The Barn on Half Moon Hill

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Jonathan?’ asked Jacques, his voice a breathy whisper. Eve’s fiancé Jonathan had died over seven years ago. He’d been a soldier in Afghanistan and had been killed on Christmas Day. It had taken Eve years to finally let him go.

  Eve nodded and a single, solitary tear dropped down her cheek.

  ‘Start at the beginning,’ said Jacques, taking her hands in his. She was shivering.

  Eve began talking quietly: ‘Do you remember when I went shopping with Violet in Manchester last month?’ Jacques nodded. ‘We were walking down one of the streets and I saw Marie, Jonathan’s ex-fiancée. Do you remember? She was the one he left for me?’

  ‘I remember,’ said Jacques, not quite sure where this was going.

  ‘She was with a man. They both had wedding rings on and she was pushing a pram with a baby girl in it.’ More tears were falling from Eve’s eyes now. ‘She’s moved on. Well and truly on.’

  ‘Ye-es, it sounds like it,’ replied Jacques softly. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ He had gathered that Marie was devastated by the split. But then it had been a long time since Jonathan had died.

  ‘It’s as if he never existed, isn’t it? I’ve moved on and she’s moved on.’

  ‘And that is life, my darling.’

  ‘It’s like Jonathan’s been forgotten though. He’s disappeared into a hole and it’s closed up over his head.’ Eve pulled her hands from Jacques in order to wipe her cheeks. ‘His parents won’t have grandchildren. I keep thinking he’s up in heaven all lonely . . .’

  ‘Oh, Eve, my love,’ Jacques said sympathetically. So that’s what had been worrying her all this time. That was an anxiety and a half to be carrying around with her.

  ‘I know it sounds mad . . .’

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ He said, cutting her off. ‘I’ve seen a few good men, young men, who left this earth way before they should have and, in my darkest times, I had thoughts along those same lines as you. Then I began to wonder that if our spirits do go on to something else, maybe they dwell in many houses of happy memories and moments with all the people who loved them, not just one. That’s how I processed it into some shape that I could make sense of and, in the absence of any solid evidence, it’s what I like to believe. We don’t know what there is beyond this world, but this has helped me to deal with those I knew who died much too soon.’

  He looked into her eyes, which were as green as Christmas trees. There was something she hadn’t told him yet, he could sense it. Then she did tell him.

  ‘I’m pregnant, Jacques,’ said Eve.

  Chapter 6

  ‘You own this?’ Franco half gasped, half laughed.

  ‘Yep. I’ve been a right stupid idiot.’

  ‘Why? I mean . . . well, I mean, why?’

  There was a bench outside the door of the dance school-cum-barn, which appeared to be the most solid structure around. Cariad sank down onto it.

  ‘I had the mad idea of opening up a dance school.’

  ‘Well, that’s not a bad idea, is it?’ said Franco.

  ‘The woman who used to own it, Mavis Wickersley, was famous around here. She worked in Paris as a Bluebell girl and then came back home and founded this place. She had a fantastic reputation. She wanted it to carry on being a dance school, which is why her estate wouldn’t sell it for any other purpose.’

  ‘You should do this, Cariad.’ Franco was insistent. ‘And you should never have stopped dancing.’

  ‘But I’m a—’ She cut herself off.

  ‘You’re a what?’ Franco sat down on the bench beside her. ‘Cariad, talk to me. What are you?’

  Cariad sighed. Oh, where to begin? ‘Do you remember there was a time when I didn’t write to you for ages? When my dad died.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Then you started writing again and that’s when you told me you weren’t going to be a dancer any more.’

  ‘I was in the same car crash that killed my da. My leg was crushed. They thought I might lose it at one point, but they managed to patch it up with a lot of metal and operations. But I had to wave goodbye to any ambitions to be the principal dancer in Swan Lake.’

  ‘Oh.’ Franco hadn’t been expecting that. He thought she told him everything in those letters. ‘You didn’t say.’

  ‘Boring, innit? Who wants to hear hospital news?’

  ‘So that’s why you gave up wanting to dance?’

  ‘I never gave up wanting to dance. But I can’t dance, can I? I tried to forget about it, but I couldn’t. It’s like it’s in my blood.

  I came up here for fish and chips and I saw this place the very day they were hammering the For Sale notice in the ground. I had a lot of compensation money sitting in my bank for a little house but this mad idea overtook my whole brain: I might not be able to dance properly, but I can teach others to, can’t I? Never mind half moon, I think there must have been a full moon that day that turned me bonkers. All I could think of was my da saying to me, “Cariad Williams, don’t you dare look down at a little moon in a puddle, when you can look up and see it big in the sky.” So instead of a nice little flat, I went and bought this instead. On a mad whim. How stupid can you be? My mam and my uncle Effin would kill me if they knew.’

  ‘I’m a great believer that what is meant to be will be, if that helps?’ said Franco, after a few moments’ contemplation.

  ‘No, it doesn’t bloody help at all. I should put it up for sale but I paid far too much for it and I’ll end up making a loss, if I manage to sell it at all. I can’t afford to do it up, so I’m stuck with it.’

  ‘Do you have a key?’

  Cariad reached into the side pocket of her handbag. ‘I carry one with me just in case I’m on the verge of doing anything impulsive ever again,’ she said. ‘It reminds me to shut my mouth.’ She walked over to the door and jiggled the key in the lock.

  They stepped inside and gazed around. Okay, so it had a Swiss-cheese roof and straw on the floor, but the main room still held the air of a dancing studio. Cariad could clearly see it restored in her mind’s eye, and it was torturous.

  ‘Would you be a good dance teacher?’ asked Franco.

  ‘I’d be the best, I’ll have you know,’ Cariad threw back at him, mightily aggrieved.

  Franco bowed. ‘May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Williams? I promise I won’t do the Dirty Dancing lift.’

  Cariad was about to tell him not to be so daft, but her limbs betrayed her and her hands came out to meet his. Together they gently waltzed around the dilapidated room and, as they did so, Franco Mezzaluna had an idea.

  ‘Pregnant?’ Jacques mouth formed the words, but no sound came out.

  Eve nodded. ‘Nearly three months. I haven’t been sick or anything, I just knew. I bought a pregnancy-testing kit that day in Manchester and it confirmed it.’

  ‘And things got all mixed up in your head. Then throw some hormones into the mix.’ Jacques wrapped his arms around her and pressed his face into her dark-brown hair that smelled of her lovely perfume. This news was the best Half-Christmas present he could have wished for.

  ‘I haven’t told anyone I did the test. It wasn’t right anyone knew before you did.’

  ‘So let’s go and announce it to the world,’ said Jacques, standing up. ‘Baby Glace is due on . . . when is the due date?’

  ‘You really won’t believe me if I tell you.’

  Jacques made a quick mental calculation and then guessed it was Christmas Day – the date when Jonathan died. No wonder it had messed with Eve’s head.

  Of course, there was another way of looking at this.

  ‘I think all the powers that be are trying to stamp out any bad memories you have of Christmas, don’t you?’ he said.

  Eve considered his suggestion. And then she thought back to the night when the candle flame she had kept lit for Jonathan suddenly went out. As if Jonathan himself had extinguished it so she could let him go – and live her life.

  ‘Oh, Jacques, I hadn’t thought of it that way. Do you t
hink that could be true?’

  Jacques put his arm around her. ‘I wouldn’t rule it out as a possibility. Come on, let’s go and tell our family and friends the good news.’

  ‘What do you think about having a business partner?’ asked Franco, suddenly coming to a stop, mid-twirl.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What if I paid for the renovations to this old barn and we became joint owners of the school. The Williams-Mezzaluna School of Dance. I’d let you have top billing.’

  ‘Great idea,’ said Cariad, attempting to pull out of Franco’s arms. ‘I’d better ring you a taxi. They can take you straight to the loony bin.’

  But he wouldn’t let her go. ‘I’m serious. You know I love dance. My name would work as a draw, wouldn’t it? Would that pay off my debt to you?’

  ‘That’s the most expensive fish and chips you’d ever buy then,’ Cariad said, laughing.

  Franco still didn’t release her. ‘I don’t just mean the debt for the meal, I mean for the support and for all those smiles you’ve given me over the years. I’ve never been able to call Harry Bell-ender anything but. And the stamps and the paper . . .’

  ‘You’re not in my debt. I wrote because I wanted to!’ Cariad interrupted him.

  ‘I really think I owe you big time.’

  ‘And I really think you’ve gone nuts.’

  ‘Maybe I have, but it’s the best idea I’ve had in years. Something that benefits young people, stars in the making, hands across the pond. And the publicity opportunities it would bring would be amazing. I think we could make this work between us.’

  ‘You could come over and give a few lessons yourself.’

  ‘I fully intend to.’

  Cariad’s mouth gaped open. ‘I was joking.’

  ‘I’m not. How many dance schools are there in the area? Did you do any research?’

  Cariad huffed. ‘Of course I did. There are a couple a few miles away, but this was always the most famous of them all. Mavis Wickersley was a local legend. She still had a waiting list for her classes when she was eighty-two. She died on the job, demonstrating an arabesque. I wanna go the same. Although not for a few years, mind.’

  ‘Then do we have an agreement?’ Franco at last let her go and held out his hand to shake on the deal.

  ‘You should have a good hard think on the plane home.’ Cariad eyed his hand suspiciously, as if it might suddenly grow teeth and bite her.

  ‘I promise I will. So now, do you at least agree to be my potential business partner?’ He wiggled his fingers to alert her to their waiting status.

  Cariad reached forward and curled her fingers around his. ‘Okay then,’ she said, humouring him.

  ‘Good girl.’ Franco grinned. ‘I won’t let you down. Not again.’

  ‘Better order a taxi now,’ said Cariad, noticing the time on her watch. She didn’t want this day to end, but then she wasn’t sure she could take any more excitement. She wouldn’t sleep for weeks as it was with the amount of adrenaline that was pumping around her system.

  When Cariad took out her phone, she noticed that there were five missed calls from her uncle. She rang him back and assured him that she was fine and was just about to ring for a taxi, but Effin insisted on coming for her. He would make sure she was home and then drop Franco off at the gates of Winterworld. Effin was very protective of his older brother’s daughter, who he thought of as dearly as he did his own children.

  ‘He worries,’ Cariad explained to Franco as she ended the call. ‘He’s a lovely fellow is my uncle. Just like Da was, only he goes more purple. He’d do the building work for me for the school, I know he would. He’s brilliant.’ Cariad imagined the long wall completely mirrored, dancers resting their powder-pink ballet shoes on the barre in front of it. The image was accompanied by the smell of Olwen Rees’s dance school in Dolgellau and the sound of mad Blod Griffiths playing the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’ on a piano that hadn’t been tuned since it was originally constructed. Such happy days.

  While they waited for Effin to arrive, Cariad and Franco sat on the bench and looked at the lovely valley below them and both of them sighed simultaneously.

  ‘Why is it called Half Moon Hill?’ asked Franco.

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ said Cariad. ‘I’ll find out and send the answer in a letter to you.’

  ‘I never wrote to you, Cariad, because I can’t write.’ Franco’s confession came out in a rushed spurt.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dyslexia,’ he said, eyes cast down. ‘Only worse. I can read better than I can write, but . . . I’m just crap at forming letters of the alphabet. I tried to write to you so many times: a note, a postcard, the message you asked for on a photo; but they all looked such a mess . . . I was ashamed.’

  ‘Duw Duw.’ My God. Cariad shook her head slowly. So that’s why she had never heard from him. She could read in his eyes that he wasn’t lying to excuse himself. ‘It’s not something you should be ashamed of, Franco,’ she said, her voice gentle, but firm too.

  ‘The publicity guys have always buried it. It doesn’t go with my less-than-perfect image.’ He laughed, but it was a very hollow sound.

  ‘Idiots.’ Cariad huffed. ‘You could have flown a flag for it. Who better?’

  ‘Do you think?’ Franco was looking at her as if he truly valued her opinion.

  ‘Course I do. You can still learn lines and things, can’t you? It hasn’t stopped you acting and living the dream, has it?’

  ‘No, it hasn’t.’

  ‘There you go then.’

  Franco chuckled. ‘Why don’t I have you in my publicity department?’

  ‘You only had to ask,’ replied Cariad.

  ‘I have an army of people who write letters on my behalf to fans, but I didn’t want that for you. Your letters were always special. Everyone was under strict instructions to watch out for the letter with the red dragon on it. Your letters were the only thing I ever enjoyed trying to read. Everything else was always such a chore.’

  ‘Aw, that’s sad.’ Cariad sighed, reached over and gave Franco a companionable nudge with her shoulder, and was pleasantly surprised when his hand reached over for hers and held onto it firmly. ‘Think of how many other people must be in the same boat, struggling on, trying to get by without anyone knowing because they think they’re lesser people, when they’re not at all.’

  ‘So you think I should publicly admit it?’

  ‘Yes, I blummin’ well do,’ replied Cariad. ‘You’ll get a couple of knobheads who might make comments because you’ve shown a chink in your armour, but there will be a hell of a lot more people who’ll love you for admitting it and showing them it’s nothing to be ashamed of. They have all sorts of support available for people with dyslexia now.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Yes. And if you’ve liked reading my letters, then you might start enjoying reading other things.’

  ‘Don’t stop writing to me.’

  ‘Only if you promise to get some help.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Franco, saluting her. ‘Give me your phone, Cariad. I’m going to type in my cell number. I might not be able to write letters to you, but I can talk to you. We’re going to need to be in touch. And you can send me the Sedgewick’s selfie.’ He recorded his number on Cariad’s phone. She saved it under a codename: HALFMOON, the English translation of the Italian mezzaluna.

  ‘I can’t believe I have Franco Mezzaluna’s number on my mobile.’ Cariad fizzed. ‘And no, you don’t need to say it. Of course I’ll keep it private.’

  ‘I know that. Is that your uncle?’ Franco pointed to the top of a white van just visible over the hedges which were lining the road.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Cariad, standing up. Her dream day was coming to an end. Soon it would be back to reality and all that entailed: selling ice cream, being skint and living with the bitch girls. Then again, maybe they wouldn’t be as catty from now on.

  Effin’s van tore down the drive as if he was about to
rescue his niece from the jaws of death and was doing it against the clock.

  ‘He looks fierce,’ replied Franco, feeling Effin’s eyes glaring at him through the windscreen.

  ‘He’s a lamb.’ Cariad laughed. ‘So long as you don’t hurt any of his family.’

  Effin stuck his head out of the open window. ‘All right, Cariad, my lovely?’

  ‘Oh, I’m better than all right, Uncle Effin. This is the film star Franco Mezzaluna. Franco, this is my uncle Effin.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ replied Franco, approaching the van window and holding out his hand. Effin took it very slowly and gripped it hard, squeezing down on Franco’s fingers.

  ‘Dangos barch i’m nith, Ianci, neu wnai fwydo dy folycs i ddafad sglyfaethus,’ said Effin in cheerful-sounding but deadly Welsh.

  ‘What did he say?’ Franco asked Cariad, as he released his crushed digits.

  Show respect to my niece, Yankee, or I’ll feed your bollocks to a rapacious sheep.

  ‘Oh, just that he hopes we’ve had a nice day.’ Cariad smiled innocently, then addressed her uncle directly to both answer his concern and to save Franco’s life: ‘And I have had a lovely day, Uncle Effin. Franco’s been the perfect gentleman.’

  They climbed into the van and Franco’s eyes remained fixed on the old barn on Half Moon Hill for as long as the journey away from it allowed. He might have made a mad impulsive promise to Cariad to be her business partner, but it felt absolutely the right thing to do. Especially because he was not the sort of person who made mad impulsive promises.

  When they got back to the house they found that photographers had tracked down Franco’s mystery woman’s address and there was a pool of people sitting outside waiting for her return. Becky and Lacey were giving interviews, to two people holding out microphones. Their boyfriends were standing behind them, taking in the strangeness of it all.

  ‘Oh look, she’s here. Cariad, Cariad,’ trilled Becky, waving enthusiastically at the girl she had told everyone was her best friend. Her jaw dropped as she spotted Franco beside her in the van. ‘Oh, my God, he’s here as well.’

  Everyone’s attention zipped to Franco, who had got out of the van and was gallantly assisting Cariad down the step.