Chapter Six
Harriet woke the next morning to the sound of giggling and the smell of something burning, Chloe’s knees firmly lodged against her lower back. She blinked sleep out of her eyes and then slipped out of bed, trying not to wake a peacefully sleeping Chloe, alarm pulsing through her brain as she half-stumbled down the stairs and skidded to a stop in the kitchen.
Mallory and Abby were making pancakes. Harriet gaped at them, taking in the burning batter, the spilled flour, and drips of milk amid broken egg shells on the kitchen counter, and the belated realization that her hair, never at the best in the mornings, was sticking up in about six different directions and she was wearing nothing but one of Richard’s old T-shirts that barely covered her bottom.
“Mum.” Mallory looked up from the sizzling pancakes, her expression caught between amusement and annoyance. “Put your dressing gown on.”
“You’re making pancakes?” Harriet said.
They obviously were, but she was still so shocked. Somehow, overnight, Abby and Mallory had become BFFs. Or something like that.
“Yeah.” Mallory, to Harriet’s disgust, ate an entire spoonful of golden syrup, licking the spoon with relish.
“I think it’s burning,” Abby said, and reached across Mallory to flip the blackened pancake.
Well. Harriet didn’t know what to think. She was pleased the girls were getting along, if a little wary about it. She didn’t want Abby to get hurt by Mallory whom she suspected, unfairly or not, might be a friend at Willoughby Close but a mean girl at school.
“We should head back to Oxford, to see Lady Stokeley,” she said, and Abby smiled at her.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you called her Dorothy.”
Harriet didn’t see that happening any time soon.
An hour later they were dressed and in the car, although the kitchen was still a mess of spilled batter and sticky, syrupy plates. Harriet had closed the door on it all, wanting to check in with Lady Stokeley before the day got away from them. She also wanted a large cappuccino from the Starbucks on the A40, a treat she was willing to splurge on.
When they got to the hospital, Lady Stokeley was lying in bed, looking pale and worn but composed, her hands folded on top of the blankets.
The children, hyped up on sugary pancakes, were not on their best form. Harriet collared William to keep him from kicking anything expensive or important while Chloe blew on the window and then traced patterns on the fogged-up pane.
Abby went up to Lady Stokeley. “How was your night?” she asked in a tone of such genuine concern that Harriet almost felt tearful.
Mallory, meanwhile, was in the corner of the room on Snapchat.
“I’ve had better and I’ve had worse,” Lady Stokeley answered. “They’re insisting on keeping me in another day, more’s the pity.”
“Is there anything we can do for you?” Harriet asked, and Lady Stokeley shook her head.
“Not unless you can break me out of here,” she said, cracking a smile that made her face dissolve into even more wrinkles, and Harriet smiled back even as she wondered why she’d made the forty-five minute trip into Oxford for what looked to be a two-minute visit. But perhaps that was no bad thing—she didn’t think she could keep ahold of William for much longer than that, and at least Lady Stokeley knew she cared.
“What about some magazines?” she asked. “I could get them from the shop. Or something nicer than hospital food…”
“I’m afraid my eyesight’s not good enough for magazines, but I wouldn’t mind a proper cup of tea, if this place has one.”
“Of course,” Harriet answered, relieved to be able to do something. “Come on, everyone.” She shepherded the children out of the room and down to the café where she splurged on hot chocolates for all of them, trying not to panic about the fifteen pounds it cost. Money, money, money. The worry was always there, a stone in her stomach, a pulsing in her head. “Keep an eye on everyone while I nip up to give Lady Stokeley her tea,” she ordered Mallory, who rolled her eyes.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Lang, I’ll watch out for them too,” Abby offered, and Harriet gave her a grateful smile.
She was just about to knock on the door of Lady Stokeley’s room when a consultant stopped her.
“Are you part of the family?” he asked, smiling, and before Harriet could explain, he continued, “We’re hoping to schedule Mrs. Trent for the screening next Friday. She should be feeling better by then.”
“Oh.” She gazed at him uncertainly. “Right.”
“But we’ll call first to make sure.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks,” he said, and continued on his rounds.
Harriet knocked once on the door and at Lady Stokeley’s croaky hello, she went in. “One cup of Earl Grey,” she announced cheerfully, and Lady Stokeley gave her a wan smile.
“Thank you, my dear.”
Harriet placed the cup on the table next to the bed, and then spent a few minutes refreshing the jug of water and throwing away a bunch of used tissues. “The doctor mentioned an appointment for next week,” she finally said. “A screening?”
It wasn’t her business, but she was worried. Over the last twenty-four hours she’d become invested in Lady Stokeley’s life. She wanted to make sure some kind of happy ending was in sight.
“Ah, yes.” Lady Stokeley leaned her head against her pillow and closed her eyes. “I need to have some tests. When they did the Xray last night after you left they saw something a bit worrisome.”
“A bit worrisome?” Harriet’s stomach lurched. “What do you mean?”
“Cancer,” Lady Stokeley said succinctly. “That’s what they’re worried about, although they haven’t said as much yet. But when you’ve lived as long and buried as many people as I have, you can read the signs.”
“Oh, no.” Harriet sank onto the chair next to Lady Stokeley’s bed. “I’m so sorry.”
Lady Stokeley shrugged. “I’m eighty-six. I’ve got to go sometime. But it might not even be cancer. We’ll see.” Her tone was repressive.
“How will you get to the appointment?”
“Call a taxi service, I suppose. I haven’t driven myself in years, not with my poor eyesight.”
“I can drive you,” Harriet blurted.
It wasn’t as if she was doing anything with her days besides housework and scanning the want ads. The three sessions a week at the gym had disappeared along with the membership, as had the coffee mornings with Sophie, of course. The VSA was planning a quiz night but Harriet hadn’t even been asked to help. Last year she’d chaired it.
She’d once been so ridiculously busy, organizing events, ferrying her children to and fro, feeling important, and now she felt as if she lived in a vacuum, but that was at least partly her own choice. She supposed, if she made more of an effort, she could make some new friends at the school gate. Some other mums would come forward. She hoped, anyway. She simply hadn’t had the energy to try yet.
“That would be very helpful, thank you,” Lady Stokeley answered with stiff dignity. “I don’t like relying on charity, but at my age it is on occasion a sad necessity.”
“It’s not charity,” Harriet protested. “Think of it as… as an act of friendship.”
Lady Stokeley gave her an assessing look before nodding once. “Thank you.” She paused, a troubled frown creasing her wrinkled face even more. “Please don’t mention any of this to Abby. I don’t want to worry her, poor girl. She’s had enough to deal with already.”
“I won’t say a word,” Harriet promised even as she wondered what exactly Abby had had to deal with.
Down in the café, Abby had managed to keep the peace, starting a game of table football with coffee stirrers and a penny. Unfortunately, right as Harriet arrived, William got a bit too aggressive and knocked Chloe’s half-full cup of hot chocolate right into her lap. Chloe started wailing.
“It’s all right, it’s not burning you,” Harriet said as she snagged a dozen paper napkins to mop up the mess. “The hot chocolate is cold, Chloe. You’re not hurt, just a bit damp, darling.”
“Sorry,” William muttered, and then ruined his act of contrition by flicking the penny at Chloe. Thankfully it missed.
They drove back to Willoughby Close mostly in silence. It wasn’t even ten in the morning and Harriet felt exhausted. Plus she had an entire Saturday to get through, with no children’s activities to fill it up.
She’d had to scale back on the children’s activities—everything was so expensive. She’d told them they could pursue one activity each rather than the three or more they’d been doing before. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, her children had seemed more relieved than anything.
“You mean I can drop swimming?” Mallory had exclaimed. “Thank God.”
“I’m quitting clarinet!” William had declared joyfully, before leveling Harriet with a look. “But I’m keeping football.”
Harriet had smiled, surprised and yet not by their eagerness to shed the activities she’d once deemed so important. And she could do without driving to and fro most afternoons and Saturdays, although the day still yawned in front of her, semi-alarmingly.
The children spilled out of the car as soon as Harriet had parked. Inside the house, William and Chloe flopped on the sofa while Abby and Mallory disappeared upstairs. They’d no doubt all be on their devices but Harriet wanted a few minutes’ peace to deal with the mess in the kitchen before she insisted they unplug.
She hummed under her breath as she rinsed and stacked the dishes, her mind pinging between Lady Stokeley’s worrisome screening to money matters even as she kept half an ear on William and Chloe’s interaction; at any moment William could start burning off that manic boy energy he always had and put his sister in a head lock, which Chloe sometimes liked but often didn’t.
Mallory and Abby seemed to be getting along, at least. That was something. The dishes stacked in the dishwasher, Harriet rested her elbows on the edge of the sink and gazed out the window at the little rectangle of garden behind number two. It was nothing like the grounds of the Old Rectory, with the walled Victorian garden, an orchard of apple trees that had, admittedly, been past their prime, and a wide stretch of lawn perfect for parties or games of croquet.
This garden was a small rectangle, hemmed in by low stone walls that were probably part of the manor’s original barn. There was a tree, at least—a horse chestnut, Harriet supposed, and the garden wasn’t so big that she couldn’t look after it herself.
The garden of the Old Rectory had been so enormous that she had, at Sophie’s recommendation, hired a landscaper and then a gardener to manage it all. She’d only gone out there for parties or picnics, acting as a prop to an expensively styled set.
Which was something of a shame, as she’d once fancied becoming something of a gardener. She’d envisaged herself elbow-deep in rich soil, planting herbs and bright flowers, growing things, back when they’d been contemplating the life-changing move from London to the Cotswolds.
This garden, however, was certainly manageable. And while a few weeks ago Harriet had rebelled against the thought of putting down roots here, both literally and figuratively, now she wondered at the wisdom of planting a few seeds. She could get the kids involved. Perhaps it would make them all feel more settled, because the longer she lived here the more she realized it was probably going to be home for at least a little while. Not forever, though. That was something she still couldn’t contemplate.
A screech from the living area had her straightening with a sigh. “William, let go of your sister,” she called without looking, and William let out a cackle of laughter before flinging himself off the sofa, while Chloe dissolved into noisy, deliberate tears.
After a lunch of tinned tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwiches, Harriet chivvied everyone outside for a walk around Willoughby Manor. Mallory moaned as if Harriet were inflicting some rare form of torture on her, which she probably was. William took his football, managing to zigzag in front of everyone as they walked, and Harriet felt as if she tripped over the blasted ball every few minutes, but at least he was happy. She even kicked it back to him a couple of times, which made William chortle with glee.
“You’re terrible, Mum,” he said in delight, but then gave her a quick smile of encouragement. “But I don’t mind. Kick it again.”
The air was fresh and clean and the sky was a pale, fragile blue, sunlight filtering through the trees as they headed through the dense wood that surrounded Willoughby Manor. It almost felt like spring.
“How did you get to know Lady Stokeley?” Harriet asked Abby as they wound through the stark and leafless trees.
“She invited my mum and me for tea one day,” Abby answered. “And then I came back and helped her organize some of her stuff. She’s got masses of stuff—clothes, jewelry, everything. Mum borrowed a dress off her to go to a party in Oxford.”
“Did she?” Harriet was surprised to feel a little, funny sliver of envy at hearing this.
Ellie Matthews had more of a social life than she did. But then why shouldn’t she? Harriet had intentionally cut herself from everyone and everything. She’d retreated into a self-made cocoon of isolation. Maybe it was time to start emerging… if she could.
They’d walked out of the wood and now they stood on a plateau of velvety grass, overlooking the terraced lawns of Willoughby Manor. The house towered above, looking elegant and dignified with its mullioned windows and many chimneys. What would happen to the manor if Lady Stokeley couldn’t live in it anymore? What would happen to Lady Stokeley?
A pang of worry assailed Harriet and she glanced at Abby who was pressing the toes of her trainers into the soft turf, watching the indentations form in the jewel-green grass. Harriet hoped the screening next week wouldn’t come to anything, for Abby’s sake as well as Lady Stokeley’s.
“Can we go now, please?” Mallory asked. “Or are we going to stand here, like, forever?”
“It’s a lovely day, Mallory,” Harriet said mildly.
“It’s freezing.”
The wind had picked up a little, and the fragile blue sky was turning ominously gray. With a sigh, Harriet turned them all towards home, her arm around Chloe’s little shoulders as William zoomed ahead, kicking the ball so hard that he left a deep divot through the pristine lawn.
“Sorry,” he called back, and then kicked it again.
Later that afternoon Ellie came by to pick up Abby, looking slightly shell-shocked by the turn of events. Harriet couldn’t blame her—they were basically strangers, after all, and she’d had her daughter for a sleepover.
“I’m so sorry,” Ellie half-babbled as she stood in the doorway.
Harriet toyed with the idea of inviting her in but Ellie seemed a bit manic at the moment and, in truth, Harriet didn’t possess the courage, which seemed ridiculous considering she’d been queen of the school yard, organizing everyone, for years, and now she was…
What was she?
“It’s fine,” she told Ellie. “Seriously. The girls seemed to have a good time together.”
“Did they?” Ellie sounded so incredulous that Harriet frowned.
Her neighbor sounded like she had some damaging intel on her daughter.
“They really did,” she answered firmly. “They made pancakes this morning.”
“Wow.” Ellie let out a little laugh and shook her head. “Wow.”
Okay, she didn’t need to sound quite so disbelieving. Mallory wasn’t… well.
“Anyway, I’ll let you get on,” Harriet said. “I’m sure you want to get yourself organized before the week starts.”
“Right.”
Ellie ducked her head as she stepped back from the door, and Harriet felt guilty for being so dismissive. “See you soon,” she said as a sort of peace offering, and Ellie waved before heading back to number one.
“You seemed to get along with Abby,” Harriet said to Mallory later, as she folded laundry on the kitchen table.
Along with a thousand other things, she missed her enormous utility room with the wide slate counter for folding laundry, the huge farmhouse sink, and enough space to keep the ironing board permanently set up. There had even been a chair in the utility room, a William Morris-patterned armchair that Chloe had liked to curl up in, chattering to her about her day while Harriet had done the ironing.
Although in recent years, she’d hired someone to do the ironing, along with all the house-cleaning. She’d been so busy with responsibilities, she’d told Richard. She needed help. Now she wondered what had made her so busy. Mornings at the gym? Chairing the VSA? What had she become? And what could she be now?
“Whatever,” Mallory said, scrolling through her phone, and Harriet tried to tamp down on the annoyance she felt.
Her daughter was trying just a little too hard to be the teen with an attitude, far older than her eleven and a half years. If she wanted to be credible, she needed to tone it down a bit.
“Why did you say she was a loser before, Mallory?”
“Because she is.”
“Why do you think that?”
Mallory rolled her eyes. Again. “Because she is. I mean, look at her, Mum.”
Harriet prickled. “What?”
“Didn’t you see what she was wearing?”
Baggy jeans and a hoodie, Harriet vaguely recalled. She hadn’t actually paid attention.
“What was wrong with what she was wearing?” she asked Mallory.
Mallory heaved a big sigh. “It’s just nerdy. She barely speaks in school and she reads these stupidly big books… like, Hobbit kind of stuff. I mean, watch the film, fine, but the book?” Cue the third eye roll, Mallory’s signature move.
“But you got along with her,” Harriet said slowly. “Didn’t you?”
Mallory shrugged. “Because I had to.”
“So what about in school? Will you get along with her then?”
Mallory shrugged again. Harriet hated the thought of her daughter blowing off Abby after they’d been friendly at Willoughby Close. She didn’t want her daughter to be the kind of person who blew off a friend because of what the popular crowd thought.
Kind of like Sophie had been doing to her. Maybe, like her, Abby didn’t mind so much. But it still wasn’t good for Mallory.
“There’s nothing wrong with big books or Abby’s clothes,” Harriet said as mildly as she could. “You know that, right?” Mallory just shrugged. “Mallory, if Abby’s a nice person and you genuinely like her, you should be friends with her. And you shouldn’t not be friends with her just because some in girls think she’s different.”
Mallory’s face closed down. There had been far too many shoulds in what she’d just said. Harriet sighed and decided to change tacks. “Have you talked to your friends?” she asked. “About our move?”
“Not really.” Mallory hunched her shoulders, her fringe sliding into her face.
“Have they asked?”
“Not really.”
“Do you want to have someone over?” Harriet tried again. In September, for Mallory’s eleventh, she’d hosted six of her friends for a spa day and sleepover. They’d all received manicures which had, Harriet recalled now, cost a fortune. Of course she hadn’t thought twice about it then. And she’d had it catered—a sleepover for a bunch of ten and eleven-year-olds, catered. It seemed ridiculous now. There had been a chocolate fountain and mountains of strawberries and raspberries, two different cakes, and at least three or four separate main dishes. The caterers had bustled in and Harriet had been most concerned that no chocolate spill on the living room carpet, which was a handwoven Turkish rug that had cost nearly twenty thousand pounds. She’d only got three for it when she’d sold it along with the rest of their stuff.
To think now, while she’d been planning that absurd party, Richard had been jobless. Why on earth hadn’t he said anything? And why had she thought it was actually necessary to cater a sleepover?
“Well?” she asked Mallory, who had retreated into a sulky silence. “Do you? Why not have Charlotte over?”
“And where would she sleep?” Mallory demanded.
“Same as Abby, in Chloe’s bed. Chloe can go in with me.”
Mallory shook her head, resolute. “No way.” She flounced upstairs, leaving Harriet with two loads of laundry to fold. She supposed she couldn’t actually blame Mallory too much. Charlotte lived in a house the size of the Old Rectory, on Wychwood’s glamorous estate of enormous new builds, each one with high walls and electric gates. The houses looked like monstrosities but they were huge.
Once again, Harriet realized what a hothouse, rarefied world they’d lived in. Overprivileged, endlessly indulged… and yet, she acknowledged with a sigh, she’d still go back if she could.