by Kate Field
*
‘I’m glad to see you’ve got your glad-rags on, our Eve,’ Gran said, when I wandered into her room at The Chestnuts on Friday evening, to see if she was ready for the official naming ceremony of the minibus. She was exaggerating: I was wearing a floral tea dress, which matched the month rather than the weather; I hadn’t made any special effort – or not much. ‘Is this in honour of the bus or are you seeing a fella later? Do I need to start looking for a dress? Perhaps an emerald green one for the Emerald Isle …’
‘You already have a gorgeous dress,’ I said, ignoring her insinuations and kissing her cheek. I pointed at the yellow frock she was wearing. ‘Another of Mrs Pike’s? That woman must have to pay for an extra room to house all her clothes.’
‘I’ll have you know this is brand new,’ Gran said, smoothing the fabric over her knees. ‘We’ve been having lessons on the internet. Who knew that all the catalogues were on the one screen now? Isn’t that a grand idea? I picked this up in a summer sale. Seventy per cent off! You’d be hard pressed to better that.’
‘It was a bargain,’ I agreed. Probably because no one else wanted to buy that colour, but I refrained from making that observation to Gran. ‘Stick to the online shopping, though, and don’t browse elsewhere. There are things on the internet that would make your hair curl.’
‘Really?’ Gran grinned. ‘Happen I could save a bob or two on that girl who comes in to do my perm …’
I prowled round the room, picking up her bag and stick and all the other things she insisted she needed for the ceremony, as if she was going out for the day rather than into the car park for an hour. I didn’t often come into her room, as she liked to hold court in the conservatory when I visited on Sundays. She had updated her photographs since I had last been in, and now a picture I had given her of Caitlyn in Paris sat between one of me and one of Faye when we had been of a similar age. I had never asked Gran to update my photo; I didn’t think either of us wanted to be reminded that I was growing old and Faye wasn’t.
I stared at the photos of Faye and Caitlyn side by side. Although I had pictures of Faye in my house, I rarely looked at them now, and it was possible to forget, sometimes, how similar they were. Over the years, as Caitlyn had grown older, she had stopped being an extension of Faye in my eyes and become herself. It hadn’t always been that way. At first, I had seen Faye in every look and gesture of Caitlyn’s, a comfort and a torment in equal measure.
‘They’re so alike,’ I said, as Gran joined me in front of the pictures.
‘Looks-wise, maybe,’ she replied. ‘Caitlyn’s a proper bonny lass, like her mum. Takes after you in all other ways, though.’
I glanced at Gran, wondering if she meant that as a criticism, but she smiled at me. ‘You did a grand job, love.’ Her voice gave an unexpected wobble. ‘You should be proud of yourself. I couldn’t be prouder of the pair of you.’
That ‘did’ burrowed into my heart and left a hole. I wasn’t ready for the past tense. My job wasn’t done. I loved her too much to ever stop looking out for Caitlyn; I owed it to Faye to never stop looking out for her.
‘Is it time to go?’ I asked, unwilling to pursue this conversation and to accept praise I didn’t deserve. Gran glanced at her watch – a gold Rotary given to her by my granddad on their wedding day, and brought out for special occasions along with her chunky sapphire engagement ring. I never met him; he had died after ten years of marriage, and Gran had never married again. ‘I struck gold the first time,’ she had always said, if anyone asked. ‘You don’t settle for brass after that.’ I took her arm and squeezed it, touched once again by her devotion to him after so many years; her devotion to all of us.
‘I reckon we’ve kept them waiting long enough, don’t you?’ Gran said, and grinned. ‘Best foot forward. Time to make our entrance.’
It was a cloudy but dry evening, with the muggy warmth of early August, and this display of decent weather had helped to draw a small crowd to The Chestnuts for the naming ceremony. I looked around as I led Gran out of the front door. A minibus-sized object stood on the drive, covered in a blue cloth and gold ribbon – the corporate colours of the motor company who had provided it, I noticed, from the conspicuous sign next to it. Some of the dining-room chairs had been brought outside and set up in rows nearby. A couple of trestle tables on the lawn were laden with drinks and cakes donated by the families of the residents; I’d sent in a bottle of elderflower pressé and some of Gran’s favourite shortbread, and I hoped there would be some left for her. And there was Paddy, standing in front of the cake table, a cupcake in his hand, which he couldn’t seem to find time to eat because of the determined conversation of a young boy.
‘Shall we rescue him?’ Gran asked, nodding in Paddy’s direction.
‘I don’t think he needs it,’ I replied. Despite being hampered by the cake, Paddy looked wholly absorbed in the conversation, leaning down towards the boy, answering every question seriously and gesturing with his free hand. This was just how I had seen him with the volunteers and students on the dig: patient, enthusiastic, a natural teacher. The thought flashed into my head: is this what he might have been like with Caitlyn, if he had stayed? But I felt no bitterness on my account, only sadness on hers, that she had missed having this man in her life.
Without any intention on my part, we gravitated towards Paddy in time to hear him answer an earnest question about how he rehomed any worms he uncovered on a dig. Apparently satisfied that the worms were treated kindly, the little boy ran off. Paddy looked up and caught me watching. He smiled.
‘Phew,’ he said, pretending to wipe his brow. ‘That was the toughest interview ever.’ The joke didn’t reach his eyes, and I felt a pang of sympathy for the man who had sat with me in the pub, regretting the missed opportunities in his life, and yearning for a child who would never be his. But perhaps it was empathy, not sympathy, because hadn’t I spent much of my life doing something very similar? Maybe we both had the life we deserved.
Paddy bent down and kissed Gran’s cheeks. ‘Look at you, Phyllis. Bringing some much needed sunshine to the occasion.’
‘What do you mean?’ Gran said, pretending to object while she merrily soaked up the attention. ‘This is grand weather for Lancashire. You’re a soft southerner at heart, Paddy Friel, despite being half Yorkshire.’
Laughing, Paddy turned my way and kissed my cheeks too. The young Paddy had never kissed my cheeks – there were no memories attached to the gesture – and yet … It was all one great mass of confusion. So much about him was familiar and so much alien. Was the essence of the man I had loved still there? Were the parts I had hated? Or – and perhaps this was the biggest danger – had he genuinely grown into someone else, someone I might fall for all over again? His brown eyes smiled right into mine. I mustn’t fall. I had bolted the door of my heart long ago, so that no one else could reach in and touch it. But a little voice whispered inside me: what if someone had never truly left?
‘Look sharp,’ Gran said, giving me a nudge with her elbow, and drawing my attention away from Paddy. ‘I think the action’s about to start.’ She looked at Paddy, who was still holding the cupcake. ‘Could they not run to a bottle of champagne to christen the bus? What are you supposed to do with that? If it was made by Mr Craig’s daughter, it could smash the windscreen if you’re not careful.’
‘Don’t worry, they haven’t got me doing anything more strenuous than cutting a ribbon. Even that has to be done under supervision.’
‘In case you injure yourself?’ I asked. ‘Are you that valuable?’
‘Not me.’ Paddy laughed. ‘They’re more concerned about the bus’s bodywork than mine. It does nothing for the old ego, I tell you …’
‘I suppose that’s the way of fame,’ I said. ‘One day you’re enjoying the champagne and red carpets, the next you’re lucky to have a hard cupcake and a patch of muddy grass.’
Paddy roared with laughter, much more than my comment deserved. Gran nodded at us bot
h.
‘About time you two were friends again,’ she said. ‘No one’s getting any younger. Shall we head on over? I don’t want to miss anything.’
She linked her arm with Paddy’s, gathered me in with her stick, and led us back to the drive where the chairs were beginning to fill up with residents and dignitaries. Ignoring the seats, Gran made a beeline for a man with a camera in his hand, and I sidestepped the stick and hung back, smiling as she posed for photographs with Paddy. Winston and Cheryl passed me, pushing a sleeping Mabel in her pram.
‘You should be up there, taking some credit,’ Cheryl said, pointing towards the photographer. ‘Winston won’t put himself forward either. This is all down to your hard work.’
‘I wouldn’t dare steal the limelight from Gran,’ I said, laughing. ‘This is her last chance to make the papers. She’s been looking forward to it for weeks. The fundraising was originally her idea, as she keeps telling anyone who’ll listen.’
‘Do you know what the winning name is?’ Winston asked.
‘I haven’t heard. I just hope it’s not The Phyllis Roberts …’
The launch ceremony passed off well, and the minibus was duly christened with the name that had won the public vote: The Alfred Wainwright, after the legendary Lancashire man who had produced famous walking guides to the nearby Lakeland fells. Gran would be disappointed: I knew that she’d suggested Not Dunroamin’. The manager of the motor dealership made a worthy speech about how pleased they were to support a good cause, and then it was Paddy’s turn. He woke everyone up again with a hilarious account of the adventures a group of pensioners might have, travelling around the country on a road trip in the bus. It was one of those seemingly effortless performances that must have taken considerable preparation in advance, as he name-checked many of The Chestnuts residents and gave them roles on the grand tour – with Gran as conductor, of course. The delight on the residents’ faces made tears clog in my throat.
‘I think you made their day with your speech,’ I said, finding myself beside Paddy after the press had finally finished taking photographs.
‘Ah, I wouldn’t have said that. But if I did, they deserve it, don’t they? It was no bother.’
No bother, he said – but he must have contacted someone at The Chestnuts to find out the names and personalities of the residents, to give them all such accurate roles in his story. He must have spent time thinking about his speech, writing it and learning it – and all for a group of old people he didn’t know and was unlikely to see again. How did that fit with the notion I had clung to all these years, that Paddy Friel was only interested in himself? It didn’t – of course it didn’t.
‘How’s your mum?’ I asked, as we crossed the lawn to the table serving drinks. Only soft drinks were left now, including my rejected elderflower pressé, although a can of Guinness mysteriously appeared from under the table when Paddy approached. We wandered further down the garden, away from the other guests, and he took a long slug of beer before replying.
‘She’s not so good,’ he said. He stared down at the can in his hand. ‘It’s taking her speech now. Her mind is still full of things, you know, but she’s struggling to get it out. It’s unbearable to see her frustration. Jeez, Eve, you wouldn’t want to watch an animal suffer like this, never mind your mam …’
I stepped forward and hugged him. What else could I do? I couldn’t watch him suffer. He returned the embrace one-armed, minding his Guinness, his head resting against mine. And a memory came rushing back of us doing this before, but the other way round – of him wrapping me in his arms and comforting me when the news first came that Faye had died, as if he wanted to squeeze the pain out of me and protect me from further hurt; before we had realised the implications of her death for us and our planned life together. How had I forgotten that? Because I had let his one bad act of leaving Caitlyn – leaving me – wipe out years of good deeds. I tightened my hold, trying to offer the comfort he had once given me. But as I finally pulled away, he dipped his head and kissed me.
The forbidden taste of alcohol and Paddy … Which was more intoxicating? I stepped back, and wiped the back of my hand across my mouth.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, glancing round to see if anyone had noticed. ‘I was offering you sympathy, nothing more. You promised not to do this!’
‘I never promised not to kiss you.’
‘You did! When we were on the rooftop in Bath …’ I tried to remember. What words had he used? ‘You said you wouldn’t break my heart again.’
‘I won’t.’
He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t making a joke of this. I felt unsteady, wrong-footed. So what exactly had he meant by that kiss? Nothing I wanted to hear. And yet … I wished I could wipe a hand across my mind, to stop it reliving the moment, stop it making a connection with all those other remembered kisses from before, as if a string of fairy lights were coming on one by one, connecting the past with the present until I couldn’t help but see how perfectly our lips fitted together, and always had. Before and after, no kiss had ever affected me like Paddy’s. That hadn’t changed. So what was I to do now?
I glanced around, anywhere but at Paddy. The garden was emptying now, and I spotted Gran sitting by herself on one of the few chairs still outside. I hurried over, and crouched down in front of her.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to abandon you,’ I said. ‘I was just …’ What? Kissing Paddy? My mind went blank – of excuses, but sadly not of memories.
‘No need to fret about me,’ Gran said. ‘I was having a nice little chat with the journalist. I’m sure you were having a nice time too.’
She said this with a twinkle that made me suspect she’d seen exactly what I’d been doing, until I noticed that Paddy had followed me over and the twinkle was directed at him. He was more persistent than a shadow, I thought, standing up again. What was the matter with the man? Missing when I needed him most, and now I didn’t need him, I couldn’t shake him off. He smiled at me and that train of thought fizzled away.
‘Don’t think you have to hang around here with me,’ Gran said. ‘They’ll be dosing us with cocoa and shipping us off to bed soon enough. You can get off now if the pair of you have plans for the night.’
Paddy looked at me in enquiry. He could look all he liked. I wasn’t falling for Gran’s tricks.
‘I do have plans,’ I said. ‘After I’ve helped clear up here, I’ve arranged to speak to Beverley on Skype. You remember Beverley,’ I said to Paddy. ‘She was with us on the dig in the Cotswolds. The Californian lady.’
‘She was fun.’ Paddy smiled. ‘Where is she now?’
‘In Spain. She’s working her way across Europe, and doesn’t go home until November.’
‘It’s a great way to spend the summer.’
I nodded. It probably was. He should know. I assumed that after he left me with Caitlyn, he’d picked up our plans to volunteer at digs across the world and fulfilled them by himself; it was one subject we hadn’t discussed since we met up again. I could only imagine what it would be like to explore the world in that way. But he could only imagine what it was like to raise a child, to help them develop and grow and become their own person. Having witnessed his sadness in the Cotswolds, how could I envy his life over mine?
‘Never mind helping here,’ Gran said, prodding me with her stick. ‘Take Paddy out somewhere. He put on a good show for us. The least you could do is buy him a drink.’
‘Don’t you have to get home?’ I asked him.
‘I’m staying at The White Hart for the weekend. I thought we could do something tomorrow.’
Do what, exactly? More kissing? He was smiling at me in a way that was dangerously familiar. Thank goodness I had a perfect excuse.
‘I’m busy tomorrow. It’s the Inglebridge agricultural show. I’m taking Gran.’
‘Really?’ Paddy turned his attention to Gran. ‘I didn’t know you had a secret interest in cattle, Phyllis.’
‘I don’t. Can’t s
tand the pong. I only agreed to go so Eve wouldn’t be lonely on her own. She normally takes our Caitlyn. I’d rather stop here and take part in the dominoes rally.’ That put me in my place – and it wasn’t a particularly comfortable place to be. Shouldn’t I be worried about her being lonely, rather than the other way round? What next? Would she be inviting me to join the dominoes game soon? It was beginning to feel like life was ending at forty, never mind beginning.
‘So that’s sorted,’ Gran said, waving her stick from Paddy to me. ‘I’ll stop here and you two can go together.’
*
The Inglebridge agricultural show had been one of my favourite days of the year ever since we had moved to the town, and was one of the first events I marked in my new calendar each January. It was an important day for the local farmers, and competition was fierce to win the colourful rosettes for having the best sheep, pigs and cattle, but there was equally stiff rivalry amongst breeders to own a prize-winning budgie or rabbit. There was fun for the general public too, and the main arena in the centre of the showground held livestock parades and equestrian events such as show-jumping and carriage-driving, as well as special stunt displays that always drew a huge crowd. The arena was surrounded by tents full of local crafts and food, an astonishing variety of trade stands, and a funfair that seemed to grow bigger and better each year.
Caitlyn and I had attended every year, spending the whole day there whatever the weather, until we had staggered home, exhausted and happy and laden down with shopping bags. This year, after Caitlyn had accepted the job in Paris, I had wondered whether to go at all until I had come up with the brilliant plan to take Gran: I had even paid extra for seats in the arena grandstand, so she could sit down whenever she wanted. Never had I imagined, when I bought the tickets so many months ago, that I would end up going along with Paddy.
It wasn’t what I’d planned; it wasn’t what I’d wanted. But as the day rolled on, and the sun warmed our heads and made everything seem more cheerful, I couldn’t regret being there with Paddy. His curiosity knew no bounds – it was what made him such an excellent archaeologist and TV presenter – and he started conversations with people I recognised from previous years but wouldn’t have thought to approach myself. We learnt about the tips and tricks to prepare a bull for showing; heard fascinating stories about classic car rallies from the owner of a gorgeous Austin 7 saloon dating back to 1931; and learnt about the development of a new micro-brewery at a local farm, which even I found interesting – although not as much as Paddy, who sampled the beers with great delight. His enthusiasm for it all sparked mine; his curiosity sparked mine. I’d been visiting the show for sixteen years and felt as if I’d hardly noticed half of it before. And that was Paddy – that was what made him special, what had made me miss him so profoundly when he left. He didn’t just share life. He enriched it. I wasn’t sure it was helping me to be reminded of that.