Her leaving date had been negotiated with reasonable tact. The Army was keen to ensure she felt well-enough supported by them, as an army widow; that she would not complain afterward. Not publicly anyhow. As always, when she left the quarters, on checking-out day, the officer came with his clipboard to make sure she had not stolen anything or damaged the property. He had seen the round, black clock sticking out of a bin bag and asked about it.
“Is it broken?”
Kate shook her head.
“Shall I take it then? Give it to someone else?”
She nodded, but seeing the silent anguish on her face, he had left it there, untouched.
Her dream always ended the same way, those final moments, when Tom paused in the doorway and then turned away. Up until that point, the story varied. Sometimes they were having breakfast together, the three of them; sometimes, in her dream, the garden in the quarters was magical in the way dreams can make it: a whole acre of garden, rather than the mean, scrubby rectangle . . . flowerbeds, vegetable patch, rough grass dotted with wildflowers and, at the far end, a wide, low, gnarly old apple tree, with a platform of wood scraps forming a rough tree house. Cradled in its branches, a rope ladder swayed from its fixings, moving gently in the breeze. That was the version of the dream she liked best. This time, when the story played out its ending—when Tom lifted his kit bag, opened the front door, stood on the top step, framed against the light—she braced herself to wake as she always did, and he turned to face her as he always did.
This time it was Daniel.
The text from him came in just as she was kissing Jack and posting him in through the classroom door, keen to get away from the mummy clan without making eye contact. Putting her hand into her coat pocket to fish out her phone, she also encountered the wad of mail she had grabbed from the mat on the way out of the door that morning.
First, she read the text. It was Daniel: I’ve got an idea. Come to Christmas Steps this afternoon at 1.00 p.m.? Purely business, no funny stuff, I promise. Daniel (no kisses as unprofessional, but would otherwise, despite our discussion).
She was intrigued. At least he was still speaking to her, not put off by her rejection of romantic entanglement yesterday. She put the phone back and yanked out the fistful of mail, standing next to the rubbish bin by the bus stop where she now stood so she could get shot of the rubbish. Which was probably all of it.
There were two invitations to apply for a credit card she couldn’t afford to take out, and one for payday loans that she probably—at this rate—couldn’t afford not to take out. They went in the bin along with an ad for a local pizza and kebab shop. Then Kate was left with a slim, white envelope, franked rather than stamped, with Private and Confidential printed on the front in red.
FAO: The Parent or Carer of Jack Thompson, it read.
On the reverse, the sender was identified as City Hall, Bristol. With trembling fingers, and with a swift look left and right to ensure her pain or her triumph were not witnessed by any of the toxic mums, she slit it open.
Dear Mrs. Thompson, we are writing to inform you that—further to our evaluation of the educational needs of Jack—we have declined your request for this child to attend Greystone Manor on the grounds his needs are met at Peartree Pupil Referral Unit. We are therefore able to confirm that a place will be made available at Peartree PRU from the beginning of the Spring Term . . .
It was signed Lorna Evershed, Head of Educational Special Needs Resource.
Words burst from her. “Bloody civil servants, fat salaries, tiny brains, non-existent hearts,” Kate railed aloud, not caring now who heard her. “My boy . . .” she said, her diatribe interrupted by a sob.
She looked at the letter again. Who was this Lorna Evershed woman? Wasn’t that Sheepface from the meeting at the school? Her name began with an L, definitely. Kate read the whole letter again. The paper was shaking in her hand, whether with cold, anger, or fear she couldn’t tell. She scrunched it furiously, pulling back her arm to hurl it into the bin with the rest of the rubbish but then she took a deep breath and dropped her arm. It was as if she could feel Tom standing beside her. “You end it now, and they’ve won,” she could hear him saying. “Fight.”
She pulled the scrumpled-up paper straight, tearing it a little, the signature of this Lorna woman jumping out at her. There was a telephone number there too. A direct line, or so it claimed. Expecting a voicemail, Kate tapped the number into her phone.
“Hello? Lorna Evershed speaking. How can I help?”
Kate nearly dropped her cell. Damn. She had no clue what she was going to say. It was definitely Sheepface though, the dreary, monotonous voice was unmistakable.
“I think you are wrong,” she blurted. “My son, Jack. He needs your help and you are . . .” She searched desperately for the words; tried even more desperately not to cry. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “You can’t send him to the PRU,” she said, hating the pleading note in her voice. “You don’t know him. He won’t survive there. I need him to go to Greystones, he needs to go there. Why won’t you help?”
“Mrs. Thompson,” said Sheepface heavily, “we are trying to help. We have assessed Jack’s needs, we have evaluated the options, and we have allocated a place in a suitable setting . . .”
“But the most suitable setting is Greystones and you are supposed to have a legal obligation—I thought you did . . .”
“We don’t have to provide ‘the most suitable’ setting, we only have to provide ‘a suitable setting’ and we have determined the PRU to be suitable.”
“So, what would it take to get Greystones? You fund children to go there; who are these children?”
“I believe the local authority funds a tiny number of children at Greystones. I personally have not done so.”
“I bet that makes you popular. If there’s some kind of bonus system for saving the authority money I reckon you win it every time . . .”
“I will ignore that remark.”
“I apologize, that was rude,” Kate said with gargantuan restraint. “But please tell me—what have these children got that Jack doesn’t?”
“It is likely the children have similar educational needs,” admitted Sheepface. “But you have to understand, some of these children also have additional challenges that Jack certainly doesn’t have. They may, for example, be ‘looked after’ children . . .”
“‘Looked after’?” said Kate, incredulously. “Jack’s ‘looked after,’ for heaven’s sake! What on earth do you mean?”
“Mrs. Thompson, of course you look after Jack,” she said with studied patience. She even had a slight bleat to her voice now she was getting nervous, a vibration that added even more to the sheeplike qualities. “It is the very fact you look after Jack that means he is not a ‘looked after’ child. These are children who have either lost their parents or been taken away from their parents. I am sure you can appreciate these children require and deserve additional care. I gather there is a tiny handful of children at Greystones who are in this category and they are, therefore, fully funded by the local authority. Naturally.”
Kate hung her head, her phone still clamped to her ear. So, it was her very presence as Jack’s mother that was the hurdle between him and a place at the only school where he felt he belonged, the only school where they seemed to instantly know how to tap into the mind of her beautiful boy . . .
“Okay,” she said at last. “Thank you. I understand.”
“How ridiculous,” exploded Pat, when she heard. “What absolute nonsense, to think they are weaseling out of their legal responsibilities on a ridiculous sleight of words. ‘Most suitable’ and ‘a suitable’! It makes my blood boil. I would go and see our MP if I were you.”
“I could make a fuss,” said Kate, listlessly, “but I don’t think that would help Jack, and there’s no getting away from it . . . he has—well—not ‘parents,’ but at least a ‘parent’ and that means he doesn’t take priority.”
“I’m going to contac
t Ursula, that’s what I’m going to do,” she continued. Kate’s blank acceptance and lack of fight concerned her. She had never seen her friend so limp and defeated.
“I don’t think there’s any point . . .” she began, but then she was distracted by a buzz from her cell in her pocket. She fished it out.
You didn’t reply. Don’t forget, it’s Christmas Steps at 1.00 p.m. This is not a date, I promise. Daniel. X
There was a rueful smiley face emoticon too.
“Are you all right, dear?” said Pat.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. It’s from Daniel.”
“I hope he’s asking you out.”
“He’s texted to say he’s not asking me out, actually.”
“How odd. Well, I think it’s a shame. He’s a lovely young man, from what I’ve seen. Was he really just texting to say that?”
“No, he says he can help with something.”
“Then let him.”
He accepted her point about no romance—he really did—but just being around Kate felt great. And Jack was great. And anyway, one day she would be ready for a new relationship and, when she was, he would be there. So that was great too.
As he walked down Broadway to Christmas Steps, he allowed himself to drink in the holiday atmosphere. For the first time that month, the idea of Christmas didn’t fill him with black despair. Instead, the twinkling lights, the comical penguins, and snow slides in the window of Portman Brothers, with the animated snowball fight—who even knew penguins could throw snowballs with their funny little short flipper arms—made him smile, just a little bit. Zoe would have loved it. For the first time he began to see that “would have loved” was enough, that it might one day be okay to allow your mind to remember someone who was gone and that the sadness could perhaps be bittersweet, rather than annihilating, a heartfelt nod in honor of moments much missed.
What did he always say to the people he spoke to on the hotline? These were the people who could not see a way out of a pain so overwhelming that permanent oblivion started to look like an attractive alternative. He would tell them to stick with it, and that things would eventually get better. That’s what he always said. Maybe he wasn’t talking complete bollocks after all.
And there was Grace, coming out of the wedding dress shop, as if on cue to meet him.
She was crying.
“It’s Noel,” she said as Daniel raced up the steps toward her. “He’s in hospital. I found him this morning. He’d been lying on the floor all night.” Her face crumpled, and tears sprang anew. “In the cold,” she sobbed. “I thought he was dead.”
Daniel gathered her into his arms. She was tall, only a couple of inches shorter than him, but he hugged her, holding her tightly for fear she might sway and fall down the steps.
“They think he might have had a stroke,” she wailed, freeing a hand from his embrace so she could fumble a tissue up to her streaming nose and eyes.
“Thank goodness you checked on him.”
“I know! I don’t usually . . . I just had a feeling . . . I generally glance in, just through the door, to make sure nothing’s happened, that it hasn’t been broken into or anything. You never know, when places are empty, squatters can go in and set fires or whatever . . . But I just saw his foot sticking out from the kitchen at the back. I so nearly overlooked it. He would have just laid there alone . . .”
“But you found him,” Daniel said, rocking her gently. “Where’s your partner?”
“Megan? She’s gone off to a wedding supplies trade fair. Won’t be back until late tonight. I wanted to go up to the hospital with him, but I have to keep the shop open. I’m expecting a couple of clients to drop in and collect things.”
“I can go up,” he said. “Not straightaway. I’m meeting Kate here and then I’ve got your landlord Sam Bird coming around with—well—with his bird.”
Grace smiled at the weak joke.
“Let’s hope his bird’s into weddings.”
“I assume they’re already married,” said Daniel regretfully. “Her name’s on the limited company information as director. It’s a tax dodge, I imagine. I can’t think he lets her actually have any control,” he chatted on aimlessly, distracting her as he led her back into the shop.
“Who’s Kate?” she said.
Daniel thought. “In this context,” he said slowly, “she’s a potential tenant for Noel’s shop. And . . .” He paused for effect. “She’s a jeweler.”
“Fab! Perfect! I can’t wait . . . Where is she then?”
Kate didn’t come. Daniel was checking his watch anxiously while he and Grace had coffee from the café. She positioned him behind the counter with his paper cup, as far away as possible from the white clouds of dresses on the rack. “You can’t be too careful,” she explained apologetically. “A customer brought a child in with a Magnum ice cream once. It cost a fortune in dry-cleaning . . .”
“You definitely can’t trust me with a chocolate ice cream,” agreed Daniel, sipping his coffee and placing it down with emphatic caution onto the countertop.
“So, tell me more, who’s this Kate then?”
“You’ll see. You’ll like her. But I’m worried I’ve messed up the arrangements,” he said, checking his phone for the umpteenth time in case he had missed a text from her. Nothing. No reply to either.
“Mr. Bird is going to be here soon. Then I won’t get time to look after Kate. I’ve tried too hard to multitask.”
Grace tutted. “You don’t want to do that multitasking thing,” she said. “You being a man, and all. You can always hand her over to me. Noel gave me the keys. I’ll show her around and we can talk about the wedding group plan.”
Daniel spun around as he heard the shop door clunk open, thinking it must be Kate at last, but through it came Mr. Bird and his companion, who was tottering on the highest of high platforms, with laces crossed all the way up her perma-tanned legs to the knee. Above them was an alarmingly brief skirt and then Daniel, allowing his eyes upward only reluctantly for fear of what he would see, encountered a pair of breasts that only just spared onlookers a sight of the nipples. Realizing he had been openly scanning her bare essentials, he swiftly looked away without meeting her eye, but gained a general impression of thick black lashes, full, shiny lips, and a quantity of blond hair that was unlikely to be natural on grounds of both color and quantity.
“Eying up Bird’s bird, I see,” guffawed Mr. Bird, slapping Daniel on the arm with painful enthusiasm.
“Sorry,” said Daniel, shaking his head vigorously to dispel the horror of the image of him and Mr. Bird having sex with the same woman. “You must be Desiree,” he added, holding out his hand. “I mean, Mrs. Bird. Sorry.”
“Is she like as ’eck,” said Mr. Bird loudly, laughing even harder. “She wants to be, ah don’t doubt, but I’ve barely recovered from paying off my last wife. I can’t afford another divorce just yet, young man.”
Daniel blushed. “God, sorry,” he muttered to the woman, meeting her eye at last in apology.
She gave him an embittered look and turned away dismissively. “You know I’d love to, Birdy-wordy,” she simpered, stroking Mr. Bird’s arm, her long, red talons threatening to rake his abundant flesh. Actually, she might have just been grasping his arm for support. Even in the shop on a level floor she seemed to be teetering. Perhaps they had both had a liquid lunch, he thought.
Grace caught his eye, and turned away, bowing her head as she did so. He wondered if she was crying again, seeing her shoulders shaking, but then realized she was barely managing to stifle her mirth.
“I’m Cheryl,” said the woman crossly to Daniel. “Desiree’s his ex-wife. I don’t look anything like ’er. She’s about sixty for a start.” Cheryl looked hugely put out.
“So, go on then, lad, what’s the big idea,” said Mr. Bird.
Daniel briefly explained but then handed over to Grace, who quickly overcame Mr. Bird’s incredulity that someone so young, so female, and with such extraordinarily colored
hair should know something about business.
“That’s impressive, lass,” he said at last. “I like your thinking. So, what do you want from me, exactly?”
She faltered, glancing at Daniel for support. “Well, money I suppose,” she said at last. “At least not straightaway. What we really need from you now is a stay of execution on the rent rises.”
“I’ll hold down your rent for two years, young lady, but no longer,” said Mr. Bird. “After that, we’ll see.”
Grace nodded gratefully, sagging with intense relief. “And that’s for all the units you own here?” she added, suddenly remembering.
“I’m not sure my other tenants are quite as persuasive as you, but—yes—go on then. How many have I got here?” he asked Daniel.
“Four,” said Daniel. “You own four out of the six shops involved in the wedding team.”
“Fine,” he said, heavily, “but I’ll want something else from you all too.”
Grace raised her eyebrows expectantly.
“In return for a twenty percent share of your profits for the next five years, I’ll fund your first year’s marketing plans.”
“What, totally?” said Grace, astonished. “The rebranding? The printing? The wedding fair?”
“Everything you’ve just told me about, lass,” he confirmed.
“I don’t know if the others will agree,” she said doubtfully.
“Ask ’em. And we’ll see. It’s all or nothing because I’m not interested in buying into some half-arsed underfunded pie-in-the-sky scheme. I’ve not made my money from that over the years, and things aren’t going to change now.”
“Birdy,” said Cheryl, stroking his arm and tilting her head appealingly, “this is all lush. This is class, this is . . .”
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