Thirty-four

Greenacres, 1953

THE BEST THING about being eight years old was that Laurel could finally turn proper cartwheels. She’d been doing them all summer long, and her record so far was three hundred and twenty-six in a row, all the way from the top of the driveway to where Daddy’s old tractor stood. This morning, though, she’d set herself a new challenge—she was going to see how many it took to go all the way around the house, and she was going to do it as quickly as she could.

The problem was the side gate. Every time she got to it (forty-seven -sometimes forty-eight—cartwheels in), she marked her spot in the dust where the hens had pecked away the grass, ran to pin it open and then hurried back to her mark. But by the time she raised her hands, preparing to turn herself over, the gate had creaked itself back shut. She thought about propping something against it, but the hens were a naughty bunch and would be just as likely to flap their way into the vegetable patch if she gave them half the chance.

Still, she couldn’t think that there was any other way she was going to complete her cartwheel lap. She cleared her throat like her teacher Miss Plimpton did whenever she had a grave announcement to make, and said, ‘Now, listen here, you lot—’ pointing her finger for good mea- sure—‘I’m going to leave this gate open, but only for a minute. If any of you has any bright ideas about sneaking out when I turn my back, especially into Daddy’s garden, I’d like to remind you that Mummy’s making Coronation Chicken this afternoon and may be looking for volunteers.’

Mummy wouldn’t have dreamed of putting any of her girls in the pot—hens were all guaranteed death from old age when they had the good fortune of being born onto the Nicolson farm—but Laurel saw no reason to tell them that.

She fetched Daddy’s work boots from beside the front door, and carried them over, leaning them one by one against the open gate. Constable the cat, who’d been watching proceedings from the front doorstep, miaowed now to register reservations with the plan, but Laurel pretended not to notice. Satisfied that the gate would stay put, she reiterated her warning to the hens and, with a final check of her watch, waited for the second hand to hit the twelve, shouted, ‘Go!’ and started turning cartwheels.

The plan worked a treat. Round and round she went, long plaits dragging in the dust and then flicking against her back like a horse’s tail: across the hen enclosure, through the open gate (hurrah!) and back to where she’d started. Eighty-nine cartwheels, three minutes and four seconds exactly.

Laurel felt triumphant—right up until she noticed those naughty girls had done exactly what she told them not to. They were running amok now in her father’s vegetable patch, pulling down the heads of corn and pecking like they didn’t get a good three square meals a day.

‘Hey!’ Laurel shouted. ‘You lot, get back in your pen.’

They ignored her, and she marched over, waving her arms and stomping her feet, being met with nothing but continued disdain.

Laurel didn’t see the man at first. Not until he said, ‘Hi there,’ and she looked up and saw him standing near where Daddy’s Morris was usually parked.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘You look a little cross.’

‘I am cross. The girls have escaped and they’re eating all my daddy’s corn and I’m going to get the blame.’

‘Goodness,’ he said. ‘That sounds serious.’

‘It is.’ Her bottom lip threatened to quiver, but she didn’t let it.

‘Well now—it’s a little known fact, but I happen to speak hen rather well. Why don’t we just see what we can do to get them back?’

Laurel agreed, and together they chased the hens all around the patch, the man making clucking noises, and Laurel watching over her shoulder with wonder. When every last bird was present and accounted for, safely shut behind the gate, he even helped her remove the evidence from Daddy’s corn stems.

‘Are you here to see my parents?’ said Laurel, suddenly realising that the man might have a purpose other than to help her.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I used to know your mother, a long time ago. We were friends.’ He smiled, the sort of smile that made Laurel think that she liked him, and not just because of the hens.

The realisation made her a little shy, and she said, ‘You can come inside and wait if you like. I’m supposed to be tidying up.’

‘OK.’ He followed her into the house, slipping off his hat when they went through the door. He glanced around the room, noticing, Laurel was sure, the brand-new coat of paint Daddy had given the walls. ‘Your parents aren’t home?’

‘Daddy’s down in the field, and Mummy’s gone to borrow a television set for the coronation.’

‘Ah. Of course. Well, I should be fine here, if you need to get on with that tidying.’

Laurel nodded but she didn’t move. ‘I’m going to be an actress, you know.’ She was overcome by a sudden urge to tell the man all about herself.

‘Are you now?’

She nodded.

‘Well then, I’m going to have to look out for you. Will you play the London theatres do you think?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Laurel, nodding in that considering way grown-ups did. ‘I should say that I probably will.’

The man had been smiling but his face changed then, and at first Laurel thought it was something she’d said or done. But then she realised that he wasn’t looking at her any more, he was staring beyond her at the wedding photograph of Mummy and Daddy, the one they kept on the hall table.

‘Do you like it?’ she said.

He didn’t answer. He’d gone to the table and was holding the frame now, staring at it as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. ‘Vivien,’ he said softly, touching Mummy’s face.

Laurel frowned, wondering what he meant. ‘That’s my Mum-my,’ she said. ‘Her name’s Dorothy.’

The man looked at Laurel and his mouth opened as if he was going to say something, but he didn’t. It closed again and a smile came on his face, a funny smile as if he’d just worked out the answer to a puzzle and what he’d found made him happy and sad all at the same time. He put his hat back on his head and Laurel saw that he was going to leave.

‘Mummy won’t be long,’ she said, confused. ‘She’s only gone to the next village.’

He didn’t change his mind, though, walking back to the door and stepping out into the bright sunshine beneath the wisteria arbour. He held out his hand and said to Laurel, ‘Well, fellow hen-wrangler. It’s been lovely to meet you. Enjoy the coronation won’t you?’

‘I will.’

‘My name’s Jimmy, by the way, and I’m going to look out for you on those London stages.’

‘I’m Laurel,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘And I’ll see you there.’

He laughed, ‘I’ve little doubt of that. You strike me as just the sort who knows how to listen with her ears, her eyes, her heart all at once.’ Laurel nodded importantly.

The man had started to leave when he stopped mid-pace and turned back one last time. ‘Before I go, Laurel. Can you tell me—your mum and dad, are they happy?’

Laurel wrinkled her nose, not sure what he meant.

He said, ‘Do they make jokes together, and laugh and dance and play?’

Laurel rolled her eyes. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘always.’

‘And is your daddy kind?’

She scratched her head and nodded. ‘And funny. He makes her laugh, and he always makes her tea, and did you know he saved her life? That’s how they fell in love—Mummy dropped off the side of a big deep cliff, and she was frightened and alone and probably in mortal danger, until my Daddy dived in, even though there were sharks and crocodiles and certainly pirates, too, and he rescued her.’

‘Did he?’

‘He did. And they ate cockles afterwards.’

‘Well then, Laurel,’ the man, Jimmy, said, ‘I think your dad sounds like just the sort of fellow your mum deserves.’

And then he looked at his boots, in that sad-happy way of his, and waved goodbye. Laurel watched him go, but only for a little while, and then she started wondering how many cart-wheels it would take to get all the way down to the stream. And by the time her mother got home, and her sisters too—the brand new television set in a box in the boot—she’d all but for-gotten the kind man who’d come that day and helped her with the hens.

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