I thought of the pink shirt, slightly strained at the shoulder seams.
‘He’s in quite good shape, actually,’ I said vaguely. ‘And he’s extremely organized. I think he’ll do very well. What’s his name?’
She turned, aghast. ‘You don’t even know his name?’
‘Of course I do, I just forgot.’
‘Sam Hetherington.’
‘That’s it. Don’t bully me, Jennie, I’m feeling a bit all-in as a matter of fact.’
I was. Truly tired. Relieved to have got that over with but exhausted with the effort. And I certainly wasn’t up to my son wailing again from the back seat. Since when had he started to cry so much? He used to be such a good baby. I leaned back on the headrest and shut my eyes.
‘There’s a carton of juice in my handbag,’ Jennie told me.
I opened my eyes. Turned my head slowly to her. ‘D’you want it now?’
‘No, but Archie might,’ she said patiently.
‘Oh.’
I leaned down and fumbled obediently in her handbag at my feet, found the Ribena and handed it to Archie, sticking the straw in first. He put it to his lips, squeezed the carton with his fist and the juice went shooting out of the straw, all over his face and down his front. For some reason Clemmie, beside him on her booster seat, burst into tears.
‘You forgot to say don’t squeeze!’ she wailed. ‘You
Archie gazed at his soaking-wet jumper in dismay, opened his mouth as wide as he could and roared, dropping the juice on the floor. Jennie swore under her breath then reached behind for Clemmie’s ankle, stroking it and making soothing noises, reaching for Archie’s too. As we drove home, amid the inexplicable cacophony of my fractious children, Jennie shot me an exasperated look which I caught in surprise. Was there a law, I wondered, as I gazed out of the window at the increasingly bare branches of the trees as they flashed past, the sun appearing between them like a searchlight, against just sitting quietly the while? About having a little hush?
7
That evening, at eight, the inaugural meeting of the Massingham book club took place at Angie’s house. Peggy, Angie, Jennie and I assembled in the vast, beautifully converted barn kitchen where Angie and Tom had entertained so splendidly and raucously over the years: sixteen for dinner sometimes and a lot of laughs. This evening, however, it was just the four of us who sat at the huge oak table under the high, vaulted ceiling, criss-crossed with original beams, the twinkle of many tiny down-lights upon us. Outside the huge picture windows, darkness had fallen, but in the soft glow of a coach light, Angie’s horses could be seen behind the post and rails, already rugged up for winter, standing nose to tail. Inside, candles had been lit above the fireplace and in great urns beside it, whilst the fire crackled comfortingly in the grate. Michael Buble crooned softly in the background.
‘So. Everyone got a pen and paper?’ Angie, sitting at the head of the table, had clearly decided to take the chair – her house, after all. She was looking particularly stunning tonight in her delicate, Jane Asher way: red-gold hair shining, elegant despite jeans and Ugg boots. We all nodded. ‘OK. Well, we’re here tonight primarily to discuss who we want to join our club,’ she said importantly, crossing her skinny knees.
‘And which books,’ Jennie reminded her, unused to playing second fiddle.
‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ Angie was deflated in an instant. ‘Which books to read. Anyone got any ideas?’
‘
‘Anyone got any sensible ideas?’ went on Jennie smoothly, ignoring her. ‘Angie?’ she asked diplomatically, having usurped her so very recently.
‘Well, I have given it a bit of thought, actually,’ said Angie, going a bit pink. She’d clearly rehearsed this. ‘How about
She just happened to have a copy handy and whipped it out of a drawer from the side, the better for us to marvel. It certainly was delightfully slim. Not more than a hundred pages.
‘And then we could say we were reading Eliot,’ mused Jennie, flicking through.
‘Exactly,’ said Angie triumphantly. ‘And look, half of it’s Introduction, which we don’t have to read, and quite a lot of
