When she came out of the café, she hugged Rachel goodbye. ‘Thanks for helping me talk it through.’
‘You’re doing great,’ said Rachel. ‘Just keep on going, one day at a time. Forget about the what ifs… there’s no point. And thanks again for helping me too.’
Emma stood for a moment, alone in a warm summer shower, and looked up to the sky. Drops of water landed on her cheeks. She closed her eyes and smiled, feeling lighter than she had in days, grateful for a friend to nudge her back onto the right track.
Thankful for rehab. For a roof over her head. For food. A purpose.
For a mother who’d always done her utmost to keep her safe.
The restlessness inside her dissipated and she went back inside the café to buy cherry scones for Stig, Bligh, Andrea and Mum.
On the way back to catch the train, she passed Primark. Outside, on her old patch, a young man sat behind a Starbucks cup. Emma stopped to put in change. He was called Abdul. His cheeks looked concave and spotty, just like Joe’s used to. She told him she’d been where he was. Words slurring, he told her he had come out of care a year ago. Couldn’t get a job. Emma bought him a sandwich and a latte and placed them on the ground next to him as his eyes closed. Then she delved into her bag, found a tissue and scribbled her case worker’s number on it. Before walking up the street to Piccadilly station, she tucked it into his anorak pocket.
Back at Phil’s, she wrote Andrea a different kind of letter. It was time to start accepting the new status quo and realising that relationships could not be rekindled exactly as they had been before – that some types of pain were not for healing.
This time she didn’t put her letter in an envelope. That way it had to be read.
Dear Andrea,
I just wanted to say, if it’s okay with you, that I’m keeping with what I said and will be sticking around for a while. I’ll stay at Phil’s. He’s agreed to reduce the rent if I help him with a new venture. I will carry on with the soup run. But primarily I’m here to support you with Mum and help out on the farm. I’ll do my best to work everything else around that – if you’ll allow it, despite the pregnancy shock. I’m sorry you’re upset.
I’ll stop pressing for some sort of reconciliation. I think I understand now why you can’t forget everything that has happened. So this is now about us all moving forward, if we can – on your terms.
Attached is a cheque for the boiler. Please take it, if not for you, then for Mum. Winter will be here before you know it and she’ll need to keep warm. It’s the least I can do.
I’ve got some ideas for the online shop, if you and Bligh are interested.
I understand why Gail never told me about my dad. It still hurts, the years I missed out on with him, but I love and respect Mum for protecting us. She did what she thought was best. I can see that.
See you tomorrow.
With love,
Emma X
PS You’ve always been the best sister and daughter.
As Saturday evening drew in, Emma hurried up Broadgrass Hill to the farm. She left the letter in the bag of scones in the kitchen. She grabbed some strawberry leaves for the rabbits and scratched the goats’ chins. She surveyed the farm, full of gratitude for the life she was leading now. Under the gaze of Andrea and Polly, she gave Gail a quick hug before walking back down to the village.
Chapter 26
A few weeks later, and Emma’s comfortable routine had been restored. Comfortable, that was, despite Bligh’s frostiness and Andrea’s continuing distance. But that was okay. Emma handed over a cheque for the boiler. It wasn’t questioned, so her sister must have read the letter.
Day by day the tender affection she felt for her mum strengthened. She no longer felt anger, just a sense of sadness for what Gail must have endured. Yes, she would always believe that her mum had been wrong. Emma had a right to know that her father hadn’t completely abandoned her. But what helped her deal with her sense of indignation was accepting that Gail’s intentions had come from the heart. Emma didn’t need the explanation she’d now never get from her mother. Every one of her youngest daughter’s birthdays must have been so hard for her.
The rooms of AA were full of previously abused partners. Emma knew how difficult it was to prise oneself out of those situations. Gail had succeeded. Emma’s sense of affection for her held hands with admiration. Part of Emma’s problem in the past had been that she always believed that life could be better elsewhere. A yearning for status and validation had led her away from the things and people that really mattered. Rachel was right - who was to say that getting to know her father would have made her feel whole?
Crops ripened. Their respective pickles and jams stocked the shop. A chill descended into the evenings. Emma swore autumn started in the second half of August now. And with the hint of a change of season, Andrea suggested that Stig and the Duchess move permanently into the barn. She provided him with towels, bedding for an old mattress, Gail’s unused alarm clock and a stack of her own favourite novels. Bligh gave him clothes he no longer wore and shared toiletries if he saw a two-for-one offer. Dash slept in the barn too, his new canine friend now owning a slice of the affection he had once felt only for humans.
Emma wondered if her sister realised what a support she’d been to Stig. She never asked questions about his past or future. Her matter-of-fact manner meant there was no embarrassment about money. Stig was more transparent and made it clear how he felt without actually saying it. If he and Andrea shared a joke, the humour would prop up his face for hours. When he sensed she was tired, he always said the same thing, in a jokey tone – ‘One lump or two?’ – knowing that the reply was neither. Then, after handing her a mug of tea, he’d insist on taking over her task. And she let him. Independent Andrea never did that. Perhaps that was her only tell.
Gail had started to obsess about the summer barbecues she’d once loved. Emma could picture them now. Her mum had become expert at making vegetable burgers, using chickpeas and peppers, with mozzarella running through the middle. She’d provided meat for her daughters and their friends, but it had to be free range, and in her recipe book she listed various marinades. She’d thrown together bowls of colourful salad made with their own fresh produce.
It was strange. As the weeks passed, Emma no longer remembered just the bad times. Like the barbecue when she’d had too much Pimm’s and knocked into a trestle table. A large trifle had fallen to the floor, jelly, custard and cream splattering across the concrete, laced with fragments of glass. Mum had been so embarrassed.
Instead her memory’s go-to was now happier times, like the year a young Emma and Bligh had been allowed to stay up late and barbecue marshmallows in the dark. They’d snuck around to the bench in front of the weeping willow and contemplated life and its meaning. Bligh insisted aliens lived on the moon and ran life on earth using powerful remote controls. Whereas Emma reckoned its inhabitants were dead spirits and that she would prove this when she and Bligh ended up there one day. Either way, both wanted to visit and swore they’d become astronauts.
Emma suggested they hold a barbecue to see if it spiked her mum’s interest. It could take place during the bank holiday weekend right at the end of August.
‘Fine, but I’ve no time to spare,’ Andrea said. ‘If you’re prepared to sort out the food, go ahead – as long as the guest list is short.’ She gave Emma a sideways glance. ‘And don’t include some dramatic invite to your father. For a start, it wouldn’t be fair on Mum.’
‘You honestly think I’d do that?’
Andrea’s cheeks tinged pink but still she persevered. ‘Are you going to contact him?’
‘I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind,’ Emma replied. ‘But no. Not at the moment. I’m still getting my head around finding those envelopes. This whole thing… it’s huge. Actually, I’m not sure I ever will get in touch. A few cards don’t compare to everything Mum’s done. And I believe you’re right – Mum wanted me to find them when… when
she was gone. I’ll respect that wish and shelve any decisions about contact until the future. It’s not about me at the moment. It’s about Mum. Her wishes. Her health. Her happiness.’
Andrea stared as if briefly recognising a person from the distant past that she used to know.
After breakfast one morning, Emma sat down with her mum outside the barn. Gail got tired in the afternoons, so it was better to discuss the arrangements before lunch. As she rocked to and fro in her chair, fiddling with the sewing-themed necklace, she was quite definite about who the guests should be. She swore she’d never liked the vet, even though she knew him well and they used to often meet for a drink. But she insisted on inviting a one-time acquaintance, Joe, otherwise known as the man who can head-butt.
The guest list, dictated specifically by Gail, comprised:
Andrea
Bligh
Polly and Alan and thingamabob
The woman who talks too much
Pet shop Phil
The man who smells (Stig) (she no longer thought of him as Uncle Paul)
The cheese man and his grandkids
The man who can head-butt
The barbecue would take place on the bank holiday Monday afternoon. The villagers had wanted to hold the inaugural Sunday market the day before, but it was taking longer than anyone had anticipated to get the agreement of the council and trading licenses sorted. Still, the local papers had already featured the story and the delay had given people time to really think through their products.
As for food, Emma took ideas from her mum’s old recipe book. Gail flicked through it, smiling now and again. Emma took her cue from the pictures her mum stared at most and concentrated on keeping things simple.
Chicken breasts with tikka masala marinade
Pork chops with rosemary and garlic
Cheese and caramelised onion quiche
Rice salad
Potato wedges
Coleslaw
White and brown rolls
Chocolate anything
(Fish and chips – hopefully Gail would forget about this)
As the days passed, they refined the menu. They decided on chocolate tart and mocha muffins for dessert. Emma was thrilled that Joe would be able to come. In fact everyone on the list could make it apart from thingamabob.
Ever since the list had been compiled, Emma had found it increasingly difficult to get Ned out of her head. As her father slowly exited the darkest spot in her mind, Polly and Alan’s son crept back in to fill it. At night she started to suffer nightmares like the ones she’d had in rehab. In them she relived the crash – hitting something and not knowing what it was. Except that when she pulled up at Foxglove Farm, on top of the bonnet was a mangled bike and a pile of bloodied newspapers.
Chapter 27
Gail was taking her usual late-afternoon nap. It was a cloudy day but still warm. Emma told Andrea she wouldn’t be long. Her sister was cleaning out the chicken coop with the help of Stig. Bligh was on the computer designing labels for the new items they’d sell when the Sunday market was eventually up and running.
He’d done a lot of research and found sites where you could personalise items like cups and tea towels. Already thinking ahead to Christmas, he decided they needed to offer more gift options. So last night he, Andrea and Emma had brainstormed ideas such as reproducing photographs of Foxglove Farm onto a range of products. The name wouldn’t be needed – it wasn’t a well-known place – but scenic photos might help items sell. Andrea had asked ex-teacher Stig to share his views on what might appeal to younger customers. He came up with pens, notebooks and mouse mats bearing cute or funny photos of the farm’s rescued animals.
Andrea’s face practically split in two after the work was done and Stig instructed the Duchess to perform her two tricks – holding out her paw for a shake, and a rollover. Emma had forgotten how infectious her sister’s laughter was – the way you could hear it rise from her belly and suddenly shoot out.
She set off down Broadgrass Hill. She had been unable to face lunch. Gail had managed a cheese and ham toastie followed by a small slice of the frosted carrot cake that she’d helped Emma make the day before. The recipe had come out of her scrapbook. Emma never tired of flicking through the pages and reminiscing over the meals the three of them used to make together. Vegetable hotpot – that was a favourite of Mum’s. Parsnip mash, delicious with double cream and a pinch of nutmeg. And raspberry mousse, refreshing and light. On Sundays they’d really treat themselves, with a roast followed by cinnamon apple crumble.
The recipes she was adding at the back had already filled a lot of the spare pages. Stig had come up with ideas for the soup run, including potato and leek soup and a tomato relish his mum made every Christmas.
The new pages of the book represented the new story of her life.
She approached the village, but instead of continuing ahead, she turned right. The church stood behind the Tudor hall next to the butcher’s. It was made up of grey stone, crumbling in parts, with a small spire above the belfry. The tiled roof was covered with intermittent moss. At the front was a clock that bore Roman numerals. The large oak door had two circular black handles. Sunlight illuminated the reds, yellows and purples of stained glass.
The graveyard extended the whole way round and was home to an array of headstones and sculptures. Emma’s stomach rolled as she pushed open the little entrance gate. She wondered if Ned’s stone carried his full name, and where to find it. But as she turned left and started to cut her way through patches of ragged grass, the answer was suddenly staring her straight in the face.
Polly and Alan were standing next to a white headstone, accompanied by a big helium balloon bearing the number 18. Emma slipped behind a tall sculpture of an angel, feeling anything but angelic. The couple were smartly dressed, Alan in a suit, Polly wearing a tailored dress. Fresh flowers lay at their feet. They had their arms around each other’s waists and were speaking to the stone. After a while, Alan took his phone out and fiddled with it. An Ed Sheeran song started to play, and Polly looked up at him. Emma could make out tears in the landlady’s eyes.
She’d heard Polly talk about Ned once when she’d visited Andrea, saying that he was worth ten times the huge amount she and Alan had paid for fertility treatment. Ned must have been about fourteen at the time, and had spent the previous two days looking after Alan, who was ill with a bug, while Polly ran the pub. She’d described how he dashed home from school in his lunch hour and made soup. Then, at the end of the day, he’d read one of Alan’s favourite books out loud and kept him supplied with fluids and cold flannels.
Emma looked back at the couple. The music had stopped. They stood wrapped up in each other, swaying gently as if it were still playing. Eventually Alan kissed his hand and placed it on the headstone, while Polly blew a kiss through the air. The balloon ducked backwards as if it had been hit.
She could hold off no longer. Tonight she would talk to Andrea and Bligh, before going to the police.
She slipped away and left the churchyard. The bench outside squeaked as she collapsed onto it. A trail of ants led into a crack in the bottom of the cobbled wall behind her, a kind of regimented form of chaos. Maybe that was what prison was like.
If Ned was alive, Polly and Alan would no doubt have been in the pub today, throwing a huge party for their son’s eighteenth birthday. He’d probably have been preparing for university. Perhaps he’d have a girlfriend. Would he have been a doctor? A teacher? An entrepreneur? His parents would never know.
She got up and walked past the side of the church hall, turning right down the village’s main street. She passed the butcher’s and crossed the road at the Badger Inn. She wanted one last tour of the village to appreciate everything she used to take for granted.
To start with, she just stood outside the pub and breathed in the tobacco smoke from a nearby customer nursing a cigarette and a pint of beer. As a child, she’d had happy times here. The landlords before Polly and Alan ha
d loved children and always put a straw and a cocktail umbrella in her orange juice. One Christmas, there had been a lock-in. She and Andrea had been so excited. The locals had played cards and darts and the landlords had made turkey sandwiches. Emma had felt so grown up drinking her fancy juice as the adults jokingly put fingers to their lips to keep everyone quiet.
She crossed the road and paused by the pet shop. Phil and Sheila had been good employers and given her a Christmas bonus. As her drinking got worse, they’d tried to be lenient when she turned up late or mischarged a customer. She’d loved that job. Often she’d stayed late to play with the hamsters or cuddle a new batch of rabbits. Some things didn’t change.
‘Coming in?’ said a voice behind her.
Emma turned around.
Phil shrugged. ‘Thought I’d try my hand at making a lasagne tonight. You can share the inevitable carnage if you want.’
‘Tempting as that invitation is, I’ll have to decline.’
‘There’s no pleasing some people,’ he said, and they both smiled.
‘I’m going for a walk, and then I’ve just got to pop back to the farm to see Andrea and Bligh.’ Her voice thickened.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes. Yes, it’s fine. I… I just wanted to say… thanks, Phil – thanks for taking me in. I’m so grateful. I don’t know how I’d have managed without a room here.’
‘What’s brought this on? Had too much sun today?’
How Emma valued the gentle humour that was developing between them. If only she didn’t have to leave, just when she was forging a new life in Healdbury.
She made her way down the street, past the estate agent’s that used to be a sweet shop. Andrea would always choose toffees, Emma fruit bonbons. Mum gave them extra pocket money if they did one of the messier jobs, like mucking out the pigs. They’d go to the newsagent’s and enjoy choosing magazines or new stationery. And then Andrea hit her teens and started to shop with friends instead. She always invited Emma, but it was a kind of unwritten rule that Emma would say no. Andrea would make it up to her by playing a favourite board game when she returned. Or baking together when Emma wasn’t quite old enough to work the oven on her own.
Forgive Me Not Page 22