Another Chance, Another Life

by Another Chance, Another Life (retail) (epub)

  ‘She’s music mad,’ he said. ‘Like her mum was. Beth played in the Liverpool Philharmonic. But she loved folk, jazz, Celtic music – anything.’ He paused. ‘Sally is why I couldn’t come for a meal,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I’m all she’s got. She’s still so insecure, that even when she’s at home, she keeps coming through to check that I’m still there. We lost her mum two full years ago, but Sally’s never really recovered.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Kathy.

  Their eyes locked.

  ‘However, I do want to see you again,’ David said quietly. ‘For the first time since Beth died, I genuinely want to see someone else. After I recognized this, I can say it without feeling guilt. When you asked, I still hadn’t got that bit clear in my mind. So, if I could replay that conversation, it would be to say: Yes, Kathy, I would like to have a meal with you . . . but at my place, with Sally, where I’ll do the cooking and fill you with cold rice pudding. Then I’ll run you into the ground next morning, when I’m free to go anywhere I want.’

  Kathy’s heart was pounding. ‘OK. Consider the conversation wound back and rerun.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Let’s do it. The cold rice pudding was always optional.’

  David grinned. ‘That’s how crooked handlers try to slow down greyhounds, don’t you know?’ he accused her.

  ‘Do I look like someone who would slow down a greyhound?’ Kathy demanded.

  ‘No. But you wouldn’t hesitate with a competitor.’

  ‘That’s different,’ said Kathy. ‘I love dogs.’

  ‘That puts me in my place. Can I wash my hands?’ David held up his hands, black with the dirt from changing his wheel for the puncture.

  ‘You can do it posh, in the loo, or here in the kitchen sink. Feel free.’

  ‘Then I’ll mess up your kitchen,’ he said cheerfully, and paused.

  From the front room came the sounds of music. Billie Holiday, at her most smoky-voiced, singing through an old blues number.

  ‘We’ll never get Sally home now,’ he sighed.

  Kathy handed him his coffee. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘How shall we do this meal? Share the cooking? You provide the main course, and I’ll bring the pudding?’

  David laughed. ‘I have a better idea,’ he said. ‘I’ll cook both courses.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ said Kathy.

  She tilted her head, listening to the music. ‘Is she into good jazz?’

  ‘Like her mum, everything musical.’

  ‘How about Charlie Parker?’

  ‘The jazz saxophonist?’

  ‘The world’s greatest ever jazz saxophonist,’ Kathy corrected.

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I’ve a CD of his somewhere. It’s a perfect introduction to him. If there’s music in her soul, then he’ll reach out and claim her as his own.’

  ‘I must be in the wrong place,’ Henrietta said. ‘This used to be my office!’ Her cheerful face was covered in white dust, streaked with sweat channels – it was an agricultural feedstuffs day.

  ‘Very funny,’ said Becky. ‘All I’ve done is sort out the mess on your desktop into different piles – like invoices, order forms, final demands from the gas and electricity. . . .’

  ‘Final demands?’ asked Henrietta. ‘Where did you find these?’

  ‘Under the mess.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Henrietta. ‘That’s why I didn’t see them.’

  Becky sighed. ‘Now, all we have to do is write invoices to the customers whose orders you’ve been delivering. Then write cheques to cover the bills from all your suppliers. Then think up a convincing excuse, and phone the gas and electricity people. Finally, when we’ve sorted out the paperwork, maybe I can start to bring your books up to date. When did you last write them up?’

  Henrietta stared at the wall, hoping for inspiration. ‘You’ve taken down all my wall-calendar thingies!’ she exclaimed indignantly. ‘I’d customers’ names on these!’

  ‘Your wall calendars were five years old. Some of the names on them have probably gone for good – and the rest you’ve got in your filing cabinet.’

  ‘Have I?’ asked Henrietta, having the grace to look surprised. Better to change the topic to a safer one, she decided. ‘Fancy a mug of tea?’

  ‘I’ll make it. You phone the gas and electricity people – before the bailiffs come and take away your kettle and your tea bags.’

  ‘I’d like to see them try!’

  ‘I’d rather we didn’t give them the chance. Go on, the phone number is written out on each final notice. Your credit card is lying beside them.’

  ‘My credit card? I’ve been looking all over for it! Where did you. . . ?’

  ‘Your desk. Under the mess.’

  ‘Then at least it wasn’t lost. Right, you make the tea. I’ll go and wash my face, before I phone them.’

  ‘They can’t see you. Phone them now.’

  Henrietta sighed. ‘We had a teacher once, just like you.’

  ‘Did you drive her mad, as well?’

  Henrietta’s face lit up with that wonderful smile: ‘Probably.’

  Becky filled the kettle, hearing her boss chatting, laughing and talking credit card numbers into the phone. She smiled. It wasn’t just the canal which flowed slowly here below the Dales. Even final demands seem to be settled at a more leisurely pace.

  She carried through their tea.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Henrietta. She took her mug and gulped. ‘That’s better.’

  Sitting down on the edge of the now-clear desk, she picked up an invoice from the neat pile at Becky’s side.

  ‘Don’t!’ said Becky. ‘They’re all in order.’

  ‘The place has lost its homely feel,’ Henrietta complained. ‘Now it’s just like any other office in the world. No personality.’

  ‘No mess,’ corrected Becky.

  Henrietta stuck out her tongue, then gulped down the rest of her tea. ‘I’m off to make another brew. Want one?’

  ‘No, thanks. There’s another mug, ready to drink, in the kitchen. Cooling down for you.’

  ‘How did you know I’d need it?’

  ‘Because you always finish the first in two gulps.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ said Henrietta. ‘That boy of yours. When are you sending him back in school?’

  Becky was caught out by the sudden change of tack. ‘As soon as I find a settled job myself.’

  ‘Where?’

  Becky shrugged. ‘Wherever. Once I’m finished here, we’ll probably move on. . . .’

  She didn’t like the thought. If they swung east to Bradford, they would move away from Mike Preston’s boatyard. Somehow, that was more of an issue than it should be. She was in no hurry to confront that day.

  ‘Why not put him into school here?’

  ‘You’ve got a school? A primary?’

  ‘The Cluny Foundation. A small independent school.’

  ‘I can’t afford fees.’

  ‘Locals get for free.’

  ‘We’re not locals.’

  ‘You are, while you’re staying here.’

  Becky frowned. Jonathon’s education was a worry. He was working well under her own teaching, but sooner or later the Education Authority would get restless. Kids educated at home cause nosebleeds in any bureaucratic system. ‘I doubt that your school would see us as locals,’ she muttered.

  ‘They’ll see whatever the chairman tells them.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘It’s a she. And you’re looking at her.’

  Henrietta savoured Becky’s surprise.

  ‘I’m not just a pretty face,’ she said smugly. ‘The Foundation’s our school, and we run it our way, just like we’ve done for years. There’s no Fancy Dans on our board – just local people. The school that Old Cluny built up and left has sent generations of our kids to college and university. That’s good enough for us.’

  ‘Does it teach the standard curricula?’ Becky asked doubtfully.

  ‘To a high sta
ndard. And everything else he brought back from his missionary work in Asia – the tolerance of different religions and cultures, understanding different societies, how they work, looking at our responsibilities within our own society. All the fancy stuff modern educators have only just discovered – we’ve been teaching it for a hundred years.’

  Becky tried to focus on basics. ‘You’re telling me that it’s a proper school, and that you can get Jonathon into it.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What if we have to move on in a month or so?’

  ‘Let’s worry about that in a month or so.’

  ‘And you can definitely fit him in?’

  ‘I told that Noel of yours that I would think about it. Well, I have.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Cross my heart, and I don’t tell lies,’ chanted Henrietta.

  ‘Well. . . .’ said Becky, lost for words.

  ‘Close your mouth, an’ you’ll catch no flies. . . .’ Henrietta finished her somewhat mangled quotation.

  ‘Anybody at home?’

  Becky glanced up from her paperwork in Henrietta’s office, to see Mike Preston standing in the doorway – so tall, he had to dip his head.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, her heart lifting.

  ‘Passing through. I’ve been working all morning on one of the hire-fleet’s engines at Skipton, and decided to drop in.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s the mess you were talking about?’

  ‘It’s taken three days to clear. Want a mug of tea? Henrietta wouldn’t grudge it.’

  ‘Heart of gold, that woman. Renowned for it. She’s been heaving coal for her dad since she was a girl. Missed half her schooling, helping out. Her mother died, when she was young, leaving only him and her. The old man used to laugh and tell folks that it was always a son he’d wanted – that’s why he called her Henrietta – but once his daughter joined him, he was glad he had no sons.’

  ‘Then why is it Yates and Son?’ asked Becky.

  ‘Her dad was the son. They’ve been carriers for generations.’

  Becky rose to fill the kettle. ‘She’s chairman of the school board for the local school – did you know that?’

  ‘No, but I’m not surprised. Don’t let her paperwork fool you – that’s one sharp businesswoman. Got a good head on her shoulders. She sees through to the root of a problem in seconds, and knows just as quickly how to tackle it. She has a good brain – just never had the chance to educate it. She’s perfect for their oddball school. What they need is an independent, clear-headed street fighter who fears nobody in Education, and Henrietta was born to do that job.’

  Becky poured boiling water into the mugs.

  ‘Why an oddball school?’ she asked.

  ‘The man who set it up, Joshua Cluny, was a retired missionary. He’d spent his life out East – India, China, Burma – and came back saying his congregations taught him more than he taught them. He set up his Foundation with money he got from Asian merchants, to coach their kids for public schools in England. Then he used the money from course fees to teach local kids for free.’

  ‘But has it a good reputation?’

  ‘Top drawer. It’s as good as any fee-paying school – even if there are only a couple of teachers and about twenty-five kids.’

  Becky sipped her tea. ‘She’s offered to take in Jon for a bit.’

  ‘Grab it. You couldn’t do better for him.’

  ‘I could tell the education authorities that he’s back in school.’

  ‘Go for it!’

  ‘Yes, but. . . .’

  The calm eyes studied her; she felt colour rise to her cheeks.

  ‘But what?’ he finally asked.

  ‘Becky set down her mug. ‘I’m not sure. Yes, I am. I’m scared that he’ll be bullied again – he’s been a different boy since I started teaching him on his own.’

  ‘So that’s been a problem, in the past?’

  Becky nodded. ‘He’s small for his age, and shy. Kids pick on him.’

  Mike strolled to the open door, mug in hand. ‘Kids pick on anyone who doesn’t quite fit in,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘They always have. So the trick would be to help him fit in quickly.’ He turned. ‘Does he play football?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No sports at all.’

  Mike came over. ‘I coach kids in Burnley and Blackburn – got all the certificates, and police clearance.’ He pulled a face. ‘You need that nowadays. I could bring over a ball and get him to kick it around. See what his co-ordination and sports skills are like.’

  ‘Not sure I follow,’ said Becky.

  Mike grinned. ‘Kids up here are football daft. Football and cricket. If a boy plays either sport well, it’s his passport to being accepted. Trust me, I’ve had this problem before – lots of times. Most kids are clueless. So with a few hours of proper coaching, he’d be a star.’

  His eyebrow rose. ‘Worth trying?’

  ‘I’d try anything,’ Becky said. ‘I just don’t want him miserable again.’

  ‘Won’t happen. I’ll check him out tomorrow.’

  ‘I can’t pay you for coaching,’ she said, shamefacedly.

  ‘Who mentioned payment?’

  ‘Then you’ll have dinner with us? Before or after?’

  ‘Let me put him through his paces, first.’

  She rose to thank him, then, suddenly, they were standing very close.

  The quiet grey eyes studied her, a slight frown on his serious face.

  Then, slowly, he reached down and kissed the tip of her nose.

  He blinked. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Didn’t mean to . . . shouldn’t have done that . . . no offence meant, Becky. I apologize.’

  Her heart was beating loudly and steadily.

  ‘And so you should,’ she said. ‘Call that a kiss?’

  Running purely on instinct, she lifted her arms and reached up to him. ‘If you’re going to kiss a woman . . . then do it properly,’ she said.

  The meal at David’s place had gone supremely well.

  ‘Not often you get a runner who can cook,’ complimented Kathy. ‘Most of us simply swallow protein to feed our energy levels. Good cooking’s dangerous – it adds on weight.’

  ‘Daddy ran for the UK,’ Sally said proudly. ‘He ran in the Olympic Games.’

  ‘That was a hundred years ago,’ said David. ‘And I came in last.’

  ‘He didn’t!’ Sally turned to Kathy. ‘He always lies about his running. He made the final and came in fourth.’

  ‘As good as last.’

  ‘Beaten only by the three greatest runners in the world,’ his daughter insisted.

  ‘Don’t listen to her,’ David smiled.

  Kathy was staring at him. ‘What distance?’

  ‘Five thousand and ten thousand metres,’ answered Sally. ‘And he had to pull out of the second final, because he hurt his leg.’

  ‘The only way I could think of getting out of it. . . .’

  ‘All lies,’ said Sally. ‘He came home limping. And he limped for weeks. He tore a hamstring, trying to match the final sprint of the others.’

  Kathy found herself staring, her mouth half-open. She closed it with a click. ‘And I had the . . . effrontery . . . to challenge you to a race?’

  ‘Which you nearly won,’ he smiled.

  ‘Which I did win,’ Kathy said indignantly.

  David half-rose from the table, eyes twinkling. ‘Why don’t we go out and settle the question once and for all. . . .’

  Kathy groaned. ‘I couldn’t raise a trot, after that dinner.’

  Sally’s eyes had gone back and forwards in the good-humoured exchange, a slow smile growing on her face. ‘Kathy?’ she asked. ‘Can I play you some of my music?’

  ‘I’ve love to hear your music,’ Kathy said.

  As the little girl ran through for a disc, David sighed. ‘I better warn you,’ he said. ‘She has a very adult take on music. Her mother taught her well.’

  Through the open door fro
m the dining room, they heard a full orchestra play a gentle, sweeping introduction: very modern, sensual music. Then out of the rich colour of the different instruments a clear soprano voice came soaring. The words were German, Kathy guessed, but the beauty of the music was such that she didn’t even try to translate them. She listened, goose pimples rising on her shoulders, captivated by the blending of voice and orchestra.

  When the track finished, she felt something akin to pain at its loss.

  ‘What on earth was that?’ she asked. ‘I have never heard anything so beautiful . . . not in all my life.’

  Sally glanced at her father.

  ‘It’s your music. You tell her.’

  ‘It’s called September,’ Sally said quietly. ‘A love song written by an 80-year-old composer, in memory of his dead wife who’d been an opera singer. It is the third of Strauss’s Four Last Songs. When he finished, he set his pen down and never composed another piece. He said he’d used up everything he knew, and felt, in these four songs.’

  She glanced shyly across the table: ‘Would you like to hear another?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Kathy.

  The little girl scuttled out. A few seconds later, she was back, standing in the open doorway. ‘Close your eyes,’ she said. ‘It helps you listen – I always close my eyes to hear the music properly.’

  It would be impossible to surpass the first, Kathy thought. Then her hair stood on end as incandescently beautiful music came floating through. Ancient church music, written to be chanted by the dark voices of monks, with a boy’s clear soprano soaring high above them into an impossibly beautiful phrase of melody.

  ‘I know that,’ Kathy whispered. ‘It’s the Allegri Miserere, isn’t it? The one they used as theme music for Le Carre’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy?’

  She listened to the second verse, then the third, her throat constricting each time the boy’s soprano line soared free of the men’s voices.

  ‘Well?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Stunning,’ Kathy replied. ‘It’s my most favourite piece.’

  ‘Do you know its history?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Pass,’ said Kathy. ‘Tell me. Please.’

  ‘When it was written hundreds and hundreds of years ago, the Church decided that it was too dangerous, too emotional, for people to hear. So they hid it away in a vault. They played it once, each year, in Rome, to an audience of a few invited people. Then hid it away again. But one year, a father and son were invited to listen. They were both composers and when they came out, the father tried to hum the melody, but kept drifting off it at the same place. The son said: “If you like it, then I’ll write it out for you. . . .” and he wrote down every single note, in perfect order. That’s how the Miserere escaped from its locked cabinet. And the son who set it free was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.’