The Peas and Carrots Series Boxset 1, page 31
part #1 of Peas and Carrots Series
‘How about you go out onto the front?’ Suzy suggested.
Eric frowned.
‘Don’t you think that’s a bit dangerous?’
‘They’ll be fine,’ Suzy said, and then to the children. ‘You can ride down towards the dead end, but make sure you can still see the house. Okay?’
‘And no fast pedalling,’ Eric added. ‘And Abi, you have to stay on the pavement.’
‘But, Dad—’
‘And boys, you have to keep an eye on your cousin. You understand?’
They assured him several times they did.
‘She’s not allowed on the road,’ he called again as they disappeared out of the driveway.
A moment later Yvette was by his side. ‘I’ll go and watch them,’ she offered.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ Eric said.
‘Nonsense, what else are grandparents for?’
‘Well, if you’re certain?’
‘I am.’
Eric gave an audible sigh of relief.
In the lounge, and despite Yvette’s supervision, Eric continued to watch from the window, his body tensing every time Abi wobbled or jolted.
‘I thought you wanted her to ride to school?’ Suzy said. ‘She’s going to have to learn to ride on the road at some point.’
‘I know, it’s just this damn road. You know what it’s like.’
‘It’s really not that bad.’
Eric huffed and continued to watch them. Clearly Suzy had been too busy with work to realise the potential dangers that awaited them in their calm little corner of the British countryside.
While their street was, for the most part, exceptionally quiet, at least twice a week Eric would be startled from his current chore by the screech of rubber against tarmac, as some preoccupied speed-freak took the turn assuming it was a shortcut to the centre of the village. Inevitably, on discovering that it was, in fact, a dead end, they would be forced to make an abrupt stop before attempting an ungainly three-point turn, often using Eric’s, or someone else’s, driveway to help increase their turning circle.
‘Perhaps I’ll get on to the council again. See if they got my last email about replacing the No Through Road sign,’ he said. ‘Maybe even persuade them to put up a speed limit sign at the junction as well.’
‘That sounds like a wonderful idea,’ Suzy said, pulling him away from the window.
With the children occupied it was time for the adults to exchange presents. A mixture of nerves and excitement bubbled their way through Eric’s abdomen. For the first time in more years than he cared to admit, he had broken his no present rule and had bought something for Suzy of his own choosing. When he’d found it in the shop, he had thought it was perfect, but now it was in her hands, about to be unwrapped, his throat was feeling uncharacteristically tight.
‘It’s lovely,’ Suzy said, turning the gift over in her hand. The polished wood glinted in the light.
‘It’s engraved. See,’ Eric said twisting one side of the pen over to face her.
‘To my beautiful wife,’ Suzy read.
‘It’s for your book signings,’ Eric said. ‘It’s made from wych elm, so I thought it would remind you of here when you’re off on your trips. And the wife part is there so you can show it to any overly amorous fans.’
‘It’s perfect,’ Suzy said as she planted a kiss on his lips.
The nerves transformed into pride as Eric looked on at his gift. He’d done well.
From Tom and Lydia, they received the obligatory homemade hamper.
‘We’ve updated it a little,’ Lydia said. ‘Go on, have a look.’
Intrigued, Eric opened the top of the hamper and rummaged through. There was enough sugar to keep them in stock through until Easter, with salted caramel sauce, hot chocolate in a jar, and two types of brownies in a jar, not to mention a bottle of homebrew, a bottle of elderflower cordial, a homemade foot scrub – packaged in a re-purposed hummus tub – and half a dozen homemade bath bombs.
‘This is incredible,’ Eric said, as he picked up one item after another.
‘We figured Suzy could do with a little more pampering this year,’ Lydia said.
‘Well, it all looks delicious,’ Eric said.
Try as he might, he failed to get all the items back in the basket, and so the bath bombs and foot scrub were left perched on top. For Tom and Lydia, Suzy had bought an afternoon tea at one of the nearby stately homes.
‘Now from me to you,’ Suzy said to Eric. ‘I’m afraid it’s not the most thoughtful present of the day, but hopefully you will find it useful.’
Eric took the neatly wrapped rectangle.
‘What could this be?’ he said as he tore into the paper that was so obviously covering a book.
When the title came into view, Eric laughed.
‘Brilliant, exactly what I need.’
He turned it around to show the title and cover to Tom and Lydia.
‘Backyard Poultry,’ Tom read. ‘I didn’t know you were planning on keeping chickens?’
Eric flicked through the first few pages of the book.
‘It’s still just a bit of an idea really,’ Eric said. ‘I’ve got to go through the committee first.’
‘You want to have them at the allotment?’
‘I’d prefer to. I guess I could always have them up here if they say no, but I’ve been through the allotment handbook, and I’m fairly sure it should be okay to keep them there.’
‘Well, let me know when you get the go ahead,’ Tom said. ‘I’ve got half a dozen pullets you can have, that’ll make lovely little layers.’
‘Pullets?’ Eric said.
‘You should probably start reading that book,’ Tom replied.
At six o’clock the children and Yvette returned indoors just as Eric had finished constructing a platter of sandwiches.
‘Who fancies a turkey sandwich?’ Eric said before quickly pre-empting any complaints from Yvette by producing a macrobiotic crumble he’d whipped up using some hazelnuts from the back of the cupboard.
With the leftovers dished up, the family settled down for the Doctor Who Christmas Special. All in all, Eric considered, the day had been a success. Only one more to go, and he would be home and dry.
Eric was dreaming of springtime. Him and his harem of pullets – which in his dream were small, sprite-like creatures with exceptionally long fingers – were fishing for eggs from the stream. It started off easy enough; they reached their hands into the gently flowing water and plucked out one smooth, round ovule after another. But then the stream grew faster and their hands started being dragged down by the current. A moment later and the stream was a roaring river, crashing into eddies, its bellow so loud Eric was forced to cover his ears from the noise.
He threw off the blanket in a cold sweat, taking a moment to orientate himself. He was back on the Lawson, the fire in the front room still aglow with a soft tangerine hue. No more sprites, no more eggs, although the sound of running water was almost as loud as it had been in his dream.
‘Shit.’
Eric leapt off the sofa. He knew they should have sealed the bathroom shut. With his head still foggy from one too many nightcaps, and his mouth tasting of chestnut stuffing, he bounded up the stairs. How much was this going to cost him, he wondered? Another grand? Two? It was bound to be Ellery who had used the toilet. How many times had he told him it wasn’t plumbed in yet? Eric was halfway up the stairs when he froze. Holding onto the rickety banister – and attempting to steady his breath – he listened. A second later he bolted back down into the kitchen.
‘What the …?’
Eric stopped in his tracks.
The kitchen was a far cry from the scene he had left when he fell asleep. The taps were on full blast, rushing into a bubble-filled sink with white water spraying up and over the wooden countertop. On the kitchen table appeared to be every item of crockery, cutlery, and kitchen utensil they owned, plus some he didn’t even recognise. The room smelt of citrus and baking soda, and everything from the plates to the lino gleamed.
‘Yvette?’ Eric said.
Eric’s mother-in-law started and blushed.
‘Eric, darling. Did I wake you?’
Eric blinked.
‘What are you doing?’ he said.
‘Oh, I couldn’t sleep,’ Yvette replied. ‘It’s the stillness you see. I’m used to the sea. The motion. I like my bed to have a little sway to it.’
She shook her hips as she spoke.
‘Oh,’ Eric said, rubbing his eyes and still not sure he was seeing straight.
‘Anyway, I thought I’d put myself to use,’ Yvette continued. ‘But then I finished the washing-up, so I thought, why not give the place a bit of a spring clean?’
‘In December?’
‘No need for sarcasm, Eric.’
Outside was dark. Through the trees, Eric glimpsed the moon, a buttermilk sliver in the sky.
‘What time is it?’ he said.
Ignoring his question, Yvette turned off the taps, the mountain of froth having broken free from the confines of the sink.
‘Why don’t you go back up to bed with Suzy?’ she said. ‘You can’t have gotten any proper rest on that sofa. I’m not going to go back up now.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘I insist. The mattress is far too soft for me, anyway. It’s not a surprise you all have such poor posture when you spend every night on a marshmallow.’
Eric hesitated. Going upstairs to his actual bed sounded like heaven, but the last thing he wanted was to fall into one of his mother-in-law’s traps.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked again. ‘I don’t want to kick you out.’
Yvette waved him quiet.
‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead,’ she said. ‘And don’t worry about the children in the morning. I’m more than happy to keep an eye on them. You and Suzy have a lie in.’
Something squirmed around Eric’s kidneys. Still, a couple of hours back in his own bed was too much to resist. He would deal with the consequences in the morning.
When he and Suzy finally surfaced, it was gone ten. They had been awake for over an hour, just lying in bed, listening to the sounds of the children at play drifting in through the sash panes of the windows.
Eric and Suzy’s bedroom was the largest in the house. It was also the most dated. Seventies-style brown and orange wallpaper hung on three of the four walls, the fourth having been decorated with a peculiar burnt-umber paintwork. The carpet was worn through to the underlay, and a string light-pull dangled down in the centre of the headboard. At first, Eric had been horrified when he noticed spores of mould populating the area around the window ledge and had sworn to rectify the situation immediately. Now, after numerous dousings of bleach, they were just another thing on the endless to-do list.
‘I thought you might want to head down to the allotment today,’ Suzy said as she climbed out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. ‘I can’t believe it’s been a year since we all first came down here.’
‘I know,’ Eric said. ‘Seems like a lifetime ago.’
He reached for a pair of socks. Gone were the days of luxury, flat-knit hosiery, or cashmere hound’s-tooth. Nowadays, he was all about warmth, and the thicker the socks the better. Sludge green, bark brown, the colour was irrelevant.
‘Perhaps I’ll take Tom down after lunch,’ he said. ‘We’re still going to the Shed, right?’
‘Sounds good. Although I can’t stay long. I’ve got a pile of work to get through.’
‘We won’t stay long,’ Eric assured her.
The Shed was one of Burlam’s longstanding establishments, and despite a very relaxed attitude towards contemporary cuisine, or modernisation of any kind for that matter, it remained steadfastly busy all year round.
Eric suspected that at least eighty-five per cent of their Boxing Day clientele were there with the sole purpose of abating their hangovers. Several heads offered him the obligatory welcome nod as he entered, although several more were face down on the table, hands clutching triple-shot coffees. The usual aromas of bacon fat and fried mushrooms wafted around them, mingling with the odd puff of cigarette smoke and spray of alcohol breath.
Griff, the establishment’s eternally jovial owner, found them a table facing out over the river.
‘Look at that,’ Yvette said, flicking her hair in the direction of Griff. ‘The best seat in the house. How ever can we repay you?’
Griff, with three days’ worth of stubble and his apron covered in grease, beamed.
‘Always do my best to please,’ he said and trotted away with a wide grin on his face, promptly returning with the menus.
While the boys and Abi giggled at the uniqueness of the meal names, Lydia did not.
‘I thought this part of the world was meant to be sophisticated,’ Lydia said.
‘What’s wrong with a Whiny Bitch?’ Eric said. ‘I thought you liked omelettes?’
‘I like omelettes. I don’t feel it’s necessary to lower the tone in order to eat one.’
‘It’s called humour,’ Eric clarified. ‘Besides, this is sophisticated. You should hear what the dishes were called before people complained.’
‘I’d rather not.’
Griff took the orders. Two minutes later he returned with a tray of drinks.
‘My goodness, what big muscles you must have, carrying trays around like that all day,’ Yvette said, removing her feather boa like it was part of a burlesque show. ‘Excellent core strength, I suspect. Do you do Pilates?’
Griff blushed.
‘Just good old-fashioned walking’s all I need to keep in shape,’ he said.
‘Of course, the old ways are always the best. Nothing keeps the body limber like good old-fashioned exercise. Of every type.’
Eric shuddered.
‘Mum?’ Suzy said, waiting until Griff had scurried away for the second time. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘What?’ Yvette was wide eyed. ‘Yes, dear, everything’s quite all right. Absolutely fine. What a quaint place this is. And fantastic service. If you like that kind of thing.’
Her eyes followed to where Griff was crouched down by the counter, exposing a small but textbook example of a builder’s bum.
Eric pressed his lips together and locked eyes with his wife. The shuddering was mutual.
When the plates were licked clean, Suzy, Lydia, and the children decided on a Boxing Day stroll down to the Yacht Club.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with us, Mum?’ Suzy asked.
Yvette shook her head.
‘I said I’d call your father this morning. You know what it’s like with the time difference. He’ll be ever so upset if we don’t get to speak.’
‘Why don’t we come back with you then?’ Lydia suggested. ‘I’m sure the kids would love to speak to Grandad too.’
‘And I’m fine to head back and get on with some work,’ Suzy added.
Yvette brushed the suggestions aside.
‘Perhaps tomorrow. He won’t have much time before he has to get back. Such a busy time for him, darlings. Such a busy time.’
‘As long as you’re sure. We won’t be long. And make sure you give Dad our love.’
‘Will do, my darling. Will do.’
‘Well,’ Eric said to Tom as he waved Abi and Suzy off. ‘I guess we should get going too.’
Chapter 6
THERE WAS SOMETHING refreshing about winter time at the Columbia Avenue allotments. The bare trees and spindled bushes acted as a literal fresh start; whatever you had or hadn’t achieved last year was irrelevant. Soon it would be spring, and everyone would start from the same point of seeds and seedlings. You would all be beholden to the same weather, the same number of sunny, workable days, and if, come June, your neighbours’ tomato plants had been bested by late blight, you could bet your bottom dollar yours would be too. The allotment was a great leveller of man, Eric considered. It didn’t care about your age, your education, whether or not you were a good person even. All it cared about was how hard you worked and how well you turned your compost.
‘So, I’m planning on entering the village show this year,’ Eric said as he and Tom strolled down the path towards the allotment entrance. ‘I’m not too sure what with yet, and I don’t suppose I have much of a chance, but I’ve got to give it a go. It’s a bit of a big deal here.’
‘Oh, you don’t need to tell me that. And you’ve got as good a chance as anyone. You’re not exactly a novice anymore.’
Eric raised an eyebrow.
‘Last year the winning stump carrots were over three feet long. And apparently it was a bad year. Unless they have a category for most phallic shaped vegetable or biggest caterpillar found on a cauliflower, I’m probably not in the running.’
‘Perhaps you need to start with something a little smaller then? Go for tomatoes. Everyone can grow tomatoes.’
They ambled onwards between the empty beds and full water-butts. Eric offered numerous greetings and gesticulations towards the various figures hunched over the ground or squirrelling away in their greenhouses. To those farther away, he extended his arm in a wave, and when Scout bounded up to him and rested his stumped leg on Eric’s knee, Eric crouched down to give him a substantial rub.
‘I’d love a dog,’ Eric said, scratching the soft fur of Scout’s tummy.
‘Then why not? Suzy likes dogs, doesn’t she?’ Tom said.
‘She does. But I think she’s got enough on her plate at the minute.’
Tom hummed knowingly.
‘You still coming over for New Year?’ Hank, Scout’s owner, shouted over from his plot.
‘You bet,’ Eric called back.
‘Don’t forget it’s bring a dish.’
‘I’m already on the case,’ Eric lied, then made a mental note to tell Suzy they needed to cook something for the event.
