doing a triathlon in September,’ said Amelia. ‘He’ll be tapping you for sponsorship, so watch out.’
‘I’m broke!’ she said, managing a smile.
‘I’ve given up cheese,’ said Paul morosely. Then he pointed with his glass to the box. ‘Is that for me?’
‘I hope you like it,’ said Jo.
Whether it was the booze or not, his face lit up when his eyes landed on the homburg, and he paraded the hat in front of his guests.
‘You look like something out of le Carré!’ said Amelia, laughing. William tried it on as well, to much amusement.
‘Thanks sis!’ said Paul, giving her a peck on the cheek. ‘Actually, we could have done with you here a week ago. Car got broken into – they nicked my iPad. And my bloody squash racket of all things. Police didn’t even come out and take prints!’
Jo could tell a few people were listening, so just said jovially, ‘Sorry, bro – not my patch!’
She could have told them that the police force were suffering the deepest cuts since their inception, that manned stations were being phased out in all but the biggest towns, and that the few demoralised officers who did remain really couldn’t give a shit about someone stupid enough to leave their iPad on display in their vehicle.
But that would probably sour the mood.
She’d never been great at small talk anyway, and less so when she was lagging several drinks behind the rest of the guests. So she drifted through the party. Several people professed intrigue about her line of work, declaring their own jobs intensely uninteresting, but when she offered few salacious details, she sensed their disappointment.
She sipped at a glass of champagne, feeling like a schoolgirl out of place at a disco. Amelia had offered her the bed in the spare room for the night, but she’d politely declined. It was weird enough just visiting for a few hours. She found the lounge had been renovated too. Gone was the old worn carpet, replaced by oak flooring and a plush Afghan rug. The furniture was leather and chrome. There were figurative daubs of paint on the walls instead of the conservative rustic watercolours her parents had favoured. She thought briefly of the stained sofa at the flat, with the numerous chips in the wallpaper. How the fuck did I go so wrong?
Eventually, she extracted herself through the back doors again, glad to be out in the warm evening air. The house’s garden had always been her dad’s pride and joy – dropping down towards a tributary of the River Cherwell at the bottom. Beyond, past a small orchard, the ground rose to abut the land of Cherry Tree Cottage, about two hundred metres away. Mrs Carruthers, Jo’s former piano teacher, had once lived there with her husband. They were both surely dead now, or at least moved on. The evening light was failing as Jo made her way down the steps, away from the glare of the security light, under an overgrown trellis. Paul wasn’t green-fingered at all, and there was something sad about the disarray.
The river had been fenced off, and Jo remembered Paul saying that Will had once had a bit of a scare down there, or perhaps it was one of his friends. It was a shame.
Jo climbed over, letting the chatter from the party fade into insignificance. There’d been newts and frogs down here when she was a girl. The ground was squelchy in places, but she reached the old beech tree, and saw to her astonishment that the swing was still there, hanging loose from one side.
She went further, using her phone as a torch, into ground that had always been a wilderness, where Dad had chucked the grass shavings and prunings to rot down into compost. Where, as a girl, she’d made up silly games about beautiful fairies and goblin kings, borrowing the plots from the Enid Blyton books she’d voraciously consumed.
Bats swooped over the old barn opposite like flakes of black ash. Jo couldn’t believe it was still standing too. It belonged to Cherry Tree Cottage, a relic from when the place was still a farm. As a girl, it had always scared her a little, sitting out there alone and abandoned, with its tiny shuttered windows. Mrs Carruthers said it was dangerous, close to falling down, and one wall was bowed a little.
Jo was about to turn round and head back to the party when the barn door opened suddenly, and a figure came out, hunched and walking with a stick. An arc of torchlight flashed across the ground. It couldn’t be, could it?
‘Mrs Carruthers?’
The old woman stopped suddenly, and turned towards Jo with her whole upper body, as if her spine and hips were welded together.
‘Hello there? Who’s that?’
‘It’s me – Josephine,’ she called.
‘Oh my!’ said the old lady. She had something in her other hand that looked like a tin can. ‘Is that really you, Josie?’
Jo could have cried, so powerful was the wave of nostalgia that washed over her. How long had it been? Twenty years at least. She hadn’t seen Mrs Carruthers since the day she’d moved out to uni.
The old woman hobbled across to her, over the uneven ground, still clutching the can in one hand and the torch in the other.
‘No, stay there!’ said Jo. She hurried over herself, the dewy grass soaking her feet. She shielded her eyes as she got close, until the beam dropped. She saw a fork sticking out of the top of the can and smelt something that might have been cat food. She remembered a little tabby brushing against her ankles by the pedals during her lessons, but that was long ago.
‘Let me look at you,’ the older woman said, peering awkwardly from under a bowed back. She was wearing a blouse and baggy cardigan, and wellington boots. Her wrists were narrow, her fingers knotted. Under her thin white hair, her face was painfully gaunt; her once sparkly blue eyes looked silvery pale like a winter sky.
‘Goodness,’ she said. ‘All grown up.’
‘My brother’s having a birthday party,’ said Jo, and as she said it she realised it sounded a bit silly, like there’d be jelly and ice cream.
‘I see them from time to time,’ she said. ‘He’s got two bonnie children, hasn’t he?’
‘That’s right. Emma’s fifteen, William’s six.’ She frowned at the dish. ‘What are you doing out there, Mrs Carruthers?’
‘Oh, do call me Sally,’ said the old woman. ‘It’s my cat Timmy. He’s turned quite feral since Mr Carruthers passed away. Lives in the old barn, won’t come in the house.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about your husband,’ said Jo. In truth, she barely remembered Mr Carruthers. He’d been a large, taciturn presence at the best of times, drifting about, always doing indeterminate jobs. He’d used the barn as a workshop of some sort.
‘Don’t be,’ said Sally, with a toss of her head. ‘He was ready to go.’ She reached across and touched Jo’s arm. ‘Now how’s your practice coming along?’
The question threw Jo. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your piano!’ said Sally.
‘Oh, I’m afraid I don’t play any more,’ said Jo.
Mrs Carruthers wore a look of mock indignation. ‘But you were such a talent!’
‘I
