herself that she couldn’t loosen up and take her less seriously. But some sense of daughterly duty prevailed.
Pheely clearly misread it as a loving defence of a great mother and apologised profusely. ‘Sorry. I really don’t mean it. I said I was a bitch, didn’t I? Your mother and I never really hit it off, I’m afraid. No doubt she thought me a terrible slattern and a terrible mother, which I am. That’s why I tried to get out of tonight’s promise thing – Dilly’s doing “A” levels and I really must be there for her.’
‘You have a daughter doing “A” levels?’ Ellen stopped in her tracks and gaped. She’d been knocking years off her estimate of Pheely’s age all the way up the path – she was monumentally unfit, true, but that and the deep voice, which spoke in a curiously old-fashioned manner, were definitely misleading. Her face was fresh and girlish, with its huge baby eyes and lack of crow’s feet – after so many summers spent in sun and salt water, Ellen’s own skin was far more haggard. And the amazing, gravity-defying body hinted at someone who had yet to find her metabolism working against her. Ellen now put Pheely at about her own age or even younger.
‘Yes, Daffodil.’ Pheely halted too, with obvious relief, and continued breathlessly. ‘Poor darling – I know I can’t resist giving people nicknames, but perhaps it was a bit cruel wishing one on my own daughter. Imagine going through boarding-school being called Dilly Gently. Awful. But, of course, I was younger than she is now when I had her, so I can’t really blame myself any more. And I must say she’s always been terribly good about it. Gosh – look at the village from here! It could almost be picturesque.’
‘It is picturesque,’ said Ellen, aware that Pheely was changing the subject deliberately. She was starting to get the hang of the topic-hopping. Pheely, vivacious, indiscreet and a babbler, gave information in great dollops, then seized up, like a faulty ice-cream machine. It made her both delicious and irritating.
‘It’s a seething pit of lies and hatred,’ Pheely announced, with only a hint of self-mockery. ‘But, yes, maybe it’s quite picturesque from here. One forgets when one’s lived here so long. All my bloody life, in fact. You never lived here with your parents, did you?’
Ellen shook her head, distractedly doing some mental arithmetic to satisfy her own curiosity. Maths had always been a natural gift – much to her mother’s delight and her own embarrassment – and she had never been able to stop herself adding things up. She now calculated that if a daughter taking ‘A’ levels was older than her mother had been at her birth, Pheely couldn’t be more than thirty-three tops. It rocked her back on her heels to discover that someone so close to her own age could have a grown-up daughter.
‘Lucky you,’ Pheely was saying, throwing the stick that Snorkel had dropped at their feet, which Ellen had been too distracted to notice. ‘It was Somerset your parents moved here from, wasn’t it?’
‘Near Taunton, yes.’
‘I thought I recognised that lovely accent. Did you stay on there after they’d left?’
Ellen, who wasn’t aware that she had an accent and had suffered hours of elocution lessons at her parents’ expense because Jennifer had said once that ‘sounding like a peasant’ would hamper her chances of getting into medical school, found herself deeply self-conscious. She cleared her throat, and said, in a voice of which Henry Higgins would have been proud, ‘I’ve been mostly based in Cornwall, but I’ve worked all over the road – I mean, the place. Here and overseas.’
Too busy stick-throwing to notice the enunciated voice, Pheely sighed indulgently. ‘Oh, lucky you. What is it that you do?’
‘Sports physiotherapist.’
‘Wow.’ Pheely pulled in her stomach and glanced across at her. ‘No wonder you’re so gorgeously trim and fit.’
Ellen ducked her
Pheely clearly misread it as a loving defence of a great mother and apologised profusely. ‘Sorry. I really don’t mean it. I said I was a bitch, didn’t I? Your mother and I never really hit it off, I’m afraid. No doubt she thought me a terrible slattern and a terrible mother, which I am. That’s why I tried to get out of tonight’s promise thing – Dilly’s doing “A” levels and I really must be there for her.’
‘You have a daughter doing “A” levels?’ Ellen stopped in her tracks and gaped. She’d been knocking years off her estimate of Pheely’s age all the way up the path – she was monumentally unfit, true, but that and the deep voice, which spoke in a curiously old-fashioned manner, were definitely misleading. Her face was fresh and girlish, with its huge baby eyes and lack of crow’s feet – after so many summers spent in sun and salt water, Ellen’s own skin was far more haggard. And the amazing, gravity-defying body hinted at someone who had yet to find her metabolism working against her. Ellen now put Pheely at about her own age or even younger.
‘Yes, Daffodil.’ Pheely halted too, with obvious relief, and continued breathlessly. ‘Poor darling – I know I can’t resist giving people nicknames, but perhaps it was a bit cruel wishing one on my own daughter. Imagine going through boarding-school being called Dilly Gently. Awful. But, of course, I was younger than she is now when I had her, so I can’t really blame myself any more. And I must say she’s always been terribly good about it. Gosh – look at the village from here! It could almost be picturesque.’
‘It is picturesque,’ said Ellen, aware that Pheely was changing the subject deliberately. She was starting to get the hang of the topic-hopping. Pheely, vivacious, indiscreet and a babbler, gave information in great dollops, then seized up, like a faulty ice-cream machine. It made her both delicious and irritating.
‘It’s a seething pit of lies and hatred,’ Pheely announced, with only a hint of self-mockery. ‘But, yes, maybe it’s quite picturesque from here. One forgets when one’s lived here so long. All my bloody life, in fact. You never lived here with your parents, did you?’
Ellen shook her head, distractedly doing some mental arithmetic to satisfy her own curiosity. Maths had always been a natural gift – much to her mother’s delight and her own embarrassment – and she had never been able to stop herself adding things up. She now calculated that if a daughter taking ‘A’ levels was older than her mother had been at her birth, Pheely couldn’t be more than thirty-three tops. It rocked her back on her heels to discover that someone so close to her own age could have a grown-up daughter.
‘Lucky you,’ Pheely was saying, throwing the stick that Snorkel had dropped at their feet, which Ellen had been too distracted to notice. ‘It was Somerset your parents moved here from, wasn’t it?’
‘Near Taunton, yes.’
‘I thought I recognised that lovely accent. Did you stay on there after they’d left?’
Ellen, who wasn’t aware that she had an accent and had suffered hours of elocution lessons at her parents’ expense because Jennifer had said once that ‘sounding like a peasant’ would hamper her chances of getting into medical school, found herself deeply self-conscious. She cleared her throat, and said, in a voice of which Henry Higgins would have been proud, ‘I’ve been mostly based in Cornwall, but I’ve worked all over the road – I mean, the place. Here and overseas.’
Too busy stick-throwing to notice the enunciated voice, Pheely sighed indulgently. ‘Oh, lucky you. What is it that you do?’
‘Sports physiotherapist.’
‘Wow.’ Pheely pulled in her stomach and glanced across at her. ‘No wonder you’re so gorgeously trim and fit.’
Ellen ducked her
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