurt pot—Harriet scoured the want ads and wondered if she could be hired as an administrative assistant to the faculty of chemistry at Oxford.
“Why not?” Ellie said when she asked her how she’d bagged a decent-paying job at the university. “You have transferrable skills.”
“Do I?” Harriet wrinkled her nose. “I don’t actually think I do. I can’t type better than the average emailer, and the only computer programs I know are Word and a little bit of Excel.”
“Oh.” The look on Ellie’s face was almost comical. “Hmm…”
“The world has moved on so much since I was in the workplace,” Harriet confessed. “I’m not sure I’d even be able to do half the things I did back then. Everything’s different, more advanced, and I never did keep up with technology.” Mallory rolled her eyes whenever Harriet asked her help to figure out some app or other on her phone.
“There’s no harm in applying,” Ellie encouraged, and while Harriet wanted to agree with her, she had her doubts.
Applying took a lot of work, tweaking her CV and agonizing over the cover letter, but most of all it meant having hope, no matter how little. And the trouble with hope was that disappointment usually followed.
“I’ll think about it,” Harriet said, but the deadline was Monday and she let it pass.
On Sunday night she steeled herself to look at her bank balance and then shuddered. The rent was due next week and there wasn’t enough in there to cover it. Child benefit, unemployment, and dwindling savings did not let a family of four live in the Cotswolds for very long.
She rang Richard, reluctantly, because she hated talking about money, and she really didn’t want a fight.
“Harriet.” He sounded pleased. “How was your week with the kids?”
“Fine. We worked on the house.”
“How’s the puppy?”
The children had all regaled him with tales of Daisy the last time he’d called. “She’s getting there,” Harriet answered. She wasn’t weeing as much, at least. “Richard, I don’t have enough money in the bank account to pay next month’s rent.”
Richard was silent for a moment. “How much do you need?” he asked, and with a jolt Harriet realized he must be feeling the pinch more than she’d thought. Ever since they’d lost the house, they’d made an informal arrangement where Richard deposited money into her account every week or so to cover her and the children’s needs. It had always been enough, if only just. She’d assumed, terribly naively, she realized now, that wherever it came from, there was more. Not much more, granted, but enough to cover their basic costs.
She’d lost a lot, but she hadn’t yet had to deal with there not actually being enough to live off. To keep a roof over their heads and some food in their fridge.
“Four hundred pounds to cover the rent,” she said. “And another thousand pounds or so for food and petrol and bills for the month.” Richard was silent, and Harriet’s stomach twisted painfully. “Richard…?”
“I’m sorry, Harriet, I don’t have it.”
She sank onto a kitchen chair with a thud, truly shocked though perhaps she shouldn’t have been. She’d known they were poor. Just not this poor.
“You don’t have a thousand pounds?” she whispered.
The children were all upstairs in bed but she still felt the need to pitch her voice low. A thousand pounds. It was a huge amount, but at the same time it seemed paltry. She’d spent more than that on the stupid Swedish stoneware, which she’d more stupidly broken. Why hadn’t she sold it all on eBay? She was officially an idiot.
“I don’t,” Richard answered steadily. “I’m sorry. With rents on two places and all the normal bills and nothing much coming in—”
“What about your freelance work?”
“That barely covers my rent.”
She felt true panic seize hold of her. She’d never actually been in this situation before. Even when they’d been first married and been what they’d then considered poor, they’d had enough. They’d gone out to eat in restaurants on occasion. She’d bought clothes, admittedly cheap stuff. They’d certainly paid their rent.
But now… mentally Harriet catalogued everything she’d spent money on in the last few weeks. Daisy, for one. Five hundred pounds! Yet she couldn’t regret buying her. Already, even with the weeing problem, she’d brought so much joy to the children’s lives. And then there had been paint supplies and Daisy’s kit, and she’d taken all the kids out for pizza… everything had seemed negligible, but it all added up to a fair amount. An amount she really could use now. All along she’d known they were poor, of course she had, but she’d still thought there had been a tiny bit of cushion. Something to keep them from being totally destitute.
“So what am I going to do?” she asked Richard, even though distantly she was realizing this wasn’t as much his problem as it was hers. She could earn money just as well as he could. Maybe not as much, but something.
“I can deposit enough to cover the rent,” Richard said. “And you can put everything else on a credit card for now.”
Her stomach squeezed. “I don’t even have a credit card anymore.” After they’d maxed out their top-tier Platinum cards, Richard had cut them all up. No more living on credit. Besides, their credit now sucked.
“I have one. I’ll send you a joint card in your name that you can use.”
“But how will we pay it off? When are we going to get more money?” When was she?
“I’m trying, Harriet.” Richard didn’t sound just tired; he sounded defeated.
And Harriet felt more sympathy for him then than she had since first picking up that damned phone bill.
“I’ll get a job,” she said, aware that their roles were, for this moment, neatly reversed. “I promise I’ll get a job this week.”
Richard was silent. “It would help,” he said at last.
After she’d rung off Harriet sat, staring into space, wondering how money had come to dominate her thoughts, her life. She’d thought they’d hit rock bottom financially but it appeared there was further to fall.
Guilt needled her as she thought of Richard’s flat in Bexley. What was the rent on that place? A thousand pounds a month, probably, or something like that. If he moved back in with them, they would save a lot of money. But did he even want to move back to Wychwood-on-Lea? And what about his job search? What about Meghan?
The questions were still circling around in her head as she walked the children to school the next day. She’d offered to take Abby with them, so Ellie could have a stress-free commute, and it cheered her to see Mallory and Abby walking along, chatting. It cheered her even more when Mallory didn’t peel off as soon as they reached the school gates to join the in girls, her old friends. She stayed with Abby, her head held high, while her former friends shot them looks and laughed behind their hands. That didn’t cheer her, but at least Mallory didn’t seem to mind too much.
On the other side of the school yard, Sophie was chatting with Cheryl Dennison, highlighted-blonde heads bent close together. Harriet looked away, and made direct eye contact with a mum she sort-of knew, a fellow parent of a year four.
“Hi,” she said, because to not say hi when she was staring directly at the woman seemed rude.
“Hi.” The woman—Helen, she recalled—gave her a shy smile and then ambled over. All the children had gone off to their classrooms, so Harriet was alone. “How are you?” The question sounded genuine rather than snide, and so Harriet answered it honestly.
“Better than I’ve been recently.”
“I was so sorry to hear about your house.” Helen grimaced, and Harriet managed a smile.
“Yes, well, at least someone else is enjoying it.” She glanced at Cheryl, who was walking out of the school yard with Sophie. Both of them were dressed in high-end Lycra, no doubt intending to hit the gym. She had officially been replaced.
“Still, it’s hard.”
“Yes.” Harriet refocused on Helen. “Yes, it’s been really hard,” she said frankly. “I loved that house.” I loved my life.
Helen took a step closer to her. “We left London because my husband didn’t get the promotion he thought he was going to get,” she said in a low voice, as if confessing something shameful. “We had to sell our flat… we’d just bought it, thinking he was going to get the job. When he didn’t…”
“I’m sorry. That must have been tough.” Harriet appreciated the confession.
She understood the instinct to hide it, or anything that tarnished the glossy perfection of your life as seen by others. How many other people, like Helen, like her, were faking it? Acting like it was all perfect when it so wasn’t?
“We should get a coffee sometime,” she said impulsively, and Helen smiled.
“I’d love that.”
Was it really that easy? Harriet mused as she started to walk out of the school yard. She’d spent the last two months feeling isolated but was it really that easy to vault over the chasms that seemed to separate her from everybody, and just be real and open and friendly?
Harriet turned to walk into school and inform reception that her children would not be taking any after school clubs this term. It was one small way she could economize, and she’d decided that mini iPad club for Chloe was not actually necessary, and William could play football with his friends on the green instead of being drilled by a grumpy coach.
“So all of your children are quitting the after school clubs?” the receptionist, Mrs. Jamison, asked, thin eyebrows raised in what seemed like censure.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Maybe in the autumn we’ll start again.” She could not imagine what the autumn would look like at this point.
“May I ask why? Are they not to your taste anymore?”
Harriet had forgotten how frosty Mrs. Jamison could be, so unlike the cuddly Mrs. Wendell, who job-shared with her. “It’s not about taste,” she said, deciding recklessly to be as frank with Mrs. Jamison as she had been with Helen. “It’s that I can’t afford them.”
Mrs. Jamison’s mouth opened silently. Perhaps she hadn’t heard the gossip, or perhaps no one realized just how dire Harriet’s situation truly was. Even she hadn’t.
“So like I said, maybe in the autumn.”
She left the office, taking a deep breath of fresh air to steady herself. Being honest was liberating, but it still left her feeling a little wobbly.
“Are you looking for a job?”
Harriet looked up to see a mum she only vaguely recognized coming out of the office. She was definitely from the other side of Wychwood-on-Lea, the side with council houses and homes turned into flats. The side Harriet hadn’t even ventured into much after six years in the village.
“Umm… yes?”
“Just heard you talking in there about the clubs,” the woman said with a nod to the office. “And if you’re looking for a bit of work, my job’s going. I’ve got to leave it to take care of my mum. She’s poorly.”
“Your job?” Harriet felt as if she was missing half of the conversation.
“Dinner lady at the school, five lunchtimes a week. It’s decent pay and it works around the school run. I know they’re desperate to fill it because I’ve got to leave straight away. Have a think, anyway.”
She smiled and walked out, leaving Harriet practically gaping. Dinner lady? She pictured herself standing behind the metal counter, her hair held back in a net and one of those little white paper hats on her head as she doled out scoops of instant mashed potatoes. She pictured the children seeing her, recognizing her, and then telling their mothers.
She could not be a dinner lady.
But as she walked back to Willoughby Close the idea kept rattling around in her head. Did she have the right, not to mention the luxury, to be so snobbish? What was wrong with being a dinner lady? It was good, honest work, it was local, and it fit in with the school run. She might not be using her degree or doing something she could brag about, but surely she was beyond those kinds of concerns at this point?
Or did she still have further to fall?
Harriet opened her front door, surprised to see an envelope that looked like it was made of thick, expensive parchment had been dropped through the letterbox. Her name was written on the front in spidery handwriting, and when she opened it up she saw it was from Lady Stokeley.
Dear Harriet, If the offer still stands, I would much appreciate you driving me to Oxford for my treatments. Please call on me to discuss the arrangements. Sincere regards, Dorothy.