‘He’s a friend,’ Archie informed her. ‘He’s got long hair and Granddad says he’s a layabout.’
‘You know him?’ Alison asked her husband.
‘He plays the guitar,’ Anthony explained.
‘Oh, I see,’ Alison said. ‘Your granddad’s a bit of a snob when it comes to musical instruments. I remember when your father wanted to learn to play the guitar and wasn’t allowed.’
‘Sean wanted to play the guitar?’ Polly asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Alison said, ‘but Anthony didn’t like the idea. He said nobody of any consequence plays the guitar.’
‘So Eric Clapton and Jimi Hendrix aren’t of any consequence?’ Polly said.
‘Exactly!’ Alison said with a tiny smile.
Anthony just shook his head. ‘Exceptions to the rule. Exceptions to the rule.’
‘Does that mean I can play the guitar?’ Archie asked.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Polly said and watched as her son slumped back into a pair of white cushions.
‘Polly,’ Alison said. ‘Come and help me make some tea.’
Polly followed her mother-in-law through to the kitchen and had to admit that it even put her own very neat and tidy one to shame. There wasn’t a single breadcrumb out of place and every surface gleamed and shone. The window above the sink looked out onto a tiny fenced garden which was visible in the light from the kitchen. There was a lawn and neat borders full of evergreen shrubs. In the summer, Alison filled it with prettily patriotic red, white and blue bedding plants.
‘You look tired, Polly,’ Alison said as she joined her by the sink. ‘Are you okay?’
Polly nodded.
‘You been sleeping all right?’
‘Not really,’ she admitted.
‘Oh, dear. You still having the nightmares?’
Alison was the only one she’d admitted to about the nightmares. ‘On and off,’ she said.
Alison nodded. ‘Polly, dear – have you thought about seeing somebody.’
Polly swallowed hard. Had she heard her right? Was her mother-in-law joining in with everybody else and seriously suggesting that she started dating again?
‘What?’ she asked, unable to hide her horror.
‘A counsellor or someone.’
‘Oh,’ Polly said, relief flooding through her. ‘God, no.’
‘It might be good to talk to somebody.’
‘But I talk to you,’ she said.
‘Yes, but, I mean really talk.’
Polly shook her head. ‘I don’t need that,’ she said.
Alison sighed. ‘Polly, you’re an amazing woman and our Sean was so lucky to find you. You’re strong and you’re a wonderful mother to Archie, but nobody expects you to go through all this on your own. I really think–’
‘I don’t need a counsellor,’ Polly snapped. ‘I don’t need a psychiatrist or a social worker, and I certainly don’t need a boyfriend.’
‘But I didn’t say anything about a boyfriend,’ Alison said, perplexed. ‘Polly?’
But Polly had left the kitchen and was grabbing hold of Archie’s hand and dragging him up from the white sofa.
‘Get your shoes on, Archie. We’re going home.’
Archie seemed to recognise his mother’s tone of voice and didn’t argue or question as he was hauled out into the hallway.
‘What’s going on?’ Anthony asked, following them through.
‘Polly!’ Alison cried, but Polly already had the front door open.
‘What did you say to her?’ Anthony asked his wife.
Polly could hear the tears catching in her mother-in-law’s throat as she tried to explain and she felt truly awful for leaving like this, but she had to. She just had to.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Polly and Archie had a spot of supper in silence in the kitchen. Archie seemed to sense that his mother wasn’t in the mood to talk and got on with the business of shovelling his scrambled eggs into his mouth.
After taking Dickens out across the green for a quick lap and tucking Archie in bed, Polly sat with a cup of tea in the living room, watching the fire in the wood burner as it slowly fizzled out. She didn’t have the energy to chuck another log on. She’d be going to bed soon and, hopefully, she’d sleep right through after the emotionally draining day she’d had.
She took a deep breath. What was wrong with her that she was so tetchy and teary with everyone? They meant well, after all, and she should be able to cope with all this by now, she told herself.
‘But I’m not,’ she said into the quiet room.
As soon as they’d got home from her in-laws, she’d rung and apologised to Alison, but hadn’t given the poor woman any sort of explanation beyond that she was tired. Alison had been so soothing and sweet that Polly had felt herself close to tears again.
‘Stupid, stupid!’ she berated herself and that’s when she heard a light knock on the front door.
She looked at the clock. It was after eight on a cold January evening. Who would be calling then, she wondered, getting up from the chair?
A second knock sounded – a little louder this time.
‘Who is it?’ she called, putting the chain on the door.
‘Me,’ a man’s voice came.
‘Who’s me?’ she asked in annoyance.
‘Jago,’ he said, ‘from across the road. From the book club.’
She shook her head. He hadn’t needed to say more than “Jago”. After all, how many Jagos were there in Great Tallington, for goodness’ sake?
She opened the door, removing the chain.
‘It’s getting late,’ she told him, forgetting to say hello first.
‘Yeah, sorry about that. I called round earlier, but you were out.’
‘Yes,’ Polly said, not giving anything away. ‘What did you want?’
‘You forgot something the other night at the book club,’ he said.
‘Did I?’ she said.
‘Aha,’ he said. ‘You forgot to tell me your decision about Archie having guitar lessons with me.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well, I’ve not given it much thought to be honest.’
‘But what’s there to think about?’ he asked. ‘He wants them and I’m happy to give them to him. For free, don’t forget. I’m not charging.’
‘No, I know,’ she said. ‘That’s very kind, but–’
‘But what?’ he asked. ‘Look, can I come in? It’s freezing out here.’
‘Oh,’ Polly said. ‘I suppose.’
He bowed his head so as not to crack it on the doorframe and Polly led him through to the living room and Dickens came through from the kitchen to greet him.
‘Hey, boy,’ he said, bending to stroke the dog’s head. ‘Want me to liven that fire up? It’s not looking too happy.’
‘I can do it myself,’ Polly said, ‘if I want to.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Now, you were going to tell me the amazing excuse you have for not accepting free guitar lessons for your very enthusiastic and bright boy.’ He gave her a lopsided smile, but Polly wasn’t going to let that steer her off course.
‘I just think he’s got enough on with the piano. It’s what his father wanted him to learn. Archie’s got his grandparents’ upright,’ she said, nodding towards it. ‘It’s a beautiful instrument.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ Jago said, ‘but doesn’t Archie hate it?’
‘Oh, sure,’ Polly admitted. ‘Like all boys. But he’ll come round. He’ll thank us in the long run.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sure.’
Jago looked at the piano and then glanced around the room. ‘You haven’t got a cup of tea going, have you?’
Polly placed her hands on her hips.
‘Please?’ he added with a smile.
She walked through to the kitchen and he followed, his big boots loud on the kitchen floor.
‘We mustn’t talk too loudly,’ she said. ‘Archie’s in bed.’
; Jago nodded. ‘Black, no sugar,’ he said.
‘I remember,’ she said, amazed by his brazenness.
‘I can make it if you like. If you wanted to sit down. You look tired.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of making tea in my own kitchen,’ Polly said.
‘Okay,’ he asked. ‘Just wanted to help.’ He took a seat at the kitchen table. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
He studied her closely. ‘You look pale and your eyes are a little red. Have you been crying?’
She glared at him, her mouth falling open. ‘What business is it of yours to ask me questions like that?’
‘No business at all.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So, what’s the matter?’
She sighed. What was it with this guy? ‘I’m just a little tired,’ she said, trotting out the old lie so quickly that she could tell he didn’t believe her. ‘I had a fight with my in-laws. Well, not a fight, really. It was my fault. I was mean and I snapped and I shouldn’t have.’ She bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to say all that.
Jago nodded. ‘In-laws are tricky, aren’t they?’
‘You have some?’
He laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet. But I have eyes. I’ve seen in-laws before.’
‘I guess I’m lucky with mine. They’ve been good to me...’ Her voice petered out and she concentrated on the tea things before her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘What for?’ she asked, placing his mug of tea before him and sitting down with her own.
‘For what happened to your husband.’
‘Oh, you know?’
‘Mum told me.’
Polly took a deep breath. ‘I guess everyone knows. Not that’s there’s much to know.’
‘That must be tough on you.’
‘You could say that,’ Polly said, rubbing her eyes. She really was feeling tired now.
‘And on Archie,’ Jago said. ‘How much does he know?’
Polly circled the rim of her mug with a finger and then she got up and closed the kitchen door before returning to the table. ‘He knows what I tell him which isn’t much. He thinks his father’s working away from home.’
‘For over three years?’
‘I’m very convincing,’ she said, her face deadly serious.
‘But what about his birthdays and Christmases? Doesn’t that get tricky?’
‘Of course,’ she said and then she cleared her throat. ‘I’ve been sending him cards and presents.’
Jago’s eyes boggled. ‘Really? What – in a different hand writing?’
Polly could feel herself blushing as she nodded. ‘I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t tell him the truth and so I made up a story.’
‘But surely he knew something was wrong at the beginning,’ Jago said. ‘I mean, weren’t the police involved?’
‘He was so young then. His grandparents stepped in and helped. He was away from the action, really. I needed to protect him.’
Jago sucked air through his teeth.
‘What?’ Polly asked. ‘You think that was wrong of me?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think that’s for me to say,’ he said. ‘I think you did the best you could at the time.’
‘I did,’ she said. ‘How could I tell a three-year-old boy that his father’s gone missing? That we don’t know if he’s ever coming back or if he’s dead or alive? How could I expect him to handle that when I barely could?’
Jago took a sip of his tea and then put it down on the table, wrapping his hands around it.
‘My father left when I was fourteen,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
‘It was for the best,’ he said. ‘He – erm – wasn’t a nice man. He made us miserable.’
‘Do you keep in touch?’
Jago gave a hollow-sounding laugh. ‘No way,’ he said, ‘and he’d better not show his face around here ever again if he knows what’s good for him.’
Polly saw a look of pure anger sweep over Jago’s face like a dark cloud over a landscape, shutting off all the light and warmth for a brief moment.
‘Look,’ he said, scraping his chair back and getting up, ‘I’m not going to keep hassling you with this guitar business.’
‘Good,’ she said.
‘You’ve got enough to worry about without me adding to everything.’
‘Yes,’ she said, wishing she didn’t sound quite so harsh. She didn’t mean to but, sometimes, the words came out before she had a chance to think and soften them.
She followed him out into the hallway and watched as he opened the front door. A blast of cold air greeted them, stealing as much warmth from the house as was possible.
‘Okay, then,’ he said, ducking his head and raising a hand in farewell.
Polly rested her hand on the door before closing it, feeling strangely dithery which wasn’t like her at all. She watched the young man as he crossed the road towards his home on the other side of the green. He was leaving. Right now. And a little voice inside her said, “Stop him!”
‘Jago!’ she shouted. He stopped and turned back. ‘Come back tomorrow, okay? After school.’ She paused. ‘And bring your guitar.’
That night, Jago lay awake staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t stop thinking about Polly Prior. Her beautiful dark hair that had partially escaped from her hair clip, her rose-bud mouth, her sloe-dark eyes, and that luminous pale face filled with all the anxiety in the world.
When he’d thought about coming back home to Suffolk after his stint in the US, he’d imagined quickly falling into a routine of writing his jingles, of setting up his tutoring business, hooking up with a few schools, and getting his old band together. But now, all he could think about was this woman and her little boy.
Perhaps there was something about Archie that reminded him of himself at that age. Although Jago’s father hadn’t left until Jago was fourteen, he might as well have never existed for all the time he spent with his family. His father’s job as a salesman had involved a lot of travelling and he was absent for long periods at a time which had suited Jago and his mother just fine because he was a complete jerk whenever he was around.
Jago couldn’t remember when he’d first become aware of his father’s violent streak; it had always seemed to be a part of his life. He could remember lying awake in bed listening to his parents’ raised voices – his father’s angry and aggressive and his mother’s frightened and sad. Jago came to know the routine. The shouting would come first, waking him up, then there’d be the awful silence which seemed to fill the house with a strange malevolence. Then the front door would slam and Jago would watch from his bedroom window as his father would stalk away into the night. Where he went, he had no idea. Probably to some old crony of his where he could get himself drunk in peace. Jago would wait until he knew for certain that his father wasn’t coming back and then he would tiptoe downstairs. He was usually about half-way down when he’d hear the sound of his mother crying. He’d open the door into the kitchen and she’d make a hurried effort to dry her tears and throw him an unconvincing smile.
‘Couldn’t you sleep?’ she’d ask, never acknowledging the fact that he might have been woken up by the high decibel fighting going on. ‘Let me get you back to bed.’
It wasn’t until he was older that he’d started to get involved – that he’d come into the kitchen whilst the fighting was still going on and yell at his father to back off. Jago had always been tall for his age, but it wasn’t until he was fourteen that he’d really started to look as though he could defend himself and his mother properly and his father seemed to have known that he would too.
All those old feelings about his father had been stirred up again tonight. Not that they were ever far away even after all these years. They were only a memory away. Old dead feelings that were still so very much alive.
He rolled over in bed a
nd switched his bedside lamp on. It was no use trying to get to sleep so he swung his legs out of bed and pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of jogging bottoms. The heating had been off for hours and the bedroom was chilly. He picked up his guitar and started to strum. Some people drank a cup of hot milk or a tot of whiskey to help them relax; Jago strummed. His mother didn’t mind. She said she liked it and so his fingers idled the midnight minutes away, finding the first few tentative notes of a new song. It was a sweet, melancholy sound that reminded him of Polly which wasn’t that surprising really because it was her face he was seeing as he was strumming.
CHAPTER EİGHT
Polly was in Bryony’s shop the next morning, sorting out the mess her sister had made in the stock room with the boxes of new arrivals.
‘Honestly, Bryony, you’ve got to get this room organised.
Bryony stood in the doorway looking bemused. ‘It is organised,’ she said. ‘I know exactly what’s in each mess heap.’
Polly, who was kneeling on the floor, looked up at her sister. ‘How you can bear to have a stock room that looks like a tip, I really don’t know.’
‘Just comes naturally,’ Bryony said with a grin. ‘Besides, customers don’t see this room.’
‘I see it,’ Polly said.
‘Yes, but you don’t matter,’ Bryony said with a teasing wink. ‘Hey, come and see this.’
Polly got up from the floor and dusted her skirt down. ‘I’m bringing my vacuum cleaner in with me next time,’ she said as she followed Bryony out into the shop. There was a box on the shop counter which Polly had noticed when she’d come in, but she hadn’t liked to pry even though she could tell it was from Well Bread, the bakery next door.
‘Open it,’ Bryony told her. Polly did so and her dark eyes widened at the contents.
‘From Colin?’ she asked.
‘Who else?’
‘Is that raspberry jam?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Bryony said. ‘He knows I have a thing for raspberry jam.’
‘Seedless?’
‘Of course.’
Polly looked at the exquisite, very large, biscuit. It was like an incredibly ornate jammy dodger, but the most striking thing about it was that it was heart-shaped.
‘He’s definitely got a thing for you,’ Polly said.
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