The Happy Family
JACKIE KABLER
One More Chapter
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021
Copyright © Jackie Kabler 2021
Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Cover photograph © Deborah Pendell/Arcangel Images
Jackie Kabler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008433987
Ebook Edition © June 2021 ISBN: 9780008433970
Version: 2021-03-22
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Keep Reading …
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Jackie Kabler
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
When I think about my mother, I mostly think about the crying. She cried a lot, my mum. Then again, so did I, because I lost her when I was ten years old. I don’t mean she died; at least, I assume she’s still alive. And when I say I lost her, I don’t mean I lost her like you’d lose your mobile phone, or your purse. I mean, I can definitely be a bit forgetful at times, but even I’d struggle to mislay a whole actual person. When I say I lost her, I mean she just … disappeared. Walked out. Abandoned me. Abandoned us.
I’m not sure why I’m thinking about her now, why she’s come into my head unbidden on this busy Thursday morning as I lock my Audi and hurry across the car park. I try not to think about her at all and, generally, I succeed. But when Dad and I were chatting the other day he, who never mentions her either, suddenly remembered that next month would be her sixtieth birthday, and ever since …
I stop to check for traffic on the road that separates our car park from the surgery building and shake my head to banish the pointless musing. What does it matter that she has a big birthday coming up? That is, if she really is still alive, because after all, who knows?
She hasn’t been in touch for thirty years. It’s not as if I’m suddenly going to get a party invite in the post, is it? I think, and sigh.
It’s just started to rain, the weather chilly for March, the sky slate grey, and as I push the front door open, head through the still-empty reception area, and turn left towards the staffroom, I sigh again, remembering the long to-do list waiting on my desk. Then I smile as the sound of raucous laughter drifts down the corridor.
Ruth’s in early.
I open the staffroom door and step inside. Our head receptionist is perched on one end of the long table in the centre of the room, still laughing, wearing a bright-green blouse with a string of coloured beads around her neck.
‘Beth! Oh Beth, you’ve got to hear this!’
Ruth waves her coffee mug at me, then gestures at Lorraine, one of the practice nurses, who’s sitting on a chair next to her.
‘RUTH! Are you going to tell everyone?’ Lorraine says, then groans and gives a resigned shrug. ‘Oh, go on, then. Not going to be able to stop you, am I?’
‘You’re not. You know what she’s like. And it is hilarious. Morning, Beth.’
Deborah, head of our nursing team, who’s over at the kettle making herself a drink, grins at me. I dump my bag on the table.
‘Morning. What’s going on? You all right, Lorraine?’
Lorraine opens her mouth but Ruth doesn’t give her time to answer.
‘She’s all right, but her dishwasher isn’t. Menopause brain strikes again. Last night, our lovely Lorraine managed to put a whole Camembert cheese in the dishwasher instead of the fridge, Beth. And switched the thing on and went to bed. Now her entire house stinks of cheese, and as for the dishwasher …’
She snorts and starts to cackle again. Lorraine rolls her eyes and turns to me. I’m grinning widely too now. Ruth’s laugh is infectious.
‘The whole bloody thing and everything in it is covered, Beth,’ she says. ‘And it’s been through the drying cycle so it’s all … hard now. Like everything’s been coated in cheesy plastic. Plates, cutlery … I honestly might have to throw the whole dishwasher and everything in it away. How on earth am I going to get it all off? Honestly, don’t have a menopause. It’s sending me bonkers.’
‘Oh, Lorraine!’ I’m giggling too now. ‘Too funny! Poor you!”
As I make myself a tea, Ruth regales us with one of her own many menopause-brain stories – something about putting her jewellery box in the fridge and a cooked chicken in her wardrobe. The laughter follows me down the corridor as I – feeling thankful that I’m still only forty and, therefore, hopefully have a few years yet before it’s me sharing these stories – head to my office, pausing to wipe a smear off the smart brass sign on the door.
Beth Holland, Practice Manager
I’ve been here nearly three years now, and although it’s madly busy – five GPs, three nurses, half a dozen receptionists and admin staff, and nearly eight thousand patients – I
