I’D EXPECTED ERNEST SPENCER to live in a bigger, more showy sort of house, and I was almost disappointed when the taxi stopped outside a comparatively ordinary sort of brick building in Redington Road. Traditional-style sash windows with white frames, several gables and bow windows, hidden behind tall hedges and walls, like most of the houses here. It had stopped raining, and the evening sun was bathing everything in golden light.
“It looks very pretty,” whispered Mia in surprise as we followed Mom up the paved path to the front door, past flowering hydrangeas and box trees clipped into globe shapes.
“So do you,” I whispered back. She did; she looked good enough to eat, with the cute braids on which Lottie had insisted, in exchange for the jeans that Mom, much to Lottie’s displeasure, had said we could wear. Probably, for one thing, because she wanted to wear her freshly ironed blue dress herself.
Mom had pressed the doorbell, and we heard three melodious notes inside the house. “Please be nice, you two! And try to behave yourselves.”
“You mean we’re not to throw our food about the way we usually do, belch, and tell improper jokes?” I blew a strand of hair away from my face. Lottie would have braided my hair too, but I had deliberately spent so long in the bathroom that there wasn’t enough time for it. “Honestly, Mom, if any of us has to be warned to be on our best behavior, it’s you!”
“Exactly! We have perfect manners. Good evening, sir.” Mia bobbed a curtsy to a large stone statue beside the front door, a mixture of eagle (head down to rib cage) and lion (the rest of him), and rather stout into the bargain. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mia Silver, this is my sister Olivia Silver, and the one with the heavy frown looking more like a wicked stepmother is our real mom, Professor Ann Matthews. May I ask whom I have the honor of addressing?”
“This is Frightful Freddy, also known as Fat Freddy.” The front door had been opened, without a sound, by a tall boy a little older than me, wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt and jeans. I heaved a sigh of relief. Thank goodness Mom had put the silly tea dress on herself; I’d have felt totally ridiculous in it.
“My grandparents gave him to my parents as a wedding present,” said the boy, patting Frightful Freddy’s beak. “Years ago, Dad wanted to move him to the far corner of the garden, but he weighs about a ton.”
“Hello, Grayson!” Mom kissed the boy on both cheeks and then pointed to us. “These are my two mousies, Mia and Liv.”
Mia and I hated being called mousies. It was as if Mom was letting everyone know that our front teeth were a little too large, which was possibly true.
Grayson smiled at us. “Hi. Good to meet you.”
“I bet,” I muttered under my breath.
“You have lipstick on your cheek,” said Mia.
Mom sighed, and Grayson looked a bit baffled. I couldn’t help noticing that he looked very like his father if you took no notice of his hair. The same broad shoulders, the same self-confident bearing, the same noncommittal politician’s smile. That was probably why he seemed so familiar to me. Admittedly he didn’t have ears as enormous as Ernest’s, but they might yet catch up with his father’s. I’d once read that ears and noses are the only parts of the body to go on growing into old age.
Mom walked energetically past Grayson, as if she knew her way around the house very well. There was nothing we could do but follow her. Only, we stopped in the corridor, at a loss, because she had disappeared.
Grayson closed the door behind us and passed the back of his hand over his cheeks. In fact, Mia had invented the lipstick bit.
“Is there at least something delicious to eat?” asked Mia, after we had stared at each other awkwardly for a couple of seconds.
“I think so,” said Grayson, smiling again. I’ve no idea how he managed it. I couldn’t bring myself to smile back, anyway. Stupid show-off. “Mrs. Dimbleby has left quails on a baking tray ready to go into the oven.”
Exactly what we might have expected! “Mrs. Dimbleby?” I repeated. “I assume she’s your cook? And Mr. Dimbleby will be your gardener, I’m sure.”
“She’s our cook and housekeeper.” Grayson was still smiling, but from the way he looked at me (one eyebrow slightly raised), I could tell that he’d registered my ironic undertone. Incidentally, he hadn’t inherited Ernest’s blue eyes. His were light brown, a striking contrast with his fair hair. “As far as I know, Mr. Dimbleby sells insurance. Dad does the gardening himself—he says it’s relaxing.” The eyebrow went a little farther up. “And I hear that you girls have a nanny. Is that right?”
“Well, we…” Bloody hell. Luckily Ernest interrupted us, with Mom clinging to his arm as if it were a life preserver. Just like yesterday he was beaming at us as if we were the best things he’d ever seen.
“Good, Grayson’s already taken your coats. Welcome to the Casa Spencer. Come along through. Florence is waiting with the starters.”
Neither Grayson nor Mia and I explained that we didn’t have any coats with us. (How could we, when our fall and winter clothes were still in the moving company’s crates somewhere?) Mom cast us a last warning glance before we followed her and Ernest in silence through a double door into the living and dining room. It was a pretty place, with wooden floorboards, windows down to floor level, an open hearth, white sofas with embroidered cushions, a piano, and a large dining table from which there was a lovely view of the garden. It looked spacious but not enormously large, and surprisingly … well, comfortable. I’d never in my life have thought of Ernest having such unstylish sofas, getting on in years a bit, with covers torn at the edges and brightly colored cushions that didn’t match. There was even an amusing fur cushion in the shape of a ginger cat. The cushion stretched as we passed it.
“This is our cat, Spot.” A girl had just glided past us to put a plate down on the dining table. She had to be Grayson’s twin sister; they had the same light-brown eyes. “And you must be Liv and Mia. Ann’s told us so much about you. That’s a lovely way you’ve done your hair.” She seemed to smile as easily as her brother, but it looked better on her, because she had dimples in her cheeks, a snub nose that went with the dimples, and a pretty, freckled complexion. “I’m Florence, and I’m really pleased to meet you.” She was small and delicately built, but with voluptuous breasts, and her face was framed by shining, chestnut-brown curls falling in ringlets to her shoulders. Mia and I could only gawp at her. She was simply stunning.
“What a pretty dress, Ann,” she said to Mom in a voice as sweet as honey. “Blue suits you so well.”
Suddenly I seemed to myself not just dry as a stick, long-nosed, and plain simplistic in the way my mind worked but also dreadfully immature. Mom was right: we were being downright bad mannered. We’d hit out with dark looks and said rude things just to punish her. Like naughty toddlers flinging themselves on the supermarket floor and throwing tantrums. Meanwhile Florence and Grayson showed no weak spots but were behaving like grown-ups. They didn’t react to our rudeness. They were smiling, paying compliments, and carrying on a polite conversation. Maybe they really were glad that their father had met our mom. Or maybe they were just pretending to be glad. Whichever way it was, they were doing far better than we were.
Feeling ashamed of myself, I decided that from then on I’d be just as well brought up and polite. Although that, as it turned out, wasn’t going to be so simple.
“There’s only something small for a starter.” When everyone was sitting down, Florence smiled warmly at Mia and me from the other side of the table. “Mrs. Dimbleby bought far too many quails. I hope you like quails with celeriac purée.”
Oh no—here we went. Celeriac. Eeugh! “That sounds … interesting,” I said in as politely adult a tone as I could manage. Interesting was always a useful word.
“I’m afraid I’m a vegetarian,” claimed Mia, proving cleverer than me, as she often did. “And I have this silly allergy to celeriac.”
Also, you’re stuffed full of Christmas cookies, I added silently.
“Oh dear, never mind. I’ll make you a sandwich if you like.” Florence smiled so radiantly, it positively hurt your eyes. “You’re staying in the Finchleys’ apartment, aren’t you? Is Mrs. Finchley still collecting those charming china figurines?”
I wondered whether I could say “Yes, they’re so interesting” again without sounding negative about it, but once again Mia had chipped in ahead of me. “No, these days she’s collecting the most dreadfully vulgar-looking dancers.”
I quickly looked down at the plate with my starter on it, so as not to giggle. What on earth was the stuff on it? I could identify the thin, red slices as some kind of meat, but what was the mushy pile beside it?
Grayson, who was sitting beside me, seemed to have read my mind. “Chutneys are Mrs. Dimbleby’s specialty,” he told me quietly. “This one is green-tomato chutney.”
“Oh. Ah. Interesting.” I put a lavish forkful into my mouth and nearly spat it all out again. For a moment I forgot my good intentions. “Are those raisins in it?” I asked Grayson incredulously. He didn’t reply. He had taken his iPhone out of his jeans pocket and was looking at the display under the table. I’d have looked too, purely out of curiosity, but I had enough to do swallowing the weird chutney stuff. As well as raisins, it contained onions, garlic, curry power, ginger, and—yes, no doubt about it, that was cinnamon. And something that, when I bit it, felt like crunchy buttons of some kind. Mrs. Dimbleby had probably stirred in everything that needed to be used up. If that was her specialty, I hated to think what the thing she didn’t cook so well would taste like.
Mia grinned at me maliciously as I washed the chutney down with a gulp of orange juice.
“But aren’t the Finchleys coming back from South America next month, Dad?” asked Florence.
“Yes, they are. They’ll be needing their apartment back from the first of October.” Ernest glanced briefly at Mom and took a deep breath. “In fact, that’s exactly what we wanted to discuss with all of you this evening.”
The display of Grayson’s iPhone flickered. When he noticed me looking curiously at it, he held his hand farther under the table, as if he was afraid I might read the message with him. I wasn’t even particularly interested in his text message. I thought the tattoo on the inside of his wrist was far more intriguing. Black lettering, half hidden by the sleeve of his T-shirt.
“You’re one of that blond boy group from school,” I whispered. “That’s why I thought you looked familiar.”
“What?”
“We’ve met before. I saw you and your friends in school today.”
“Really? I don’t remember that.”
Of course not. He hadn’t so much as looked at me. “Never mind. Pretty tattoo.” Sub um … Unfortunately I couldn’t make out the rest of it.
“What?” His eyes had been following my glance. “Oh, that. It’s not a tattoo, only felt pen. Er … notes for Latin.”
Yes, sure. “Interesting,” I said. “Show me!”
But Grayson wasn’t about to do any such thing. He pulled the sleeve of his T-shirt down over the “notes” and turned back to his iPhone.
That was really interesting. Without thinking, I put another forkful of chutney into my mouth. Bad mistake—it tasted even worse the second time. But at least I could now identify the crunchy buttons as walnuts.
“You see, it’s like this.…” Ernest was looking solemn and had taken Mom’s hand. Mom was smiling in a forced way at the pretty arrangement of blue hydrangeas in the middle of the dining table. No doubt about it—something serious was coming.
“Ann … your mother … well…” Ernest cleared his throat and began again. This time he wasn’t stammering. Instead he sounded as if he were addressing the Economic and Social Committee of the European Court of Justice. “Ann and I have decided to take the fiasco over at the cottage as a sign from Fortuna to consolidate our relationship and dispense with the problem of who lives where by, so to speak … merging.”
After this announcement there was silence for a good five seconds, after which I had a terrible coughing fit, because as I gasped for air, a raisin had gone down the wrong way. It was some time before I had dealt … no, sorry, dispensed with the coughing fit. My eyes were streaming, but I could clearly see that Florence, sitting opposite me, had stopped smiling. Even the sun had stopped shining in through the window, having disappeared behind the roof of the house next door. Grayson, to be sure, was still busy with his cell phone under the table. He was probably Googling the meaning of consolidate, although it was only too obvious.
“Lottie says you should always explain yourself as simply as possible so that people can understand you,” commented Mia.
“Yes, what, exactly, are you saying, Dad?” Florence’s voice was no longer sweet as honey. It sounded rather like the way the chutney tasted. “You mean that you and Ann are looking for a shared apartment? Now? At once? But you’ve only known each other for six months.”
“So to speak … well, no, not really.” Ernest was still smiling, but tiny beads of sweat were standing out on his bald patch. “After thinking it over at length … At our age, time is a precious…” He shook his head, obviously furious with himself for being so tongue-tied. “The house is large enough for us all,” he said at last, firmly.
“And you two grew up here,” said Mom to Grayson and Florence. The corners of her mouth were quivering slightly. “We didn’t want to ask you to face moving house in your last year at school.”
No, sure. Moving house wasn’t good for the emotional balance of young people. Anyone could tell that from Mia and me. Mia made a funny sound, like Buttercup when you stepped on her paw by accident.
“We’re supposed to move into this house?” she asked quietly. “And all of us live here together?”
Ernest and Mom, who were still holding hands, exchanged a brief glance.
“Yes,” said Ernest firmly. Mom just nodded.
“But that’s ridiculous!” Florence pushed her plate away. “This house is only just large enough for us—where do you think we can put three extra people?”
Four! I felt like saying. She’d forgotten Lottie. But I could only get out a kind of croak—there was still something lodged in my throat.
“This house is enormous, Florence,” said Ernest. “It has six bedrooms. If we move around a bit, we’ll all fit in perfectly well. I thought Grayson could have the gable room at the front of the house, you can have your old room back again, and then Mia and Liv can—”
“What?” Florence’s voice wasn’t far from being a screech now. “Those are my rooms up under the roof—I’m certainly not giving them up and sharing a bathroom with Grayson again. Grayson! Say something, why don’t you?”
Grayson was looking confused. He hadn’t even looked up from his iPhone. Imagine that, when the world was coming to an end up above the table! He certainly had strong nerves! “Er … yes,” he said. “Why can’t Florence stay on the top floor under the roof? There are plenty of rooms on the second floor.”
“Grayson, have you been listening at all?” Florence stared at him, stunned. “They’re planning to move in here next month! Tell them we don’t have room for them! The gable room is Granny’s room, my old room is Dad’s office, the corner room is our guest room, and I’ve put all my winter clothes in the built-in cupboard in your room.…”
“Flo, darling, do please listen.” The beads of sweat on Ernest’s forehead seemed to have grown a little larger. “I can understand that you feel you won’t have quite as much space to yourself, but—”
“But what?” spat Florence.
Even in all this upheaval, I couldn’t help being grateful to her for having stopped being so grown-up and polite. I liked her a lot better with that hysterical voice and eyes flashing with fury. Mia and I were looking back and forth at her and Ernest as if they were playing tennis. Mom fixed her eyes firmly on the flower arrangement again, and Grayson was staring at his iPhone as if spellbound. Maybe he was Googling “patchwork family” and “first aid.”
“—it wouldn’t be forever,” said Ernest. “Look, this time next year you twins will be moving out to study somewhere, then you’ll be home during university vacations at the most, and—”
Florence interrupted him. “And so you won’t be lonely you’re bringing a woman and two substitute children into the house? Can’t you wait until we’ve left?”
Yes, or even a few years longer.
Now it was Ernest’s turn to sound chillier. “I realize that you have to get used to this new situation, as we all of us here do. But I have already made up my mind.” He passed the back of his hand over his forehead. “We just have to move things around a little. If Grayson moves into the gable room—”
“Which belongs to Granny!” Florence was shouting in such a loud voice that the ginger cat jumped off the sofa and several feet into the air. He was quite a fat cat. “Have you told Granny about your plans? No, of course not! She’s on a cruise on the other side of the world—very practical, isn’t it?—and she doesn’t know the first thing about all this!”
“Florence—”
“Where’s she going to sleep when she comes to stay?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Your grandmother lives twenty minutes away—she doesn’t need a room here at all. She can simply drive back to her own house after visiting us. But if you like, you can have the gable room, Grayson can just stay in his old room, Mia can have the corner room, and I’ll clear the study out for Liv.” Ernest smiled at Mom. “I work much too hard anyway. I’ll avoid doing that at home in the future.”
Hesitantly, Mom returned his smile.
“Wait a moment—if Liv and Mia are going to be on the second floor too, then who gets my rooms in the attic?” Florence looked penetratingly at Mom. “You, by any chance?”
“No,” said Mom, sounding scared. “I don’t need much space. Honestly, as far as that goes, I can manage with very little. All I have is a few crates of books. No, your father thought the rooms up there would be just right for Lottie.”
At this Florence went right off her rocker. “The nanny?” she cried shrilly, digging her forefinger into the air so hard that she almost poked Mia’s forehead. “These two are far too old for a nanny … and I’m supposed to give up my attic rooms to her and share a bathroom with three other people? Honestly, this is the end!”
“Lottie is much more than a nanny. She also does almost all the housework, the shopping, and the cooking,” said Ernest. “And as … well … a very important emotional factor, she cannot, at the moment, be excluded from these considerations.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that we need Lottie,” I said quietly.
“Not forever, of course,” Mom made haste to say. “You are quite right, Florence. Mia and Liv are indeed much too old for a nanny. Maybe Lottie will stay another year, maybe only six months.…” She saw Mia’s lower lip beginning to tremble and added, “We’ll just have to see how much longer we need her.”
I reached for Mia’s hand under the table and squeezed it. Don’t cry, I begged her silently. Because I was afraid that if Mia started crying, I’d have to join in too.
“And how about Mrs. Dimbleby?”
“Mrs. Dimbleby has been wanting to work shorter hours for years,” said Ernest. “She’ll be glad if she’s needed here for only one or two days a week.”
“Grayson! Did you hear that?” cried Florence.
Grayson raised his head. He actually was still busy with his iPhone. “Yes, of course,” he said.
But Florence didn’t seem to believe him. Once again, at high volume, she summed up the evening’s revelations for her own benefit. “Dad doesn’t just want Ann and her children to move in here, all of us to clear out of our rooms, and share a bathroom between four of us”—at this point her voice rose to such a pitch that I felt as if the windowpanes were beginning to rattle—“he also wants to fire Mrs. Dimbleby and give her job to Ann’s nanny instead! And the nanny is getting my rooms up in the attic.”
“Oh,” said Grayson. “That’s not a great idea. We’d have to go through her bedroom to get to our billiard table in the attic.”
Florence groaned. “Don’t you understand what Dad just said? They’ll be moving in here in three weeks’ time.…”
“Two weeks’ time, to be precise. I’m taking a day off work for it,” said Ernest. “And there are some painting jobs to be done first.”
“They’ll be moving in here, bag, baggage, and nanny!”
“And dog,” added Mia.
“And dog,” repeated Florence. She seemed to have exhausted her strength; she wasn’t shouting anymore. The word dog came out as hardly more than a whisper. But as if on cue, the ginger cat arched his back in front of the dining table and mewed out loud. Florence’s shouting seemed to have attracted him rather than putting him off.
Ernest smiled. A little wearily, maybe, but it was definitely a smile. “That’s all clear, then. So now we can fetch the quails in from the kitchen, can’t we, Spot? Will you lend me a hand, Ann?”
Mom stood up with such alacrity that she almost brought the tablecloth with her. “Nothing I’d rather do,” she said.
The cat followed them into the kitchen.