by Jill Mansell
‘Okay, I’ll do it. When Chloe’s baby’s a bit older, I’ll take it on adventures and get my bottom stuck in cat-flaps.’ Miranda was beginning to enjoy herself. ‘And we’ll go to the circus together, and the pantomime, oh, and ice skating…and I’ll be able to read to it, all the stories that I used to love when I was little.’
‘Which stories did you love when you were little?’
‘God, there were loads. The Enchanted Wood,’ Miranda remembered. ‘And all those Laura Ingalls Wilder books. And Flambards, when I was a bit older. Oh, oh, and my absolute favorite was called Footprints in the Snow.’
Danny frowned. ‘I’ve never heard of that one.’
‘My grandmother gave it to me when I was six. It was the copy she’d had when she was a girl, so it must have been ancient. But I read that book over and over.’ Picturing the old-fashioned cover with its taped-together spine, Miranda recited dreamily, ‘Footprints in the Snow by Racey Helps. It fell to bits in the end, of course. I remember crying when my mum said we had to throw it out.’
Their cups were empty. Danny was smiling at her reminiscences. Miranda smiled back at him; this was fun, she could sit here all evening exchanging childhood—
‘Hell’s bells, what’s the time?’
He consulted his watch.
‘Twenty to seven.’
‘I’m meant to be at the hospital by seven!’
Danny stood up.
‘My car’s just down the road. I’ll give you a lift.’
‘Typical,’ Miranda said dryly as they sped through the dusty streets to the Chelsea and Westminster. ‘I’m so busy telling you what a terrific aunt I’ll make that I’m late for my first Lamaze class.’
‘We’ll make it.’
‘I’m not even going to have time to make our badges.’
Danny shot through a set of traffic lights on amber.
‘What badges?’
‘According to Chloe, all the other women will be with their husbands,’ Miranda explained. ‘I was going to make up a couple of badges saying We Are Not Lesbians.’
Raising his dark eyebrows, Danny chided, ‘If you’re going to be Mad Aunt Miranda you mustn’t care what other people think of you. It’s your mission in life to get them gossiping behind your back.’
Does he think I’m being prudish and narrow-minded? Is he teasing me, Miranda wondered, or having a bit of a dig?
Right.
‘That’s all very well,’ she retorted smartly, ‘but a girl has to keep her options open. What if the place is teeming with gorgeous doctors? I wouldn’t want to put them off.’
***
Returning home from work on Saturday evening, Miranda pushed open the front door and sent a small, well-wrapped parcel skidding across the polished parquet floor. Bending to retrieve it, she realized that the parcel bore only her name, not her address.
Both Florence and Chloe were out. In the kitchen Miranda took off her jacket and flicked on the kettle. Then, mystified, she began to unwrap the parcel.
When she tore open the last layer of bubble-wrap, a lump came into her throat.
She was six years old again.
Footprints in the Snow by Racey Helps.
It was the cover she knew so well, with Millicent Littlemouse and Nubby Tope sledging down a snow-covered hill on a basket piled high with sticks.
The very same cover, in the same faded green and beige colors. Only this time the spine wasn’t held together with yellowing strips of tape.
Opening it with trembling hands, Miranda saw the date inside: 1946. Then she read the brief note Danny had tucked between the first pages. It simply said:
Is this the right one? Hope so. Happy reading. D.
Miranda blinked hard. What a really, really nice thing to have done for her. How he had managed to get hold of a copy of a book that had probably been out of print for the last fifty years, she couldn’t begin to imagine.
Smiling idiotically to herself, Miranda made a cup of tea and carried the book through to the sitting room. She had been thinking a lot about Danny during the last couple of days. It had been lovely to bump into him again. They hadn’t bickered—well, hardly at all. Danny hadn’t brought up the subject of Miles and she hadn’t so much as mentioned Danny’s finger-waggling blonde. They had been relaxed in each other’s company, at ease with each other in a way she had never imagined possible before now.
Amazing, thought Miranda.
Amazing, but nice.
She picked up the phone and punched out Danny’s number. He answered on the fourth ring.
Miranda smiled again. It was even nice just hearing his voice.
‘How?’ she said. ‘How? How? How?’
‘Are you impressed?’
‘Hugely impressed. But you have to tell me how you did it.’
‘It was nothing.’ Danny sounded modest. ‘Just a question of trawling through every secondhand bookshop in the country. Found this one, finally, in a little back street in Newcastle—’
‘You didn’t!’ gasped Miranda.
Danny burst out laughing.
‘No, of course I didn’t.’ Fondly he said, ‘See? I can still fool you.’
‘Oh, ha ha.’ Miranda, going pink, was just glad he couldn’t see her.
‘If you really want to know, there’s a shop on the Charing Cross Road that specializes in tracking down out-of-print books.’
‘Well, it was still really kind of you,’ said Miranda.
‘My pleasure. You’ll be able to read it to Chloe’s baby when it’s older. How did the Lamaze class go, by the way?’
‘Oh, you know. Not so bad. They definitely thought we were lesbians.’ Impulsively she added, ‘I’d like to thank you properly for the book. Why don’t you come over for lunch tomorrow? I’ll cook.’
Danny hesitated. Then he said, ‘I’d have loved to, but I have to fly to Berlin tomorrow morning.’
Miranda knew her cooking wasn’t brilliant, but was it really that bad?
‘When are you back?’
‘Not sure. Maybe a couple of weeks. Well, two or three.’
Oh dear. She heard the change in his voice. If that wasn’t back-pedaling, she didn’t know what was.
Miranda’s blood ran cold as she realized why. Danny was fine as he was. He already had a girlfriend he was perfectly happy with. And now here she was, muscling in…He was being kind to me, that’s all, Miranda hurriedly reminded herself. The last thing he needs is for me to start making a nuisance of myself, latching on to him like some desperate stray puppy.
‘Oh, brilliant! Two or three weeks in Berlin? That’s fantastic!’ She forced herself to sound bright and totally unclingy. ‘You’ll have the most amazing time! Well, better go now, I really just rang to say thanks for the book. You have a great trip, okay? Bye-ee!’
Bye-ee came out as a manic, high-pitched, Joyce Grenfell-ish shriek.
Mortified, Miranda hung up the phone and surveyed her reflection in the gilded mirror above the fireplace.
Oh, well done, Miranda. Incredibly smooth there, weren’t you?
You know, don’t you, that you sounded completely mad.
Heaven only knows what Danny thinks of you now.
Chapter 54
I must be mad, thought Bev three days later. Completely barking mad. Out of my mind.
‘Marks out of ten then,’ Johnnie said cheerfully. ‘How d’you
think it’s going so far?’
‘Oh, fabulous. Sixteen at least. Here we are, speeding down the M4 at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning, and you won’t even tell me where we’re heading.’ Bev spread her manicured hands in despair. ‘I mean, why does it have to be such a secret? Are we going to have lunch at a fabulous country house hotel? Are we visiting friends of yours? Am I
being taken to meet your parents? Because if I am, I’d like to know.’
As soon as these last words were out, Bev regretted saying them. Laughing to himself, Johnnie flicked the indicator and moved onto the slip-road leading to the Membury services. He parked the filthy white Mercedes right outside the entrance, switched off the ignition and patted Bev’s hand.
‘It’s the first hour of our first date. We might fancy each other rotten, but we don’t actually know each other terribly well yet. Before you start angling for an invitation to meet my parents, why don’t we see how we get on over breakfast? Because I’m warning you now, if you eat with your mouth open and slurp your tea, I’ll go off you straight away. Or,’ he went on calmly, holding up his hand as Bev let out a squeak of protest, ‘when you see the way I mop the tomato ketchup off my plate with my fried bread, you might go off me.’
The restaurant at this ungodly hour was virtually empty. Bev, her mouth sullen and her arms folded, leaned against the counter and listened to Johnnie laugh and joke with the middle-aged woman serving the food. She wondered what she’d done to deserve such a punishment.
‘Just black coffee for me.’
‘Rubbish.’ Johnnie was encouraging the woman to pile his plate higher and higher with potatoes, bacon, mushrooms, black pudding—ugh—and beans. ‘Got to keep your strength up. Busy day ahead.’ He grinned down at Bev’s miserable face. ‘Hey, don’t worry! I said I’d buy you breakfast, didn’t I? This is on me.’
Bev’s stomach, rumbling away like a volcano, was so loud that even the woman serving the food heard it.
‘Double of everything for you too, love?’
‘Yes please,’ said Johnnie.
‘But no black pudding!’ yelped Bev.
***
It was lucky that the Mercedes was so filthy already, otherwise it would have been too much to bear. As it was, Bev’s heart was in her highly polished ankle boots as they bounced along the muddy woodland track. The motorway was far behind them now. This was Devon as only the cows truly knew it. Except, of course, no self-respecting cow would be seen dead in such a gloomy, godforsaken forest; they had far more sense than that. You only found cows in rolling fields, up to their ankles in grass and daisies and buttercups…what were those kind of fields called? Ah yes, meadows, such a pretty word.
Nothing so green and pleasant around here, Bev thought sourly. Not a meadow in sight.
Just millions of trees, dank and dark and dripping with rain, a narrow stony track pitted with puddles the size of paddling pools, and acres and acres of mud.
At last the track reached a clearing in the forest. Practically numb by this stage, Bev gazed ahead at the army-style trucks lined up next to a massive khaki tent. People in camouflage overalls were emerging from the tent carrying guns. Others milled about, smearing their faces with mud, checking their weapons, wrapping camouflage netting around their heads and studying maps.
‘Well?’ said Johnnie. ‘What d’you think?’
He was actually looking pleased with himself. Bev, who couldn’t possibly tell him what she was really thinking, said, ‘You’re in the SAS, is that what you’re trying to tell me?’
He laughed.
‘It’s paintballing. Haven’t you ever done it before?’
‘Amazingly, no.’ Bev marveled at his gall. ‘And I’m not going to do it now.’
‘Come on, it’s fun!’
‘No it isn’t. How can it possibly be fun?’
‘But we’ve come all this way!’
‘Read my lips, Johnnie. Enn oh, spells NO.’
He had friends here. People recognizing the car began to wave. Bev ignored them.
‘Please,’ said Johnnie. ‘You’ll enjoy it.’
‘I will not.’
He shook his head.
‘Miranda said you were a good sport.’
‘She lied,’ said Bev, deeply insulted. ‘I am not. I’ve never been a good sport in my life.’
‘I’m really disappointed.’
‘Ha, you think you’re disappointed! I got up at four o’clock this morning to have a bath, do my hair and put my make-up on—’
An earsplitting whistle echoed around the clearing, making Bev jump. More people poured out of the tent, ran towards the first truck and leapt—like lemmings on rewind—into the back.
The next moment the man with the whistle materialized beside the passenger door of Johnnie’s car. Six foot six of scary-looking sergeant major glared witheringly down at Bev. The door was wrenched open.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he sneered, ‘a virgin.’
‘It’s her first time,’ Johnnie agreed.
‘It bloody well isn’t,’ said Bev, ‘because I’m not doing it.’
She shrank back, clutching at the sides of the leather seat as the man leaned into the car. Without warning, his hand shot past her, whisking the keys from the ignition with awesome dexterity. As Bev let out a squeak of horror, he pulled out the waistband of his camouflage trousers and dropped the keys—with a cheery clink—out of sight.
She blinked. Crikey, what a six-pack.
‘You can’t do that!’
‘I can do anything I want.’ The terrifying sergeant major gave her a grim smile. ‘I’m in charge here. Now, seeing as you’re not going anywhere else, perhaps you’d like to make your way over to the tent and get changed.’
Bev gave him a mutinous look.
‘Or would you prefer me to carry you?’
Her eyes slithered across to Johnnie.
‘I’m never going to forgive you for this. You do know that, don’t you?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He shrugged. ‘It was Miranda. She said you’d love it.’
‘And I’m never going to speak to bloody Miranda again as long as I live.’
***
I’m having a nightmare, thought Bev, jolting along in the back of the truck as it headed ever deeper into the forest. Changing into army fatigues behind a Blind Date-style partition in the communal tent had only been the start. There were no mirrors on the site. The gunk everyone had been so energetically slapping on to their faces wasn’t cosmetic mud, it was the real stuff, scooped out of real puddles. What was more, the helmets were unflattering, the lace-up boots diabolical, and when she had tried to clamber into the truck she had slipped and fallen on her backside into a sea of churned-up mud.
Why everyone else seemed to be so damn cheerful, Bev couldn’t imagine. It was bizarre—they actually appeared to be having a whale of a time, chattering noisily to each other, catching up on all the gossip and enthusiastically discussing the day ahead.
‘New to this, are you?’
Startled, Bev realized that the girl on her left was talking to her.
‘Just a bit.’
‘You’re going to love it.’
‘Actually,’ said Bev, ‘I’m not. All this…’ she gestured around the lorry, ‘…really isn’t me at all.’
The girl, clearly missing the point completely, exclaimed, ‘I know, me neither! Isn’t it great?’
Worse was to come. When the lorry finally slithered to a halt and everyone leapt out, the organizer handed out instructions to two burly individuals and announced, ‘Okay, these are your leaders. Now line up and move to one side as soon as you’ve been chosen.’
Bev shuddered. Years of suppressed humiliation came flooding back as she remembered the games lessons at school, being picked for teams—or rather, standing there like a total lemon while everyone else was picked ahead of you.
And now, ten years later, it was happening all over again. Oh no, this was too much.
‘You!’ yelled the leader of the red team, and it wasn’t until someone gave her a hefty shove that Bev realized he’d been pointing at her. The reason she hadn’t noticed was because her eyes had been swimm
ing with tears, but now she didn’t have to cry because—thank you, God, oh thank you—she hadn’t been picked last of all. She wasn’t the booby prize, left till the end. She’d even been chosen before some of the men.
‘You!’ the yellow team leader shouted at Johnnie. He grinned at Bev and moved to the other side.
Perfect, thought Bev, adrenaline beginning to pump through her chilly veins. Now I can kill you.
***
‘Aaargh! Help me—they’re coming over the hill!’
Hearing the voice, Bev darted through the trees towards it. She threw herself on to her stomach as two members of the enemy team raced past in pursuit of someone else. A frond of wet fern tickled Bev’s nose. She waited until the coast was clear, then half slid, half ran down to the river where Stuart—a fellow red—was fishing frantically in the water for his pistol.
‘I dropped it,’ he hissed, and Bev plunged into the icy water, feeling around with her feet until she hit something metallic.
‘You’re a star,’ gasped Stuart, refilling the gun with paintballs from the ammunition belt slung around his waist.
‘Duck!’ Bev flung herself on to the muddy bank as a rustling in the undergrowth and a flash of yellow signalled the presence of the enemy. Splat, a paintball exploded against a rock, inches from her left ear.
The next moment Stuart had spun round and fired back.
‘Bastard!’ howled the enemy as his chest was splattered with red paint.
‘Quick, there’s another one!’
Rolling on to her back, Bev flicked away the slug that had attached itself to her sleeve and reached for fresh ammunition.
‘He’s heading for the bridge,’ gasped Stuart. ‘I’ll climb over those rocks, you follow the river. We’ll corner him by the—’
WHUMMPPP! went the yellow paintball against Stuart’s perspex goggles.
‘Oh, shit, he’s got me!’
‘You’re dead,’ said Bev. ‘See you in the next game.’
‘Do me a favor. Shoot the fucker, okay?’
Bev watched Stuart trudge off through the trees, a dead man, temporarily at least. She flicked her sodden hair out of her eyes and levered herself upright, watching and listening out for the enemy. It was hard to move quietly when you had half a river sloshing around in your boots. Hard to stay upright, too, when the mud was slurping around your ankles, doing its level best to suck you into its murky depths.