Summer With My Sister Page 10

  Polly nibbled a ham sandwich and tried to look grateful. But oh, the cut and thrust of Waterman’s seemed far, far away now. The gleaming towers, the corridors of power, her swivel chair, her desk, her phone … She missed them as one did an old boyfriend, seeing only the romance and high points, forgetting the negatives and bad habits.

  She chewed mechanically, barely tasting her sandwich as she wondered how on earth she was going to keep up this facade for three long months. Whatever does not kill me makes me stronger, she reminded herself. Although at that moment, she couldn’t ever remember feeling so utterly weak.

  ‘Hello Polly.’

  Polly gulped. ‘Clare, hi, how are you?’ she said, mentally pulling a veil down over her face so as not to betray any emotion. Her hands shook as she and her sister embraced without warmth, touching each other for the briefest possible moment. She’d been dreading this.

  She forced a smile at the children, trying not to appear too dismayed by how unkempt they both looked, Leila with her thick blonde hair tangled and falling loose from wonky bunches, Alex’s school trousers about an inch too short and his shirt hanging out. Good grief. Hello kids, how are you? How’s school?’

  Leila gazed up through long eyelashes. ‘All right,’ she said politely, just as Alex replied, ‘Boring’ and scuffed at the floor with his shoe. This was immediately followed by, ‘Have you made any cookies today, Grandma?’ with considerably more interest in his voice.

  Karen smiled fondly. ‘I might just have baked a few,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we all go into the kitchen and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’

  Polly sighed inwardly. Another ‘nice cup of tea’. She was onto her fourth, and she’d only been in the bungalow three hours. Her dad had helped her heave all the boxes into the spare room and there was barely space there now to turn around. The single bed had been made with the same Snoopy duvet she’d had as a child – a far cry from her luxury king-size in London. She was surprised her mum hadn’t left out some of her old Care Bears just to rub it in.

  Back in the kitchen, she felt Clare’s cool blue eyes hard on her. ‘So what’s this research all about then?’ she asked.

  Polly flinched, not liking her sister’s sneering tone. ‘It’s quite complicated,’ she replied crushingly, ‘although if you’re really interested, I’m going to be looking at the impact of some new risk legislation on the company, in particular market risk assessment.’ It was complete nonsense – there was no new risk legislation that needed investigating as far as she’d heard, but Clare wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Blind her with science. ‘And of course I’ll be focusing on our insurance strategy, bearing in mind the emerging market trends.’ Her meaningless twaddle had served its purpose. Clare was staring blankly, as if Polly had just spoken in tongues. Ha.

  ‘Well, that makes absolutely no sense to me whatsoever, but it sounds utterly riveting,’ Clare replied drily. ‘Great fun. I’ll look forward to perusing your report when you’ve finished.’

  Polly was almost one hundred per cent sure her sister was taking the piss out of her, but felt herself flinch at the idea all the same. God. She would actually have to cobble some old crap together, she decided, just so that her cover story remained convincing. ‘I’m afraid it’s confidential at the moment,’ she said brusquely. Up yours, Clare.

  Clare pulled a face. ‘Shame. I could have done with some light bedtime reading. Sounds right up my street.’

  ‘Girls, don’t start bickering,’ Karen said automatically, putting the teapot on the table and pouring squash for the children. ‘There. Isn’t this nice?’

  Nobody answered immediately. Leila and Alex were too busy stuffing cookies into their mouths, spraying crumbs everywhere as they chomped. Apart from their revolting scoffing noises, there was a tense silence and Polly realized she was digging her fingernails into her own palm. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she managed to say tightly.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Clare with a meaningful look at Graham. He smirked back at her.

  Polly scowled. Oh, right. Like that, was it? Clare had always been Daddy’s girl. She had the feeling that new battle lines were being drawn up, and tensed her body accordingly. If Clare wanted to start scoring points, then Polly would be ready to fight her corner.

  Polly was surprised at how well she slept that night. As soon as her head touched the Snoopy pillowcase, she was out like a light, plunging into fathomless depths of sleep. Over the last few weeks she’d dozed fitfully, plagued by nightmares about debt and unemployment. Coming here felt as if she’d temporarily escaped such demons; she’d stepped into a safety chamber to which they had no access. After nine solid hours of slumber she was woken at eight o’clock by what sounded like rain thrumming against the wall, and rolled over dreamily flinging her arms out, only to almost topple straight out of bed. She clutched at the padded blue headboard to stop herself, fully awake now, heart jumping in panic.

  Oh yes. Single bed. Snoopy duvet. Pink floral wallpaper. And that sound of pattering water was presumably somebody in the shower, just on the other side of the wall.

  She sat up and stretched. It was strange waking up knowing that there were other people within the same four walls. Sure, she’d lived in an apartment block where there were other flats in the building, with other inhabitants living above and below her, but the walls had been so thick and soundproof she’d never heard anyone else.

  Here, on the other hand … She groaned as she heard her dad begin singing ‘Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my DARLING Clementine’ through the wall. Here, it was going to be cheek by jowl. Literally, she thought, recoiling from the wall, trying not to visualize her dad’s bare bum-cheek separated from her face by just two inches of plaster and tiling. Ewww.

  ‘Needs must’ was becoming her most loathed expression.

  Her parents were both retired and Polly was surprised to see them up so early in the morning. She’d envisaged being the sole early riser, breakfasting alone and then plugging into her so-called work while they lounged in bed. What did pensioners have to get up for anyway?

  ‘So, what are you two doing today?’ she asked over her plate of poached eggs, bacon and toast. Mmm. She’d forgotten how good her mum’s cooking was. ‘Do you usually potter about at home, or … ?’ She didn’t know, she realized with a jolt. She had no idea what her parents did all day, every day. It had never crossed her mind to ask.

  They looked amused at the question. ‘Well, your dad’s playing golf with the lads this morning and I’m helping out at the playgroup,’ Karen told her. ‘I got into the habit when Clare’s two were there, and I still pop in a few mornings every week to lend a hand.’

  ‘Oh,’ Polly said. ‘So you’ll be out all morning, will you?’

  ‘Yes, until midday,’ her mum replied. ‘Then I’m having lunch with Jean – remember Jean Garland? After that, housework and The Archers, then I’m meeting some of the girls in Amberley for coffee.’

  ‘Oh,’ Polly said again. She felt rather taken aback that her parents had such busy social lives, with ‘the lads’ and ‘the girls’ to hang out with.

  ‘Then I’ll do us all some tea – I’ve got chops for tonight – before I go out to my Bums-and-Tums class. Come along if you want. It’s quite a giggle.’

  Graham snorted. ‘Get away, you daft woman, she’d be the only one under sixty if she goes there with you,’ he said, rolling his eyes comically at Polly. ‘She’s got better things to do than hang out with a load of creaky grannies, right, love? She’s probably dying to see some of her old mates, not yours.’

  Karen cuffed him. ‘Less of the “creaky grannies”, thank you very much,’ she retorted. ‘Ignore your rude old father,’ she went on to Polly. ‘The offer’s there, although I suppose he might be right for once in his life, and it would be more fun for you to catch up with your friends. I’ll tell Jean you’re back – I expect Jacky’d love to see you again.’

  Polly tried to keep back her shudder. Spend an evening with boring, plump Jacky Garland,
who’d had braces on her teeth for most of the secondary school years, and who’d left school at sixteen to sweep hair clippings at A Cut Above in Amberley? Digging her own grave would be more ‘fun’. ‘Maybe,’ she said, swigging the last of her coffee. ‘Thanks,’ she said, getting up from the table. ‘Right, I’d better have a quick shower and crack on then.’

  She was about to leave the room when her dad gave a theatrical-sounding cough. She turned questioningly.

  ‘Your plate,’ he said, indicating it with his head. ‘Don’t forget to put it in the dishwasher.’

  Polly flushed and made to go back for it, but her mum rounded on him. ‘Don’t nag her, Graham, she’s our guest,’ she said. ‘I’ll sort that out when I’ve finished mine.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s much to ask, for her to put her own plate in the dishwasher,’ he replied as if Polly wasn’t standing right there. He turned back to Polly. ‘Many hands make light work, eh, Poll? Your mum’s already got enough to do, looking after me.’

  Karen elbowed him. ‘Keep bossing us around and I might decide to stop looking after you,’ she warned. ‘Leave it, Polly, I’ll do it.’

  Polly could feel Graham’s eyes on her, though, and daren’t walk away from her breakfast things. She picked them up and stacked them in the dishwasher, then stalked out, cheeks flaming. Oh God. Told off by her dad already: the man who’d happily sat with his feet up for forty years, never lifting a finger while his wife fussed around him, fetching and carrying all his plates and cups. What had got into him?

  She could hear her parents bickering as she unpacked her shampoo and shower gel in the small beige bathroom. ‘You didn’t have to say it like that, Graham. Let her settle in. I don’t mind if she leaves her plate on the table, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Well, I do. I’m not having her making extra work for you. While she’s under my roof she’s got to pull her weight, and that’s the end of it. Clare said she’d expect us to wait on her hand and foot the whole summer – and it looks as if she was right. I won’t have it, do you understand?’

  ‘Don’t you start ordering me around, Graham Johnson. We hardly ever see Polly. Now she’s back, I want to make a fuss of her, spoil her a bit. Can’t you see she’s exhausted? Give the girl a break.’

  There was another snort from Graham, and Polly switched on the shower before she had to listen to his retort. She felt hot all over. So Clare had been bitching about her before she’d even arrived, had she? How unsisterly could you get? Clare was just jealous because she’d never done anything with her life, that was all. Clare was freaked out at the thought of Polly moving into her precious village, because their parents would probably start loving Polly best, now that she was on the scene.

  After wedging the last of her favourite bubble bath and body lotion into the bathroom cabinet alongside – ugh – a large tube of haemorrhoid cream and some athlete’s foot powder, Polly stepped into the weedy, drizzling shower and gritted her teeth. She had Clare’s number, and her sister had better watch out.

  Thankfully her parents were both on their way out of the house by the time she was dressed. ‘If you get chilly, do put the heating on,’ her mum began saying, opening the cupboard that housed the boiler, but her dad swatted her hand away from the thermostat the very next second.

  ‘She won’t get chilly, it’s June, you silly old bat,’ he said irritably. ‘Leave her be, she doesn’t want all your fussing. Am I right, Poll?’

  Polly smiled weakly. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ she said, not wanting to take sides. ‘See you later.’

  The door closed and Polly let out a sigh of relief. Finally, a chance to be on her own for a while. She hadn’t realized how much tension she’d been holding onto until that moment. Her parents were lovely, in that slightly maddening parental way, but they did kind of cramp one’s style. All their funny little routines: their cups of tea on the hour, her dad’s tuneless whistling, the dog’s annoying yapping … It was a shame they’d left Sissy behind, she thought darkly, noticing the dog eyeing her from her basket in the kitchen, but you couldn’t have everything.

  Polly made herself a coffee, then prowled around the bungalow, Sissy trotting after her, as she debated where to set up her new workstation. It was like exploring a foreign country, one where she didn’t belong. There was a small table in her bedroom, which her mum had originally suggested she might use, but it was now piled high with boxes, so that was out. The kitchen table wasn’t the most practical, either – she’d never get anything done, with her parents traipsing in and out and interrupting her. Short of camping out in the shed, she’d have to use the living room.

  ‘So long, mutt,’ she said, dumping Sissy back in her basket and shutting the kitchen door behind her. The last thing she wanted while she worked was the dog gazing up at her with those huge, mournful brown eyes. She needed to concentrate, make the most of this time sans parents.

  The living room had Artex swirls on the walls and ceiling, and faded burgundy velvet curtains hanging in swags at the windows. The soft plush sofa was a similar wine-red, but unfortunately just too far along the colour spectrum to match. It clashed, actually, Polly thought, wrinkling her nose, and the overall effect wasn’t exactly helped by the floral blue arm-covers that her mum had added to cover the worn patches. A seascape painting hung on the wall, and Karen’s collection of china animals paraded along the mantelpiece in between a gallery of photographs.

  Polly eyed them from a distance. There was one of Clare’s wedding: Clare in the naffest, cheapest-looking meringue ever witnessed, with shiny-faced Steve gurning gormlessly beside her. What had she ever seen in that pillock? Polly had known all along that the marriage would be a disaster. Catch her throwing everything away for a bloke? Never.

  Her lip curled as she noticed the bridesmaids in long, dark-red dresses flanking the meringue. Clare hadn’t asked Polly to be a bridesmaid. Not that Polly had wanted to, of course, but it wasn’t exactly sisterly of Clare, was it?

  There were some baby photos too: bald, chubby Leila with a single front tooth, and Alex brandishing a plastic spade on a windswept beach. A black-and-white photo of her parents’ wedding. A family shot of the five of them back when Polly was about ten, on a carefree summer holiday somewhere in Dorset. And Michael’s last-ever school photo.

  Polly dragged her gaze away quickly, not wanting to look at him, not wanting to meet his eye, and think about what had happened. It was too late, though, and in the next second she was ambushed by a torrent of awful images, including one of her dad sobbing brokenly at the funeral. It was the first time she’d ever seen him cry, and the sight of that unbearable pain etched on his face had scarred Polly’s mind like a branding.

  Step away from the family photos, Polly, she told herself numbly.

  At the other end of the room stood her dad’s old Victorian desk, which had originally belonged to his greatgrandfather. It was a rather splendid piece of furniture, made of solid mahogany, with four drawers on either side, topped with a green leather writing surface. It was completely out of place in a 1970s bungalow, of course, but there was something reassuringly sturdy about it. This would do for the time being. Turning her back on the photos, Polly went over and cleared the piles of letters and bills that littered the top of the desk and dumped them underneath, then briskly opened her laptop and switched it on. There.

  She gazed out of the window while she waited for it to whirr into life. The back garden was her dad’s pride and joy, filled with flowers and vegetables. She remembered helping him in their old garden when she’d been bored on summery Sunday afternoons as a child, whenever Michael and Clare had hatched some game that didn’t involve her. Dad had had her pulling out clumps of pale flowering chickweed and watering the vegetable plot with the big green watering can, so full and heavy that it had bumped against her bare legs as she’d lugged it from the kitchen, spilling water on her feet in noisy glugs.

  Right. Work to do. Staring out of the window wasn’t going to get her anywhere. Pol
ly clicked on the Internet connection and the browser opened on its usual job-hunting site. Here we go again, she thought, trying not to let the customary pessimistic feelings of doom sweep through her before she’d even begun.

  Come on, Polly. Chin up. The sooner you can find a new job, the sooner you can get out of this hole.

  That, alone, was more than enough motivation for her to lean forward and start clicking with renewed enthusiasm.

  Chapter Ten

  Two days later Polly leaned back in her chair, stretched her arms above her head and sighed. It was Friday lunchtime and her parents’ house was deserted once again; they’d trekked off to a garden centre this time, making excited noises about bedding plants and bags of compost. Yes, it was thrills galore in Elderchurch, all right.

  She’d been sitting here at the computer for the last forty-eight hours and had achieved precisely nothing – except perhaps a grudging respect for the fact that her parents both seemed to have a way more active social life than she’d ever managed. They were never bloody in the house! So much for looking after her, the firstborn, their guest. They were far too busy haring about all the time, enjoying themselves. There was something deeply wrong with that, in Polly’s opinion. Selfish, even.

  Her thoughts slid Londonwards, as they had done approximately every three minutes since her arrival in this dump. She hated imagining her flat sitting empty without her. Would anyone have been tempted by it yet? It was taking every shred of will power not to keep phoning the estate agents for an hourly update.

  Now that she was here, miles from the city, it seemed even more of an impossible task to get herself back. She seemed to be going round in circles, visiting the same recruitment websites several times a day, only to see the same maddeningly small list of jobs on offer, almost all of them way too menial for her.

  Oh, it was no good. She couldn’t do this today. On the spur of the moment she decided that she’d brave it and go into the village, snatch a break and some fresh air (as much as you could call cowshit-smelling air ‘fresh’ anyway) and try to come up with her Plan B. Plan A – bagging herself a new job asap – didn’t seem to be happening right now.