The Difference a Day Makes

by Carole Matthews

  ‘I’d like nothing better than to hang around for the day,’ Laura said. ‘Are you happy for me to be here?’

  ‘Yes,’ Guy said. ‘Of course.’

  She smiled at him and blew him a kiss before turning to skip back up the stairs. He watched her go, his own smile failing to reach his lips. But was he really happy to have Laura come crashing back into his life?

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  I hang up the phone and turn to my sister. ‘It’s sold,’ I say.

  ‘No way.’ Serena gapes at me. ‘Someone’s crazy enough to take on this place?’

  I nod, unable to find my voice. My legs don’t feel all that steady.

  ‘Did you get a good price?’

  ‘Not bad.’ We’ll be going back to live in a shoebox in London, but that’s what I want, isn’t it? ‘Twenty grand below asking price. But beggars can’t be choosers.’

  ‘How quickly can they move?’

  ‘They want me out by the end of January.’

  ‘That’ll take some doing.’

  ‘At least it means we can have Christmas here.’

  Serena looks puzzled. ‘Why would you want to do that? You could rent somewhere straight away. I thought you’d have been out of here like a shot.’

  So did I.

  ‘You can get all your stuff packed up, anyway,’ my sister advises. ‘We need to organise you a place in Town. As soon as that’s sorted, you can come back. It doesn’t matter if this place stays empty for a few weeks. I can help you out with the money side of things until you’ve got the dosh from the house. There’s nothing holding you here.’

  ‘No,’ I say, somewhat morosely. ‘I guess not.’

  Going to the window, I stare out over the moors. What would Will think about my imminent departure? We’ll all be leaving behind the house, the life that he’d come to love so quickly. ‘Are you happy for me?’ I ask out loud.

  ‘Of course I am,’ my sister replies, not realising that I wasn’t really talking to her.

  The clouds are low, sulking. I can’t hear anything but the faint rustle of the trees in the breeze. How different London is going to be. I’ll have to get used to the traffic noise, the fumes and the crowded places again. Out in the garden I see the children playing. There’s an old horse chestnut tree down at the bottom of the garden by the orchard and someone’s fixed a rope swing on there. Tom’s currently dangling upside down on it, swaying backwards and forwards while Jessica runs round him in circles, arms outstretched, hair streaming behind her. They’ve enjoyed their time here, I’m sure, despite the tragedy. They’re wrapped up against the cold and seeing them looking all pudgy and cute in their Puffa jackets makes me want to go and hug them. I know they’ve felt the loss of their dad keenly, but they’ve been so stoic about it all that it makes me so proud to be their mum.

  ‘I should tell the children,’ I say to Serena.

  ‘You do that and I’ll put the kettle on,’ she says. ‘We’ll have a celebratory cup of tea.’

  Pulling on my welly boots and my coat, I go outside. The day’s fresh and dry and the chickens are out and scratching about even though they’re not that keen on the cold. They need a light put in the henhouse so that it extends their day and they don’t get the chicken version of SAD – or something like that. I’ll have to ask Guy for his advice and get my finger out to do it. Don’t want my girls going off the boil, so to speak, now that they’ve finally got the hang of laying. And then I think that I won’t need to worry about any of this any more as I’ll be out of here quicker than you can say ‘townie’ and the chickens will be left to face their fate.

  Daphne, Doris and Delila baaa contentedly when they see me approach. Is it me or is Delila looking a little bit fatter? Perhaps she’s getting more of the hay than the others. She can be a bit of a bully when it comes to dinnertime. I can’t bear the thought that the Gerner-Bernards don’t want my old girls, but then it isn’t so very long ago that I didn’t want them either. If only they could meet them and find out their funny little ways then I’m sure the Gerner-Bernards would grow to love them too. Which stops me short. I didn’t know that I’d grown to love them. I thought I viewed them as a pain in the neck – much like Stephanie and Blob the goats, the scatty chickens, the homicidal cat and that bloody dog.

  Speaking of which, it’s something of a miracle that Guy hasn’t brought Hamish back by now. Either he doesn’t mind having his house trashed or Hamish has already been buried under the patio. I check my watch. It’s about time I called Guy to tell him that the coast’s clear and that the hound from hell can come home. I also need to tell the lovely vet that we’ll soon be outta this place. It’s not a conversation I’m looking forward to – any more than I’m looking forward to telling the children that we’re upping sticks once more.

  I stop to rub the sheep’s ears and when Jessica sees me she runs over to me, flinging her arms round my waist.

  ‘I love it here,’ she says breathlessly. ‘Tom and me have run all over the moors with the kite. We went everywhere!’

  ‘Tom and I,’ I correct automatically.

  ‘Tom and I,’ she mimics with a pout.

  We stand together quietly watching the elderly sheep as they chew the grass. The winter sun is a low, milky disc in the sky, but I can still feel its warmth on my face. Slipping my arm around my daughter’s slender shoulders, I say, ‘How would you feel if we went back to London?’

  Jessica drills the toe of her boot into the cold ground. ‘I wanted to at first,’ she admits. ‘I thought it was funny here. But now I like it better. Can we get some rabbits? Christopher would like that.’

  ‘That might not be possible,’ I tell her. ‘Mummy has to get a job now that Daddy’s gone and we can’t really afford to stay here.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jessica doesn’t look too impressed by that.

  Tom runs over to join us. He’s pink-cheeked with exertion and I can quite honestly say that he’s never looked so healthy. My son leans heavily against me, already way too cool for a full-on cuddle.

  ‘I was just asking Jessica how she’d feel if we went back to London.’ Tom squirms at my side. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Tom mumbles.

  ‘If we went back to London you could see all of your old friends again,’ I say brightly.

  ‘We like our new friends,’ Tom tells me.

  ‘Well, your new friends could come to see us anytime they like.’

  ‘But they wouldn’t,’ Tom points out. ‘Like none of our old friends came here. The only person we’ve seen from London is Aunty Serena.’

  Don’t you just hate it when children come over all logical?

  ‘Daddy’s here too,’ my son says softly. ‘We couldn’t leave Daddy behind.’

  Tears spring to my eyes. ‘We’ll never leave Daddy behind,’ I tell him. ‘Wherever we go Daddy will be with us because you’ll always remember the things he used to do for you, what he was like.’

  ‘Why can’t we remember him here rather than in London?’

  ‘Oh, darling. I wish we could do that. But I’ve tried to get some work here and I can’t find anything. This house and all of the animals cost a lot of money to look after and we just don’t have it.’ I hate having to put all this grown-up stuff on their shoulders, stuff that they shouldn’t be having to deal with at their tender ages. ‘You loved our old house too.’

  ‘Are we going back there?’

  ‘No. Someone else lives there now. But we’ll find somewhere nice.’

  ‘Can we stay here for the summer and then go?’

  ‘The thing is,’ I say, ‘Mummy’s already sold the house. Some very nice people want to buy it so that we can go home.’

  Jessica bursts into tears. ‘I thought this was our home.’

  Not sure I’ve got an answer to that.

  ‘If we go to London,’ she sobs, ‘can we take the chickens and the sheep and the goats too?’

  ‘And Milly Molly Mandy,’ Tom reminds her.

  ‘And
Milly Molly Mandy,’ she exhorts.

  ‘And Hamish,’ my son adds. ‘We couldn’t leave Hamish behind. Who else would love him?’

  Who else, indeed? One of the main reasons I want to go is to see the back of that bloody dog. That and the fact that we have no money, of course.

  ‘I’m not sure that we’ll have a garden,’ I admit. ‘We might have to move to a little flat.’

  They both look aghast at that. Tom’s eyes stray in tell-tale manner to the vast expanse of the rolling moors.

  Crouching down, I gather them both to me. I don’t care if Tom doesn’t like being cuddled, cuddled he will be. ‘You’ll love it back in London,’ I reassure them. ‘You can go to your ballet dancing classes again,’ I say to Jessica. ‘Remember how much you missed them?’

  Her lips tremble a bit at that. Then she trumps me. ‘But Guy said I could learn to ride a pony here.’

  Thanks for that, Guy.

  ‘You wait and see.’ I squeeze them again. ‘It will be wonderful.’

  Tom and Jessica look at each other dolefully.

  ‘It will be for the best,’ I tell them. ‘I promise you.’ And I cross my fingers, hoping that I haven’t made one promise too far.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Guy and Laura sat on a bench outside the Wayfarers Café, a well-worn eating establishment nestled at the foot of Staincliffe Cove. It was a fine day so the national park was dotted with back-packed walkers striding out. The enormous limestone cliff of Staincliffe Cove was a perfect spot to come when you wanted to leave all your troubles behind. A waterfall tumbled from the top of the cove, its water rushing down noisily to turn the wide brook at its foot into a raging torrent. The couple shaded their eyes against the low winter sun and watched as two climbers, tiny colourful dots in the distance, carefully scaled the sheer slab of rock on ropes.

  Laura sighed contentedly. ‘I can see the attraction of living somewhere like this.’

  ‘Enough to give up all the bright lights of London?’

  She slipped her hand self-consciously into his. ‘If there was a good enough reason for me to do it.’

  ‘This is what I always wanted,’ Guy said. The magnificence of the scenery never failed to take his breath away. He loved this part of the country with a fierce passion. Guy might not have been a Yorkshireman born and bred, but he reckoned he should have been. He’d never been one for nightclubs, over-priced trendy bars or restaurants. Any day of the week, he’d swap a walk round an art gallery for this.

  Laura, on the other hand, had always been a city girl. His ex worked in marketing. She liked the art-house cinemas, the museums, the buzz, the hustle and bustle. Even if she hadn’t done the dirty on him, Guy could see now that their relationship would never have lasted. One of them would always have been compromising by giving up their chosen lifestyle. He wondered whether – now that she was older, wiser and more battle-scarred – she could adapt to life in the quiet of the countryside. Perhaps this too, made it easier for him to understand why Amy was so desperate to get back to London. Some people were born with the rush of the city in their blood, while others longed for the wide open spaces.

  The café, one of Guy’s favourite places, was the chosen resting spot for many a hungry hiker fresh off the limestone pavements of the Cove or the Pennine Way. Today was no exception and there was an abundance of brightly coloured Goretex and muddy walking boots present.

  Luckily, Laura had brought a warm sheepskin jacket with her and they were both wrapped up against the cold. She looked decidedly more chic than the usual walker in her black skinny jeans, cream cashmere sweater and designer label hiking boots. But then Guy remembered that his ex had always had the type of looks that turned heads.

  Hamish lay contentedly by their feet trying to eat his own paws, but Guy knew from experience that the Setter’s quiet periods were few and far between. As a precaution he’d slipped the dog’s lead under one of the feet of the heavy metal table. Laura was giving the old boy a wide berth and it was plain to see that she was not a doggy lover. Still, it was nice to be out here on this glorious day with a pretty woman at his side and a faithful, if deranged, hound at his heel.

  They’d both enjoyed an enormously calorific cooked breakfast of bacon, eggs and Cumberland sausages all washed down with a steaming pint-sized mug of tea. Guy was relieved to see that Laura’s appetite hadn’t been adversely affected by the accidental drugging incident. Even Hamish had enjoyed some tit-bits of sausage.

  ‘If we don’t walk soon,’ Guy said, ‘we won’t want to move.’

  The winter sun warmed their faces. Beside the café, the brook that fed Staincliffe Tarn burbled speedily by. A dozen or so Mallard ducks plodded hopefully round the feet of the hikers, begging for scraps. It was an idyllic spot and he wondered whether Laura’s attachment to London was starting to wane.

  ‘It’s lovely here,’ his ex-girlfriend said, as if she’d read his mind. Laura leaned back in her chair, crossing her feet in front of her, sweeping her long, black hair from her face. ‘I could happily sit in this very spot all day.’ She smiled at him and his insides flipped over just as they used to when they’d first met. That, he thought, was a bad thing. ‘I’m sorry about last night. I thought . . . I hoped that things would be different between us.’

  Guy shrugged, unsure what to say.

  ‘I’ve thought about you a lot over the years,’ she told him. ‘Even when I was with . . .’ She left the name of Guy’s onetime best friend unsaid.

  ‘Were you happy with Craig?’ Did he really want to know that? Did he even want to be having this conversation?

  ‘Mostly,’ she nodded. ‘Although sometimes I wondered whether I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.’

  ‘Why did it all go wrong?’

  ‘He left me for someone else,’ she confessed. Laura looked at him beneath her eyelashes. ‘Hurts, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Like hell,’ he agreed.

  ‘I value different things now,’ she said. ‘I’ve never met anyone else with the same qualities that you had.’

  Why did he think that made him sound like a carpet rather than husband material?

  ‘Me too,’ he answered. That was true enough. Until she decided to shag his best mate, he and Laura had been very good together.

  Laura’s hand squeezed his. Her skin was soft and warm despite the chill in the air. ‘Do you think we could make another go of it? Together?’

  But before he could answer, Guy felt the table tremble. ‘No!’ he shouted. As always, it was too late. ‘No, Hamish!’

  The dog had decided that he wanted to play with the ducks. Right now. Hamish charged across the Yorkstone patio, dragging the heavy picnic table in his wake and scattering hikers still in the throes of their breakfast.

  ‘Come back!’ Guy lurched after the table, but Hamish was faster than him and already out of reach.

  All squawking and flapping of wings, the ducks fled in alarm driving Hamish to a frenzy of excitement. The panicked Mallards scuttled back to the safety of the brook, not realising that a mere stretch of rushing water would never stop Hamish in his quest. Heavy wooden doors were no barrier to him, nor were heavy metal chains, nor – it seemed – was a picnic table round the neck. Barking wildly, he launched himself into the air, picnic table and all, and landed – splash – in the middle of the stream. The table sank like a stone, dragging Hamish under the water with it.

  They sprinted to the side of the brook, Guy ready to dive in. ‘Hamish!’

  A second later, woofing with glee, Hamish surfaced minus the patio table. He doggy-paddled happily after his new, if rather reluctant playmates.

  A gaggle of Goretexed people had gathered to watch. Some tried to retrieve the gritty remains of their breakfasts from the patio.

  ‘Hamish! Come here,’ Guy shouted and, surprisingly, the dog paddled to the bank. Guy grabbed him by the collar and hauled him out, whereupon Hamish decided to shake himself vigorously, showering them both with water. The dog seemed none the wor
se for his ordeal. ‘Another lucky escape,’ he said to Hamish. ‘It’s cats who have nine lives, you know. Not dogs.’

  Hamish woofed at him.

  This was going to be costly, he could tell. Providing a dozen or more new breakfasts was going to make the first dent. ‘I’d better go inside and settle the bill,’ Guy said, shaking his head.

  ‘Yes,’ Laura said. And he noticed that her beautiful face was looking rather stony.

  Then Hamish, to show that he was fully recovered from his traumatic ordeal and was newly energised by being back on dry land, decided to treat Laura to a friendly bottom sniff.

  It was just a shame that Hamish didn’t know his own strength and it was just a shame that Laura was still standing quite so near to the edge of the stream.

  She screamed as she hit the water, flailing about. This was an idyllic spot, a place where you could leave all your troubles behind – unless, of course, you took Hamish with you.

  Chapter Sixty

  I’ve been neglecting William and I feel terrible. Normally, I go to the cemetery two or three times a week, but my head’s been in such a spin that I don’t know where the time has gone. On Tuesday I’ll get some flowers from Scarsby market and put them on his grave, but for today, I content myself by taking a walk to St Mary’s churchyard in Helmshill to see him.

  The kids are being entertained by Serena, who’s currently trouncing them at Operation – my sister is so competitive that she can’t quite grasp the concept that it isn’t necessary to paste a six year old and an eight year old into the weeds. Character building, is what she’d call it.

  Tom and Jessica are still subdued after my bombshell announcement, and I feel just awful about it. In fact, I feel so dreadful that I spent the morning phoning around again trying to find a job in the local area, but to no avail. No one, it seems, has any use for an ex-BTC quiz show producer, however good they might have once been. Serena is trying to jolly the children along and she’s making a great job of it. Tonight, she’s going home again, making the hideous journey back to London. And I’m dreading it. I’m really going to miss her. Maybe that’s why I’m feeling so melancholy.