‘And no children?’
‘One.’
‘Oh, the poor darling.’ Always the same response. ‘Boy or girl?’
‘A girl. Hope. She’s eight.’
‘Where is she now?’ Lucy cocked her head, thoughtfully.
‘Oh.’ Harry rubbed his chin. This part always felt slightly uncomfortable – probably, if he admitted it to himself, because he felt uncomfortable about it, too. But there didn’t seem to be any way of changing the status quo. ‘She lives with her grandparents. Well, we both do, really. I travel a lot, and they have a huge house, so we’re not under each other’s feet when I’m home. And Hope has family around her.’
Lucy nodded ‘Gosh, yes, and that’s so important. You must spend a lot of time making up for the loss of her mum.’
Harry looked down at his feet.
‘We do,’ he said. She didn’t have to know it wasn’t strictly true.
Nipping to the loo, he couldn’t help thinking that it was as if people were given a conversation script as soon as they became adults. This is what you say when someone dies. This is what you say when you find out someone has lost a partner. These are the words we think you want to hear.
Almost from the moment Sarah had died, he’d found himself having to counsel everyone from school teachers to total strangers in their grief. He was a widower – that tragic archetype, beloved of romantic films. But the reality was far more complicated, and because of that he couldn’t ever really let anyone know what he felt. And the truth was, he knew that working all the hours he did was his way of escaping from home, escaping from the complications of family life.
Sarah had been gone for five years – longer than they’d been together. Sometimes it felt like he wanted to divorce her ghost and get on with living his life, but that sounded impossibly callous and didn’t begin to cover the feelings he had about it all. It just seemed – impossible. And that was before he even began factoring in Jenny and Lou.
When he got back Lucy was standing up, her bag over her shoulder.
‘I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t keep you,’ she said. ‘You’ve probably got work first thing, and your whole evening’s been listening to me rabbiting on about my tiny little problems.’
He shook his head, smiling. ‘It’s fine. I’m glad I helped.’
‘I’m so grateful.’
‘It’s nothing.’
He picked up his laptop bag and shouldered it, pausing for a moment. What did one do in these circumstances?
‘Are you going to the lift?’ Lucy flicked a glance towards the three metal doors.
‘Yes.’
There was another split-second moment – this one of awkward indecision. Should he make an excuse and let her go on? Should he just make a move? He’d had his share of anonymous encounters like this in the past, but they left him feeling slightly grubby and uncomfortable – and as if something was missing. But perhaps –
‘Finished with these?’ the barman said, breaking the moment. He lifted the two half-drunk glasses with a questioning expression.
‘Yes,’ they said, as one.
‘Right, well, let’s go,’ said Lucy, decisively.
He pressed the middle button, she pressed the one on the right-hand side. Both lifts slid open at exactly the same time. He stepped forward, thinking she was going to get into the other one, but instead she joined him with a strange sort of half-hop and an awkward laugh.
‘This is very British,’ she said. He pressed the number 4.
They stood in silence as the lift whirred upwards and slid to a halt.
‘Well, this is me,’ he said.
‘Me too.’ Lucy stepped out and as the doors closed behind them she paused for a moment and turned to look at him.
‘Harry?’
‘Yes?’
‘Can I –’ she said, and took a step towards him and coiled her arms around his neck. She smelled sweet, of mint and a floral perfume and of apple shampoo. Her mouth was on his and she was kissing him and . . .
‘Oh God, I am SO sorry.’
She leapt back, covering her mouth with her hand. Her cheeks were scarlet.
‘Oh God, oh God, I’m so sorry.’
The correct response, presumably, was don’t worry, it’s fine, it happens to me all the time. The easy response would be to sweep her into his arms, kiss her again, and head for the hotel bedroom. He’d be lying if he said Lucy’s unexpected passionate kiss hadn’t had an effect. In fact, after a stunned moment, he’d responded in kind, dropping his bag and allowing a hand to slip around her waist. The same hand was now hanging by his side, and his mouth was parted as if waiting for words to come out. But there weren’t any, it seemed. Not from him, in any case.
Fortunately Lucy had quite enough for both of them.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again. ‘Oh God, I’m just as bad as him. And I didn’t even ask you. I just leapt on you like some sort of maniac. I didn’t mean to, it’s just the rum and you’re so sweet and tragic and –’
The aphrodisiac qualities of the widower were a never-ending source of amazement to Harry.
‘Truly,’ he said, picking up his bag, ‘It’s fine. I mean it was lovely. I mean –’
‘You are lovely,’ Lucy said, putting both hands to her still flaming cheeks. ‘But I am forty-three and you are – not. And whatever the hell is happening with my life, I shouldn’t be kissing strange men in hotel corridors.’
And for some reason, this made them both burst out laughing. A man put a head out of the room door opposite and peered at them, perplexed. From inside the room the sound of a crying toddler – cross and tired, Harry could tell – was increasing in volume.
Somehow this galvanized Lucy into action.
‘Let me –’ and she went to shake his hand, before leaning forward again and giving him a hug. ‘I’m so sorry for being such a complete clot, and I’m so grateful to you for being a good Samaritan when I needed one.’
‘I’m not sure good Samaritans buy cocktails,’ he said, rubbing his chin again.
‘Well, they blooming well should, in my book.’
‘What are you going to do now?’
‘I dunno.’ Lucy fished her phone out of her bag. It was vibrating, as it had been for quite a lot of the time they’d been talking. ‘I might agree to talk to him.’
‘Really?’ He’d thought Marcus was definitely for the chop.
She nodded vigorously. ‘Believe it or not, the thought of you being – of you – of your –’
‘My wife being dead.’ It was almost impossible for people to say. It was another one of those things that you learned after the event. Not only were you a counsellor for other people’s feelings, but you had to help them find the words to talk about it.
‘It made me think about how I’d feel if something happened to – to –’
Lucy waved the phone in the air. MARCUS, the screen said, flashing to indicate he was calling, and not for the first time.
‘That’s always worth thinking about.’
Running on the treadmill with a stomach full of sickly sweet cocktails wasn’t his wisest move. He’d chucked on his kit and headed down, planning to clear his head with a half-hour blast. The music on his headphones drowned out the sound of the pop music that was being piped through the speakers, and the noise of the blood rushing in his ears. He ran through a stitch in his side, and when his legs started to burn he upped the incline instead of easing off.
If only running and music could drown out the thoughts in his head. They kept circling, though. Round and round they went, keeping pace with the steady thudding of his feet on the treadmill. He had the house sale to sort out. His mum was gone, and now his dad, too. Her place had been left to her sister and Harry had inherited the money, which now sat in his bank account, gathering interest and dust. He imagined it there – guilt money.
His parents had used him as a pawn in the years after their divorce, their love-hate relationship far more important to them than his feeling
s about how it felt to be passed back and forth like a parcel on Christmas Days and birthdays. And now, with probate sorted, he had the big old house where he’d grown up to sell. It would go to a family moving out from London, who could exchange their one-bed flat in Islington for a house in the country. They were welcome to it.
When he pictured the house in his mind, it was as grey as the flat skies that surrounded it, reflected in the still waters of the Broads that bisected their land. And the only good memories of that place were from another life – one he tried not to think about.
The counter showed seven miles and he hit the stop button, letting the machine run down to walking pace. Sweat poured down his face and his heart was pounding in his chest, but he’d chased away the demons for now. He’d sleep well tonight.
Showered and rubbing his hair with a towel, he emerged from the lift on the fourth floor to see Lucy once again. She was carrying an overnight bag, and her face was washed clean of tears. Her pale blonde hair was brushed, all the flyaway strands swept back up into a neat twist on the back of her head. She’d swapped her crumpled linen tunic for another one, pale grey, with the colourful string of beads still in place. She looked much brighter and her face lit up when she saw Harry.
‘Oh, what luck. I was going to leave you a message at reception, just to say thank you.’
He nodded his head, indicating the bag she was holding.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Better than that.’ She beamed. ‘Marcus is coming to pick me up. We’ve had a long chat, and we’re going to sort everything out. Starting with a holiday to Mauritius at Christmas.’
She made it sound incredibly simple.
He smiled and watched as she headed into the lift.
The last he saw of Lucy was a happy wave as the metal door of the lift slid closed. Her life was sorted – short-term, at least. Meanwhile, he was still clueless as to where he was going and what he was doing. All he knew for sure was that somehow, thanks to a whim of his mother-in-law, tomorrow morning he had to find his way to Wales if he wanted to see his daughter.
Chapter Six
Ella
It was a relief to be outside, even if the weather had changed for the worse. The crisp sunshine had been replaced with an oppressive grey blanket of cloud that hung over the hills, obscuring their peaks, hiding the valley. Her head was throbbing with hangover and regret from the night before. She knew trying to push things with Nick had been a mistake, but it still hurt.
The mist that still hadn’t lifted left everything with a clinging layer of damp that sneaked under layers of clothing, leaving Ella freezing cold within moments of being outside. Tor, a checked stable rug keeping him warm, leaned an inquisitive head over the stable door as Carol arrived.
‘Hello, beautiful.’
Carol, a tiny, fine-boned woman, climbed out of her car. She smiled at Ella, but her affection was for Tor, her favourite horse. She pulled the door of the car closed and headed straight for his box as Ella crunched across the gravel to close the yard gate behind her.
‘How are things?’
Carol ducked her head. With her quick, darting movements and dark, bright eyes, she reminded Ella of a sparrow. She’d arrived at the yard, referred by a friend who’d worked with Ella to overcome PTSD after an accident in the workplace, and who suggested that perhaps working with the horses might help her to get over the trauma of her divorce.
‘Good.’ She reached up, holding a hand out for Tor to sniff. He ran his velvety muzzle across her fingers, searching hopefully for a treat. ‘None for you until afterwards.’
She took the head collar and opened the stable door, using the signal she’d been taught to get Tor to step back politely. She unfastened his rug and slid it off, folding it neatly and hanging it on the edge of the hay rack. He ducked his head down low, allowing her to fasten the head collar around his neck before she led him out into the yard. Ella smiled at this.
When Carol had first arrived, hunched and defeated, she had taken half an hour to build up the courage to approach Tor’s box. Ella, who loved watching the relationship between horse and client reveal itself, had been interested to discover that she’d been instantly drawn to the beautiful chestnut rather than one of the quieter, smaller horses in the yard. But the connection between horse and human was different every time, and each one brought the clients exactly what they needed.
‘Who knew I’d end up taking half a ton of horse for a walk on a lead,’ Carol smiled. She slid open the latch on the stable door and Ella stepped back, watching as the pair walked steadily, side by side, towards the indoor arena. She followed, sliding the door closed behind them, and flicking on the lights against the midwinter gloom. With a buzz and a click the long yellow strip lights illuminated the arena. The air was filled with the sweet, sawdusty smell of the all-weather surface they’d had delivered last year.
Ella stood by the side of the arena, watching as Carol led Tor around the perimeter. She had one hand on the rein, another draped casually across his neck, walking in step with him as they made their way round to meet her.
‘It’s a shame you can’t marry a horse, really.’
‘Oh believe me, teenage Ella would have done it in a snap if she could.’
Tor tossed his head up, mane flying, snorting as if in agreement.
‘I had a date last night,’ confided Carol. She ran a hand underneath the heavy tangle of Tor’s mane, combing it out with her fingers, expression thoughtful. ‘I never thought I’d do that.’
Carol’s ex-husband had systematically destroyed her self-esteem. He’d spent years convincing her that she was worthless, driving away the friends and family who had always been an important part of her life. Piece by piece he’d dismantled everything that meant anything to her until she’d been convinced that she was to blame when he disappeared off on long work trips. Her lack of belief in herself meant that when she discovered he was sleeping with a number of different women, a part of her brain was truly convinced that it was her own fault for not being good enough. It had taken the death of her mother – and almost missing the funeral through Mick’s furious jealousy that someone else should mean so much to her – to change things for good. She’d fled, returning home to the village of Llanidaeron where she’d grown up, staying with her sister, who wouldn’t let Mick within fifteen metres of the front door. When the police had eventually been called – after one drunken night when he’d staggered up the front path, having booked himself into the Lion for the night – they’d put a restraining order in place, keeping him well out of reach. Only after six months of counselling had Carol felt brave enough to turn up at the yard, telling Ella how, as a child, she’d dreamed of having a horse of her own. And now here they were, months later, and Carol’s transformation had been wonderful to see. She’d cast off the drab, dark clothes she used to wear and was clad in a vibrant purple fleece with a bright floral scarf at her neck. Her hair had been highlighted with subtle red tones, and her cheeks were flushed with the possibility of new romance.
‘How did it feel?’
Carol’s face lit up. ‘Amazing. I met him through that online dating site we were talking about last week. He likes all the same things as me, we talked for hours . . . I’m seeing him again tomorrow night.’
Ella beamed at her. She remembered Carol’s first visit, talking through her feelings with Ella as they’d gently introduced her to the horses, the years of hurt and anger pouring out. Spending time in the quiet, non-judgemental company of Tor, she’d cried into his mane, allowed herself to lean against his huge muscular shoulder, and over the weeks discovered that as she grew stronger and more confident in his company, it was having an effect on her daily life.
It was a magic which Ella never tired of seeing. All her childhood she’d loved spending time in the company of horses, but it had been the riding that had been her primary goal. Now – during the years that had passed – she’d learned that their wise, silent companionship could be the most effective
tool for healing that anyone could experience. She didn’t miss the riding part at all – at least, most of the time. On clear, crisp winter days, when the sun backlit the hills and the bracken on the moor was tipped with frost, she sometimes wished she could jump on Tor’s back and canter off into the quiet space where nobody could find her and just soak up the beauty. But then there was always walking, and the enjoyment of seeing how working with the horses transformed people.
Carol turned expectantly, waiting to hear what today’s session would involve.
‘Would you like to do some loose schooling with him?’
‘I’d love to.’
Carol unclipped the head collar rope and – giving the signal she’d been taught, telling Tor to wait until she’d reached the centre of the arena – stepped back. He flicked an ear backward, aware of Ella’s presence. She hushed him with a hand to his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fluffy winter coat that had grown over the last couple of months. He was such a character. She’d trained him well over the years, and could guarantee that he’d always behave. Carol raised an arm in a sweeping motion and he set off around the outside of the arena, circling in a trot.
Ella walked across to join her, watching as she lifted a finger to steady him, before calling the command which sent him across the diagonal, his long legs stretching out, hooves landing with precision.
‘I never thought in my life I’d be doing something like this.’ Carol’s big dark eyes were sparkling with excitement. ‘All those years living with Mick, doing what he said, feeling like I was worthless.’
‘But you’re amazing.’ Ella turned to her, reflecting the smile that was plastered over Carol’s face. ‘You know Tor wouldn’t do this unless he trusted you – you’ve built up a bond, and he recognizes how confident you’ve become.’
When Carol had first arrived they’d spent time just working in the close confines of the stable, grooming Tor and handling him in the safety of a smaller space. As a herd animal, Tor relied on the sensory input he received from the people he was with to judge how safe he was. Carol’s nervous, jerking movements would have startled a horse which was less well trained, but Tor had become accustomed to unpredictable behaviour over his years of training. The first day that Carol had taken him into the arena and led him around had been a breakthrough: the time when she took him off the lead rein and controlled the behaviour of a huge, 500-lb animal with her own body language had made her burst into tears of happiness and relief.
Finding Hope at Hillside Farm Page 6