The Difference a Day Makes

by Carole Matthews

  And I only hope that I’m right.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  The next afternoon, the children say nothing as we drive from the station back to Helmshill Grange, which I view as a bad thing. The excitement of seeing their favourite aunt has long since worn off during the tedious train journey. The sun is setting on the day and the landscape looks mellow and sleepy. We’re the only car on the road as we slowly wind our way home. The only noise is the whoosh of the tyres on the tarmac.

  I spent the morning negotiating to have the children taken on by the local school nearest to our new flat. It’s a long way from the Weston Academy for Children with Rich Parents. Tom and Jessica’s new primary school is a vast, sprawling block of 1960s concrete, with a million children of a hundred different nationalities – not quite on the scale of the homely, cottage style of St Mary’s. Despite that, I had to beg for a place. It makes me go cold at the thought of sending them in there alone every day. But the Headteacher at Queensway seemed straightforward and sensible enough, if not quite as forceful and in control as Mrs Barnsley. They say that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover and although Queensway is a hideously battered old tome, the results there are good and my children are accustomed to working hard at school. Plus I have to look at this as a short-term measure. It won’t be for ever. Once the coffers are full again we can move from the flat to a more salubrious house and the children can go to a more salubrious school.

  Guy’s car is in our drive as we pull in and my ridiculously impressionable and romantic heart skips a beat. I do wish that it wouldn’t do that, but despite what my head thinks, my heart seems to feel differently.

  As the kids barrel out of the car, I can see that Alan is finishing sweeping the yard and our friendly vet is gently escorting Delila and her cohorts into the barn for the night. ‘Hi,’ he says as I approach. ‘Can I be the first to congratulate you on your impending baby?’

  I look at him, puzzled.

  ‘Delila,’ he says. ‘Looks like she had a little romantic dalliance just before she came here.’

  ‘She’s having a baby?’

  Guy nods.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Then I realise that he’s a vet and he probably is. ‘But I thought she was too old and knackered.’ Much like myself.

  ‘Miracles can happen,’ he tells me with a shrug. ‘I can’t believe we didn’t spot it before. She’s due very soon.’

  I wonder what will happen to Delila and her baby when the Gerner-Bernards take over this place and I have to get rid of all the animals. I should be delighted for the old girl – Will, I know, would be doing a proud-parent happy dance – but it just seems like one more problem and I sigh out loud without really meaning to.

  ‘You sound weary,’ Guy says. ‘Long day?’

  ‘We’ve been down to London.’

  ‘Alan told me.’ He leans on the barn door. ‘Successful?’

  ‘I’ve taken out a lease on a flat,’ I tell him starkly. ‘From the end of January.’

  He nods, but says nothing. My mad dog weaves his way across the yard and I feel a pang of guilt.

  ‘Has Hamish been good?’

  ‘Marvellous,’ he says.

  ‘No problems?’

  He shakes his head a bit too vehemently for my liking. ‘None at all.’

  ‘He looks a bit drunk.’

  ‘Does he?’ The hound is definitely unsteady on his legs. ‘Can’t think why.’

  My children hurl themselves at the dog and knock him flat to the ground. Makes a change for it to be that way round.

  ‘Alan will sort him out,’ I say with a shake of my head. ‘Alan will sort everything out. I’m so grateful to you for fixing me up with this grant. When does it run out?’

  Guy avoids my eyes. ‘It should see you up until you leave.’

  ‘Fabulous. It’s been such a relief.’

  ‘Good. Good. I hoped it would be.’

  And then, I don’t know why, but it suddenly hits me. ‘Which agency did you say it came from again?’

  ‘Er . . .’ Guy says. ‘Can’t quite remember. Would have to look at the paperwork. Brain like a sieve.’

  Something in his tone sets alarm bells ringing louder in my head. My sister’s right. I am thick. Folding my arms, I study the vet intently. ‘It isn’t the government who’s paying for Alan’s work here, is it?’

  ‘Er . . .’ he says again, glancing round to see if there’s an escape route. There isn’t.

  ‘You’re paying for all this.’ I wave my arm around the spick and span yard, take in my spick and span house.

  ‘I’m just helping out.’

  ‘Oh, Guy,’ I say. ‘You can’t do this for us. Why would you do this for us?’

  ‘I wanted to,’ he answers flatly. ‘I could see that you were struggling alone. It helps Alan out too. He’s been bored out of his head since he’s been on his own and retired.’

  ‘How could you lie to me so convincingly?’ I ask.

  ‘I knew that you wouldn’t accept my help or my money if I offered it straight out.’

  ‘Am I so stubborn?’

  He nods at me.

  ‘You’re such a good fibber,’ I complain. ‘I bet you’re not even a real bloody vet.’

  We both laugh at that and it breaks the tension.

  ‘Why?’ I ask again. ‘Why did you do it?

  This time Guy meets my eyes and his stare makes my mouth go dry and my throat constrict. ‘Because I hoped it would make you stay here.’

  And there’s nothing I can say to that.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  I don’t know where the time goes, but Christmas is upon us before I’ve had time to blink. It’s Christmas Eve and the children and I are decorating the tree. Alan has been to one of his friends’ farms and has brought us the most fabulous specimen of blue spruce which is currently filling one corner of the living room, its scent imbuing the space with the fresh tang of pine. Saint Steadman has also chopped us an enormous pile of logs for the winter and a fire is currently toasting the room, filling it with a warm glow. Milly Molly Mandy is curled up in front of it, spark out. Even serial killers, it seems, take time out at Christmas. Her claws flex and her feet paddle in her sleep. I’d bet you a fiver she’s dreaming about flaying some unsuspecting rodent alive. The central heating is also on full blast to try to scare away the damp. I’m trying not to think about the resulting oil bill and am luxuriating in the rare cosiness instead.

  Standing back, I admire the tree. I have to say that Helmshill Grange has never looked so fine and it gives me a pain in my heart to think of it this way.

  Tom hangs a bag of chocolate coins on the tree, making one of the huge branches droop under its weight. ‘Can I have one now please, Mummy?’

  ‘Save a bag,’ I say. ‘You and Jessica can share it after your tea.’

  I loved the glittering gold bags of chocolate coins as a kid. They were always my favourite decoration – a trait that I’ve passed on to my own two. Despite the fact that I’m not a huge fan of Christmas, I love the process of decorating the tree, getting the ornaments out of their boxes, dusting them off, discovering treasures that I’d forgotten about in the intervening months. This year I’m making a big effort for Yuletide. Even though money is tight, I’ve spoiled the children. They’ve been through an extraordinarily difficult time and I want to reward them for how well they’ve handled it all. A pile of gaily wrapped presents is waiting to go under the tree just as soon as we’ve finished our handiwork. There’s an X-Box for Tom, a surfeit of tasteless Bratz stuff for Jessica that she’ll adore. There are clothes, chocolates and silly stocking-fillers to make them smile.

  There’s an enormous wrapped present for the both of them from Alan too, and only I know what it is. Bless him, he confided in me that he’s handmade them a wooden sledge. It’s like a work of art, with their names meticulously carved on either side. They’ve never had a sledge before and I’m sure they’ll love it. Glancing out of the French windows, I can see that the
snow is still falling heavily, coating the ground with a soft blanket of white. I can’t remember when I last saw snowfall like this. I’m not sure that the children have seen it at all. It’s been years since we had anything more than a few flakes in London and it really looks magical outside. I hate to admit this, especially at this late stage, but part of me is sorely going to miss this place.

  The Bainbridges have forgiven us our trespasses – or our dog’s trespasses, in particular – and Gill has kindly made us a beautiful wreath for our front door. They’ve brought presents for Tom and Jessica too which is just so kind of them. If only we were staying I’m sure that we could have become firm friends. Everything looks so truly wonderful. There’s only one thing – one person – missing from this Christmas to make it perfect.

  I check my watch. We’re all going to the family service at St Mary’s tonight. Alan’s joining us, so is Guy, and they’re both going to be our guests for Christmas lunch tomorrow. It will be strange to have Christmas without William – it was the time of year he loved the most. He adored the whole thing, from dressing the tree to flaming the Christmas pudding to our traditional family walk on Boxing Day – but we’re just going to have to make the best of it. My sister Serena arrived just ahead of the snow – also laden down with presents for the children. She’s now upstairs having a hot shower and a glass of good red wine that I’ve liberated from Will’s stash to revive her.

  ‘We’d better be making a move,’ I say to the children. ‘We don’t want to be late.’ What I mean is that we don’t want a pew at the back near the draughty door. ‘Are we nearly finished?’

  They both nod and come to stand next to me. I slip my arms around my kids and cuddle them to me. It’s at times like this when I still miss my husband the most. Gradually one ticks off the milestones – first Christmas without him, then it will soon be our wedding anniversary, Will’s birthday, my birthday, the kids’ birthdays, perhaps a holiday on our own and, eventually, somehow, we will have managed to survive for a whole year without him. The thought makes a lump come to my throat and we have to get out of here before I cry.

  Ushering the children through to the kitchen, I get them to start the lengthy procedure of putting on boots and coats and hats. ‘Serena,’ I call out. ‘We need to go.’

  I check on Hamish who’s currently locked in the scullery. There was no way that we would have got the tree decorated with that pest around. He’s still alive, but complaining loudly at such inhuman treatment. I give him a cursory fuss and then re-wedge the chair against the handle so that there can be no escape. He whines even more abjectly from behind the door.

  The turkey, fresh from Tunliffe’s Farm courtesy of Guy, is sitting on the work surface. I cooked it today in the Aga, which I’ve finally mastered just in time to be returning to a bog standard electric number, so that we can have some warm turkey sandwiches after the Christmas service, another family tradition that was Will’s idea. Plus there was no space for the turkey to languish in the fridge until tomorrow as it’s an enormous bird and the shelves are already full and groaning with festive food. I lifted it out of the oven half an hour ago and now it’s tightly covered with tin foil. Briefly, I consider giving Hamish a bit to placate him, but decide that would only encourage him.

  I boot and suit myself, ready for the elements. I’ll swear it was never this cold in London either. Serena appears, still managing to look chic in arctic-style gear. She has on Ugg boots, brown jeans and an off-white padded jacket with a hood trimmed with chocolate-coloured fur. I’ve tried to spruce myself up too and am wearing my black Joseph trousers, a red cashmere sweater and a big black coat that I hardly ever wore in Town, but which has seen much service over the last few weeks.

  ‘We won’t be long,’ I shout to the dog over my shoulder. ‘Try to be good, Hamish.’

  Then we all step out into the falling snow and I close the door behind me.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Guy strode into the churchyard. The snow was thick and deep. It looked like one of those scenes that you saw on Christmas cards, the quaint church with the orange glow from the stained-glass windows, the dark skeletal trees tipped with frosted snow, sparkling like diamonds. The snow-covered moors loomed in the background; it would be a raw night to be up there and Guy hoped that no one had an emergency that he had to go out to. The problem with dealing with the animal kingdom was that it didn’t observe festive holidays.

  What an idyllic picture this was, though. It made him glad to be living in Helmshill and, at this moment, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. By the path he could see Tom, Jessica and Amy’s sister. Amy was on her knees next to Will’s grave, placing a bright red poinsettia in front of the headstone which looked incongruous in the monochrome scene. He saw her wipe a tear from her eye and she stood up to cuddle the children. The joy he’d experienced at seeing her dissipated. She was still very much another man’s wife even if that man was no longer here. It would serve him well to remember that.

  He slowed his pace, giving them a minute to compose themselves and then, when he saw Amy risk a tearful smile again, he strode up behind them.

  ‘Is this cold enough for you?’ he asked.

  She turned towards him and the warmth of her smile took his breath away. Try as he might to control his head, his heart had somehow gone seriously awry. ‘It’s fabulous,’ she said. ‘Like a winter wonderland.’

  He wanted to take her hand, but daren’t, so they walked side by side into the busy church. The congregation might be a little reticent on a normal Sunday, but the high days and holidays brought out the good folk of Helmshill in force. Alan had come up from Scarsby and was already inside the church, sitting at a pew alone, and as they all slipped in beside him, the man parted with one of his rare smiles.

  This just felt so right, Guy thought as he sat on the hard pew, hands clasped in front of him in an attempt to emulate prayer. After being alone for so long it was as if a ready-made family had been delivered directly to his doorstep and had lifted him from the loneliness he hadn’t even realised that he’d embraced. What could he do to keep it like this? That’s all he wanted. Amy, the kids, her sister, even Alan. He wanted them all to be his family now, and he couldn’t bear the thought that Amy didn’t share, maybe didn’t even know about, his dream.

  The vicar led the service, Christmas carols were sung, the voices of the villagers ringing out bright and clear in the church. Halfway through singing ‘Silent Night’ he had to stop. The notes simply wouldn’t come. It had brought a lump to Guy’s throat and a tear to his eyes. He was getting sentimental in his old age. Amy was next to him and he glanced towards her. She had stopped singing too and tears were rolling down her face. He wondered what was going through her mind. Was she thinking about her husband? Was she wondering what might have been? Was she even having second thoughts about leaving all this behind?

  Surreptitiously, he took her hand in his. Blow what the villagers would think, if any of them noticed. She needed comfort and he was the one who wanted to be there to give it to her. Amy didn’t move it away. Instead, she looked gratefully at him, soft blue eyes flooding, and that look pierced his soul.

  The words I love you were lingering unspoken on his tongue, longing for release. Well, for now, they would have to stay there.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  We walk back along the path from the church, exchanging hugs and Christmas greetings with various villagers, oblivious to the silent, steady fall of snow. There are powdery drifts against the headstones, and the poinsettia I placed with Will earlier is already heavily tipped with white.

  There’s a warm glow inside me and, for the first time, I’m happy to acknowledge that I’m part of the community here now. Guy held my hand throughout the church service and I don’t know whether it was to comfort me or for some other entirely more scary reason, but it felt good, too good.

  He stands in front of me now. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say and I kiss him tenderly on the cheek. ‘Co
me about noon. Serena’s brought a couple of bottles of decent champagne. We can get legless before lunch.’

  Guy laughs and I realise that it’s a sound I’m growing to love, which frightens me and thrills me in equal measures. ‘I’ll look forward to that.’

  Alan, wrapped up in an overcoat that looks like it dates back to the war, hovers behind us. I kiss him on the cheek too, but am not sure whether he enjoys it or not. He touches his face where my lips have been and, movingly, tears spring to his eyes. Maybe it has been too long since anyone kissed him. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow too, Alan.’

  He nods and strides off into the night and I can hardly bear the thought of him going back to his cottage alone on Christmas Eve. I look at Guy and feel the same way. Perhaps I should have invited them both back to the house now for warm turkey sarnies. But I guess that I should also spend some time with Serena as we haven’t had a chance to talk since she arrived.

  ‘Tomorrow, then,’ I say brightly.

  Guy leans in and kisses me, his hands on my arms, even though we’ve already done this bit. His aim is slightly off and he brushes my mouth before he connects with my cheek. The warmth of his lips takes me by surprise and, like Alan, I almost lift my fingers to touch the spot. Our eyes lock and, for some reason, I find it hard to tear myself away.

  ‘I’m freezing my butt off here,’ Serena says, clapping her hands together and bringing some much-needed reality back to the moment. ‘Are we ready to rock?’

  ‘Coming, coming,’ I say, flustered as I break free from Guy’s embrace. ‘See you tomorrow.’ I wave over my shoulder as I walk away.

  Tom and Jessica are way ahead of us already and I fall into step next to Serena.

  ‘Hmm,’ my sister says, regarding me quizically. ‘Tender moment there.’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Thanks for your timely intervention.’

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t realise until I opened my big mouth.’ She gives me a squeeze. ‘Plenty of time for a re-run.’