by Lucy Dillon
He gazed at her, sorrowfully, and pulled his hand away. Jess flinched. ‘You wanted a reliable man; you knew that’s what I was. So why were you surprised when I discovered I had responsibilities to another child? I couldn’t walk away from Pearl, even though this really was a mistake. A mistake I made when I was too young to understand what a father should be, and I will always be sorry for it.’
He pushed on. ‘You know what hurt me most, though, Jess? Your surprise. Like I could only behave in the boring Ryan routine. You’ve got no idea how much that hurt, seeing how … contemptuous you were of me. It brought it all back. Boring Ryan, the man you could rely on.’
Ryan’s words finally ran out, but his pain hung in the air between them.
‘I love you now for all the same reasons I loved you then,’ he said quietly. ‘Nothing has changed for me. It never will. I’m asking you to forgive me, but I’m also asking if … if you ever really loved me in the first place.’
‘You know I did. I do .’ Jess’s voice was contorted, and she looked ashamed of herself. ‘I’m sorry.’
They gazed at each other; then, very slowly, he extended his hand towards hers. She took it, and he gripped it hard.
‘Shall I leave you two for a moment?’ Lorna pushed her chair away from the table. They needed some space, and frankly, so did she.
Jess came to find her half an hour later. Lorna was sitting in the only quiet place she could find: the back stairs between the flat and the gallery. She’d been staring at the same framed family photo, the one of the four of them on the beach in Wales, trying to find the adult Jess and Lorna in her parents’ faces. It was too small to see much.
‘Move up.’ Jess squashed herself into the narrow stair next to her. ‘Thanks for doing that,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting Ryan to say any of it but it’s … right to talk about it.’
‘Like a thunderstorm. Clearing the air.’
‘Yeah.’ Jess chewed a hangnail. ‘He’s with Hattie now, talking to her. I wanted to tell you something else though. Something about Mum.’
Lorna turned, as much as she could in the limited space. ‘What?’
‘I think she was on some kind of medication. Dad managed to destroy most of their paperwork, as you know, but when I was going through the furniture for the charity shop, I found some pills in a drawer. They were hers. I showed them to a friend who’s a doctor and he said they were antidepressants. Some kind of anxiety-based medication anyway. He wondered about post-natal depression.’
‘Really?’ The moods, the need to be alone, the haunted silences. ‘Poor Mum. Why didn’t Dad say anything to us?’
‘He was protecting her, I suppose. Protecting us. Wanting us to think everything was fine, the perfect family – and if it was PND, then it would have felt like our fault.’
Lorna could see that. But she could also see how hiding the problem had only buried it deeper into the heart of the family, so it ate away at them from the inside until there was only a shell left. And Jess had been hiding it again, for years.
‘Why didn’t you tell me this? Didn’t we say no secrets?’
Jess sighed. ‘What could you have done? And you were so invested in the idea of them having a perfect marriage, and Mum being the perfect artist. All the things you said about no relationship being worth it if they weren’t your soulmate like Mum and Dad …’
Lorna raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s what I thought you were trying to do with Ryan.’
‘Ryan? I—’ Jess checked herself. ‘No. I don’t think we’re perfect. I don’t think anyone is. But we’re good enough. You know, it’s been strange coming back here. It’s made me remember a lot of things. Like how he used to help me climb over gates. How he could drive a tractor.’ She smiled to herself.
It took all sorts, thought Lorna.
Jess spread out her hands in front of herself. Her eternity rings glittered in the half-light, their mother’s emerald engagement ring a deeper glow on the other hand. She took it off, and put it on to Lorna’s right hand, third finger.
‘I want you to have that,’ she said. ‘And I want you to be happy, Lorna. Stop looking for a soulmate. There’s a middle ground with a lot of happiness in it.’
‘I’m not looking for a soulmate, I’m just …’
Jess twisted her mouth. ‘I think you know what I’m talking about.’
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Teenage boys, intense mothers, homework, tractors, haybales, secrets, flew in the air between them.
Then Lorna said, ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea, shall I?’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lorna found out about Sam’s new job through Tiffany, of all people. Nan Osborne had been boasting to anyone who’d listen in the day room that her youngest grandson had got himself a top London job and was moving back any day now with a Ferrari.
‘His old boss has moved to a different agency and he’s asked Sam to join him,’ she informed Lorna as they sat with Joyce, sewing broad green leaves on to the sunflower stalks in the gallery. The knitting room had moved into the main area, since it was so popular. ‘He can’t start until January, for some legal reason Nan Ozzy thought sounded nonsense, but it’s been agreed and this time he’ll have a much nicer car and more money.’
It was the middle of September; the first cool breezes of autumn were nipping on their morning dog walks. Lorna knew exactly how long it was till January – fifteen weeks – because that was how long they had left to knit several thousand more flowers and several hundred butterflies to dance across the petals. ‘So what’s he going to do till then?’
‘He’s started some project there, which is why he’s back and forwards.’ Tiff raised her head from her leaf. ‘She also let slip that it’s been rather a relief for all concerned, because Sam didn’t leave his last job entirely of his own accord.’
‘What?’ He hadn’t told her that.
‘Yup. Made redundant, after something or other that definitely wasn’t his fault. So, you know, probably his fault.’ Tiff winked; she knew Lorna was sore about Sam. She was trying to cheer her up. ‘Maybe he had to come back to the farm. Maybe he’s not the self-sacrificing martyr to the plough he likes to make out.’
Lorna lifted the sunflower: it was one of her favourites. Bright and hopeful and kind of seventies in its yellow and brown flamboyance. ‘Good for him. I wish him well.’
‘You like him, don’t you?’ said Joyce. ‘Are you going to tell him before he goes?’
Lorna folded the flower up and laid it in the plastic crate marked Bridge Street. They had a big map of the town marked out in assigned beds; she’d cut out the flowers from coloured paper and stuck them on as each section was finished. It was updated daily in the window. Bridge Street was another sunflower extravaganza: bus passengers would wait for the number 32 under a forest of yellow petals.
‘No,’ she said. She hadn’t told Joyce – or anyone – about Sam and Gabe’s accusation. ‘I think starting a relationship with someone you’ve known for that long is hard. You’re so busy looking for the person they were, you can’t always see who they are now.’
She felt a tug in her heart as she said it.
‘Ah, well,’ said Joyce in a non-committal way. ‘Calum the Disco Kid will be pleased to hear that. Shall we start that apple tree now?’
Joyce’s health had remained fine as the days passed, and though the community nurse called in to check on her several times a week, it seemed more routine than anything else.
‘It’s a wonderful thing you’re doing,’ Keir said, when he returned, sunburned. ‘It’s hard, but being around people makes a difference when you’re dealing with an outlook like this.’
Lorna had long spells of forgetting what Joyce’s outlook was. ‘You think so?’
‘Just keep an eye on her. I know she’s determined to be her own woman, but don’t let her hide symptoms. Things can change very quickly, and we want to be ready.’
Lorna had plenty of opportunity to observe Joyce wh
en she was concentrating on her fluted lilies or red apples. Her skin had taken on a yellowy tinge, and seemed a little looser around her knobbly fingers, but her eyes darted around as rapidly as ever, taking in more than anyone realised. Lorna knew she would hide any changes, the way she’d hidden her fading eyesight; the clues, if they were clues, came more in their conversation.
Neither of them were sleeping well. They often met in the kitchen, and talked in the small hours about Ronan’s talent for photography, Bernard’s rain-stained book of garden notes, Lorna’s mum’s illustrations that became darker as the years passed, sketchy details of Lorna’s paternal grandparents and their house, somewhere in Ireland. Never long conversations, just observation, a question or two, then the memory would be tucked away again.
One afternoon Joyce and Lorna were sitting in the gallery, starting a big chunk of brown stocking stitch that would turn the postbox on Forest Street into a furrow-trunked oak tree. The first spots of rain were flicking against the window, currently filled with beautiful Japanese noodle bowls made by a talented man in Darton-on-Arrow.
‘Lorna, I think I’d like to see the garden at Rooks Hall again, before autumn sets in,’ said Joyce casually. ‘I’d like to make sure we have all the detail we need for the plan.’
Lorna was concentrating on a knobble in the bark; her knitting had improved but she was easily distracted. ‘The plan has everything that was on your original painting. I’m not sure we can change it now. Do you think we’re missing something?’
‘I’d like to see the garden all the same.’ Under Joyce’s chair, Bernard stirred; he napped stretched out in a messy line, unlike Rudy’s neat circle. ‘Just in case. Do you think the Osbornes would mind?’
Something in Joyce’s voice made Lorna look up. A draught of unwelcome reality ran across her skin, but she tried not to show it.
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask.’
When she phoned Sam, the background noise sounded like a city. London, probably. She didn’t waste time with chit-chat that would embarrass them both.
‘Sam, I need to ask a favour of you. It’s not for me,’ she added. ‘It’s for Joyce. And before you think it, there’s nothing in it for me.’
‘Did I say there would be? Fire away.’
‘She’d like to see the garden at Rooks Hall – she doesn’t mind about the house, just her garden. She says, before the weather turns and everything falls off the trees.’
‘Any particular reason? I’m sure you could just drive out and look.’
‘I wanted to check with you first.’ Lorna knew she sounded stiff. ‘It’s for our knitting project. She’d like to walk around it.’
‘Well, we’ve got people staying there this week, but I’m sure we can arrange something. When did you have in mind?’
Lorna had consulted the forecast and rain was due to set in soon, with no let-up into October. She didn’t want Joyce’s last memory of Rooks Hall – if that’s what it was – to be damp and miserable. ‘When can we go? I don’t want to leave it too long.’
‘Weather’s not looking great, is it? Leave it with me.’
There was something about Sam’s ability to make things happen that lifted her heart. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to be offhand with him – and she’d never had any trouble being offhand with other men – but then she heard his voice. ‘Thanks. That would be great.’
‘No problem.’ There was a silence. No easy question about how she was, how the dogs were getting on. None of the questions they’d started asking each other about their new friendship instead of the ‘remember when …?’ conversations they used to have. All Lorna could hear was Sam’s new life in the background.
‘Well, I look forward to that.’
‘Was there anything else?’
Everything else. There was everything else.
‘No,’ she said, and they hung up on each other.
Sam texted her an hour later to say that Joyce was welcome to visit Rooks Hall the next day at two o’clock, if it suited, and so the following afternoon, she pulled up outside the house with Joyce and Bernard in the back. Sam’s Land Rover was already there.
The house itself was beautifully spruce in the afternoon sun, thanks to the Osbornes’ thorough overhaul. There was a sharp contrast between the black exterior timbers and the white painted walls, and the windows gleamed against freshly glossed frames. Rooks Hall seemed alive in a way it hadn’t before. Admiring its refreshed appearance gave Lorna a mild sting of disloyalty; she couldn’t imagine how Joyce must feel.
Joyce lingered a moment in the passenger seat when Lorna went round to open her door.
‘Do you think I’m being a silly old woman?’ She held Bernard on her lap, and raised her face from the silk scarf wrapped round her neck.
‘Not at all.’ She knew now that Joyce preferred bracing reason at moments like this. ‘I’m sure Sam will be pleased to have a few expert gardening tips to keep it looking its best. Farmers know nothing about roses, other than you can put horse manure on them.’ She nodded to the garden. ‘He’s here already. Would you like me to go in first?’
‘No, I’m quite all right. Would you take Bernard?’
Lorna lifted Bernard down, then offered her arm as Joyce carefully unfolded herself from the front seat.
Seeing them, Sam got out of the Land Rover; when they reached the gate he opened it for them. He was wearing a suit under his jacket, and Lorna wondered if he’d come from the station. There were papers on the dashboard, and his hair was styled in a much more city manner than when he’d been lugging bags of bird feed around. He’s gone already, she thought. He’s left me behind again.
‘Hello, Mrs Rothery,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘I’m afraid we have people staying in the house at the moment, but I’ve set up a chair for you in the garden, and it’s a nice day, so please … take your time.’
Lorna looked up the path and saw a table and chair had been set up in the corner of the garden, nearest the apple tree that had blossomed, to Joyce’s surprise. On a white tablecloth was a tea tray with a silver teapot, with cups and a plate of Bakewell tarts. A proper tea.
She looked at Sam, and he nodded, imperceptibly. Lorna wanted to say thanks, for the thoughtfulness, but wasn’t sure it would come out right. So she nodded back, and followed Joyce up the garden.
Sam didn’t return to the Land Rover. Instead, he stood with his hands behind his back, watching them with an inscrutable expression.
‘Oh, this is nice to see,’ Joyce said. ‘Lorna, this is anthurium – its English name is Painter’s Palette. We always had a good display of that, rather an in-joke. And this rose … a wedding anniversary present.’ She wandered around with Bernard at her heels, sometimes stopping to bury her nose in a flower head or pluck a bloom. Her pace was slow but Lorna left her to it, only popping up by her side if Joyce needed a low-flowering blossom picked, or to hear a story about why she’d chosen the plant or where some guinea pig of Ronan’s was buried.
‘She’s fine to pick the flowers, isn’t she?’ Lorna muttered to Sam as they watched Joyce stroking the petals of a zinnia, while Bernard stared at something in the hedges.
‘Of course. It’s her garden.’
That was kind.
‘Knitting coming along well?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Still on target for the end of December.’ She turned her head. ‘And you? You’re on target for then too?’
Sam knew what she was talking about. His eyes lingered on hers, as if he didn’t have the right words. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘An offer I couldn’t refuse.’
‘You always seem to get those.’
‘Not always. Ah, Mrs Rothery, would you like to take a seat?’ He stepped forward to help Joyce to the table, steadying her chair as she sat down.
‘Tea, Samson?’ asked Joyce. ‘I’ll pour.’
It would have made a surreal tableau for a painting, Lorna thought: the three of them and a Border terrier drinking tea on the lawn. They ta
lked about Longhampton, pedigree cattle herds and Monet, and it was so easy, Lorna let the subtle fragrance and texture of the flowers sink into her mood.
Appropriately it was Joyce who decided the ‘at home’ had reached its natural end.
She laid her spoon carefully on the saucer. ‘Well, that was most pleasant. We should be getting back, before it starts getting chilly. Thank you for the tea, Sam.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Lorna. He knows, she thought. He knows, from somewhere, that she’s not well.
If he did, Sam didn’t show it in his expression. ‘You’re very welcome. Thank you, Mrs Rothery, for creating this lovely …’ He stopped, and leaned forward. ‘Mrs Rothery? Is something wrong?’
Joyce had gone to push herself up, but let out a little cry and slumped back down. ‘Oh dear.’ A fearful expression came over her face and her hands fluttered on the arms of the chair. ‘I don’t think … I don’t think I can get up. My wrist feels … Oh dear.’
‘What? Oh no, Joyce, are you all right?’ Lorna panicked. ‘Do you want me to call one of the nurses?’
The old lady’s skin had lost its colour, and the vein in her throat was pulsing visibly. She put a hand on her chest, as if trying to hold the strength in her body. ‘I’m so sorry, my legs don’t seem to have any push in them,’ she said crossly.
We’ve done too much, thought Lorna, horrified. We’ve over tired her.
Sam flicked the crumbs off his napkin. ‘You’ve been walking round this garden at quite a pace; I’m not surprised you’re feeling a bit wobbly. May I give you a hand up?’ He stood by her chair, and reached out. ‘Here, let me …’
Joyce took his hand and got to her feet but she winced as she did so, and swayed dangerously. In one movement, Sam reached forward and caught her, putting his arm around her back. Then, in one easy gesture, he lifted her up as if she were a little girl.
‘Forgive the liberty,’ he said, beginning to move towards the path, ‘but I’ve helped my grandmother to her room at Butterfields more than once, and in my experience, if we both pretend this isn’t happening it’ll be over in a matter of seconds.’