But, for as long as Sally was in the hairdresser’s it was out of bounds. ‘Okay, come along, Judge, let’s get you back home. If you’re lucky I might just give you a short back and sides.’
‘Hmmm? What? Damn it. What the hell are you doing here? Can’t you see I’m busy?’ The other patrons immediately stopped their gentle chatter. Glaring first at Emily, he sat up straight and shouted across the café to Greta ‘You! You. Get over here now and take my dictation.’
Greta glanced at Emily, raising her eyebrows and asking, silently, what the hell to do. First Sally, now this. The day was taking a very unpleasant turn.
Emily took a long, slow breath. This was new. She hadn’t seen him like this before. And neither, she presumed, had the locals as they sat staring open-mouthed, witnessing the man they respected become someone else entirely.
She closed her eyes and counted to ten, wanting the earth to open and swallow her up. Yes, that would help everything. It would stop her thinking about Brett and Sally and the roof and her stepsisters. It would stop the helplessness and frank embarrassment as she stood here in front of all these people with a man who clearly wasn’t right in the head.
Please, swallow me up, now.
Coward.
Didn’t matter what she wished for, there was no one else to do this; she had to deal with it, regardless. She had to get him out of here. Turning slowly to Greta, she said, ‘I’m sorry, so sorry. We’ll go.’
He shook his head vehemently. ‘Why are you here when I’ve told you not to bother me at work? Is it that girl again? What’s she done now? Throwing tantrums again?’
‘I… Which girl?’ Her cheeks burned. No, her whole body burned.
‘Emily, of course. Wouldn’t be one of mine.’ He watched her closely, eyes narrowed, then his shoulders sagged. ‘Silly girl. But I know it’s ripping you apart. I’m sorry, Moni. I’m sorry. I’ll try to understand. We just don’t do wailing in the Evans house. I shouldn’t have shouted at her –’
‘Moni?’ He thought she was her mother. Her mother. There was a sharp twinge in her gut. His reality was completely out of whack.
‘All that carrying on. It’s not good for her. She needs professional help.’
‘It’s okay, it’ll be okay,’ Emily managed to get out, not sure who she was pretending to be. Her mother? Herself? Not sure, either, why she was pandering to a man who’d been irritated by a grieving child. ‘Maybe we should take a walk outside? I’m sure you can take a break from… all that work?’
‘Oh. Oh, all right. But make it quick.’ He stood, snapped his jacket on and glared at all the pensioners and their cups of tea. Snarled at Greta to get out of the way. Then indicated to Emily. ‘Come along, then. Hurry.’
‘Yes. Okay.’ Throwing some cash at Greta she followed him out of the café.
What was she supposed to do? None of this was okay.
Emily felt as if someone had let all the air out of her lungs. It wasn’t so much the quicksilver change in personality as the realisation of how things had been for him back then. He knew she’d been suffering and at some point he’d discussed it with her mum. He knew and he’d done little to help. Now he was sick they could never revisit it, or challenge it, or try to fix it.
They’d both been left with so much animosity eating away at their relationship – and now she had nowhere to put those emotions. She could hardly rail back at a frail old man.
But she didn’t know how to start forgiving him either.
***
Still shaken from the incident in the café, Emily decided she should do something concrete to take her mind off it. The Judge had been dogging her steps all morning and she’d been unable to shake him off. She craved some time on her own, to get some quiet and steady herself. But he was always there. Very grumpy today. Very out of sorts.
She wanted to tell him to back right off. After all, it was something he’d always been good at. But she didn’t have it in her. He was ill. She had to remember that. Maybe if she talked to him while she cut his hair she could get some insight into what was going on in his head. ‘Okay, so I think we need to tackle that hair, Judge. Can you come and sit here?’
‘What?’ He looked up from rubbing his palms down the fabric of his trousers. Something he did over and over when he couldn’t think of things to fill in his time. The cotton was starting to wear thin.
‘We’re going to cut that hair.’
‘Where’s Fraser?’
‘Fraser?’
‘My barber, of course.’ He looked at her as if she was a fool. She wasn’t Monica any more, or Emily, or the cook. God knew who he thought she was.
‘I have no idea. I’m your barber now. Come here.’ She set a dining chair in the middle of the kitchen floor on top of spread-out newspaper, aware that she was being snappy and trying to soften it. It’s not his fault. It was his fault. It’s not his fault. ‘Here. Sit.’
‘Okay. Okay. My usual, please.’
Which is what, exactly? She had no idea what she was doing, but she’d had her hair done plenty of times and had watched with fascination as the hairdresser tugged it straight beneath the length of their fingers and then just snipped.
Just snip. Easy. Right then.
She sprayed some leave-in conditioner onto his hair, then tugged it straight. Starting at the back, she picked up a pair of scissors she’d found in a bathroom cupboard and… snipped.
Not easy. How did you make it all the same length? How did you put layers in? How did you make sure the sides were even?
‘Pass me my notebook.’ He turned his head at the same time she snipped. Ooops. Now this side was shorter than the other.
‘Here’s the notebook, but don’t move a muscle.’ She knew he wouldn’t read it, write in it or even look at it and that he’d be asking more questions soon, so she moved stealthily to the left side of his head and started to snip again. ‘I think we’re going to have to go with the tufted look.’
‘What’s that?’ He turned again, flinching. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Cutting your hair.’ There wasn’t a mirror. That was the problem. He couldn’t see what she was doing, so every time she moved away he forgot she was there.
‘Well, don’t. I have to get home. Leave me alone.’ He scraped the chair back as locks of his hair fell to the floor from her fingers. He looked ridiculous. He looked like he’d had an electric shock on half his head. The rest just… hung.
‘But –’
‘I said, you…’ He pointed his finger into her face, his features contorting into that snarl she remembered from years ago. Her heart started to thump an irregular response. ‘Leave. Now.’
‘I…’ Oh, wow. All the fear and panic from years ago seemed to swell inside her as he took her right back to being eight years old.
She wasn’t. She knew better now.
Don’t respond. Don’t rise to it. Finish the hair another day. Another mood. Another chance. There will be one.
She stood aside to let him leave first, swiping a rogue tear from her cheek as he disappeared into the library muttering something. This was ridiculous. How could he still have this effect on her when he wasn’t even trying?
Oh, for New York. Oh, for her lovely life. Away from Sally and The Judge and memories and forgotten things.
She checked all the outside doors were locked so he wouldn’t suddenly up and leave, because God knew what would happen to him in this state of mind. Then she called out in the steadiest voice she could muster – which, in reality, was not steady at all – ‘Okay. I’m going to my room. Call me if you need me.’
But she wasn’t sure she’d come running if he did. She just wanted to stay in her bedroom for ever. And if that wasn’t a throwback to fifteen years ago she didn’t know what was.
***
Plip.
Plop.
Plip. Plop.
Pliplipliplipliplipliplip…
‘Ugh! Help!’ Emily was trapped in a tiny, empty room with no way out. No doors.
No windows. She didn’t know how she’d got in and she certainly didn’t have a way to get out. She was wearing a dirty and torn long white dress and holding a huge, heavy rock in both hands. She tried to hit the bare grey walls with it over and over as she shouted, ‘Help me! Please!’
But no one could hear her. She was trapped and utterly alone and tethered to this rock that was weighing her down. Then, suddenly, a huge tidal wave rose from one corner of the room, closer and closer until she’d thought she was going to...
She pushed herself up to sitting, her heart hammering, her hands cold and clammy.
Breathe. She opened her eyes. Breathe. It was just a stupid dream. The air was damp, but she could see her curtains fluttering and the door banged softly to the staccato rhythm of the wind. She was in her room at The Hall. She was safe.
Well, she wasn’t in a tiny, grey, airless room about to drown.
She wiped her forehead and her hand came away wet. The water wasn’t a dream at all. ‘It’s bloody well raining inside!’
She felt around the duvet… wet. Then peered up to drips coming fast and furious. Yes, the ceiling was leaking above her bed. ‘Shit. Shit. I don’t want to have to deal with this. I don’t want to have to deal with everything. It’s too much. I want to be at work, in my nice, dry office with lovely people and laughing and drinking champagne.’
No Sally, no Judge, no memories, no shame. Only Brett.
Ah.
‘I want to be on a desert island with a huge cocktail and superfast Wi-Fi, then.’ No such luck. Shivering, she jumped up and grabbed the bucket, only to realise that if she moved it then the carpet would be damaged from the rain dripping in there. ‘What the hell time is it…?’ Three-thirty-six. In the afternoon.
Damned jetlag – she should be over it by now. The umber-coloured clouds were full and heavy and not going to let up any time soon. She had to act quickly before the drowning became a reality, so there was nothing else she could do except haul in a deep breath and face it.
Crawling into reception-range she grabbed her phone and Googled local builders.
Rigby’s came up first. Great. Sally’s dad. As if he was going to help her.
The next one rang out. The third was engaged. She left a message as the sporadic drips became a constant trickle. Aaaargh. She could have drowned by the time they got back to her.
‘What to do? What to do?’ Throwing herself into action she ran downstairs and found another bucket in the under-the-stairs cupboard by the kitchen and placed it on her bed. Then she found The Judge, helping himself to a sandwich in the kitchen.
After their interactions earlier she wasn’t sure she wanted to ask him for help. She felt cross with him all over again. Being nice to someone who had knowingly hurt you and not tried to fix it was bloody hard. But she was desperate. ‘Judge, the roof’s leaking. Any ideas? What would you do?’
He ran his fingers through the terrible haircut she had given him. ‘Which roof?’
The Taj Mahal’s, obviously. ‘This one.’ She pointed at the rain dripping onto the kitchen table and bit back the frustration that was coming at her from all sides. ‘What should I do?’
He took a bite and thought. ‘Builder’s usually the answer.’
‘I’ve tried a few, but there’s no one available.’
‘Tried what?’ He frowned and she could see the comprehension leech away. Just like that, he could go from fully anchored in the moment to confused in a microsecond. There was nothing behind his eyes; they were just lost and empty. He looked at his plate. ‘Is there anything else to eat?’
‘Yes, I’ll fix you something in a minute; I have another job to do, first.’ She knew she was on a hiding to nothing even talking to him about this, but short of putting up umbrellas inside she couldn’t think of what else to do. ‘The roof?’
‘What’s the matter with it?’
Breathe. Even though frustration was rising, twitching her muscles, she squashed it down. ‘Judge, listen to me.’ Reframe the question. ‘If you had a roof that was leaking what would you do?’
He chomped on the last bite of sandwich. Thought. She wanted to hurry him up, to wind up his thought processes to her speed, but that wasn’t going to help. ‘Tarpaulin. That should do it. I’ll come help you.’
‘No. You stay here.’
He shook his head and took her hand. ‘No, dear. It’s really not safe. You can’t do it. It’s too dangerous. Let me.’
He was like Jekyll and Hyde. Light and dark. Disarming, and yet concerned and gentle. And her heart warmed to him a little. He couldn’t help it. He really couldn’t. ‘I don’t want you getting pneumonia.’ The clouds were now dumping thick, heavy drops. ‘So, where would you keep a tarpaulin?’
‘In the garage, of course.’
‘Excellent. Right.’ What the hell she was meant to do with it once she’d found it, she didn’t know.
She couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever been in the garage. It was huge. Drafty. Creaking and dusty. There were three vehicles gathering dust: a Jaguar, an old – possibly vintage – Mini that she remembered her mum driving years ago and a tractor with a flat tyre. None of which was anything she was looking for.
She scoured through tins and tins and tins of old paint of every hue, a hardware store’s full range of rusting tools, some general junk, bicycles and… yes! Hallelujah! A huge old tarpaulin, which she took outside, shook the dust from, then found an expanding ladder, a hammer and some nails and hauled them all over towards The Hall.
She looked up at the roof – so high above her, then at the ladder. Really? She was going to climb up there and fix the roof like Bob the Bloody Builder?
You can do this. You can do anything you damn well please.
Or die trying, she mused to herself.
Don’t be so dramatic, Emily Jane, Tam’s voice rang in her ears.
And now she wasn’t just talking to herself; she was answering, too.
The ladder steps were slippery with rain, her clothes plastered to her shivering body, and her hands trembled as she climbed the first couple of steps. But as the gap between her and terra firma widened, her nerve began to slip as much as her feet.
‘Damn.’ She gripped with her left hand as she tentatively lifted her right foot. It was a long way down. A long way up.
Fear wriggled into her cold, wet bones. What exactly would she do when she got up there? And how the hell would she climb over the guttering and stay upright on what remained of the roof tiles, when she could barely see out of her rain-slicked eyes?
What a stupid bloody idea. Thanks, Judge. She couldn’t do this. She just couldn’t. Umbrellas it would have to be. Bad luck be damned.
Tentatively she started to climb down again.
One foot down and there was whoosh of wind and she wobbled. A roar of… thunder, maybe? Lightning? A storm of biblical proportions. Great. This was it, this was where she met her grizzly end. Dead at the bottom of a ladder and no one around but a cranky old man who’d probably forgotten she was even here, and certainly wouldn’t come looking for her.
There was the noise again. No. No, it wasn’t thunder. It was a motorbike rumbling past.
Screeching to a halt on the road.
Turning round.
Tearing up the driveway.
Please, no. Not the damned cavalry. Not him.
Not after the day she was having; a fight with Brett, a run-in with Sally, a leaking roof. An unpredictable, fractious Judge. And now the grumpy, unbridled irritation that was Jacob Taylor.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ He’d roared up the gravel and stopped, and in that time she still hadn’t been able to move down another single step.
Don’tlookdown.Don’tlookdown.Don’tlookdown. Steadying herself, she turned, slowly. There he was, standing at the bottom of the ladder, his hands gripping the sides, holding it still. Coming in and out of focus as the world really did tilt sideways, making her nauseated and dizzy. She straightened, waiting for her brai
n to catch up with the rest of her.
Excellent. Just excellent that he’d find her half-frightened to death, on the verge of vomiting, soaked to the skin and not having achieved what she’d been planning to do. Foolhardy it may have been, but at least she’d actually been trying to solve her problems. ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ she growled, as the rain trickled down the inside of her T-shirt and down her spine. ‘Just thought I’d pick some flowers, obviously. Such a lovely day.’
‘Are you completely insane?’
‘Are you actually telling me off right now?’
‘For God’s sake, don’t you realise...?’ His voice trailed off as he seemed to wrestle with something in his head. His fists clenched by his sides and his face was as pale as she felt. ‘Just get down. Now. Shit happens, Emily.’
She had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t actually talking about her and this, but about something else altogether. She gesticulated to her hammer. ‘Really? You want to tell me off, right now?’ Never mind that her fingers were turning a strange shade of blue and her teeth had started to chatter. ‘Thank you, but I’m absolutely fine. You can just hop on your bike and go home.’
‘Seriously, do not pull that Girl Power stuff with me right now. I know you’re fine, Emily, but you should have asked for help. Called someone. It’s stupidly dangerous to climb a ladder without someone else there as it is, but in the rain, too…?’
Yes, well, if there was one thing Emily didn’t do, it was ask for help. Mainly because she’d learnt that help generally didn’t come; whether you sat in silence for two weeks and refused to eat, or screamed for three days until your throat was sore and your ribs hurt. In life, she knew, no matter how many people you had around you, you were essentially, when it came down to it, entirely on your own. But, right now, he had a point. ‘Okay, save the lecture. I called a few places and no one answered. It was an emergency, but I’m coming down anyway. Despite the fact it’s still raining inside my house.’
‘What the hell were you thinking?’ His eyes were sparking the lightning she’d expected in the storm. ‘I’ll go up and fix it.’
The Secret Art of Forgiveness Page 9