Chapter Twenty
Harriet woke to sunlight streaming through the windows, the sound of laughter, and the smell of pancakes. Dread seeped into her stomach, which seemed an unreasonable reaction to so many positive things.
And yet… I won’t get their hopes up too much. What had happened to that promise?
Quickly she showered and dressed, pausing to slap on some makeup and make sure her hair was behaving itself. It wasn’t as if she were actually making an effort. Not exactly.
Downstairs, happy chaos reigned. Richard was at the stove, with her pink apron on over the trackie bottoms and T-shirt he’d worn to bed, just like in the old days, flipping pancakes high. In fact one had, judging by the grease stain, hit the ceiling.
The children were surrounding him, Mallory slouched on a stool, pretending to look bored, William jumping up and down and occasionally tackling Richard for no apparent reason, Chloe hugging his legs. Health and safety regulations be damned, Harriet thought in bemusement. The pan on the stove close to Chloe’s head was smoking.
“Good morning.”
“Mummy!” Chloe turned to her with delight. “Look who’s here.”
“I think Mum knows, Chloe,” Mallory said in a well-duh tone.
Harriet gave her a look, and Mallory shrugged and raised her eyebrows, clearly wondering what was going on. And what could Harriet tell her? Already this felt complicated.
“And he’s making pancakes,” Chloe continued, blissfully oblivious to any undercurrents. “I’m having mine with golden syrup. Lots of golden syrup.”
The bottle of syrup, Harriet saw, had tipped on its side and the sticky contents were now oozing out. In her rose-tinted memory of Richard’s kitchen sessions, she’d forgotten what an absolute mess he made. Men definitely could not multitask.
“How lovely,” she said, and Richard quirked an eyebrow at her, his smile a little questioning.
Harriet smiled back, a working of her mouth that didn’t feel quite real. She didn’t know how to feel. Didn’t know whether she should go with this, and all the joy Richard seemed to be bringing to the children, or hang back a little, stay a bit cool. A little safe.
“Mummy.” Chloe ran over to tug on her shirt. “You’re going to have a pancake, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I will.”
“You always like Daddy’s pancakes.” Chloe was heartbreakingly earnest.
It was impossible not to see how excited she was about having her parents together, her family whole.
“Yes, I’ve always liked them,” Harriet said dutifully, and righted the bottle of golden syrup.
They ate the pancakes crowded around the table, and Harriet tried not to notice what a bomb-site the kitchen had become—splotches of golden syrup everywhere, pans left grease-spattered on the stove top, flour and icing sugar dusting everything.
The mess didn’t matter. She knew that. What was important now was that they were together, that William was laughing and Chloe was on Richard’s lap, and even Mallory was smiling. They were happy, and they were a family. So why did she still feel uneasy?
“Right,” Richard said to the children when they’d finished the last of the pancakes, along with the golden syrup. “Why don’t we clean up while your mum visits Lady Stokeley?”
“What? Oh.” Harriet stared at him in surprise.
He really was making an effort. She left them all clearing the table, William balancing too many plates and Chloe drawing patterns in the spilled icing sugar. She promised to be back in an hour, and Richard suggested they all go for a walk since it was, despite Harriet’s warnings last night, not raining.
“A walk?” Mallory said with deep suspicion. “Why would we want to walk anywhere?”
“You’re not a teenager yet so enough with the attitude,” Richard said good-naturedly. “And you’re not taking your phone.”
It felt good to have someone else help to shoulder the burden, Harriet reflected as she walked down the drive from Willoughby Close to the manor house. The sky was a pale grey, with darker clouds on the horizon. It wasn’t raining yet, but it most likely soon would be.
Richard was making a huge effort to help, to be involved, but how long would it last? As soon as he got a job, whether it was this edgy one he was hoping for, he’d be back in London working all hours and she’d be left in Wychwood-on-Lea alone, struggling. Because she had been struggling, even if she hadn’t thought so at the time.
She’d been lonely and frustrated, and she’d filled up her life with things that didn’t matter. Harriet didn’t think she’d do that again, but she didn’t want to go back to anything close to the status quo. She didn’t think Richard did either, at least not between them. But what about his job? The status, the money, the stuff?
The manor house was quiet and empty-feeling when Harriet poked her head round the massive front door. “Lady Stokeley?”
There was no answer, and so after checking in the downstairs room Lady Stokeley used she tiptoed upstairs and tapped on her bedroom door. There was no answer, and feeling uneasy and a bit invasive, Harriet cracked it open.
Lady Stokeley was lying in bed asleep. Her face looked paler and more wrinkled than ever, her body seeming tiny and frail beneath the worn satin coverlet.
“Lady Stokeley?” Harriet whispered, guilt needling her.
She’d left her after her last chemo treatment two days ago, and hadn’t checked back to see if she was coping. From what she’d read online, a patient started to feel the effects of the chemotherapy around now.
Lady Stokeley’s eyes fluttered open and it took her a moment to focus on Harriet. “Hello, my dear,” she murmured, her voice a raspy thread of sound.
“Hello.” Harriet smiled. “Can I get you anything?”
“A bucket, perhaps.” Lady Stokeley sighed and her eyes fluttered closed again. “I’m afraid I’ve been rather ill.”
“From the chemo…”
“It would appear so. I was hoping to avoid that most unpleasant side-effect, but the antinausea medication I received doesn’t seem to help.” She smiled faintly, her eyes still closed, and Harriet’s heart ached. It was a miserable existence, enduring this all alone in this huge, empty house.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, because she couldn’t think of anything else she could do. “And some toast maybe, with just a little bit of butter?”
Lady Stokeley grimaced. “I don’t think I can keep anything down.”
“You need to eat,” Harriet protested with rising alarm.
She knew enough about cancer to know that keeping one’s strength up was vitally important. Lady Stokeley was thin enough as it was. She didn’t have any weight to spare.
“Very well.” Her lips twitched. “I shall endeavor to eat some toast. Since I’ve already endured that wretched chemotherapy, I can hardly fall at this small hurdle.”
“Good.” Lady Stokeley’s strength of spirit was an inspiration, but Harriet still worried. How was she going to cope here all alone?
Downstairs in the cavernous kitchen she noted the lack of food—a few slices of bread going stale and one box of UHT milk—with ever increasing alarm. She definitely needed to do a shop. And Lady Stokeley, whether she wanted it or not, needed more help.
Harriet made the toast and tea and brought it back upstairs. Lady Stokeley had fallen asleep again, but she opened her eyes as Harriet came in.
“Thank you, my dear.”
“I’m going to stay here until you eat this,” Harriet warned. “Every bite.”
Lady Stokeley managed a small smile. “I have not had so stern a taskmaster since my nanny insisted I eat my porridge. I’ve always hated porridge.”
“I won’t make you porridge, then,” Harriet answered as she pulled up the powder puff stool to the side of the bed.
Lady Stokeley struggled to sit up and Harriet leaned forward to help her, conscious of how thin her arms felt, how bird-like her bones, so light they felt hollow.
“You cannot imagine how aggravating it is to be so feeble,” Lady Stokeley said once she was upright, leaning back against her pillows, her breath coming out in a shuddering gasp. “So utterly maddening.”
“No,” Harriet agreed quietly. “I can’t imagine.”
Lady Stokeley gave her one of her shrewd looks. “You really cannot, you know. Perhaps you think you can, but no one actually believes one is going to grow old. Not like this.” She held out one scrawny, claw-like hand, the veins bumpy and blue. “It’s shocking, even when it shouldn’t be, to see your body wither and, of course, die. Eventually.” Her mouth curved up in a smile, her eyes glinting with humor. “Please don’t lecture me on how I need to be positive or some such nonsense. I am perfectly entitled to a moment’s complaint.”
“Of course you are,” Harriet answered, and gestured to the plate. “Now eat.”
It took forty-five painstaking minutes for Lady Stokeley to nibble her way through a single piece of barely buttered toast. Harriet watched, wondering how to broach what she knew would be an uncomfortable topic. Finally, when Lady Stokeley had pushed the plate away, Harriet said carefully, “Lady Stokeley, have you told anyone about your—diagnosis? And your treatment?”
“I think,” Lady Stokeley said, “that it is perhaps time you called me Dorothy.”
Harriet smiled at that. “Dorothy, then. What about your nephew, Henry Trent? Have you spoken to him?”
Dorothy sighed. “No, I have not. And before you tell me that I should, let me remind you, Harriet, that I am in full possession of my mental faculties if not my physical ones, and I have good reason for not ringing my only living relative.” She sagged back against the pillows, her eyes closed, that brief diatribe having exhausted her.
“I’m sure you do,” Harriet said quietly. “But I’m worried about you here all alone. I don’t think it’s safe—”
“I am perfectly safe.”
“What if you became really ill?” Harriet pressed. Dorothy’s eyes snapped open, full of ire.
“I have already been really ill, and I have managed. Now I appreciate you are speaking out of concern, but I do not need your well-intentioned interference in this matter.” She took a short, sharp breath. “You are very young, Harriet, even if you don’t think you are. I have endured and experienced far more than you have, although I appreciate these last few months have been difficult for you. But the truth is, and will remain, that you know very little of my situation.”
That was her told. Harriet couldn’t remember the last time she’d receiving such a scolding. She had no choice but to drop the matter. “Very well,” she said after a pause. “But may I ask, have you told Abby? And Ellie? Because I think they should know.”
Dorothy’s mouth compressed. “Very well,” she said after a moment. “I will tell Abby when she next visits. I imagine she suspects something already, since I have been so fatigued. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some rest.”
“Okay.” Clearly a dismissal. Harriet took the cup and plate, feeling both chastened and helpless. “Is there anything else I can—”
“No.” Dorothy closed her eyes, leaving Harriet no choice but to tiptoe out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Back at Willoughby Close the kitchen was, amazingly, clean, a picnic had been packed, Richard had changed into jeans and a jumper he’d had in his car, and the children were all wearing welly boots, ready for their walk. The gray clouds gathering on the horizon had started to spread, but Richard dismissed them with a shrug of his shoulders.
“If it rains, it rains. We’ve all got Macs on.”
And so they headed out, making for the Lea River, Daisy frisking at their heels, delighted to be out and about, and with so much company.
The day was cool and muggy, the air already feeling damp. Harriet dug her hands into the pockets of her waterproof jacket as she watched William and Richard kick a football back and forth across the muddy ground as they walked. Chloe was skipping ahead, singing, and Mallory, deciding whether she wanted to keep sulking about the confiscation of her phone, walked a little behind.
When had they last had a family walk? When had they last done anything as a family? Richard had been gone so much and then when he had been home, Harriet had usually had a laundry list of to-do items for him to tick off, usually involving paperwork or DIY. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was holed up in his study, pretending he was doing work when he was probably surfing the Internet or watching his ridiculous sci-fi television programs.
How had they got into such a massive rut? She didn’t know whether to be depressed she hadn’t realized it, or encouraged that she finally had. And she wasn’t at all sure that a couple of burned pancakes and an afternoon walk was going to dig them out of it.
“Mummy, look!” Chloe danced back towards her on her tiptoes, pointing to a line of ducklings in the river, all of them paddling furiously behind their proud mother.
“Aren’t they sweet,” Harriet said, and smiling down at Chloe, she reached for her hand.
She needed to stop worrying so much, stop second-guessing absolutely everything. She’d just try to enjoy this moment, this day, without wondering where it might lead.
They walked farther down the river than Harriet ever had before, with Mallory only asking for her phone twice and William and Richard kicking the football back and forth, once kicking it accidentally into the river. Richard got it back with a tree branch, and Chloe cheered. Harriet’s heart started to lighten. Maybe she didn’t need to make this so hard after all.
About half a mile past the bridge that led to the high street and the school, they found a clearing with a fallen tree that looked like a good place for their makeshift picnic. Harriet spread the rug while Richard got out the food and the children mucked about.
Then she sat down and glanced at the offerings, unable to hide her bemusement. Half a bag of stale crisps, two browning bananas, a single juice box, and a couple of slices of ham that looked like it was about to go off. Admittedly, she hadn’t had much in the way of food in the house, but what about bread for sandwiches? Or water since they were all thirsty?
Richard looked at the food piled in the middle of the rug and gave Harriet a wry smile. “That’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it?”
“It’s fine,” Harriet said bracingly, surprising herself.
In another life, an old one, she would have found a way to show him how annoyed she was. Said or at least thought how if she wanted something done properly, she would have done it herself. All right, perhaps she was still thinking that, at least a little, but maybe having something done properly wasn’t as important as she’d once thought.
They divided it all between them—bananas, crisps, ham. They even passed around the juice box, taking sips, save for Mallory, who said that they were all disgusting. As they finished it up it started to rain, big fat drops that promised a good soaking.
Richard cleared away the rubbish while Harriet bundled up the rug, and somehow, even though it was pouring, it felt okay.
“This was the worst picnic ever,” Mallory pronounced, but she was smiling.
They walked back down alongside the river to the footbridge, and then down the high street. It was still pouring rain and they were all soaked but nobody seemed to mind.
“How about some proper food?” Richard suggested, and nodded towards Olivia’s teashop.
Harriet did a mental calculation of how much hot chocolate and scones for everyone would cost, and then decided this was not the time to parse pennies. “Sounds lovely,” she said, and they all headed into the shop, which was thankfully empty, as five people and a frantic puppy would drive even the most loyal customers away.
“Hello,” Olivia said in surprise as she bustled out of the back room. “Nice to see you again.”
Mallory gave Harriet a suspicious look, clearly wanting to ask how Harriet knew this person.
Harriet just smiled contentedly. “Hi, Olivia,” she said. “Cream teas for everyone, I think. And do you mind a very wet puppy in here?”
“Not at all,” Olivia answered, now smiling broadly, and she headed back to the kitchen.
Harriet shrugged off her sopping jacket, catching Richard’s eye and then sharing a complicit smile that made her insides tingle. In that moment, despite the rain and the pathetic picnic and Mallory’s occasional moans, the day felt near perfect, her uncertainties scattered.
As they sat down at two spindly tables, the children already starting to bicker, their clothes lightly steaming and Daisy pressing close to their legs, Harriet wanted to simply keep hold of this moment. To remember it always, to live in it—shining and perfect.