Susie texted me with the good news an hour ago. And I’ll be honest, my initial reaction was: Great. But … is that all? I’d been secretly hoping for a magical, problem-solving, fairy-godmother amount, like another half-million.
But you have to be thankful for what you can get.
‘Well done, Sylvie!’ Mrs Kendrick claps her hands together.
‘Good work,’ agrees Robert.
‘It’ll tide us over,’ I say, ‘until some of these projects start generating income.’
Robert holds out his hand for the list and I pass it to him. He runs his eyes down it and nods a few times. ‘You’ll spearhead all of this?’
I nod vigorously. ‘Can’t wait.’
And I mean it: I can’t wait to get cracking. I want to kick-start these projects and see them into fruition. More than that, I want to see them saving Willoughby House.
But at the same time, there’s a weird feeling inside me that’s been growing all day. A sense that my time here might be nearing its final stage. That I might, some time in the not-too-distant future, move on to a new environment. Challenge myself even more. See what I’m capable of.
I catch Robert’s eye and have the strangest conviction that he can tell what I’m thinking. So I hastily look away. Instead I focus on the Adam fireplace, with the two huge shells brought back by Sir Walter Kendrick from Polynesia. It’s where we gather every year for Mrs Kendrick’s Staff Christmas Stockings. She wraps up little gifts and makes special marzipan cakes …
I feel a sudden wrench. God, this place gets under your skin, with all its quirks and traditions. But you can’t stay somewhere just for the sake of tradition, can you? You can’t stay put, just for a few sentimental reasons.
Is that how Dan feels about me?
Am I a sentimental reason?
My eyes start to feel hot again. It’s been such a day, I’m not sure I can hold it together.
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll be going,’ I say, my voice husky. ‘I’ll send you an email summarizing everything we’ve discussed. It’s just … I think I need to get home.’
‘Of course, Sylvie!’ says Mrs Kendrick. ‘You go and have a lovely evening. And well done!’ She claps her hands together again.
I head out of the library, and Robert comes along with me.
‘Are you OK?’ he says in a low voice, and I curse him for being so perceptive.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Kind of. I mean, not really.’
I pause by the stairs and Robert stares at me as though he wants to say something else.
‘What did he do?’ he says at last.
And this is all so upside down, I’d want to laugh. Except it’s not funny. What did Dan do? He worked tirelessly for my family with no credit while I called him ‘chippy’ and a ‘fucking cliché’ and drove him away.
‘Nothing. He did nothing wrong. Nothing. Sorry.’ I start to walk again. ‘I have to go.’
As I walk along our street I feel numb. Flat. All the adrenaline of the day has dissipated. For a while I was distracted by the stimulation of doing stuff and achieving change and making decisions. But now that’s all faded away. It doesn’t seem important. Only one thing seems important. One person. And I don’t know where he is or what he’s thinking or what the future holds.
I don’t even have my girls waiting for me at home. If I did, I could hug them tightly to me and hear their little stories and jokes and troubles, read their books, cook their suppers and distract myself that way. But they’re at a birthday party with Karen.
I’m walking along in a mist of preoccupation, unaware of my surroundings – but as I near home I focus in dismay. There’s an ambulance outside John and Owen’s house and two paramedics are lifting Owen out of it in a wheelchair. He looks frailer than ever and there’s a small plastic tube running into his nose.
‘Oh my God.’ I hurry over to John, who keeps trying to put a hand on Owen’s arm and is being firmly but gently batted away by the paramedics. ‘What happened?’
‘Owen is not well,’ says John simply. There’s almost a warning note to his voice, and I sense he doesn’t want to be quizzed on what? How? When?
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘If there’s anything I can do …’ Even as I say the words, they sound hollow. We all say them, but what do they mean?
‘You’re very kind.’ John nods, his face almost, but not quite, breaking into a smile. ‘Very kind indeed.’
He follows Owen and the paramedics into the house and I watch them, stricken, not wanting to be the nosy neighbour who stares, but not wanting to be the callous neighbour who turns away, either.
And as I’m standing there, it occurs to me: there is something I could do. I hurry home, dash into the empty, silent kitchen, and start rooting around in the fridge. We had a supermarket order recently and it’s pretty full, and to be honest, I’ve never felt less like eating.
I load up a tray with a packet of ham, a pot of guacamole, a bag of ‘perfectly ripe pears’, two frozen baguettes that just need eight minutes in the oven, a jar of nuts left over from Christmas, a packet of dates also left over from Christmas and a bar of chocolate. Then, balancing it on one hand, I head outside and along to John and Owen’s house. The ambulance has gone. Everything seems very silent.
Should I leave the tray on the doorstep and not disturb them? No. They might not realize it’s there until it’s tomorrow and the foxes have ripped it to bits.
Cautiously I ring the bell, and form my face into an apologetic expression as John answers. His eyes are red-rimmed, I instantly notice. They weren’t before. I feel a jab through my heart and want to back away instantly; leaving him in his private space. But I’m here now. And so I clear my throat a couple of times and say awkwardly, ‘I just thought you might like … You might not have thought about food …’
‘My dear.’ His face crinkles. ‘My dear, you are too kind.’
‘Shall I bring it in?’
Slowly I proceed through the house, afraid of disturbing Owen, but John nods towards the closed sitting-room door and says, ‘He’s resting.’
I put the tray on the kitchen counter and the cold items in the fridge, noticing how bare it is. I’m going to get Tilda in on this, too. We’ll make sure they’re permanently stocked up.
As I finish, I turn to see that John seems lost in a reverie. I wait in wary silence, not wanting to break his thoughts.
‘Your daughter.’ He suddenly comes to. ‘I believe she left … a small rabbit. Small … white … large ears …’ He describes vaguely with his hands. ‘Not a breed I recognize …’
‘Oh! You mean her Sylvanian Families. I’m sorry. She leaves them everywhere.’
‘I’ll fetch it for you.’
‘Let me!’
I follow him out to his greenhouse, where sure enough one of Tessa’s Sylvanian rabbits is standing incongruously by the rows of frondy plants. As I pick it up, John seems lost again, this time transfixed by one of the plants, and I remember something Tilda told me the other day. She said she’d googled John and apparently his research on plants has led to a breakthrough in gene therapy, which could help millions of people. (I have no idea how that works, but there you go.)
‘It’s an amazing life’s work you’ve achieved,’ I venture, wanting to say something positive.
‘Oh, my work will never be done,’ he says, almost as though amused. His face softens and he rubs a leaf between his fingers lovingly. ‘These wonders will never reveal all their secrets. I’ve been learning about them ever since I was a boy. Every time I look at them I learn a little more. And as a result I love them a little more.’ He moves a pot tenderly, patting its fronds. ‘Tiny miracles. Much like people.’