A Good Year for the Roses
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Synopsis
Life hasn't been a bed of roses for Londoner Molly Taylor lately. Newly divorced and struggling to find a new home and a way to support her three boys, she's stunned when her beloved Aunt Helena dies and leaves her Harrington Hall, a three-hundred-year-old manor house on the Devon coast, where Molly grew up. But does Molly really want to run a bed-and-breakfast in an old house where the only thing that doesn't need urgent attention is Aunt Helena's beautiful rose garden? Or care for Uncle Bertie, an eccentric former navy officer with a cliff-top cannon? Or Betty, his rude parrot that bites whomever annoys it? Yet Molly's best friend Lola is all for the plan. "My heart bleeds. Your very own beach, the beautiful house, and Helena's garden. All you have to do is grill a bit of bacon." But with Molly's conniving brother running the family hotel nearby, the return of a high school flame with ulterior motives, and three sons whose idea of a new country life seems to involve vast quantities of mud, this is not going to be easy. And then Harrington Hall begins to work its magic, and the roses start to bloom... Warm, witty, and chock-full of quintessential British charm, A GOOD YEAR FOR THE ROSES is a story for anyone who has ever dreamed of starting over...with or without bacon.
Release date: July 1, 2014
Publisher: Hachette Books
Print pages: 377
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A Good Year for the Roses
Gil McNeil
It’s Thursday morning and I’m trying to make packed lunches for the boys as quietly as possible so nobody wakes up before I’ve had my second cup of tea. Both Ben and Alfie are still young enough to surface early, but there could be a brass band going at full pelt in the living room and Dan would stay asleep. At thirteen he’s definitely doing the teening thing now, and he’d be completely nocturnal if left to his own devices. It’s absolutely bloody typical of the wonderful world of motherhood—you spend the first ten years trying to get the little sods to sleep, and the next ten trying to wake them up. The only guaranteed way to rouse him nowadays is flicking water on him—although only when his brothers aren’t watching, since I go for light droplets from the toothbrush mug in the bathroom, whereas Ben would opt for the shower on full jet, if he could work out a way to get it to reach that far. I caught him trying to bring the hosepipe in from the garden last week, and Alfie thinks his plastic pirate chest would be the perfect water carrier, and it’s huge. Mind you, there might come a morning when a giant pirate chest full of cold water is exactly what I need, so I’m not ruling it out.
I’m enjoying picturing the total immersion of my firstborn, when the phone rings. Great. Bang goes my attempt at a quiet half hour.
“Oh good, you’re up.”
“Morning Mum.”
“Are you about to set off?”
“Not yet. I’ve got to get the boys to school first.”
“Yes, but you know how upset your father gets.”
Bloody hell, she’s ringing me at seven a.m. to remind me that Dad likes people to be punctual.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can Mum.”
“Don’t forget to bring something smart for the funeral will you?”
“I’ve got my black trouser suit.”
“You used to have some lovely black skirts when you worked at the hotel.”
“That was nearly twenty years ago Mum, when I was a student. And Dad hated them because they were too short.”
“I know, but—”
“I know he’s on a one-man mission against trouser suits Mum but I’m a big girl now, I can wear what I like.”
She sighs, and I feel guilty, like I always do. She’ll be sitting in her dressing gown in the kitchen, looking tired. Family gatherings always reduce her to a nervous wreck long before anyone arrives.
“The only suit I’ve got with a skirt is navy blue Mum, and that doesn’t seem right for a funeral. And I can’t afford to buy something new just because Dad thinks I can’t wear trousers for formal occasions. And by the way, if he goes into a trouser tirade later on, you could always remind him they’re good enough for Princess Anne. She was on the news last night, on an official visit somewhere, with no horses in sight, and she was still wearing trousers, so that’s got to count as a formal occasion, what with her being royalty and everything, don’t you think?”
Dad has always had a soft spot for Princess Anne and her I-may-be-a-Royal-but-I-can-still-swear-at-photographers approach to regal life. Actually, if I could channel my inner Princess Anne, I’m sure my life would be vastly improved—and I could get my horse to kick people if they were being annoying, so it would be win-win all the way. But the last time I was on a horse, I fell off, so maybe not.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine Mum.”
“Well, I just hope you’re warm enough. It’s been bitter here the last few days. Georgina bought a lovely new suit with a matching coat, and it’s got a sort of quilted lining. She says she can lend you something if you like. Wasn’t that kind?”
Charming. Lend your rejects to the newly divorced sister-in-law. Particularly ones with quilted linings. How selfless.
“Thanks Mum, but tell her I don’t need to borrow anything, would you, or she’ll try to give me stuff I don’t want, like last time.”
“You’ll see her yourself, at supper tonight.”
“Okay.”
Bugger. I’d forgotten Roger and Georgina would be around this evening. So not only do I have to sit through supper with my annoying brother and his stupid wife, but I have to thank her for offering to lend me items from her wardrobe which I wouldn’t be seen dead in, not least because they’re bound to be at least three sizes too small. What a huge treat.
“I thought I’d make a shepherd’s pie, and Georgina’s making a pudding.”
“Great.”
So that’ll be two raspberries each and a teaspoonful of sorbet. Georgina’s always on a diet, since her only real passion in life is buying clothes in smaller and smaller sizes. She’s got more outfits than anyone else I know apart from Lola. But Lola’s my best friend, and she buys the kind of things you instantly covet, whereas Georgina prefers fussy little suits with shiny buttons and hideous sparkly evening wear. She keeps all her shoes in special boxes with photos on the front so she never has to search for a cerise satin sandal or a navy court shoe. It’s like an alternate universe: Barbie meets Imelda Marcos, but with a posh accent. Most mornings I’m lucky if I can find two shoes that match. I did the school run last week wearing one black loafer and one navy. I had to stay in the car and then belt home to change, so nobody would think I was having some kind of post-divorce breakdown. And Georgina always has immaculate makeup, even at breakfast. She’s like one of those women who squirt unsolicited perfume at you in department stores—always a shade too orange—with slightly manic smiles plastered on their faces. Sometimes I wonder if she’s secretly signed up to a postmodern version of The Stepford Wives. She’ll probably be getting a hostess trolley next.
Mum is running me through the list of ingredients for her shepherd’s pie, as if I’m the kind of nutter who really wants to debate whether King Edwards or Maris Pipers are the perfect potatoes for mash at ten past seven in the bloody morning.
“Are they bringing Henry and Alicia with them tomorrow?”
Georgina isn’t a hands-on mother, and Roger’s hopeless too, so it’s quite hard to warm to their kids. They’ve both been packed off to the local prep school practically since they could walk, so they’re that lethal combination of snooty and spoilt and not very bright, which private schools seem to specialise in. Good table manners, but such a strong sense of entitlement, you almost want to slap them just to see the look on their faces.
“No, they’ll be at school, and Roger says their education has to come first. I do worry about Roger you know—he works so hard.”
He bloody doesn’t, he spends most of his time playing golf in between annoying all the staff at the hotel, who get on far better when he’s not around. The hotel’s been in the family for three generations now, and was a much happier place when Granddad was in charge, by all accounts. Even Dad was less useless and bossy than Roger, who likes to patrol round in the evenings, steadily getting drunker and drunker and playing the genial host, and then falling asleep in the office behind Reception. In fact he passes out so regularly that the staff have taken to calling him “Roger and Out.”
“Is he still finding time to play lots of golf?”
“Yes, but don’t forget he’s on the committee this year, so he has to be there as much as he can, and your father thinks he’s got a good chance of becoming captain next year.”
God, he’ll be even more unbearable if he becomes captain. I bet he’ll get a special jacket, and wear it all the time. He’ll probably get a second one to sleep in. Dad will be thrilled though—he’s been trying to get Roger to the dizzy heights of captaincy for years.
“That’s great Mum. Look, I better go so I’m ready to leave on time.”
“Well drive safely love, and we’ll expect you around lunchtime shall we?”
“Teatime Mum. I told you yesterday, there’s no way I can get from South London to Devon in three hours, not unless I hire a helicopter, and we know what happened last time—he ended up covered in mud.”
“That wasn’t Roger’s fault Molly, you know that.”
“I’ll see you later Mum.”
It bloody well was his fault. He was determined we needed a helicopter landing spot at the hotel, to attract a better class of clientele. Even though the hotel’s managed to survive perfectly well without guests arriving by air, apart from the RAF pilot who parachuted onto the roof of the kitchen during the War—we’ve still got his photograph up behind the bar. Granddad invited his squadron to dinner and there’s a picture of them all raising a glass. Apparently they drank the bar dry that night, and one of the waitresses went missing for three days. But when Dad took over he went for a bit less of the jolly host approach than Granddad. And now Roger’s in charge, he’s determined to go upmarket, or what he thinks is upmarket, which seems to mean hiking up the pricings, painting everything taupe, and serving amuse-bouche before dinner. Nobody ever arrives by helicopter, apart from wedding parties with more money than sense. Last autumn a groom opted for the airborne option, and Roger insisted on giving himself a central Air Command role, putting on the orange jacket ready to supervise the landing, but then he stood in the wrong place, and nearly got blown off the cliffs by the downdraft. He ended up facedown in the rough grass by the tennis courts, covered in mud and leaves. The staff were so pleased they practically put the Jubilee bunting back up in Reception.
I finish making sandwiches and try not to think about how much I’m dreading today. Apart from driving all the way to Devon and listening to Roger bang on about becoming captain while I try to resist the temptation to stab him with my fork, it’s the funeral tomorrow. Helena’s funeral. And Helena and Bertie are the only two people in my whole family I actually like, apart from Mum, and she’s definitely getting worse. She’s spent so long pandering to Dad, she’s a nervous wreck. She practically quivers when he goes into one of his rants now. You’re longing for her to show some glimmer of disapproval, but she never does—unlike Helena, who never stood for any nonsense. Bertie can be pretty stalwart too, and since he’s Mum’s older brother, Dad’s usually a bit muted when he’s around. But Helena was the one who was in charge of everything, she used to take Mum out for a tour round the garden if Dad was in one of his moods. She even walked out of a family lunch once, when he was banging on about something—I can’t remember what. She simply stood up and said he was giving her a headache and she’d rather be out in the garden than listen to him being so boorish. He went bright red, and nobody spoke on the drive home. It was brilliant.
I so wanted to be like Helena when I grew up I even practised doing my hair in a bun, like she did. She was so wonderful, and now I’m going to her funeral. The perfect end to a perfect year, and it’ll be Christmas next and I haven’t got a single present yet. I only just managed to pull off Ben’s birthday last week after a frantic last-minute present-buying frenzy, where I spent far too much money. But eleven is a tricky age for birthdays—young enough to still want balloons and cake, but old enough to want something more grown-up than party games. We had a cinema-and-pizza party in the end: fifteen eleven-year-olds in the dark, with popcorn and ice cream. God knows what I was thinking, but I pity the poor people who got our seats for the next screening. And now we’ve bypassed the mellow fruitfulness of autumn and gone straight into freezing October fog and belting rain. All the shops are full of tinsel, and if I don’t sort something out in the next few weeks when the sale of this house goes through, Mary and Joseph won’t be the only ones looking at stables as a possible venue for Christmas lunch. And to top it all I’ve got the funeral of the person I liked most in my entire family. And I’m not allowed to wear trousers. Dear God.
“Mum?”
Bugger. Alfie’s up.
“Yes love?”
“Can I have bacon?”
“No, it’s a school morning Alfie. It’s cereal today.”
“I need bacon, I really do.”
He’s still half-asleep, with his hair sticking up in tufts and his pyjamas on inside out.
“What happened to your PJs love?”
“They were itchy, so I turned them round. That was very clever, wasn’t it Mum?”
“Yes love. Do you want apple juice or milk?”
Please let him not start wearing all his clothes inside out. School mornings are tricky enough already.
“Orange.”
“Orange what?”
He grins.
“Juice.”
“Alfie.”
“Please. Orange juice, please.”
“That’s better. I might make toast and honey?”
He claps, which makes me smile. It’s always nice to get a round of applause first thing in the morning.
“Can I have cartoons?”
“Yes, but only for half an hour, and very quietly.”
He skips off into the living room. It really doesn’t take much to make your morning perfect when you’re six. Despite all sorts of dramas going on around you, if there’s still toast and honey, and clandestine cartoons, everything is right with the world. Perhaps I should try to channel my inner six-year-old rather than my Princess Anne—I’ve got a much better chance of pulling that off, although I’m not sure kids do that well with Peter Pan parents busy trying to pretend they’re not grown-ups. It’s hard enough to navigate adolescence without your parents sharing your tastes in music and wearing the same clothes, and they’ve got enough to cope with after the divorce.
After the initial shock and humiliation of discovering Pete had been having an affair, it’s the only thing I really mind about: how the boys will feel about it all. So far it’s been fine—more than fine, if I’m honest. It feels like there’s much more room for everyone without Pete sitting at the head of the table dominating everything, giving us all lectures about the importance of good table manners, while our food went cold. Making everything about Him, and banging on about the proper way to behave. Things are so much calmer now, we’ve recalibrated our family life over the past year, and it’s definitely an improvement, a real improvement. Which does beg the question what on earth was I doing treading water in a marriage that hadn’t been working for ages, when everyone seems so much happier now that the divorce is over and our new family life is starting to emerge.
So that’s one more thing to feel guilty about. If I’d been devastated or heartbroken, it would have been more in keeping somehow. I’d be the ubiquitous Good Wife dealt a cruel blow. But instead there was a quiet kind of relief about it all. And spending so many years just ticking along is definitely not what I was hoping for when I was twenty-three and getting married and the future seemed so shiny and full of promise. I can’t work out when I turned into the maternal version of a tugboat, chugging along towing my flotilla of boys, carefully navigating around any potential tricky bits. But it does dent your confidence, realising you’ve chugged yourself right into dry dock. I was so busy keeping everything calm and quiet I hadn’t spotted the captain was about to jump ship. I can’t help thinking that with such a lack of skill at forecasting when something is about to go totally tits-up, I shouldn’t really be left in charge of the average domestic appliance, let alone three growing boys. Someone with a clipboard will probably press the doorbell one morning soon and say “Seriously? Don’t you think we should start you off with something a bit simpler, like a rabbit, and see how you get on?” So I’d better make sure I salvage something positive from the wreckage. A whole new family life, with more fun and less chugging along. Although possibly not today, what with the funeral and everything.
I take Alfie his toast, and receive another round of applause. I’m really going to miss this house, even though while I was using all my free time to redecorate, Pete was using his to have an affair with his school secretary. I’d just finished the dining room when he announced he wanted a divorce so he could marry Janice, with her high heels and little angora cardigans. Perky and petite. She collects glass animals—and other people’s husbands, apparently. Still, she who laughs last laughs the longest.
Looking back, I can’t quite pinpoint when Pete changed from the young radical who wanted to change the world into Peter, the headmaster of the kind of private school where the parents pay a small fortune in fees precisely to ensure that the world doesn’t change at all, thank you very much. When I dropped the boys off in the park for their Sunday afternoon paternal moment last week, he was wearing a new jogging outfit, with Janice in a matching one, with a tiny pink vest. For a moment I hardly recognised him, he looked so different. I can’t imagine any circumstances where we’d have gone jogging together. And not only because I often run into kids from my school when I’m out, and if they saw one of their teachers in a special jogging outfit, they’d just run along behind you, making comments. It gave me quite a jolt, realising just how much he’d changed. Jogging along, with a special new watch to measure his pulse, busy fretting about what canapés to serve to the parents at Musical Evenings, while I’m teaching at the local secondary school and trying to find new ways to engage the interest of fourteen-year-olds who couldn’t really give a fuck about the causes of the First World War, although they can get you a new laptop at a bargain price whenever you want one. Still, it’s not all bad; at least I don’t have to take up jogging.
If I can just shake off the panic attacks and transform myself into a capable grown-up and find us somewhere to live, we’ll be sorted. Houses I can afford with my half of the sale of this place are as rare as hen’s teeth round here, and I don’t want to move too far because Dan’s just got into the only good local secondary school, where you don’t have to pay or go to church for years to guarantee a place. It’s remarkable how many local parents discover a previously hidden faith when their children are around eight, but as soon as they’re eleven and safely in their secondary school of choice, they stop attending every Sunday. Perhaps if the Church would admit that half their regular congregations are only there for a good school place, or to arrange a wedding, they might spend a bit less time obsessing about women vicars and gay bishops and a bit more time trying to work out why most of the general population seem to regard their local Vicar as about as vital to modern life as a chocolate teapot. I’m almost tempted to write a letter to the Archbishop. But then again, I might need to start turning up every Sunday too if I can’t find us a decent house nearby, so possibly not.
I could try asking Dad for a loan, which will make today even more of a treat. He gave Roger and Georgina a “loan” for thousands for their hideous new conservatory, full of horrible teak furniture and triffid-like foliage, and the biggest television I’ve ever clapped eyes on. But Roger is the firstborn, and the golden boy. And I’m… well, I’m not the golden girl, that’s for sure. Not even bronze, especially if I’m wearing trousers. Talk about a Mission Impossible. And even if he does agree, I’ll have to pay him back, so it won’t exactly solve the problem, but it might be the only option unless we want to live in a caravan in someone’s garden, maybe the grounds of Pete’s school. I’m sure the Board of Governors would love that. I might suggest it next time I see him. I bet his pulse would go up a bit at the prospect of his ex-wife and three sons in a trailer by the tennis courts. His special new watch will probably go into meltdown.
I’m debating having another cup of tea versus waking up Dan and Ben, when the phone rings again. Mum probably wants to check what colour shoes I’m wearing. I must stop this, or I’ll morph back into my teenage self, choosing outfits on the basis of what was likely to most annoy Dad. The pink-and-orange sari was a definite winner—it’s a shame I don’t still have it, or I could wear it for supper tonight. I’d probably get frostbite, but it would be worth it.
“Hi Mum.”
“Sorry, darling. Just me. Is there fog in Devon? It’s terrible in town. I can hardly see the end of my road.”
Lola. Brilliant. A cup of tea and Lola, the perfect way to jump-start a tricky day.
“No, but they’re forecasting freezing rain.”
“What a treat.”
“Mum’s already been on the phone getting agitated, and it’s going to take me hours to get there.”
“And the wanker formerly known as your husband is having the boys tonight right?”
“Yes, in theory. Although I bet he leaves it all to Janice.”
“And how is the lovely Janice?”
“Busy buying new dresses with matching jackets so she can look like a proper headmaster’s wife. The ankle chain has gone, and so has her perky smile. But living with Pete will do that for you. Actually, I’m starting to feel a bit sorry for her.”
“Sometimes I worry about you Molly Taylor, I really do. How can you possibly feel sorry for the woman who nicked your husband? I mean, granted you were thrilled someone was finally taking him off your hands, but seriously…”
“Not thrilled exactly Lola.”
“Admit it darling.”
“Well how tragic does that make me? We’re all so much happier, it’s like the whole house suddenly got lighter, especially at meals, without him lecturing us all like he was addressing a school assembly and leaning back in his chair and saying ‘That was very nice, Molly,’ like he was being polite to the domestic help. It used to make me want to pour custard over his head.”
She laughs.
“Like there’s ever any custard left at the end of meals at your house. And anyway, if you’d left him years ago you wouldn’t have had Alfie, and he’s my absolute best boy in the whole world.”
Lola is fond of Dan and Ben, but she adores Alfie, and it’s a mutual adoration which shows no signs of waning. He trots round after her looking devoted, and she buys him presents and takes him out for treats on his own, without his big brothers.
“How is my gorgeous boy?”
“Watching cartoons. Dan and Ben are still asleep, so he’s king of the castle for a bit longer. Why are you up so early?”
“Aren’t you impressed? It’s my Pre–Festive Season Assault.”
“On?”
“My tragic fucking life. I’ll be in elasticated trousers by Christmas if I don’t get a grip.”
“They’re comfy.”
“ ‘Comfy’ is not the right look for killer agents darling. I saw Nigel Jones last night at a party, tottering around on six-inch heels in a black-leather miniskirt, trying to nick half my clients.”
“You’d think he’d know better.”
“She. Nigella. She calls herself Nigel so people won’t think she’s going to make them a tray of cupcakes and lick the spoon in a lascivious manner.”
“Seems fair enough to me.”
“Not if she’s after my clients it bloody isn’t.”
“I can’t see any of them having the nerve to leave you Lola, not really.”
“You’d be surprised darling. They’re like toddlers—leave them alone for a moment and they wander off in search of something new and shiny.”
“Or paint the television screen bright green with finger paints.”
“You’re never going to get over that, are you? I was only on the phone for five minutes. Seriously. And it washed off, didn’t it?”
“Eventually, yes.”
“Well then, get over it. Alfie’s a creative spirit—I’ve told you, that’s why we get on so well. You need to encourage him. I’ve been thinking, maybe we should enroll him in art classes. I bet they do some great ones at the Tate.”
“Do they have televisions you can paint?”
“Leave it to me. I’ll get someone in the office to research where the best places are. Then we can go shopping afterwards. He’s such a sweetie to take shopping.”
“Not in the local supermarket he’s not. He was having races up and down the aisles with Dan last time I took them. I nearly got thrown out.”
“Sounds like fun. Anyway, back to special me. I’ve got so many events coming up it’s enough to make a girl weep. I’ll be so tinselled out by the time we get to Christmas I might have to shoot someone. Probably my mother. And that fucker Clive is in meltdown. He’s way over budget on his latest shoot, and I’m supposed to magic up some more finance, even though they’re practically sending him cash by the lorry load as it is. Nathan from the studio’s ringing me every day whining about money. Talking of whining, how’s Pete doing with the child support?”
“Late again, and he likes to be called Peter now. It’s more fitting for a headmaster, apparently.”
“I wish you’d let me hire a hit man.”
“Can I get back to you on that?”
“Not if you’re still planning on giving him half the money from the sale of the house, no you can’t.”
“It’s what we agreed in the divorce. Apparently Janice needs to make lots of alterations to the Headmaster’s House, to bring it up to her exacting standards.”
“Can’t be that exacting darling, given her taste in men. You should tell him he’s got a free house with his job, so he can fuck right off. I still don’t get why you have to sell.”
“Because we agreed a fifty-fifty split and I can’t afford to buy him out, but also because I think it will be good for us. If I can find somewhere I can afford, it’ll be a new start. I’ve applied to go full-time at school, but all the budgets are being cut. Going part-time when I had Alfie was a big mistake you know.”
“Yes darling, but you were knee-deep in small boys, so you didn’t really have a choice did you?”
“I suppose not, but I can’t afford anywhere round here on a part-time salary, especially anywhere with four bedrooms. Even three is out of my price range. I may have to sleep in the kitchen.”
“What, like Cinderella? Please. Can’t the boys share?”
“Are you mad? Nobody can share with Alfie, not unless they like sleeping covered in bits of Lego. And Ben can’t share with Dan, they’d kill each other. Even Ben has his limits. No, I’d rather sleep under the sink in the scullery than have the three of them going tonto every half an hour, trust me. They were all so sweet when they were babies. I don’t know what happened, apart from a maelstrom of testosterone and a divorce in the family. God knows how I’m going to get through the next few years. Maybe I should just leave them in the dark to sweeten up a bit, like rhubarb.”
“Don’t talk to me about bloody rhubarb. I don’t know which bright spark decided it should become so trendy, but if I get one more pudding with a surprise rhubarb element, there’s going to be trouble. And get a grip darling—you don’t want to turn into one of those old bat mothers who bang on about how sweet you used to be while you’re desperately trying to learn how to be a champion shagger.”
“And how is your mother?”
“Driving me crazy, planning Christmas lunch and trying to set me up with one of her friends’ reject sons, Jeffrey. He’s an accountant.”
“Handy for the business.”
“Not my top criterion when interviewing new candidates for the Dance of Delight.”
We’re both giggling now. Lola discovered the delightful dancing euphemism in some Pre-Raphaelite poem she was studying when we were both at university and it still reduces us to giggles twenty years later.
“Anyway I’ve met him. Dance of Death, more like. Which reminds me—oh, sorry. That wasn’t very subtle. Are you sure you’re okay about today? You don’t want me to drive down with you?”
“It’ll be fine. And anyway, I’m dreading it enough already without having you and my father in the same room.”
“Old bastard.”
“Charlotte Linford, what would your mother s. . .
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