Forgive Me Not

by Samantha Tonge

  Dear Andrea,

  Hi. I hope you and Mum are well – and that you have a good Christmas.

  I’m writing to let you know that I’ve got into treatment.

  What I’m really writing to say, though, is that I’m so sorry. For everything. All the trouble I caused. The money you had to spend to bail me out. The names I called you. The lying. The stealing. Me and my problems taking up so much of your time.

  You had every right to be angry. Looking back, I’m surprised you put up with me for so long. We’re sisters, but that doesn’t entitle me to your unconditional love. I took you for granted.

  We were close as children, weren’t we? Like the time we both got tattoos. Mum went mad. We couldn’t stop laughing, which made her even angrier when she found out they were fake. Plus now and then we’d speak in our GCSE French so that she couldn’t understand. Sometimes we were proper little devils.

  I remember how we wanted to call our new home Forget-Me-Not Farm. Mum said it sounded silly. We thought it was cute.

  You’d help me with school projects and I taught you how to use contouring kits, even though I was only fifteen and you were almost twenty. We used to walk around arm in arm. When did that stop? I reckoned you gave the best hugs. You thought me funny even without telling jokes. I liked that.

  I’ll never forget that cake we made Mum for her birthday – the one that was supposed to look like the farm. My marzipan pink pigs looked more like thumbs. Your marshmallow sheep fell off at the last minute.

  You and me, Andrea, we’ve always been so different and yet that never seemed to matter. I love marmalade. You hate it. My music taste is eclectic. You only like big band and jazz. Your feet are a generous size seven, mine a diminutive four. Growing fruit and vegetables interests you. I prefer animals.

  That person… the drunk… it was me but it wasn’t. I was ill.

  At the same time, that’s no excuse – I take responsibility for my actions and I intend to apologise to everyone in the village.

  I know it’s asking a lot, but I’d like to visit. Will you just think about it? I’d be so grateful so that I could explain; try to make up for the past. My address and phone number are on the back of the envelope.

  Please give my love to Mum.

  Emma X

  5 months before going back

  Emma sat in the Quaker meeting room. Every time the door opened, she looked up hoping it would be Rachel. Now that treatment was over, she missed a daily dose of her friend’s humour. Rachel had temporarily gone back to work. Emma was in recovery services. They chatted on WhatsApp and met up when they could. A weekly definite was this evening’s AA meeting.

  She took off her hat and scarf and chatted briefly to her friend Bev. From across the room, Old Len gave a thumbs-up and Emma half-heartedly gave one back. She tried to remember what Len had said to her at her first meeting: It doesn’t get better, but you do. In other words, life still happened – bereavement, fallings-out, divorce, illness – but AA seemed to give people a coping mechanism.

  She would never forget her first ever meeting. It had taken place shortly after her detox. She’d stood outside the church door and wondered if she’d be sick, swearing inwardly at Dave from Listening EAR who’d pushed her to attend. Just the words Alcoholics Anonymous had brought to mind an image of men in dirty raincoats who slept on park benches. The irony wasn’t lost on her that it wasn’t so long since she’d been one of those rough sleepers.

  She’d entered the room to a most unexpected tableau. Polished shoes. Clean clothes. Shaved faces. Bright eyes. All accompanied by friendly chat and the clink of mugs. Men had congregated on the far side, women nearby. They all exchanged hugs and passed around chocolate biscuits.

  A woman called Julie had offered her a brew. ‘Well done for getting here on your own. Someone had to bring me my first time.’ She’d jerked her head to a nearby member. ‘Bev, this is Emma. She’s new too. Now, sit yourself down. My advice today is to just listen. Don’t look for the differences in people’s stories – just see if you can relate to their feelings.’

  Bang on the hour, the man chosen to chair announced the start of the meeting. Someone read from the Big Book – whatever that was. The chairman welcomed Emma, Bev and another newcomer who was crying, then talked about his own drinking history and how AA made him better. Next, other people randomly shared, one at a time, airing problems or sharing their inspiring journeys.

  ‘Just keep coming back,’ Old Len had said at the end. He was one of the group’s old-timers – twenty-three years sober. ‘We’re all here for you – we’ve been in your shoes. Take it one day at a time.’ He’d pushed a newcomer’s pack into her hands. It included a list of the region’s meetings. Women gave Emma their phone numbers. She left as quickly as possible.

  She came back to the present and smiled at the memory and her thoughts about Len. Poor bastard, she’d said to herself on the way home – fancy still attending meetings after all that time. She’d never go back. It just wasn’t for her. Except that she couldn’t stop thinking about how content everyone had seemed. She’d expected people to be glumly sitting on their hands, desperate for a drink. Instead they’d spoken cheerily about grandkids, holidays, last night’s telly…

  She looked up. Rachel hugged several people and took off her duffel coat. Then she grabbed a coffee, sat down next to Emma and yawned.

  ‘Hard day at the office?’ said Emma in a bright voice.

  ‘It’s tiring combining the job with the rehab training course. I can’t wait to jack in the web designing. But until then, some of us have to work to support the economy. From what you say, recovery services is all about meditation, gardening and aromatherapy.’

  Emma punched her arm playfully. ‘This week we’re also doing a course on anger management. It’s great picking up new friends and hobbies – makes me realise how much I used to isolate.’

  ‘Talking of new beginnings…’ Rachel cleared her throat. ‘You’re looking at the proud owner of a gorgeous tabby cat.’

  ‘What?’

  Rachel laughed. ‘I know – I can’t believe I’ve taken responsibility for another living being. He belonged to my neighbours, who are moving abroad. They were so worried about leaving him behind, and he does have an irresistible purr. I’ve renamed him Idris, after the gorgeous Mr Elba. My feline friend is so handsome.’ She took out her phone and showed Emma a photo. ‘I always wanted a cat when I was little, but it wouldn’t have worked in a tower block and Mum said the last thing we needed was another mouth to feed. But I looked after the hamsters at school and eventually persuaded Mum that a goldfish would be cheap enough. I used to feed it biscuit crumbs on the sly. The water was always slightly cloudy. Perhaps that was why. Mum always said it was perfect company for a chatterbox like me, though she didn’t like the tank’s smell. I was heartbroken when she gave Bubbles away without me knowing.’ She squeezed Emma’s hand. ‘But what about you? How’s today been?’

  ‘Okay.’ Emma couldn’t face talking about it.

  Today was the twentieth of January – the hardest date ever. Her due date. The day when she would have finally met her baby. Would she have had Joe’s dirty-blonde hair or Emma’s small feet? She passed one hand across her stomach. I still think of you, little Josephine.

  She sipped her coffee. ‘I told you about Andrea?’

  ‘I was sorry she sent your letter back unopened. Will you write to her again?’

  ‘There’s no point. I’ll leave it now until I’m feeling stronger, and then I’ll go back. Apologise face to face. What about your mum?’

  ‘We’ve agreed to meet up next week.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘I hope so. She sounded so bitter. We’ll see.’

  The meeting started and both of them listened. Emma didn’t share, even though she really should have got her feelings out into the open. Instead, her mind kept drifting… Today she might have been in hospital, cradling her daughter, learning how to feed her and change napp
ies.

  All week, as the twentieth approached, discontent had fluttered in her stomach. Talking would have helped to put it in perspective. Talking would have stopped it leading to negative thoughts about Bligh’s dad and Ned, about Andrea sending back the letter and how that proved Emma must still be a bad person.

  On the way home, she stopped outside a baby store and stared at the toys and buggies. The shop next door was an off-licence, and for just the briefest of moments Emma glanced inside.

  Just one glass won’t hurt, said the voice on her shoulder that she hadn’t heard for a long time.

  Chapter 18

  The farm fell into a different routine over the next fortnight. Stig started to visit every day. The shed needed a makeover inside due to holes in the roof and mouldy walls. He did the necessary work in return for food. Once his bandage came off, Gail stopped calling him Uncle Paul.

  He started to stay longer and grab a wash and a late snack after work. Conversation between Emma and Bligh became easier. Nothing changed between her and Andrea, but now and again something about her older sister softened. Emma heard her briefly whistle, and Andrea didn’t snap when she forgot to mention that the bank had rung.

  It was Thursday, and they were almost at the end of a long, humid week. Emma had forgotten how busy the summer got. She fell straight asleep most evenings when she went back to Phil’s. She hadn’t even opened those envelopes that she’d found – in fact she hadn’t yet decided whether she should, so they’d remained stashed in her bedside drawer.

  Following an afternoon spent digging potatoes, Stig had cleaned up, and Emma had given his clothes a quick wash. Dash and the Duchess lay in the yard, panting by a large bowl of water. Gail sat in the rocking chair, fiddling with her sewing-themed necklace. Stig had found an old bench in the shed, rubbed it down and repainted it. Now there were ample seats for everyone.

  Emma looked around. Her chest glowed at the familiarity.

  ‘It was good of Ted to bring us those chocolates. You should have seen his grandchildren petting the rabbits this morning,’ she said as Bligh joined them. Stig and Andrea were sitting on the bench chatting about their favourite David Attenborough programmes.

  He dropped into the deckchair next to Emma’s. ‘They’re good kids. Didn’t they clean out the hutch?’

  She nodded.

  ‘How did Ted’s meeting go? You seemed to be gone for most of the afternoon.’

  Stig and Andrea stopped talking.

  Emma sipped her lemonade. ‘Yes, I only got back an hour ago. It went well. Great, in fact. It didn’t take long to persuade most people that the majority of rough sleepers aren’t a problem – that the real threat is the big out-of-town retailers, and that should be their focus. A few spoke about appearances mattering and that the homeless would put off shoppers, but several others piped up and said that so far they’d not committed any crimes.’

  ‘What about that bloke who’s made camp by the taxi rank near the Red Lion?’ said Bligh. ‘I walked past last week and he was blind drunk and hurling abuse at people.’

  ‘I spoke to him on Wednesday’s soup run.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  She looked at Stig. She’d offered to take the man to AA, and he’d told her to eff off. Not so long ago, that had been her, full of resentments, denying her problems… This man hadn’t hit his rock bottom yet.

  ‘The police were at the meeting and are going to keep an eye out. You can’t write off a whole bunch of people just because of one. I’ll have another word with him on the soup run tomorrow night. You could tell that some people at the meeting weren’t happy, but fortunately Ted had a master move up his sleeve.’

  Bligh raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You know the couple who’ve been begging outside the bank on Church Street? I told you they’d been in care? Well an older woman camps out with them now. Apparently she used to run her own coffee shop. Ted invited her to stand up and tell her story. Her business was doing okay until a well-known brand opened up opposite. She just couldn’t compete with their exotic-sounding lattes and decadent interior. She ran into debt and lost everything.’ Emma sipped her drink. ‘You could tell the local entrepreneurs were really shocked at the thought that they could end up like her. Anyway, the upshot is that the meeting swiftly moved on to brainstorming how to boost the local economy.’

  ‘What ideas did people come up with?’ asked Andrea.

  ‘Small ones to start, where businesses club together to bring in money. For example, the bookshop is going to try to get more signings and other events, and they’ll get the teashop by the church to do the catering. But one standout idea was to run a Sunday market. Mrs Beatty visits them across the region and suggested Healdbury start its own, involving local farms and craftsmen. Each shop could run a stall. Foxglove Farm could sell its produce and hand out cards for the online vegetable delivery business. Ted would set up a cheese stall alongside the bakery, and they’d push each other’s products by handing out sandwich samples. Polly and Alan have got a popcorn and candy floss machine they found in the pub’s cellar and have never used…’

  Polly and Alan. It was becoming increasingly difficult to be in their presence, but in a way, this made Emma focus more fully on her future. She’d come to a decision. She’d accepted that she just wasn’t academic enough to get the qualifications to be a vet, and anyway, she didn’t need the ego boost of that status any more. But what about a veterinary nurse? Working at Foxglove Farm again had reignited her passion for animals. Maybe, if she ended up in prison, she’d be allowed to do some sort of distance learning course. That would give her a purpose. Perhaps make her sentence bearable – not that she’d deserve respite. An image of Ned’s young face flashed into her mind. She felt sick and forced herself back to answering Andrea’s question.

  ‘… and the owner of the teashop thought they could sell takeaway drinks and cakes.’ She put down her glass. ‘Everyone was quite excited by the end. Even Phil thought he may as well try ordering in some new pet toys to sell. We could offer something more personal than the bigger brands and do really well at Christmas. Also, a resident who’s retired here now and who used to be a journalist will help get some coverage in the local newspaper – a story with heart about locals doing their best to compete with the big boys of business. He reckoned the Manchester Evening News would definitely go for it, and…’

  The Duchess got to her feet and ran across the yard, tail wagging.

  Stig stood up, his brow knotted. ‘That’s usually how she greets a friend.’

  Emma started to get up too, but Bligh raised his palm. ‘I’m nearest. Someone must be lost.’ He disappeared around to the front of the farmhouse.

  Minutes later, angry shouting came from that direction. Dash joined the Duchess and both dogs started barking. Stig jumped up as Bligh and another man came into view, fighting. Bligh threw a punch and the smaller man landed on the gravel. Emma squinted in the late sunlight, trying to make out his face in between punches. It was clean-shaven and tanned. His blonde hair was shoulder length but styled. He wore pumps, skinny jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt. He lunged at solid Bligh and head-butted him in the stomach.

  Andrea shouted at them to stop, while Emma charged right in. Stig hauled her back and put himself between the two men.

  ‘Violence isn’t the answer,’ he said, just as Bligh’s fist accidentally hit him in the eye.

  A wail came from Gail, who stood up and started to pull at her cardigan sleeve. Andrea hurried to her side.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ shouted Emma as the Duchess snarled and took hold of Bligh’s trouser leg. She grabbed the dog’s collar and with all her strength pulled her away.

  ‘Emma, it’s me,’ said a voice that made the hairs on her neck stand on end.

  She stepped away from Bligh and stared at the man’s face. Her knees buckled. ‘Joe? Joe? Is that really you?’

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it, the one who got you up the duff and then did a runner,’ said Bligh
.

  Andrea’s face paled.

  Chapter 19

  ‘You’re pregnant?’ said Andrea.

  ‘Emma?’ said Joe, and wiped his nose with his arm. She stared at the blood.

  Bligh looked down at his fists. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Stig. ‘I didn’t mean for you to get in the way.’

  Joe. Joe was really here. Emma walked up to him and scanned that familiar face, the expressive eyes, the sardonic mouth. A wave of pain washed through her chest. For a second, all the old feelings came back – the crisp agony that had cut through her when he left.

  ‘Stig? Good to see you, mate,’ said Joe in a daze. The two men hugged. He stared back at Emma. ‘What’s this about a baby?’

  ‘I’d like to know that too,’ said Andrea in a strained voice.

  Gail was still pulling at her cardigan sleeve. ‘Is this my fault?’ she said. ‘All this noise – am I in trouble?’

  Andrea breathed in and put an arm around her mum’s shoulders. ‘Of course not. It’s just the men being silly. Come on, let’s get you something to eat, and then how about a nice relaxing bath?’

  ‘We should give Emma and Joe some space,’ said Stig, one hand over his face. He turned to Andrea. ‘Thanks for today’s work. I’ll get going.’

  ‘First you’ll need a packet of frozen peas on that eye. And it’s nice to have someone around here who knows how to behave.’ Andrea glared at Bligh. ‘Hold on a moment, Stig. I’ll just sort Mum out.’ She looked at Emma and opened her mouth, before changing her mind.

  ‘Andrea, wait,’ said Bligh, and followed her inside.

  Emma led Joe past the animal pens. They reached the weeping willow. She looked him up and down. His arms slid around her. He felt sturdier than before. His embrace used to make her feel so safe.