by Ellen Berry
It felt, he thought rather wildly, like the sun had come out when she’d returned. And now she lived in that beautiful house and had her floristry business, and of course she’d been through hell, with her husband’s death. He didn’t want to come across as pushy, keeping in touch when her life was obviously full, but all the same, he was aware of a sense of lightness about him, and some other emotion that he hadn’t experienced for quite a long time. Of course he felt happy when he and Spike were hanging out together, or when he’d finished a particularly challenging job and the boat owner was pleased. There were lots of great things in his life – but this was different.
He’d had a couple of large glasses of rather fierce red wine since he’d come home from the wedding. He knew his father hated it, said it made his joints sore and that it was ‘a posh people’s drink’ (champagne – even the alcohol-free version – clearly didn’t fall under that banner) so James had decided it was okay to have a bottle in the house. And now, as he sat in his bleak, dimly lit childhood bedroom, the happiness he was experiencing was as bright and vivid as a summer’s day spent by the river. It didn’t seem to matter that, long term, he hadn’t a clue about what to do about his dad, or that he could hear him muttering to himself through the mottled partition wall.
At that moment, James Halsall was definitely, one hundred per cent happy. And also, quite possibly, a little drunk.
Part Three
October
Chapter Thirty-One
Autumn had arrived, turning the West Yorkshire valley burnished orange and gold. With it had come a new business to the village, the brainchild of Della’s younger sister Roxanne: a vintage shop, selling not only exquisite clothes but also carefully chosen pottery, picture frames, jewellery and the like. Lucy was delighted to be asked to create an autumnal window display for the opening. Although her herbaceous borders didn’t offer the abundance of fresh flowers as they had during the summer months, she was learning to work with the seasons, bringing home foliage from her walks with the children.
The utility room at Rosemary Cottage quickly filled up with branches encrusted with pine cones. Galvanised buckets held acorns, dried berries, silver birch twigs and velvety leaves. Lucy found herself becoming as keen-eyed as Sam had been when hunting for museum exhibits, and she soon devised ways to incorporate these autumnal treasures into her arrangements. She only wished she could rouse his enthusiasm to start collecting again.
One crisp October morning, she had just seen her overnight guests on their way when James called. ‘I’m at Dad’s,’ he said. ‘Spike’s here for a couple of days. D’you fancy coming up and meeting him later? With the kids, I mean? I thought we could have a campfire …’
‘We’d love to,’ she said, delighted, but also wondering what Marnie and Sam would make of Kenny. He wasn’t the normal kind of grandpa, she reflected, as they drove up through the woods towards his cottage later that afternoon. No, clearly he was far better than normal with his mad beard and hoop earring as he welcomed them in, with the announcement that they could do whatever they liked here. James caught Lucy’s eye and smiled.
‘What, anything?’ Sam asked, wide-eyed as he gazed around the cluttered living room.
‘That’s a dangerous thing to say to kids, Dad,’ James chuckled, which his father chose to ignore.
‘Sure,’ Kenny said to Sam. ‘What d’you want to do? Tell you what. Have a think about it while I get you a drink – orange juice okay?’
‘If it’s no trouble,’ Lucy said quickly, answering for them.
‘It’s no trouble,’ Kenny called back, already in the kitchen. ‘I’d offer you a sandwich as well if some smart-arse hadn’t thrown them away.’
With closed-lipped smiles at Kenny’s choice of words, Marnie and Sam perched on the old worn-out sofa. ‘That was, what – nearly two years ago,’ James murmured to Lucy. ‘Christ, sometimes I wonder if there’s anything wrong with his memory at all.’
She smiled, squeezing in next to the children and looking around the room as James went to fetch his son from one of the bedrooms. From James’s previous descriptions of the place, she could see that a major tidy-up had been undertaken, although the shelves were still crammed with what looked like old magazines, newspapers and assorted paperwork. ‘I’m off to sort through Dad’s boxes of receipts, used jiffy bags and concert tickets stretching back to the Seventies,’ he’d told her with a stoic smile one evening, as he was setting off. ‘Thank God the scented candle craze passed him by or the whole place would have been up in flames by now.’
A few moments later, orange juice was handed out in mugs, and James had reappeared with Spike: a tall, angular and rather timid-looking boy clutching a paperback, with a shock of sandy hair brushing into his dark eyes.
‘I was just finishing a chapter,’ he remarked apologetically as a large ginger cat wound its way around his legs, quickly disappearing again on glimpsing the visitors.
‘Okay, well, this is my friend Lucy,’ James said, ‘and this is Marnie, and Sam.’ There were mumbled hellos from the children, then James rubbed his hands together and said, ‘So I thought we could build a campfire out the back, if you’d like that?’
Spike’s face brightened instantly. ‘Yeah!’
James put an arm around his son’s shoulders. ‘There’s work to do first. We’ll need you all to help collect some wood.’
They headed outside, leaving Kenny, who brushed off their invitation to come out and join them. Outside now under the slowly darkening sky, they started to gather whatever wood they could find littering the scrubby ground. Lucy turned to James. ‘How’s your dad doing these days?’ she asked.
‘He’s still managing,’ he replied, ‘but things are changing, you know? It’s so gradual it’s barely noticeable, but I can see it happening.’
She nodded and touched his arm. ‘It must be so hard.’
James nodded. ‘He remembered the sandwiches, which is amazing. But then he won’t remember little things like where the cutlery’s kept, or where he’s put his keys, his glasses – we lose a lot of glasses and keys.’
‘What d’you think you’ll do?’ she asked, glancing over to the children, her heart lifting to see Spike patiently explaining that only dry wood would do; the thinner pieces, not the moss-covered log that Sam was attempting to drag over.
‘I’m still trying to persuade him to move,’ he replied, ‘but no joy with that so far. He’s the most stubborn man on earth, but I understand it. This is his home.’
‘That sounds familiar,’ she said. James gave her a quizzical look. ‘Every so often,’ she added, ‘Mum has a go at convincing me that we should move closer.’
‘Closer to Leeds, you mean?’ He frowned.
‘But we’re not,’ Lucy added quickly as they started to build the fire. ‘At least, I don’t think we are. Our lives are here.’ She glanced at him, wondering why his demeanour had changed, and told herself he was just concentrating on lighting the fire.
It caught quickly and the children gathered around it, entranced by the flames. ‘Can’t we persuade your granddad to come out and join us?’ Lucy asked Spike.
He smiled at her and shook his head. ‘He says it’s too damp out here, bad for his bones.’
‘Like it’s not damp inside the house,’ James said ruefully.
‘Granddad used to sell Christmas trees,’ Spike was telling Marnie and Sam. ‘That was his job, before he got too old for it.’ James caught Lucy’s eye and smiled.
‘That’s a good job,’ Sam observed, holding the palms of his hands out to the fire as James went inside for blankets.
‘What’s your job?’ Marnie asked him when he reappeared, handing them one each – including Lucy – which they all draped around their shoulders.
‘I’m a carpenter,’ he replied. ‘I make things with wood.’
‘Everyone knows what a carpenter is, Dad,’ Spike said with an eye-roll.
James smirked. ‘Yeah, well, mainly I’m a boat fitter. I build the
cabinets, I fit them out – I work out the best way to use all the space inside.’ He paused. ‘I think we need more wood if we’re going to keep this fire going. Could you find some?’
Off the three of them went, still within sight but far enough away that their conversation was only audible as murmurs now. There was a sharp bite to the October night, and Lucy pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders.
‘Want to go inside?’ James asked.
‘No, it’s lovely out here and the kids are enjoying it.’ They fell into an easy silence, and Lucy looked at James. It happened sometimes, when she least expected it; she could be having a lovely time – and what could be nicer than sitting here at the fire with James, finally getting to meet his son – then those thoughts would sneak in, darkening her mood and however hard she tried, she couldn’t push them away. It was happening now. Lucy was aware of the children pottering about and chatting at the far end of Kenny’s land, but she felt oddly dislocated.
‘Everything okay?’ James asked gently.
She nodded, wondering how to broach what she wanted to say. ‘You must know it really well around here,’ she started.
‘Yeah, well – of course. I lived here until I was seventeen.’
‘I mean, the other villages around here,’ she added.
He gave her a curious look. ‘Um, yeah – most of them. Why, is there something—’
‘This might sound a bit mad,’ she murmured, willing the children not to come back to the fire just yet, because she had to tell him; it was threatening to burst out of her.
He looked at her encouragingly. ‘I’m sure it won’t. Try me.’
She inhaled deeply. ‘That night, when Ivan was killed in the accident – he wasn’t driving his normal route home. He was close to those villages, Little Morton and Denby Cross – that’s where he crashed. But he didn’t usually come that way.’
James nodded thoughtfully. She could hardly believe she was telling him this. ‘So why do you think—’ he began.
‘I don’t know! There’s nothing there really – just a few houses and a pretty dismal children’s playground. I’ve driven the route myself, just to check in case I’d missed something, and I keep thinking maybe that was the real reason for the crash.’ He gave her a baffled look. ‘I mean, maybe Ivan drove that way because he was distracted,’ she went on. ‘He’d been thinking about someone else, or maybe he was actually on his way to see her …’
‘To see who? What d’you mean?’
She shrugged dismissively. ‘I don’t know. Some woman, I suppose—’
‘You don’t really think that, do you?’ The flames flickered in his dark eyes as he looked at her.
‘I’ve no idea, James. I don’t know what was going on that night. Can you think of any reason why someone would go there?’ It was a ridiculous question; she knew it.
He shook his head. ‘As far as I can picture it, the only reason you’d drive that way is if you were stopping at one of the villages, or maybe heading out to a farm. There’s a couple down that road. I don’t know who has them, though. They’ve probably changed hands since I was a kid.’ He paused. ‘Was he the kind of person who just enjoyed driving?’
‘Not really. And certainly not on a Friday night after a week at work. He was always eager to get home. At least, he seemed like he was.’ She squinted as the wind turned and smoke gusted into her eyes. ‘There was a bouquet of flowers on the back seat of his car,’ she continued.
‘That was kind of him,’ James murmured, but Lucy shook her head.
‘They weren’t for me. I’m pretty certain about that. I don’t think he’d even got me a Christmas present.’ Her voice cracked, and he squeezed her hand briefly.
‘Oh, Lucy. Don’t put yourself through this—’
‘But I don’t know what else to think,’ she cut in. ‘After he died, I thought maybe he’d kept my Christmas gift hidden at the Manchester flat where he stayed during the week. Perhaps he’d just forgotten to bring it home with him that night. But I went there myself eventually to collect his things. His boss had gathered everything together for me and packed it all up. He’d offered to drive over with it all, but I sort of wanted to see the place for myself. Where he’d been living during the week, I mean.’ She paused, looked at James, and continued: ‘There were some clothes, books, toiletries and stationery – that was about it.’ She pushed her hair from her face, feeling foolish now. ‘I don’t mean I care about a present, of course I don’t. But I wanted to know that he’d at least thought about me that Christmas.’
‘I’m sure he had,’ James said softly. ‘The thing is, there’s no point in raking over this now. You’ll never actually know, and you’re just torturing yourself by imagining scenarios—’ He broke off as the children approached with armfuls of wood. It was piled onto the fire, and Lucy tried to join in with the chatter, but it was impossible when all she could think was: had Ivan rearranged his life to be away from her during the week, in a flat where he could get up to anything? And had he planned one last visit to this mysterious person before the Christmas holidays, when they’d be forced apart?
As the fire started to die down, they carried their blankets inside. Lucy forced a bright smile as she said goodbye to Kenny and Spike, murmuring to James before she climbed into her car: ‘And now you must think I’m completely crazy.’
‘Of course I don’t,’ he said. ‘But I think there must be some innocent explanation.’ Although she hoped he was right, she couldn’t imagine what that could possibly be. But at least the hug he gave her told her that he didn’t think she was crazy at all.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Halloween had arrived, and Burley Bridge was decked out in festive finery: shop windows displayed black cats and cauldrons filled with foil-wrapped sweets, and glowing lanterns and fairy lights were strewn everywhere. If anything, things had ramped up several notches from last year. Lucy couldn’t remember giant glowing pumpkins in clusters in the Red Lion’s garden, or a flock of ghosts (did ghosts flock?) dangling on fine threads in the window of the village hall.
At the request of Marnie and Sam, Lucy was hosting a party this year for the village children. She had ensured that there would be no B&B guests that night; her old college friend Connell had texted a couple of weeks ago to say he would be arriving the day after Halloween so Lucy figured she could let the kids invite twenty or so friends and she would lay on a fabulous feast. She had already made bat biscuits, spider cakes and blood-red jelly, and had a batch of skinny sausage rolls (‘wizened fingers’) and black spaghetti (‘witches’ hair’) to attend to, as well as pinning up strings of doughnuts for the kids to nibble. Another case of helipad madness, definitely.
While the children were busy dressing up, she set about carving an enormous pumpkin for the Halloween table. As she started to hack at it, she turned to see Sam in the kitchen doorway in the Dracula outfit she had resorted to buying online. ‘It’s scratchy,’ he announced.
‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ she said, poking her knife into the pumpkin’s tough flesh. And now another list formed in her mind: Things I took for granted when Ivan was here. Zipping up her party dress. All those little things like changing lightbulbs and fuses, checking her car’s tyre pressure, removing a particularly stubborn cork from a bottle – and carving pumpkins which, she decided now, was a stupid tradition.
‘Ow!’ she yelped.
‘What’s wrong?’ Sam asked.
‘I just cut my hand.’
She stared down at where the knife had slipped and sliced into her flesh, halfway up her index finger.
‘Is it bleeding?’ he asked, clearly more concerned with his costume than her minor injury.
‘Yep. It’ll be okay, though.’ She grabbed at the kitchen roll and wrapped it around as a makeshift bandage.
‘I can’t wear this,’ he added, her wound apparently forgotten now. ‘It’s itchy.’
She frowned at him. ‘It’s just a cape and trousers, Sam. The cape isn’t even to
uching your skin – you have your own T-shirt on. So how can it be itchy?’
‘It is! I can’t wear it.’
‘Well, what else are you going to wear?’
‘Don’t shout!’ he barked.
‘I’m not shouting. I’m just trying to get the party ready—’ She broke off. ‘Oh, God.’ She ran to the oven, grabbed the oven gloves and yanked open the door to see three neat rows of entirely blackened sausage rolls. ‘Oh, shit.’
‘You swore,’ Sam announced, bristling with self-righteousness as Marnie swished in in her Scooby-Doo costume. Carys’s children were being Velma and Shaggy, but Sam had refused to follow the theme. Bet you wish you had now, Lucy thought darkly as she plonked the burnt offerings on the draining board and wrapped a fresh strip of kitchen roll around her finger.
‘At least it’s seasonal,’ she muttered to herself. ‘A bleeding wound to scare everyone.’
‘Did you hurt yourself, Mum?’ Marnie asked with vague concern.
‘Just a little bit but never mind,’ she said in a clipped voice, wondering now what had possessed her to take on the hosting of a party tonight. But at least the table was laid, with all the food put out and streamers thrown haphazardly around the kitchen. She had to admit, it looked pretty inviting.
With half an hour before everyone was due to arrive, Lucy boiled a vat of spaghetti and managed to transfer it, portion by portion, into a ziplock bag with a little water and black food colouring, only mildly scalding herself in the process. Party food attended to, she figured that she, too, should make an effort to dress the part. Leaving the children watching spooky cartoons in the living room – with Sam still grumbling about his scratchy cape and the fact that Josh would be bound to win the fancy dress prize – she hurried upstairs, stripped off her jeans and sweater and pulled on an ancient, shapeless back maternity dress that had somehow avoided being taken to the charity shop. She had also sourced a scraggy black wig from the newsagent’s meagre selection of Halloween accessories, and pulled it on. Poised at her dressing table mirror now, she started to sponge on the greyish face paint she’d bought for Marnie the previous year.