Where the Light Gets In

by Lucy Dillon

  That didn’t sound very big to Lorna. But she’d seen the website, and had to concede that as old folks’ homes went, few were as leafy, wood-panelled or dog-friendly as the one-time country estate of some Birmingham mill owner, ten miles out of town. It was just so unfair that Joyce and Bernard couldn’t see out their time together here …

  She caught herself. ‘So how long will this have to be in storage? When’s the next space likely to come up?’

  Keir lifted and dropped his shoulders. ‘Between you and me, no idea. I’ve done everything I can to get Joyce bumped up the waiting list, piled it on about how she can’t be separated from her dog, et cetera, but without wanting to be brutal, it’s about waiting for a current resident to, um …’ He still didn’t seem comfortable talking about death, despite it being a near weekly occurrence in his placement.

  ‘Die,’ said Lorna baldly.

  ‘Yes.’

  The idea hung between them. Lorna thought about Betty, and the other residents she’d visited in the hospice who had been so vivid to begin with, then suddenly faded, faded, and then one day, a new face, a new set of post-war wedding photos, a new smell of medicines and a much larger house condensed into a handful of ornaments. But Joyce wasn’t fading just yet. Not while she was fanning that unexpected spark of creativity into their joint masterpiece.

  ‘The thing about Butterfields,’ Keir burst out, ‘is that it’s so bloody nice people go there and never leave, because why would you? It gives them a new lease of life! They end up staying for ever!’

  Lorna forced herself to smile; no, her flat would keep Joyce bright and sharp, upright in her chair, needles clicking, sharp eyes nibbling up details.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure something will come up before too long,’ he went on, misreading her tense expression. ‘I’ve got Tiffany on the dog-walking rota up there, so she can tip us the wink if anyone has to be moved out for … closer care. And in the meantime Joyce will still get regular care visits from us, so if you need any additional support then just ask – anything you need.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Lorna. ‘I think we’ll be fine. Joyce is pretty independent and, as you say, she might not be with me that long. If a room comes up.’

  Keir glanced over his shoulder again, his expression shifting to an ‘off the record’ one. ‘Can I ask …’ He hesitated. ‘Do you know why she’s made this decision? Why she’s decided to leave now? And come to you? We don’t know, in case you were wondering.’

  Lorna had been hoping he might tell her. ‘No, I don’t. Maybe it’s like you say – wanting to retain control, leaving while it’s still her choice. The landlords definitely want the house back but Sam’s adamant this was her decision.’

  Keir nodded. ‘I guess there’s always the company. And being in the gallery, near the art?’

  ‘That too.’ Lorna had wondered, privately, if Joyce had somehow intuited that she was having trouble making the sums add up at the gallery – if she’d guessed some rent money would come in handy.

  But she wasn’t paying rent. She was paying in pictures, pictures worth far more than any rent Lorna could charge.

  ‘Are you discussing me?’ Joyce appeared in the doorway holding a tray of tea things. The cups rattled ominously and Keir sprang forward to take them off her before they crashed to the floor.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Lorna.

  ‘Oh. Why not? You should be,’ said Joyce and pretended to look offended.

  It took two journeys to move Joyce’s belongings into Lorna’s flat. The second journey was for Bernard, who couldn’t be fitted in with everything else, and Joyce herself.

  When Lorna pulled up outside Rooks Hall, the sun had started to set, and shadows were falling over the front of the house, dulling the windows like weary eyes. Something moved – a slow flash of red appearing behind the green of the bushes – and Lorna realised dog and mistress were in the garden. Joyce was moving slowly around the flower beds, touching the rose petals and pulling the tendrils of honeysuckle to her face to smell them one last time, while Bernard snuffled around the undergrowth in a more subdued manner than his usual frenzied dashing. Joyce was picking a few flowers as she went, shaping them into a fluttering posy.

  They were saying goodbye, thought Lorna, and a hand slowly squeezed her heart. She let them wander for a moment in the last sunrays of the day, willing the dark shape of a gardener to appear from the walls to join them. She’d always wanted to see a ghost, one summoned by love and memory. But nothing came. Two swallows dipped and dived around the eaves, and Joyce moved slowly through the garden in her tweed skirt.

  Lorna breathed in, and her nose filled with the evening grass-and-cows smell that she and Jess had decided smelled like holidays when they’d first moved here. It still smelled like holidays, and when she closed her eyes it was easy to go back. Far enough to remember uncomplicated pleasure in the warmth of the sun on bare skin, and the salmon-pink sky and no school in the morning. Mum and Dad singing, before Mum stopped singing and Dad looked at them with that sadness etched in his face.

  Goodbye, she thought, and didn’t know whom she was saying goodbye to.

  The next day, Joyce was already up, dressed in a pale blouse and skirt, sitting at the kitchen table with a big sketch pad when Lorna went down to make breakfast.

  The felt-tip pens were arranged in a fan in front of her, and in the centre of the pad Joyce had drawn a daisy. Simple and bright, with a yellow centre like a sun.

  ‘Oh, that looks very knittable.’ Lorna paused at the door. Joyce was staring at the paper, frowning with concentration, a pink pen in one hand. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’m just trying to work out … how you get this into the computer?’ She touched the thick paper.

  ‘We scan it, I think. But don’t worry about that.’ Lorna gazed at the flower over Joyce’s shoulder as she clicked the kettle on. The daisy was beautiful, not neat but confident. Yellow, a hopeful colour. ‘Caitlin’s found someone who can convert it into a pattern, then we can print it, and hand the pattern out to volunteers to knit. If we knit the first ones – you, me, Caitlin and Tiff – then we can hold a launch party to get some interest going in the town. Calum can get the press along, invite all his cronies.’

  ‘Sounds awful,’ said Joyce cheerfully. She pointed at her drawing. ‘Is this right?’

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘Good. I’m rather rusty.’ Joyce allowed herself a smile. ‘I thought a daisy chain would be symbolic – of the community element. And we could drape them over railings, they’d be easier to move around.’ She had clearly been thinking about the practicalities of the project. ‘I’d like to knit wild flowers, as much as planted flower beds. They’re so important, much more so than cultivated varieties, for the bees and butterflies. And appropriate, when you think about it – for what we’re doing.’ She looked up with a smile, as if the neatness pleased her. ‘Wild seeds, planting beauty in pavements and so on.’

  ‘Was that something your husband was interested in? Wild flowers?’ Lorna asked casually, making the tea without turning around. Outside, the town was starting to come to life, the post van making its way down the street as the bus emptied a load of early office workers outside Greggs.

  Joyce started to add delicate pink tips to the daisy petals. ‘Yes. He was furious about the plight of the bumblebees. Do you think we could add some bees to the project?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I like the idea of art pollinating beauty through the town. Yes. How apt. Bernard would laugh at that – me knitting bees and calling it art.’

  Lorna put a slice of toast down in front of Joyce, and wondered if, for once, Joyce was tacitly encouraging a conversation about her past.

  She had carried in Joyce’s personal crate of possessions and couldn’t help noticing the square photograph on top: a wide-eyed young Joyce with centre-parted hair, holding a tiny baby while a bearded man encircled them both with his arms, wrapping a thick band of Aran knitted j
umper around them. They seemed to be by the seaside. The baby had his mother’s distinctive eyes, and his father’s gappy grin. Ronan. And Bernard. It was as if Joyce’s life suddenly had a trail now, a faint vapour trail of a past.

  Joyce seemed relaxed, and Lorna opened her mouth to ask other questions – where did Bernard learn to garden? What was his favourite flower? – but the phone rang, and she excused herself to answer it.

  ‘It’s me, I’m glad I caught you,’ said Sam.

  ‘Oh, hello.’ She turned and saw Joyce starting a new sheet of paper. Two drawings, before lunch. Wow.

  ‘Is it too early?’ he went on. There was mooing in the background; Lorna guessed he was in the cattle sheds. Well, she hoped he was.

  ‘No, I’m just having breakfast. What’s up?’ She tensed, not wanting to talk about Rooks Hall with Joyce there.

  ‘I had a call last night from Ryan. He’s … Well, I think we need to talk.’

  Lorna had been dreading this. It had all been too weird at the bandstand event, everyone pretending nothing had happened. It couldn’t last. Not even Jess could keep the pieces of her family from flying apart under this sort of strain.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Her mind raced through possibilities. I bet Hattie’s got in touch with Pearl, she thought. Or Ryan’s trying to force a meeting with Jess and … what was her name, Pearl’s mum?

  A guilty panic gripped her. I should have done this. I should have been more help to Jess. Even now Ryan and Jess and Sam were sorting it out between them.

  There was a deep rumbling moo, some metallic clattering, and a man shouted cheerily at the cows. It sounded like Sam’s dad. ‘Look, I don’t want to get into it now,’ said Sam. ‘Can I meet you for a drink later? The Jolly Fox? About six?’

  ‘Sure.’ Lorna turned; Tiffany had wandered in, and was opening the fridge in search of her probiotic yogurts. She and Joyce exchanged morning pleasantries as if she’d always been there, as Rudy and Bernard circled the table in the hope of toast.

  ‘Thanks. See you then.’ He hung up, just as the mooing increased.

  ‘That Sam?’ asked Tiff, whirling round to put marmalade on the table.

  ‘Yes.’ Lorna stood gripping the phone. ‘Wants to talk to me about Ryan.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Tiffany made a wincing face. ‘I meant to say, you know Sam’s granny’s in Butterfields? I’m walking her collie, Wispa, once a week. Nice old thing. Gets all the gossip.’

  ‘Well, don’t believe everything you hear.’ It whipped out of Lorna before she had time to think. Gossip. It was a trigger word, always had been.

  Tiff looked surprised. ‘Hey, I just meant … I thought she might have some inside track on Sam.’

  ‘Like what?’ Lorna knew like what. Whether he’d had a girlfriend back in London. Why he’d left his job so easily to come back to the farm. What he really thought about her. All the questions she wanted to ask, but which actually didn’t even matter now. He wasn’t staying. That kiss had meant nothing, probably a water-testing move to see if she was up for something casual before he went back to his London life.

  The thought stung her, and it showed in her face.

  Tiffany held up her hands. ‘I seem to have started this morning badly. Would you like me to come downstairs and try again?’

  Lorna shook herself. ‘No,’ she said, with an apologetic smile. ‘I want you to show me how to use the scanner, please.’

  Sam was sitting by the table they’d met at before when Lorna walked into the pub at six. He’d come straight from the farm, judging by his jeans and shirt, but his hair was damp from a recent shower.

  He waved and pointed at the cider he’d ordered already for her, and even though she reminded herself that she didn’t care, Lorna felt a little self-conscious as she made her way through the tables to join him, aware of his eyes on her.

  She sat down quickly, before he could get up and kiss her cheek – or not. ‘So what’s happened?’

  Sam pushed back on his chair and raked his hands through his hair. ‘Ryan called yesterday wanting to know if he could crash in my flat in London for a few weeks.’

  Lorna took a long sip of cider; it was cold and good. So Sam had kept his flat there. He’d never intended to stay; Ryan must have known that from the start. Everyone knew things but her. Nothing changed.

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you need your flat – for your new job?’

  He didn’t rise to it. ‘Maybe. A friend’s staying there at the moment. The main thing is, it sounds as if Jess has kicked Ryan out. She hasn’t said anything to you?’

  Lorna shook her head. ‘Jess’s whole life is her family. She’d do anything to keep it together. If he’s moved out then I’d say it’s his choice.’

  ‘There’s something else, though. It’s not breaking a confidence; Ryan would want you to know, since Hattie’s been spending so much time with you lately …’ He gazed at Lorna, and the concern in his eyes melted her attempts at coolness. ‘Ryan told me he thinks Hattie and Pearl have been meeting up in secret.’

  She groaned. ‘How’s that going to help?’

  ‘It’s not. Ryan doesn’t know for sure, he only suspects, but Jess doesn’t know, and when she finds out …’ He shook his head. They both knew what would happen when Jess found out. ‘Don’t be mad at Hattie. She’s just a kid, she’s got no idea what she’s doing.’

  ‘I’m not. But you want me to tell Jess? You want me to let her know that her husband’s been confiding in his mate, who’s been confiding in me, who’s decided she ought to know what her daughter’s been up to behind her back?’ Lorna looked disbelieving. ‘No way, Sam. Tell Ryan he has to talk to his daughter. Then talk to his wife. We can’t get involved like that.’

  Sam slumped back in his chair. ‘Maybe you’re right. All this “he said, she said” stuff … But I don’t know how else it’s going to get discussed. Ryan says Jess is stonewalling him, trying to pretend it’s not happening. I think we need to sit them down and make them talk properly, you and me.’

  ‘What?’ Lorna hadn’t expected that. You and me.

  ‘We’re the only people who really know them. I don’t want to get stuck in the middle, taking sides with my two oldest mates.’ Sam seemed different tonight, Lorna thought, as if this upheaval of his own past was upsetting for him, discovering nothing had been as it seemed. He wasn’t as self-assured as he’d seemed lately. That, or maybe his job search hadn’t turned out as he’d planned …

  ‘I need to think about this.’ Lorna reached for her bag. She’d downed the cider quicker than she meant to. ‘You want another?’

  ‘Thanks. Pint of Butty.’

  When she came back with the drinks, Sam was checking something on his phone; a frown was creasing his forehead. He stopped when she put his pint down, and said, ‘So, what’s happening with you? Any new art events on the horizon?’

  ‘Joyce has moved in with me.’

  ‘So I heard!’ He winced. ‘Sorry, my attempt to change the subject to something less controversial clearly failed there. Please can we not argue about that again? What’s happening in the gallery? Any new submissions I should know about, as an official collector?’

  Lorna had to forgive him; his expression was so apologetic, and she didn’t have the energy to argue either. Instead she got out her own phone. ‘So …’ she said, aware that she sounded exactly like Calum Hardy, ‘this is my Knitting Collective Competition project! This is what Joyce sketched for us today, and this is what it looks like as a knitting pattern …’

  Sam leaned over to get a better look, and Lorna breathed in shampoo, and warm skin, the old smell of him. She fought back the temptation to lean in and draw a deep breath.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘You’ve knitted a whole car-sized tea cosy?’

  ‘No, that’s a photo from the internet.’ She swiped through some images Caitlin had sent her ‘for knitspiration’, explaining the project as she went, until she finally reached her own proto-poppy. ‘This is wh
at I did.’

  ‘Oh. Er, OK.’

  As he was trying to find something positive to say about her knobbly knitting, a text message from Calum appeared at the top of the screen, barging its way over the photo.

  Can we talk? I’ve got some exciting news …!!!

  Lorna was surprised to see that: Calum didn’t normally text her out of office hours.

  ‘Calum?’ Sam looked quizzical. He leaned back. ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘No. He’s on the council’s cultural services team, I’m working with him on the yarnbomb project. Calum’s actually an interesting guy, studied printmaking at art school.’ Too much information. Shut up, Lorna. ‘Probably working late …’

  ‘Must be very keen on your project. Or maybe you?’

  ‘It’s the project – there’s money in it.’ Lorna knew she was blushing.

  The phone pinged, Calum again. But need to talk re locations. Call me?

  ‘I think he needs to speak to you,’ said Sam, deadpan.

  ‘Well, I don’t want to speak to him right now,’ said Lorna, and even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t coming out right.

  They regarded each other over the table, then both looked down.

  ‘Anyway …’ Sam pushed his chair back, his pint only half-drunk, and tapped his phone. ‘I’ve got to get back. Dad’s entering his cows in a competition this weekend. I said I’d … do whatever you need to do with stage cows. Blow dry them, or paint their hooves or whatever.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do about Ryan? Nothing? Really?’

  ‘Let’s see what happens,’ said Lorna. ‘I’ll ask Hattie to help me out in the gallery with this knitting project. She might tell me herself.’ She pulled a face. ‘It’s not ideal but Jess is stubborn. She won’t ask for help till she’s ready.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘Fine. But keep me in the loop.’

  ‘Course.’ She smiled, but as he was getting ready to go her stomach flipped over, and she held her breath – would he give her a kiss goodbye?