by Ellen Berry
‘Braving winter in Burley Bridge?’ she said with a quick smile.
‘I’d love to see it actually.’
‘It’s lovely,’ she said, ‘although I haven’t really been in the frame of mind to fully appreciate it yet. But there are snowdrops everywhere – on all the verges. You’d never know they were there, and they spring up wherever you look. It’s stunning—’ She broke off as the rain started to pelt down full force, and they hurried back towards the village. Within minutes, they were drenched in their lightweight jackets – and she was supposed to be a proper country person now! As for the way he’d looked at her there just a few minutes ago? It was nothing, she told herself as she let them, hair dripping, back into the house. Guilt still burned in her, but at least nothing had actually happened.
Although she was tempted to sit up chatting over another bottle of wine that night, Lucy had garlands of dried branches, interwoven with fresh bay leaves and rosemary, to make for an herbalist’s shop in Heathfield. She made soup for dinner, and as they ate Marnie and Sam fired questions at Connell about stained glass. When he fetched his portfolio of work, and the children sat with him on the sofa, eyes wide as they leafed through it, she felt a rush of warmth for him.
Perhaps she had misread everything today, she considered now. He had made her feel good about herself again, and she had got carried away and imagined that there might be the possibility of something developing between them.
Of course, it was ludicrous. Even if she wanted to, there was no way she could cope with a proper, romantic relationship with anyone. She had no need for one, and no time for one either. However, she had enjoyed Connell being around, and was sorry he would be leaving tomorrow.
Once the children were in bed, and Connell had headed upstairs to his room, having explained that he would be making an early start, she set to work at the kitchen table. In her pyjamas with a baggy sweater thrown on top, she inhaled the scents from the herbs and expertly twisted them into the garlands. It was soothing work, and she felt lulled by the steady patter of rain on the kitchen window. So engrossed was she that a distant rumble of thunder barely registered. A sharp crack followed, and a flash of white filled the kitchen as lightning struck.
Lucy stood up, made her way to the front door and opened it. Rain was still pelting down, and there was a heaviness in the atmosphere that made her shudder. Normally, she loved the garden at night, and would stroll around it, just for a breath of air before going to bed. She was clutching a mug of tea, her eyes scratchy with tiredness. Another crack sounded. ‘Mum!’ Sam yelled from his room. ‘Mum – a thunderstorm!’
‘It’s okay, love,’ she called back, tripping quickly upstairs and finding him, pale and scared-looking, on the landing. Sam had never enjoyed storms, and even at eight he was still afraid of them.
‘Hey, darling,’ she said gently, pulling him close. ‘Come on, let’s get you tucked up in bed. We don’t want to disturb Connell.’
‘Could lightning strike our house?’
‘I very much doubt it,’ she replied.
‘If it did, would it catch fire?’
‘Darling, no.’ She kissed the top of his head. ‘Come on – shall we watch it together from your window? Sometimes that’s better, being able to see for yourself what’s happening out there, rather than lying in bed and worrying.’
Sam nodded. ‘Okay.’
Kneeling side by side on the window seat now, they peered out over the garden as wind tore through the trees, whipping up twigs and leaves from the lawn and sending plant pots flying with a clatter. Marnie appeared too, ghostly pale in her lilac nightie. The three of them huddled close, transfixed as the garden lit up blue-white with each flash of lightning, following by the rumble of thunder.
‘It’s so loud, Mum,’ Marnie murmured, snuggling closer to her mother.
‘Yes, I can’t remember a storm quite like this,’ Lucy said, kissing the top of her head. Another violent thunderclap made the three of them start, and Lucy pulled her children close, having lost track now of how long they had been there in the cosy warmth of Sam’s room. The wind was howling, the trees in the garden bending and swaying, as if dancing, and there was another sharp crack as something hit the ground.
‘Was that our bird box?’ Marnie exclaimed.
‘I don’t know, sweetheart. I can’t see from here.’
‘I’m scared,’ Sam whimpered, biting the edge of his pyjama top sleeve, in the way that he used to gnaw on the pale blue satin-edged blanket he’d been virtually welded to as a toddler.
‘It’s okay, love,’ she said, aware of footsteps on the landing, ‘but maybe we should all get some sleep now. I’m sure it’ll finish soon.’
‘How d’you know?’ Sam asked. Lucy was trying to formulate an answer that would reassure him that it really was okay, she was the grown-up and she knew about storms, when a violent crash seemed to rock the house.
‘Our tree!’ Marnie screamed.
‘Is everything all right?’ Connell called out from the landing.
‘I don’t know.’ Lucy jumped up from the seat and hurried past him as she ran downstairs and along the hallway to the front door. In her PJ bottoms and thin sweater, without stopping to consider that she was barefoot, she ran out into the garden where the wind still raged, branches cracking, plant debris whipping up into the air.
‘Lucy! Come back in, you’ll get soaked out there.’ Connell was standing on the front step.
‘I’m okay!’ she called back.
‘C’mon, you can’t do anything out here tonight. We’ll check the damage in the morning.’
But Lucy wasn’t listening anymore. She didn’t want to be told to go back inside; she was breathing deeply, trying to steady herself as her eyes became accustomed to the dark. The street lamps were out – not that there were any in their lane, but normally light would carry from the high street. Here in her garden, the only light source came from the feebly glowing lamp above their front door, which she had meant to upgrade, but never got around to.
There was no moon visible that night. But once her eyes had adjusted, she could see that, while the oak still stood defiantly, one of its heftiest branches had come down and smashed onto the roof of the shed, which was no longer a shed at all, but a tumble of broken timbers as if it had been made from balsa wood.
She walked slowly towards it, aware of the cold, wet grass between her toes as she surveyed the debris that, until a few minutes ago, had been the shed that Ivan insisted on keeping just as it was (‘What do we need a summerhouse for when we have this?’). Countless hours he’d spent in there with the kids, building and making things together. Lucy had hardly put a foot in it since he’d died. On one occasion she had stood at the open door, surveying the shelves crammed with boxes and tins of tools and screws and all the materials he had worked with, and it had torn at her heart.
She had never wanted to go in there again. When James had suggested helping her to clear it out, she had known deep down that she wouldn’t ever do that. The attic, perhaps, with all of Ivan’s hobby accoutrements – but not the shed. She crouched down and touched the soaking timbers. It was still raining, although less heavily now, and she was aware of soft footsteps behind her, a hand placed gently on her shoulder.
‘Lucy?’
Tears were pouring down her face, merging with the rain, as she stood up and turned to look at Connell.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked. He, too, was soaking, wearing just a white T-shirt and black tracksuit bottoms. He was barefoot like her, and his hair was plastered to his head.
‘Yeah,’ she replied, although she wasn’t really; and now, as he took her hand and they crossed the garden, back to the warmth of the house, she wondered if she would ever be.
She pretended she was. Lucy had become adept at pinning on a bright smile for guests, serving up bacon and eggs and recommending local walks, always busy, busy, busy. Her friends thought she was fine; ‘I don’t know how you do all of this,’ Carys had said on mor
e than one occasion.
Now Lucy didn’t either.
Connell hugged her in the hallway, but she just wanted to go to bed now and be alone. She thanked him for coming outside – for being there – and headed upstairs ahead of him, where she tucked in the children and kissed them goodnight. Then she padded quietly into her own room and lay on top of her bed, not caring that her wet sweater and pyjamas were soaking the bed linen.
That was it, she decided. She had tried, and done her damnedest to persuade everyone that she was coping fine – but in fact, her mother had been right.
It was over.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was Rikke who had persuaded Lucy not to do anything rash. ‘Look how happy and settled the children are here,’ she’d said next morning when she’d showed up to take the children to school, and Connell had headed back to Nottingham.
In the bright, cool sunshine after the storm, Lucy agreed that she wouldn’t make any major decisions right now. However, after she had battled on alone for nearly two years, last night had taken something out of her. Her fight, perhaps, or her grit. She had surveyed the damage again, and tried to console the children, who were devastated by the sight of the smashed shed and ravaged oak. And she decided: she really had had enough. In early spring, when the garden was starting to bloom, she would put Rosemary Cottage up for sale. Which left Christmas to consider …
‘You will be coming to us this year, won’t you?’ Anna had asked a couple of days before.
‘Maybe,’ Lucy had replied, ‘but d’you mind if I talk it over with the kids first? I’d just like to make sure that’s what we all want to do.’
‘Oh. Don’t they want to come to us?’ She’d sounded hurt.
‘I’m sure they do,’ Lucy had said quickly. ‘It’s just, I don’t want to assume anything. I still have to be careful with them, you know.’
‘Of course I know that, love. But we’d love you to come.’
Lucy had exhaled slowly. Lately, she had started to feel that she wanted to regain some control over what they did as a family. She no longer had that dinghy-in-a-storm feeling; she was stronger now, and surer of what was right for her and the children. And if they were to move, Lucy felt that it was only right to have Christmas here, just the three of them. She couldn’t leave this house without celebrating it here for the last time. And now, she wondered, would Kenny perhaps let her buy one of his trees? The shed was just a pile of smashed timbers, but she could go all out to make the house as sparkly and beautiful as possible.
If they were to have Christmas at Rosemary Cottage, it would be the Christmas to end all Christmases.
Fuelled by sheer determination, she had ploughed through the last few weeks, being attentive to the few guests who came to stay during the colder months. While James still popped in from time to time, and she was always happy to see him, she sensed a slight distance emanating from him and wondered if she had offended him somehow. When the children told him about the ongoing stained-glass project at school, masterminded by Connell, she detected a catch in his voice as he expressed enthusiasm. What on earth was going on with him? His dad seemed pretty stable, as far as she could gather, and she assumed – and hoped – nothing was going on with Spike, or his ex. James just seemed rather troubled and she couldn’t fathom why. Had he been offended when she’d turned down his offer of helping to rebuild her shed?
‘There’s no point,’ she’d said, perhaps a little sharply. Couldn’t he understand that it would never be the same, and that she had no need for it anyway?
‘I can help out more, if you need me to,’ Rikke said as they sat having coffee at Lucy’s kitchen table one icy December morning, while the children were at school.
‘You have so much else going on, though,’ Lucy remarked. ‘I know how busy you are. Are you still visiting Kenny?’
She smiled. ‘Oh, yes. Need to keep him on his toes. But if it would make a difference to you, and persuade you to stay in the village …’
‘You’re an enormous help already,’ Lucy murmured.
Rikke sipped from the white china mug. ‘I’m really fond of Marnie and Sam. I’d really miss you all if you moved away.’
Lucy reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘Let’s just focus on Christmas at the moment.’
‘You know I’m going home for a couple of weeks?’
Lucy nodded; Rikke had mentioned her forthcoming trip to Copenhagen. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said firmly. ‘We’ll still be here when you get back.’ She paused and picked up her phone. ‘I got this email this morning. It’s from the new CEO from my old company. Max, the one who wanted me out, has been ousted and this new woman wants me to pop in for a chat.’
‘You’d seriously give up all of this, to go back to your old company?’ Rikke looked aghast.
‘I’m not making any decisions right now,’ Lucy said. ‘A short-term contract’s coming up, but it doesn’t start until April. It’s a maternity cover and it’s at a much higher level than I was working at before.’ She caught Rikke’s concerned gaze. ‘And then, if it worked out, there might be a permanent position at that grade.’
‘Oh.’ Rikke placed her mug on the table and smoothed back her short blonde hair. ‘It’s a fashion company, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Well, lingerie actually, but my friend Andrew told me they’re looking to branch out into other areas. Nina, the new boss, wants to expand into luxury nightwear, yoga wear, that kind of thing. It’s kind of appealing.’
Lucy passed her her phone, and Rikke frowned as she read the email. ‘She seems very keen.’
‘Nothing’s definite,’ Lucy added, ‘and please don’t mention anything to the children right now.’
‘No, of course not.’ She handed Lucy’s phone back to her. ‘Is this all because of the storm that night? Is that it?’
‘Oh, no,’ Lucy said firmly, ‘it’s more than that. It’s … well, it’s the whole thing really. It’s everything.’
She was oddly touched by how deflated Rikke seemed when she left, and she didn’t even want to consider how the children would feel about leaving Burley Bridge. However, they were resilient kids, as they had proved in the way they had settled here, made friends and even coped with losing their dad. Lucy was immensely proud of them, and she was convinced that they’d manage this next step together, if it happened. Max’s brash approach had failed dramatically and Nina Kerridge had been brought in to sort things out.
Alone now, she reread the email:
Hi Lucy,
I hope you’re well. I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you since I started here at Claudine. I wanted to give you the heads up as early as possible. I know you have your thing going on in the country, and you’ve had an awful lot to cope with in the past couple of years. I was so sorry to hear about your husband and I do hope it’s okay to get in touch now.
I have considered this carefully and I keep coming back to the fact that you’re the obvious person to step in when Dana goes on maternity leave this spring. You know the company so well and have a rounded, considered approach as well as a respect for the brand heritage. You work so well with people and would be a real asset here. It’s not your old head buyer position I’m thinking of. I’m looking for someone to work closely with me, as my second-in-charge.
Lucy sipped the dregs of her tepid coffee. She knew Nina a little, from way back; in fact, Connell knew her too. They had moved in similar circles at college, and Lucy had kept tabs on Nina’s career as she had cut her teeth with a middle-of-the-road high street brand, before moving to a more senior position at a cutting edge chain. She was rather chilly, Lucy remembered – hugely driven, undoubtedly gifted and razor-sharp. She would be inspiring to work for. Maybe a new challenge like this was just what she needed.
As you probably know, the email concluded, it’s been a bit of a rescue mission here, but once things are steady again we have lots of new developments that I’d love you to be part of. Do give me a ring if you�
��d like to meet up to discuss this further. I do hope it’s a yes.
With all best wishes,
Nina
Lucy would contact her, certainly, but first she had a more urgent call to make. She picked up her phone and took a deep breath before calling her mother to tell her that she and the children would be staying at Rosemary Cottage for Christmas.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
James was washing up after lunch at his father’s house when the police arrived. ‘Is there a Mr Halsall here?’ asked the younger of the two officers at the front door.
James frowned. ‘I assume you mean my dad – Kenny Halsall?’
‘That’s right. He made the call.’
‘Dad called the police?’ he exclaimed. ‘What about?’
‘Can we come in?’ the same officer asked.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He beckoned them in, wondering whether to wake his father from his nap. He had been even more cantankerous than usual today, irritated to hear that Rikke would be going to Copenhagen for Christmas – ‘She needs a holiday, Dad,’ he had pointed out – and hadn’t taken well to James’s suggestion that perhaps they should try to find someone else to drop in daily to help out.
The two officers glanced around the room, and James saw his father’s home through their eyes: superficially tidied but still cluttered, the cats prowling between books and newspapers piled against the walls, the semi-drawn curtains adding to the general feeling of gloom. ‘There’s been a theft reported,’ the older man replied.
James rubbed at his forehead, trying to make sense of this. ‘Dad’s having a nap and I don’t want to disturb him. Can I deal with this?’
‘We really need to speak with your father,’ the younger man said, so James tapped on Kenny’s bedroom door and he emerged a few moments later, slightly dishevelled, in a voluminous checked flannel shirt and jeans, scratching at his beard.
‘Dad – the police are here,’ James started. ‘Can you come through?’
‘The police?’ Kenny looked startled. ‘What do they want?’