by Kate Field
‘I don’t have his number. And I certainly can’t afford to pay him.’
‘Perhaps he’ll accept sexual favours in payment.’
‘He doesn’t look like the kind of man who’d be turned on by stretchmarks and saggy boobs, does he?’ Helen smiled, and finished her wine. ‘I’ve forgotten what sexual favours are.’ She stood up. ‘Shall we go? I think Ben might prefer to hear your sexual fantasies than me.’
‘Okay, but don’t forget to give your admirer a wave, will you?’
Helen put her coat on, and walked towards the door. She wasn’t going to look his way. She almost reached the door without looking his way. And then she couldn’t help it; her head turned. He was watching her. He smiled, and raised his hand. She smiled in return, and ignoring Kirsty’s excited prod, waved back.
It felt like Groundhog Day when Helen walked into St Andrew’s on Tuesday morning. The other shop owners were collected at the base of the pulpit, with letters in their hands. The only difference was that this time they didn’t look miserable. They were chatting and gesticulating in a decidedly animated way.
‘We’ve all had letters,’ Malcolm said, with a surprising lack of gloom.
‘Here is yours.’ Fiona, her cheeks flushed pink, held out an envelope to Helen. It was white, which was a good start. A brown envelope always meant bad news; council letters came in brown envelopes. Bad news could also be hidden in a white wrapper, but at least there was a chance it might be good news. And surely the others wouldn’t be watching her so eagerly if she was about to be dealt another blow?
The envelope was addressed to her personally – not simply as the owner of Crazy Little Things – and was handwritten, in a bold black hand. The postmark was local. It was all most intriguing.
‘For God’s sake, Helen,’ Saskia said, snatching the envelope out of her hand. ‘You’re not Sherlock Holmes, inspecting for clues.’ She ripped it open, and gave the letter to Helen. ‘Here. Read the damn thing. We might have found somewhere to move to.’
‘Have you? I don’t believe it! I was up until two drawing up plans for how a place in the shopping centre might work for us.’ Not well, had been her eventual conclusion, before she’d fallen asleep in her chair; but it had seemed to be the only option, and Helen had come in today, armed with her plans, ready to convince the others that it was worth a look. She felt a ridiculous shaft of disappointment that after all her efforts, it might not be her who saved the St Andrew’s community. ‘What have you found? I thought I’d checked everywhere.’
‘I’ve not found it. We’ve been offered a place.’ Saskia flapped a hand at the letter. ‘Read it for yourself.’
Helen skimmed through the letter. It was from someone called Joel Markham, who wanted to meet her to discuss the possibility of her moving her business into an empty unit at his craft centre. A newly converted barn – the words made Helen’s heart race – was available which could offer places to the occupants of St Andrew’s. He suggested coming to St Andrew’s – this afternoon! – to show them his plans for…
‘Oh damn,’ Helen said. Her heart abruptly stopped racing when she reached the name of the location. She should have known this was too good to be true. ‘I thought it sounded suspiciously easy.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Fiona’s face was now flushed with anxiety. ‘Is your letter not the same as ours? This man – this…’ she glanced down at her letter, still clutched in her hand, ‘Joel Markham, has offered us the chance of a unit in a craft centre. We assumed yours would say the same thing.’
‘It does.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’ Saskia demanded. ‘It sounds perfect. I know I haven’t had much luck finding somewhere myself, and I assume none of you lot has.’
There was a Mexican wave of shaking heads.
‘I haven’t really looked,’ Ron confessed, with a cheery smile. Helen inwardly rolled her eyes, even more so when Malcolm added that he hadn’t bothered either, assuming that it would be a lost cause.
‘There’s still my place in the shopping centre,’ Helen said, but for once she had some sympathy with the scowl which blew across Saskia’s face. The shopping centre was unappealing at the best of times. It could never hold its own in a beauty parade against a barn conversion. ‘Think of the passing trade we would have there.’
It was the best argument she had, and Helen saw a brief flicker of acknowledgement on some faces.
‘But what do you have against the craft centre?’ Fiona asked. ‘Have you heard of this man? Is he not what he seems?’
‘I’ve never heard of him, but I know about Church Farm Galleries. It’s been around for years. It was once the only place to go in Lancashire for arts and crafts, and quite a number of famous artists started off showing their work there. But those days are long gone. I went to have a look at a space at Church Farm before I took the unit here. It was terribly rundown, and there were hardly any artists left. Visitor numbers had plummeted, but they were still charging a fortune in rent on the back of their previous reputation.’
A gloomy silence fell over the group.
‘That’s that then,’ Malcolm said at last, with glum satisfaction. ‘Back to being snookered, unless the shopping centre is a goer, and I can’t say I’m keen on the idea. It doesn’t sound like this place is an option. I can barely afford what I’m paying here. I can’t pay more for somewhere on its last legs.’
‘Have any of you been to Church Farm recently?’ Joan interrupted. It was the first time she’d spoken. Helen had noticed before that she didn’t tend to get involved in discussions about their future. Helen had struggled to know what to do about her. Finding premises that could be divided into five individual units was hard enough; finding one with facilities for a café as well appeared impossible. Joan didn’t have a letter in her hand now, unlike the others. Was she not wanted?
‘I’ve not been since I opened here,’ Helen admitted. After her initial visit, she hadn’t considered it as competition. The others all shook their heads as well.
‘I’ve been a few times in the last year. I live fairly close,’ Joan explained. ‘There’s a new manager. The place is coming to life again. Why don’t you at least listen to what he has to say?’
‘I’m game,’ Saskia agreed. ‘What’s there to lose? We can always say no.’
‘And we can look at your plans for the shopping centre too,’ Fiona said to Helen. ‘This is good news, isn’t it? Yesterday we had nowhere, and now we have two options to choose from. You will come, won’t you? We need you there.’
All eyes turned to Helen.
‘Fine,’ she said, bowing to the inevitable as the weight of the others’ dependence settled heavily on her. ‘What time is he coming, two? I’ll be here, as long as there aren’t any customers.’
But it wasn’t a customer who threatened to jeopardise Helen’s attendance at the meeting. The doors of St Andrew’s burst open at lunchtime, and Daniel Blake walked in.
CHAPTER 8
Helen watched, on an emotional carousel of surprise, apprehension and bubbling anger, as Daniel strode towards her shop. How dare he come here, breaching her sanctuary, after what he’d sent Valerie to suggest? Had her response not been clear enough? Or did he flatter himself that he would be able to persuade her, where Valerie had failed? She had always given in to him in the past; but it wasn’t going to happen this time.
He stood outside Crazy Little Things for a moment, taking it all in. Helen waited, her stomach clenching in tight spasms, trying to judge from his face what he was thinking, and what he intended. Eventually his gaze settled on her.
‘You’ve done this?’ he said, and he couldn’t keep the note of surprise from his voice. ‘It looks great.’
‘Thanks.’ She didn’t smile, or make any movement to suggest that he was welcome, but a treacherous flush crept over her neck at his compliment. She straightened some embroidery kits on the shelf next to her, in an effort to pull herself together. How could she still care what he thought, afte
r what he had done?
‘Isn’t that the lamp we had in our house?’
Helen followed his gaze. In the darkest corner of the shop, she had displayed a reading lamp with a crazy patchwork lampshade. It was the best place to show off the effect formed by a marriage of thin satin and silk scraps, which the light shone through like stained glass, and thick, rich remnants that created a cosy glow. It had probably been one of her bestselling pieces of the last three years. This was the original, and he was right: it had been in the living room of their house. It had suited their old cottage perfectly, and had provided the romantic lighting for many a night in. She chewed the inside of her cheek, painfully aware that the cottage and the nights in belonged to someone else now.
‘I only kept the things I made,’ Helen said. ‘The rest is still in storage. I posted the keys for the storage unit to Valerie years ago. It’s all there, you can check.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He frowned at her. ‘You could have had it all.’
The irony in that sentence seemed to pass him by.
‘What do you want, Daniel?’ Helen asked, retreating behind her counter. ‘I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other, do you? Or was it not enough that you sent your mother to insult me? Did you decide to come and have a go yourself, see the reaction first-hand?’
‘I didn’t send her anywhere,’ he said, coming into the shop and standing at the side of the counter so that she was trapped. Her breath quickened at his proximity, at the remembered bulk of him, in a place she had never expected him to be. ‘I didn’t know anything about the DNA test until last night.’
‘She had some of your hair!’
He dismissed this with a shrug.
‘She said there was a patch the barber had missed. I had no idea what she was planning. You have to believe me, Nell. I don’t need any test.’
Helen stepped back and leant against the rear wall. She wanted to believe him, but was that just her heart speaking, seeing only the best in him, as it always had?
‘Is everything all right, Helen?’ Malcolm hovered in the open doorway. He looked an unlikely protector: his spindly frame was dwarfed by Daniel, and unless he knew how to watercolour Daniel to death, the paintbrush clutched in his hand wouldn’t have been much use in a fight.
‘Everything’s fine,’ Helen reassured him. ‘This is just someone I used to know.’
Malcolm looked at Daniel curiously, and Helen saw a hint of recognition flash across his face. It was inevitable, she supposed: anyone who had seen Megan could hardly fail to spot the connection. Malcolm frowned, puzzling it over, and pottered back across to his shop.
‘Someone you used to know?’ Daniel shot at her, as soon as Malcolm had left. The determinedly reasonable tone he had used earlier was gone. ‘Is that all?’
‘What more do you want?’
‘How about Megan’s father, for a start?’
‘That’s not a start, that’s well across the finishing line and on to the winner’s podium.’
‘And isn’t that where I should be? Isn’t that my place?’
‘You don’t have a place.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Daniel’s hand crashed down onto the counter. ‘Did you actually mean it? You’d rather she had no father than me? I told you the paternity test was nothing to do with me.’
‘Fine. I believe you. That was all Valerie’s idea.’ Helen picked up a spool of thread which was about to roll off the counter, and passed it from hand to hand. ‘So who are you going to blame for the indifference? You’ve known for a week. Where have you been?’
‘Thinking. Trying to understand it. Trying to understand how you could have done it. Don’t you dare question my behaviour.’ He took a great, shuddering breath. ‘What the hell did you expect? If there are rules for how I’m meant to feel in this situation I wish someone would tell me what they are.’
His face could have been a piece of crazy patchwork, scraps of despair jostling alongside anger, hurt and confusion. It was too painful to look.
Helen glanced away, and saw Fiona loitering anxiously behind the glass partition separating their shops. Helen knew that raised voices still unsettled her, and mentally kicked herself for letting things go so far.
‘I think you’d better go,’ she said to Daniel, and walked towards him, as if to shoo him out.
‘No.’ He blocked her way so she had to stop, centimetres from him, so close that she could see how the years they had been apart had marked their passing with new lines at the corner of his eyes and mouth. ‘I need to know why. I need to know everything.’
‘Not here. Come round…’
‘No,’ he interrupted. ‘Now. Christ, Nell, you owe me that.’
Helen couldn’t deny it. An explanation was the least she owed him, but he had picked the worst possible moment to demand it.
‘I have a meeting at two.’
‘And that’s more important?’
That was unfair. Of course nothing was more important than Megan. But trying to keep her business afloat was all about Megan too. How could she choose between them? Helen glanced at her watch. Perhaps she wouldn’t need to choose. There was almost an hour before Joel Markham was due. She could be back by then. She doubted her conversation with Daniel would last that long, or that she would survive an hour in his company, feeling the force of his hatred rather than his love. So she nodded at Daniel, picked up her coat and bag, and went over to Fiona.
‘Would you mind keeping an eye on the shop for a while? I need to go out.’
‘Of course. Are you…’ Fiona faltered, but her eyes pursued the question. Helen squeezed her arm.
‘He’s perfectly safe,’ she whispered. Physically, at least, Helen added silently. She was quite certain he was planning a verbal attack, but hadn’t she been preparing for exactly that for years? And didn’t she deserve it?
‘You are still coming to the meeting about Church Farm, aren’t you? Remember the owner is going to be here at two.’
Helen nodded.
‘I’ll be back.’
She followed Daniel out of the church and on to the main road. He looked around, and gestured towards the pub a hundred yards away.
‘Pub?’ he said. He looked down the hill towards the town centre. ‘Or…’
‘The pub’s fine,’ she said. He wouldn’t think so when he went in, she knew that, and even now she could see a frown of doubt creasing his brow as they drew nearer. It was a traditional spit and sawdust place, where layers of dirt had been polished into the furniture, and where years of smoke still appeared to hang in the air. Helen had ventured in once, and never again, which was exactly why it was perfect now. She didn’t want to pollute anywhere she liked with the memory of the conversation that was about to happen.
Daniel hesitated on the threshold, until Helen pushed him on. He went to the bar and ordered a pint and a vodka and tonic, without even asking what she wanted: despite everything, the spectre of their old relationship swirled close around them.
They sat down at a table whose highly varnished surface had been engraved by customers’ glasses over many years. Overlapping circles filled the table like a baffling series of Venn diagrams.
‘This place is awful,’ Daniel said.
‘I know. It seemed appropriate.’
‘As a place to discuss our daughter?’
Helen’s eyes flew to meet his. Hearing him say it… The intimacy of hearing him describe Megan in that way… She gulped her vodka, almost inhaling the liquid in her haste to drown the ache his words had produced.
‘What did you want to discuss?’ she asked, when he continued to stare at his pint, saying nothing.
‘I don’t know.’ He looked up. ‘I don’t know what I’m meant to know. I don’t know what to ask. Where do I start catching up four years?’ He leant forward. ‘Is she four? When was she born?’
‘September 3rd. So yes, she’s four.’
‘Does she go to school?’
‘She just missed t
he cut-off for this year. She’ll go next September.’
‘So where is she now?’
‘Nursery.’
‘All day?’
‘Yes, all day, four days a week. I have to work.’ Helen waited, wondering if he would dare to disapprove, but though his fingers tightened round his glass, he didn’t react.
‘And is she…’ He faltered, as if he wasn’t sure how to ask it. ‘Healthy? Normal?’
‘Yes. She reached all the developmental milestones on time.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Daniel picked up a beer mat and turned it in his hand, tapping each edge on the table. ‘Spare me the jargon. Don’t forget I haven’t had chance to become familiar with it.’
And she’d thought it had been going so well! She should have known better.
‘She’s exactly as she should be.’ But then Helen pictured Megan, and smiled. ‘No, she’s amazing.’
‘I want to meet her.’
‘Okay.’ She’d anticipated this, and knew she couldn’t refuse, even though the terror of what that might lead to had balled in her throat so she couldn’t swallow it down. ‘But it has to be low key.’
‘She doesn’t know who I am?’ The tap of the beer mat against the table increased to a definite bang.
‘No.’ Helen twisted her glass round and round on the table. ‘Come for coffee on Sunday afternoon. She won’t think there’s anything unusual about that.’
‘Won’t she?’ The beer mat slapped down on the table. ‘You often have men round, do you?’
‘I didn’t mean…’
‘How many fathers has she known? Or do you call them uncles?’
Helen pushed back her chair, the legs screeching noisily across the flagged floor.
‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ she said, and picking up her bag, turned to go.
‘Why, Nell? Why did you do it?’
She glanced back. He’d spoken softly, but she knew she hadn’t misheard. His eyes were on hers, imploring her to tell the truth, make him understand. And though she’d rehearsed every possible situation in her head over the years, nothing could have prepared her for what it would actually feel like to have to look him in the face and explain why she had hidden his daughter from him. It was a physical pain, deep in her chest, as if someone was laboriously carving her heart with a plastic knife. Her lips refused to move. What had seemed the sensible, the best choice at the time, now made no sense at all.