Книга - It Started With A Note: A brand-new uplifting read of love and new adventures for 2018!

It Started With A Note: A brand-new uplifting read of love and new adventures for 2018!
Victoria Cooke


‘An unputdownable read’ – Rachel Burton on Who Needs Men Anyway?One lost letter. A chance to change her life!Superhero single mum Cath always puts other people first. But now that she’s seen her son safely off to university (phew!), life seems a little, well…empty. So when Cath unexpectedly discovers some letters written by her great-grandfather during the First World War, she decides to take herself on an adventure to France to retrace his footsteps. Cath expects to spend her holiday visiting famous battlefields and testing out her French phrase book. What she doesn’t anticipate is that her tour guide, the handsome Olivier, will be quite so charming! Soon Cath isn’t simply unearthing the stories of the past – she’s writing a brand new one of her own, which might end up taking her in a very unexpected direction…Bestselling author Victoria Cooke is back with another hilarious, romantic, and heart-warming read, perfect for fans of Lucy Coleman, Sue Moorcroft and Jo Watson.Readers love Victoria Cooke:‘What an amazing author. A breath of fresh air to the literary world. ‘‘I will look forward to other books by this author and would definitely recommend reading this book, just brilliant!’‘I loved this book! It gripped me from the start, so much so that I read it in one sitting…and was sad that it ended !! ‘‘Definitely looking forward to reading more from this author.’‘Please get writing some more books Victoria!’









About the Author (#u4e7c981e-bfda-506d-8a8e-c7f5f06883e6)


VICTORIA COOKE grew up in the city of Manchester before crossing the Pennines in pursuit of her career in education. She now lives in Huddersfield with her husband and two young daughters. When she’s not at home writing by the fire with a cup of coffee in hand, she loves working out in the gym and travelling. Victoria has always had a passion for reading and writing, undertaking several writers’ courses before completing her first novel in 2016.




Praise for Victoria Cooke (#u4e7c981e-bfda-506d-8a8e-c7f5f06883e6)


‘Funny and poignant with a gloriously realistic cast of characters. I followed Charlotte’s journey avidly, cheering her on all the way. An unputdownable read’

Rachel Burton, author of The Many Colours of Us

‘Buy this book now and read it!’

Rachel’s Random Reads

‘A truly fantastic read, I couldn’t put it down’

Jessica Bell




Also by Victoria Cooke (#u4e7c981e-bfda-506d-8a8e-c7f5f06883e6)


The Secret to Falling in Love

The Holiday Cruise

Who Needs Men Anyway?




It Started with a Note

VICTORIA COOKE








HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Victoria Cooke 2018

Victoria Cooke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © December 2018 ISBN: 9780008310257

Version: 2018-11-19


Table of Contents

Cover (#uf0559c4e-a67c-5d3a-a776-36df42d1b555)

About the Author (#u4112b37b-7070-59ab-9139-831dcbefbb4e)

Praise for Victoria Cooke (#u114f7c0b-3684-5274-b519-2f8e318bb887)

Also by Victoria Cooke (#u813ab444-780d-50c0-8a49-d37a40eb4cf6)

Title Page (#u7d92340b-3d42-52d5-b4d3-da77d1d6ef43)

Copyright (#u7e146f5a-9c04-50b6-ad55-b73a2ab9578d)

Dedication (#ua0708c0d-3db6-56e9-851c-a565865cc940)



Epigraph (#u54045c79-ff3c-58d4-b649-343b7d378d4d)



Chapter One (#u6f11de57-fafc-52fc-868f-b92c95ec9d3e)



Chapter Two (#u43c3855e-cf1e-5570-afee-c21480ecf878)



Chapter Three (#ud5b97c7e-91ce-5d29-af14-c68c7ce58066)



Chapter Four (#udb3033bb-82e4-56d0-a6c2-799ed0572ad3)



Chapter Five (#ud8a3f146-34c4-52f7-a778-637eabfcaa75)



Chapter Six (#ud4f200b0-f3ee-5aea-8e85-4a733a88d6c8)



Chapter Seven (#u7d8f8332-82a4-5d24-adeb-d95dd490d711)



Chapter Eight (#ud75ed9a5-626d-594b-90f7-29fab6309f42)



Chapter Nine (#ubcef50c7-4958-59eb-b372-dd4a05210242)



Chapter Ten (#ucd94f536-202a-5383-993e-197d9346dcf0)



Chapter Eleven (#u3a190a9d-f0c4-56bd-a3e6-b3fcc2c87125)



Chapter Twelve (#u7baa11f1-23f7-5738-9cf1-321b3b3654a0)



Chapter Thirteen (#ud0f463b3-d6dd-53e8-ab8d-a5bc5b83e41f)



Chapter Fourteen (#ua83dcebb-8542-5388-9b21-634375484083)



Chapter Fifteen (#u501bdd07-dfde-5e28-8bac-d1cd28298bf8)



Chapter Sixteen (#u66dd612f-3697-5e91-af12-24e6c02ba181)



Chapter Seventeen (#u72481066-7cd3-503e-86a9-35ed192b6fdd)



Chapter Eighteen (#u155db9ea-baf3-5507-8d42-e64ba4433f7c)



Chapter Nineteen (#ua8632a18-9800-5bf5-96e5-ab04b6b4e502)



Chapter Twenty (#ue15fd7e2-d947-5834-991c-26e2dd9ae52f)



Chapter Twenty-One (#uf805462c-27a4-50f6-8007-695b5feaa7b5)



Chapter Twenty-Two (#ud3b083f8-3219-5d83-8d30-c8c27fc3f3c8)



Chapter Twenty-Three (#u3adfc81c-da34-5ba7-a5ec-4aa8985b58d0)



Chapter Twenty-Four (#u9100b35f-0965-58aa-9d70-8850b9aed36d)



Chapter Twenty-Five (#ue9ff94ff-dc3d-5782-9485-31c6027b87ee)



Chapter Twenty-Six (#u00c3e8e8-78e3-5b3c-a2fd-7813dc8d8aa1)



Chapter Twenty-Seven (#ud898d1df-57a0-5035-ba26-bd600c9a572c)



Chapter Twenty-Eight (#u564523e4-9dd6-5437-a1b8-a01bec80b8d6)



Chapter Twenty-Nine (#udf158698-a445-5a93-b2b9-078ced5538a0)



Chapter Thirty (#u6898be1f-a7fd-516e-9f6b-5e7ecc7615a2)



Chapter Thirty-One (#u3b5ced2b-ff2a-558b-82c1-5e873bb98f35)



Chapter Thirty-Two (#uc61a1043-e21d-5c61-93da-0b11c8d3920d)



Chapter Thirty-Three (#u9545577b-86a5-529b-896f-e1233eb7ba42)



Chapter Thirty-Four (#uea5a996c-9b49-5ae2-93e3-0db83733a36e)



Chapter Thirty-Five (#ubd1cae3f-9925-5185-9d0a-319f0a2fe9dc)



Chapter Thirty-Six (#uccf1cfd2-9916-5258-85da-b82b73f1e3e3)



One Year Later … (#uc9cc10f8-76fe-581b-90d9-f2617b787f4d)



Acknowledgements (#u4a6221ae-1471-5f30-b9db-40b70d8d279d)



Extract (#u31ee25eb-cb3d-56e1-bebd-9091cb0670e8)

Dear Reader (#ueec31e65-0ff0-52ba-839a-9073885d2450)

Thank You for Reading! (#uf7081ae9-63cb-597c-ba05-cf39b2a92a38)

Keep Reading… (#ub47fe429-5835-55be-a35c-9bda9115a44a)



About the Publisher (#u5206f621-9492-5785-85a0-6989c8df8427)


For my great-grandfather, Private Thomas Edward Fitton, who served with the 1st Battalion in the Borders Regiment and was killed in action on 1/7/1916 in the Somme Valley aged 24.

And, my grandmother Rose (his daughter) who was six years old when he was taken from her by the Great War. She became a much-loved grandmother who always had time for her grandchildren.

***

In loving memory of my grandad, Kenneth Taylor Cooke, (1926–2018) a Second World War Royal Marine, spared from fighting the Japanese in the Pacific as the war ended during his training. Grandad is remembered for his bravery, patience, kindness, generosity and love.




Rain (#ulink_d3bf4efd-ca21-5915-9b85-dbf17659e599)


Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain

On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me

Remembering again that I shall die

And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks

For washing me cleaner than I have been

Since I was born into this solitude.

Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:

But here I pray that none whom once I loved

Is dying to-night or lying still awake

Solitary, listening to the rain,

Either in pain or thus in sympathy

Helpless among the living and the dead,

Like a cold water among broken reeds,

Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,

Like me who have no love which this wild rain

Has not dissolved except the love of death,

If love it be towards what is perfect and

Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.

Edward Thomas, 1916




Chapter One (#ulink_bc6867ed-5256-5dbf-b92c-e55673613049)


I clutch the envelope tightly to my chest – so tightly, in fact, my nails tear into the crumpled paper, which has been softened by my sweaty palm and the relentless downpour. I release my grip slightly. It’s too precious to damage, but I’m so scared of losing it. I feel like one of those mad scientists in a James Bond film who has developed a mini nuclear warhead and has to transport it somewhere with the utmost care to avoid detonating it at the wrong time. I’m not sure comparing myself to a villain is wholly accurate, though. Perhaps I should have laid it on a velvet pillow or something, like a prince carrying a glass slipper. Yes, that’s better – a prince, not a villain. A princess? I shouldn’t be in charge of something like this.

As I scurry down the high street, the eyes of passers-by rouse suspicion. Do they know what I have? Are they after me? I walk faster, heart pounding. It’s difficult because my bloody shoes are killing me. Pleather. Man-made leather. Plastic-leather pleather sandals – a bargain at £12.99, but seriously, I’ve already spent double that on plasters for all the blisters they’ve given me.

The quicker I walk, the harder my bag-for-life bashes into my legs. Dented tins of peas, beans, stew and whatever else I’d salvaged from the ‘whoops’ shelf after work all unleash their fury on my shins. It isn’t uncommon for certain staff members to accidentally-on-purpose cause a few whoopsies themselves. Not me, of course; it’s a sackable offence and I can’t risk losing my job since I’m the sole breadwinner in our house and my baby boy has just gone off to university so I need every penny.

Thirty-seven years old and I’ve already packed my Kieran off to university while most of my friends are waving their kids off to high school. It makes me feel so old. When I looked that handsome six-foot-two beanpole in the eye and kissed him goodbye, I blubbed like a baby. He was still my little boy, even if I had to stand on my tiptoes to get close enough to grab his cheek. Of course, he’d just grunted and wiped the residue of tears, snot and my kisses off on his sleeve almost instantly. Boys. He’s turning into his uncle Gary.

I’m still scurrying, every step causing me to wince in pain. Bag-for-life. Bash. Sandals. Chafe. And so continues the pattern as I dash through the town centre towards the bus station. Rain is forecast, thunderous downpours no less – an amber weather warning had been issued by that gorgeous weatherman, David Whatshisface, on the TV. He could make any weather seem bright and cheery. I’d weather his storm. I chuckle to myself, not even sure if that would even make sense to anyone other than me.

A deafening roar rips through the sky. Uh-oh. I try walking even quicker. Bash, chafe, bash, chafe. I don’t have a brolly, though I know they’re unwise in a thunderstorm anyway – David said so. I can see the bus station in the distance all lit up in the dusky evening like a heavenly portal to refuge. Just one busy road, several passers-by eyeing me (I’m still suspicious), and a plume of smoke from the smokers outside the pub to negotiate and I’ll be home and dry, literally.

Just as I allow myself to dream of being home, the heavens open. Of course they do. They couldn’t have waited just five more minutes – where would be the fun in that? The rain is so heavy it soaks through to my skin almost instantly. My denim jacket is leaden with liquid and the nylon of my uniform is soaked. I’m cold and sticky and my feet are squishing about in my sandals, squelching with every step. The envelope is getting quite soggy now so I stuff it into my handbag and tuck my bag tightly under my armpit for safety.

I slow my pace, unable to keep it up because my mascara and foundation have run straight into my eyes, partially blinding me. I wipe them with the back of my hand and notice it’s streaky black when I pull it away. I must look a sight. I’ve reached the road and the cars are coming thick and fast. Headlights, taillights, headlights, taillights. Gap. I make a dash for it, landing in a huge puddle by the kerb as I do. Brown water droplets dribble down my American Tan tights. Why didn’t I wear trousers? David promised rain!

I make it across the road and begin negotiating the shrunken smoke plume, which is now concentrated to the little canopy above the door. My task is made all the more difficult by the next torrent of foundation and mascara liquid streaming down my face. The smoke makes me cough and splutter and I’m flapping my arms about as best I can with a one-ton carrier bag on my arm and a stiff denim jacket shrink-wrapping my body.

As I near the edge of the smoking circle, I bat the air one last time – one time too many for my so-called bag-for-life, which bursts open, spewing bargain tins aplenty all over the pavement. As I scan the devastation, I notice that the pesky little pokey thing you never quite know how to work has fallen off the corned beef tin. Typical.

I never swear.

Ever.

But if I did, Hells Angels would blush at the words I’d choose right now.

‘Cath, you idiot!’ I mumble instead.

A tatty-haired man bends down and starts to pick up the tins and I follow. Warmth in my chest grows from the seed of his kindness. He has a lit cigarette in his mouth and the smoke from it is so close and raw that it’s burning my nostrils, but he’s kind enough to help so I do my best to ignore it.

‘Thanks, love,’ I say, my voice thick with implied gratitude. He just nods and hands me four of the five tins he’s picked up. I look at him, confused, as he stuffs the corned beef in his pocket and shrugs. The rain is beating down still, pummelling into my bag, and I’m shaking with the cold. Or shock. Before I can organise my thoughts and string together a sentence of scorn, he’s stubbed out his cigarette and vanished back into the pub taking my tea with him. As my eyes sink to the ground, I spot the glinting little silver twisty thing off the corned beef tin, and it’s mildly satisfying to know he’ll never get to enjoy my tin of deliciously processed meat.

Striking corned beef hash off the menu tonight would be one more thing for Gary to moan about. Still, I have the envelope and no amount of whinging from my freeloading brother would change that. Hearing those words in my head makes me feel a little guilty. I’m supposed to be helping him, supporting him, but instead, I’m slowly losing my patience with him. I make it to the bus station and can see my bus has pulled in at stop number sixteen, which is right at the other end of the station, of course. I start running. I’m holding my shopping in two arms, cradling it like a precious baby so I don’t lose any more tins. Gary will have to have the stew.

Just as I approach stop fifteen, there is a miracle. My bus is still in! Thank God! I slow to a walking pace, panting – the smoke, the bus fumes and the fact I haven’t done any exercise since my last year eleven PE lesson all contributory factors.

Juggling my groceries, I stuff a hand into my bag, fumbling for my purse, which I locate quickly, and glance down at it to find some bus fare. The rumbling sound of the bus engine coming to life alerts me to the fact it’s about to leave. I have no choice but to barge past the people queuing at stop fifteen and pop my head and arm outside; I wouldn’t make stop sixteen. I’m waving frantically, balancing my precious tin baby in the other arm. ‘Please stop.’ The headlights get closer, but they’re gaining speed. Please stop. ‘Stop!’ I yell.

He doesn’t stop.

The next bus comes an hour later.




Chapter Two (#ulink_6c9f83c4-04d1-5ef1-9f44-861a1d2a1005)


When I finally arrive at the end of my road, I’m trembling, battered, and bruised, and all I’ve done is commute home from work.

The off-licence near the bus stop is open, and I have an idea to salvage the evening. My spirits are still high; I still have the envelope and I’m almost home. I plonk a bottle of cava on the counter and rummage in my purse for six pounds.

‘Celebrating tonight?’ Jim, the owner, asks.

‘Ooh, yes I am.’ I can’t help but grin. ‘But I can’t tell you why – I don’t want to jinx it.’ I smile and give a little shrug.

‘Well, whatever it is, you enjoy it, love.’ Jim smiles back. ‘How’s that brother of yours doing?’

I want to offload and explain how exasperated I’ve become with him, how he never helps around the house and has yet to find a job, but I find myself unable to. I don’t know if it’s embarrassment or loyalty, or a complete unwillingness to bore the lovely Jim to death with my woes.

‘He’s good,’ I say instead.

‘Glad things are working out.’ He smiles. ‘I told him he could have a few shifts here to tide him over, but he said he thought things were looking up.’

Oh, did he now? ‘Yes, apparently so,’ I say.

Jim smiles again and hands me my penny change, which I pop into the charity box by the till.

When I finally make it through the front door, relief embraces me, tighter than my shrink-wrapped jacket. I’d make tea, then pull out the envelope and ask Gary if he’d help me celebrate, we’d have the bubbly and then I’d run a nice hot bath, putting that awful journey home behind me. Perhaps I’d book a meal for us at the weekend, at that new pub in town. I could even ask Kieran to come over and make it a real family affair. It would cheer Gary up and I’d quite enjoy the company and change of scenery. I smile dreamily as Gary approaches me.

‘I’m goin’ down the pub,’ he mumbles, barging past me and causing a few tins from my precariously balanced bag-for-life to tumble to the floor.

My heart sinks. Gary always goes out for an evening drink, so it was silly to feel so deflated when tonight is no different. I should have expected it, and it wasn’t like he knew I had exciting news to share with him. I contemplate asking him to stay in but as I turn around, the front door slams shut in my face.

At least I could have a bath and then make tea in my own time; that was something. My feet sting as soon as the bloodied blisters hit the hot soapy water, but the rest of my body needs a soak just to warm up because apparently it would have killed Gary to pop the heating on. The house is like an igloo and will take a good few hours to warm up. As much as I love him, I could batter him with a cut-price baguette at times.

After my bath, I heat up the tin of stew and butter some bread, which has started to go a little hard. It isn’t mouldy thankfully, but bread never does seem to go mouldy anymore, which is a little odd come to think of it; I wonder what on earth goes into it nowadays. Still, this piece is okay – it just isn’t deliciously fresh. I could have brought some deliciously fresh bread home if Gary had managed to send a simple text message to let me know we needed some. I shake my head as I take a bite.

I’d taken pity on him after our mum died. It had hit us both hard as we never knew our father and she’d been both mum and dad to us. I was so close to Mum and she was always there for me and Kieran – so much so that I’d never felt like a single parent. Gary was close to her too and after she died, he’d sunk into depression. He’d already lost his girlfriend, and a year or so after Mum died he lost his job too, but two years have passed since she died and I shouldn’t need to be looking after him anymore. I’d let him move in about six months ago while he got himself back on his feet, but so far he’s not displayed any signs of getting a job and moving out, and he only uses his feet to walk to the pub.

I place my bowl and bread on the kitchen table and remember the bottle of cava in the fridge. Celebrating alone seems a little sad but what choice do I have? A little glass wouldn’t hurt, would it? One now, and perhaps Gary would have a glass with me when he got back from the pub, I reason. Maybe we could even have a chat about him moving out if he comes home in good spirits. The bottle is disappointingly warm despite having sat in the fridge for a good few hours. The blooming thing has two settings: frozen and lukewarm. I’ve asked Gary a million times to look at it for me or call someone out, but evidently, it’s been too much trouble for him.

Remembering how fast corks can pop, I take a tea towel from the drawer to catch it in; I’d seen someone do that before at a party. Placing the towel over the cork, I begin to push at it with my thumb as hard as I can. It isn’t budging so I place my hand over it, trying to ease it out, but the thing is stuck fast. I try my other hand: more wiggling, more pulling and even a twist here and there, but it is no good. I even hold the bottle with my thighs and try with both thumbs but it’s useless and my hands are red and sore. Resigned to the fact I won’t be having a glass of bubbly, I dump the bottle on the side and put the kettle on instead before sinking into the kitchen chair, where I cry.

I hate myself for it because I try so hard to be upbeat and positive, no matter how hard things get, but sometimes things pile up and the weight becomes too heavy to bear. It’s not just the fact I’ve had an awful journey home or that I lost my corned beef. It’s the fact that I’ve never complained about my life being samey and unadventurous in all the years that it has, but the one time I try to brave something new, the cork just won’t pop. I can’t help but wonder if it’s a sign from the gods to quit trying and just accept my fate. I let out a small humourless laugh through the tears before wiping my face and finishing making my tea.

The house is still and quiet but I’m not in the mood for watching TV. I miss grumpy Kieran barging through the door, hungry, as he always is. Like most teenagers, he spent much of his time in his room, but just knowing he was up there was a comfort. I could always make an excuse to pop in and see him, to offer him a drink or collect his dirty laundry and if he was ever out, I always knew he’d be coming back. Now the emptiness of the house is a feeling rather than a state and it’s odd. But that doesn’t mean I want Gary to stay; he needs to rebuild his own life. It’s just something I’m going to have to get used to. No son, no Mum, no Gary. Just me.

The stillness thickens and prickles my skin. I’m sure it’s emphasised by the sad deflated attempt at a celebration. Needing to busy myself, I have an idea.

Kieran’s lifetime collection of junk is still cluttering up his room. It’s all stuff he hadn’t deemed important enough to take to university but apparently felt was fine to leave in my house. I decide I’m going to have a good sort-out. What’s that saying? Clean house, clean mind? I shake my head – that doesn’t sound right at all; I’ve always had a clean mind and no amount of mess in Kieran’s room could change that.

My emergency stash of cardboard boxes from work come in handy once I’ve rebuilt them and filled them with Kieran’s junk. Old school books, piles of posters kept under his bed, superhero figurines he hasn’t played with in ten years and some board games that probably have most of the vital pieces missing.

My loft hatch is stiff, but the stick I keep for opening it still works if I really yank it, and the steps come down easily after that. That’s something at least. I climb them, pulling the light cord when I reach the top. I clamber over the boxes I’d already stashed up there and feel a little bit of guilt at the fact I’m just as much of a hoarder as Kieran. I pick up a box to make some space and when the recognition of it registers, I have to sit down. For a moment, I just look at it.

After Mum died, I’d inherited this box. It contains all her little keepsakes: things that Gary would have never wanted in a million years. He was more interested in the sandwich toaster and the little retro DAB radio she had in the kitchen. I know what’s in the box but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to open it yet. I was too heartbroken and now I feel terrible because I’d forgotten all about it.

I cross my legs on the dusty boards and wipe the lid clean before lifting it. There’s a photo of me and Gary lying on top, which was taken when I was about five and he was eight. I take in my plaited pigtails and brown corduroy dress and can vaguely remember the day. Gary is wearing brown velvet jeans and a red jumper and is looking at me with disdain. We’d been to a park and he’d pushed me over and I’d grazed my knee. He was angry because I’d snitched on him to Mum. God bless the Eighties.

My father had walked out about a year before that picture was taken and whilst I barely remember him, I do remember Mum’s smile that year. It was always there, plastered on, oversized and exaggerated, but her eyes didn’t crinkle in the corners. It wasn’t until I got older I realised how hard it must have been to maintain that brave face for us and I wish we’d have behaved much better for her.

I continue to rummage. There is an old concert ticket for Boy George in the box, football match programmes from when she used to take Gary to watch Tottenham Hotspur, and my first pair of ballet slippers. Right at the bottom is an old wooden matchstick storage box that I don’t remember ever seeing before. I pull it out and examine it curiously. It’s quite intricate in its design, and I wonder why it hadn’t been on display at home. It was the kind of thing Mum would have loved to show off on her mantelpiece.

I take off the lid and inside the red-velvet-lined box is a stack of ancient-looking notelets, each one yellowed and fragile. My heart is beating in my eardrums with anticipation. They are certainly old enough to have been from my dad all those years ago. Perhaps I’ll finally discover where he’s been for all those years.

Hesitantly, I take out the top one and carefully unfold it. The date at the top strikes me hard: 1916. I have to double-check it before reading on, confused.


7th February 1916

My dearest Elizabeth,

This is the farthest I’ve ever been from home, and I can tell you, France is almost as beautiful as the Home Counties. Perhaps one day, when the war is over, I can bring you and Rose here. The war is going to last much longer than we’d hoped, I’m afraid. Who knows how long we’ll be knee-deep in muck for.

I hope Rose is looking after you. I know how you worry, but I’ll be fine. We’re working quite closely with the French and I’ve even been learning a little of the language. I’ll teach you both when I get home.

Avec amour(I hope that’s correct)

Yours,

Will


My eyes begin to burn a little and a ball forms in my throat. This is a letter to my great-grandmother from my great-grandfather. I remember my mum telling me the story of how her grandfather volunteered to fight in the First World War. He’d been killed in Belgium I think. Her mother, my grandmother, was five years old at the time and hadn’t really remembered him, something I could always relate to. Naturally, my mother didn’t know too much about him other than that he was twenty-four when he died.

Kieran bursts into my mind. He’s not much different in age to what my great-grandfather had been. I try to imagine him going out to war. The thought of it twists and knots my insides, and I can’t fathom how the mothers of the WWI soldiers felt, waving their sons off to war.

Of course, Kieran wouldn’t have survived the boot-polishing stage, never mind the trench-digging and gunfire. I love him to bits, but he’s a bone-idle little so-and-so, a trait that must be from his father’s side. I couldn’t imagine why a twenty-four-year-old man with a wife and daughter and his whole life ahead of him would want to go to the front line for the king’s shilling. It was so brutal and horrific, but I suppose back then people did it for their country.

I read the letter again; the part about him wanting to take my grandmother and great-grandmother to France stands out. My grandma never even had a passport, never mind visiting France. That makes me feel sad – that one of the only surviving pieces of communication from her father said that he wanted her to see France, and she never went. Granted, there was another war soon after the first, but my grandmother lived until the late Eighties and still never made the trip.

I take out the next letter, which is addressed directly to my grandmother. The date is too faded to read but I can just about make out the intricate penmanship.


My dearest Rose,

I hope your mother is well. I miss you. I hear you’ve grown somewhat. You’ll be as tall as me when I come home. When I return, I’ll have many stories to share with you. As I write this, I’m on leave looking out on luscious green fields with red poppies and blue cornflowers growing. It’s quite the picture beneath the blue summer sky. You’ll have to see this one day. It’s ‘un lieu de beauté’ as the French say. I’ve picked up a bit of the language.

Some of my comrades have taken up poetry. It’s not something I’m good at, but I’ll send you a poem as soon as I get the chance.

Take care, my darling.

Yours,

Daddy


The letter squeezes my chest. Something about the upbeat tone suggests he really did think he’d return home – or he was putting on a brave tone for his daughter. Hindsight paints a tragic picture of a happy family destined for heartbreak.

There are a few more letters and, strangely, some are written in French. I place them all back inside the box carefully and make a note to ask someone to translate the others when I get a chance.

The letters play on my mind all evening. Knowing my grandma never went to France in the end saddens me somewhat. I’m a lot like she was: a homebody, unadventurous and happy in the safe familiarity of where I’ve always lived. But it was her destiny to travel to France, or at least it should have been, and that thought is still weaving through my mind when Gary returns, partially inebriated, from the pub.

‘Have you been buying posh plonk?’ he asks, picking up the bottle of cava and inspecting it as he walks in.

‘I … err … yes,’ I say, no longer in the mood to celebrate.

‘Two glasses, eh?’

I remain silent.

‘One was for me, wasn’t it?’ he says with a small laugh. Like it’s so implausible that I’d have company round. ‘You don’t have twenty quid I can borrow since you’re splashing out on fizz, do you? I’ve had a lot of outgoings this past fortnight and I need something to tide me over until my next JSA payment.’ He pops the cork with ease and pours two glasses of fizz into large wine glasses since I don’t own fancy flutes.

The hair on the back of my neck bristles and I take a deep breath to ensure what I say next comes out nonchalantly. The last thing I want is an argument. ‘No news on the job front yet?’

He pauses, and his face reminds me of a Transformer as the different muscles pull together almost mechanically to arrange some kind of pained expression. ‘’Fraid not. They don’t seem to be able to find anything to match my skills. Twenty years I worked as an engineer and I’m not going to throw away that kind of experience sweeping school corridors or stacking shelves. No offence.’

I’m far from offended, but I’m very close to cross. ‘Well, maybe you’ll have to.’ I maintain an even tone. ‘You’re spending more than you have coming in and it’s a vicious cycle. Jim said he’d offered you a few shifts so you might have to take him up on it, or I can see if there’s anything going at my place if you like?’

‘Cath, look, I’m waiting for the right job.’ There’s agitation in his tone. ‘If I take up a few shifts with Jim, my JSA will stop and I’ll be worse off.’

‘You can work at my place while you’re waiting for the right job. You could work full-time there.’

‘Oh yeah.’ He lets out a dry, humourless laugh. ‘And get stuck there like you did because there’s no time to look for anything better once you’ve been suckered in. What is it you’ve been there now? Eighteen years?’

His words sting and I glare at him. It’s true. I was bright at school, did well in most of my GCSEs and even got my A levels in English Literature, history and media, but after falling pregnant I needed money for the bills and the shift patterns worked well for me with a baby. ‘I think you’ve had too much to drink,’ I say eventually, standing up to leave.

‘Aren’t you drinking your plonk?’ he says, oblivious to how he’s made me feel.

‘You have it, it’s warm anyway,’ I say before storming out of my own kitchen. Hot tears well in my eyes. Not through sadness, but through embarrassment. Embarrassment that he feels he’s better than me despite spending the last half a year in a parasitic state. Embarrassment for thinking he’d be pleased for me when I showed him what I had in the envelope. And embarrassment for not standing up for myself.

I hate how he makes me feel as if he thinks everything I’ve done is insignificant – but I’ve raised a child, I’ve always paid my way, and I’ve saved him from the streets. I may not have an engineering degree, but I like to think that being a good person counts for something. I know it’s his circumstances making him so bitter, but it’s still hard to take. He’s a good person underneath and I’m sure he’ll find himself again.

I just don’t want to be in the crossfire.

It’s time for him to leave.




Chapter Three (#ulink_957dc01c-dacf-535b-9c33-dc7bf97365ea)


‘Look!’ Kaitlynn squeals, waggling her newly taloned hands in front of my face as I walk into the staff room the next day.

‘Oh, very nice,’ I say politely, acknowledging her luminous pink, sparkly-tipped nails.

‘Well, I had to treat myself with the annual bonus money, didn’t I? It was a whopper this year! Can you believe how much we got?’ Her voice is so high it penetrates my eardrums like a laser. ‘And I have a date on Saturday with this total ten I met on Tinder,’ she gushes.

A total ten? Kaitlynn is about ten years younger than me, but somehow latched on to me when she first started at the supermarket, and we had developed a close working friendship ever since. Every so often, her reality-TV-inspired vernacular stumps me, and this is one of those times. The confusion must have manifested on my face.

‘A total ten, as in a ten out of ten. A hottie, Cath. F-I-T.’ She giggles.

‘That’s great, Kaitlynn.’ I smile. In a way, she is probably closer in age and generation to my son, but since he communicates mostly through Morse grunts, I’ve learned nothing about popular culture through him. ‘But …’ I pause.

‘But what?’ She pounces on me as if I’ve said something wrong.

‘I was just about to ask why he’s on a dating website if he’s so good-looking. Surely he has women falling at his feet wherever he goes? Especially if he has a nice personality, which he should have if you’re going to date him.’

Kaitlynn laughs and gives a simple, ‘Oh, Cath.’

‘What? I’m not so out of touch, you know. Good looks and a nice personality are relationship fundamentals – they don’t go out of fashion.’

‘Tinder is just a bit of fun, and not many people hang around long enough to find out the personality part.’ She winks and pulls out her phone. ‘Firstly, it’s not a website, it’s an app. Secondly, you can find all the hotties nearby within seconds, and you don’t have to leave your house. Watch.’ She starts flipping through pictures of men, muttering about who is ‘fit’ and who isn’t. It’s a bit like the Argos catalogue of blokes. Suddenly, she gasps. ‘Cath, you should totally try it.’

I couldn’t imagine what my tired old face would look like amidst the beautiful, taut-skinned twenty-year-olds. I’d be some kind of booby prize or worse. A dare. ‘Oh no, no, no. That ship has sailed.’

‘Of course it hasn’t. You’re never too old for a bit of male company, if you know what I mean.’ I wince because I do, of course, know what she means. ‘What are you spending your bonus on? You got more than me, Miss Employee of the Year! Splash out, lady, you’re loaded,’ she gushes. I feel heat flush my cheeks. Employee of the year is quite a big deal and whilst I’m not struggling to cope with the pay-out, I am with the recognition. ‘We could get you some highlights and a few new tops: one for a selfie, one for a date, and you’d be good to go.’

‘I’m not interested. I’m more than happy to watch a Noughties romcom with a glass of wine. At least that way, I always get the perfect guy.’ I grin because I’m right and have never been disappointed.

‘Fine. You stick to your old movies but don’t come crying to me when you realise Matthew McConaughey isn’t all that.’ She folds her arms and looks disappointed. ‘What are you planning on doing with your bonus then? Not giving it to that son of yours or helping Gary out even more, are you?’ She spits out the word ‘Gary’ like an unwanted lemon pip.

Kaitlynn hates that Gary can’t stand on his own two feet at ‘his age’. She sadly lost her mother to the big ‘C’ a few years ago, which is partly what brought us together since that’s what I lost my mum to and it all happened at a similar time. From what I can gather, they were incredibly close, and the fact Kieran isn’t on the phone to me once a day and round visiting every Sunday really irritates her. I’ve tried explaining it’s a son vs. daughter thing, but she doesn’t buy it.

I shake my head. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

‘Well, make sure you spend it on yourself,’ she warns.

Later on, during a checkout lull, I tell Kaitlynn all about the tragic letters I’d found in the loft. The thought of my great-grandfather saying goodbye to his wife and child for what turned out to be the last time, and my grandma never fulfilling his wishes all weigh heavily on my mind.

‘That is so sad!’ says Kaitlynn when I tell her how my gran never fulfilled my great-grandfather’s dreams and left the country. ‘It’s like a John Green book or something. I actually want to cry.’

‘I know,’ I say sombrely; though I’ve never read a John Green book, I get what she means. I’m about to offer something philosophical when Kaitlynn gasps again.

‘Why don’t you go to France? You could see where your great-grandad is buried. I watched a TV programme about the centenary and apparently, you can trace your relatives and see exactly where they are commemorated.’ She slips excitedly into her theme and throws her hands up dramatically. ‘You should do the trip your gran should have done. It’s perfect. Your bonus and prize money would cover it and you’d be fulfilling your great-grandfather’s dream. Plus, Kieran and Gary won’t get a penny of your hard-earned cash!’

‘No. Not a chance am I going travelling to a foreign country alone! It’s a ridiculous idea. That money will come in handy for something much more necessary. A new sofa perhaps.’

She lets out a ‘hmph’ sound. ‘What, so Gary can leave an indent of his bottom on it? Stylish!’

‘You’re missing the point. I’m not frittering away the money.’

‘Why not? You never go away, and you have all your holidays left to take from about 1995, so it wouldn’t be a problem I’m sure. You never spend anything on yourself so it will just sit in an account until Gary wears you down and you end up loaning it to him. You won’t see a penny.’

‘Don’t be silly, I can’t just up—’ I’m interrupted by the electronic gong of the tannoy.

‘Attention. This is a staff announcement. Can Jamie come to checkout four, please? Jamie to checkout four.’ I glance at Kaitlynn in horror but she just winks as she lets go of the button, and a rather fed-up-looking Jamie approaches us.

‘Yes, Kaitlynn?’ he asks impatiently.

‘Jamie.’ She smiles sweetly. ‘As store manager and all-round supermarket don, can you please give Cath some time off for a holiday? She is the employee of the year you know. She deserves a break.’ He looks from Kaitlynn to me and back to Kaitlynn again and shrugs.

‘I don’t see why not. She’s entitled to them.’ He turns to me. ‘You accrue enough of them. Off anywhere nice?’

Heat rushes to my cheeks when I don’t have an answer. ‘Oh, no. I …’ I feel like a numpty and glare at Kaitlynn. ‘Possibly France.’ There’s no way I’m going to France alone, but perhaps some time off wouldn’t hurt. I could finally get the fridge fixed but I can hardly say that to Jamie.

‘How long will you need?’

‘I, er …’ I have no idea because up until forty seconds ago, time off wasn’t even on my agenda, but I’d feel too foolish to say it’s a mistake. ‘A few days,’ I say, feeling that would be reasonable for a fake trip to France. Now that I can afford one of those twenty-four-hour appliance repairmen it would still leave me a day or so of R&R.

‘Weeks,’ Kaitlynn interrupts, placing a forceful hand on my shoulder. ‘She means weeks, a few weeks.’

‘Okay. Pop in the office tomorrow and we’ll look at dates.’

By the time I get home, I’ve managed to convince myself it would be fun to try and learn French. Being able to read my great-grandfather’s letters would not only be a real feat, it would feel quite special too. While Kaitlynn had a point about fulfilling my grandmother’s legacy, she still has the frivolous air of youth that leaves most people at some point during their thirties. I, on the other hand, am beyond that. By a pinch.

When I get home, the electricity is off. Luckily, I’d topped my card up because I knew it would have been way out of Gary’s remit to go out and do it. He’s asleep on the sofa in the eerie twilight when I enter the lounge. The mail is still sitting on the mat, pots are piled up on the side in the kitchen, and when I check upstairs, I see the bathroom mirror he promised to fix back to the wall is still propped up on the floor. Bubbles of rage start to rise and pop in my chest as I storm back downstairs. I can’t facilitate this festering blob any longer.

‘Gary. Wake up. Gary!’ I prod him, and when he doesn’t move straight away, I wonder if he’s actually started to decompose on the sofa through sitting still for so long. That would be much worse than an indentation of his bottom.

‘What is it, Cath?’ He comes around slowly.

‘The electricity is off.’ I fold my arms and glare at him.

‘I knew you’d be back with a card so it seemed daft to go and top the spare up.’

‘I bet you were more than happy to use up all the emergency credit watching daytime telly, though. Hmm?’

‘Cath, I—’

‘And did you fix the mirror?’

‘I needed string. I wanted to ring you to pick some up from work but I didn’t have any credit on my phone.’

‘And what’s your excuse for not washing your own pots? Or picking the mail up off the mat?’ I’m practically yelling at him now.

‘Calm down, Cath, I was going to do all that; I just nodded off. I was down the Jobcentre today and they don’t half wear you down with all their questions.’

‘Do they? Do they wear you down? You poor, poor thing!’

Gary is sitting up now, looking at me with his eyes unusually wide. I’ve never spoken to him this way before. ‘I’m going for a shower,’ I say before something I’ll regret pops out of my mouth.

When I come back down, I hear rustling in the kitchen and a pang of guilt hits me when I realise he must finally be fixing the fridge. Maybe that’s what he needed all along: some tough love. I tiptoe towards the door. I don’t want an awkward conversation about it, nor do I want to disturb him and give him reason to stop so I make a mental decision to just thank him when it’s done by treating him with my windfall money. He used to like golf. Perhaps I could buy him some time at the driving range.

I hover in the doorway, watching his shoulders as he’s hunched over something. I wonder if it’s the broken part. I can’t profess to know anything about fridges or their accoutrements, but something about the way he’s holding himself seems odd – protective, like he’s shielding what he’s got in his hands. That’s when I notice he isn’t mending a fridge part at all; he’s got a knife wedged beneath the lid of my money tin, and he’s trying his hardest to unjam it.

The sound of it popping off makes me jump, and I gasp. Gary turns around and already in his hand is a twenty-pound note.

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ I ask, shock and anger adding a punch to my tone.

‘Cath, I … er …’ He holds both palms up towards me. ‘It’s just a loan. I was going to put it back, and I saw that three-grand cheque you got from work … you can afford it.’

I don’t know what to say. The fact we came from the same DNA suddenly seems quite unbelievable. It’s as though every ounce of my goodness is mirrored by dishonesty in him. It hurts. ‘You—’ I jab a finger in his direction ‘—need to move out.’

His face pales and I notice his forehead is clammy. ‘Move out? You’re not serious. Cath, I’m sorry, I was going to put it back next week. You can’t kick me out. Where would I go?’ Desperation is etched in his features and his voice drops to a whisper. ‘You wouldn’t see your brother out on the streets, Cath, would you?’ A tremor ruffles the last three words.

I walk into the lounge, sit on the sofa and sigh. No, I wouldn’t, and he knows me too well. ‘Gary, you were trying to steal from me.’

He slumps into the armchair. ‘I was desperate. I wouldn’t have done it if you weren’t so flush, and I did ask last night if I could borrow some cash. It was just a loan, I swear.’

‘It’s the final straw, Gary.’

His eyes drop to the floor.

‘I just can’t trust you now. Not until you sort yourself out.’

‘If you kick me out now, I’ll end up on the streets.’ He throws his head into his hands.

‘You’ve been here six months now and haven’t made any progress on the job front, and I’ve allowed you to coast along. I’m as much to blame as you are.’ I gesture to his slobby, track-suited self. ‘It’s time for you to get out of this funk and then we can both have our lives back. But right now, I can’t stand to be around you.’ I want to say the words again: Get out. But I can’t do it. I can’t see him on the streets. ‘What you did is going to take me a while to come to terms with, and at this moment in time I just can’t be near you, never mind share a house with you. You’ve betrayed me in the worst possible way.’ He nods sombrely, committed to his fate, and despite my better judgement, I feel sorry for him.

‘I’m going away, and I want you gone when I get back.’ The words leave my mouth before I can think about them, and I’m not exactly sure where I’m going, but the idea of a break of some kind suddenly seems so appealing.

‘Pah. You’re going away? By yourself?’ He sneers as he speaks.

I fold my arms defiantly. ‘Yes.’

‘Where to? An exotic cruise? An Amazon trek? A camel ride across the Gobi Desert? Or is it just a soggy weekend in Brighton?’ His tone is mocking, each word fuelling a new burst of anger inside me.

I pause, and without anything better to say or any other ideas I blurt, ‘F … France.’

‘France?’ He laughs. ‘Seems a bit cultural for you. You can’t even speak French and you dropped it for GCSE. What the hell are you going to do in France?’

I’m in no mood to explain myself, and I can’t bear the thought of listening to him mock me, so instead of answering him, I bore into him with my eyes.

‘It’s none of your business. I want you gone when I get back.’

He glares back until his nerve falters and he starts to back down. He knows I mean it.

‘How long have I got?’ he asks.

I think back to Kaitlynn’s interjection. Am I brave enough to go to France alone? ‘Two weeks.’

‘Two weeks?’ He looks aghast.

‘Better start job-hunting now then.’ I smile tightly.





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