by Cathy Lake
‘True.’ A grimace marred Jenny’s pretty face. ‘I did say some awful things about him, didn’t I?’
‘Sadly, though, you were right.’
‘I thought it would have happened soon after you married him, not twenty-odd years later. I don’t want to offend you by saying this, but he always came across as so . . . flaky. He didn’t seem to have any substance and I never thought he was good enough for you.’
Clare smiled, grateful for the moral support, but also keen not to get into a character assassination of her son’s father. Jason had flaws, but so did she, and she felt pretty certain that slagging him off wouldn’t make her feel better about anything.
The waitress returned with their lattes and plates of dark, sticky chocolate cake. As Jenny accepted a plate of cake, Clare took the opportunity to look at her properly. And while Jenny was as beautiful as she’d always been, she was also changed. Her hair was still blonde and shiny, but there were fine lines around her eyes, slightly raised veins on the backs of her hands and her chin was no longer as sharp or defined as it had once been. She didn’t look forty-five, but neither did she look twenty anymore. While Clare had seen Jenny in passing over the years, they’d never met up for a proper talk, never been close enough to get a good look at each other or to exchange more than fleeting pleasantries, and it was wonderful to finally have the opportunity to do so. They’d been Facebook friends – wishing each other and their families happy birthday and merry Christmas, liking posts from time to time. Clare had seen some photos of Jenny and her family that way, but people usually only posted their good photos, not the ones of the slight loosening of the skin on their necks, the annoying hairs that sprouted on their chins or the age spots that marred their complexions.
For years though, Clare and Jenny had not shared their deepest feelings with each other, had not pondered the meaning of life or shared their losses and their triumphs. Clare had missed it – a lot. If she hadn’t got divorced and come home, then this meeting might never have happened and how sad would that have been? Sometimes, life did take you on unexpected paths, but that didn’t have to be a bad thing. Look at this positive that had already come about . . .
‘This cake is so good,’ Jenny said through a mouthful of chocolate. She’d always had a sweet tooth and swore in her teens that it was only all the netball she played that kept her slim. Clare hadn’t been sporty growing up so some people had been surprised at their friendship, especially with Jenny dating the captain of the school rugby team too, but Clare had gone to every netball match that Jenny played and cheered her on from the sidelines. Likewise, Jenny had supported Clare with her dreams of being a vet, helping her to prepare for biology tests and science practicals. Back then, Clare had been convinced she would work with animals – but she’d also believed she’d marry Corey Haim, Will Smith or Jon Bon Jovi. Jenny, however, had never wanted to marry anyone famous, only having eyes for Martin, even at fourteen.
‘How’s Martin?’ Clare asked before trying the cake. ‘Oh, this is delicious.’ She nodded as the rich fudgy icing stuck to the roof of her mouth, the cake itself light and spongey, the combination perfection.
‘He’s good, thanks. Business is great, what with the new housing estate being built just outside the village – he’s had a lot of work from that – plus the usual amount he gets from locals. He’s coaching the under-fourteens rugby at weekends and generally being a good husband and dad.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Clare smiled. ‘Also, very happy to see that you two are so content together after all this time.’
Jenny sipped her latte. ‘It’s not that we don’t have disagreements, because we do, but once we’ve cleared the air, we always make an effort to make up.’
‘I can’t imagine either of you being with anyone else.’
‘Nor me.’ Jenny shrugged. ‘It would be weird.’ She winced. ‘I’m so sorry, that was thoughtless of me. What about you, Clare? Has there been anyone since Jason?’
‘Gosh, no! It hasn’t been long and I can’t imagine being with anyone else right now either. I mean, I’m hoping that might change. At least, I think I am, but I’m happy just being alone for now. I do know that I need some time for me, to make myself happy before I even think about going on a date. I had a job as an assistant librarian for twelve years and I loved it, but then a lack of funding meant that they had to make some of us redundant and I was so disappointed. I’d love to find another job like that. I’ve also been thinking about how much I used to love horse riding and I’d like to go again, although it’s been years since I even stroked a horse, let alone rode one.’
Jenny set her fork down and it clattered on the plate, causing the three women with toddlers at the next table to stare at them. She waved an apology. ‘Sorry! Chocolate high.’ They nodded their understanding. ‘I completely understand all that and yes, you must do things to make yourself happy. However, you can’t spend the rest of your life alone, Clare. You’re a gorgeous woman with far too much to offer. We’ll get you back in the game, don’t you worry.’
Clare’s heart sank. One of the things she now remembered about Jenny was her friend’s dogged determination, and when she had an idea she liked, she tended to go for it without hesitation, eyes blinkered, until she reached the finish line. It was what had made her such a good sportswoman. If Jenny set her sights on getting Clare dating, then it would happen, whether Clare wanted it or not.
‘Jen, I’m not really sure about that. Can we at least let the dust settle, please?’
Jenny reached for Clare’s hand again and entwined her fingers with Clare’s. ‘Of course we can. Besides which, I’ve only just got you back, so I’m not ready to share you with any man for the foreseeable.’
Clare smiled and relaxed in her seat. It was as if the years had fallen away and she was back where she belonged, with her best friend, feeling that the world wasn’t such a bad place after all. Then the café door opened and the fuzzy warm feeling disappeared.
Sam held the door so Alyssa could enter the café before him, then he closed it behind him, shutting the icy-cold air of the morning out. The café was Thursday-morning busy and he’d only come to grab a takeaway for him and Miranda and Alyssa was meeting a friend.
‘Get me a hot chocolate and one of those giant choc-chip cookies, would you?’ Alyssa asked and he nodded. She always did this, went to find a table so he had to pay. Not that he minded at all though; Alyssa could have had his last penny.
At the counter, he ordered two takeaway coffees that he provided reusable mugs for – he and Miranda each had their own with their initials on – and a hot chocolate and a cookie for his sister. When they were ready, he paid, then looked around for Alyssa. She’d taken a table near the window and was typing away on her smartphone. His stomach clenched as he wondered if it was Alyssa’s new boss’s brother, someone she’d seen twice since her interview, and someone he had yet to meet, then he shook himself. It was none of his business, she was a grown woman . . .
He headed across to his sister, avoiding pushchairs and elbows, wondering how Alyssa had navigated the space in her wheelchair, then remembered that people always made way for her – and if they didn’t, she soon had a sharp word with them. She didn’t take any nonsense, which was why he had to back off and let her live her life the way she wanted to. He couldn’t protect her for ever and she didn’t want him to.
‘There you go.’ He set Alyssa’s drink and cookie down.
‘Thanks, Sam. You heading back to work now?’
‘Yes, I only popped out for coffee and to grab some fresh air. I think I might be coming down with something, to be honest; my throat’s a bit tickly.’
‘Poor thing!’ Alyssa tilted her head. ‘I’ll get you some honey and lemons and make you a hot toddy after work.’
He smiled. ‘Great. See you later.’
Alyssa nodded, her curls bobbing around the wide red and purple paisley headband she was wearing, her skin bright and fresh. He suspected some of this was dow
n to clever highlighting and blusher, but there was something else about her today. She looked so happy that it was as if she was lit from within.
Oh God, was she falling in love?
He turned away before he could say anything and cause an argument, but an elderly lady was standing in his path, chatting to a friend, so he turned in the other direction and hurried along, keen to get out of the café before he got trapped again. Then he froze. There, right in front of him, staring at him as if he had just grown horns, was the woman from yesterday.
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, her dark hair hanging down around her face. His heart thumped hard and everything else in the café seemed to fade away. He opened his mouth, knowing that he had something to say to her, but he couldn’t remember for the life of him what it was. She shook her head and turned to walk away.
‘Uh . . .’ He held out his hand and tried to remember her name. ‘Excuse me?’
She turned and glared at him.
‘I . . . uh . . . I wanted to apologise to you.’
Her green eyes were cold, her lips a thin line. He really had offended her yesterday.
‘I was quite rude about the dog poo and I shouldn’t have been. I should have waited and found out –’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, then she turned and walked away in the direction of the toilets and left him standing there, his cheeks burning, his heart pounding.
What had just happened? He had been about to say something else as well as to apologise, about Goliath he felt sure, but it was gone. He had lost the words. In fact, he had lost all words and he was staring at the back of a woman he didn’t know in the middle of a very busy café. Alyssa was probably wondering what he was doing.
He swallowed, squeezed through the tables, making for the door, desperate to escape the café than he had ever been – more desperate even than he’d been that day not long after his arrival in Little Bramble, when he’d agreed to be the professional guest at the annual Women’s Institute coffee morning. After some polite preamble, it had become quite clear that they’d all wanted to find out if he was married, single or gay. It had, he’d thought at the time, been like something out of a Jane Austen novel and he’d felt the women assessing his prospects, evaluating his worth as a member of the community. They’d given him such a grilling that he’d gone home traumatised and had to take a nap.
Outside, he gulped down some fresh air. That had been strange, very strange. Perhaps he was coming down with something and had a fever. It would explain his irrational state, his inability to say something, anything, when face to face with a woman he didn’t know. His reaction was confusing, so he’d put it down to a fever and make sure to drink lots of water and eat a healthy dinner, get a good night’s sleep. Admittedly he hadn’t slept well last night; he’d been plagued by dreams about losing Scout in the woods then, when he found her, she’d been three times her usual size and she’d dragged him along the ground as he’d called desperately to her to stop, to sit, to behave.
Loss of control . . .
He’d feared it all his adult life, mostly since that night when he had lost control and Alyssa had been hurt. He blamed himself for that – how could he not? Losing control and upsetting others was unforgiveable . . . and Sam knew that it was one of his triggers. He’d lost his temper yesterday when that woman, possibly named Clare, had been standing there without a poo bag and with Goliath charging around the woods.
Of course! The words returned. He had wanted to apologise properly, to explain that he didn’t usually behave like that and to tell her about Goliath’s OAP check-up. That was what he’d wanted to say, but instead he’d stood there, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. She probably thought he was a complete idiot – and if Alyssa had witnessed it too, he’d be in for a grilling later, for sure.
He’d phone Elaine when he got to the surgery and tell her about Goliath’s check-up, then all would be well and he could go on with his life . . .
Sam was a scientist, a sensible and practical man. He needed to focus on his job, to avoid any distractions and be a good brother, and that was what he aimed to do.
Chapter 8
Clare pushed her feet into her trainers, taking care with the ankle that was still tender, and slid her arms into her green wax jacket. She’d walked Goliath early that morning, enjoying the Saturday morning quiet of the village, aware as she passed cottages, houses and shops that most people would still be in bed or enjoying breakfast as they read the papers, their feet warmed by their Agas and wood burners, their dogs and cats stretched out in front of their hearths, just as Goliath was now.
She stuck her head around the lounge door.
‘Are you sure you won’t come, Mum?’
Elaine looked up from her knitting. ‘No thanks, Clare. I’d like to finish the sleeve this morning, then I have a pile of ironing to do.’
‘Don’t worry about the ironing,’ Clare shook her head. ‘It really doesn’t matter.’
‘To you perhaps . . .’ Her mum shrugged. ‘But I know it’s there and it will make me anxious.’
‘What? Two T-shirts and a pair of jeans?’ She laughed but her mum just stared at Clare as if she’d grown two heads.
‘Clare, we’re all different and I have today planned out and will go ahead with my plans.’ She offered a small smile. ‘Also, there’s a documentary on TV tonight about the Tudors and I’d like to be able to sit down and relax when it’s on. Therefore, I need to get my chores done.’
‘OK, Mum. Well, I won’t be long. I just want to have a wander and make the most of the dry morning.’ Clare had found that since she first walked Goliath nine days ago, leaving the cottage was getting easier each time and she was enjoying going out again; indeed, she found herself craving the walks with Goliath to stretch her legs and the prospect of fresh air something to look forward to. Being in Little Bramble was having a positive effect and she hoped it would continue.
‘See you later.’
‘Bye, Goliath.’ Clare waved at the dog. He was stretched out on the hearthrug, and he raised his large head in acknowledgement then lay back down, clearly content to stay where he was.
Clare put her leather gloves on then pulled a woollen hat over her hair. She paused on the doorstep, allowing her thoughts to settle. She’d worn Goliath out on their walk earlier, or rather, he’d worn them both out, so he wouldn’t be any trouble for her mum, but she wondered if it could be that Goliath was becoming a bit troubled by his owner’s behaviour? Clare’s mum seemed so out of sorts. The Elaine she had known growing up would never have put knitting and ironing before a walk or an evening out. Her mum had been vivacious, sociable and almost scornful of people who stayed home to do chores when there was a life to be lived. She would never have chosen a TV documentary over an evening of amateur dramatics and Clare was becoming more and more concerned. It could, of course, be down to Elaine’s age. Perhaps she was slowing down a bit, but Clare suspected that it was something more. That her mum might actually be a bit low.
A gust of cold air swirled around her, so she pulled up her collar then marched down the drive and out along the pavement. She walked quickly, head down against the chill, enjoying the stretching in her legs and the way the cold air felt as if it was cleansing her with every breath she took.
She passed other cottages, some owned by people she’d known since she was a child and others now owned by people she’d never met. They must have paid large sums for the properties because Little Bramble was a pretty village with the desirable English charm that was so in fashion and close to London, so it was a perfect location for commuting. A few years ago it had been named the third prettiest village in England, coming only after Snowshill in Gloucestershire and Ombersley in Worcestershire. Clare’s parents had bought their property before she was born and paid a ridiculously low sum for it, so their mortgage had long been paid off and the cottage was now a significant investment. Elaine had been approached several time
s by holidaymakers, keen on securing a property in the village, but there was no way her mum wanted to move and she couldn’t blame her. It was hard enough selling up your family home in your forties and having to deal with the thought of starting over, let alone in your seventies.
Clare slowed as she approached the low stone wall that enclosed the village church and grounds. The small church apparently dated back to the twelfth century and had been altered and added to over the years. Its shingle-clad spire pointed up to the sky and had always reminded Clare of a hat sitting upon the church roof. The stone wall was separated halfway along by a Victorian lychgate and many of the graves in the churchyard were so well tended that the dates could be read, some several centuries old.
Clare’s favourite thing about the churchyard was the ancient yew tree that grew in the far corner. The tree was hollow and believed to be over 3000 years old. Some people visited the churchyard to have photos taken with it, especially those seeking help for fertility issues. Clare recalled asking her dad why people wanted to visit the tree and he had told her that yew trees were symbolic of rebirth and regeneration after a difficult time, of immortality and the cycle of life. She had asked him if it was true that the tree had such qualities and he’d shrugged, then told her that if it didn’t, then what did it hurt for people to find hope by having a photo taken with it, and if it did, then all the better. Her dad had always been kind and keen to see the good in people, happy to let them believe whatever made life easier for them. She had liked that answer because it seemed to suggest that, whatever the truth, those who visited the churchyard could be winners. In fact, just to give herself the best chance of having a happy future, she’d go and take a selfie with the tree. What did she have to lose?
She let herself in through the lychgate which was covered with holly and ivy, then closed it behind her. A few times over the years, when it hadn’t been closed properly, stray sheep and even a goat had got inside and eaten the flowers left on gravestones. The goat had gone into the church and eaten the altar cloth, something that had caused some of the elderly villagers much consternation but had made the vicar, Iolo Ifans – a rather eccentric Welshman – chuckle for hours. Her dad had liked the vicar and enjoyed a pint with him many times, debating everything from politics to existentialism to football and more. No topic was too big or too small for them to chew over and Clare had loved to see the sparkle in her dad’s eye when he’d had a few beers and a good debate with Iolo.