The Happy Family Read online

  The Happy Family

  JACKIE KABLER

  One More Chapter

  an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

  Copyright © Jackie Kabler 2021

  Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Cover photograph © Deborah Pendell/Arcangel Images

  Jackie Kabler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008433987

  Ebook Edition © June 2021 ISBN: 9780008433970

  Version: 2021-03-22

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Keep Reading …

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Jackie Kabler

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  When I think about my mother, I mostly think about the crying. She cried a lot, my mum. Then again, so did I, because I lost her when I was ten years old. I don’t mean she died; at least, I assume she’s still alive. And when I say I lost her, I don’t mean I lost her like you’d lose your mobile phone, or your purse. I mean, I can definitely be a bit forgetful at times, but even I’d struggle to mislay a whole actual person. When I say I lost her, I mean she just … disappeared. Walked out. Abandoned me. Abandoned us.

  I’m not sure why I’m thinking about her now, why she’s come into my head unbidden on this busy Thursday morning as I lock my Audi and hurry across the car park. I try not to think about her at all and, generally, I succeed. But when Dad and I were chatting the other day he, who never mentions her either, suddenly remembered that next month would be her sixtieth birthday, and ever since …

  I stop to check for traffic on the road that separates our car park from the surgery building and shake my head to banish the pointless musing. What does it matter that she has a big birthday coming up? That is, if she really is still alive, because after all, who knows?

  She hasn’t been in touch for thirty years. It’s not as if I’m suddenly going to get a party invite in the post, is it? I think, and sigh.

  It’s just started to rain, the weather chilly for March, the sky slate grey, and as I push the front door open, head through the still-empty reception area, and turn left towards the staffroom, I sigh again, remembering the long to-do list waiting on my desk. Then I smile as the sound of raucous laughter drifts down the corridor.

  Ruth’s in early.

  I open the staffroom door and step inside. Our head receptionist is perched on one end of the long table in the centre of the room, still laughing, wearing a bright-green blouse with a string of coloured beads around her neck.

  ‘Beth! Oh Beth, you’ve got to hear this!’

  Ruth waves her coffee mug at me, then gestures at Lorraine, one of the practice nurses, who’s sitting on a chair next to her.

  ‘RUTH! Are you going to tell everyone?’ Lorraine says, then groans and gives a resigned shrug. ‘Oh, go on, then. Not going to be able to stop you, am I?’

  ‘You’re not. You know what she’s like. And it is hilarious. Morning, Beth.’

  Deborah, head of our nursing team, who’s over at the kettle making herself a drink, grins at me. I dump my bag on the table.

  ‘Morning. What’s going on? You all right, Lorraine?’

  Lorraine opens her mouth but Ruth doesn’t give her time to answer.

  ‘She’s all right, but her dishwasher isn’t. Menopause brain strikes again. Last night, our lovely Lorraine managed to put a whole Camembert cheese in the dishwasher instead of the fridge, Beth. And switched the thing on and went to bed. Now her entire house stinks of cheese, and as for the dishwasher …’

  She snorts and starts to cackle again. Lorraine rolls her eyes and turns to me. I’m grinning widely too now. Ruth’s laugh is infectious.

  ‘The whole bloody thing and everything in it is covered, Beth,’ she says. ‘And it’s been through the drying cycle so it’s all … hard now. Like everything’s been coated in cheesy plastic. Plates, cutlery … I honestly might have to throw the whole dishwasher and everything in it away. How on earth am I going to get it all off? Honestly, don’t have a menopause. It’s sending me bonkers.’

  ‘Oh, Lorraine!’ I’m giggling too now. ‘Too funny! Poor you!”

  As I make myself a tea, Ruth regales us with one of her own many menopause-brain stories – something about putting her jewellery box in the fridge and a cooked chicken in her wardrobe. The laughter follows me down the corridor as I – feeling thankful that I’m still only forty and, therefore, hopefully have a few years yet before it’s me sharing these stories – head to my office, pausing to wipe a smear off the smart brass sign on the door.

  Beth Holland, Practice Manager

  I’ve been here nearly three years now, and although it’s madly busy – five GPs, three nurses, half a dozen receptionists and admin staff, and nearly eight thousand patients – I love it. The job, and these women – because they are mainly women – keep me going. On the tough days they make me smile, tell me I’m doing fine, remind me that life is too short to stress about payroll blips or IT issues. Today, although it’s busy as always, turns out to be one of the better ones, and I’m humming tunelessly as I rush down the corridor again just after five.

  ‘Fancy a quick drink, Beth? Ruth and I are heading up to Montpellier in a bit. Join us?’

  Deborah, hearing me approaching, has popped her head out of her room, grey-blonde bob swinging around her face.

  ‘Oh Debs,
I’d love to, but I promised Dad I’d pop in this evening, and then the kids, you know …’

  I shrug, and she nods understandingly.

  ‘We’ll give you more notice next time. See you tomorrow, love.’

  ‘See you. Enjoy. Have one for me. No, two. Have two for me.’

  ‘Not a problem. Wouldn’t do it for anyone else, mind.’

  She winks and disappears back into her room, and I head for the car park. It won’t be dark for nearly another hour but the sky is leaden and, while the morning was just wet, this evening is wet and windy, a sudden gust rolling a discarded Coke can across the slick concrete ahead of me and whipping a strand of hair across my face. I fumble for my car keys in the bag slung over my shoulder, and suddenly I see him out of the corner of my eye.

  Again? Seriously? Oh, come on …

  I stop dead and push back my already-damp hair, trying to tuck it behind my ear. I feel a little wave of irritation. When it all began, I’d been wary, nervous, scared even. But then it seemed to stop again, and I’d almost forgotten about him. Almost. So if he’s back … I’m more than irritated now, I’m angry. What does he want, this weirdo who keeps turning up, hanging around? Has he nothing better to do than creep about, spying on me, following me? I turn, take a step towards the spot where he’s standing, then blink. He’s gone. It’s raining harder now, heavy drops settling on my eyelashes, blurring my vision, and I stand still, my gaze sweeping across the almost-empty space. Where did he go? I can’t see him; I can’t see anybody. Only half a dozen cars remain, mine included. But no shadowy figures. Nobody watching me, lurking, waiting. Just my overactive imagination, playing tricks on me.

  OK. Phew. Good.

  I take a deep breath, look around one last time, and shiver. It’s cold, and now I’m soaking wet. I need to get on. I climb into the car and start the engine.

  Chapter 2

  I’m still thinking about him though as I pull into the driveway at home an hour later, after popping in to see Dad. It was several months ago when I first began to get the feeling that someone was following me, that unseen eyes were watching me.

  It was little things at first: a glimpse of a man on the other side of the road as I left the surgery, always in the same dark hooded jacket, but never approaching, never close enough for me to see him clearly, just standing there, statue-like, waiting until I got into my car and then scuttling away; the same silver Fiat appearing again and again, driving slowly past my house, following me into Sainsbury’s car park – but again, never near enough for me to get a proper view of the driver. Now and again, I even thought he might be taking photos of me, because there was a phone or camera raised briefly in front of his face. Unsettled, I mentioned it to a few people – the girls at work, a couple of neighbours – wondering if maybe they’d noticed anyone hanging around too, but none of them had, and I could tell they thought I was imagining things.

  ‘I mean, Cheltenham isn’t a big place, not really, not when you think about it, is it?’ Ruth said, when I confided in her in the staffroom one morning not long after it had started. ‘You do tend to see the same people around. I see the same bloke passing my house with his black Labrador all the time. You worry too much, Beth. I haven’t seen anyone hanging around. Nobody I’d be concerned about anyway.’

  I nodded, somewhat reassured, but I still worried. As the weeks passed, though, I did try hard to convince myself that everyone was right and I was imagining it, because why would anyone want to follow me? The idea that I might have a stalker, some sort of crackpot secret admirer, is faintly ludicrous. I’m hardly a catch – a forty-year-old divorced mum of two, so frantically trying to divide her time between work, kids, and an elderly dad that she barely has time to drag a comb through her hair or dab on a bit of blusher. But still, every now and again, there he was, a figure on the periphery of my vision who seemed to melt away if I tried to get a closer look. I thought about marching over to confront him, to demand an explanation, but I couldn’t pluck up the courage because … what if I was wrong? What if I really was just being paranoid? And then, six weeks or so ago, it all stopped. He just seemed to disappear. No fleeting glimpses of hooded figures, no silver Fiats. And yet, today, there he was again, back in the car park. Except he wasn’t. Or was he? I had been so sure, for a minute, but then …

  ‘MUM! ELOISE WON’T LET ME BORROW HER IPAD, MUM! TELL HER!’

  I’ve only just pushed the front door open, key still in the lock, and Finley is flinging himself at me, face contorted in frustration.

  ‘Crikey, Finley, give me a second to get in out of the rain!’ I say, and he pouts.

  ‘But Muuuum …’

  ‘Shh.’

  I close the door behind me, wipe my feet on the doormat, and drop my bag. Then I reach for him, ruffling his blond mop and pulling him in for a hug.

  ‘Where is your sister? In her room?’ I ask, and he nods, his head buried in my tummy.

  ‘OK, well we’ll go up and see her in a minute, but you need to learn to ask nicely, OK? You don’t get anywhere if you’re a grumpy little pup all the time, do you? Come on, I need to let Robin go first.’

  I drop a kiss onto the top of his head and release him, and he follows, still muttering darkly, as I head into the kitchen where Robin is at the sink, wiping down the draining board. The room is warm with a delicious smell of cooked sausages in the air. She turns and smiles.

  ‘Hi Beth. Sorry about the grump. He was fine until he decided he wanted to play that panda game he’s obsessed with and Eloise told him she needed the iPad for her homework.’

  ‘Oh gosh, don’t worry, I’ll sort him out in a minute. Go, Robin. Sorry I’m a bit late, I had to call in to see Dad and the traffic is dreadful. Not that that will bother you today, of course, you crazy woman.’

  She’s folding the dishcloth neatly, her grin widening.

  ‘Nope. Running today. I know it’s a bit damp but hey, there’s no such thing as bad weather, right? Just the wrong clothes.’

  She’s a bit mad, Robin. She’s my ‘cleaner slash childminder’, and she’s definitely a bit of a funny one. Nice, obviously, and super capable and reliable or I wouldn’t have hired her; the kids love her, but she’s a bit … a bit stand-offish sometimes, I suppose. Never reveals much about her private life, or her past. I mean, that’s fine; she doesn’t have to tell me everything, but I don’t even know if she’s in a relationship, has kids (I don’t think so, as she’s never mentioned any), or exactly how old she is, for example. Mid-fifties probably, lean and fit, with short, dark-blonde hair, and her skin is always pink and healthy and make-up free. And – and this is why I think she’s a bit mad, because I’m slightly exercise-phobic myself – even though she lives a good five miles away, right across town, she quite often runs to and from work. If the weather’s really terrible, or she’s short of time, she’ll drive her little yellow Smart car which delights Finley, who, at seven years old, has recently started reading Enid Blyton and thinks she’s borrowed it from Noddy. But at least twice a week she’ll turn up at 8am, red-faced and happy in her running gear, a backpack of fresh clothes slung over her shoulders, having spent an hour bounding across town and out to our place in Prestbury. Mad, right?

  She’s retrieved her backpack from its usual spot by the patio doors now and is heading for the downstairs loo to change out of the jeans, ankle boots, and jumper she’s been wearing during the day.

  ‘Oh, and Jacob popped in for a minute to drop off Eloise’s trainers, the ones she left at his on Tuesday,’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘She needs them for school in the morning, I think. He said he’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘OK, great. Thanks, Robin.’

  ‘Muuuum …’

  Finley is still at my elbow, pulling at my sleeve now.

  ‘Darling, please, just give me one minute. Run up to your room and choose a book for your bedtime story later. I promise I’ll be straight up as soon as I’ve made a cup of tea, and then we’ll go and see your sister and see if we can b
orrow that iPad for half an hour, OK?’

  He pauses for a moment, squinting up at me, considering my proposal. Then:

  ‘OK!’

  He scampers off and I give a small sigh of relief, yawn, and cross the room to put the kettle on. Robin’s left the place spotless as usual, and for the umpteenth time I thank my lucky stars – or guardian angel or whatever other celestial being might just be out there looking after me – that it was she who answered the rather desperate plea I stuck on the noticeboard in the shop down the road about six months after Jacob and I split up.

  Cleaner/childcare help needed for busy single mother.

  School runs, after-school care, and light housekeeping duties Monday to Friday.

  Please call Beth on the number below.

  Days later, Robin was sitting in my kitchen, and twenty-four hours after that I’d hired her. It had been a miracle she’d seen the notice at all, living as she did across town, but she’d been in Prestbury visiting a friend and had popped into the village shop on her way home. She’d recently left her previous employer in The Park after the twins she’d been caring for had gone off to secondary school and didn’t need her anymore. The reference she’d brought with her had been glowing, and when I called later to double check, the children’s mother had urged me to snap her up.

  ‘Honestly, I miss her so much,’ she said. ‘You’ll have happy kids and a sparkling home. I’m jealous!’

  She’d been right, and having Robin there every day to take them to and collect them from school, then feed them and supervise homework until I get in from work has given Finley and Eloise back some of the stability they lost when their father and I split. Eighteen months on, I do indeed (iPad-sharing dramas aside) have happy kids and a sparkling home, and although I couldn’t exactly say we’re close friends, Robin’s certainly become someone I like, trust, and rely on. OK, so there have been, if I’m honest, one or two little … well, I’ll call them incidents, but I’ve let those go. They were minor, and not worth losing her over, and anyway, they were a while ago now. People like Robin are hard to find and I don’t intend to part company with her any time soon – not if I can help it.