Page 37 of Sisters Making Mischief
‘I’m beginning to see why you like throwing things away,’ she said as I came in, ‘it’s sort of cleansing, isn’t it? Getting rid of old rubbish.’
‘I remember what it was like when our parents died, having to sort through all the things they had kept. That’s when I found all our old school reports. I sent yours to you and I chucked mine away.’
‘Sacrilege!’ Isabel laughed, ‘I’ve probably still got mine. I bet yours all said the same thing. Works well, never late, a valuable member of the class. Mine on the other hand were terrible. The teachers must have hated me. “Isabel should be ashamed of this exam result. Isabel has not worked to her full potential except to be disruptive. Isabel would do better to listen in class and not voice unfounded opinions on the Tudors.”I know what that was about. I said I thought Margaret Beaufort had an unhealthy and rather distasteful relationship with her son and asked Miss Betterson several times about the rumour that Anne Boleyn was actually Henry VIII’s daughter. I kept that one going for ages. Just out of sheer devilment because I know it annoyed her so much.’
I shook my head. ‘Troublemaker. The thought I had was that one day my kids would have to sort through all my collected stuff and decide what to keep, so I’ve been doing it for them. I’ve sent a lot of things to the charity shop and thrown a lot of things away. After all, you never know.’
Isabel pulled a face. ‘You sound like Eugénie, prophesying your imminent demise. You’re pretty fit and healthy, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am,’ I said, ‘I just don’t want to leave them the burden of sorting it all out.’
‘Very considerate.’
‘But it does make me wonder what Iwillleave behind. Who will remember me when I go? The house will be sold, and I can’t believe Sara or Vanessa would want any of my clothes.’
It was true, I could see the distinct possibility that like a lot of ordinary people, I would hardly leave a trace. My children would miss me, I supposed, but in the long run stuff didn’t matter, nor did exam results or my organisational skills. What mattered was the here and now. Kindness, support and positivity. I didn’t need to win a Nobel prize or invent something. The best thing I could do was live the best life I could, one day at a time. And in a way that was a good thing because it was achievable.
‘What do any of us leave behind?’ Isabel said gloomily, waving a sheaf of papers at me. ‘Bank statements back to 1980? Receipts for gadgets, which broke years ago? A few bits of jewellery? Even photographs aren’t as important as we once thought they were.’
‘Memories, I suppose,’ I said, feeling more optimistic, ‘people remembering us, things we said or did.’
Isabel laughed. ‘I hope people will forget all that sort of thing where I am concerned. And I’ve had some terrible photographs taken over the years. It’s okay for you, you never sneezed or blinked when pictures were taken. For heaven’s sake, Joy, this conversation is much too serious. Let’s have a glass of wine.’
She rummaged around in a cupboard under the stairs and came back with a bottle of red wine that she opened and poured into two glasses.
‘This feels naughty,’ I said, ‘it’s not even six o’clock yet.’
Isabel darted a look at the clock. ‘Damn. I forgot about dinner. Felix will be back soon. I’d better chuck somethingtogether. You’ll be seeing French cuisine at its best. Said no one ever.’
Eventually she found some chicken in the freezer, which she bashed with a meat hammer to separate some pieces and then defrosted in the microwave. Then she boiled up some penne pasta, cooked some garlic and mushrooms in butter, fried the chicken pieces, mixed everything together with a good slug of white wine and covered the whole lot in a jar of some sort of sauce. Then she hesitated and shredded some of the remaining brie from lunch over the top.
‘That’ll have to do,’ she said as she shoved it into the oven, ‘Felix will be glad to get anything, after all these years he knows what I’m like. And to be fair he’s not a fussy eater. No good marrying me if he was! I suppose we could have a salad too. I bought a load of fresh stuff at the market garden up the road, I’m sick of all the winter casseroles.’
‘I’ll do that,’ I said, keen to help.
She found a big platter decorated with radishes and passed it to me and I started to construct a salad with the ingredients she found in the fridge and the cavernous pantry. This was something I had always enjoyed doing, taking a pile of basically ordinary things and making them look good. I even spent some time turning the tomatoes into flowers and thin slices of cucumber into roses. I looked up at one point to see Isabel watching me with an incredulous look on her face.
‘Do you usually do that?’ she asked.
I grinned. ‘No. Well… sometimes, I just thought I’d make a bit of an effort.’
I’ve always thought the secret to a good salad was to add more things, so I did. Some grated carrot, a few halved green olives, little cubes of feta, a sliced apple, some toasted pine nuts, a few tiny, sweet peppers, and then I made some croutons. Inthe end I was pleased with the result, instead of a boring plate of green it looked colourful and appetising.
‘Marvellous,’ Isabel said, topping up my wine glass, ‘you’re an artist. I wonder where Felix has got to. It’s nearly seven o’clock and everything is ready once we set the table.’
There was a knock on the kitchen door at that moment, which set the dogs off barking, and Isabel pulled a face.
‘That can’t be Felix. It better not be Eugénie again; she normally doesn’t go out after dark.’
She wiped her hands on a tea towel and went to open the door.
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘hello. What—? I mean— do come in.’
I looked up to see Luc standing in the doorway, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other.
‘I hope I am not too early. Felix did say seven,’ he said.
He was looking very cool that evening in a heavy wool coat, jeans, and a black sweater. And outrageously attractive. As we stood open-mouthed, he slowly unwound a soft red scarf from around his neck. He looked very uneasy, his eyes looking uncertainly at us, as though unsure of his welcome.
