by Lynda Stacey
Angrily, Molly stood her ground. ‘Okay, Beth, that’s fine. Go to Gran’s.’ She watched the smug look cross Beth’s face. Tried to decide how to continue and felt her breathing quicken. She knew that whatever she did or said, it’d be wrong. But she also realised that allowing Beth to begin sleeping out whenever she liked was the first step to her moving out altogether. ‘You have a perfectly good bedroom here. One that I’ve just finished decorating for you. So, I’ll be there by nine to bring you home and you will be outside, ready and waiting.’ Her words were firm. Her voice much calmer than she felt. All the time, refusing to look in Beth’s direction until once again, the door was opened, slammed shut behind her.
‘I am so sorry. I’d like to say that she isn’t normally like that and that you caught her on a bad day, but I’d probably be lying.’ Feeling embarrassed by Beth’s actions, she pushed the bar stool under the counter, took a deliberate step backwards, kept a distance between her and Niall. ‘It’s… it’s time I got ready for work.’ She padded across to the front door, pushed her feet into the sheep slippers no longer caring if her feet looked stupid, all the time watching the front door, fully expecting Beth to burst back through it. ‘Can’t go in looking like this, can I?’ She pulled at her jumper, glanced up to see his face change, the soft lines around his eyes grow stern, almost sad.
‘Right.’ Picking up the mug, he took a final slurp, moved close, until she could feel his breath drift across her face. ‘So, you’re attracted to me, are you?’ He nodded, wrinkled his nose. ‘I’ll take that.’
Stunned, Molly stepped back. ‘I didn’t say that…’ Feeling her cheeks flood with colour, she pulled open the cupboard under the stairs, unhooked his jacket from the peg, passed it to him.
‘Oh yes you did, a few minutes ago and I quote, “Just you wait till you’re attracted to someone. My God, will I have fun reminding you of this moment.” You can’t deny it, can you?’ He used his hands to air quote the words, gave her a killer smile, took the jacket from her, opened the door and stood, looking out.
Molly felt herself blush and stepped into the doorway. The sound of Dillon howling broke the tension and she felt herself begin to laugh. ‘Sounds like he wants you.’
He tipped his head to one side. ‘Can’t say I blame him, at least someone does.’ He pressed his lips together, looked hopeful of a response. ‘And Molly, I’d still love to get my hands to work on…’ he paused mischievously wiggled in fingers around in the air, ‘your garden?’ he finally added.
30
Charlie O’Connor swerved the borrowed van into the gravel at the side of the road, climbed out, lifted the hood, and pretended to check the engine, while his gaze was firmly fixed on the farmhouse that stood in the distance.
Even though he’d been a regular visitor at the farm many years before, it was the first time he’d seen it since leaving prison. Yet the place still looked the same, as though time had stood still, and he stared open-mouthed at the bright red tractor that still stood by the gate, like an ornament that no one had moved from that day to this. It was surrounded by a brood of chickens and ducks that roamed freely around the yard. A yard that was full of outbuildings and stables. All overshadowed by a giant oak that he remembered so well. Laughing, he noticed the swing tyre that still hung from a long overhanging branch. It swung freely next to an old ornamental telephone box, its dulled red frame taking pride of place in the corner of the yard. It was the last thing Henry would see each day as he went through the gate and had become a long-standing joke within the family that Rose had had it placed there as a reminder to Henry that he should phone her, at least once a day, while out tending his sheep.
Surprisingly, he realised just how many memories this house held for him. It had been a time when he’d had a family, a wife, daughters. A time when he’d been welcome to sit for hours in front of that big, old inglenook. The humungous settees he’d happily lie on, a child sat on each side of him, cuddling in as he read them a book or sat on the veranda in the heat of the summer, drinking fresh lemonade, watching his girl swing back and forth on that very same tyre, her contagious giggle ringing out for all to hear.
Noticing the patio door swing open, he dipped his head to one side. While keeping himself out of view, he watched as a woman wearing a long skirt, apron and headscarf emerged.
‘My God, Rose. Is that you?’ He nodded appreciatively. ‘You always were a good-looking, eccentric old bugger.’ He laughed as he spoke, watched her move slowly around the yard, to pick up a basket of clothes, which she tucked neatly under one arm. It was an act he’d watched her do a hundred times before, but today she was hampered by a liver and white spaniel pup that ran in circles around her ankles, chased chickens and comically jumped up and over bales of straw. An older black and white sheepdog sat to the side of the yard, in the shade of the oak tree, calmly looking on.
‘You always were surrounded by those damned animals, Rose.’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing’s changed, has it?’ Pulling the dipstick out from the engine, he pretended to check it. ‘You’re still laundering everyone’s secrets. Making sure my girl thinks I’m a first class nobody.’ He paused, cursed. ‘I know you had a hand in keeping her away from me. Well, I’ve got news for you.’ He gave a half smile, curled his lip. ‘I’m back and it’s been a long time coming, but this time, she’s gonna hear the truth.’
Smirking, he cast his gaze beyond the farmyard. To a flat back truck that meandered across the field and the small flock of sheep that ran closely behind, with their noses in the air, following the food. As the van stopped, the old man climbed out, studied his surroundings, stared longingly back at the house and then down at another old sheepdog who moved slowly, following instructions and keeping a beady eye on its owner as a mixture of hay bales and silage were unloaded, spread loosely along the ground for the animals who eagerly followed. Standing back, Henry stood tall with one hand flat, held across his brow, shielding his eyes as he looked across the field, and towards the road.
Nodding, Charlie’s eyes followed the line of Henry’s gaze. ‘Who are you looking for, old man? My girl?’ He moved slowly around the van, checked his watch and hid his face from view as a vehicle drove past, slowed down and dropped its window, the driver leaning across the passenger seat to catch his attention.
‘You okay there, buddy?’
‘Sure, I’m fine. All fixed. Thanks.’ Desperate not to be seen, Charlie pulled the collar of his old brown leather jacket up, lifted a hand, dropped the hood, hurriedly climbed back in the driver’s seat and kept his gaze down. Waiting a few minutes, Charlie eventually looked back up, found himself searching the fields, looking for the flat back and eventually noticed it had pulled up in the yard. Henry had climbed out and was now shuffling across the yard, where he picked up a bucket and dipped his hand in and out to throw the contents across the gravel and into a coop, where the chickens obediently followed.
Putting the van into gear, Charlie reversed until he came to a stop further along the road. He knew Henry had been looking for something, which in itself wasn’t unnatural. It was something he always did. But if his information today had been correct, Charlie knew he’d be looking for Beth and, with his phone in his hand, he checked his rear-view mirror.
‘Where is she?’ he growled down the phone. ‘You said she’d be here.’
‘I’m not her keeper Charlie, all I can tell you is what she tells me.’ Jackson’s voice was distant, barely a whisper, overpowered by the sound of the waves, the shouting of others on the beach beside him. ‘Besides, if you’d wanted to talk to her so badly, why didn’t you do it at the bungalow? You were right there, in the next room.’
Annoyed, Charlie checked his mirrors, watched every car that went by, just in case Beth had missed the bus and caught a lift. ‘Don’t be clever. I know I could have seen her at the house. But then they’d know, wouldn’t they, they’d know how close I was, how easily I could see them come and go, how I knew their every move.’ Smiling, he watched the school
bus pull up to a stop. Four teenagers disembarked. One headed in the opposite direction, two walked closely together and the last headed across the road and straight towards the farm. ‘Gotcha,’ he whispered and he felt his chest swell with pride; his eyes grew wide. ‘There she is. That’s my girl.’ He squinted, took a closer look. ‘She’s here. Now, I don’t care how you do it, but you need to make sure she’s outside the farmhouse, half past eight, tonight.’
Dropping the phone down heavily on the dashboard, he felt a pang of jealousy hit him in the gut like a punch as she walked straight to the old man, the look of love and happiness all over her face as she fell into his hug and kissed him on the cheek. The sheer act made Charlie’s temper boil. ‘It should be me,’ he growled. ‘It should be me you hug when you get home from school. Not him. Not the old man.’ Again, he leaned forward, glared in her direction, watched every movement. Then, as his mood softened, he found himself smiling at the simple act of her placing her school bag on the ground while she ruffled the older dog’s ears, and then knelt down to make a fuss of the puppy, which had launched itself at her school bag, grabbed the handle and had begun tugging and chewing, while its whole body bent back and forth with excitement.
Watching her laugh, Charlie laughed with her, felt his heart leap with pride. ‘You look like her, do you know that?’ he whispered. He could see her mother’s eyes, the shape of her lips, even the colour of her hair. ‘You’re her bloody duplicate. You are.’ It was a mixed emotion, a feeling he hated just about as much as he loved it and with the narrowing of his eyes, he tipped his head to one side. ‘So, why do you look like him too?’ he growled, felt his heart thump angrily in his chest as he took one last look at the farmhouse. ‘If I find out…’ He nodded, shook away the thought, knew there was a more important job in hand. ‘There’s something I need back, something I want and you… whether you like it or not, you’re going to help me find it.’
31
‘What the hell…’ Molly thrust herself out of the car and didn’t feel her feet touch the ground until she reached the gate, where she stared in disbelief at Dan who stood, shovel in hand, looking just a little more than pleased with himself. He leaned back against the house, pressed his tongue firmly between his lips and tried not to laugh.
‘Sorry, but I kinda feel a bit busted,’ he finally said, dropped the shovel, held his hands up as though in surrender.
Overwhelmed, Molly held onto the gate, tried to work out how much topsoil, timber and aggregate lay all over her garden. Why a section of her lawn had been divided up by small posts and ropes and where the shed had seemingly disappeared, along with the paving slabs it had stood on.
‘Seriously, Dan. What the hell are you doing?’ Her hand swept outwards as she tried to encompass the whole garden all at once. ‘You’re not a gardener. In fact, you hate gardening.’ She thought of the small garden at his own house, the slabs he’d had delivered over a year before and his inability to find the drive or motivation to lay them.
Walking confidently towards her, he gave her a cheeky but apologetic look. ‘Come on, you’re not mad at me, are you?’ Taking her arm in his, he spun her around, pressed his fingers into the flesh. ‘I’ve worked really hard. Beth said you wanted the garden done and after the way you went on about it the other day, I kind of thought she was right. I did it to make you happy, I thought you’d be pleased. Or was that when you thought lover boy over the road was going to do it?’ Flaring his nostrils, he looked her straight in the eye, tipped his head cockily.
Shaking her arm free, she squeezed her hand into a fist. ‘Do you know what, Dan? I wouldn’t call my mood either pleased or happy, I’d call it shocked, or, or… angry, yes, angry. I mean… happy… that might come later, but right now I’m pretty well pissed off, because not only have you done this without asking me, I’ve got absolutely no way of paying for it.’ She took a step back, glanced across at Niall’s garden where she could hear the normal banter of his workmen and closed her eyes for a second, considered his feelings. He had wanted the job, he’d mentioned it on more than one occasion, yet never would he have done what Dan did and started work without permission. And now, now he’d think she’d taken an alternative offer, paid someone else to do the work, hence turning his offer and expertise down.
Stamping past Dan at speed, she walked around the house, to where another man knelt, painting the shed. ‘Oh my God.’ She studied its new position. Hated herself for liking it. She took deep, measured breaths as she saw that the slabs had been re-laid. The shed’s roof was now covered in new bitumen shingles, the broken window had been repaired with a new polycarbonate sheet in place of the old one. Its timber had been painted a soft sage green that blended perfectly with the existing trees and bushes, all of which had been pruned. ‘Jesus Christ, Dan, you’ve hit an all-time low… doesn’t he work for Niall?’
‘’Course he does, but he kind of owes me a favour or two… and it was time to pay me back.’ He patted the man on the back, ‘Wasn’t it, Grant?’
Confused, Molly stepped back. She didn’t like the bravado. Didn’t understand why Dan would pull in favours, not from former convicts. The thought made her uneasy, suspicious. ‘So…’ She glanced across at Niall’s house. Saw another van pull up outside. ‘You stole his staff and brought them here, to work under his nose in my garden?’
Dan laughed, cocked his head from side to side. ‘Well, if you put it like that. Yes. But come on, Moll, I only stole one of them. I could have pulled in favours from all the others too, but your neighbour… well, he didn’t look too pleased.’
Keeping her face averted, Molly moved slowly around in a circle. Rolled her eyes upward. Saw Niall, wheelbarrow in hand, filling it with gravel, before stamping off down his drive. Only a few seconds later, the sound of the gravel being tipped filled the air.
‘And Dan, what the hell are all the railway sleepers for?’ She counted the sleepers, tried to calculate what they might have cost, didn’t know where to start. She just knew that deliveries on this scale had been thought about, planned, didn’t know or understand why Dan would do that. Not without asking her first.
Proudly, Dan pointed. ‘It was you that mentioned them, the other day. Said you wanted them along the cliff edge to form raised beds.’ He forcibly grabbed her hand, began walking towards the cliff. ‘They’ll be as good as a wall, when I get the chance to move them. What was it your friend over there suggested, a natural barrier between you and the cliff, to stop anyone going over the edge?’ He began to laugh. ‘You know what I’m like, Moll. I’ve never had a good idea in my life, but I’ve stolen plenty of them.’
Molly nodded. She felt her temper increase – all the suggestions had been Niall’s. It had been him that had thought about moving the shed. That the greenhouse needed more shade. The raised beds to form barriers. They’d all been his ideas, ones that Dan had taken onboard, decided that it was his job to do them. Turning, she took in a deep breath, then walked away. She needed some space. Tried to decide whether Dan had genuinely been trying to help. Or just making sure that Niall couldn’t? Wondered how much Beth had said to him. After all, she’d made it more than clear that she didn’t want Niall around, that her allegiance was with solely with Dan. Well, it was about time Beth heard the truth, about time she knew that Dan wasn’t quite the man she’d thought, that once again a grown up in her life had let her down and with that in mind, Molly wondered how on earth she was going to get Beth to trust or like Niall. For her, the attraction between them was real and for the first time in what felt like a very long time, she felt an emotion pass through her that wasn’t grief. And if that morning had been anything to go by, Niall had felt it too.
Walking pitifully across the garden, Dan stopped in front of Grant. Shoulders slumped. His gesticulating hand signals told her he wasn’t pleased, and she closed her eyes, wondering how ungrateful she looked. How nasty and cruel she was for throwing his good nature right back in his face.
‘Dan, look. I’m sorry. I know you
meant well, but you can’t do this. You just can’t turn up, do what you want, it isn’t your house.’ She gave him a genuine, almost apologetic smile. ‘And now, now I have to make it right, you need to tell me what it cost, and I’ll give you the money.’ She looked down at the floor, avoided the look on his face, tried to work out what cost would be behind all the aggregate, the sleepers, could already feel her mum’s money disappearing with the tide.
‘How about we talk about it?’ he asked with a huge grin. Pulled her into a hug. ‘’Cause I know you’ll love it, just as soon as you get used to it.’ He leaned back, caught her eye, and uneasily, Molly moved her gaze. She knew full well that in any other universe, she and Dan could have been happy, that everyone had thought them to be the perfect couple and that at one time him turning up and doing something on this scale really wouldn’t have bothered her.
Feeling exasperated, she realised all too late that too much had happened and although the hug was welcome, the feeling had gone, the love had gone and now, only a tiny thread of friendship remained.
‘I’m gonna put the kettle on,’ she said, took a step backwards, rubbed her eyes. Didn’t notice Niall, who once again stood by his gate, wheelbarrow in hand, carefully watching the interlude.
32
Taking her time and allowing herself one last look at each photograph, Beth began to put them back into the boxes. She’d sat for the whole evening looking through them, reminiscing, smiling at each before passing them on to her gran, who in turn would pass each one to her grandad. It was like a conveyor belt of pictures, being slowly transported from one hand to the other, before stopping abruptly as her grandad dropped them, upside down, into a pile on the settee beside him. The pile of pictures had messed up her mother’s filing system, which had previously had all photos in categories defined by the year in which they were taken, and each year had its own small, unique, hand-crafted box, made to size depending on how many pictures belonged to that year. Laughing, Beth found amusement in her school photographs, which had been placed at the front of each year’s box, the traditional ‘first and last’ days of school, each pair paperclipped together with the year and name of school written on the back in pencil. ‘Do you see,’ she asked her gran, ‘how on the first photo of each year our uniforms drown us, but by the end we’d almost always grown out of them.’