Single Mother

by Samantha Hayes

  Mel quickly changes into a fresh white T-shirt, deciding that will have to do for tonight, hoping the slogan isn’t too flippant. Her jeans are clean and, as she’s applying mascara and a slick of lip gloss, she’s reminded of how Billy would grill her if she ever tried to make herself look nice, questioning where she was going, who she was seeing.

  She gives her hair a quick brush, deciding to wear the pretty new necklace she bought for herself. In defiance, she spritzes herself with some body spray – something she was never allowed to wear – and heads downstairs again to help.

  Mel halts in the doorway to the restaurant, her heart sinking. Miss Sarah is standing beside her usual table in the window, her arms hanging limply beside her, her shoulders slightly hunched. She’s positioned herself about four inches from their only resident, who has unwittingly sat himself down in Miss Sarah’s place with a pint of Guinness and the newspaper. He either seems oblivious to her presence or is putting on a good show of ignoring her off-putting behaviour.

  Mel glances at Nikki, who’s behind the bar. She shrugs, a concerned expression on her face as she slowly polishes a glass. Several locals – two older couples and an older man that Mel has seen in a few times before – sit at the bar, joking and placing bets on what’s going to happen next.

  ‘Death by butter knife, I reckon,’ one says too loudly.

  ‘Drink over his head?’ another says, laughing.

  ‘Or maybe they’ll get a room,’ the first man says, glancing in Miss Sarah’s direction.

  One of the women tells them to pipe down, for which Mel is grateful.

  She grabs a menu off the bar, takes a breath and heads over to the table. ‘Mr Spencer, I’m so sorry but this table is reserved. Could I ask you to move to another one?’

  The man looks up at her, giving a quick glance at Miss Sarah, who remains standing perfectly still right next to the table.

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Of course. Sorry, I didn’t see a sign.’ He stands and hesitates, waiting for Miss Sarah to step aside, but she doesn’t. So he pulls his chair back even further, gathers up his pint and newspaper and follows Mel to one of the tables against the banquette.

  ‘You’ll have a bit more space here, anyway, Mr Spencer,’ Mel says, smiling. ‘Sorry about that,’ she mouths in a whisper. ‘She’s a… well, she’s a long-term guest and has her routine. Same table every meal.’

  The man glances over at Miss Sarah, who’s now sitting down reading her book. ‘Interesting,’ he says, dragging his eyes away from her. ‘And please, call me Angus.’ He beams a smile and holds out his hand. ‘And I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  Mel gives his hand a brief shake in return and is about to give him the menu, when she feels another hand on her arm.

  ‘You’re needed out the back. Urgently,’ Nikki says, removing the menu from Mel. ‘I’ll take it from here. Really, Mel, you need to go outside. Now.’ She whispers the last word, making a tense face, her eyes flicking towards the kitchen. ‘There’s… there’s a big problem down in the spinney. You know, right at the end of the garden?’ Nikki’s face is flushed and her words breathy, as though she doesn’t want to say whatever has happened in front of their guest.

  ‘Right…’ Mel says slowly, wondering what could possibly have happened that’s so urgent. It’s just a patch of untouched land, possibly once an orchard. ‘I’ll leave you in Nikki’s capable hands then, Angus. Enjoy your meal.’ And she heads off outside.

  Smoke. She can smell smoke.

  Christ, she thinks. Something’s on fire.

  ‘Girls, hi…’ Mel says as she rushes past Kate and Chloe. They’re sitting on the low wall near the footings, huddled over their phones, looking at something and giggling. They’ve each got an assortment of tools beside them – trowels, little gardening forks, teaspoons and a couple of old paintbrushes, as well as some containers.

  ‘We’re going on an archaeological dig,’ Kate says. ‘Chloe says there are loads of fossils around here.’

  ‘Great,’ Mel calls back, distracted. She stops a moment. ‘Can you smell smoke, girls? Burning?’ She sniffs the air. ‘Stay here while I investigate, OK?’

  Mel hurries on, the sound of the girls giggling and spraying out laughter behind her as she runs off. Definitely smoke, she thinks, rushing up to the end of the large garden, tripping a couple of times as the long grass and weeds get caught around her ankles. She’s hardly been up here yet but, as she approaches the spinney, she sees that it looks as though part of it has been cleared – almost from the inside out. And from the tops of the trees, which form a kind of canopy over an opening, she sees smoke winding its way out.

  ‘Heavens,’ she thinks, wondering if the builders started a bonfire earlier to burn waste and it’s got out of hand. ‘They really should have asked me,’ she mutters, hoping the trees haven’t caught fire.

  But as she heads into the spinney, she thinks she hears music. The slow, soulful beat of something she vaguely recognises. And there’s no doubt that some kind of machinery has recently cleared a path through the undergrowth, cutting away all the brambles and nettles. Her eyes grow wide as she enters what almost feels like a room or the inside of a yurt.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she says, gazing around at the candles and fairy lights draped in the branches. In the centre of the little clearing sits a firepit with gentle flames licking up out of the coals. And the music is coming from a portable speaker with a phone attached to it. When her eyes finally adjust, she sees several camping chairs with blankets draped on them and Tom sitting in one of them, a folding table beside him piled with food and drink.

  ‘Welcome to your very own grotto,’ he says, standing up and raising his glass – his white smile outshining all the lights. ‘Drink?’ he offers, pulling a bottle of prosecco from a cool box.

  Mel’s hands come up over her mouth as she takes it all in, letting out an incredulous laugh. ‘Yes, yes, I would like a drink very much,’ she splutters from behind her hands, quite unable to believe what she’s seeing – that someone has done all this for her.

  Twenty-Nine

  ‘Seriously, I can’t believe you’ve gone to all this trouble,’ Mel says, taking the plastic flute. She laughs, looking around. ‘It’s absolutely magical. Perfect, in fact. But you know I’ve got a guest staying in the hotel and—’

  ‘Melanie Douglas, you have one guest staying at the hotel, not an entire coach party. And a few locals at the bar who, if needed, can serve their own beer and write it on their tab. Nikki is very capable and can handle things by herself for a few hours. And she’s very good at secrets, you know.’

  ‘Secrets?’ Mel asks, suddenly reminded of what Kate said about Miss Sarah. She sits down beside the fire. ‘You mean, she was in on this?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, tapping the side of his nose. ‘I said I was cooking you dinner tonight, and that’s what I’m going to do. It’s hardly…’ Tom hesitates, clearing his throat and pushing up his shirtsleeves. ‘Well, it’s hardly romantic sitting in a catering kitchen with a hot and sweaty Rose fussing about, is it?’

  Mel raises her eyebrows – unsure if it’s from appreciation or fear at his use of the word ‘romantic’. No one has ever done anything like this for her in her entire life. She shudders.

  ‘Are you cold?’ Tom says. ‘I brought blankets in case it gets chilly later. But with the fire, it should be toasty for a while yet.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine. And thank you,’ she says, taking an olive from the pot Tom offers her. ‘This is all lovely and very unexpected.’ She glances around the canopy of trees. ‘Nice touch with the candles and lights,’ she says, admiring the strings twinkling in the greenery. ‘If I had known, I would have dressed up a bit,’ she adds, grateful at least for the bit of make-up she bothered with.

  ‘I think you look perfect,’ Tom replies in a voice that does something to Mel’s insides. ‘Your T-shirt is…’ Tom pulls a face then, his eyes flicking down to her front.

  Mel peers down at it too, remembering
when Billy gave it to her. She should really have thrown it away, but she’d got so few clothes to wear, and it was something to put on, at least, so it had just stayed in her drawer.

  ‘“Hands off”,’ Tom reads as he leans forward to add more charcoal to the fire. ‘Understood, Miss Douglas,’ he says, raising his eyebrows above a wry smile.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want a job as a chef?’ Mel says, peeling the shell off her fourth huge prawn. ‘Whatever you’ve marinated these in, they’re delicious.’

  ‘Surf and turf barbecue nights for the guests, do you think?’ Tom says, turning over a steak on the grill. ‘Do help yourself to more salad.’

  Mel nods, licking her fingers. She uses the tongs to grab more leaves from the Tupperware tub. Tom has thought of everything – right down to the condiments and napkins.

  ‘One medium-rare steak, madam,’ he says, putting the fillet on her plate. ‘It’s from the local butcher and will melt in your mouth.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mel says, tucking in.

  Tom tops up her drink and settles back in his chair with his plate balanced on his knee. He picks up a prawn and deftly pulls off its shell, tossing the remains in the fire.

  ‘I’m sorry about Nige and the hose,’ he says. ‘He was out of order with what he did. I had a word with him afterwards.’

  ‘It was just an accident,’ Mel says, glancing up from her plate. ‘Wasn’t it?’

  Tom gives her a look but doesn’t say anything.

  ‘I don’t think he liked me getting my own back, though. I thought he’d be able to take a joke.’

  ‘Nige is great with jokes as long as he’s not the butt of them,’ Tom replies. ‘Must run in the family.’

  ‘Family?’ Mel asks, sipping her wine.

  ‘Nige is Donald Bray’s nephew. His mum, Jean is… rather was… Bray’s sister. She passed away a couple of years ago. Cancer.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ Mel says, trying to get the connection straight. ‘So… Nige is Joyce’s partner’s nephew?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘I think I had a run-in with Donald in the newsagent the other day.’

  ‘Did he smell of pig muck?’ Tom asks, laughing. ‘And have “Love” and “Hate” tattooed on his knuckles? All the Bray men have it.’

  ‘Yes, he certainly smelt of something,’ Mel replies. ‘He was very rude. Virtually knocked me over. The shop lady said they call him Dirty Don. With good reason, it seems.’

  ‘That’s him,’ Tom says, peeling another prawn. ‘And believe me, the name fits.’

  ‘The more I know about him, the more unpleasant he sounds. Best avoided, I think. Does Nige get on with him?’

  ‘There was a bit of a falling-out between them when Joyce passed away. Nige hasn’t said much but the upshot is, both men were… or are, I should say… bitter.’

  ‘Bitter?’

  ‘I’m not one for gossip, Mel, but from what I’ve heard from Dad, Bray thought he had his feet well under the table here. Reckoned he’d get the lot when Joyce died. But he didn’t. He couldn’t get her to marry him, and she didn’t change her will.’

  ‘I see,’ Mel says, suddenly stopping chewing. ‘So Bray’s going to have a grudge against the person who has inherited Moreton Inn,’ she says, thinking out loud more than anything. She reminds herself to look online, to see if she can find a record of Joyce’s death and perhaps even get a copy of her will. It might be a lead.

  ‘I guess,’ Tom says, giving her a look, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘And that would be me,’ she whispers, remembering the angry look in Bray’s eyes. She wonders if Nige soaking her with the hose was such an accident after all.

  ‘So,’ Tom asks, ‘what did you do before you moved here?’

  As she eats, Mel tells him about her tiny flat above the fish and chip shop, Kate’s troubles at school and her job at The Cedars – as well as regaling him with tales of Josette.

  ‘She sounds like a nightmare on legs,’ Tom says. ‘You’re well out of there.’

  Mel nods as she cuts into her steak. But Donald Bray is still on her mind.

  ‘And what about Kate’s dad? Is he on the scene?’

  Mel stops chewing, knowing that if she swallows it, it won’t go down easily. But she can hardly spit out a mouthful of delicious food. So instead, she takes a large sip of prosecco to help it along.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Tom says with a laugh.

  ‘No. No, you don’t see at all,’ Mel replies sternly, dabbing her mouth and giving him a look. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound harsh. It’s a long story.’

  Tom glances at his watch and shrugs. ‘I’m going nowhere.’

  ‘The short version is, he was in prison. And… and now he’s not.’ Mel knocks back half of her drink. ‘He adores Kate, so he’ll want to see her. Actually, more than that. He’ll want to take her. I know my ex. Thankfully, he doesn’t know where we are.’ Yet, Mel thinks.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Tom says. ‘So that’s why you came here? To escape?’

  ‘Not on purpose,’ Mel says, eating more steak. ‘Inheriting this place was a happy accident. Almost as if… as if someone has my back. Yet I don’t know who. It’s driving me crazy not knowing, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Your mystery benefactor.’ Tom looks at her in that way again.

  Mel nods, her smile falling away as she remembers Michael’s words. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of a large fortune… He may have been joking about her sour expression at the time, and she knows he changed the words, but just add …is easy prey at the end and it could easily apply right now with Tom.

  Tom has flirted with her since he found out she was the new owner. And now this lavish spread – all the trouble he’s gone to, despite her saying she couldn’t have dinner with him tonight. On top of all that, she’s basically just told him how vulnerable she is. How could she be so gullible, so stupid?

  ‘Anyway, I’m determined to find out who’s behind it,’ Mel continues, trying to rein in her thoughts. ‘I don’t have any family, you see. No one to inherit from.’ She just wants to finish her food and leave as soon as seems polite.

  ‘I’m absolutely stuffed,’ she says ten minutes later. ‘That was delicious, thank you so much, Tom.’ Mel clears up the empty plates and other utensils and stacks them back in the crate Tom’s brought everything in. ‘Would you like a hand taking these to your car?’

  ‘But we’ve not finished this yet,’ he says, holding up the bottle. ‘Besides, I didn’t bring the car,’ he adds with a wink and a smile.

  The way he says it, the look he gives her, has Mel’s heart thumping. But the prosecco winding through her veins, relaxing her, has her sitting down again. Sharing one more drink surely can’t hurt? It’s not as though he’s just proposed.

  ‘Sure, go on then,’ she says, holding out her glass as he pours.

  ‘So how come you don’t have any extended family?’ Tom says, adding a few twigs to the firepit. ‘You seem like this really strong, together woman, yet…’ He sips his wine, the flickering light of the flames reflecting in his eyes. ‘Yet I sense another side to you, too.’

  Mel half snorts, half laughs, smiling as she looks at him – his strong jaw accented in the candlelight, his kind eyes watching her – and, against her better judgement and everything she’s been so vehement about these last few years, Mel feels something loosen inside. As if it might just be safe to open the door a little, to let Tom inside. Or, she wonders, allow a part of herself out.

  ‘A train?’ Tom says, shaking his head fifteen minutes later when Mel has recounted the story – or at least what she knows of it.

  ‘Arriving Birmingham New Street station at 10.24 a.m., apparently.’

  ‘That’s crazy. I’m so sorry that happened to you, Mel.’

  Mel shrugs. ‘One of the cleaners found me, swaddled in a blanket and packed in a zip-up holdall like left luggage on the rack. She was called Melanie – hence my name. They let her choo
se my last name, too. No idea why she picked Douglas. Someone at the hospital wrote a letter explaining it all. It got passed around with me as a kid. Foster parents, children’s homes – me and my few belongings got shifted around so often, I thought it was normal.’

  ‘What kind of person would abandon a newborn baby on a train, for God’s sake?’ Tom says, opening another bottle of prosecco. ‘Think this calls for it.’

  ‘My mother?’ she says with a wry laugh. ‘She must have had her reasons, but I just can’t fathom a good enough one, especially since I’ve had Kate.’ Mel takes a sip of her topped-up drink, raising her glass at Tom. She feels more relaxed than she has in a long time, despite her earlier reservations. He’s not Billy, she keeps reminding herself.

  ‘Everything’s gone through my mind over the years – that maybe she was very young, had no money, was addicted to drugs or alcohol, she was raped or abused, or I was an accident and she simply didn’t want me. You hear of women getting pregnant who don’t realise it until they give birth, and I wondered if that was the case. That the shock drove her to do something out of character. Or perhaps she already had a hundred children and couldn’t cope. Or maybe she was ill, and—’

  ‘Mel,’ Tom says, reaching across the small gap between their two chairs and touching her wrist. ‘Maybe you don’t have to find a reason. Have you thought what it would change if you had answers? Do you want to find her?’

  ‘Hell, no!’ Mel says. ‘Not a chance.’ She looks down at her hand. Somehow, his fingers have wound between hers. It feels good and terrifying at the same time.

  ‘Then maybe it’s time to let go of the questions. Because perhaps there simply aren’t any answers.’