Needless to say, as soon as Sara uttered the words ‘Any questions?’, we were deafened by people calling out, and Simon then took over, asking for raised hands, and calmly took one question at a time. Most of the questions concerned the council’s response to our plans, whether they’d approved of what we were doing and whether we’d checked all the legal requirements – Sara came into her own again here, of course. And when these had all been dealt with, she closed by asking for anyone who was prepared to lend a hand with a tidy-up of the park, to please come up and give us their names. Reverend Timms, acting as a spokesperson for the audience, stood up to thank us and led a round of applause, and the meeting finally closed, with an excited queue of people wanting to add their names as helpers, and another queue to sign the petition.
‘Wow,’ said Louise, as by mutual agreement, we, ‘the committee’, retired to the pub after everyone had gone. ‘That was amazing. Everyone in the village must have turned up.’
‘Not quite,’ said Sara, who’d apparently done a quick headcount tonight, having already obtained the exact up-to-date population figure from her friend on the parish council. ‘But definitely a very large majority.’
‘Well, we’ve got a really good number of people prepared to help with the clear-up,’ said Simon, who’d already volunteered to be in charge of this. He had all their phone numbers or emails and was going to contact them to make a start the following weekend. ‘If we can get the grass cut, the flowerbeds and shrubberies tidied up, the park will already start to look more welcoming.’
‘The vicar told me he’ll organise a Sunday school picnic there next month, with races and games for the kids,’ Amber said.
We all reported back, telling each other about people who’d approached us at the end of the meeting with their ideas. Brown Owl was going to take the Brownies there for a nature ramble and treasure hunt. The parent-and-toddler group would consider shifting their meetings from the village hall to the park on sunny days. The youth club leader – who turned out to be none other than our friend with the tattoos and desperate love for his missing kitten – offered his gang of teenagers, and some youth club funds, to reinstall white lines and goals to the long-neglected football pitch so that they could hold some local friendlies in the park.
‘If we have enough helpers, we could weed the tennis courts, too,’ Craig said.
‘The nets need replacing,’ Sara pointed out. She put her glass down and added, looking around at us all: ‘Ideally, we need to raise some cash. The youth club shouldn’t have to pay for the football goals. It should be a community cost.’
‘But the council have told us they won’t fund any of this,’ I said.
‘Exactly. Not until the final decision’s been made about the sell-off, anyway. So, ideally,’ she repeated, ‘we need to raise the funds ourselves. What I’m thinking is, we should ask all these people who are supporting us to become Friends of Furzewell Park too. We – the six of us – can’t do it on our own. They all then pay a modest amount every year, which goes towards upkeep and costs. We can have family memberships, of course, and reductions for pensioners—’
‘We don’t even know if the park will stay open for another year,’ I protested.
‘No. But if the council knew we were considering doing this, there’d be a much better chance that it would stay open.’ She paused, looked down for a minute, as if she wasn’t quite sure whether she ought to be telling us this, and then went on: ‘I’ve been looking into it.’ Of course she had, I thought. She was so fiercely determined and organised that I couldn’t help admiring her. ‘It’s not a new idea. In fact, it’s becoming more and more common for community groups to help meet the financial cost of keeping parks and green spaces open. I’ve seen an estimated annual figure of thirty million pounds quoted, as the amount raised by groups like this around the country.’
There was a stunned silence.
‘Thirty million?’ Craig repeated, with a whistle.
‘Yes. Nationwide that is,’ she repeated.
‘So why didn’t you suggest this at the meeting?’ I asked, and she looked at me, eyebrows raised.
‘Why do you think? People are on our side at the moment – one hundred per cent. They want the park kept open, even if they’ve never used it in their lives, because they don’t like the council taking something away from them that they consider they’re already paying for. Introduce the idea of paying – even a small amount – on top of their council tax, for the same purpose, and we risk losing the support of half of them.’
We all nodded, in agreement. I took a gulp of my beer. Although we could see the sense of what she was saying, we probably all realised it would be tricky to persuade people to contribute financially.
‘So you think we shouldn’t even ask them, then?’ Simon asked.
‘Actually, I definitely think we should. But let’s keep it to ourselves for now. Meanwhile, if you’re all in agreement – think about it overnight, if you like—’
‘Gee, thanks,’ Craig muttered.
‘—then we can start to think about how to encourage people to join. Probably the best incentive would be to suggest the kind of facilities we might be able to fund, if we’re successful in keeping the park open.’
‘That sounds sensible,’ I said. ‘But there’s no point asking people to pay an annual membership now, when the park still might be closed by the end of the year.’
‘We wouldn’t take any money from them until we know the answer to that, of course,’ she agreed, giving me a look that implied I must be stupid. ‘But we’d need to know if the majority would be in favour of the idea. Meanwhile, we’ll be getting the work started on tidying up the park and organising our pet show anyway, which will hopefully continue to get everyone fired up with enthusiasm.’
As far as Sara was concerned, I thought as we walked home from the pub later, the decision was already made – and she was probably quite right, as always, I conceded reluctantly. The council were less likely to sell off the park if we showed how serious we were about helping to maintain it. I still wasn’t really too fond of Sara. I couldn’t help it; her bossiness and self-important manner got to me. But on the other hand, I could see that these were the very qualities that made her a born leader. And although she’d been delegating various tasks to the rest of us – tasks she apparently felt we were just about capable of taking on – there was no doubt we needed her leadership. I might not have liked her, but I had to admit to a growing respect for her.
CHAPTER 19
The half-term holiday was now over, Mia and I were back at school, and ‘flaming June’ was living up to its promise, as we woke up every day to sunshine, and a warmth in the air even first thing in the morning. The grounds of Eagle House, so easy to care for because they were mainly laid to lawn, broken up only by a few collections of mature trees and shrubs, were at their best now, with our late-flowering azaleas and rhododendrons fully in bloom, giving us a fabulous display of colour. Gardens along the lanes were overflowing with roses and lilies, camellias and peonies, and one of the fields on the edge of the village was a sea of the stunning bright blue of cultivated linseed.
‘June is such a beautiful month,’ Simon said, when one evening that week we were the only two to turn up for the dog walk. It was such a lovely evening and we’d walked on, beyond the park, down the lane to Cuckoo Copse where the birds were still singing, and tiny insects darted about in the sunshine filtering down between the branches of the trees. Max bounded ahead of us, pushing his way through the undergrowth, with little Smartie trotting faithfully behind him.
‘Yes, it is,’ I agreed, sighing with contentment. It was still so warm that we were both in T-shirts and shorts. ‘But not always. This weather is pretty unusual.’
‘That’s why we have to make the most of it.’ He glanced at me. ‘Are you in a rush to get home?’
‘Not particularly.’ Mia was already in bed, and Mum was watching one of her favourite soaps.
‘Shall
we do a circuit of the copse and head back via the pub for a quick one?’
‘That sounds good,’ I smiled. Simon was, I’d already decided, probably the nicest and most uncomplicated member of our little group. Kind, considerate, always with a good word to say about everyone and with a sort of old-fashioned courtesy about him.
We caught up with the dogs and walked on through the copse, returning them to their leads at the far end, where Cuckoo Lane joined Fore Street. Smartie was slowing down, looking weary from trying to keep up with his bigger friend, and while I found a table outside the pub, Simon went inside to order our beers and bring a bowl of water out for them both. For a while, we chatted some more about Sara’s ideas for the park, and he told me how many people he had lined up to help him with the first gardening session that coming weekend.
‘I’ll be able to help, too,’ I said. ‘It’s Mia’s weekend for seeing her dad, so I don’t have anything planned.’
‘It must seem quiet without her,’ Simon sympathised.
‘Oh, it’s not so bad now. I’m getting used to it,’ I said, sitting up straight and trying to sound positive. ‘Josh was hostile at first but now we’re managing to get on OK, it isn’t quite such an ordeal as it was.’
‘Good.’ He gave me a half-apologetic little smile. ‘Maybe his hostility was because he was so hurt – about you leaving? It must have been hard on him too.’
I stared at him. ‘Hurt? Hardly! He didn’t even care.’
‘Perhaps he regrets that now, then. If, as you say, things have improved between you?’
‘I doubt he regrets anything,’ I retorted. ‘And I wouldn’t say things have improved that much. He’s just … more civil.’
‘So do you see yourselves ever managing to get back together?’
‘What?’ I looked at him again, quite shocked now. ‘No! Definitely not. I wouldn’t have moved out – put Mia through all this – if I’d had any doubt that this time it was final.’
‘I see.’ He nodded. His expression gave nothing away, but it had given me a start of surprise that he’d asked something quite so personal. It wasn’t like him, not like his usual way of keeping a polite, thoughtful but considerate distance. And it felt weird that he had, in a way, tried to defend Josh. ‘Well, it’s good, at least, that you have your mum, and your gran, here in the village,’ he said now. ‘That must be a great help.’
‘Yes, it is.’ I smiled, glad the conversation had moved away from Josh.
We went back to discussing how he was planning to start tidying up the park, the grass cutting and weed clearing, and all the work to be done. When we’d eventually finished our drinks and got up to leave, I had to wake Smartie, who’d fallen fast asleep under the table, with Max lying protectively next to him.
‘Poor little soul looks half drunk on his feet!’ Simon laughed as Smartie staggered upright, blinking in the sunshine.
‘He did well to keep up with Max in the copse,’ I said. ‘Come on, Smartie. Let’s get you home.’
As we prepared to part company – Simon turning off Fore Street towards his own house before I did – he turned to me, smiling.
‘I’ve enjoyed this evening, Nic. It makes a change, being just the two of us.’
‘Yes, and a very welcome drink at the end,’ I agreed.
‘We should do it again.’
‘Well, yes, no doubt we will,’ I replied, slightly puzzled. There were often times when only a couple of the group turned up for the walk, so it was inevitable it would happen again.
‘See you soon, then, Nic,’ he said. ‘Come on, Max.’
I watched them go, thinking again about what a lovely guy he was, and trying to shrug off the odd feeling it had given me when he’d seemed – just slightly, there – to take Josh’s side. I supposed he couldn’t help but see the male point of view, however sympathetic he’d been to me – but he didn’t even know Josh. He might see things differently if he did.
The next afternoon, after school, Mia and I tried to call on Gran, as we often did on our way home, but there was no answer when we rang her doorbell.
‘Maybe she’s round at our house with Nanny,’ Mia said. I was pleased, and relieved, that she’d started to call it our house now. The house in Plymouth had finally been relegated to Daddy’s house and, most surprising of all, despite having spent an afternoon with them during her recent stay with Josh, she didn’t talk much at all now about Polly and Jamila. We were moving on, slowly but surely.
‘Yes, maybe she is,’ I agreed. And sure enough, when we arrived home, Gran was there, sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, looking unhappy as Mum fussed around getting biscuits out.
‘Hello Gran,’ I said, giving her a kiss. ‘Fancy you being here – we just called at your place to see how you were.’
‘Well, I’m not there, am I,’ she said, surprisingly sharply. ‘As you can see.’
‘No.’ I sat down next to her. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. Stop fussing.’
‘She’s not fine, actually, Nicky,’ Mum said, coming in with the biscuit tin just at that minute. ‘She’s locked herself out.’
‘Oh dear. Well, it’s not a problem, is it? We’ve got your spare key—’ I began, but Mum interrupted me:
‘She’s locked herself out for the third time this week. It’s getting to be a habit.’
‘Oh.’ I looked from one of them to the other, slightly puzzled by the tone of the conversation. It was hard to tell whether Mum was worried or annoyed, whereas Gran was definitely on the defensive.
‘Twice already this week she’s had to come back to the shop, leaving her bags on her doorstep, to borrow the spare key from me,’ Mum explained. ‘Lucky I carry it around with me, isn’t it?’
Actually, I’d have thought it was obvious she’d always have the spare key on her. What else would she do, other than keep it on her own keyring in case she needed to let herself into Gran’s bungalow in an emergency? But I sensed I’d better stay out of it until I understood exactly what was going on here. I just shrugged and said something to the effect that these things happen.
‘Not three times in a week they don’t,’ Mum retorted. ‘Now it turns out she never found her own key after she locked herself out yesterday morning, but still she went out this afternoon, shut the door behind her and toddled off to her Knit & Natter group in the village hall without a thought of how she was going to get back in.’
‘I knew you had the spare key,’ Gran muttered. ‘I gave it back to you yesterday.’ But I caught a flash of something in her eyes. She wasn’t cross with Mum, or me. She was upset with herself.
I took hold of her hand. ‘Never mind, Gran. I’ll come back with you now and we’ll look for your key together. It must be indoors somewhere, mustn’t it?’
‘That’s not the point,’ she said. ‘As your mum says, it’s ridiculous – three times in a week. I’m getting forgetful, aren’t I. Old and daft and forgetful.’ She glanced up at Mum, who was standing beside her, shaking her head. ‘Don’t try and pretend that’s not what you’re thinking, Ros. I know damned well you think I’m losing my marbles and can’t cope on my own. Well, maybe I am. Would that satisfy you? You’d be happy then, I suppose, if you were proved right – if I couldn’t manage on my own anymore and you had to look after me? You never did want me to move out.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Gran,’ I protested, as Mum gasped and actually took a step back in surprise at this outburst.
‘Of course I don’t think you’re losing your marbles – what a horrible expression, anyway,’ she said. ‘I just think you’re being a bit careless, that’s why I’m … well, frustrated with you. If I really thought you were too forgetful to manage on your own, I’d be worried, not happy about it. Honestly, Mum, do you really think I’m that heartless?’
Gran seemed to deflate. She leaned back against the sofa, sighing, and closed her eyes as if in defeat. ‘All right, all right, I shouldn’t have said that. I apologise. I’m just … not ready, you kn
ow? Not ready to go into one of those bloody dementia homes.’
‘Don’t be silly, Gran,’ I said, feeling a lump come to my throat. She was not only upset, she was frightened. That was what this was all about.
‘You haven’t got dementia,’ Mum said, dropping the biscuit tin and sitting down on the other side of Gran on the sofa to put her arms around her. ‘For God’s sake, you’ve just forgotten your key. I shouldn’t have got annoyed about it – Nicky’s right, it doesn’t matter, that’s why we keep the spare one. You just weren’t concentrating, that’s all. You just have to make sure you put it back in your purse as soon as you’ve unlocked the door.’
‘If you had dementia, Gran, you wouldn’t just be forgetting your key. You wouldn’t be able to remember what a key is, or what it’s for,’ I pointed out.
‘But this isn’t the only thing, is it,’ she murmured. ‘First I forgot were I’d put Mia’s bunny, then I missed that doctor’s appointment—’
‘And we told you at the time, didn’t we, that everybody does things like that. It doesn’t mean you’ve got dementia,’ I said.
She sniffed, not saying anything. Mum turned to pick up the biscuit tin from where she’d dropped it on the floor, and gave a shout that made both me and Gran jump.
‘Smartie! Leave them, Smartie! Bad dog! Go to your bed.’
Smartie, his ears and tail drooping, looked up at us, his shiny black eyes round with surprise at this scolding. The lid of the tin had come off, and to be fair, how was he supposed to have known that biscuits thrown on the floor weren’t meant for him?
‘Ah, don’t shout at the poor dog,’ Gran said, sounding more like herself again. ‘It’s not his fault if you drop the bloody biscuits, Ros.’
‘And whose fault was it that I dropped them?’ Mum shot back. ‘You with all your talk about dementia.’
And suddenly, just like that, all three of us were laughing.
The Lonely Hearts Dog Walkers Page 15