One Small Act of Kindness

by Lucy Dillon

  The White Horse was almost empty when they walked in, except for a few late drinkers, and the noisy ducks weren’t in evidence. Tony nearly leaped over the bar when he saw Alice, and she was congratulating herself on remembering his deep tan and bouncer’s nose, until it occurred to her that Libby had shown her a photo on the pub website.

  ‘Alice! Thank God you’re OK. I was imagining you all covered in bandages,’ he said, and would have hugged her if she hadn’t warned him about her cracked ribs.

  He recognised Luke and shook his hand, and made a few quips about darts; Alice watched them both for clues and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Luke had obviously been a good customer; Tony was a model ‘mine host’ pub owner who remembered everyone’s names and favourite beers.

  After running through the accident story yet again, more self-consciously with Luke listening, Alice asked for any contact details she’d left, and Tony gave her mobile numbers, hers and Gethin’s, and an address in Stratton, which he said was about five miles back the way they’d come.

  ‘You get along there now,’ he urged her. ‘Gethin’ll be over the moon to see you safe and sound. He’ll have been going spare.’

  ‘He’s not been in here looking for me?’

  Tony shook his head. ‘No, love. But then I was under the impression you two was on holiday.’ His face was creased, confused. Like Lord Bob’s when Libby shot the bolt on the swing door.

  ‘I’m sure there’s an explanation,’ said Luke easily. ‘Come on, Alice, we’ll give Gethin a call from the car, let him know we’re on our way.’

  Tony followed them out, and as Alice turned to say goodbye, he slipped her a few folded notes.

  ‘Call it an advance on your wages for next month,’ he muttered. ‘You don’t wanna be rushing back to work, not with a bump to the head. Few mates of mine have had concussion over the years, boxers. It can be nasty. You take things easy, love.’

  ‘Oh! Thanks,’ said Alice, surprised by the generosity.

  Tony closed his big hand over hers. He wore two gold signet rings, one on each hand. ‘You just get yourself well. We want you back here, don’t we? Give my best to that fella of yours.’

  ‘I will.’ Alice smiled, but with the odd sensation that she was playing a role, not speaking for herself.

  Luke was waiting in the van, the engine already idling.

  ‘Tony gave me two hundred quid,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t that nice of him?’

  ‘You’re his best employee.’ Luke swung his arm round the back of her headrest so he could reverse round a tree and she was aware of his energy: clean, warm, muscular. He paused and looked at her, his arm still resting on the back of her seat. ‘That’s one for your list. You’re good with people.’

  ‘I think I know that,’ she said, as they drove out of the car park. ‘Libby’s put me on reception when she’s been dealing with the builders. I don’t get as stressed as she does.’

  ‘Probably because it’s not your problem. And I bet you’ve worked out the computer booking system quicker than Mum, concussion or not. Has she offered you a job yet?’

  ‘Libby has, actually,’ said Alice. ‘I don’t know if she meant it. They’re not busy now, but her plans are really ambitious. Has she told you about the refurbishments?’

  ‘Nope. Like I said, I don’t really have a lot of contact with the place. Wasn’t even consulted about them moving back to take over. Do you want to call Gethin?’ he asked, tossing her his phone.

  Alice hesitated. ‘Um . . .’ She did, and she didn’t. It was late, she was tired, she wasn’t looking her freshest, but it would seem odd not to want to see her boyfriend, and they’d come all this way . . .

  She opened her mouth to ask Luke if Gethin was the sort of boyfriend who liked a full face of make-up and nice shoes, but then shut it again. Instinctively, she felt she could ask him anything, but Luke’s body language seemed to shift between matching her relaxed confidence, and then abruptly closing off.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I will.’

  She dialled the number Tony had given her. Her wobbly fingers meant she had to keep deleting and starting again.

  ‘Bumpy road, sorry,’ said Luke, without looking over.

  Eventually the number was in. She pressed the dial button and held her breath. This is it. I’m going to speak to my boyfriend.

  One ring and it went straight to voicemail. A generic message too, not even Gethin’s voice. Alice realised she was relieved.

  ‘No answer?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Never mind – we’re nearly there.’

  He pulled up outside a house, but apart from a faint light upstairs, it seemed to be in darkness.

  ‘Are you sure this is it?’ Alice leaned forward.

  ‘Yes. Well, it’s what Tony wrote down – 25 Hazels Avenue.’

  Luke turned off the engine and they sat in silence for a moment, while Alice took it all in. It was a small 1930s semi, behind a metal gate topped with a sunburst, and a crazy-paved path that led up to a neat front door, with ‘25’ at a jaunty angle over the brass letterbox.

  She stared hard at the unassuming house, tinged yellow in the street light. I’m going to ring that doorbell and Gethin’ll open the door and I’ll be home, she thought. That’s when it’ll all come back.

  Alice realised she was clutching the seatbelt. Her heart was speeding up, despite her deliberate breaths. She’d hoped and hoped for the moment Mr Reynolds said would come – the sharp click as things fell into place, or the sudden slipping away of the dark curtains covering the old memories – and now that it was here, she wasn’t sure she was ready for it.

  ‘Isn’t it familiar?’ Luke asked.

  ‘No. Nothing is.’ She was sure she’d never seen this house before in her life.

  ‘Do you want to ring the bell? He might have gone to bed.’ He nodded towards the house. ‘It’s gone eleven. Bit late.’

  ‘So we’re not night owls, then,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘One for the list.’ She was playing for time now.

  ‘Come on. I’ll walk up with you,’ said Luke, and opened his door.

  Alice’s legs felt jelly-like again as she stepped down onto the pavement. She made herself notice the other cars parked nearby: normal family cars, nothing too fancy, nothing too old. It was a very average, very nice street that she lived in.

  Luke held the gate open for her and she walked up to the front door. Half of it was frosted glass, but she couldn’t make out any light behind it, or behind the drawn curtains in the front bay window.

  Alice rang the bell anyway, and heard it peal out in the hall. Luke stood a few paces behind her and she wondered if he’d have come with her had there been lights on inside.

  Her mind began to race. What would Gethin say when he opened the door? What should she say?

  Surprise!

  Hello!

  Sorry.

  Alice checked herself. Sorry? What for?

  For disappearing for over two weeks.

  Two weeks in which he’d failed to find her. Not a word to the police, or even a notice in the newspaper, or online.

  ‘Ring again,’ said Luke. ‘He’s maybe in the bath.’

  They waited for a minute, then another, until it was clear that there was no one inside 25 Hazels Avenue.

  Alice peered through the glass, trying to make out any detail that might trigger a memory, but the glass was deceptively blurry and she couldn’t make out a thing in the hallway. Not even if there was any post lying on the mat.

  ‘Or maybe he’s gone out, looking for you,’ said Luke. ‘Do you want to leave a note?’

  ‘OK,’ she said, and followed Luke to the van, where he handed her a smart leather A4 file.

  ‘My notebook,’ he explained, passing her a pen. ‘For drawing pictures to explain things to clients. Got to make the
right impression when you’re selling security. People don’t like to see their expensive alarm systems jotted down on the back of an envelope.’

  ‘I see.’

  Alice wasn’t really listening; she was staring at the paper, and her head felt as if it were full of treacle. Where did you start, in a note to your frantic boyfriend, whose worried face you couldn’t even remember?

  Eventually, she scribbled, I’ve been in an accident. Lost my phone, lost my memory for a couple of weeks – it’s been a nightmare. I’m staying at the Swan Hotel in Longhampton. Please ring me as soon as you get this. She added the hotel’s phone number, and after checking with Luke, the postcode and email, then hesitated.

  Love, Alice. Kiss?

  She frowned. This was ridiculous.

  Alice looked up and met Luke’s eyes. He pretended to stare out of the windscreen for a second, then gave up the pretence.

  ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Don’t try to explain it now – you’re tired. Stick it through the letterbox and let’s get home.’

  It felt reassuring to have all her worries boiled down to that. Alice smiled and went to post it through the door.

  As the letterbox closed on her fingers, she had the sense of things tipping into the next stage. She’d started something new. She’d begun to wake up the past.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Libby made her way into the hotel kitchen the next morning, her head buzzing with all the questions she wanted to ask Alice, she found Margaret already bustling around, re-wiping the surfaces Libby had wiped the previous evening while she was waiting for Luke and Alice to ring with news.

  The bacon was on, and she could smell fresh coffee and toast.

  How kind, she thought, surprised. And how nice to see Margaret bustle again. Libby decided she’d forgive her even if she delivered another bacon-cooking lesson.

  ‘Good morning!’ Margaret turned and gave her a big smile. She was wearing a pair of Marigolds, and one of the old silk scarves that had been her trademark accessory. Lord Bob was asleep under the table, having, from the look of his muzzle, already enjoyed a scrambled-egg breakfast of his own. ‘How are we this morning?’

  Libby decided to ignore Bob’s illegal presence in the hotel kitchen for the time being, since at least half the breakfast routine had been done for her. In fact, it looked as if Margaret had nearly finished.

  ‘Very well, thank you, Margaret,’ she said. ‘I thought it was my turn for breakfast today. How long have you been up?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t sleep when my chicks are ill.’ She flapped a hand, then said, ‘Ooh, toast!’ as four slices of white toast popped up.

  ‘Is this for room four?’ Libby checked the tray that was out on the countertop, already set with a clean glass and cutlery. ‘I didn’t see he’d asked for room service. I thought he was dining downstairs this morning – did he leave a message?’

  ‘What? Oh, sorry, no, Elizabeth, this is for Jason. Not room four.’

  ‘For Jason?’

  Margaret put the four slices of bread onto a plate, then turned back to the frying pan, where the bacon was reaching optimum crispness under Donald’s bacon crisper. ‘I popped my head round the door about ten minutes ago and he said he might be able to manage a little something.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Libby eyed the bacon doubtfully. She’d popped her head round the door five minutes ago and he’d been flat out. The most he’d ever been able to face after a big night was a quadruple espresso. ‘He normally just has a coffee and a couple of Beroccas . . .’

  ‘Maybe in London.’ Margaret flipped the bacon out of the pan and started to make two bacon sandwiches. ‘But I think this’ll have him up and back to normal much quicker. He asked for a Mum Special!’

  Libby watched her fussing over the crusts, something she didn’t even do for guests. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. It really doesn’t matter.

  But it did.

  It wasn’t so much Margaret’s insistence on treating Jason like a teenager, but the fact that Jason would rather choke down a plate of greasy bacon sarnies than tell his mum that he didn’t want her making him a fry-up in bed.

  Plus the fact that Margaret had got up early to make poor Jason, victim of spiked drinks, breakfast while leaving the job of the actual ‘eaten by a guest rating the hotel’ breakfast to her.

  Not to mention the fact that Margaret had completely ignored the way Luke had rescued Jason last night, then driven all the way to Embersley, then Stratton and back to help Alice, without so much as a ‘Isn’t he a good lad?’

  Libby cringed at her own whiny inner voice and told it to shut up. There was no point Margaret turning her into a stroppy teenager too.

  ‘Can one of those bacon sarnies be for Luke?’ she asked. ‘He was a real hero last night – I think he deserves breakfast in bed.’

  ‘Luke?’ Margaret raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, I could, but . . . I think Jason needs two, and this is going to get cold. The pan’s still hot, if you want to put some bacon on. And don’t forget room four, dear! They should probably get theirs first, before family.’

  Libby ground her teeth, reminded herself this was probably just another Donald-related coping strategy and put on the plain white apron she’d bought for official kitchen breakfast duties.

  She’d just got the order from Mr ‘Room Four’ Harrington in the breakfast room and had ejected a grumbling Bob from her cooking space when Luke walked in, his hair damp, dressed in last night’s clothes.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, rubbing a hand across his unshaven face. ‘Is that for His Lordship?’

  ‘Bob, or Jason? Neither. It’s for our one solitary guest.’ Libby waved her spatula in the direction of the spare room. ‘His Lordship is enjoying a fry-up courtesy of his mother.’

  ‘Ha! I’d like to see him force that down after the state he was in last night,’ said Luke.

  ‘Serves him right. You were next on my breakfast list – what can I make you?’

  Luke shook his head. ‘You’re all right. Don’t normally bother with breakfast. I didn’t realise you had guests at the moment.’ He leaned against the door frame, well out of her way. ‘Don’t they mind staying in a building site?’

  ‘Luckily for our cash flow, there’s a business park on the outskirts of town and some people have to stay in Longhampton overnight, whether the reception is covered in plastic sheeting or not. Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ He smiled as she handed him a mug, and instantly looked less moody; Luke, Libby decided, suffered from Stern Resting Face.

  ‘So, Gethin wasn’t in last night?’ she asked, unable to contain her curiosity. ‘That’s a shame. Are you going to go over there again today?’

  ‘No, I’ll be off as soon as I’ve finished this. Got to meet someone in Birmingham about a contract.’

  ‘Work? On a Saturday?’

  ‘Overseas client. They don’t tend to bother too much what day of the week it is.’ He sounded vague, and Libby wondered whether it was a security thing or because he wanted an excuse to leave. ‘Alice left a note, so presumably Gethin’ll ring sometime today. You can drive her over, can’t you? I wouldn’t let Jason behind the wheel for a while. Police are hot on morning-after drivers round here.’

  ‘Of course. You’re welcome to come back for dinner tonight, after your job?’

  ‘That’s kind of you, but . . .’ He made a face that clearly meant ‘Mum’. ‘Probably easier not to.’

  ‘OK,’ said Libby, wishing she knew how to mend the situation. ‘But if you change your mind . . .’

  Funny, she thought, as he drained his mug too fast, that Luke didn’t even want to hang around and say goodbye to Alice. But then if hanging around would mean more sniffing from his mother about his divorce, while Jason got the breakfast-in-bed treatment, she couldn’t really blame him.

  The hotel as Alice had known it w
hen she’d first walked in had now vanished under a sea of dust sheets, but Libby’s mind was clearly focused on the finished rooms. It seemed slightly previous to Alice to be testing paint colours in the first-floor bedrooms when half the walls weren’t even plastered, but she could see why it would be keeping Libby sane in the madness.

  ‘I like Mouse’s Back,’ said Libby, stepping aside to appraise the colours in the easterly light. ‘But maybe London Stone would be more neutral. What do you think?’

  ‘To be honest, I can’t tell the difference. They’re both nice.’ Alice was thinking about Gethin’s house in Stratton last night. Their house. Had she decorated there? Was Gethin a DIY type?

  Her mind slipped to the one person who might be able to tell her. ‘Is Luke around?’

  ‘No, he left about nine.’ Libby turned and Alice could see she was trying not to look too nosy, and failing. ‘He had a meeting in Birmingham. Did you want to talk to him? I’ve got his number.’

  ‘No. No, Gethin should be ringing soon.’ She bit her lip. ‘Although, maybe it’d be handy to have Luke’s number. Just in case.’

  ‘Just in case what?’

  Alice met Libby’s innocent gaze. ‘I don’t know. Just in case.’

  ‘That’s probably the last we’ll see of him for months now.’ Libby sighed and pushed the lid back onto a tester can. ‘Shame. I’d like to get to know Luke better.’

  ‘Is he nice?’

  ‘Not . . . nice nice. Interesting. He’s travelled a lot. Probably not very domesticated. I sometimes wonder if this security business he’s in is a little shady: he seems to work for some very private people, never says much . . .’ She looked thoughtful. ‘I think Jason and Margaret still see him as an arsey teenager, but I’ve never seen that side of him. I mean, he’s a man of few words, but it’s not like he rides into town on a motorbike, making trouble. He’s thirty-six, for God’s sake. He’s probably VAT registered.’

  ‘He’s got a leather jacket.’

  ‘So’ve I. Doesn’t mean I’ve got a flick knife too.’ Libby glanced at her, amused. ‘I bet you know more about him than we do – or did, before the accident, I mean. I got the feeling you two talked, from what he was saying last night. Do you?’