Katie Fforde - Going Dutch

Perhaps I should trust him too, thought Jo. Although probably only where boats are concerned.

Over the following days, Dora and Jo got tired of hearing how much fun going to Holland would be, how brilliant Marcus was, at least by reputation, and how they'd be mad to miss the opportunity to go on the trip.

Dora, who had become used to Tom being there to row her across the creek when she finished work, was aware she'd miss him if he wasn't around. Her loyalty to the boatyard had been instant, and knowing she might want to take leave so soon focused her mind. She stayed late several nights and was making huge progress. She couldn't decide if she wanted to go to Holland or not.

Jo was only concentrating her attention on her gilding and her trip to her old home, planned for the weekend. It would be the first time she had gone back and she wasn't looking forward to it. She made lists of things she wanted to collect, aware that she might not remember anything once she got there. 'I'm bound to forget Karen's fork-lift truck certificate,' she warned herself, 'which is the whole reason for going!’

As they set off down the motorway in Jo's little car, Dora was aware that Jo had been unsettled since the trip was proposed and Marcus had visited. She couldn't tell if it was the thought of seeing her garden again, or the house infiltrated by the Floosie. It was bound to be emotional. She had emailed Karen about it, who had railed against her father all over again.

Now, Jo put the radio on and they travelled the thirty odd miles mostly in silence.

‘They're not going to be there, are they?' asked Dora, as they drove through the village. Suddenly anxious herself, she was on the alert in case she saw anyone she knew and had to duck. She still wasn't ready to go back, she realised, and didn't know if Jo was either.

‘I insisted that they shouldn't be,' said Jo. 'I don't want to have to be polite when I see what she's done to my home. I can't believe she got rid of the wallpaper in the spare room. It was terribly expensive! It was toile de Jouy – you know? It's a French thing. There are little drawings of people ploughing and tending their sheep usually. But this was modern. It was a city, with road-menders and diggers and even a man throwing up in the gutter.' She made a noise very like a growl.

‘Oh, there's Mrs Thing!' said Dora in alarm. She hunched clown in her seat before allowing her head to rise enough for her to see. 'It's OK, she hasn't spotted me.' Dora felt herself go hot and cold.

‘Mrs Who?'

‘I don't know her name, but she came up to me in the shop and told me I was a very selfish young woman.’

Jo tutted supportively. 'Take no notice. Here we are. Hop out and open the gate, will you?’

As requested, Dora hopped and Jo drove in. The climbing rose up the side of the house was just coming into bloom and summer shimmered on the threshold, about to descend into her full glory.

Jo noticed the rose and wondered, as she always did, why yellow roses were always the first to bloom. Then she noticed a planter. It was a miniature wheelbarrow full of brightly coloured primulas, egg-yellow, shocking pink and mauve. Jo loved old fashioned polyanthus, with their wonderful, old-fashioned names, and there was a bank under a hedge that was starred with wild primroses in the spring, but she didn't like these artificial hybrids. She wasn't keen on miniature wheelbarrows, either.

‘Come on, let's go in,' she said to Dora after a moment, and then got out of the car.

There was an arrangement of silk flowers on the hall table. Jo had always had something real there, even if it was only twigs with a few optimistic buds. Of course, silk flowers could be very pretty and they didn't need atten tion, they didn't drop or die or run out of water. She glanced at the mixture of blooms, which wouldn't have been flowering together naturally, and passed on.

‘Let's go into the kitchen.’

As she stood on the threshold she was overcome with despair. All the feelings of loss and abandonment that she thought she'd got over came welling up as she saw theroom that had been the heart of her home. It had changed from a farmhouse-style centre of comfort and pleasure to a hotpotch of styles that was more like a showroom than a working kitchen.

The table under the window was made of stainless steel, with two spindly-legged chairs under it. It was round and tiny, only big enough for a couple. Jo had had a solid pine table, scarred by the years and used for everything, for rolling out pastry, for sticking and pasting, for Karen's and often Dora's homework. Her favourite sort of dinner party happened there too.

Now she turned to where once her Rayburn had been the source of so much warmth and nourishment ever since they'd moved into the house, over twenty years ago. It had been replaced by a range cooker, but one disguised as a real range. It had matt-black doors and there were covers to the burners; Jo half expected to see fake flames flickering through a mica panel, like something on a stage set. Over the top of this black and silver monster were stencils of cornflowers and poppies.

‘I suppose stencils have come in again,' said Dora, peering at them closely. 'They're not very well done. I wonder if she did the cupboard doors as well?’

The cupboard doors were also decorated with some sort of paint effect. 'I think that's dragging,' said Jo. 'I remember reading about it.'

‘It's awful,' said Dora. 'If the Floosie did it, she's not very handy with a paintbrush.'

‘No,' said Jo. 'Dora, would you mind if I went outside for a moment? I need to get my head together. I think coming back was a bit of a mistake. Why don't you rummage round in the attic and see if you can find those tapes of you and Karen?’

Jo sat on a bench in the garden, the back part of which was as yet unchanged. Reality had hit her in the face and she needed to recover. When she'd first left Philip and gone to live on the barge she'd felt in charge, pro-active, but although she knew she was leaving the home she'd created over the years and the husband she'd had for nearly thirty, she hadn't really taken in that those things were gone for ever.

‘I should have stayed,' she muttered. 'I shouldn't have left my house. I made it.' Every stick of furniture she had either bought or restored or loved into usefulness. Now her kitchen table was exchanged for a spindly metal monstrosity and her lovely Rayburn, nurturer of every thing from people to kittens, was replaced by a fake version of itself. It was horrible.

A tear slid down her cheek and as she brushed it away she forced herself out of her pit of grief. This was not the way forward; she couldn't afford the indulgence. She'd done her weeping, her raging, now she had to live.

She took a deep breath, got up and went to find Dora.

Jo found her in the sitting room. French windows looked out onto the garden via a large paved area. The garden beyond was beginning to look glorious.

Dora remembered that Jo used to spend a lot of time gardening and thought she probably had very mixed feelings looking at it now.

‘Nice patio furniture,' said Dora.

‘Yes. Shall we take it? We could put it on deck. It would be nice to have something to sit on.'

‘Would it go in the car?'

‘Probably not, and you're right, we can't take anything I haven't arranged to take.'

‘I never said that!' Dora protested.

‘I know, but you thought it. Let's go and find my clothes. He knows I'm taking those. Also the biggest saucepan and my omelette pan. They'd be useful for the trip to Holland… for whoever is going. Did you find those tapes?'

‘Yes, they're in my bag. And you mustn't forget Karen's certificate, although you could definitely take more than that,' said Dora, relieved that Jo wasn't going to do what would feel very like stealing.