Coming Home. Fern Britton
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Leaving the back door open, knowing there were no escape routes from the garden, she took a tray of tea up to Kit.
He was propped up against his pillows, waiting for her.
‘And how is the mistress of the house today?’
Ella gave a little bob of a curtsey, and as she put the tray down and went to climb into bed, the phone rang.
‘Leave it,’ said Kit.
Ella picked it up. ‘Hello? Henry, where are you? Okay. Lovely. Can’t wait to see you.’ She smiled at a scowling Kit. ‘And Kit can’t wait, either! Bye. Love you.’
Kit watched her as she put the phone down. ‘I suppose this means I’m not going to see your ankles, Ruby?’
She grinned at him. ‘There’s always time for ankles, m’lord.’
‘Ow!’ Ella squeaked, putting the hot baking tray down quickly.
Kit, coming downstairs freshly shaved and smelling delicious, popped his head into the kitchen. ‘You okay?’
‘The tea towel was a bit thin and I burnt myself on the pasty tin.’ She ran her fingers under the cold tap. ‘I’m fine.’
‘They smell good,’ said Kit checking his watch. ‘Anything I can do?’
She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘I just want you and my brother to get on well. It would mean so much to me.’
She looked so anxious, cheeks pink from cooking, hair caught up in a bun with a pencil allowing curls to escape over her ears, and her singed fingers under the tap. Kit got a clean tea towel and went to her. ‘Here, let me dry your hand.’ He turned the tap off and gently wrapped her hand, kissing the tips of her fingers as he did so. ‘Of course I’ll like your brother. But will he like me?’
Ella began to laugh. ‘Well, he will if you take him to the pub!’
‘I think I can manage that.’
The rattle of a taxi in the drive heralded Henry’s arrival.
‘He’s here!’ Ella ran to the front door and opened it. ‘Henry!’ She charged out of the house and ran at him, smothering him in a hug and kisses. ‘I’ve missed my bro.’
‘Whoa, let me pay the driver,’ he said, disentangling himself as best he could.
As he got his bag from the back seat and handed the driver his fare, he saw a man he assumed must be Kit. He gave him a quick scan. Thirtyish. Checked shirt and shorts. Nice tan. Looked okay.
He put his bag into his left hand and extended his right. ‘You must be Kit. Henry.’
‘Henry. Good to meet you.’ It was Kit’s turn to run a discerning assessment of Henry.
Long legs. Expensive jeans and jacket. White open-necked shirt. Flash watch. But he looked okay.
Ella looped her arms through each of the boys’ and dragged them into the house. ‘Welcome to Marguerite Cottage.’
Inside the hall, Henry dropped his bag on the flagstones and looked around him. ‘Very nice, Ell’s Bell’s.’
‘Come into the garden. Tea? Coffee? I could make a jug of Pimm’s?’
Henry followed her through the lounge with Kit, and out through the double doors into the pretty garden. ‘You have landed with your bum in butter, haven’t you, Ellie? Very nice.’
‘Yes, I have.’ Ella replied, squeezing her shoulders to her ears and grinning in delight. ‘And I’ve got pasties for you. Homemade.’
‘Fancy a pint?’ asked Kit.
‘Do I?’ Henry smiled. ‘With an offer like that, if Ella doesn’t marry you, I will.’
Ella was mortified and dug Henry in the ribs. ‘Shut up.’
‘Just saying,’ he said, clutching his side. ‘Will the pasties keep for an hour?’
‘Yes. Go on. They’ll keep. I’ll take your bag up to your room. You’re in Kit’s studio. For now.’
‘I’ll take it up later. It’s heavy.’ He opened it and hauled a bulging carrier bag out. ‘Here, take this bag – it’s got a huge pile of post for you. When you left me in London I didn’t think you’d be falling in love and not coming back.’
Ella couldn’t keep a blush from her cheeks. ‘God, you are so embarrassing.’
Kit saved her. ‘Neither of us expected to fall in love, but we did. I love your sister very much.’
Henry half closed his eyes and weighed up this open declaration. ‘Good on you. Don’t muck her about or I’ll flatten you.’
‘Fair enough.’ Kit smiled. ‘Now, how about that pint? Ella, do you want to come?”
‘No thanks. You two go and get to know each other. I’ll make myself a Pimm’s and have a look through the post Henry’s brought.’
She waved the boys off with their promise to be only an hour, or so, and took the Waitrose bag of post to the garden.
Getting a glass of Pimm’s, she settled herself at the garden table and sifted through the mail.
The piles in front of her grew tediously. Catalogues. Charity requests. Bank statements. A postcard from an old school friend now living in Peru. Pension firms. Insurance firms. Funeral savings plan. And, a letter from a publisher. Months before she had written and illustrated a children’s book called Hedgerow Adventures. She had hoped that her departed granny would guide her to a fruitful contract. She opened the envelope.
Dear Miss Tallon,
Re Hedgerow Adventures
Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately this is not the sort of book we would publish. We will return the manuscript under separate cover,
Yours etc …
She sat back and blew out a long breath of frustration.
‘Granny,’ she said, ‘you got me excited for a moment. Ah well. C’est la vie.’ She picked up her Pimm’s and took a long, cool, self-commiserating mouthful.
Her phone buzzed. It was Henry.
‘Hi, Henry, is everything okay?’
‘Have you looked at your emails?’
‘No, I’ve been going through the post. So much crap …’
‘Check them now,’ he said urgently.
‘Okay, hang on.’ She put her phone on speaker and looked at the screen. There was an email waiting to be opened. ‘I’ve got it. It’s from Granny’s solicitor.’
‘Open it.’
She did so and as she read it her heartbeat began to accelerate ‘Oh. My. God,’ she whispered. ‘It can’t be true.’
‘It is true.’ Henry’s voice was gruff with anger.
Ella’s hand was shaking as she gripped the phone. Swallowing hard to stop any tears she said, ‘Our mother is alive?’
‘Yes,’ said Henry. ‘And she wants to see us.’ He was having difficulty keeping the shock from his voice. As soon as he had read the message, relaxing with a pint on the Dolphin’s oak bar and chatting to Kit, he’d excused himself and gone to the relative privacy of the pub car park to phone Ella.
He was scuffing the gravel with his shoes. ‘I can’t believe she’s got the nerve.’ He bit his lip, his face the definition of rage and pain. ‘After all these years.’ He pushed his free hand into his floppy fringe and pulled his hair. ‘She’s bloody alive. Well, I can tell you now, we are not seeing her.’