Kathy looked at David. ‘You have a child genius on your hands,’ she said quietly.
He nodded. ‘Music is her whole world.’
Sally raced out again: ‘I’ll play you my most favourite piece of all,’ she called back.
‘Oh, no,’ groaned David, a world of pain somehow in these two words.
Kathy looked across. ‘What’s up?’ she asked.
He shook his head.
Then the final piece of music came drifting through, another familiar and compelling melody. ‘Isn’t that the one they always play as a war requiem?’ Kathy asked.
‘It’s Barber’s Adagio,’ Sally replied. ‘It isn’t supposed to be sad. He wrote it as he watched his own baby rise in his cot and try to stand. Then fall back, and start again. Listen to how he captures that as the music repeats, always getting stronger, and stronger each time, until there’s an explosion of joy at the end of it . . . the child has finally managed to stand, holding onto the bars of his cot.’
They listened, and Kathy’s vision blurred when the music soared to its triumphant conclusion. ‘How could they ever have used that as a requiem? It’s so happy!’
‘It’s a requiem, of sorts,’ said Sally. ‘That’s the Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra playing . . . if I close my eyes very tightly, and listen really hard, I can still hear my mum playing with them. I can hear her violin, more beautiful than the rest. . . .’
She turned to Kathy, silent tears cascading down her cheeks.
‘It’s not fair,’ she said brokenly. ‘I can hear my mum in her music. . . . I can see her in the photos everywhere . . . but I will never, ever, be able to throw my arms round her again, then hug her tight, and tell her how much I love her. . . .’
Instinctively, Kathy opened her arms to the girl.
But it was to her father that she ran, and the silent tears became a storm of weeping. Kathy watched helplessly, seeing the tears of pain roll down David’s face, as he held her close.
‘Can I help?’ she whispered.
He shook his head.
‘Should I go?’ she asked.
He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, fractionally.
Kathy gathered her coat and tote bag, then stood watching in the doorway of the dining room. Father and child were still in each other’s arms, the girl’s sobs slowly quietening. Kathy wanted to say something, anything.
But she turned, letting herself silently out of the house.
Feeling, all the time, that she had unwittingly and unwillingly become an intruder in a world of sorrow which still filled this house to overflowing. Father and daughter had only each other, and were all that was left of what had been a very complete and once-happy family.
A family to which Kathy could never belong. . . .
‘That smells good.’
Noel turned from the cooker, to find Henrietta’s face at the cabin door.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Close that door – it’s parky out there.’
‘Cold? You’re joking! It’s a nice spring evening.’
‘Wait until you’re my age,’ he grimaced.
‘By then, I’ll have forgotten what I’m waiting for. . . .’
They grinned at each other, mutual liking strong. Two no-nonsense people.
‘A mug of tea?’ asked Noel. ‘Better still, a glass of wine? I was just about to add some to the pot.’
‘Why? What’s cooking?’ she asked.
‘Chilli. An authentic Mexican recipe with hints of Paris, Glasgow and Dundee cuisine added. The wine’s from Glasgow. . . .’
‘I didn’t know there was wine in chilli,’ Henrietta objected.
‘There’s wine in everything, after you’ve been to Glasgow.’
He disappeared forward, then emerged, bottle of Merlot in his hand. ‘It’s supposed to breathe. But if we pour it into glasses, that leaves a broader surface to do the breathing.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Trust me, I have a diploma in cooking from a French college. Mind you, it wasn’t mine – but I kept it, in case it came in useful. The glasses are behind you.’
‘I’m waiting to see how much wine you put into chilli.’
‘In creative cooking, both amount and method are optional. You can add wine to taste, when cooking, or sip the wine while you cook, then add meat later – again to taste. The second way’s more fun, I always think. Cheers! What brings you here?’
‘I was looking for Becky – where is she?’
‘Up at the village park. Mike dropped in, to take Jon there to play football. He coaches kids. I was ordered to get supper ready for them coming back.’
‘Then I’d better not stay. . . .’ She half-rose.
‘Have you eaten already?’
‘No, but. . . .’
‘Then we’ve food a-plenty. If we all cram up, there’s room at the table for five – two on each side, one at the open end. So long as we keep our elbows to our sides, when we’re eating.’
‘That takes away half the fun,’ protested Henrietta.
They heard the sound of laughter on the canal bank.
‘That’s them now,’ said Noel.
The Ella Mae rocked slightly, as the others stepped aboard. More laughter.
‘There was a time, when I thought I’d never hear her laugh again,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s a good sound. So whatever has caused it, is good.’
The cabin door opened, and Jonathon came skipping down the steps.
‘Well?’ demanded Noel. ‘Is he another David Beckham?’
‘Not yet!’ Jonathon grinned. ‘But Mike says I have the makings.’
‘And he should know,’ Noel said. ‘Hi, Mike. Is he going to earn enough to keep his old uncle better than his old uncle ever managed?’
‘He did just fine,’ said Mike. ‘Hi there, Henrietta.’
‘Mike.’ Gathering her wine glass, she slid up to the end of the bench seat.
‘Oh, no. He’s done it again,’ Becky groaned. ‘Where do you get that wine?’
‘The fairies keep bringing it,’ said Noel.
‘And it’s bad luck, to turn away a fairy’s gift,’ said Henrietta.
‘I was going to say the very same myself,’ smiled Noel. ‘Help yourselves – I’m busy here, adding the final touches. Where have you hidden the basmati rice?’
‘Where I found it,’ Becky said. ‘In that cupboard. Hi, Henrietta. No problems, I hope – you haven’t discovered another sack of invoices, have you?’
Henrietta turned to Noel. ‘When I was her age, I respected the elderly.’
‘When I was her age,’ said Noel, ‘there weren’t any elderly. Just a guy called Adam, hiding behind a dustbin from a woman called Eve.’
‘No doubt he had good reason,’ said Becky. She looked quizzically at Henrietta.
‘I’m here for dinner,’ she said apologetically. ‘Invited by the chef.’
‘Did nobody warn you about his cooking?’
‘It smells good.’
‘It’s downhill all the way from there.’ Becky accepted a glass of wine, handed over by Mike. Their fingers brushed, and she smiled up at him. Henrietta noticed, and thought that she could make a good guess at what was cheering up Becky. Good luck to them both. Mike was a solid lad, his head untouched by all the rubbish written about him in the football press.
‘I’ve come here with a problem, Becky,’ she said.
The end of my job, thought Becky, panicking.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said calmly. ‘How can we help?’
‘If you can’t, I’m in trouble.’ Henrietta pushed her glass aside. ‘We’ve two teachers in the village school. Miss Forbes, the head teacher, and Pop Bailey, who has been with us for forty-plus years. He’s well into his seventies, but we keep him on. He’s the same good teacher he always was. However, it’s getting too much for him, and he’s asked me to let him retire. If I do, he’ll be dead in a couple of months. So I want to keep him working part-time, easing him into retirement – and to do that, I’ll n
eed another teacher. But I’ve no time to advertise, and interview people I don’t know or trust. Not for a part-time post.’
The light-blue eyes looked steadily at Becky. ‘Cluny’s Foundation is my school. I’m the gaffer, and the final shout is mine. I need a part-time teacher I can fire, if things don’t work out. Someone I can trust, who won’t go whimpering to any court.’
A grim smile flickered. ‘This isn’t fair – you’re already working for me, without a contract. Learning on the job and producing miracles. Are you willing to jump into another deep end? Forgetting all your big-class experience down south, and learning to handle small groups of kids, like we do up here? Three days a week, no contract. And no mercy, if you can’t adjust. . . .’
Chapter 6
The silence stretched. Henrietta raised her glass of wine and slowly sipped, her eyes never leaving Becky’s.
‘I’m waiting,’ she said gently.
Becky’s mind was spinning. It was one thing to accept a part-time job as office assistant, and be glad of the money – not to mention the excuse to stay on at Longbank for longer than planned. But quite another, to take on a teaching job in a small village school. A job which could turn out to be life-changing, rather than temporary. Henrietta’s offer could shape her entire future.
‘You scarcely know me,’ she said quietly.
‘I’ve seen enough.’
‘This is children’s education we’re dealing with. . . . If we get it wrong. . . .’
‘We won’t.’
‘I’ve never taught in mixed-age classes before.’
‘You’ll learn.’
‘We’re in the middle of the summer term – with its final pupil assessments to carry out. I’d have to hit the ground running, when I don’t know anything about all this strange cultural and society stuff I’ve heard you talking about.’
‘Pop Bailey will handle these. He says that you can take the normal curricula, leave him with the bells and whistles. He can tell you exactly where he’s taken the kids, and where they have to be by end of term. So, what’s your problem?’
Clearly, Henrietta had talked her idea through, before coming here. Taking on board others’ opinions. Good, and typical of the woman. For someone who could be hard as nails, she knew when and how to carry people with her.
Becky sighed. ‘I don’t see any fairy godmother wings,’ she said.
‘Where?’
‘Behind you.’
That wonderful smile again. ‘Wore them out years ago, carrying coal.’
‘I can only promise to try my best,’ said Becky.
‘That’s good enough for me.’
‘OK,’ said Becky. How did they seal a bargain up here? She spat into her hand, and held it out.
‘Becky! What on earth are you doing?’ exclaimed Noel.
‘Keep out of this, it’s women’s work. And an old local custom.’
Henrietta grinned. ‘You learn fast.’ She spat into her own hand. ‘So, it’s a deal, then? You give it your best shot. Pop and Miss Forbes will be there to help you. And if it doesn’t work out, then you’re fired. No comeback, no industrial tribunals. You step aside and I try to find somebody else to take over.’
‘Deal,’ Becky said quietly.
They shook hands, a firm no-nonsense clasp. The agreement sealed, without writing, by something which mattered more up north. By word of honour.
‘I’m starving,’ Henrietta said. ‘When’s he going to serve that chilli?’
Kathy waited, out at the edge of the Ribble Estuary, for the figure of the solitary runner to catch up with her.
‘Hi, David,’ she said quietly. ‘I was hoping you’d be out this morning.’
He nodded. ‘Likewise. My heart did a cartwheel, when it saw you out in front of me, waiting.’
They began to run, easily and companionably, side by side.
‘I’m so sorry about last night,’ Kathy said. ‘If I’d known that it was your wife’s orchestra playing . . . I’d have thought of something to say to stop her from putting that CD on. My heart was breaking for her – for both of you.’
‘She’s so quick – it’s playing, before I can stop her. And why should I stop her? It’s all she has left of her mum, hearing Beth do what she did as naturally as a bird sings. But it always ends in tears, and takes Sally days to get over it. There are times I wonder if she’s ever going to let go, and move on with her life.’
David paused, as a squall blasted in from the grey estuary. Amid its noise, he would have had to shout. Once they had run through its disturbance, he glanced over at Kathy.
‘At first, I thought it would help,’ he said. ‘You know, act as a release, a cleansing, for her grief. But she won’t let go. Every time it happens, it’s as if it’s the first time that her mother’s loss has hit her.’
‘And you. . . .’
Running easily, he shrugged. ‘You can bury someone, but that never takes them out of your life. There are always memories. Good memories. So I hurt for Sally – and, yes, I hurt for myself.’
‘Normal, I would guess,’ said Kathy. ‘You can’t just switch off love.’
‘No you can’t,’ he said bluntly. ‘And that makes it difficult to pick up the threads of your own life again.’ He glanced across at Kathy. ‘You meet someone you really like and somehow that still feels as if you’re cheating on her. That’s why I was so slow to answer, when you asked that time. I still hadn’t got things sorted out in my mind.’
‘But you have, now?’
They ran in silence for a bit. ‘I think so,’ he said at last. ‘It would be easier if Sally didn’t keep the kettle boiling, bringing everything back to the surface again. I want to be honest with you. It can still be a problem.’
Kathy stopped and caught his arm.
‘Look, I can step aside,’ she said quietly. ‘Out of your life. Completely.’
‘Why? That’s the last thing I want. I want to see where this . . . friendship . . . takes us. Maybe lean on you, to help us work this through.’
‘I feel outside it all. An onlooker, unable to do the one thing I want to do, which is to help you both. An intruder – the opposite side of what you mentioned a minute ago. Last night I felt as if I was stealing you from your wife, or at least from her shadow. And I hated feeling so cheap.’
He gripped her arms. ‘You mustn’t feel like that,’ he said intensely. ‘You are outside this, but in the best possible way. You’re beyond Beth’s shadow, you’re from a future that we’re trying to reach. You’ve nothing to do with her loss. You are Kathy, a different, later chapter in our book. If we get muddled, or down, it’s got nothing to do with you. It’s all about Sally and me, still adjusting to Beth’s loss.’
Another squall blasted over, soaking them. Neither noticed.
‘It’s all so difficult,’ he said desperately. ‘Nobody ever teaches you, or tells you what to do. You’re left to blunder through all the pain and grief, and find a way of sticking your daughter and yourself back together again. Like broken Humpty Dumpties. Sometimes mending works – you’re both still intact, at the end of the day. But every now and then, like last night, it all comes apart again, and you don’t know where to start, or what to do to make life more bearable.’
He must have loved Beth very much, Kathy thought bleakly. They both had, father and daughter. Setting up in their minds an invisible competitor, too perfect in memory ever to be beaten in an honest race. Did she want to get involved in this? Did she have any choice? She was already more serious about this man than any other who had come into her life. In her heart, she knew he ticked all her boxes, was a near-perfect fit for the life’s partner she’d been looking for. Only he came with a tangled mess of emotions, for another woman who had once filled his life. If their future was to be linked together, first she must help him – and herself – to come to terms with that past.
‘We can only let things flow on, and see what happens,’ she said quietly.
‘Exactly. Please be patient
with me – with us.’
Kathy’s heart sank. The daughter. Another woman’s daughter, who would likely see her as a predator on her dad.
She shivered: was she crowding onto someone else’s grave, or was their shadow reaching out already to touch her? Warn her off?
‘Let’s run,’ she said. ‘I’m getting cold.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ said Henrietta. ‘I’ve a business to run.’
She shot off, leaving Becky standing awkwardly with the two older teachers from the school. It was lunchtime, and the air was full of children’s voices: twenty-six healthy kids, running round a playground, make as much noise as a hundred.
‘It’s good to have your help, Miss Calderwood.’ Miss Forbes was a tall thin lady, prim and tense. Throughout Henrietta’s introduction she had smiled and nodded endlessly in an apparent attempt to cover her nerves. This woman was either scared of Henrietta, or in awe of her, Becky thought.
‘I can only promise that I’ll do my best,’ she said.
‘Quite. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to set up for the children. . . .’
They were like ten green bottles standing on a wall, Becky thought wryly, reduced to eight and counting.
‘Liza is a wonderful teacher,’ Pop Bailey smiled. ‘She’s not rude – just desperately shy. Put her in front of a crowd of kids, push a stick of chalk into her hand, and she becomes a magician.’
Faded blue eyes twinkled from beneath hugely overgrown eyebrows. He looked like a rubicund character who had wandered benignly in from one of Charles Dickens’ novels. Becky decided that she liked this man, on sight.
‘I can sympathize,’ she said wryly. ‘I’m scared too.’
‘Fiddlesticks!’ He took her by the arm and guided her inside. ‘You’ll take to this like a duck to water. Knew that, the moment I clapped eyes on you. Come and I’ll show you the classroom we’ll share. Then I’ll take you through the work we’re doing, and what you need to prepare. You’ll be fine – another Liza Forbes, just wait and see. Henrietta vouched for you.’
Another Chance, Another Life Page 9