Mum in the Middle Read online

  I shook my head.

  ‘Ever done any acting?’ I shook my head again. She patted my arm. ‘We’re always looking for help with the scenery …’

  She led me across a room filled with round tables adorned with paper, pens and bowls of peanuts, through small groups of people holding glasses, to the far corner. A broad-shouldered, grey-haired man in his late fifties sat with a younger, bearded chap and a blonde girl of about twenty.

  ‘One for you, Malcolm,’ Brigitte said. ‘This is Tess – she’s new to Northstone and could be your secret weapon.’

  ‘I don’t know about that …’ I squeaked, embarrassed.

  Malcolm looked me up and down. ‘Neither do I,’ he said gruffly.

  Malcolm was the editor of the local paper, the Northstone & District News, as well as other regional publications; the young girl, Emily, was one of his junior reporters and the man, Adrian, another of the town’s thesps, who, he told me, had written a play he was hoping they would perform for their autumn production.

  ‘We’ll call ourselves the Odds and Sods, shall we?’ said Malcolm.

  When we’d got to the third round and I still hadn’t known the answer to anything except who’d played Deirdre in Coronation Street, I could feel myself sinking in my chair.

  My only consolation came from the fact that Emily didn’t seem to know much either and Adrian had only contributed the names of three Olympic gold medallists and the symbols from the periodic table for lead, tin and pewter.

  Malcolm, on the other hand, was grunting out answers like a one-man Wikipedia and was only seen to be flummoxed when a question came up about boy bands. ‘You must know that,’ he instructed Emily, who didn’t.

  By half-time we were sitting in third place. ‘And we haven’t done current affairs yet,’ said Malcolm, satisfied. ‘What do you do? And why did you move here?’

  I was halfway through regaling him with the highlights of my enthralling career as an office space planner, when I saw Ingrid bearing down on us with a beer mug full of money and two books of raffle tickets.

  ‘Hello again!’ she said briskly to me before putting the tankard in front of Malcolm. ‘How’s that paper of yours? Going to be any decent news in it for a change?’

  ‘You’ll have to fork out and find out,’ he countered. ‘For a change.’

  ‘I always do,’ said Ingrid. ‘Though why it doesn’t have a bit more online, I don’t know.’

  ‘Because then nobody would buy it,’ he said. ‘As it is they all stand there reading it in the shop.’

  ‘You want to cut out all the smut, then, and put in something worth paying for.’

  ‘The smut is why the few do pay for it.’

  Ingrid gave him a withering smile. I got the feeling this was a well-worn exchange. ‘Are you going to buy some tickets?’

  ‘No,’ Malcolm said. ‘I’ve already paid to do the quiz.’

  ‘This is to raise more funds. Lovely prizes.’

  ‘They won’t be.’

  ‘Go on. Another couple of pounds won’t hurt you.’

  ‘I like quizzes. I don’t like raffles.’

  Ingrid thrust the books towards me. ‘A pound a strip’, she said, surmising correctly that I wouldn’t dare refuse her too.

  ‘Settling in?’ she asked, while I fumbled for coins. ‘Despite the neighbours?’

  I felt Malcolm’s eyes on me. There was a small silence. ‘Jinni’s been very kind to me,’ I said eventually, keeping my voice even and smiling at Ingrid.

  Ingrid looked cynical. ‘I’m sure she has,’ she said shortly.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she added to Malcolm. ‘But it’s off the record.’

  ‘Then don’t tell me,’ said Malcolm. ‘Come back when you’ve got something I can actually publish.’

  Ingrid grimaced. ‘It’s about the council. If I have my way, I’ll blow the lid off the whole lot of them.’

  Malcolm’s tone was dry: ‘I’m surprised they can sleep.’

  ‘Annoying woman,’ he said, when she’d moved off.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ I asked him, disconcerted. Emily and Adrian had disappeared.

  ‘Not allowed to. Doctor’s a miserable bugger who said I’d got to give it up. Orange juice only.’ He looked woebegone. I laughed.

  ‘Shall I get you one of those?’

  Malcolm peered into his empty glass as if searching for an answer.

  ‘Why not.’

  ‘Ingrid seems to be quite a character,’ I said, when I got back.

  Malcolm looked at his juice with ill-concealed disgust. ‘Ingrid disapproves of me and the paper.’ This seemed to please him. ‘Calls it a filthy little rag.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘That’s a bit strong.’

  ‘She objects to page five and our Busty Barmaids. Though actually last week it was a busty librarian. Very fetching she looked too, glasses, hair up in a bun, pile of books in her hands and a stunning cleavage. Ingrid thinks it is degrading and demeaning to women. They’re queuing up to be in it. And some of them are quite disappointed when I tell them they’re keeping their tops on.’

  I looked at him as I sipped my wine. I could imagine he’d been very good-looking when younger and he was handsome now in a craggy, lived-in sort of way. His shrewd eyes were still a piercing blue and he had a sharpness and vigour about him when he talked that was appealing.

  He was looking back, intently. ‘Do you disapprove too?’

  I shrugged. ‘Seems a bit last-century. But if the women are choosing to–’

  ‘Sells newspapers.’

  He lifted his glass. ‘Nothing much else does – it’s all about “digital content” these days and apps for your iPhone.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m the only regional newspaper that’s still got the nerve. The media has been taken over by the fervent young all wanting to make a difference. Give ‘em a story about a bishop and an actress and all they’re interested in is historical sex abuse in the church and whether the actress is getting the minimum wage.’

  I laughed. He shot a look across to where Ingrid was handing out tickets at another table. ‘And it’s a treat for our Pete. Makes up for all the time photographing fetes and sports days.’

  ‘So how long have you been the editor, then?’

  ‘Too damn long. Before that I was a sports writer on the Sun.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Whatever his background, his knowledge was staggering. By the time he’d sliced through the questions in current affairs we’d moved into the lead.

  ‘Haven’t we done well?’ said Emily.

  ‘You haven’t,’ growled Malcolm.

  But she wasn’t listening. I saw her flush and look simultaneously delighted and self-conscious. Across the room a rather beautiful young man – all blonde surfer curls and bright eyes – in a very white t-shirt and denim jacket was making his way towards us. His smile was wide and friendly as he reached the table. ‘Did you win?’

  ‘Did you get me a story?’ asked Malcolm.

  The young man shook his head. ‘Very dull – no in-fighting.’

  ‘Hmm. In my first newsroom we had a notice. If you don’t come back with a story, don’t come back.’

  Malcolm waved a hand at me. ‘This is one of my reporters, Gabriel.’ He said it as if the name were a foreign word he was pronouncing carefully. ‘And this is Tess. Tess has just moved here from Finchley.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Gabriel stuck out a hand. Emily was still gazing at him with adoration.

  ‘And?’ prompted Malcolm.

  Gabriel grinned. ‘And I do hope you are well?’

  Malcolm rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t try to be clever – it doesn’t suit you.’

  Gabriel looked unabashed. ‘I was going to make a bit of polite small talk first.’ He took his jacket off and sat down next to me. ‘I gather my editor thinks I should interview you.’

  By end of the quiz, when I’d finally covered myself in glory in the food and drink round as the only one who knew what
went into a velouté sauce – even Malcolm looked impressed – I’d learned Gabriel was new to Northstone too. His dream of being a top investigative journalist on the Sunday Times or Panorama was being delayed by the need to get some on-the-ground experience and he’d been told he was lucky to be working for Malcolm, who was old-school, one of a dying breed, who’d been properly trained and knew what was what.

  So far it had involved a lot of council meetings – which was where he’d been tonight – and a great deal of turning up at charity events or the bedsides of mothers with the same birth plan as Kate Middleton. But now, finally, Malcolm had given him a feature to do.

  ‘It’s about the relationships between the locals and the DFLs’ he’d told me. ‘You don’t have to be named, but it would help me if you were …’

  A woman on the outside of town had had her tyres slashed and was blaming it on the fact that she was Down from London, and her neighbours didn’t like her buying up run-down cottages to rent out.

  ‘Find out if it’s fact or paranoia!’ Malcolm had apparently barked and Gabriel was keen to impress him by doing just that. I didn’t see how I could help and said so, but as Gabriel reminded me, with his big smile, of my lovely Ben, and I’ve always been useless at saying no, I’d agreed to him coming round in the week to question me on my experiences of living in the town to date.

  ‘There is some bad feeling,’ he explained apologetically. ‘House prices have risen so fast that young people here could never buy anywhere here these days unless they had a fantastic job in London and even rentals …

  He nodded at Emily, who gave him another adoring smile. ‘Emily still lives with her parents because she can’t afford anything else and I have a really tiny studio flat here. You can see how the locals could get fed up, with all the decent houses being snapped up by outsiders …’

  As I hurried along the dark High Street, head bent against the sharp wind, clutching the bottle of cherry brandy that Malcolm had thrust at me as my share of the first prize, I thought about Ingrid and her campaign against Jinni’s project. But slashing tyres? Surely nobody would get that worked up. I shivered, hoping I’d left enough lights on to make the house feel safe.

  As I came round the bend, a crowd of youngsters spilled out of the pub, laughing and jostling. ‘You are such a loser, Connor!’ one shouted with glee, pushing another boy along the pavement. The first boy, Connor presumably, responded by taking his friend’s head in an arm lock and attempting to trip him up. There was more laughter, shouts of encouragement from the group and general shoving before one of them stepped back suddenly, nearly knocking me over.

  As I gasped and steadied myself against the wall, another figure appeared amongst them.

  ‘Oi!’ said a loud and familiar voice, ‘watch what you’re doing, can’t you!’

  ‘Sorry,’ mumbled the boy nearest to me, as I turned in surprise to the owner of the stentorian tones.

  ‘Where’ve you come from?’

  ‘The station,’ said my daughter. ‘Where do you think?’

  ‘Danni is being a total nightmare!’ Tilly spooned chocolate powder into hot milk and balanced a biscuit between her teeth. ‘I couldn’t stand her anymore.’ She stirred the contents of her mug vigorously, put the half-bitten digestive down and opened the fridge. ‘You haven’t got much in here, have you?’ She sighed at the largely empty shelves and picked up a packet of cheese. ‘Not that I can eat anyway! I’ve got to lose half a stone before the next audition comes up’

  ‘You’re fine,’ I said, as I always did, smiling at my beautiful, sturdy daughter, who was always going to lose half a stone but never quite did.

  ‘Do you know some catwalk models live on balls of tissue paper soaked in orange juice before a big show?’ Tilly got a knife out of the drawer and began slicing through cheddar.

  ‘Well, make sure you don’t,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you have to work this evening?’

  ‘I did lunchtime and I’m not on till six on Sunday so I thought I’d stay here tonight and tomorrow. That’s okay, isn’t it?’ She began to spread butter on crackers.

  ‘Of course, darling. This is your home too.’

  Tilly nodded. ‘I’ve brought some washing …’

  I smiled indulgently, just glad to have her there. ‘Get it, then.’

  I walked through to the cramped little utility room at the end of the kitchen. ‘This economy cycle is quite quick. If you–’ I stopped as the doorbell rang. I raised my eyebrows at Tilly, feeling a frisson of alarm at someone calling so late.

  Tilly shrugged, unconcerned. ‘I’ll go.’

  I followed her through to the sitting room as she swung back the front door, letting in a gale of cold air.

  Jinni’s eyes were wide and angry. ‘Did you see anything?’ she demanded, her gaze swinging from Tilly to me. We shook our heads stupidly as Jinni stepped inside and gestured back at the darkness behind her.

  ‘It’s all I bloody need, right now,’ she said furiously. ‘Some bastard’s just smashed my window.’

  Chapter 4

  ‘Some bastard’s also eaten all the Marmite.’ Tilly waved the offending jar under my nose to indicate its cleanly scraped innards. ‘That’s Ben – he always puts it back when it’s empty. He’s done it to the jam too.’ She gave me a stern look. ‘That’s what you should be investigating, Miss Marple. How he still gets away with it.’

  ‘I think we’ll need more coffee as well, after last night.’

  Jinni had stayed through at least three pots’ worth – liberally laced with the cherry brandy which I’d offered her for the shock! – and it was nearly two when Tilly and I had finally stumbled upstairs. I was still sitting up in bed in my dressing gown, yawning.

  Tilly flopped down next to me. ‘Is someone really out to get her? I still think it was those losers outside the pub – getting lairy on the way home.’ My daughter rolled her eyes. ‘You know what boys like Ben are like – can’t take their drink and get all pathetic.’

  I frowned at her. ‘Your brother would never break windows.’

  ‘No Ben wouldn’t,’ said Tilly with laboured patience. ‘Because he’s a lazy twat, for a start, but boys like him – of that age …

  She shook her head with the superiority of one four years their senior and wriggled her legs under the duvet. ‘We need bread too. There was only one slice left.’

  ‘You could see if Jinni needs anything as she’ll be waiting in for the glass people.’ I said as Tilly stretched out. ‘I can’t believe someone like Ingrid would do anything like that. But there has been trouble between locals and those moving in.’

  I lifted my empty tea mug as if it might have magically refilled itself. ‘Put the kettle on, darling,’ I said hopefully, as Tilly settled herself more deeply into my pillows. I watched her eyes droop. ‘Okay, I’ll do it then.’

  As I stood in the kitchen, curling my toes on the cold tiles, I hoped Tilly was right. Jinni’s theories had grown increasingly wild with each brandy she’d chased down, and had concluded eventually that Ingrid or ‘that wanky son’ had been behind the smashed windowpane. She had regaled us with a number of run-ins she’d had with both of them and admitted she had herself put in an objection when his friend had wanted to build an extension David had designed behind her, so I supposed it was feasible they were annoyed with her …

  The young men up the road, on the other hand, had seemed full of good-natured high spirits, more likely bent on getting a kebab than embarking on vandalism.

  But surely, Ingrid and this wealthy architect son of hers were too well-educated, too … I searched for the right word as the water reached boiling point. By the time I’d carried two mugs back upstairs, my daughter was asleep.

  ‘Civilised,’ I said, two days later to Gabriel, who jotted it in his notebook. ‘Would you like another biscuit?’

  He gave me a flash of his beautiful white teeth, ‘I’m good thanks.’

  ‘So where do you come from originally?’ I asked. ‘Are you American? I can
hear a slight accent. Does your mother miss you?’

  Gabriel smiled. ‘My father’s a New Yorker. He met my mother here and she moved to the States. But we came back ten years ago. I left home ages ago – I did some travelling after uni.’

  ‘You should still call her,’ I said. ‘Were you the last one to leave?’

  ‘No, I’ve got two sisters. So, you think Northstone is generally genteel’, he continued, trying to get me back on track. ‘But what do you think about these outbreaks of violence?’

  Gabriel sat back in one of my saggy armchairs and stretched out his jeaned legs. He was wearing another sparkling-white t-shirt and had obviously been brought up to iron. Ben’s clothes all had that faded-out, crumpled air. Even Gabriel’s boots were gleaming …

  I frowned. ‘Well, it’s not really violence is it? I mean a smashed window – could have been kids.’

  Gabriel raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you think of Jinni’s theory that it’s part of an orchestrated campaign to drive her out of town?’

  ‘Well, I don’t really think … I mean it’s easy to be paranoid, would anyone really …’

  ‘Has anyone been unpleasant to you, at all?’

  ‘No, I said, shaking off an image of Ingrid’s chilly smile. ‘I don’t really know anybody …’

  Gabriel shone a smile on me. ‘You do now. Did you enjoy the quiz?’

  ‘I was hopeless, but it was fun …’

  ‘Do you think the protesters’ concerns are valid ones? Do people like you, moving here from the city and able to afford higher prices, push up the cost of housing?’

  ‘I don’t know enough about it to say,’ I said guiltily.

  ‘Well, do you feel you’re contributing to the local economy? Are you using the local shops, for example?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Would you say you have as much right to make your home here as anyone and nobody will frighten YOU off?’ Gabriel looked hopeful.

  I shook my head and looked what I imagined was motherly. ‘I know you need your story,’ I said kindly. ‘But I just want to get on with life here and be friends with everyone, if I can–’

  I cringed as Gabriel jotted this down. I’d sound like Pollyanna’s grandmother. ‘I use the shops, certainly,’ I added, wondering how far a packet of ham and four loo rolls from the corner was going to boost the Northstone finances, ‘and I only go to London once or twice a week. So although I’m a DFL, technically, I’m very far from being a weekender. This is my new home.’