Nathan helps me up onto it, and places my hand very specifically on its neck.
‘What is that?’ I ask him as my fingers rub over lines that were definitely not there the last time I saw this horse. I lean over for a better look, only to see my name carved at the side of the neck, exactly the same place as Ivy is carved on the lead horse.
‘You named it Ness,’ I say, glad he’s still standing beside me because it’s probably the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me and I quite literally melt against him as he hugs me.
‘The owner is going to run a competition for children to name the other horses. Until now, Ivy was the only one that had a name.’
‘Thank you.’
I feel his smile against my skin. ‘Thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you, Ness. This is the best job I’ve ever done. Next time I have a carousel to work on, you’re coming with me.’
‘I could get used to that.’
He doesn’t move away, just stands beside the horse I’m sitting on, holding on to the pole, with one arm around me and his head against mine.
When all the horses have got a rider, and there’s still a crowd waiting on the beach, Charles starts the engine, and it feels like there’s magic in the air as the carousel begins turning for the first time in full splendour, the lights twinkling, the bright paint gleaming, the sparkling horses galloping up and down as the bearings at the top of the central pole turn, twisting the bars that hold them, giving them the feeling of jumping as the speed picks up, and children squeal with excitement.
The old organ strikes up, and I recognise the first notes immediately. I look up at Nathan in surprise and he smiles back at me, because the organ is playing ‘If I Loved You’.
It’s nothing like a traditional carousel tune, but I know he’s done it because he knew how much I’d love it. And it’s overwhelming as I sit there, letting myself feel it all, the gentle motion of the horse, his arm around me and his head still against mine, the smell of sea air and fresh paint, sand between my bare toes when I scrunch them, and the beautiful old organ playing one of my favourite songs.
He only speaks when the ride is coming to an end. ‘I do, you know. Love you.’
I pull back and grin up at him. ‘Me too.’
Mum is on the horse behind us and she squeaks with joy. ‘I told you what that song meant!’
Even Camilla is riding side-saddle on one of the horses, and she calls over to Charles. ‘You need to up your romance game, matey!’
Our friends on the surrounding horses cheer as Nathan kisses me, echoed by the crowd still watching from the sand, and I’m not sure which one of us is blushing more when we pull away as the ride stops and everyone around us starts to dismount.
‘Do you think Ivy would be happy?’ I ask him, not ready to get off yet.
He looks out towards the ocean and then back to me. ‘I think she would. She kept her own love alive for as long as she could. I think she’d be glad to see the carousel with a new lease of life, ready to share the love that was put into it with a new generation.’
I look around me at the beautiful old thing, breathtaking now, unimaginable compared to the pile of debris it was when I arrived six weeks ago. ‘It worked for us.’
‘It did.’ He smiles and kisses me again. ‘And I can’t wait to spend every day in our little cottage, watching it bring magic to everyone else who comes here too.’
After a couple more rides, Nath and I wander a little way down the beach by ourselves. His arms are around me, his chin resting on my head, as we stand in the warm summer sun and watch the delighted faces of children and adults alike enjoying a truly vintage ride by the sea, and I realise that, for the first time, real life is better than any romantic movie.
Maybe there is just a little magic in the air whenever an old carousel turns.
Acknowledgements
Mum, this line is always the same because you’re always there for me. Thank you for the constant patience, support, encouragement, and for always believing in me. Love you lots!
Bill, Toby, Cathie – thank you for always being supportive and enthusiastic!
An extra special thank you to Bev for being so caring, kind, encouraging, and always writing such lovely letters!
Special thanks to two talented authors, great friends, and supportive cheerleaders – Charlotte McFall and Marie Landry!
The lovely and talented fellow HQ authors – I don’t know what I’d do without all of you!
All the lovely authors and bloggers I know on Twitter. You’ve all been so supportive since the very first book, and I want to mention you all by name, but I know I’ll forget someone and I don’t want to leave anyone out, so to everyone I chat to on Twitter or Facebook – thank you.
The little writing group that doesn’t have a name – Sharon Sant, Sharon Atkinson, Dan Thompson, Jack Croxall, Holly Martin, Jane Yates. I can always turn to you guys!
Thank you to Aaron for making me watch Carousel despite my insistence that I would hate it. I loved it, and it turned out to be the final puzzle piece that made this story whole!
Thank you to the team at HQ and especially my fantastic editor, Charlotte Mursell, for all the hard work and support, and for always being there to answer my every question!
And finally, a massive thank you to you for reading!
Turn the page for an exclusive extract from another enchanting novel from Jaimie Admans, It’s a Wonderful Night …
Chapter 1
I’m in the cupboard under the stairs trying to wrangle a naked mannequin up the narrow steps to the back room when I hear the phone ringing. I groan. It’s only going to be a telemarketer, isn’t it? It’s eleven o’clock on a November night and I’m working overtime because, as the manager of the One Light charity shop, it’s my responsibility to get the Christmas window display finished before morning. I don’t have time for discussing ‘an accident I’ve had recently that wasn’t my fault’, mis-sold PPI, or my solar panel needs. Don’t they even stick to normal working hours now?
I’ll ignore it. I take a defiant bite of the fun-size Crunchie I’ve just found a bag of in the cupboard under the stairs. Who put chocolate down here? Maybe the volunteers were trying to hide it from me? It’s obviously leftover from Halloween and that was over a month ago. There’s not usually chocolate hanging around that long if I know it’s there. A day would be pushing it. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad hiding place after all.
The ring is insistent and I have a conscience about ignoring a ringing phone. It could be an emergency. It could be my dad saying he’s fallen and can’t get up or paramedics who have been called out because he’s had another heart scare.
I look at the mannequin’s blank face. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter to it as I try to prop it against the wall, shove the last half of the Crunchie into my mouth and rush through the back room and out onto the shop floor, leaving behind a series of thuds as the mannequin slides back down the steps I’ve just dragged it up.
I’ve forgotten to hit the light switch so the shop floor is in darkness and I trip over a clothing rail and nearly go flying.
‘Hello?’ I say with my mouth full as I grab the handset from behind the counter. It’s far from the polite ‘One Light charity shop, how can I help you?’ that we’re supposed to answer the phone with, but I fully expect the caller to have rung off by now anyway.
‘Do you think it will hurt?’
‘What?’ I say with all eloquence of an inebriated badger, hopping about with the phone in one hand, the other clutching the toe that collided with the clothing rail.
‘If I jump off this bridge?’
I choke on the Crunchie.
‘Are you okay?’ The man’s voice on the other end of the line asks.
‘Yes, thanks.’ I clear my throat a few times, trying to dislodge rouge bits of honeycomb. Only I could greet a suicidal man by choking at him. ‘Shouldn’t it be me asking you that?’
He lets out a laugh that sounds wet and thick, like he’s be
en crying. ‘I’m not the one choking to death. Do you need a glass of water or something?’
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I say, wondering if swallowing actual sandpaper might’ve been more comfortable. ‘I’m so sorry, I’d just shoved an entire fun-size Crunchie into my mouth and then tried to speak. If that isn’t a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is.’
I don’t know why I said that. A recipe for disaster is not me choking on a chocolate bar – it’s a guy about to throw himself off a bridge who doesn’t realise he’s phoned the charity shop for a suicide prevention helpline rather than the suicide prevention helpline itself.
My heart is suddenly pounding and a cold sweat has prickled my forehead. I don’t know what to do. I’ve always been petrified this would happen but never really thought it would. I’ve always thought that the two numbers are printed worryingly close together on our leaflets. Head Office told me I was worrying too much, but I’ve often wondered how easy it would be for someone to get our number muddled up with the helpline number and phone here by mistake. And it seems like the answer has just rung.
What am I going to do? I can’t take this call. I don’t know how to talk someone down off a bridge.
‘Oh, I love Crunchies. Don’t tell me you still have fun-size ones leftover from Halloween?’
‘I think they were hidden from me. I’ve only just found them.’ I’m rambling about nonsense but I don’t know what else to say. I know people think chocolate is the answer to most things, but I doubt it’s likely to help in this situation, and as much as I’d like to keep talking about Cadbury’s honeycomb treat, I can’t keep avoiding his first question.
I go to speak but he gets there first. ‘Can we just keep talking about chocolate? This is the most normal conversation I’ve had for days.’
I let out a nervous laugh. ‘We can talk about anything you want. Chocolate’s always a good topic.’
‘Where’s your hiding place? I never manage to hide mine successfully, I always remember where it is and scoff the lot. I bought boxes of Milk Tray for the family when they were on offer a couple of weeks ago, and let’s just say I’ve now got to go and buy more before Christmas. You can guess what happened to them, right?’
Another nervous laugh. ‘Well, this time, my staff bought them in case any trick or treaters came round before closing time, but none did, so they must’ve hidden them in the cupboard under the stairs of all places. I was just wrestling a naked mannequin out when I found them. Safe to say there aren’t many left now. And I feel a bit sick. Those two points are probably related.’
‘Well, if they’ve been there for a month, you’re only testing them for quality, right?’
I giggle again. How can someone about to throw himself off a bridge make me laugh? ‘Yes. Testing them vigorously.’
He laughs too and the laugh seems to go on for much longer than anything that was actually funny. ‘God, I haven’t laughed in so long,’ he says eventually, sounding out of breath. ‘So what are you doing naked wrestling mannequins under the stairs at this time of night? Aren’t you in a call centre?’
‘Um …’
‘Oh god, please don’t tell me I phoned the wrong number.’ He must be able to hear my hesitation because he suddenly sounds distraught and I hear paper rustling down the line. ‘I have, haven’t I? There are two numbers on here and the leaflet’s all wet and the ink’s blurred. God, I’m such an idiot.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re not. Trust me, it’s our fault, I’ve been trying to get those leaflets redesigned for years,’ I say, feeling panic claw at my chest. What if he’s going to hang up and go through with the jump because of a silly mistake?
‘I’m so sorry.’ He makes a noise of frustration. ‘I’m so, so sorry to have disturbed you. Please forget this ever happened. I’ll leave you to your naked mannequin wrestling.’
He says the words in such a rush that I can’t interrupt him quickly enough. ‘Please don’t go,’ I say, my voice going high at the fear of what he might do. I need to give him the number of the real helpline. There are business cards on the counter right in front of me, it would be easy enough to read out the number and tell him to phone there instead, where there are people who do this all the time and have a lot of training in dealing with these situations. But what if he doesn’t phone them? What if he feels stupid for phoning the wrong place? What if he decides to jump rather than make another phone call?
I can’t tell a suicidal man to hang up and try again, can I?
‘Please stay and talk a minute,’ I say cautiously. Surely the best thing I can do is talk to him? There are testimonials on the One Light website that say the most important thing in deciding not to go through with a suicide attempt was having someone to talk to, and the charity have run campaigns about how important making small talk with a stranger can be. ‘I don’t have enough people to talk about chocolate with. And I feel like I shouldn’t let you go without clarifying that it’s the mannequins who are naked, not me. It’s way too cold for that.’
He lets out a guffaw. ‘Ah, so if I’d phoned on a summer night, it would have been a different story, huh?’
I laugh too. ‘What did I expect from a conversation that’s revolved entirely around chocolate, naked mannequins, and wrestling?’
‘I think I’d be letting the male species as a whole down if I didn’t derive something dirty from a conversation like that.’
‘I think we’ve both done our duty with weird conversations so far tonight,’ I say. I need to end this and get him on the phone to an actual counsellor who can help him talk things through, but I don’t know how to broach the subject. I can’t just say, ‘right, here’s the number, off you go’. It’s too abrupt, it could make him feel rejected, it could make him more likely to jump.
‘Where are you?’ I ask instead. Maybe getting back onto the subject is a good start.
‘The suspension bridge over the Barrow river. It’s on the outskirts of Oakbarrow town.’
He’s local. I know exactly where he is. Turn right at the end of the high street and go past the churchyard, it’s a ten-minute walk away. The old steel bridge on the road that leads out of Oakbarrow. I was up there two days ago putting One Light leaflets out. I leave a few of them weighed down with a stone in the corner of the pavement, next to the safety barrier that was replaced after an accident a few years ago. The replacement part is just a bit lower than the rest of the barrier, the part where anyone thinking of jumping would be most likely to climb over.
‘What are you doing up there at this time of night?’
‘I don’t know. God, I don’t know. It seemed so clear when I walked up here, but I got to the edge and looked down, and I couldn’t see the water, just blackness in the dark, and I went dizzy so I sat down on the pavement, and I just … I don’t know. Sorry, I’m rambling.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, thinking his voice sounds familiar. He’s got an English accent but he puts a little emphasis on his ‘r’s. It’s typical for this part of Gloucestershire. That must be why I think I recognise it.
‘I walked across the bridge yesterday and saw a stack of your leaflets. The thought of … you know … jumping has been in my head for a while and I grabbed one and stuffed it in my pocket. As I stood there and looked over the edge tonight, I put my hands in my pockets and my fingers brushed it, and it was like I didn’t even remember putting it there.’
That must’ve been one of the leaflets I put out the day before. It makes me feel weirdly connected to him. This man has reached out in his darkest moment because of something I did. I have a responsibility to help him.
‘I sat on the pavement and unfolded it and thought about my dad – he died on this river – and I just felt … compelled to ring you. He’d be so disappointed if he could see me now. He thought life was the most precious thing any of us have.’
‘You didn’t jump. That’s the most important part. Life is precious and you chose to sit down and call instead of throwing it away. That’s the
first step to making things better.’
‘I didn’t choose to sit down, I thought I was going to pass out.’
‘That’s okay too. The only thing that matters is that you’re here and talking. It’s got to be better than the alternative,’ I say carefully, trying to sound as neutral as possible.
‘I shouldn’t be talking about this to you though, should I? I phoned the wrong number. I wouldn’t mind betting this is definitely not part of your job description …’
‘It’s okay, it’s absolutely fine.’ I’m glad he can’t see the expression on my face because it definitely doesn’t match the light-hearted tone in my voice. ‘It’s just the people on the helpline are proper trained counsellors, and I’m not. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and make this worse,’ I say, deciding honesty is the best policy.
‘Please don’t hang up,’ he says after a long moment of silence. He sounds so cautious, almost afraid and kind of hopeful, that there’s no way I could refuse. ‘I know I shouldn’t be asking you to talk to me but I don’t know what to do, and you’re reminding me of normal people and normal conversations and feeling normal and you’ve already made me laugh and it’s been so long since I …’ His voice goes choked up again and I can hear him sniffle.
The Little Vintage Carousel by the Sea Page 31