59 Memory Lane

by Celia Anderson

  ‘Gloomy? I’ve lost my wife and I’ve got a little girl to bring up who worries me a lot. I’m ever likely to look anxious.’

  ‘It’s six years since Allie died, and there’s nothing wrong with Tamsin apart from the odd cold. You should lighten up, dear. A girl … well, a woman, I should say, like Emily, won’t be attracted to a moaner.’

  ‘You’re out of order, May,’ Andy snaps, standing up to go, but she reaches out a hand to stop him.

  ‘I only want the best for you, my dear,’ she says softly. ‘I know you think I’m an interfering old lady but I’ve seen a few things in my time and I can tell when two people are made for each other. Sit down and we can talk it through. Let’s not argue.’

  Andy subsides into the chair again and lets it rock, the rhythm soothing his ruffled feelings. Is May right? He has a sneaking suspicion that there have been times when he could have snapped out of his despondency but it’s often easier to just let it wash over him and feel sorry for himself. He’s got used to being the grieving widower. The ladies of the village still bring him cakes and the odd casserole, for pity’s sake. That should have stopped years ago.

  ‘So, in my humble opinion you need to move fast,’ says May. ‘Get her round to your house and charm the pants off her.’

  ‘May! It’s a good job Julia can’t hear you. And actually, I’ve already asked Emily round later for a drink, after Tamsin’s asleep.’

  ‘Good for you. At last you’re … what did I hear someone say on the television last night? Oh yes, I remember, at last you’re growing a pair.’ She chuckles at his aghast expression. ‘Life’s for living, dear. Get a decent bottle of wine and some nice snacks – olives, breadsticks, nuts, that sort of thing. Put some soft music on your stereo machine. She’ll be putty in your hands.’

  Andy starts to laugh too, and soon they’re both helpless, tears rolling down May’s cheeks. Is she right? Andy hopes so. He gives May a hug and sets off up the steep cobbled street towards the village shop to pick up some supplies.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Emily rifles through the heap of clothes on her bed, and despairs. Most of them are only suitable for wandering about on the beach. It’s going to have to be her faded Levi’s and a silky blue shirt.

  Get a grip, Em, she tells herself. It’s just drinks with a friend. There’s no need to stress about what to wear.

  She gives her hair a final brush, feeling the static electricity arc through the curls, making them stand out in a halo, crackling. A squirt of perfume, something light and zingy that she bought in duty free, and a slick of lip gloss and Emily’s ready. Her skin’s still glowing from her early morning walk on the beach and there’s no point in slapping on lots of make-up. She’ll only look as if she’s trying to impress Andy. Being single is the way forward now. It doesn’t matter in the least what he thinks about her appearance.

  Emily gazes at the finished product in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door and is surprised at how happy and healthy she looks, considering her best beloved relative seems to be failing fast and the most promising relationship for years is dead in the water. She clatters downstairs to see if Gran’s safe to be left on her own.

  Julia is sitting in front of the fire with a blanket over her knees, knitting.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t need to be all wrapped up like this, darling,’ she says, smiling up at Emily. ‘Oh, you do look lovely.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’m not going anywhere unless you promise to stay put and rest. I’m going to make you some Horlicks and put the cake tin handy. Do you need to go to the loo?’

  ‘Emily, please – I’m not a toddler,’ Julia says, but Emily’s relieved to see she’s still smiling and she’s got some colour in her cheeks.

  Ten minutes later, Emily’s crossing the road to Andy’s house. It feels odd to be arriving empty-handed. Should she have brought wine with her? No, he’s asked her for a drink, not dinner, so it’d be silly to do that, wouldn’t it? This dithering is unlike Emily, who considers herself fairly sophisticated, happy to mingle with all sorts of people without a trace of nerves. She tells herself not to be so ridiculous. This is just an evening in with a friend.

  Andy opens the door before Emily’s even had a chance to knock.

  ‘I didn’t want you to ring the bell and wake Tamsin,’ he whispers. ‘She’s only just gone to sleep.’

  They tiptoe into the kitchen and Emily looks around, pleasantly surprised at the tidiness. She’d assumed that a busy single dad’s home would be a bit on the messy side. How sexist was that? Ashamed of her presumption, Emily takes it all in. This place is brightly painted in turquoise and white, with beautiful, gleaming blue and green glass-effect tiles around the cooker and all the units. There’s a row of well-used cookery books on a shelf, and an ancient pine dresser loaded with an assortment of chunky pottery plates and dishes. The wooden fruit bowl in the centre of the table is generously filled with bananas, apples and a giant pineapple, and there are glass storage jars on the worktops containing every sort of pasta known to mankind.

  Andy sees her looking at the jars. ‘My girl loves pasta, as you might have guessed,’ he says.

  ‘This is a lovely room,’ Emily says.

  ‘Thanks, it’s the only place I really changed after Allie died. We were about to have it renovated but Tamsin arrived early and then …’

  ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through that awful time,’ Emily says, wondering if she dare give him a hug, but Andy’s opening a bottle of claret now, and changing the subject.

  ‘Tonight’s about the future, not the past,’ he says, handing Emily her drink. She takes a sip and then realises she’s forgotten to clink glasses and say ‘cheers’. Hopefully it’s not a bad omen. There’s a piano concerto playing softly in the other room. She’s not very well up on classical music, having been brought up on a diet of Dire Straits and Yes with a dash of Pink Floyd or Fleetwood Mac, but it’s very easy on the ear.

  They go through to the sitting room, which is dominated by a vast, squishy settee covered in cushions and throws. The other two chairs don’t look very comfortable, but Andy’s already turned the music down and settled in one corner of the sofa. Emily’s not sure if cosying down next to him will seem too familiar. He sees her hesitating and pats the cushion beside him.

  ‘Come on, there’s room for at least six of us on here; you won’t crowd me,’ he says.

  A deep peace settles on the room and they sip their wine in silence. Emily is soon warmed to the core as the music plays quietly in the background.

  ‘You’d better eat some of these cocktail snacks,’ Andy says, eventually, gesturing to the huge array of nibbles on a low table nearby. ‘May will be checking. I was given my orders. I had to hide them until Tamsin was in bed.’

  Emily adores olives, and Andy’s bought dips too, and cheese straws and celery and all sorts of her other favourite things. She digs in happily. The CD ends and Andy replaces it with … yes, an old Dire Straits one. Emily feels even more at home now.

  When they’ve made inroads into the food and talked about a whole host of random things, Andy reaches for a notebook and pen. ‘Right, let’s make a list of all the things we need to think about for Julia,’ he says, ‘and then we can plan how to get everything moving.’

  As he speaks, Emily notices that the track just beginning is ‘Romeo and Juliet’. It’s her favourite of all the old songs her mum used to play over and over again, especially on long car journeys. The wistful guitar leads into the passionate, sensual lyrics. She remembers as a young girl wondering what ‘making love’ was and then later, when she’d worked that one out, being confused as to why it would make you cry.

  Andy stops speaking as the music swirls around them. He turns to look at Emily properly for the first time, and she realises that he’s been avoiding her eyes so far, sitting by her side and concentrating on eating although, thinking about it, Emily realises she has demolished most of the snacks single-handed and Andy’s had most
of the wine. She is acutely aware how close their hands are, his left hand almost touching her right. Hoping he won’t notice, she leans a little bit closer, inhaling the lovely clean smell of him: lime shower gel and the now familiar light, spicy aftershave.

  The song builds to a crescendo, Mark Knopfler pouring out all the aching hurt of rejection and bad timing. Andy moves slightly. They’re touching now and Emily feels the warmth flowing from him. Completely forgetting her vow to give up on men, she slides her hand underneath his and their fingers link. They sit like that for a moment and then, as the music ends, turn to face each other properly. Andy’s eyes are soft with longing, and he looks so kissable that Emily can’t resist touching his face and leaning nearer. He bends forward and their lips meet, gently at first. Emily wraps her arms around him, head spinning, but just as Andy begins to respond in a very satisfactory way she hears another less pleasant sound.

  ‘Bugger,’ mutters Andy, disentangling himself abruptly. Emily pulls her shirt down and jumps to her feet as he leaves the room at a gallop. There’s no mistaking the pitiful noise of a small child vomiting.

  ‘Can I help?’ she calls after him.

  ‘No, I can deal with it.’

  Deflated in more ways than one, Emily flops back onto the sofa and drains the last of her wine. She waits a few minutes and then plucks up her courage to go upstairs. She can’t just abandon him to a pile of puke.

  In Tamsin’s room, a heap of stained bedding tells the story of what’s happened. Andy’s got his daughter in the bath, and Emily can hear him talking to her quietly, soothing her sobs.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, poppet,’ he says, over the sound of splashing. ‘You’re all clean now. We’ll soon get your bed made up and some nice clean ’jamas on.’

  ‘I think I sicked on Stripey,’ says the little girl sadly, gasping and hiccuping as she tries to stop crying.

  ‘No, the cat came downstairs just after you went to sleep. She’s fine. Now, out you come, here’s a big fluffy towel to wrap you up.’

  ‘Sorry, Daddy. I love you.’

  ‘No need to be sorry, pigeon. You can’t help it if your tummy explodes now and again.’

  ‘What were you watching? Did I make you miss the telly?’

  ‘Oh, no, I … wasn’t doing anything important. Now, where are those clean ’jamas?’

  Emily’s heart sinks. She tiptoes away and quietly lets herself out of the house. Her face burns. She must have been crazy to kiss Andy. What was she thinking? It was only yesterday she was fighting off Max’s wandering hands and vowing to go it alone in future. At least Max was open about being tied up with his responsibilities. Or was he? Not really, she supposes.

  As she walks down the path, Emily turns, in the vain hope that Andy’s heard her leaving and is going to call her back. Instead, she sees a madly waving hand in the front window next door. May is gesturing frantically for her to come in. Emily’s heart sinks. This isn’t the time for a heart-to-heart. She wants to shut herself in her bedroom and snuggle down under the duvet to lick her wounds.

  May has the window open now. ‘Emily. Come here, dear! I need you,’ she shouts.

  Emily resigns herself to the inevitable and heads for May’s back door. The old lady doesn’t sound panicky, so it’s not a crisis. With luck she’ll be able to escape fairly soon.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Emily asks, slightly irritated that May is now back in her favourite armchair looking mightily pleased with herself.

  ‘I’m so glad I caught you,’ May says, ‘although I hadn’t expected to see you so soon, to be honest. I thought you’d be with Andy for much longer.’ She shoots a coy look in Emily’s direction.

  ‘Well, so did I, but it didn’t turn out that way,’ snaps Emily.

  May raises her eyebrows and waits. Before she can stop herself, Emily is pouring out the whole sorry tale of what went wrong. When she’s finished, May nods thoughtfully.

  ‘He’s a poor mixed-up soul, that’s for sure,’ she says.

  ‘Mixed up? He’s still in love with his wife and he mollycoddles his daughter – that seems simple enough to me.’

  ‘Well, there is that, but you’re easily a match for a memory, and Tamsin just needs a firm hand. Anyway, forget about those two for a minute. Let’s talk about you, dear.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. As far as I can see, you’re an independent woman. Whatever man you decide to take up with in the end will be very lucky to have you. But what’s the rush? Being alone can be a very good thing, at least for a while. I know I’m guilty of matchmaking in my head sometimes, but I can see now that you might not be ready for Andy yet.’

  Emily is silent, pondering on this. Fossil startles her as he jumps onto May’s knee and she realises that she has no idea why May called her in.

  ‘Did you want me for anything in particular?’ she asks, watching as May strokes her cat. It’s very peaceful here, and she’s glad she came, whatever the reason.

  ‘I’d like to show you something,’ May says, ‘because you’re like me – you’ve got an eye for nice things. Pass me that box, please. I don’t want to disturb Fossil.’

  Emily reaches for the wooden casket that May’s pointing to. It’s rather shabby but has beautiful inlay and has been well-polished.

  ‘Now, have a look at this,’ says May, opening the box and lifting out the prettiest necklace that Emily has ever seen.

  ‘Oh, wow, that’s gorgeous,’ breathes Emily. ‘Are they amethysts?’

  ‘They are indeed. My Aunt Barbara left this to me when she died, many years ago. I’ve always loved it.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. It’s beautiful. She must have been very fond of you.’

  May grins. ‘Maybe. I guess it was more that she just didn’t have anyone else to leave it to, but we always got on well. She lent this necklace to me when I got married. I haven’t looked at it for a long time until recently but I just wanted you to see it.’

  ‘Thank you, May. I love it.’

  ‘Put it on then.’ May laughs at Emily’s puzzlement. ‘I want to see it on a young person instead of round this wrinkly old neck.’

  Obediently, Emily takes the necklace and fastens it in place. She stands up to look at herself in the oval mirror on the wall. May smiles, and carries on stroking Fossil. ‘I knew it would suit you. You can borrow it anytime. Maybe for your own wedding one day? If you decide you do need a man after all.’

  Later, warm and cosy under the downy duvet at last, Emily drifts off to sleep thinking of May and her wise words. For the moment, a wedding is the very last thing on her mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Thursday morning starts hazily, with a heavy sea fret that gives the beach an eerie feel. Even the birds are subdued. Julia can’t settle to anything. She’s already tidied her cardigan drawer, eaten a pile of hot buttered toast and watched a particularly tedious medical drama. None of these distractions has helped and now she’s managed to drip melted butter down her clean blouse.

  Sighing, she trudges upstairs to get changed. Julia can’t bear clothes that aren’t pristine. There are plenty to choose from in her wardrobe. Don never minded how much money she spent on looking nice. The bed looks tempting and she almost gives in to this awful weakness and has another nap. Emily’s instructed her to take it easy while she goes for a quick walk.

  Julia thinks her granddaughter has probably gone out of the way because she wants to make a phone call to her boss back in New York. She still seems adamant that she’s going to try to stay longer, although last night at Andy’s was obviously not a roaring success. Julia was already in bed when Emily came back across the road from May’s house, but the few words exchanged had been enough to cause alarm when Em came in to say good night.

  ‘But why didn’t you just go into the bedroom and start making the bed up?’ she’d said, perplexed at Emily’s air of defeat.

  ‘I didn’t want to get under his feet. Andy said beforehand that Tamsin wouldn’t settle if he had visitors, and I d
idn’t like to rummage around in his cupboards looking for clean sheets and stuff.’

  ‘Oh, Em – I bet he’d have appreciated you lending a hand. It must be hard doing that sort of thing on your own.’

  ‘I bet you wouldn’t say that if he was a single woman with a child, would you? It wouldn’t be such a big deal then, would it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, I’m going to bed. I called to see May too, and I’m shattered. Get some sleep, Gran. You need all the rest you can get. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  Julia lay awake for a long time pondering on what Emily said. Was she saying that Julia made extra allowances for Andy being a man alone? And was it true? If so, she didn’t mean to give him preferential treatment. Julia has always considered herself something of a feminist, backed up heartily by her lovely husband, but if this is the case, she’s let the side down badly and not helped Andy’s recovery by mollycoddling him. But no, with hindsight, she hasn’t done anything to hold him back, just supported him when she could. It’s time to stop thinking of him as that poor man looking after his child alone, though – he’s a sad soul who’s lost someone dear, but then so is Julia.

  Clean and tidy, Julia comes downstairs to find Andy at her door. She hugs him briefly and leads the way to the living room.

  ‘Have you finished work early?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, Vi’s had Tamsin again today,’ he says. ‘You have to have forty-eight hours off school if you have a tummy bug. I’m sure it was all the ice cream she had at tea time yesterday but they don’t make exceptions. I feel awful to keep asking poor Vi but she doesn’t seem to mind. One of her grandchildren is at home with a cold today so they’re doing jigsaws together and watching Frozen for the millionth time.’

  ‘I’d have had her for you; there was no need to bother Vi.’

  ‘But you’re on strict instructions to take it easy. I don’t want you having to be at my little monkey’s beck and call when you should be putting your feet up.’