be honest,’ she said hotly, raking a hand through her hair. ‘Wasn’t it all there at his fingertips? Didn’t he just read it out to you? The will? He’s not disorganized, is he?’ She shot me a quick look.
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘Only someone – I think Laura Davy – said he’s a bit chaotic. She went when they took her mother’s appendix out instead of her hernia and said he was all over the place. You do realize he’s not Phil’s solicitor, don’t you?’ she said sharply.
‘Er …’ So many questions.
‘No, he died. This is the nephew, who’s inherited the practice.’
‘Ah.’
‘I checked it all out when I made the appointment, because I didn’t think the name corresponded to the letterhead. The uncle was well known locally apparently, whereas this one is a bit of an unknown quantity. He was in a big City firm in London but his wife left him and he came out here for a quieter life, wanted a change of pace, which is all very well, but just because we’re parochial doesn’t mean we’re stupid, does it? And if he can’t get his head round a simple will …’ She set her mouth in a grim line and shook her head. ‘He’s got to shape up, I’m afraid, or he’s toast.’
I thought of the pink shirt, slightly strained at the shoulder seams.
‘He’s in quite good shape, actually,’ I said vaguely. ‘And he’s extremely organized. I think he’ll do very well. What’s his name?’
She turned, aghast. ‘You don’t even know his name?’
‘Of course I do, I just forgot.’
‘Sam Hetherington.’
‘That’s it. Don’t bully me, Jennie, I’m feeling a bit all-in as a matter of fact.’
I was. Truly tired. Relieved to have got that over with but exhausted with the effort. And I certainly wasn’t up to my son wailing again from the back seat. Since when had he started to cry so much? He used to be such a good baby. I leaned back on the headrest and shut my eyes.
‘There’s a carton of juice in my handbag,’ Jennie told me.
I opened my eyes. Turned my head slowly to her. ‘D’you want it now?’
‘No, but Archie might,’ she said patiently.
‘Oh.’
I leaned down and fumbled obediently in her handbag at my feet, found the Ribena and handed it to Archie, sticking the straw in first. He put it to his lips, squeezed the carton with his fist and the juice went shooting out of the straw, all over his face and down his front. For some reason Clemmie, beside him on her booster seat, burst into tears.
‘You forgot to say don’t squeeze!’ she wailed. ‘You always say don’t squeeze!’
Archie gazed at his soaking-wet jumper in dismay, opened his mouth as wide as he could and roared, dropping the juice on the floor. Jennie swore under her breath then reached behind for Clemmie’s ankle, stroking it and making soothing noises, reaching for Archie’s too. As we drove home, amid the inexplicable cacophony of my fractious children, Jennie shot me an exasperated look which I caught in surprise. Was there a law, I wondered, as I gazed out of the window at the increasingly bare branches of the trees as they flashed past, the sun appearing between them like a searchlight, against just sitting quietly the while? About having a little hush?
7
That evening, at eight, the inaugural meeting of the Massingham book club took place at Angie’s house. Peggy, Angie, Jennie and I assembled in the vast, beautifully converted barn kitchen where Angie and Tom had entertained so splendidly and raucously over the years: sixteen for dinner sometimes and a lot of laughs. This evening, however, it was just the four of us who sat at the huge oak table under the high, vaulted ceiling, criss-crossed with original beams, the twinkle of many tiny down-lights upon us. Outside the huge picture windows, darkness had fallen, but in the soft glow of a coach light, Angie’s horses could be seen behind the post and rails, already rugged up for winter, standing nose to tail. Inside, candles had been lit above the fireplace and in great urns beside it, whilst the fire crackled comfortingly in the grate. Michael Bublé crooned softly in the background.
‘So. Everyone got a pen and paper?’ Angie, sitting at the head of the table, had clearly decided to take the chair – her house, after all. She was looking particularly stunning tonight in her delicate, Jane Asher way: red-gold hair shining, elegant despite jeans and Ugg boots. We all