The Peacock Emporium(28)

Vivi checked the beef, and slid the roasting tray back into the lower oven. She walked over to the sink and ran cold water over her throbbing fingers. “Is it urgent?” she asked, her voice carefully light. “Could it wait until after tea, perhaps?”

Her mother-in-law stiffened. “Oh, don’t mind me. My trips are never urgent, are they, dear? No, I’m far too ancient to have anything important to do.” She peered dismissively at the other tray on the worktop. “Nothing as important as the needs of a few potatoes.”

“Now, come on, Rosemary, you know I—”

But with a loud emphatic slam of the door, which belied her apparent frailty, Rosemary had vanished back into the granny annex.

Vivi closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She would pay for that later. But, then, most days she ended up paying for something.

Normally she would have dropped whatever she was doing to do the old lady’s bidding, just to avoid any unpleasantness. But today was different. She had not had the three children together in the house for several years and, having got this far, she was not going to jeopardize Lucy’s birthday lunch by running Rosemary around when she should be ladling beef fat over the potatoes. Because with her mother-in-law it was never just a matter of taking her into town—Rosemary would suggest a diversion, or that Vivi accompany her to pick up some dry cleaning (and Vivi could carry it). Or announce that what she really needed, after all, was to get her hair done, and would Vivi mind waiting? She had become particularly demanding since they had persuaded her she was no longer capable of driving herself. They were still wrestling with the insurance over the ruined fence at Paget’s farm.



* * *



—

“Any chance of a cup of tea? Cooking the books always makes me thirsty.”

Vivi was sitting at the kitchen table. Having found the collection of tired pencils and compacts that passed for her makeup bag, she was trying to brighten herself up a bit, to blot down the high color and slight sheen she always got from cooking. “I’ll bring one through,” she said, after a defeated glance in the little mirror. “Does Daddy want one?”

“Dunno. I expect so.” Her son, all six foot four of him, ducked with practiced ease under the lintel as he left the kitchen and walked back down the corridor. “Oh, I didn’t tell you?” he called over his shoulder. “We forgot to pick up the flowers. Sorry.”

Vivi stilled, put her compact on the table, then walked briskly after him. “What?”

“Don’t say ‘what.’ It’s rude.” Her son grinned, mimicking his grandmother. “Dad and I forgot to pick up those flowers this morning. Got a bit tied up at the feed shop. Sorry.”

“Oh, Ben.” She stood in the doorway of the study, her hands dropped in exasperation.

“Sorry.”

“One thing. The one thing I asked you two to do for me, and you leave it till five minutes before they all arrive to tell me you’ve forgotten.”

“What did we forget?” Her husband lifted his head from the books. “Cup of tea?” he said hopefully.

“The table arrangements. You didn’t pick them up like I asked you.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll pick you some, if you want.” Ben glanced out of the window. He had spent more than an hour in the study and was restless to get outside again.

“There are no flowers, Ben. It’s February, for goodness’ sake. Oh, I am disappointed.”

An unaccustomed note of crossness had crept into her voice. “I wanted everything to be perfect today. It’s a special day.”

“Lucy’s not going to care if there are no table arrangements.” Her husband shrugged, and ruled a line underneath some numbers.

“Well, I care. And it’s a terrific waste of money, spending on flowers that we can’t even be bothered to pick up.” She would get nowhere with them. Vivi gazed up at the clock, wondering vainly whether she could whiz into town and pick them up herself. With luck, and a decent parking space, she could be in and out in twenty minutes.

Then she remembered Rosemary, who would either want to come too or treat Vivi’s brief visit as further evidence that her needs were not just considered unimportant but could be trampled over in a barbarous manner. “Well, you can jolly well pay for them,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron, and reaching behind her to untie the strings, “and explain to Mr. Bridgman why we’re ordering flowers that we apparently don’t want.”

The two men looked at each other, exchanging the blankest of glances.

“Tell you what,” said Ben. “I’ll go. If you’ll let me take the Range Rover.”

“You’ll take your mother’s car,” came her husband’s voice. “Pick us up a bottle of sherry for your grandmother while you’re at it . . . You won’t forget that cup of tea, darling, will you?”



* * *



—

Vivi had been married for precisely nine years when her mother-in-law came to live with them, and fifteen when her husband capitulated and agreed to build her an annex so that they could watch the odd American cop show without having to pause every five minutes to explain the plot, be able to cook food containing garlic or spices, and, just occasionally, read the newspapers in bed on a Sunday morning without an imperious knock at the door and a demand to know why the orange juice wasn’t on its normal shelf in the fridge.