Just Another Day

by Patricia Fawcett

  ‘Oh, Francesca …’ Selina was losing it, her voice catching.

  Here we go again, thought Francesca, why is it that she, the bereaved widow, always ended up doing the consoling where Selina was concerned?

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, Selina. These things happen and we can’t do a thing about them,’ she said, knowing it was a stupid thing to say, but it was sometimes better with Selina to keep it simple as she tended to over-analyse every situation. ‘Look, you’ve had a bad day with Crispin and everything. Why don’t you sit down and pour yourself a large gin and tonic? Bethany will look after the boys.’

  ‘I have a drink in my hand as we speak. I am trying to be calm but I can’t help thinking how I would feel if Clive suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack. I would go to pieces completely. And to find him dead in the chair as you did must have been horrific. I shook Clive awake the other evening when he was dozing off. I imagined for a minute he wasn’t breathing. He was bloody annoyed I can tell you.’

  Francesca held back a feeling of irritation.

  ‘I’m sorry to have worried you,’ she said. ‘I should have rung before but there was a problem with my phone.’ This was not entirely true and it was a lame excuse at best but she needed to make a token effort. ‘It was very kind of you to offer to put me up and I am grateful. Please give my love to Clive and thank him for being so nice and tell the boys that I’ll see them soon. You’ve been a real friend, but it’s time Bethany had her room back. The poor girl’s been very patient.’

  ‘Eh, stop all that nonsense.’ Selina laughed. ‘You’re very welcome and you know it. Are you quite sure you’re all right? I don’t like the idea of your being alone. What are you going to do? Are you coming back tomorrow? Where will you be staying tonight?’

  ‘I could bunk down in the car, but on the other hand I do believe there are pubs and guest houses around here or I might even go the whole hog, blow the expense and stay in a hotel.’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, darling, it doesn’t suit you. I didn’t imagine for one moment you would be pitching a tent somewhere. But you can’t just disappear, not now. What about the house? Don’t you have things to do? When will you be back? Do you want me to cancel the appointment tomorrow?’

  ‘Would you? Thanks, Selena. I don’t know when I’ll see you, but I’ll keep in touch.’

  She put the mobile phone back in her bag and considered what to do next. It was mid-afternoon and the moor beckoned and the heady scents of this tricky in-between season rushed in through the window. She took a deep breath and decided she needed a walk.

  As well as the gorse with its custard yellow blossom, the bracken was stirring, unfolding together with a whole array of wild spring flowers. Wearing unsuitable footwear, Francesca tramped along a worn grassy path leaving the road and the car far behind and, as she did so, stopping to take it all in, to simply look at the vast emptiness of it all, she felt like a child again, half expecting to see her mother and James forging on into the distance, herself trailing behind.

  ‘Come on, Francesca, get a move on.’

  She had always been one step behind.

  This wild place could change in the blink of an eye. She remembered cold February days, incessant rain making the grass moist and springy, low heavy swirling mist so specific to the moor which, if it thickened, quickly became disorientating. Boggy ground, fast-flowing streams and mist so thick it clings to you are the stuff of nightmares, but also a feature of this wonderful, wild, inspiring place.

  There was no danger of that today. Today, she could see clearly for miles, her city lifestyle telling against her as she laboured steadily uphill until, pausing to catch her breath, she felt the tears bubbling up and before she knew it they were upon her, turned on like a tap, uncontrollable, grief-laden angry tears.

  Tears for David or even her mother or James or maybe for her father, long gone but never forgotten.

  Her mother, buttoned up emotionally, would not approve of tears and true to form, Francesca had not cried when she found David dead in the chair. She had not cried when she lay alone in the big bed they had so briefly shared. She had not cried when, accompanied by a pale and tearful Selina, she visited the registrars to record his death. She had not cried at the funeral either fuelling the feeling no doubt amongst some of his friends that her motives for marrying him had been dubious. She overheard somebody say that he was perfectly all right until he got married as if she was somehow responsible. She heard somebody else querying the choice of music.

  Until she came along David had been alone in the world so she was not sure if anybody was there in the capacity of a true mourner. Somebody, one of his colleagues with a perfectly pitched courtroom voice, had read the beautiful Christina Rossetti’s poem “Remember” and even then, firmly closeted in the front pew with Selina beside her holding her hand, Francesca focussed on the vicar’s funereal face and did not cry.

  Selina had done her best playing the part of bereaved best friend, a vision in a black dress emerging from church red-eyed giving Francesca a hug, but being too choked to speak coherently. Clive was beside her, looking suitably chastened although Francesca had caught him glancing at his watch – an unexpected funeral interrupting his highly organized work schedule.

  ‘Look after her, Clive,’ she had said, pushing a suddenly sobbing Selina towards his comforting arms.

  Even when she was at last alone, when the funeral party was ended, Francesca still could not rustle up tears.

  And now, unexpectedly, here they were.

  She howled. She could not stop the sound escaping and it was frightening because she could not recall crying like this since she was a little girl. She had no tissues on her and all she could do was wipe away the tears with her hand, tasting the saltiness as liquid escaped onto her lips, her hand shaking with the shuddering breaths.

  Thank heavens there was nobody about.

  ‘David, you bloody fool,’ she said aloud. ‘What did you go and do that for? How could you? What am I going to do without you?’

  She stumbled on unsteady feet and a sheep with a blue mark on its back crossed her path, pausing for a moment to glance at her before calling urgently for its lamb.

  Giving a gigantic unladylike sniff, Francesca walked briskly back to the car.

  She was home before she knew it.

  Home?

  It felt like it. Pulling to a halt in a car park by the river, Francesca was relieved to find it looked much the same. After nearly twenty five years, it looked much the same. Stepping out of the car as a nearby coach disgorged its excited passengers, Francesca felt she ought to point out to them that she was not just a casual visitor, but was born here, grew up here, that she had some claim to this town, this delightful historic town that was not merely a good stopping off point for them, a toilet and coffee break, before they continued west to Cornwall.

  Watching them obediently following the signs to the ‘town centre’, Francesca took the other exit steps leading to the river walk. After a wet winter and weeks of spring rain, water was gushing down the weir, their mini Niagara, a solitary bewildered duck bobbing about until it reached the sudden calm of down-stream.

  She was drenched herself for a moment in a sharp painful memory, thinking of all the times she had walked this very path with Izzy on their way home from school and it took a moment before she got her act together and headed into town. She must keep herself in check for she did not want a repeat performance of what had happened on the moor.

  She did not expect to recognize anybody nor would anybody recognize her. Izzy had moved, along with her family, and now lived over in the South Hams near Kingsbridge so perhaps she should give her a call, arrange to meet half-way somewhere. Perhaps not. She was not sure she wanted to catch up with a mum of four; Francesca was a little worried by the prospect of how she might have changed, become middle-aged, although it was difficult to think of Izzy as that. She was sure Izzy of all people would be sympathetic to her needs just now and provide a
good motherly shoulder to cry on, her sympathy would also be genuine: Izzy would understand how she felt in a way that Selina, for all her good intentions, never would.

  She ought to get in touch, she owed it to Izzy, dearest Izzy, to get in touch but it would depend how long she stayed around. There was also the can of worms thing, the concern that she would be resurrecting the past and opening old wounds, old memories that they both wanted to forget.

  Her feet carried her on a pedestrian auto-pilot past the bustling pannier market along the main street thronged with people enjoying the sunshine then up a little cobbled passage-way in the direction of her old home, Lilac House. It would take ten minutes or so. It was steep, steep enough to need a helping iron handrail at one point and, out of condition as she was, she was puffing by the time she neared the top of the hill where it levelled out and there at last was the house. The beech hedge was neatly trimmed and a freshly mown-grass smell drifted over so at least it was being kept in good order. Francesca paused by the hedge, reluctant to go any further.

  Why was she here and what on earth was she thinking of? She should abandon this stupid game now before it was too late, just go back to the car and drive off.

  Anxiety and indecision made her sway on her feet and then something made her move forward and as the hedge ended and the gate emerged, she saw that not only was the house looking in excellent shape, it was also a B&B.

  Chapter Seven

  LILAC HOUSE WAS a wonderfully symmetrical house set well back from the lane. Beyond it, there were no more houses and the lane petered out eventually leading up to the cattle grid and the moor itself.

  Not surprisingly, after all this time, the garden looked different, laid out now in a much more formal way and it had a welcoming look to it, the outside cared for and loved. There were several hanging baskets suspended from black chains along the front of the house. Francesca presumed that the beautiful clematis and jasmine plants that used to clamber in a delightful jumble above the porch later in the year were long gone but she hoped that they had been replaced with something similar. Her mother had been the gardener although she had loved the garden in a much more haphazard natural state and had been happy for weeds to compete for attention with more respectable flowers.

  What would she make of this? This planted out perfection?

  Francesca was up the path and into the front porch before she could change her mind. The open sided porch had a shiny red-tiled floor with a big umbrella container tucked in a corner and a vision of their family clutter, a jumble of outdoor shoes and Wellington boots flashed into her head as she rang the bell, hearing its melodic tune before a figure appeared behind the glass and the door opened.

  ‘Good afternoon. Lovely to see you. You must be Miss Wetherall.’

  He was wearing crumpled cargo shorts, army green, and a grubby white tee shirt, not a great look, but nevertheless he was an attractive looking man, in his early forties she supposed. His hair, she noted, needed a trim. It was the sort of dirty blond hair that is much more attractive on the male sex – a female would opt for highlights – and he was barefoot with tanned legs, an extremely easy-going look and she would not have been surprised if he spoke with an Australian accent.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ he said, interpreting her glance correctly and frowning down at his clothes. ‘I was expecting you a little later, but it’s not a problem. The room’s ready for you. Come on in and welcome to Lilac House,’ he added, standing aside and smiling.

  ‘No, no, you misunderstand … sorry, I’m not Miss Wetherall. I haven’t booked in,’ she said quickly, flashing an apologetic smile and feeling flustered now at her impulsiveness. ‘I’m just in the area for a short time. I don’t suppose you have a room by any chance? Oh sorry again …’ she added, catching sight of the ‘NO VACANCIES’ sign in the window. ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ He followed her glance. ‘I’ve been working flat out all morning and I haven’t got round to switching it round. As it happens, you’re in luck. We’ve had a cancellation. The Poppy room is our smallest room, up in the gods I’m afraid, and it does share a bathroom with the other attic room so it’s not ideal.’

  She smiled, amused at his negative selling technique. How not to sell a room, she thought, her business instincts kicking in.

  ‘Would you like me to show it to you before you decide?’ He whipped up a leaflet that was lying on a side table. ‘Terms as set out,’ he said briskly. ‘If you are happy with that and like the room, I can show you up straightaway and get you booked in.’

  ‘I’m sure the room will be lovely and I really don’t mind sharing a bathroom for a couple of nights,’ Francesca said, determined now to stay. The man introduced himself as Gareth before excusing himself, leaving her to browse through the little tourist leaflets on the table. He reappeared moments later with his hair combed wearing a clean tee-shirt and with sandals on, and as he fussed around with her credit card and the booking in slip, she very nearly blurted out that she had once lived here, years ago, and was dying to see what he had done to it.

  The hall, square with rooms leading off, looked very smart – probably having been recently decorated in anticipation of the busy summer season. The original tiled floor was no longer visible covered with a plain cream carpet. A big glass vase of flowers artfully arranged caught her eye, a far cry indeed from her mother’s much more natural approach. Her mother’s creative eye preferred bunches of flowers from the garden stuffed into all sorts of weird and wonderful containers sometimes of her own making, anything but a traditional glass vase.

  After the preliminaries, Francesca followed him upstairs, pausing at the window on the half-landing to stare out. The lay-out was much the same in the back garden as she remembered – free and easy, stopping just short of what could be called overgrown. Perhaps misinterpreting her silence for disapproval, Gareth said they had a man who did the gardening, but his wife was ill so things had got a bit behind. He was doing the front garden himself, but mowing the lawn and trimming the hedge was about the extent of his expertise.

  ‘It’s charming,’ she assured him, following him up the final flight.

  The so called Poppy Room turned out to be one of the rooms they once used for storage crammed with all their overspill clobber, but it was now transformed. It was kitted out with nice quality furniture, good looking cream bed linen, fairly bland paintings of local scenes on the three plain walls, the wall behind the bed covered in striking poppy printed wallpaper with matching lightweight curtains. It was pretty but also unashamedly feminine.

  ‘Happy with it?’ He hovered, jingling a key as, for a moment, stunned by it, she was speechless.

  ‘Absolutely. My bags are still in the car,’ she explained. ‘I’ll go and bring the car round.’

  ‘Yes, do that. Which car park are you in, Mrs Porter?’

  ‘The one by the river.’

  ‘Ah. It’s a bit complicated getting back here by car. Let me see. If you …’

  ‘I know the way back here,’ she interrupted him with a smile.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Fine.’ If he was surprised he did not show it. ‘When you get here, if you drive past the house round the side there’s plenty of room to park beside the—’

  ‘The old stone garage?’

  ‘Well, yes, you could call it that. It’s used as the office just now.’ Gareth smiled. ‘Give me a shout if you need any help with the bags and then I’ll make you a pot of tea. Would you like some scones? I’ve just made a fresh batch. In fact, I can do a Devon cream tea for you. Would you like that?’

  My goodness, as well as having interesting green-grey eyes and a blitz of a smile, this man could make scones too. Noticing the quick glance he gave her, one of those indisputably male ones, Francesca found herself pushing at her hair in a gesture that used to please David, instantly annoyed that she should draw attention to herself. She knew her heavy silky hair to be one of her best features and she had worn it shoulder-length for years
now, enjoying the variety of styles that could be achieved.

  She set off to retrieve the car wondering as she sat inside and slotted the key into the ignition if she should just cut her losses and make a run for it. Having given out her card details, she would be charged for the room but so what? On reflection, she decided she could not do that to such a nice uncomplicated man as Gareth who would have the kettle on and the cream scones ready by now.

  She could not possibly stand him up.

  Gareth insisted on carrying her bags up to her room although she had left the boxes brought from David’s old house in the boot of the car. She would have to return to London sooner rather than later, but it could wait a few days.

  ‘Take your time,’ Gareth said, putting her bags inside the door and handing her the key. ‘Whenever you’re ready come down to the sitting-room.’

  Mindful that she would be sharing the bathroom with the as yet unseen Miss Rosemary Wetherall, Francesca washed and refreshed her make-up before going back downstairs and into the sitting-room.

  ‘Oh, you’ve found it then,’ Gareth said a moment later, popping his head round the door and seeming surprised to find her there. ‘The dining-room’s opposite.’

  ‘I know.’

  At that he gave her a quick puzzled glance before once more assuming the mantle of host. ‘Give me a minute. It’s all ready.’

  ‘If you’ve time please join me,’ she said, keen to talk to him before any other guests arrived.

  The sitting room was light and airy with none of the claustrophobic feel she remembered, but then her mother had always favoured weighty dark curtains with under nets, too much dark wood furniture, a clutter of ornaments and busy wallpaper. She knew what she liked and would probably have been more at home in the Victorian age.

  ‘You have a lovely house,’ she said by way of a starting point when he was back with the refreshments. ‘It’s tucked away, isn’t it?’