59 Memory Lane. Celia Anderson
‘Right, I’ll get on with the business in hand,’ says Ida. ‘Tristram, would you mind taking the minutes?’
‘Ooh, very official,’ Vera says. ‘I thought this was just a friendly chat to see how the scheme was going, Ida?’
‘Yes, but I always like to have something in writing. It saves trouble if we forget what’s said. Agreed?’
The others all nod. Julia thinks it would take a brave person to disagree.
‘So, the first item on the agenda is to say a huge thank you to you all for letting me involve you in my project.’
‘An agenda as well? This is turning into a parish council meeting,’ sniffs Vera.
Tristram exchanges glances with Julia and grimaces; her heart gives an unexpected little flutter. He’s very handsome, in a twinkly, slightly rakish way. His beard looks newly trimmed and he’s wearing a tweed suit with a waistcoat over a collarless black shirt. He looks like a model for an upmarket country gentleman’s catalogue, but with attitude. Then she blushes, filled with shame that she’s caught herself looking admiringly at another man with her own dear chap hardly cold in his grave, as the gruesome saying goes.
‘An agenda is a fabulous idea, Ida,’ he says, smiling at their hostess reassuringly. She beams back, and Julia reflects that Tristram has been married four times and his charm is legendary. He’s also very kind, though, and she’s sure he can’t be flirting with Ida … can he? Anyway, his reply has the desired effect and the meeting bowls along quite comfortably after this.
‘And so you’ve all got your allocated grannies or grandpas,’ says Ida, after reminding them how the system will work. ‘I just want to tell you that you’re all superstars for agreeing to take part. There’s too much loneliness around us these days. When I was growing up, one granny and granddad lived two doors away and the others were only in Truro. Nowadays, families are spread all over the place. We’ll have another meeting in six weeks to see how it’s going. Are there any problems so far?’
There’s a brief silence. Then Vera clears her throat importantly. ‘There’s that pesky Peke,’ she says. ‘I hadn’t bargained for the hairs. And it yaps.’
‘Oh dear. I know Marigold’s very protective of her little dog,’ says Ida. ‘Perhaps I could have a tactful word and ask her to leave it at home when she visits you?’
Vera snorts. ‘Good luck with that one,’ she says. ‘I’ve been trying to keep it out of my shop for years. Oh, well, it’s quite decrepit now. Shouldn’t last much longer. Smelly old thing.’
There’s an appalled silence as the assembled group digests this acidic remark. Tristram in particular looks disgusted. He’s always been a dog lover, and his two are never far from his side. Having said that, he probably wouldn’t take them where he knows they’re not wanted, and it is a food shop. Ida rallies.
‘Anyway, other than that, are there any other issues we need to discuss?’
‘We’ve had our first visit from Tom King and Joyce Carpenter,’ says George, ‘and they both seemed to enjoy themselves. Actually Tom was giving Joyce the eye all through lunch.’
‘Well, that wouldn’t get him far, would it?’ says Vera. ‘The poor woman’s virtually blind.’
Julia picks up her glass and tries to stop her lips twitching. It isn’t in the least bit funny to lose your sight, after all. But then she catches Tristram’s wicked glance again and nearly chokes on her wine.
‘I’m more than happy to take Bob Farmer swimming every week,’ says Tristram, as Julia tries to recover her equilibrium. ‘He loved it this morning. He did more lengths than I did. Maybe he should adopt me instead? He’s only eighty-five, and I’ll be eighty soon.’
‘You both look super fit,’ says Gladys, ‘and it’s not about that, it’s giving him a chance to do what he’s always liked doing. He can’t drive now, and the bus is only every two hours. It doesn’t go as far as the leisure centre either.’
‘How about you, Gladys? Is it going well with Lucy?’
‘I had a great time with her. Lucy’s a poppet,’ says Gladys. ‘I fetched her over to the garden centre this morning and she helped me pot out some seedlings. She loved it. She’s had to move into a flat and she hasn’t got a garden now. She’s always welcome at Chestnuts. I’m glad of an extra pair of hands.’
‘And Julia? How are you getting on?’
Julia’s back in control now. She takes another tentative sip of her wine while she thinks how to answer. Tristram watches her. How much does he remember about what happened years ago between Julia and Charles? Even May doesn’t know the full story, as far as Julia’s aware. Maybe it has been wrong of her to let herself continue to resent May so much over the years when it was May’s husband who’d caused most of the problems, but surely the woman had known what he was like and the damage he was doing? Couldn’t she have stopped him? And then there was the incident with the spoons … She feels the pounding of her heart as tension, never far from the surface since Don’s death, threatens to swamp her.
Julia takes a few deep, calming breaths. ‘We had a good chat,’ she says, when the silence begins to feel awkward, ‘and we’ll meet up again very soon, if Andy can bring her over to me.’
‘I’ve got to say this is a fabulous idea of yours, Ida,’ says Dominic. He’s been quiet up to now. Julia hasn’t had a chance to get to know him yet. He and his wife, Cassie, haven’t lived in May’s old house for long.
‘Thank you, Dominic. I almost didn’t ask you and Cassie to join us in the project,’ says Ida, ‘because you’ve hardly had time to get your breath back since you arrived. But then I bumped into her in the shop when I was explaining the scheme to Vera and she said she’d love to be involved.’
‘Cass wanted to be here tonight instead of me, but both of our youngest twins have got colds and they like their mum around when they’re grizzly. We’ve talked to our allocated granny on the phone and we’re fetching her round tomorrow. Luckily she likes kids. Our oldest pair of lads is … loud, is the best word to describe the little monsters, I think.’
‘Who have you been paired up with, Dominic?’ Julia asks, racking her brain to think of someone in the village who fits the bill. Female, old enough to be classed as a granny, likes children … No, she can’t imagine who it could be.
‘Her name’s Angelina.’
This time it’s Tristram who spits his drink out, and there’s a general outcry as Dominic speaks.
‘Oh, no, you’re joking, aren’t you? Ida, really? Why would you do that to Dominic and his poor unsuspecting wife?’ says George, wide-eyed.
Ida has the grace to look slightly shamefaced. ‘Angelina’s lovely,’ she protests. ‘She’s just eccentric, that’s all. And she’s very lonely.’
‘Lonely? I bet she is.’ Vera’s laugh is humourless.
‘What’s the problem, guys?’ asks Dominic. ‘She sounded OK on the phone. A little … excitable maybe?’
‘That’s a good word for Angelina,’ says Gladys. ‘She has a tendency to scamper through the streets semi-naked when the muse takes her. She’s very arty. If she runs out of Bacardi when she’s in the middle of painting one of her mad seascapes she just leaves the house and runs up to the pub in whatever she happens to be wearing. Not much, usually. She likes to be unfettered when she paints.’
‘There’s no harm in her,’ says Tristram. ‘I nearly married her once.’
‘You nearly married everyone once,’ Julia says, ‘except me,’ and then regrets her outburst as everyone turns to look at her.
‘Yes, however did I miss you out?’ Tristram puts on a mystified expression. ‘Maybe you were always spoken