A Dozen Second Chances (ARC)

by Kate Scholefield

  arrived on site.

  ‘Do you think he’s ill?’ I asked Beverley, as we scrambled back down into the trench

  to carry on. It was a sign of how keen we all were: no one had thought to slack off in

  Christopher’s absence. ‘Should we try to find him?’

  ‘Hey, you worry too much,’ Beverley said, showing a remarkable insight into my

  character after only a short acquaintance. ‘I heard you Brits don’t like spending money. Perhaps

  he’s hiding somewhere so he doesn’t have to buy us all drinks tonight.’

  I laughed, but that didn’t sound like Christopher. I carried on with my work on the

  mosaic, stopping now and again to drink some water – it was another scorching day, and the

  sun was relentless on our heads. I glanced over at the young couple who were part of my team.

  They were working side by side as they had done all week, heads bent low together, talking

  and laughing as they worked.

  ‘Sweet, aren’t they?’ Beverley said, catching where I was looking.

  I nodded. I’d tried not to watch them too much. They were young, keen, in love and

  reminded me irresistibly of me and Paddy. We’d been like that once, in the glory days of our

  relationship: unable to bear being on the opposite side of a trench to each other, unable to

  survive more than a few minutes without sharing a smile, a touch, a moment to connect and to

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  affirm everything we felt for each other. As I looked away across the dig site, I could picture

  Paddy exactly as he had been in those days – shorts, tight T-shirt, curls drooping in the heat …

  Except the figure I thought I was seeing in my imagination looked remarkably solid, and it was

  moving towards me and waving a hand. What on earth was going on? Was Paddy actually

  here? I began to wonder if my brain had been addled by too much sun.

  ‘Well, would you take a look at that!’ Beverley murmured at my side. ‘If that’s lunch,

  I’m ready for it.’

  So it was true! Paddy really was here on site. I wasn’t ready for it. I was hot and sweaty,

  and my face was undoubtedly shiny from all the sun lotion. My hair was sticky and flattened

  by my hat – and oh, I was furious with myself for caring about any of that. Paddy walked up

  to the side of the trench nearest me.

  ‘How’re you doing, Eve?’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked. The information about the dig hadn’t mentioned

  that Paddy was involved; I wouldn’t have missed his name. ‘Are you joining the dig?’

  ‘I’m now leading it.’ He leant forward and stretched out a hand to help me out of the

  trench. I took off my gloves, grasped his hand and climbed out, conscious of the other

  volunteers staring.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked, immediately fearing the worst. ‘Is Christopher okay? I

  knew I should have checked up on him this morning. He’s normally the first to arrive.’

  ‘It would have been too late. He left last night.’ Paddy drew me away from the trench,

  so we wouldn’t be overheard. ‘He had a family crisis and needed to go home urgently.’

  I hoped it wasn’t anything too serious; a family crisis was never a good thing in my

  experience.

  ‘But why are you taking over?’ I asked. ‘You’re no expert on the Romans.’

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  ‘Do you think you could shout that any louder? Jeez, remind me never to ask you for

  an introduction.’ He smiled, and I had to laugh at his expression. ‘I’m free for the next week

  and could come down here at short notice. It was either that or cancel the dig.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were still in touch with Christopher.’ It was odd – Christopher

  hadn’t mentioned Paddy at all over the last few days, although he’d known we’d been a couple

  at university. Now his silence made sense. He must have known we were no longer a couple.

  ‘We’ve been in touch on and off since uni. My company has provided work experience

  for many of his students. We’ve become closer in the last few years.’ Paddy’s smile dimmed

  and he pushed back his hair. ‘He has a daughter with chronic kidney disease,’ he said, leaning

  towards me and lowering his voice. ‘I’ve helped him out a couple of times before, covering

  events he was due to attend. When he phoned last night …’ He shrugged. ‘Well, there was no

  question but that I’d come and take over.’

  And so it went on – the gradual erosion of all my former prejudices against Paddy; the

  vain, selfish, shallow man, who proved that description wrong every time we met. Why did he

  have to keep showing me this decent, thoughtful side? I was glad I didn’t hate him any more,

  but I could have settled for that – for tolerating him. Now I began to worry I was in danger of

  liking him – and look where that had got me before.

  ‘Are you sure you’re well enough?’ I asked, stepping back. I wobbled on the edge of

  the trench and Paddy’s hand shot out to steady me. His grip was strong and firm on my arm.

  ‘Is your leg fully recovered? You wouldn’t want to risk an injury again.’

  ‘It’s as good as new. But it’s kind of you to care.’ Paddy grinned. ‘This is going to be

  like old times, isn’t it?’

  That was exactly what I was afraid of.

  *

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  Much as I had enjoyed working with Christopher, I couldn’t deny that Paddy brought a new

  dynamic to the dig. What he lacked in specialist knowledge – and if I was honest, there was

  less lacking there than I had expected – he more than made up for with his energy and passion.

  He was more hands-on than Christopher had been, spending time with each team, digging in

  the various sections of the trench, and uniting everyone at break and lunch in enthusiastic

  discussion about what we had found and what we were learning. He drew out opinions and

  ideas from everyone, and with a series of barely visible nudges and seemingly casual questions,

  stimulated theories and propositions that we might never have come up with on our own.

  He was good at this; he stretched our minds, making us learn from each other, educating

  us without us even realising what he was doing. And all the time, as I watched him interact

  with the members of the dig – engaging the quietest members of our group, calming the

  cockiest, brushing off any mention of his television career – my opinion of him shifted, as the

  prejudices I had stood on for so many years wore away beneath my feet.

  On Saturday afternoon, as I was making my way back from the Portaloos – my least

  favourite part of any dig, but essential given the amount of tea we drank – I heard a whistle and

  then Paddy’s voice calling my name.

  ‘I’m not a sheepdog,’ I grumbled, as I nevertheless stomped obediently over to where

  Paddy was working in the trench with the team looking for bones. My curiosity got the better

  of me. ‘Have you found something?’

  ‘A piece of pottery. Come and look.’

  I scrambled into the trench and Paddy carefully handed me the pottery. From the shape,

  it looked like a section of a bowl or vase, as there was part of a flat base and a curved side. It

  was a good-sized piece, about fifteen centimetres
high, and the glossy red colour was still so

  rich that it could have come straight from a shop that morning. It would be the job of our finds

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  expert to clean it properly and analyse the details, but I gently brushed off some of the dirt, so

  I could have a closer look.

  ‘What do you think?’ Paddy asked.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ And it truly was – the curved section featured an exquisite pattern of

  trailing foliage and flowers, moulded in intricate detail. ‘It looks like Samian ware, doesn’t it?’

  I added, referring to one of the most common, high quality types of Roman pottery, which was

  distinguished by this vivid red colour.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Paddy smiled at me. ‘But do you reckon it’s an original piece,

  imported from Gaul, or a British copy?’

  ‘Hard to say. But based on the fine quality and the finish, my guess would be an import,

  probably from one of the better potteries. Is there a maker’s mark?’

  I carefully cleaned around the base, so I could see it properly. Decorated pots like this

  often carried a stamp or signature to show who had created the mould, and who had made the

  pottery piece. It helped to identify where a piece had been made, and also to date the pottery,

  as we knew that certain makers worked at certain times. There was a stamp on this fragment,

  but there were only two letters before it was cut off. ‘L …E …’ I read. ‘That’s not enough. We

  need the rest of it!’

  ‘Yes, ma’am!’ Paddy laughed. ‘Come on, team. We have our orders.’

  He grinned at me, and I smiled back, totally lost in the past; not in Roman times, but in

  our past – mine and Paddy’s. I held out the fragment to him and he reached out to take it. His

  arm was tanned like the rest of him, from spending so much time outdoors. It was stronger and

  more muscled than it had been, and his hands were roughened from years of digging. This body

  was unfamiliar, and yet I knew it intimately. What would it be like now, to experience it on

  mine – the tender familiarity mixed with the exquisite pleasure of new discovery?

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  I caught my breath. What was I thinking? Paddy was still watching me, and I felt as if

  I’d been mesmerised. I rushed back to my own trench, horrified at the turn my thoughts had

  taken and hoping that the sudden warmth I felt was nothing more than an early hot flush.

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  CHAPTER 19

  By the time Sunday evening arrived, I was ready for our day off on Monday. I was relatively

  fit from all the running, but the dig was physically demanding in other ways, using a different

  set of muscles, and I would be glad to spend a day on my feet rather than on my knees. The

  pub where I was staying didn’t serve food on a Sunday night, so after a shorter run than usual

  – disappointing, because I loved pounding along the bridleways through the glorious Cotswold

  countryside – I went out for a meal in a neighbouring village.

  It was still warm when I returned, and many people were soaking up the evening

  sunshine in the beer garden. By contrast, the interior of the pub was almost empty, and as I

  headed through the snug towards the stairs to the bedrooms, I almost missed the solitary figure

  sitting in a gloomy corner. It was Paddy, a full glass of whiskey in his hand and an empty one

  on the table in front of him. He seemed to be looking down at his phone. Of all the pubs, in all

  the villages … I hesitated for only a moment, but it was long enough. He looked up and the

  distress on his face – so different from the laughing smile he had worn all day – made me

  ignore my better judgement and walk over to him.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, ignoring the bleakness, the hazy eyes, the fumes of alcohol and the

  overwhelming evidence of something being not right. ‘You’ve not been staying here all week,

  have you? I’m sure I’d have spotted you over breakfast.’

  ‘First night here,’ he said, and there was less Irish, more drunk about his voice than

  usual. ‘I’ve had to move around. Wherever there was a room.’

  I immediately felt bad. Christopher had been staying with friends, but I hadn’t

  considered how Paddy would manage to find accommodation in the peak holiday season, or

  given any thought to how he was spending his evenings. Should I have offered to meet up? I’d

  spent so many years avoiding all mention of him that it hadn’t occurred to me to do anything

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  else. Perhaps I needed to readjust my behaviour as well as my views. I pulled out a chair and

  sat down.

  ‘I’ll be crap company,’ Paddy said, talking to his glass. ‘No fascinating conversation.

  No witty banter. None of the blarney.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘I didn’t come over for any of that. You look terrible. What’s the

  matter?’

  In answer, Paddy tapped at his phone and slid it across the table towards me. It was

  open at a Facebook page for Amy Friel who, according to a recent status update from this

  afternoon, was ecstatic at the birth of her son. I studied the photo of a red-faced, crumpled

  baby, trying to work it out – trying to spot a resemblance.

  ‘Is he yours?’ I asked at last. Paddy met my gaze and the sadness on his face spoke for

  him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But that’s your wife?’

  ‘Ex-wife.’

  ‘She still uses the name?’

  ‘Only useful thing about me, apparently.’ He gave me a wry smile. ‘You were unlucky.

  You got all the grief and none of the benefits.’

  My answer slipped out, unplanned. ‘The only benefit I ever wanted was to be with you.’

  ‘I know.’ He glanced up briefly, and I saw a flash of deeper sadness cross his face

  before he looked away again. ‘You were always too good for me, right from the start.’

  That wasn’t true. I hadn’t always been good, far from it. But I was making the mistake

  I had warned Paddy against before – of talking about the past. Our part of it, at any rate – I

  couldn’t help being curious about his.

  ‘How long have you been divorced?’ I asked.

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  ‘Two years.’

  So she’d moved quite fast, to have found someone else and had a baby since they

  separated. She must have wanted to put Paddy comprehensively behind her. I knew the feeling.

  ‘What did you do to cause the split?’

  That made him look up again. ‘Jeez, you really don’t have much faith in me, do you?

  Can’t you believe we just drifted apart? Had irreconcilable differences?’ I waited, knowing

  him too well. There was more to this than he was saying. He sighed and took a swig of whiskey.

  ‘The irony is,’ he said at last, ‘that this time, with Amy, it was the lack of kids that

  pulled us apart.’ I flinched, wondering what I’d started, not sure I wanted to hear any more.

  ‘We couldn’t have them. Not for lack of trying – God, we tried until it felt like we hadn’t done

  anything else – like talk, or laugh – for months. And then the tests showed nothing wrong with

  either of us, so we started IVF and that didn’t work either
, but it began to feel as if that was the

  only thing binding us together, you know … Have you ever wanted something so desperately,

  but been terrified of what might happen if you get it?’

  I shook my head. The only things I had ever wanted were beyond my reach. Faye. Dad.

  Paddy. All gone too soon. All impossible to get back.

  ‘And then Mam was diagnosed,’ Paddy said. He was talking to his glass again. ‘We

  had money saved up for a third go at IVF. I wanted to use it for Mam instead – to go private,

  get a second opinion, get her anything she needed. Amy didn’t agree. We were getting old, she

  said – our time was running out.’

  ‘So what did you do?’ None of this was my business, but I was engrossed. This story

  hadn’t featured on Paddy’s Wikipedia page. This was a part of his life after me that I knew

  nothing about. And I wanted to know, because these were the stories that had changed him;

  these were the things that had transformed the boy who had walked out on me into the man

  slumped in the seat opposite me now.

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  Paddy sighed. ‘I took the money and spent it on Mam.’

  ‘Without telling your wife?’

  ‘I told her I was going to do it. She said she’d leave me if I did. I stuck to my word. She

  stuck to hers. But you tell me – how do you choose between the family you want and the family

  you already have? Sometimes there are no good decisions and you have to make the one that

  feels right at the time, you know? Was it wrong?’

  I shook my head. Not because I was agreeing with his decision, but because it was

  impossible for anyone else to judge it. I wasn’t surprised at the decision he’d made – it was the

  one I would have expected Paddy to make: based on gut instinct, how he felt in the moment,

  without reflecting on what the consequences might be. He’d always had an impulsive nature.

  But without being in his shoes, I couldn’t say if he was right or wrong. And I couldn’t judge

  his wife either, bizarre though it seemed to me that she should have left him over this. I had no