New Beginnings

‘I did warn you that it would be too much when you bought the place. But would you listen?’

Her knowing tone infuriated Christie, as it so often did. ‘I’m glad I bought it, really glad. It’s home – but the upkeep’s a bit more than I’d imagined.’

Maureen sniffed again and arched her eyebrows.

‘But now I’ve got a chance to begin to sort out the house and my financial problems.’

‘Well, I’m not not helping. I’m just pointing out that it’s not that straightforward.’

For that read, ‘I want you know how much I’m sacrificing,’ thought Christie. Instead, she said, ‘It’s not for long – not even a year – just to collect the kids from school or be here if they’re getting a lift, give them supper, and then I’ll be home.’

‘Anything can happen in that time. Especially when you get to my age. Amy Stanbridge felt a bit strange . . .’

Christie gave an inner groan, knowing that one of her mother’s stories about the Grim Reaper was coming up.

‘. . . She told her husband she was going upstairs for a rest. Never came down again. He found her dead as a doornail on their bed. Hadn’t even had time to take her shoes off. You see, when you get on a bit, you never know.’

‘No, you don’t. But I have to take this job for my sake and for the children’s. If you want to go to India, fine. Just say so, and I’ll find someone else.’ But she knew that this trip was a pipe-dream – Maureen and Ted would never be able to afford it. And Maureen knew that too. Nonetheless, the look that said she was going to be as intransigent as she could be had crossed her face.

As her mother shut her eyes and angled her face to the sun, Christie resigned herself to the wait. She thought back to her screen test, which couldn’t have gone more smoothly. She and Julia had been welcomed to the studio by the programme editor, who had explained that he wanted Christie to read the previous night’s script from Good Evening Britain. She’d had to open the show, and then they had role-played a couple of short interviews. He helped her with the art of the four-minute live television interview. ‘Ask daft lads’ questions,’ he explained. ‘Who? What? Why? Where? When? And then a killer if you can.’ Despite her nerves, she managed to read the autocue, simultaneously listening to the open talkback in her ear, through which she heard the comments, directions, cuts and ribald jokes from the producer and his team in the gallery.

Afterwards, Julia assured her that she had sounded quite natural. Her panic that the autocue would run too fast for her hadn’t shown. She even enjoyed being ‘interviewed’ by Sam Abbott, who was very friendly, easy to talk to, and would be her co-host.

Thankfully, the doyenne of the show, Gilly, hadn’t appeared, due to an appointment with her obstetrician, and Christie had left feeling confident that she had at least done the best she could. Two days later Julia phoned to say the job was hers. ‘I’ve got the contract in front of me, all pretty standard stuff. Nothing we need to go through. Salary’s agreed at five hundred pounds a show payable at the end of each month. I can get it biked round to TV7 this afternoon.’

‘But don’t I have to sign it?’ Everything was happening so fast.

‘With your permission, I can sign it as your representative. Then it’s done and dusted. That’s how I work with most of my clients. They’re relieved not to be bothered with the detail.’ Julia’s brisk and businesslike attitude didn’t invite argument.

‘In which case, if you’re happy with it . . . Better get it back to TV7 before anyone has second thoughts!’ Christie laughed, glad not to have the responsibility of the paperwork.

‘Mmm.’ Julia didn’t.

Now Christie had two weeks in which to put her ducks in a row before she made her début appearance on Good Evening Britain, when she would be introduced by . . . Gilly herself.

Terrified as she was about meeting the clever, witty, much-loved Gilly, her first priority was to appeal again to the more terrifying Maureen, whose eyes were still shut. ‘I don’t want to upset the kids’ routine, if I can help it,’ Christie began.

Her mother’s eyes snapped open. ‘I’ll never get another chance like this.’ Don’t plead with her, she remonstrated with herself. That isn’t the way.

She was interrupted by the sound of her mobile. She fished it out of her pocket.

It was Julia.

‘Julia, hi.’ She made a despairing face at her mother. Her family were already only too aware of the frequent phone calls she received from her agent at all times of the day. Didn’t the woman have a life of her own? ‘No, I haven’t forgotten the photographer first thing tomorrow morning. No, don’t worry, I’ll be looking my best.’ She became aware of Maureen gazing rather pointedly at the remaining biscuit on her chair arm. Defiant, Christie picked it up but hesitated as she remembered the slightly too-tight dress she was planning to wear in her publicity shot for the programme. ‘No, Julia. I definitely won’t be wearing trousers.’

A smile crossed Maureen’s face as Christie hung up. ‘I’m glad to hear that you’ve got somebody making sure you don’t let the side down.’ She paused. ‘All right. I’ll come over in the evenings from four till eight thirty and we’ll see how it works out.’ Overhearing the phone call had obviously tilted the balance.

‘Will you really?’ Christie put the biscuit down. ‘Wait till I tell the children. They’ll be so pleased.’ No harm in bending the truth a little in the interest of family relations.

‘Where are they, anyway?’ Maureen turned towards the house. ‘I thought they might at least come and say hallo to their granny.’

‘Not here, Mum. In fact, I’ve got to go and pick them up in a minute. Libby’s been over at Sophie’s and Fred’s been staying with Richard and Olly again. I can’t tear him away from there. They have such a good time doing all those boy things that I’ve been so bad at.’

‘You can’t expect to be all things to them, you know,’ said Maureen, sounding uncharacteristically wistful. ‘You’re not a bad mother, Christine. And perhaps this second chance is heaven sent. Nick and Daddy would be proud of you.’

Christie looked at her, surprised. This was rare praise indeed. A woman of few generous words, Maureen normally managed to convey a faint air of disapproval when confronted by the chaos her elder daughter generated. But occasionally Christie had to acknowledge that, deep down, her mother wasn’t such a bad old stick. She had just become a creature of habit who controlled her life so that it ran with as few surprises and as much order as possible. They might not always see eye to eye but Christie knew her mother’s heart was in the right place.

Having waved her off, she leapt into the car and drove to collect Libby. Her daughter was sitting on the doorstep of Sophie’s house, swaying her head and mouthing the words to whatever was playing on her iPod Shuffle. As soon as she saw Christie, she got to her feet and ran down the garden path to the car.

‘Where have you been? I told you Soph was going to London with her mum at five.’ She wrenched open the car door and climbed into the passenger seat. ‘I’ve been sitting there for hours.’

‘It’s only ten past!’ Christie protested. ‘I’m so sorry. I was sorting things out with Granny.’

‘Tell me she isn’t going to be over at ours every time you’re at work. Please.’ Libby cast her eyes heavenwards. ‘We don’t need anyone. I can look after us.’

‘You’re only twelve, sweetheart. I wouldn’t put all that responsibility on your shoulders. Besides, it’s illegal.’ Christie wasn’t entirely sure whether leaving a twelve-year-old home alone was or wasn’t against the law, but grasped at the excuse, grateful that it had flashed into her mind.

‘Who’d know?’ Libby’s reasoning was impeccable. Her father’s daughter.

‘Well . . .’ Christie hesitated ‘. . . I would, and I wouldn’t be happy. Look, it won’t be for long.’ She reached out to lay a consoling hand on her daughter’s leg.

‘But suppose they take you on for ever? People stay in those jobs for years, don’t they?’

If Libby hadn’t sounded so anxious, Christie would have laughed at the idea. Instead she reassured her: ‘They won’t. I’m only going to be there while Gilly Lancaster’s on maternity leave. She’ll be back.’

‘But suppose you’re better than her? Or suppose she wants to stay at home with her children?’

‘Libby, don’t. This will only be for a few months. Just understand that it’s an opportunity for me that may work out well for us all.’ She smoothed her daughter’s hair. ‘Look at me. I promise.’ She leaned across and kissed her cheek. ‘Let’s go and get Fred.’

They drove in silence, Libby listening to her music, occasionally bursting into random snatches of song, while Christie thought about their future. The prospect of being beamed nightly into households all around the country was as daunting as it was exciting. However much she tried to reassure Libby, she knew at the back of her mind that her daughter was right. There was no doubt that their life was going to change, perhaps not altogether for the best, and there was nothing she could do to stop that.

This is what I wanted, she reminded herself. And, after all, it’s only for a year tops, so I’d better make the most of it.

They turned down a long driveway, between two rows of rowan trees, the car crunching over deep gravel, and she stopped in the stable-yard at the back of a square, red-brick Victorian farmhouse. The door to the kitchen was open and Christie could see Olly and Fred’s heads bent in concentration as they studied something on the kitchen table. They looked up when they heard the car door slam but immediately went back to the matter in hand.

Christie tapped at the door before she went in. Stepping over a pile of muddy boots and shoes, she found herself in a long wide room with a large pine table in the centre and wooden units along two of whitewashed walls, which were hung with rusty old farming tools at one end, cooking utensils at the other. Richard was standing with his back to her, intent on pouring a colourless liquid from a large brown bottle into a preserving pan.

‘What are you all doing?’

‘We found a bird’s skull and some spine bones!’ Fred gabbled. ‘Olly and I are trying to work out what kind of bird from this book. You have to look at all the different shapes of beak. We think it might be a kestrel. See how hooked theirs are?’

‘We’re soaking them in hydrogen peroxide to sterilise them so they can take them into school,’ Richard said, putting the pan safely at the back of the wooden draining-board and screwing the top back onto the bottle. ‘Jigger, no!’ Said too late as a black Labrador rushed through the door and jumped up at Christie, almost bowling her over. ‘I’m so sorry. He’s not meant to do that but he’s young and very stupid.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Christie was laughing as she took the cloth he offered and wiped at the paw prints on her jeans, turning away from the disobedient dog, which was now refusing to be shooed out by Olly.

‘Mum, we’ve been learning to track in the woods too. And I know how to tell the time without a watch now.’

‘Really? How can you do that?’ she asked, giving the cue for a torrent of incoherent explanation from the two boys, who talked over each other as they described something involving the sun, a stick and some stones. ‘Come and see.’ They rushed out of a second door at the end of the room into the garden, Jigger chasing after them, jumping up and catching their sleeves with his teeth as they ran.