his feet. And suddenly there’s another figure too, rushing forward, hand shading her eyes, peering up at me as she shrills, ‘Edie? Is that you?’
‘Aunty …?’ She doesn’t even look like she’s dressed and, worse still, there’s no sign of any bags of cake at all.
‘I’m Aunty Josephine – you remember me, don’t you?’ If you leave a gap where a word should be, someone will usually fill it in for you. As for remembering her, it’s only a couple of weeks since she visited us in Bath, so who knows what she’s implying with that. ‘What on earth are you doing up there, Edie? And why have you come with a window cleaner?’
‘He’s not a …’ The details are too confusing; I need to skip to the important bit. ‘When you didn’t answer the door, I thought I’d come in through the window.’
I stick my chin out and stare down at the crinkly bits at the edge of those dark chocolate eyes just below me. ‘Aunty JOSIE – is that the answer you were looking for? Maybe now you can stop banging on about breaking and entering?’
His hand on the ladder has wide knuckles and broad thumbs and, worst of all, it’s still there, making my insides fizz a little when it should be moving downwards. He’s staring at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Great, so now we’ve sorted that, what’s your status, exactly?’
I might not always remember what my mum’s sister is called, but I know the answer to this one. ‘I’m happily single and determined to stay that way, thank you. Why?’
‘That makes two of us then, but I’m not about to propose.’ There’s a twist to his lips. ‘All I meant was, are you a tourist or a local? You’ve got a hell of a lot of luggage if you’re only here for a weekend. Unless that’s your swag pile down there?’
It’s good he cleared that up then. No need for the ground to open up and swallow me at all. If he’s going to take a life history, I’d rather he did it when my butt wasn’t rammed against his chest.
‘Actually I’m here to … er … help with this place.’ Three hours of hanging onto the name and now it’s gone. ‘I’ll be here for a while.’
‘Wonderful, well, if you’re a long-stay prisoner remember there are barns further along and the delivery lorries are extra wide.’ He stops to let that sink in. ‘So best not park on the lane if your car is shiny or precious.’
‘Thanks for that.’ I’m not going to share that my car is both of those things, but that sadly it won’t be here to get in his way. ‘You might like to think about yellow lines for next season then?’ I’m proud of myself for remembering those enough to toss them in here. Apart from anything, it’s a dirt track. The paint would never stick.
He pulls a face. ‘Forget yellow, in summer this lane has virtual double reds. You’ve no idea how much time we waste towing trippers’ cars into the yard so they don’t get demolished out here.’ His eyes narrow again. ‘How about I help you into the house with those cases?’
I’d rather expire than accept his help after how aggressively he came on just before. ‘Thanks all the same, where I’m from women carry their own bags.’ And are red lines even a thing? That’s the trouble with mind blanks; they make it harder to sort the truth from bullshit. ‘Are we done here – can we get down now?’
He finally shifts, springs to the ground with one jump, gives a whistle, and the dog’s legs start to scrabble in the dirt. As I ease my own way down the ladder and step off the bottom rung into the mud I grin at the child, but all I get back is the barest flicker of an eyebrow. I’m ransacking the filing cabinets in my brain for the best way to say ‘goodbye and get lost’ to someone who accused me of robbing my relative. But he isn’t leaving at all. He’s off up the ladder again.
‘Excuse me, what the eff are you doing now?’
He gives a shrug as he heaves the sash back down. ‘Just closing the window so we don’t get any more random intruders making opportunist raids.’
I’m shaking my head. ‘It was NOT random. I was actually trying to put the kettle on.’
He’s down again and swinging the ladder back onto the ground. ‘You’ll need to lock that from inside. And next time you’re at the door and desperate for tea, I suggest you take a look around the back first.’ Patronising doesn’t begin to cover it. ‘If you’re here to stay, no doubt we’ll be seeing you.’
On balance, I’m thinking totally not. The words ‘over my dead body’ just popped into my head, and I’m liking the way that sounds. But my mouth is moving all by itself. Lately it has this Tourette’s tendency and, even though I try to stop it, I come out with the kind of things that are at best a surprise and at worst downright embarrassing, with no input on my part.
‘Love you, bye then.’ There you go! I swear that had nothing to do with me. It’s a catch phrase from a phone-in I used to listen to in the car driving between building sites. They used it to get the callers off the line. Totally indiscriminate, moderately cringey, but it was worth saying if only for the shock in his eyes as he turns to leave. But if it got rid of him I’ll take that as my first result! I’d rather not have an audience as I stagger off dragging Day-Glo bags as big as ponies.
Day 133: Wednesday, 14th March
Periwinkle Cottage
Epic Achievement: Finding the kettle.
‘This way, Edie.’
I’m following Aunty Josie as she pushes through a picket gate at the far end of the house, trundling my biggest case behind me. Round the back of the cottage there are weeds between the stone setts and the pale tangle of last year’s grass, but at least we’re sheltered from the worst of the wind. I pause to take in the pale grey stone of the cottage wrapping around a pretty courtyard, a walled garden beyond, small paned window frames crying out for paint. As we head past a painted conservatory to a door in the far corner, it’s easy to see that the ship’s bell is so far away from here I might as well have rung it out at sea. I follow her into the back porch, let go of my bags, then dip in for a hug.
‘Well, Aunty Josie, it’s great to be here at last.’ As I go in to rub my cheek against hers I wonder if she still smells of Nina Ricci.
L’Air du Temps. In pale lemon packages. With the prettiest frosted flying doves on the bottle tops. When we were kids Tash and I used to fight to sit at her dressing table. It was so exotic compared to our mum’s, and always rammed with fancy fragrances. That happens when your husband travels for work and heads for the shop in every airport he passes through, and never forgets a birthday or an anniversary. Unlike our dad, who rarely flies and doesn’t know what day it is, even though he’s great in other ways. Which was a good thing, because I can’t ever imagine Aunty Josie buying perfume for herself. As I squeeze her into a hug I can feel every rib through what I’d swear are striped pyjamas.
I smile at her. ‘It’s a lovely place you’ve got here.’ Or it could be, with some TLC, which is where I come in. I’m looking at the outbuildings beyond the garden wall. ‘Are they yours too?’
‘Yes, all ours. Or rather, all mine.’ She gives a sigh. ‘Harry had such big plans.’ His whole
