Just Like the Other Girls(9)

She shows me the library at the back of the house, with built-in floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with books, mostly classics – there’s not a Danielle Steele or a John Grisham in sight – large French windows and a terrace with steep steps that lead down to the garden; the snug – a small, square room with squashy sofas where her grandsons usually spend their time when they come over; and the kitchen, which is down another flight of stairs, and takes up most of the lower ground floor, apart from a small room that Elspeth calls her ‘study’. I notice none of the rooms has a TV and I’m grateful for the one in my bedroom.

‘The kitchen is a recent addition,’ Elspeth says, staring at the units lovingly. They are beautiful, hand-crafted, according to Elspeth, and painted in dove greys and soft beiges, with a limestone-tiled floor and doors leading on to the garden.

I wish my mum could see all this. She’d hardly have been able to believe it. The only thing that strikes me as a bit strange is the lack of photographs. The house I grew up in was full of family shots of me, Mum and Gran, of me in all my stages of growing up, Mum and her closest friends, holiday snaps. Even in the flat I shared with Courtney we had photos on the walls and in frames on the sideboard, strips of silly ones taken in booths stuck to the fridge. Here, there’s artwork on the walls, painted landscapes and a few line sketches, one of which looks familiar, but nothing to show the family. Not even her grandsons.

We’re just about to leave the kitchen when we hear a cheery ‘Hello!’ behind us and a large woman in her late sixties with tight grey curls and the biggest boobs I’ve ever seen is bustling over to us. ‘Just had to pop out for some eggs,’ she says. ‘Still want quiche for lunch, Elspeth?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer as her gaze sweeps over me. ‘You must be the new girl! I’m Agatha. Everyone calls me Aggie. I’m the cook.’

I just have time to introduce myself before she’s talking again. ‘Now, shoo, out of my kitchen. I’ve got lunch to prepare.’ She turns away from us and starts washing her hands at the huge Belfast sink.

Elspeth links arms again. ‘Let’s get our coats and explore the garden,’ she says gleefully, as though she’s just announced we’re off on a cruise.

‘Just be back in time for midday,’ Aggie calls over her shoulder, like we’re two kids.

We go upstairs to fetch our coats and then I follow her through the library – marvelling again at the bookshelves: my mum, an avid reader, would have loved them – and out of the French windows. The lawn is crisp with dew and our breath steams in front of us, but Elspeth huddles against me.

‘The girls used to love playing out here,’ she says, as we stroll along the lawn. The wind whips at our hair and the hem of my coat. ‘My late husband built that tree house, God rest his soul.’

‘Do you have other children then, apart from Kathryn?’ I ask.

Immediately I sense I’ve asked the wrong question: her arm stiffens against mine and she doesn’t speak for a few seconds. Eventually, ‘No. It’s just Kathryn.’

I’m puzzled. Who was she talking about, then? What girls?

She’s still clutching my arm as we circle the garden but she’s silent now. I wait it out, not wanting to put my foot in it again. Despite myself, I can’t help but scan the garden for Lewis. There’s no sign of him now, although there is a wheelbarrow by the side gate filled with bracken.

Elspeth doesn’t begin talking again until we’re back inside the house. ‘Would you mind making me a cup of tea?’ she asks, as she settles herself into her favourite armchair in the lounge and picks up a book from the side table. The curtains are open, highlighting the views of the suspension bridge. From here I can see a young couple on the bench overlooking the Avon Gorge. They must be cold, I think. ‘And please make one for yourself. You must treat this place as your home now.’

I smile and leave the room, happy to be away from her and her silent mood, even for the briefest of moments. Maybe this isn’t the right job for me after all. But then I think of the money – it’s the best-paid job I’ll be getting any time soon. And I need it if I’m to travel. It’s the one thing I promised Mum before she died, that I’d fulfil my dream to see the world. That was her dream, too, but she never got the chance to do it. We used to sit together while she was going through chemo, on those horrible plastic armchairs while the drugs pumped into her veins, and talk about the countries we’d visit, the food we’d eat, the clothes we’d wear, the playlists we’d make. We imagined the smells of the beach – coconut sun-cream and sand – trying to distract ourselves from the stench of disinfectant in the ward. We planned our route for South East Asia: Thailand followed by Laos and Vietnam. And then, when she knew she was dying, she made me promise I’d see it all for the two of us. When I took this job I vowed to myself I’d stay just until September, not that I’ll admit to Elspeth that I see this job as temporary, a way to earn enough to fund my dream.

I swallow the golf ball in my throat. It’s going to take a bit of getting used to, this job, but it’s only my first day. I can do this.

The smell of pastry hits me as I enter the kitchen. Aggie is sitting on one of the bar stools flicking through recipes, her large frame spilling over the seat. She looks up when I come in. ‘She’ll be wanting her mid-morning cuppa,’ she says, shifting herself from the stool and going to the Aga.