‘They won’t, because you’ve got stubble on your chin.’ Lovingly, she ran a grubby finger over his jawline. ‘Anyway, there’s a surprise for later. At six o’clock in the back garden, and you have to put a shirt on.’
‘What kind of a surprise?’
‘Me and Tiff are getting married.’
‘Really?’ Jake raised his eyebrows at Marcella, who was leaning against the wall lighting a cigarette. ‘Mum, did you know about this?’
Marcella gave a what-can-you-do shrug. ‘Darling, I tried to talk them out of it, tried to persuade them to wait a couple of years, but would they listen? You know how it is with young people today.’
‘Fine.’ Jake lowered his daughter to the ground. ‘Just so long as you aren’t expecting a wedding present, because I haven’t had time to get to the shops.’
Beaming, Sophie said, ‘That’s OK. You can give me a cheque.’
Behind Sophie, Trude was looking puzzled, clearly struggling to work out the dynamics of the family before her. Jake smiled to himself, because confusion was a fairly common occurrence and always a source of entertainment. He knew exactly what was going through Trude’s mind.
‘Come along, pet, we’d better start getting you ready.’ Marcella held out a hand. ‘Every bride has to have a bath before her wedding.’
‘Oh Gran,
‘No one wants to marry a girl with muddy knees.’
‘Tiff wouldn’t mind. He hates baths too.’ Rolling her dark eyes, Sophie gave up and made her way over to Marcella. ‘OK. And Daddy, don’t forget. Six o’clock.’
Jake shook his head in mock despair as Marcella and Sophie headed back up the road to Snow Cottage.
‘How old is she?’ said Trude.
‘Seven.’
‘You were very young when you became a father.’
‘Seventeen.’
‘She’s beautiful. You must be very proud.’ Trude hesitated, as he had known she would. ‘And the lady with her? You called her Mum. But she is your mother-in-law, right?’
‘No, she’s my mum,’ Jake said easily.
Trude, confused all over again, said, ‘Please, forgive me if this is impertinent, but your daughter is ... um, black.’
‘Well spotted,’ said Jake with a grin.
‘And your mother, she is the same,’
Jake said helpfully, ‘Black.’
Poor Trude was now frowning like Inspector Morse, doubtfully eyeing Jake’s streaky blond hair, green eyes and golden-stubbled chin.
‘So, I’m sorry, but you’re not ... um ...’
‘It’s OK.’ Jake nodded encouragingly. ‘You can say it. I’m not black.’
‘Exactly,’ Trude exclaimed with relief. ‘But I don’t understand. How is it that you are white?’
Chapter 4
When Robert Harvey had lost his young wife Annabel to acute lymphoblastic leukaemia, he was devastated. Left alone to grieve and bring up their three small children, he couldn’t imagine ever finding love again. Two years later, meeting Marcella Darby in a cafe in Keynsham where she was working as a waitress, he wondered what he’d done to deserve a second chance of happiness. Marcella, then twenty-two, was funny and irreverent, feisty and passionate. Robert, convinced there had to be a catch somewhere, tried — with spectacular lack of success — to conceal his true feelings. But it soon became apparent that there was no catch. Within weeks he knew he’d found his soulmate.
Unable to believe his luck, he brought Marcella back to Ashcombe and introduced her to his children. April was by this time six years old, Maddy five and Jake four. It was risky, but it had to be done. Marcella hadn’t been scared off when he’d told her of their existence; indeed, she had declared that she loved kids, but saying it and actually meaning it were two different things. There was no guarantee that it wouldn’t all go horribly wrong.
It hadn’t. The bond between Marcella and Robert’s children had been instantaneous, irrevocable and touching to behold. Marcella had adored all three and made her feelings so plain that they in turn had adored her. A fortnight after that first meeting, Maddy and Jake had asked their father why Marcella couldn’t live with them. The following weekend she moved in, and by the end of the month all three children were calling her Mummy. Three months after that, they were married.
Marcella’s arrival in Ashcombe caused a bit of a stir. Some of the older residents got quite het up about it, never having seen a black person in the flesh before. But most of the villagers, sympathetic to the family’s tragic past and delighted to see Robert smiling again, welcomed Marcella with genuine warmth. Marcella herself, with her natural enthusiasm, exuberance and dazzling smile, soon won over the rest, the ancient old farmers who seemed to expect her to start smoking spliffs in the pub and turn Ashcombe into a den of vice, and those doubters who whispered that she had only married Robert Harvey for his money.
Not that he had any, but that was the first rule of small-town tittle-tattle: when stuck for a spurious excuse, make one up.
But who could doubt Marcella’s genuine love for her new family when, at that year’s summer fete, April was crowned carnival queen. Nobody could have been prouder than Marcella, who had spent weeks sewing sequins onto the Barbie-pink dress she had painstakingly made by hand.
The little girl, who suffered from cerebral palsy and had never won anything before in her life, had insisted on making her own faltering speech at the crowning ceremony, and Marcella had applauded with tears of joy in her eyes.
