The Holiday Home. Fern Britton
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water on to a bowl of couscous.
Dorothy was waspish. ‘Dear Francis, you’re a wonder! How lucky Pru is to have you. Tell me, what have you knocked up for our gastronomic delight tonight?’ Privately, she thought he was too much of a softie. She preferred men to be men and wasn’t in favour of all this ‘new man’ business.
Francis smiled, Dorothy’s sarcasm sailing over his head. There was nothing he liked better than cooking a meal for the family.
‘Oh, you know me. Something wholesome, nutritious and delicious, I promise.’
Dorothy turned away from Francis and looked wryly at Henry, who stifled a snigger, disguising it as a cough, before saying, ‘Right, old girl. Glasses ready? She’s about to blow.’ And with that the champagne cork came away smoothly in his gnarled but experienced hands.
‘Hey, Poppa.’ Abi entered the kitchen and gave her beloved grandfather an affectionate hug. ‘Got a glass for me?’
‘Ah! Ha-ha! There you are, my favourite granddaughter.’ He poured her a fizzing glassful.
‘I’m your only granddaughter, Poppa!’
‘Well, let me look at you.’ Abi did a little twirl. ‘My goodness, you are a beauty. So tall and so slim. You remind me of Granny when I first met her.’
Dorothy, who had impatiently wrestled the bottle from Henry’s hands and was now pouring herself a glass, looked up. ‘Yes, but I had an eighteen-inch waist.’
‘So you did. So you did,’ Henry replied. Then, winking at Abi, he added, ‘Mind you, in those days they knew how to make a good corset.’
Jeremy had joined them and gladly took the glass his grandmother offered him.
‘See, Abi! You don’t need to go on a diet.’
Connie caught this last comment as she arrived with a satisfied-looking Greg. ‘Abi! You are perfect as you are! You certainly do not need to lose weight.’
Abi looked sheepish. ‘Granny said I did.’
Connie turned to her mother. ‘Mummy, I don’t ever want to hear you say anything like that again. You always went on about my weight when I was Abi’s age, and it’s so hurtful.’
‘Not my weight,’ said Pru, gliding into the room with no sign of a limp. ‘I’ve always had trouble putting weight on.’
Connie retaliated swiftly, ‘Yes. Just a pity your ego couldn’t be put on a diet too.’
Henry looked at his daughters sternly. ‘Stop that this minute. And Dorothy, keep your opinions to yourself.’
Dorothy, looking pious, said, ‘I won’t say another word.’
‘Good.’
There followed a strained tension that only very close families recognise.
‘Well …’ Francis put down his champagne flute. ‘Who’s ready for aubergine and haloumi bake, tagine of chickpeas and herb-laced couscous?’
*
There was a surprising amount of food left over.
‘That was delicious, Uncle Francis. I feel fully vegetable and pulsed up,’ said Abi, taking her half-eaten plate to the bin.
Jem jumped up and did the same. ‘That was top, Dad. Thanks. Do any of you mind if Abi and I leave the table and watch telly in the rumpus room?’
‘That’s fine,’ said Henry. ‘I want to talk business with Greg anyway.’
‘Great,’ said Greg, topping up his and Henry’s glasses with the remains of the bottle.
‘Let’s go to The Bungalow.’ Henry took Greg’s arm, adding in a lower voice: ‘We might catch a bit of the cricket while we’re at it.’
‘Anyone want a coffee or tea?’ Connie asked her mother and sister. They nodded. ‘I’ll go and make some.’
‘No, absolutely not – I’ll go and do it,’ said Francis, leaping up. ‘You girls have got plenty to catch up on.’
‘That is so sweet of you, Francis. Much appreciated.’ Connie gave him a warm hug and then hurried after Dorothy and Pru.
As the women walked away, Francis collected the remaining plates and scraped them into the bin.
*
‘Here you are, ladies,’ he said ten minutes later, carrying a tea tray laden with mugs and organic muesli biscuits. ‘Where shall I put it?’
‘Coffee table, Francis,’ said Pru, barely looking at him.
‘Well, the kitchen’s all clear for the morning. I’ll just pop over to The Bungalow to say good night to Henry and Greg.’
‘OK. See you in the morning. And thank you for supper, Francis.’ Connie smiled at him as he left.
Pru turned to their mother. ‘How are you settling into the new bungalow, Mummy?’
‘It’s perfect, darling. Easy to clean, lovely and warm. Everything brand new. What else would we do with all that garden. It was the ideal plot and it’s the best thing your father ever persuaded me to do.’
Connie looked unconvinced. ‘How could you bear to leave Atlantic House and live in a modern box?’
‘Easily. When your father and I bought Atlantic House we were considerably younger than we are now. Your father can’t get up on the roof to paint gutters any more. It takes him two days just to mow the lawn. And I am fed up with all the housework. The Bungalow takes twenty minutes, tops. Also, now we have our separate rooms and bathrooms, we get along so much better.’
Connie raised her eyebrows. ‘Don’t you miss cuddling up to him at night? I think he misses you.’
‘Sex is very overrated, darling. I’m glad all that side of things is finished. Much nicer to do the crossword together.’
‘Too much information, Mummy!’ Connie preferred not to hear her mother talk about her sex life.
‘Well, I’d love separate rooms,’ sighed Pru. ‘Francis and I have never bothered too much with that sort of thing.’
Connie looked astonished. ‘Don’t you have sex either?’
‘No. Still, it’s not as if I’m a panting twenty-something, is it?’
Connie thought for a moment. ‘When did you last make love?’
‘I can’t remember. Couple of years, at least.’
‘Two years!’ Connie was shocked. Greg had told her that if they didn’t make love at least three times a week his testicles would be damaged. ‘Poor Francis! He must be feeling so neglected!’ Connie was indignant on her brother-in-law’s behalf. ‘I make sure Greg is very happy. I always have.’
‘And you?’ her mother asked. ‘How about you? Does he make sure you’re happy?’
‘Yes. Well, it’s not as if the earth moves every time. But it’s the glue that holds a man and woman together in a marriage.’
Pru tipped her head back and laughed. ‘Dear little Connie. It’s as if the feminist movement never happened.’
‘No. It’s not to do with that. It’s …’ Connie felt flustered and hated her elder sister for trying to belittle her.
Dorothy stepped in. ‘Darling, one day you will pray for separate bedrooms. Believe me.’ She stood up and said pointedly, ‘Now, I am off to my peaceful bed in my horrid little bungalow.’ The comment was aimed at Pru, who didn’t react. Dorothy continued: ‘I suggest the pair of you head off for an early night too.’
Both girls tutted in annoyance behind their mother’s retreating back.
Dorothy