by Penny Parkes
Anyone looking at the swish graphics, enticing photos and glossy finish would be forgiven for not realising that it had been knocked up on Elsie’s MacBook at the kitchen table. Her tech skills were continuing apace, even if the technical lingo defeated her on occasion – she’d put together a little YouTube video with absolute finesse, only to tell Connor she hoped it would go ‘fungal’.
Holly couldn’t quite believe the abrupt U-turn of feeling in the town. She’d quietly convinced herself it was down to the freebie festival passes, until Lizzie had pointed out the timeline. Could it really just be that Connor being bitten by a goat was all that was really required?
‘You know,’ said Holly, as they walked back to The Practice together, happy that she’d bumped into him on her morning croissant run – otherwise known as an excuse to dodge the central heating and take a breath of fresh air for just a few moments mid-morning – ‘I’m beginning to think you might actually pull this off.’
‘Cheers, mate,’ said Connor. ‘Good to know you never doubted me for a moment.’ He paused and glanced around, dropping his voice. ‘My new therapist is lovely, by the way. Good call that. Who knew that just saying all my crazy thoughts and mental machinations out loud would take so much of the pressure out of my brain?’
‘Who knew?’ shrugged Holly with a smile. ‘Slowly does it, though, yes? Try and think of your recovery as a rebalance – some days you’re going to wobble, but just try and keep your eyes on your focus . . .’
He nodded. ‘And, in all seriousness, thank you for opening up your home the other night. It feels good to have a centre of operations and a little company.’ He frowned. ‘It’s funny, because I genuinely thought that by setting up a really aspirational event on my new doorstep, it would help me get to know my new neighbours and really settle in. But that’s only actually happened since things started going a bit pear-shaped.’
A bit pear-shaped was one way of describing the tangled mess that Connor had on his hands until barely forty-eight hours ago: no sponsor, a few big names still hanging on and willing to donate their time (mainly friends of his and Rachel’s who could see what he was trying to achieve) and the spectre of thousands of festival-goers turning up to face disappointment at what was on offer. For that was one area where Connor had confounded all expectation: ticket sales were through the roof.
All he had to do now was deliver.
Easier said than done.
‘Fecking hell,’ said Connor, after they’d been waylaid by several of Larkford’s more recalcitrant matrons, wishing him well and availing themselves of his tickets ‘for their daughters’. ‘If I’d known it was so easy to be accepted in this town, I’d have let Maud bite me weeks ago. She’s the most ferocious of all my nanny goats, so surely I’d get even more brownie points for that?’
‘Hmm?’ murmured Holly distractedly, only half her attention – if that – on what he was saying. Running lists in her head, she couldn’t escape the feeling that, when it came to the behemoth task of Christmas shopping this year, there was something vital she’d forgotten. Catching sight of Plum at the school gates, Olivia and Lottie in the pram, delivering what looked like Tom’s forgotten gym kit in its distinctive red bag, she relegated the niggling thought for later. While she was quietly pleased that Plum hadn’t let him escape his dreaded sports lesson, she felt somewhat divided on how best to proceed. She laid a hand on Connor’s arm quietly. ‘Hold fire here one minute. Once Plum’s gone, I’m going to insist Tom gets his detention anyway. He’ll never learn if we keep rescuing him.’
‘Crikey,’ said Connor, shocked. ‘You’re one hard-arse mummy, aren’t you?’
‘I’m really not,’ Holly protested. ‘But it’s hardly fair if he misses his detention because the nanny brought his kit in, is it? The other working mums can’t do that. If you think of it that way, then actually I’m saving him from social suicide.’
‘You got all that in under sixty seconds?’ Connor marvelled. ‘I just thought, “Bad luck, mate, you’re doing gym.” ’
Holly smiled. ‘Well, there’s method in my madness. And Lizzie found this out the hard way. There’s a real mix of kids at the local primary – some of whom, bluntly, would be better at the posh prep up the road, and some on lunch-vouchers and benefits. It doesn’t pay to be flashy, or different, when you’re six. It’s just basic tactfulness really, isn’t it? Nobody wants to have their nose out of joint. So, in my book, Tom should have his detention.’
As hard as it was to watch Plum walk away across town with Holly’s two baby girls, she forced herself to wait. Tactfulness applied to adults too and she didn’t want Plum to feel censored or watched over.
‘Mr French? Hi. Can I ask a favour?’ Holly said, leaning over the locked school gates and nearly spilling her latte everywhere.
‘I must be quite the popular chap this morning,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye that did all sorts of unnecessary things to Holly’s libido. ‘I’ve had a veritable parade of Larkford ladies requiring my attention today.’
‘Not hard to see why,’ muttered Connor under his breath, earning him a hard stare from Holly.
‘I’ve already had a lovely chat with your Dr Walker about having Banana come to school for a taster day. I know that Mrs Hearst has her heart set on boarding school for Jess, but I’m inclined to think that repeating Year Six and finding a balance health-wise is a very good suggestion, Dr Graham. I only hope I can persuade Mrs Hearst that, with a proven year in academia under Banana’s belt – or should I say – girth, there will be much more support moving forward for Jess.’
Holly nodded. ‘Thank you. It’s a tricky one this, balancing the child’s needs with the parent’s aspirations.’
Mr French chortled – actually chortled – and Holly felt her whole self soften towards him immediately. He may look as though he fell off the pages of GQ magazine, but here was a very human, very dedicated teacher, whom she truly respected and liked. Surely that was more important than his undeniable appeal in other areas. Or his relatives.
As Holly outlined her quandary regarding Tom’s dodged detention, he held up a hand to stop her. ‘If I may, Dr Graham – Tom didn’t remember his kit, your lovely nanny did. Detention stands. Think no more of it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Holly with feeling as he gave her an appraising glance, watching her that bit longer – surely – than was actually necessary.
‘You surprise me, Dr Graham. Very pleasantly, if I may say. So many parents in your position tend to pander to their offspring. It’s rather refreshing to see a slightly firmer line.’
‘Well,’ blustered Holly, much to Connor’s amusement, ‘there’s not really much choice in our house. Even with the lovely Plum on board, we’re still outnumbered.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Mr French turned his attention to Connor, ‘I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced? I’m Alec, Alec French.’
‘I’m Connor. I live at the old Peal house. No kids, I’m afraid, so no need of your professional services.’ He laughed awkwardly.
‘Fantastic to put a face to a name,’ said Mr French, clearly not one of Connor’s legion of fans. ‘You must be the chap organising this festival extravaganza? You must say if you want the school choir to join in?’ He paused, and allowed a stricken look of embarrassment to cross Connor’s face before putting him out of his misery. ‘I mean, if the crowds refuse to go home at the end of the weekend, I imagine a little tuneless carolling should see them nicely on their way?’
Connor grinned and shook his hand. ‘Deal.’
‘And I gather I have you to thank for my sister even deigning to talk to me,’ said Mr French. ‘She wanted a favour, of course, but we have to start somewhere. I’d love to know what you said to bring her around? We’ve been estranged for years – part of my reason for taking the position here actually. Try and build a few familial fences, you know.’
Connor looked confused. ‘I haven’t said anything to her.’
Holly was about to interj
ect, correct poor Connor, after all, Mr French had clearly been talking to her, but the conversation carried on ambiguously around her.
‘Ah well, maybe it was just good old-fashioned guilt, then. I know losing you your main sponsor sat pretty heavy on her conscience, so perhaps she just realised she’d taken things too far on the radio the other week? Still, all her efforts on your behalf seem to have made a difference, don’t they?’
Holly and Connor looked at each other blankly.
‘She’s been garnering support among all the parents at the school gate? Not to mention at The Deli, the wholefoods place and that wonky yoga club she joined. Giving you her blessing, it seems.’ He frowned. ‘I have to tell you, I’ve known Cassie an awfully long time, as you can imagine, and she’s behaving most oddly. Rather out of character.’ He shook his head. ‘But then maybe that’s part of her charm? I have to say, I had no idea she was so influential around these parts or I’d have persuaded her onto the PTA.’
‘I guess I shall have to find her and say thank you,’ said Connor, blinking to try and process what he’d just been told.
‘It’s quite normal, you know,’ Holly said quietly to Mr French, as Connor ambled over to pin one of his flyers on the school noticeboard. ‘After a shock diagnosis like that, Cassie is bound to be looking at her life and her choices differently. I’m so glad you’re here to give her and Tarquin some support. It’s not going to be an easy year for her.’
It took barely a second for an horrific swooping sensation to unsettle her stomach and knock the world out from under her feet. Mr French’s uncomprehending gaze said it all.
He didn’t know.
Cassie hadn’t told him.
And Holly had just violated her patient’s confidentiality.
She quickly replayed the conversation in her head, and all she could find were her own assumptions . . .
‘I’m so sorry,’ she breathed, taking Alec French’s hand, not a hint of flirtation even on the periphery of her mind. ‘I hadn’t realised that—’
‘That my sister is a closed book?’ He sighed. ‘I know I can’t ask you, but I’m assuming this isn’t something minor?’
Holly bit her lip, hard, but instinctively shook her head.
He nodded, accepting. ‘It was always going to be this way with my sister, Dr Graham. In many ways I should be grateful for your little slip. Rest assured, I won’t breathe a word. But thank you. It was a timely reminder that I should perhaps be focusing a little less on the litter rota and a little more on building a relationship with my nephew.’ He paused. ‘If I may, I’d be grateful to talk to you in a professional capacity sometime?’
‘Of course,’ said Holly, the guilt overwhelming. ‘When you phone, tell Grace that you’d like a trial appointment. Tell her I said it was okay.’
‘How very cryptic,’ said Mr French. ‘I’ll do just that.’
He walked away across the playground and Holly stood staring after him.
‘Well, he’s full of surprises,’ said Connor, returning to her side and counting his flyers. ‘Who knew we had Cassie Holland to thank? And here was me thinking goat-bites were the local currency to curry favour.’
Chapter 48
Grace squeezed Dan’s hand tightly and swallowed hard. Even given the whirlwind of the last week, she couldn’t quite believe they were doing this. ‘Are you quite sure?’ she whispered, her voice tremulous and filled with uncertainty.
Without once shifting his focus, Dan lovingly returned the pressure to her fingers. ‘I don’t mind jumping through hoops, Gracie, but this is one decision I can’t bring myself to compromise on, no matter how generous Elsie’s offer.’
He raised his wooden paddle in the air and Grace smiled, noting the number painted on the front – it had to be a sign – Thirteen. Unlucky for some, but not for her.
‘Going once, going twice, and for the last time? Sold to Bidder Thirteen,’ the auctioneer said, smacking his gavel down with authority.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Dan in a rather loud whisper. ‘Congratulations, Mrs Carter – you’re a homeowner.’
Grace clasped the hurriedly photocopied property particulars to her chest and tried not to whoop for joy. It was just too perfect. Assuming you overlooked the dry rot, and the hideous seventies bathrooms, and the dark, pokey kitchen . . . Nothing that a sledgehammer and a little vision couldn’t fix. They excused themselves from their row and slipped away to deal with the paperwork.
The whole day had been an exercise in serendipity – they never normally even drove out of Larkford on that particular lane. If they hadn’t been avoiding one of the articulated lorries bearing Portaloos towards Connor’s festival site, they might never have seen Heron Cottage, might never have known that their dream home was sitting, cold and neglected, frosted as though straight from a vintage Christmas card, and awaiting sale by auction. A sale with the least fanfare, and maximum expediency, by a repossession firm with little interest or no clue of the gem they had on their hands, or indeed the buoyancy of the Larkford property market. It was a steal, even considering the work that needed doing. Better still, it was a true family home in the making, with views across its rolling gardens, a cherry red Aga and four square bedrooms tucked under the eaves.
‘It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of,’ breathed Grace as she flicked through the particulars again as they queued up to hand over their combined life savings.
‘We won the lottery this month, Gracie,’ agreed Dan. ‘The most beautiful wedding I could ever have imagined to the woman of my dreams, the prospect of a life with Lulu and now this . . .’
‘Somebody’s looking out for us, you know? Do you ever feel that, just as though somebody is moving all the chess pieces around on the board?’ Grace shrugged, knowing it sounded crazy but unable to shake off the feeling that her life had recently taken on, well, a life of its own.
‘Dr and Mrs Carter?’ said the auction house clerk walking towards them with a clipboard. ‘If you’d like to step this way?’
*
There was an inevitability to the phone call that was undeniable. That didn’t mean it hadn’t still come as a shock, emerging blinking into gentle flurries of powder soft snow, clutching the deeds to their new home, unable to believe their luck, when Grace’s mobile had trilled intrusively from her pocket. And to think, she almost hadn’t answered, wanting to savour this momentous occasion with her new husband for just a second longer.
‘I understand,’ she said, the bottom falling out of her world and blinking away the tears that sprang unbidden to her eyes. ‘We’ll be right there.’
She hung up and a tiny cry of desperation caught in the wind. She collapsed into Dan’s arms and sobbed. ‘It’s too late, Dan. We never had time to tell her. Keira’s lost consciousness – she’s slipping away.’
Dan nodded, his own emotions written all over his face. He rubbed unconsciously at the light stubble on his chin. Their victory suddenly felt hollow. He pulled his car keys from his back pocket. ‘Then it’s another bit of serendipity that we’re in Bath. Five minutes. That’s all. And we’ll be there to hold her hand, whatever she’s decided. Nobody should ever leave this earth alone.’
Grace nodded and for the next five minutes neither of them spoke as Dan used every ounce of his never-forgotten army training to skilfully guide the car through the dense Bath traffic and screech to a halt outside the Palliative Care unit at the hospital, grateful for his Doctor’s parking badge and for every green traffic light that had guided them there.
Wordlessly they ran through the corridors, Grace unable to escape the feeling that they were too late – too late to hold Keira’s hand in this last moment, too late to secure a loving future for Lulu – too late.
The double doors swung closed behind them as they burst through in tandem and then froze, unsure of the protocol in these situations – it was somewhat outside the sphere of their everyday experience and certainly not one they wished to repeat ever again.
Twenty-five was ju
st too young – too short a life, too little time.
It took Grace a moment to register that a soft-spoken nurse had come over to greet them, gently guiding them towards Keira’s room, updating them on her condition, tenderly adjusting the sheets on Keira’s bed as she lay quiet and still, the trace monitor’s flickering numbers the only sign of life.
‘You’re just in time,’ she said, slowly but clearly – obviously realising that Grace was barely able to process what she was saying – pulling over a chair beside the bed and guiding Grace to sit down. ‘She’s drifting in and out, so do talk to her. I’m sure she can hear you.’
Grace reached out and took Keira’s fragile hand in her own, all other thoughts flying from her head, as the instinctive mother in her came to the fore. May Fowler couldn’t be here for her daughter, but she could. She could be here for this precious girl, just as she would for her own boys in the same, heart-wrenching situation . . . The very thought was enough for the words to start flowing. ‘I’m here, my darling, it’s Grace. You’re not alone. We’re here – me – and Dan. And the snow is just starting to fall outside your windows, Keira. It’s so beautiful and so quiet and everyone who loves you is thinking of you – being grateful for you. Every extra moment they spent with you is a precious gift they will never forget.’
Keira’s eyelids flickered for a moment and her hand moved perceptibly. ‘Grace,’ she managed, her throat dry and the sound faint. A flicker of a smile crossed her face. ‘You’re here.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Grace reassured her.
‘I want—’ Keira began. ‘I—’
Grace leaned across and moistened one of the tiny sponge ‘lollipops’ that were beside the bed, passing it gently over Keira’s parched lips. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, desperate to hear Keira’s words, but knowing it might just be too much.
‘You’re my guardian angel,’ said Keira, a lone tear escaping from her lashes. ‘Love my baby, Grace, won’t you?’ she said, a sudden urgency in her words, her tone, as she even made as though to sit up, before falling back onto the nest of pillows supporting her delicate frame. ‘Love her, please.’