by Susan Lewis
Angie sat at the end of the crowded garden table watching them, a glass of wine in her hand, small flutters of emotion playing about her heart. As a mother it was impossible not to feel happy to see her sons together, taking over their father’s role at the grill, while their sister and her friend went about the terrace lighting more candles as the sun slowly sank into the horizon. As a friend, a surrogate daughter even, she continued to feel the ache of Hamish’s loss almost as keenly as she had on the day it had happened. She was dealing with the guilt slightly better now, but she knew in her heart it would never really go away.
She should have included him more, brought him here to meet the children, talked to him about Steve and Liam, told him about Martin – he’d have enjoyed what was happening there, she felt certain; he liked a good puzzle. Most of all though, she should have made sure that he knew without any doubt that she wouldn’t have allowed him to go to a place where he’d have felt lonely or unwanted, with no one to care what happened to him.
If only she’d been in time to tell him that he actually had a choice – he could have remained in his beloved home at Hill Lodge, or he could have had a cottage to call his own on the Stone family estate.
There had been a quiet service at the church to say goodbye to him; the other residents, Craig and Sasha and several outreach workers had all been there. So had Martin, his mother and Alayna. Carol had said they wanted to show their respect for someone who clearly deserved it. His ill-treatment by the authorities and neglect by the armed forces made it all the more important for him to receive a proper send-off from those who’d known him – and those who were sorry that they hadn’t had the pleasure.
Only Angie and Emma had joined the vicar and his wife a few days later for the scattering of his ashes in the small garden behind Hill Lodge. They’d all agreed that it was where he’d want them to go, and after the vicar and Rosa had left Angie and Emma had planted a rose bush just for him.
Later they’d driven to Carol’s up on Westleigh Heights, to talk about the future of the houses and Bridging the Gap.
As sad as they’d been on that day, Emma’s gush of expletives when the gates had swung open to let them into the grounds of the Stone family home had made Angie laugh. The drive was long and straight, edged by poplars, with gently sloping lawns spreading out each side to the nearby fields. The house itself was an old manor with russet-coloured walls, tall sash windows and a beautifully carved portico surrounding the front door.
The elegance of the interior was instantly apparent, with its circular entrance hall, wide sweeping staircase, and family portraits on the walls. Angie had quickly searched for one of Martin, but if it was there she hadn’t spotted it by the time Carol, having greeted them, led them through to an informal summer room at the back of the house. It was clearly where the family spent most of their time, with a trio of slouchy sofas looking as comfortable as feather beds around a glass coffee table, a large TV in one corner and a cosy-looking wood burner in another.
‘Please tell me if I’m wrong,’ Carol said after she’d poured the tea, ‘but I think Hamish would want you to carry on with Bridging the Gap. It does so much good, and with so many of these types of facilities closing down due to lack of funding, it would be a great pity for BtG to go the same way.’
Angie and Emma had already discussed how they saw their future now, and had decided they didn’t have the heart to continue after Hamish, but when Carol put it like that …
‘My small investment group is still interested in buying the houses,’ she explained, ‘and we’re keen for you to run them. I’ve already discussed it with the vicar and he’s very happy for things to stay the same, apart from the ownership of course, and we might need to do a little renovation here and there to make sure everything is safe and to code. But the important thing is that when I depart this world Martin and his sister will inherit my controlling share so I think we can be sure the properties will be transition facilities for some time to come.’
Angie and Emma hadn’t needed much more persuading than that, though Angie knew that Hill Lodge would never be the same for her without Hamish. During the few visits she’d made since he’d gone it had felt empty, robbed of its soul, and full of her failings as a friend – but if his death, and her own recent experience with homelessness had taught her anything, it was how much even the small amount she contributed mattered to those who received it.
The other change that was happening at BtG – or more accurately the church – was the introduction of a new parish manager. Ivan had resigned even before Hamish’s funeral, and although Angie had apologized for everything she’d said on that terrible day, he’d never be able to forgive himself, he’d said. It would be too hard for him to face her each day, knowing as he did how fond she’d been of their dearest resident.
She’d made up her mind to try talking to him again in a month or two. For now, though, she accepted that he needed time to recover, and the vicar and his wife were helping him with that. Suicide was an appallingly selfish act, but how could she not understand why Hamish had felt it to be his only choice? He’d believed he was about to be cast back on to society’s scrap heap and having experienced it before he would have dreaded going there again. He knew better than most how little help there was for men in his position, old, infirm and with no family to call on. People might react to stabs of conscience with the toss of a few coins into a cap, or some sandwiches dropped next to a sleeping bag, but after that they found it easier to think of something else. Councillors, politicians, those with real power, regularly talked the talk when the news cameras were on them, making promises, setting targets, but little ever came of it.
Hamish had known all that better than anyone.
Angie felt more of a responsibility for those in need now than she ever had, and having been rescued from the fate most of the working poor and homeless would never escape she believed she had a duty to help them. She’d had plenty of ideas over the past weeks, some big, some small, only to find they were unworkable once she’d thought them through. She’d definitely come up with something, though; she’d create a project or find a way to start changing things, and spending time at Deerwood Farm with Liam was proving truly inspirational.
She’d visited several times now and had been blown away by just about everything. Liam had a small workspace of his own in one of the artisan sheds, where he could craft his signs when he wasn’t helping Sam Baker with a building or maintenance project. He’d been given a private room in one of the residences with shared bathroom and kitchen, and he was clearly well liked by everyone. Though he hadn’t met the project’s criteria for intake – he was too old and had never been in care – the Raynor family and those who helped run the facility had taken him in anyway, and had brought out everything that was good in him while slowly and carefully doing their best to heal all that had gone wrong.
Angie was entranced by the place, and the family, but though she was happy to learn from them she knew she could never achieve anything as important as Deerwood, since she had neither the budget nor the land to enable this.
‘But you do have the same sort of passion,’ Martin had told her only last Sunday, when they’d dropped Liam off after a weekend at home. ‘And remember, that place was the brainchild of Hanna Raynor – Coolidge as she is these days – when she was no more than a teen herself. It’s taken time, and a lot of it, to get it to where it is now.’
‘Meaning I’m thinking too big too soon?’ Angie challenged.
‘Something like that.’
Of course he was right, in fact he was usually right about everything which was both maddening and reassuring and could sometimes set her on another way of thinking, as it had that day. It wasn’t only about ideas, land and money, it was also about power.
‘No,’ he said, before she could get her next words out.
‘You don’t even know what I’m going to say,’ she protested.
‘I do, and I’m not going to run for mayor, s
o let’s leave it there and call Emma to find out where everyone is. If they want to join us for pizza, tell them we’ll be at Sandro’s in about half an hour.’
Sandro’s, whose pizzas she’d once delivered dressed as a panda, and been royally humiliated by Amy Cutler. The very same Amy Cutler who was now her tenant in the semi next to Emma’s, although a local businesswoman was due to close on the place soon to add to her small portfolio of buy-to-lets. So Amy was going to get a new landlord, which she’d be very happy about (until her rent was increased, which Angie was sure it would be). And Angie was going to be very happy too, for after the sale went through and the government had helped itself to its share of her inheritance she’d finally be able to pay off the outstanding council tax and colossal recovery fees.
She would also, she was thinking now, as she soaked up the peaceful evening air on the terrace while Martin poured more wine into her glass and Zac carried a plate of burgers to the table, be in a financial position to start something new, if she could only decide what it should be. She’d discuss it with Emma and Martin once she was certain about how much cash was available.
‘Can you two just stop now, please?’ Emma asked in weary exasperation. ‘You’ve been talking kitchens ever since we sat down to eat. They’re really not that fascinating, you know.’
Martin and Melvin regarded her in astonishment.
‘Oh, but they are,’ Melvin protested. ‘If you saw the drawings …’
‘No, no, please,’ Emma cried, covering her eyes as he tried to pass her his phone.
‘That’s the trouble with you,’ he told her, ‘you don’t appreciate art when it’s staring you in the face.’
Angie caught Martin’s eye and smiled at the humour in his. Something she was coming to learn about him was that he’d let anyone rattle on about anything for as long as they liked; if he found it boring he’d just switch his mind elsewhere until they were done. Not that Melvin was boring, far from it, and anyway this kitchen installation project was of interest to them both. But she’d seen Martin do it with others both at work and during the various social occasions they’d been at together, and she was also starting to detect the moments when he became aware that she’d clocked him. They were moments that invariably made them both smile, and set her mind off down avenues she’d decided were probably best not to explore too deeply.
They were good friends who were spending time together a couple of times a week, maybe grabbing an early bite to eat somewhere in town, or, if Grace was with Lois and Zac at Emma’s, at a pub a little off the beaten track. They found it easy to talk about everything, apart from what might be happening between them, and maybe for him nothing was.
However, he seemed to like being here at the house, and whenever he sank into Steve’s chair, inside or out here on the terrace, she would find herself thinking that if Steve could see him he’d feel proud to have Martin in his place. She sometimes wondered what Steve would make of the fact that the most physical contact she and Martin had had was when he’d tucked her arm through his that day at the beach – and when he’d comforted her at Hamish’s funeral. It wasn’t that she didn’t want more, she did, very much, but she kept reminding herself that if he did too he’d surely make it clear.
‘He knows it’ll never work again with Andee,’ she’d said to Emma only last night, ‘but that doesn’t mean he’s over it.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ Emma had argued, ‘given how much time he spends here.’
‘OK, then maybe he’s still not ready to move on.’
‘Maybe he thinks you aren’t,’ Emma countered tartly.
Angie hadn’t engaged with that, simply because she hadn’t known what to say.
Now, getting up to go inside for the baked potatoes, she was aware of Martin’s eyes following her, and wished she knew how to let him know her feelings without making him uncomfortable, or herself want to curl up and die if she’d got things wrong. She thought of Steve and what his advice might be, and almost groaned when she heard him say, ‘He’d be lucky to have you.’
What would Hamish’s advice be? She didn’t know because she’d never allowed him to come that close, and she would never stop regretting that.
By the time she returned to the terrace everyone was on Martin’s case again about running for mayor.
‘Stop, stop,’ he protested, raising his hands. ‘I swear I’m rubbish at politics, but actually I do know someone who’d be quite good at it if she’d give herself a chance.’
Angie immediately thought of Andee, and was about to agree when she realized everyone was looking at her.
‘Yay! Mum for mayor!’ Zac cheered, waving his arms.
‘Mum for MP,’ Liam insisted. ‘I’ll be your campaign manager.’
‘So will I,’ Grace piped up. ‘Lois and I can go door to door and we’ll do all your research …’
Lois beamed loyally.
‘I’ll write your speeches,’ Emma volunteered. ‘You can vet them,’ she added to Martin.
‘I’ll organize the kitchens,’ Melvin put in, making them all laugh.
‘OK, very funny,’ Angie declared, scowling at Martin, who seemed to approve of everything that had been said.
‘I happen to know that our local MP is looking for a researcher,’ he told her. ‘You feel passionately about the homeless, so who better to fight for them than someone who understands and genuinely cares?’
Clearly stirred by this, Emma said, ‘Think about everything you’ve been through, Angie. You know more than most what it’s like to have a child targeted by criminal gangs; you also know about Internet predators, and ruthless landlords. You’ve been the victim of debt build-up thanks to universal credit, and you’ve existed as one of the so-called working poor, so who is better placed to tackle what it’s doing to terrified and neglected people than you? You know how you were treated by the system, so isn’t it time to fight for those who are still trapped – who don’t stand a chance of coming out of it the way you have?’
Knowing she couldn’t even begin to argue with that, Angie turned to Melvin as he said, ‘While you’re at it, you could start a clean-up campaign for the Temple Fields estate. With Shalik and his thugs behind bars awaiting trial it should be better over there, but I’m told the north side is still infested with drugs and crime, and it’s disgusting that nothing ever really gets done about it. Even the police won’t go there unless they’re armed, or at least in groups.’
Angie looked at Martin, and seeing the way his eyebrows were raised she realized that he was in full support of everything that had been said and was waiting for her to comment.
‘I’m not having this conversation now,’ she declared, reaching for her glass. ‘I’ve had too much to drink, and clearly you all have too, so let’s eat up and at least try to pretend we’re sober.’
She needed more time to mull things over, to consider what her role should actually be. She’d already been thinking that getting inside the system somehow, and rousing it into proper action, might be a good way to go. She just had to work out exactly how to get started, to focus herself in a way that really would make a difference.
It wasn’t until much later, after everyone else had either gone, or disappeared off to bed, that Angie walked Martin out to the front door.
‘You really should consider meeting Miles Granger,’ he said, referring to their MP. ‘Like Emma pointed out, you’ve been there. You can speak from the heart, and that’ll go a long way with the electorate when it comes to the credentials of someone they’re being asked to vote for.’
That felt a bit dizzying – the electorate.
‘Keep it mind,’ he said, ‘and we can discuss it another time. Right now I have something else to say.’
Interested, she tilted her head for him to continue.
‘After everything you’ve been through,’ he began, ‘it’s my opinion that you could do with a break, so I was wondering how you might fancy somewhere like the Seychelles?’
Her eyes shot
open as her heart did a triple somersault. ‘You – you mean with you?’ she asked stupidly.
He laughed. ‘Well, you can go on your own if you like …’
‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. I just … Would we share a room?’
‘Unless you’d rather sleep alone.’
‘Oh no, I definitely want to sleep with you.’ Hearing herself, she winced and groaned. ‘Did I really just say that?’
Eyes full of laughter, he leaned forward and whispered, ‘Be ready to go by next weekend,’ and after touching a kiss gently to her mouth he walked to his car, leaving her in no doubt that at last they were both very much ready to move on.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My biggest thank you goes to Rachel Parfitt who contacted me out of the blue one day to share with me how much she’d enjoyed my book Dance While You Can. During our email exchanges I learned a little about Rachel’s work with www.edgehousing.org which transitions homeless men from shelters to independent living. I asked if we could meet, and when I understood that her organisation provided homes and even a family for those who were trying to make their way back into the world, that was when this book was ‘born’. Over time, Rachel shared many stories with me that were both shocking and heartbreaking – and I only wish I’d been able to do justice to the many brave and lonely people she told me about. We all know these people exist, but perhaps we don’t often think about those who do so much to help them.
My next thank you goes to Mike and Sally Zamparelli who run Wick House, a sheltered accommodation facility in Bristol that provides vital support for homeless men. Seeing the work that’s carried out there was extremely moving and I came away much wiser and sadder for realizing how hard it is for shelters like theirs to survive.