by Kate Field
Careful not to fall into a trap, I pitched a casual question.
‘What did Gran tell you?’
‘That you weren’t happy at work. That you were having problems with your new boss. You’ve not mentioned any of that to me. I thought you enjoyed working there.’
‘I used to. But …’ I shrugged. The truth was, my motivation had been diminishing ever since Caitlyn left. One of the main reasons for taking the job had been to keep an eye on her. When she had gone on to college, there had still been the satisfaction of working with friends, and of knowing I was invaluable to Mrs Armstrong. There was no pleasure now in helping Jo Blair, and though she was only in the post as an interim measure, lately I had begun to feel stifled, not satisfied, and to dread the thought that this was all there was for another thirty years … More worries to be put off for another day.
Mum drew her handbag onto her knee and took out a folded paper.
‘Here,’ she said, pushing the paper into my hand. ‘It seems like a good time to give you this. Call it an early birthday present.’
Intrigued, I unfolded the paper. It was a cheque, made out to me, for £50,000.
‘I’d have been happy with a new pair of trainers …’ I looked at Mum, too overwhelmed to take it in. Mystified too; she had always led me to believe that the bar turned a meagre profit. ‘Where did this come from?’
‘Your dad.’ I must have looked even more mystified, because Mum hurried on. ‘You know he was good with money. He started savings schemes as soon as I was pregnant, especially so you’d have a windfall when you were forty. He thought it would be a midlife treat.’
We were both silent while that sank in. Forty hadn’t been the middle of Dad’s life. Faye hadn’t even made it close to that age. My hand shook, and I thrust the cheque back towards Mum.
‘Is this mine?’ I asked. ‘Or ours?’
‘Yours.’ Mum clasped my hand, briefly. ‘Faye’s fund will go to Caitlyn.’
I nodded. That was right; that was what I would have wanted.
‘Consider it your inheritance,’ Mum carried on, ‘because I can’t promise there’ll be much else. And it’s better to have it now, while it can make a difference.’
‘What am I supposed to do with it?’ It was a question for myself as much as Mum. This was life-changing money. But did I want to change my life? And if so, in what way? I’d had no idea about Dad’s savings schemes. I couldn’t even begin to process this.
‘Whatever you want,’ Mum replied. ‘Build a conservatory. Buy a fancy car. Go on a luxury holiday. Take a career break.’ She took hold of my hand again, and squeezed it. ‘Use it. Enjoy it. Just don’t let it fester away in the bank, waiting for a rainy day that might never come. We know more than most that life’s too short to waste a moment.’
*
Mum had been in bed for over an hour when I crept out to the garage in the dark. I couldn’t sleep. Usually the evening run tired me out, so I had no trouble dropping off, but tonight too many thoughts were battering my head to permit any chance of rest.
I switched on the overhead light and went straight to the old wardrobe that had stood at the back of the garage since we had moved here. I pulled open the door for the first time in years and considered the contents. There was my spade, still with some dried topsoil clinging defiantly to the edge. Next to it stood a tower of assorted-sized buckets, used to carry away rubbish or any interesting finds on a dig.
A large rucksack lay on the wardrobe shelf. I plucked it down, the texture of the canvas between my fingers instantly evoking memories of the days when this bag had been my constant companion. I unfastened the buckles and reached inside, taking out the objects I found: a foam mat for kneeling on; pegs, twine, measuring tape and compass for laying out a site to form a grid of digging areas; paintbrushes and a four-inch trowel that made up my basic excavation tools. I held the trowel in my hand, reacquainting myself with its weight and feel, but it was hardly necessary; my hand reconnected with it as if it were a fifth finger or a second thumb. It was where it belonged.
In a side pocket of the rucksack, I found my old camera, so old that it took 35mm film rather than being digital; there was film in it, twenty-eight of the frames used. What would they show? Who might they show? I pulled out the notebook that accompanied it. I had recorded everything in here, every detail of a dig from first arrival onwards, noting the times and the weather conditions, sketching each find and listing each photograph I had taken.
I flicked through the book until I found the last page I’d written on. It had been the dig in Kent, of course: a glorious two-week break we had taken late in the summer after graduating university, before we had knuckled down and filled our time with as many jobs as we could fit in, to raise the money we needed to travel. As I held the book in my hand, I could feel again the sun’s warmth on the top of my head, smell the heat on our skin and see the wildflowers carpeting the woods that had adjoined the fields where the dig was taking place. And there was the list of the photographs I would find if I ever chose to develop the film, right down to number twenty-eight, which simply read, ‘Paddy ♥’.
But next to my writing there was something else, something I hadn’t written and hadn’t seen before. A thick black asterisk marked the page, followed by the letters P.T.O. and, in case that wasn’t clear enough, a wiggly arrow snaked its way to the edge of the page. I knew the writing, knew the style, knew only one person could have done this, but I was still unable to resist. I turned the page, and found what I was presumably supposed to find the next time I went on a dig: the time that had never come. Filling the next page was a sketch of a man in Viking costume and helmet but with Paddy’s face, a man who was down on his knees and offering up a heart in his outstretched hands.
I leant against the wardrobe, absorbing every detail. He had always been a skilled cartoonist: a few quick strokes of the pen and he could create a wonderfully clear picture. And this picture was clear – but the message behind it wasn’t. What had he meant? Was it just a quick sketch, dashed off as a surprise to make me smile next time I opened the book? Or had it been intended as something more? The man on bended knee, offering his heart – it could be interpreted in a particular way …
This must have been drawn only a few months before Faye had died, and before Paddy had left. Had I misunderstood him that day when we shared lunch on the hill? Had my assumption been wrong, that Paddy had gone because he didn’t love me?
I snapped the book shut and a puff of dust and old earth blew into the air – an appropriate metaphor, I thought, because everything in that book was old and forgotten now. I wouldn’t think about it; there was no point thinking about it. So Paddy had drawn a romantic picture – whatever he had felt in that moment was consigned to history when he walked out on me and Caitlyn. I had probably already given the sketch more thought than he had done at the time. I couldn’t let my heart be stirred by this; one good gesture could never outweigh the bad.
I put everything back in the rucksack and returned it to the shelf, but I knew, without having to think about it, that my decision had been made. It wouldn’t be another seventeen years before I looked at these things again. Maybe not even seventeen weeks. I switched off the garage light and returned to the house, to locate the details that Caitlyn had sent me about digs taking place over the summer holidays. Paddy’s sketch wasn’t the most important thing I had found tonight. I felt as if I had found myself.
Chapter 11
It was a perfect day for the sponsored walk up Winlow Hill: a light breeze propelled the occasional white cloud across a pale blue sky, and the temperature was predicted to be pleasant without being too hot for the climb. I rose early and gazed out of my bedroom window at the hill, peaceful now as it glistened in the early morning sun, and hoped that in a few hours it would be swarming with people. We had worked so hard on this event; it had to be a success.
There were several routes to the summit of the hill, some more of a challenge than others, and we had c
hosen the easiest one for today’s event, to encourage as many families as possible to join in. A public footpath led from Inglebridge town centre and across a farmer’s field, which gave access through a kissing gate to a wide track that meandered up the hill. The farmer had allowed us to use the field as the official starting point of the walk, and when I arrived Winston was already there, chatting with the St John Ambulance crew we had asked to attend, just in case, and supervising the positioning of tables around the field.
Our pleas for sponsorship had proved more successful than we could have imagined, especially – and I hated to admit it – since word had got out that a certain celebrity would be opening the event. The supermarket had provided bottles of water, and other local businesses had given a donation in exchange for a stand advertising their services. Even before the sponsorship money from the walkers was added, we had made a decent start towards our target.
By the time the walkers were beginning to arrive, the field had taken on the appearance of a village show. Stalls had sprung up in a circle starting at the kissing gate, advertising everything from insurance to range cookers to funeral plans – perhaps not in the best of taste, considering we were raising funds for old folk, but they had offered a decent donation that we couldn’t refuse. Cheryl had persuaded the Fairlie House Hotel to contribute, and would be tempting walkers with samples of afternoon tea, and the local vet had a stall offering dog treats for the canine participants. I circled slowly, taking it all in. It was fantastic – well beyond anything I had imagined from the first moment of suggesting the sponsored walk – and I couldn’t help feeling a flutter of pride that we had pulled this off, and that the Inglebridge community had rallied round with such enthusiasm.
‘Hey, you didn’t mention it was a big event. I’d have dressed up if I’d known.’
I turned round. Paddy was right behind me, wearing jeans, a fleece and scuffed walking boots, and a grin that was so distracting he could have been naked, and no one would have noticed. Not that it distracted me, of course.
‘You’re just in time,’ I said. ‘The local newspaper is here and would like an interview. Please mention The Chestnuts as many times as you can. They need a seventeen-seater minibus. If you can get that in, we may find a garage who’ll do us a good deal for the publicity.’
He clicked his heels and gave a mock salute.
‘Yes, ma’am. Any clues as to where the reporter is?’
‘She’s over there, handing out balloons, under the gazebo that says North Lancashire Express. And if that isn’t enough of a clue, she’s blonde and attractive. I’m sure your homing instincts will guide you to her.’
Grinning even more broadly, he ambled off towards the stand I pointed at and I headed off in the opposite direction, to find Winston and to make sure everything was in hand. It was a relief to see a steady stream of walkers beginning to approach from the direction of the town centre. We had timed the walk to officially start at 10.30 a.m. so that it would fit in with a picnic lunch along the way, and although we couldn’t stop people setting off sooner or later than that, it looked like a good number were aiming for the official time. I tried not to think that it was the Paddy effect, but it was impossible not to notice that a small crowd was gathering round the newspaper stall where he was now chatting to the reporter.
I turned away and waved as I spotted the much more welcome sight of Gran being pushed across the field in a wheelchair by one of the carers from The Chestnuts. I hurried over.
‘This is cheating,’ I said, bending to kiss her cheek. ‘You can’t do a sponsored walk in that.’
‘I don’t know why they insisted I needed it at all,’ Gran said, standing up and giving the wheelchair a disgusted poke with her finger. ‘I told them I don’t need wheels while I have two working feet, but would they listen? Would they heck. There was none of this health and safety nonsense in my day. The world’s gone soft.’
Gran took a few steps forward and stumbled on the uneven ground. I grabbed her arm.
‘Happen I should have chosen some better shoes,’ she conceded. ‘I’ve borrowed an outfit from Mrs Pike again and her feet aren’t as dainty as mine. Perhaps I’d better not get them muddy.’ She summoned the wheelchair with a wave of her hand and sank back down into it. The carer gave me a wink and I tried not to laugh.
‘You are looking dolled up,’ I said. She was wearing a lilac dress and matching floral jacket, which was certainly more understated than the neon pink outfit she’d chosen to wear to the Fairlie. ‘You didn’t need to make so much effort.’
‘At my age, you make the most of every occasion you can. Who knows if there’ll be another? Besides, I want to look my best for the photos.’
‘What photos?’ I asked, as we started heading towards the stalls. ‘We haven’t hired a photographer.’
‘But the press are here, aren’t they? It stands to reason that they’ll want to meet me. I’ve been chosen to represent The Chestnuts.’
Chosen? I would have liked to have seen how that vote went: Gran putting herself forward and no one daring to disagree, at a guess.
‘Is Paddy here yet?’ Gran tried to see, but the increasing crowd was getting in her way. ‘How am I meant to see anything from down here? I need a periscope. Don’t they know who I am? This thing should come with a horn to shift people out of the way.’
I was still laughing when we reached the newspaper stand, and Paddy caught my smile and returned it at full strength.
‘Never mind me,’ he said to the journalist, who seemed to be hanging off his every word – practically drooling. It hadn’t taken him long to reel her in with his fake charm. ‘Here’s the real star of today, our VIP visitor from The Chestnuts. Come on, Phyllis, I’m sure you’ll have a thing or two to say.’
He bent down to kiss Gran’s cheeks and, in one smooth move, took her hands and lifted her to her feet. I stepped forward, anxious in case she stumbled again, but there was no need; Paddy clamped his arm round her back and they posed for photographs like a pair of newlyweds, with Gran giving a running commentary between each smile as to exactly why The Chestnuts needed a minibus. She laid it on so thick, there wouldn’t be a dry eye in the county if the newspaper reported her accurately.
‘And let’s have a couple in the chair,’ she said, directing the photo shoot as she did everything else. ‘If I try to look like a frail invalid, we might get a bit of sympathy cash.’
Paddy obligingly crouched at her side for more photos until the photographer and journalist pronounced themselves satisfied. Just in time: a quick glance at my watch showed me that it was almost 10.30 a.m., and a substantial crowd had gathered in the field, a greater number of participants than I could ever have hoped would turn up. There must have been several hundred people waiting to do the walk, some faces I recognised from school and around town, but many more who were total strangers, and I looked from Gran to Paddy, wondering whether charity or celebrity had been the greater draw.
‘Speech time?’ Paddy asked, and I simply nodded, too thankful that the day had turned out well to bother coming up with the sarcastic or bitter retort that I might otherwise have done. He made his way to the kissing gate where Winston was waiting, and proceeded to give what I had to concede was the perfect speech: short, warm, witty and with a charming reference to Gran as a representative of The Chestnuts. She rose from her chair to acknowledge the applause, and then Paddy strode through the kissing gate and started the walk.
‘You missed a trick there,’ Gran said, settling back down. ‘Never mind sponsorship. You should have made him stand at the gate and charge for a kiss as folk went through. We could have made enough for a Mercedes minibus.’
‘He’s not that good,’ I said, and could have bitten my tongue out when Gran gave me a saucy look. ‘Not that I really remember …’ I added.
‘It’s no wonder you’re living on your own, if a man like that’s not good enough for you. I’m never going to be grandmother-of-the-bride if you’re so fussy.’
‘If you say so.’
Gran stayed to watch the first tranche of walkers set off along the track to the hill, then returned to The Chestnuts to report back and no doubt to regale the other residents with tales of her impending newspaper fame. Winston was leading the way and I had planned to bring up the rear, although I’d definitely drawn the short straw, as it would be frustrating to amble along at such a slow pace behind the toddlers. I had assumed that Paddy would have doubled back and gone by now, only pretending to start the walk but not actually going through with it, so it was annoying as the crowd thinned to see a familiar mop of curly dark hair and to realise that not only was he still here, but he was coming towards me as well.
‘I thought you’d gone,’ I said, sounding very much like Gran with my grumbling tone.
‘And duck out of the walk? Phyllis has sponsored me 50p if I can haul myself up and down the hill. I’ve been training specially. Look at the mud on these boots. That’s real Yorkshire dirt, you know.’
‘You could have bought them yesterday and stepped straight into a muddy puddle,’ I said. But I couldn’t resist a smile – his boots looked new but well enough broken in to suggest that they had seen some recent use. ‘Don’t let me hold you back if you’re raring to go.’
‘You’re okay. I can’t have you providing the rearguard on your own.’
‘I’m not on my own. I’m waiting for someone.’
‘Don’t tell me Phyllis has just popped back to put on her Wonder Woman outfit before she launches an assault on this hill? Nothing would surprise me where she’s concerned.’