gently shut. She pressed her hand against the white-painted wood for a few seconds, then turned and walked away, her goodbye resounding in her head with every step.
Chapter Eight
Clare had been at work when she’d heard the news a few days earlier. She’d been updating the patient database – a grindingly tedious job that she and Roxie always put off for as long as possible – when her mobile rang. ‘You’ll never guess what,’ her mum had gasped down the line. ‘Polly’s coming home for the summer.’
‘ What ?’ Clare had yelped, her head jerking in surprise.
‘Yes! It’s true,’ her mum had said, breathlessly as if she was running back to London to get Polly herself. ‘She’s taken a sabbatical to do some research, apparently; goodness knows what this research is about , it went completely over my head when she tried to explain it. But anyway she needs somewhere quiet to work, she said. So she’s coming to stay with us for a few months.’
Clare gaped. ‘God,’ she said. ‘Really? A few months?’
She wasn’t sure how to feel about this bombshell. It seemed so out of character, for starters, her brash, loadsa-money sister leaving the Big Smoke to camp out in their quiet, sleepy village. As for taking a sabbatical, that was even more out of the blue. Polly had always been welded to her job, her BlackBerry like a shiny plastic extension of her hand. How would she cope without the nine-to-five? It would be like transplanting a hothouse flower to a cool, rainy meadow.
‘How come she’s staying with you?’ she blurted out. ‘No offence, but I’d have thought Polly’s style would be to hole up in a glamorous hotel somewhere, not . . .’
Her brain caught up with what she’d said and she trailed off, not wanting to offend her mother.
Karen Johnson merely laughed. ‘Not slum it with us, you mean? Well, it did strike me as strange too. Maybe she’s been missing my home cooking. She looked that skinny at Christmas, you could almost see the roast potatoes going down her throat. Wrists like Twiglets, bless her. I’ll feed her up, you wait. Anyway,’ she went on. ‘Just wanted to let you know. I’m cleaning every inch of the spare room in preparation. You know how particular she is. High standards, and whatnot.’
‘Mmm,’ Clare replied, still digesting the extraordinary news. ‘Mum, are you sure you’ve got enough room for her?’ Her parents’ bungalow was very modest after all, with barely space for the two of them and Sissy, their Yorkshire terrier, not to mention her mum’s vast collection of knick-knacks, arranged on every available shelf and occasional table. Clare knew her mum had her sewing table set up in the spare room and, since she’d been forced to take early retirement from her job in Amberley library, she liked to sit there on sunny afternoons, sewing machine whirring and The Archers on the radio as she worked on a new patchwork quilt or pair of curtains.
‘Well, it’ll be cosy, put it like that,’ Karen replied. She was perched on the sofa as she spoke and glanced along it, trying to imagine a third bottom parked there every evening – a fourth bottom, if you counted Sissy’s. Poor Sissy would be miffed if she was suddenly relegated to the carpet; she always gave you that look, those big sad eyes, that Karen could never hold firm against.
The dog cocked her head as if reading Karen’s thoughts and gave a little whine. Please don’t put me on the carpet .
‘I’ll just have to chuck your dad out to his shed if it feels too cramped,’ Karen joked in the end.
Clare felt her lips pursing. Her dad was sixty-six now and by rights shouldn’t have to be chucked out anywhere, least of all for Lady Muck. ‘Well, if there’s anything I can do to help . . .’ she said. ‘I’d better get on now, Mum. See you later.’
She put the phone down. ‘God,’ she muttered again. Polly hadn’t spent more than two consecutive nights in Elderchurch during the last
Chapter Eight
Clare had been at work when she’d heard the news a few days earlier. She’d been updating the patient database – a grindingly tedious job that she and Roxie always put off for as long as possible – when her mobile rang. ‘You’ll never guess what,’ her mum had gasped down the line. ‘Polly’s coming home for the summer.’
‘ What ?’ Clare had yelped, her head jerking in surprise.
‘Yes! It’s true,’ her mum had said, breathlessly as if she was running back to London to get Polly herself. ‘She’s taken a sabbatical to do some research, apparently; goodness knows what this research is about , it went completely over my head when she tried to explain it. But anyway she needs somewhere quiet to work, she said. So she’s coming to stay with us for a few months.’
Clare gaped. ‘God,’ she said. ‘Really? A few months?’
She wasn’t sure how to feel about this bombshell. It seemed so out of character, for starters, her brash, loadsa-money sister leaving the Big Smoke to camp out in their quiet, sleepy village. As for taking a sabbatical, that was even more out of the blue. Polly had always been welded to her job, her BlackBerry like a shiny plastic extension of her hand. How would she cope without the nine-to-five? It would be like transplanting a hothouse flower to a cool, rainy meadow.
‘How come she’s staying with you?’ she blurted out. ‘No offence, but I’d have thought Polly’s style would be to hole up in a glamorous hotel somewhere, not . . .’
Her brain caught up with what she’d said and she trailed off, not wanting to offend her mother.
Karen Johnson merely laughed. ‘Not slum it with us, you mean? Well, it did strike me as strange too. Maybe she’s been missing my home cooking. She looked that skinny at Christmas, you could almost see the roast potatoes going down her throat. Wrists like Twiglets, bless her. I’ll feed her up, you wait. Anyway,’ she went on. ‘Just wanted to let you know. I’m cleaning every inch of the spare room in preparation. You know how particular she is. High standards, and whatnot.’
‘Mmm,’ Clare replied, still digesting the extraordinary news. ‘Mum, are you sure you’ve got enough room for her?’ Her parents’ bungalow was very modest after all, with barely space for the two of them and Sissy, their Yorkshire terrier, not to mention her mum’s vast collection of knick-knacks, arranged on every available shelf and occasional table. Clare knew her mum had her sewing table set up in the spare room and, since she’d been forced to take early retirement from her job in Amberley library, she liked to sit there on sunny afternoons, sewing machine whirring and The Archers on the radio as she worked on a new patchwork quilt or pair of curtains.
‘Well, it’ll be cosy, put it like that,’ Karen replied. She was perched on the sofa as she spoke and glanced along it, trying to imagine a third bottom parked there every evening – a fourth bottom, if you counted Sissy’s. Poor Sissy would be miffed if she was suddenly relegated to the carpet; she always gave you that look, those big sad eyes, that Karen could never hold firm against.
The dog cocked her head as if reading Karen’s thoughts and gave a little whine. Please don’t put me on the carpet .
‘I’ll just have to chuck your dad out to his shed if it feels too cramped,’ Karen joked in the end.
Clare felt her lips pursing. Her dad was sixty-six now and by rights shouldn’t have to be chucked out anywhere, least of all for Lady Muck. ‘Well, if there’s anything I can do to help . . .’ she said. ‘I’d better get on now, Mum. See you later.’
She put the phone down. ‘God,’ she muttered again. Polly hadn’t spent more than two consecutive nights in Elderchurch during the last
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