The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [173]
‘I thought I might use Anastasia when I'm at Oxford. What d'you think?’ She coloured up as she said it.
‘I think it's a good idea. It's a lovely name. What did your mum think?’ I could have kicked myself. Already looking for back-up, the first time she'd turned to me.
‘It was her idea. But I don't know. I don't want people to think I'm… you know, reinventing myself, or anything.’ She chewed her thumbnail.
This time I didn't miss a beat. ‘That's just another word for taking life by the scruff of its neck. And there's absolutely nothing wrong with that.’
She looked pleased, and relieved. ‘Although,’ she hesitated, ‘I might still be Stacey at home.’
This last word wasn't lost on me either, and as we drove away from that mellow stone house, up the snaking lane that wound through the green valley to the top of the hill, I felt moved and humbled beyond belief. What a privilege it was going to be to have her, I realized. To know her. To make her part of us. As I looked out of the car window to the huge shifting sky, the rushing clouds above, I made a silent promise to her mother. I know she's rare and valuable. I know what we have here. I shall cherish her accordingly.
Six months later and Stacey was beside me again. Yet again we were surrounded by bottles, yet again we were preparing for a party, only this time, it was of a very different nature, and she was the one helping me. Together we heaved clanking boxes into the boot of the car outside the farmhouse, preparing to take them to an occasion I don't think any of us had seen coming.
‘Beer, d'you think?’ I paused, resting a box of glasses on my knee. ‘For the men? Or will they be happy with Pimm's?’
Stacey looked doubtfully at our groaning boot. ‘Isn't there an ad where they load the truck with beer and then some Aussie says what about a bottle of sherry for the Sheilas and the whole thing collapses?’
‘And I don't want a collapsing car, so let's forget it. The boys can drink Pimm's and lump it. Where's Anna?’ I turned to look back at the house as I slammed the boot shut. Stacey grinned and got in the front seat.
‘Still dithering about what to wear.’
‘Come on, Anna!’ I yelled back at the open front door. ‘We're going!’ No response. ‘Anna!’ Eventually she appeared at the doorway with a big box of Hula Hoops, her only responsibility.
‘And don't forget to lock the door,’ I called to her.
It was odd, I thought, how, since Stacey had arrived, Anna had slipped effortlessly into the role of little sister. I watched as she tried to lock the front door whilst balancing the box of crisps on her knee, too lazy to put it down and do the job properly. She seemed happy to let Stacey play the part of elder statesman, whilst she, rather refreshingly, became the hopeless kid; the one Stacey and I exchanged indulgent glances about. We traded just such a look now as, predictably, Anna dropped the whole lot. Loads of little shiny red packets burst out of the box onto the yard.
‘Sorry!’ She looked up helplessly as Stacey and I went to help.
Happily the packets weren't too disgusting as the yard had recently been resurfaced, and we brushed them down and slung them back in the box. Yes, amazing what half a hundredweight of crunchy gravel did, I thought as I followed the girls back to the car. Amazing what had happened to the farm full stop, I reflected as I got in and pulled my seat belt across. I glanced up at the crumbling façade, already covered with scaffolding, repointing work scheduled to start next week.
Ah yes, the farm: which had to be sold, that much was certain; everyone, even Caro, agreed. And she hadn't messed about. A frightfully upmarket estate agent called Peregrine had appeared at the double, with matching Volvo and wellies, and after lots of tutting about rising damp and dry rot, admitted it was worth a fortune, Mrs Milligan. Pound signs rotated in Caro's eyes as she personally, elbowing Peregrine out of the way, oversaw