Книга - Truly, Madly, Deeply
Truly, Madly, Deeply
Romantic Novelist's Association
Fall Head-Over-Heels…From wedding days to special anniversaries, steamy one-night encounters to everlasting loves, Truly, Madly, Deeply takes you on an unforgettable romantic adventure where love really is all you need.This collection brings together all-new specially selected stories from star authors from the Romantic Novelists’ Association, including international bestsellers Adele Parks, Katie Fforde, Carole Matthews and Miranda Dickinson, and many, many more and is edited by Sue Moorcroft.The perfect indulgence to curl up with, Truly, Madly, Deeply is the ultimate romantic treat!DIGITAL EXTENDED EDITION – FEATURING 11 NEW STORIES EXCLUSIVE TO E-READERS
Truly, Madly, Deeply
A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell as Sweet
Adele Parks
A Sensible Proposal
Anna Jacobs
The Corporate Wife
Carole Matthews
The Art of Travel
Elizabeth Buchan
The Rough with the Smooth
Elizabeth Chadwick
Living the Dream
Katie Fforde
True Love
Maureen Lee
Love on Wheels
Miranda Dickinson
Clarion Call
Catherine King
Puppy Love
Chrissie Manby
Third Act
Fanny Blake
A Real Prince
Fiona Harper
The Fundamental Things
Heidi Rice
Summer ’43
India Grey
How To Get a Pill Into A Cat
Judy Astley
Life of Pies
Kate Harrison
Head Over Heart
Louise Allen
The Marriage Bargain
Nicola Cornick
Shocking Behaviour
Sue Moorcroft
Feel The Fear
Alison May
The Eighth Promise
Jenny Harper
A Night To Remember
Nikki Moore
The Truth About The Other Guy
Rhoda Baxter
The Fairytale Way
Sophie Pembroke
The Charmer
Jacqui Cooper
Making the Grade
Cathie Hartigan
Minuet – A Georgian Romance
Sarah Mallory
Holiday Romance
Gilli Allan
The Anniversary
Julie Cohen
Captivating Sacha
Rosie Dean
The Language of Flowers
Kate Lord Brown
Bitter Sweet
Laura E. James
One Night
Mandy Baggot
Kiss Me, Kill Me
Anna Louise Lucia
Desperate Measures
Rosemary Laurey
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dedication (#u09dabf40-ac8f-5b3e-9288-2ed55d9a9af0)
To every member of the Romantic novelists’ Association, past, present and future
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#u09dabf40-ac8f-5b3e-9288-2ed55d9a9af0)
Thanks to all the many wonderful contributors to this book for their fantastic stories and to the Mills & Boon team for making Truly, Madly, Deeply possible.
The Romantic novelists’ Association was formed in 1960 to promote romantic fiction and to encourage good writing. Its membership comprises many successful writers, agents, editors and other industry professionals. These stories showcase the wonderfully diverse work of its writers.
www.rna-uk.org/ (http://www.rna-uk.org/)
CONTENTS
Cover (#u2d3d1f4f-b512-5518-bce2-512faa586d30)
Title Page (#ub08c7047-541d-5e45-86a7-1e7c57083c3a)
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Introduction
A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell as Sweet
About the Author (#u71558487-86ea-5db0-9586-39377ed7a80d)
A Sensible Proposal
About the Author (#u0072e29d-0857-5196-a915-d10a5d080e0e)
1 (#ulink_4a5dbe48-0c74-565f-861f-98e793ea2a95)
2
3
4
5
6
Author’s Note
The Corporate Wife
About the Author (#udabca623-219a-5aec-943b-c9d402577288)
The Art of Travel
About the Author (#uca270a5c-9ee0-521a-be3d-9b981b310815)
The Rough with the Smooth
About the Author (#u239ab3de-8861-5164-9c39-f11a699ced14)
Author’s Note
Living the Dream
About the Author (#uea6b923b-8e67-569c-abea-fdfae0a1c583)
True Love
About the Author (#u3ca24fd5-7ab0-52b5-8a65-9999d91e4b5d)
Love on Wheels
About the Author (#u08f6cc92-9d5b-583e-9c67-e05da873b8ad)
Clarion Call
About the Author (#u29a277fd-2ecd-5d4e-b005-a9654ea96990)
Puppy Love
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Third Act
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
A Real Prince
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
The Fundamental Things
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Summer ’43
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
How To Get a Pill Into A Cat
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Life of Pies
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Head Over Heart
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
The Marriage Bargain
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Shocking Behaviour
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Feel The Fear
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
The Eighth Promise
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
A Night To Remember
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
The Truth About The Other Guy
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
The Fairytale Way
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
DIGITAL EXCLUSIVE!
The Charmer
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Making the Grade
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Minuet – A Georgian Romance
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Holiday Romance
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
The Anniversary
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Captivating Sacha
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
The Language of Flowers
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Bitter Sweet
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
One Night
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Kiss Me, Kill Me
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
First Date
Second Date
Third Date
Fourth Date
Desperate Measures
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Introduction (#u09dabf40-ac8f-5b3e-9288-2ed55d9a9af0) by Jill Mansell
Well, guess what? The last compilation of short stories by RNA members was such a dazzling success that they were asked to do it all over again. And this time they managed to do it even better than before. Really, is there nothing these brilliant writers can’t do? (And I say this as an RNA member who finds writing short stories the hardest thing in the world, which is why I’m providing the foreword again. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, provide introductions…)
Someone asked me the other day where was my favourite place to read. And having given it some thought I decided the answer was: wherever I happen to have a book. Because it really doesn’t matter where you are –in bed at night, on the beach somewhere exotic or under the desk at work –if you can lose yourself in another world, you’re winning. Trapped on a train that isn’t going anywhere? A book will help you through it. Waiting in the car for a small child to finish their karate lesson? Escape to a better place through the pages of a novel and time will fly by. Just so wrapped up in a story that you keep sneaking off to read a few more pages, leaving the family to wonder where on earth you’ve got to? Ah well, never mind. If they’re your family, they’re probably used to it by now.
To love reading is a gift and I feel genuinely sorry for those who don’t have it. We’re the lucky ones. And as long as we have books like this one to entertain, enthrall and engage us, we need never be bored. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I am so proud to be a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, surely one of the friendliest and most supportive groups anywhere. We work hard, play hard and have an amazing wealth of talent among us. Best of all, we will make you laugh and cry and think about love, life and all it entails. It is our aim to entertain.
I really hope you enjoy reading the carefully selected stories in this anthology. And if you do, please do let us know on Facebook and Twitter. Most of us are on there and we love to hear from our readers. Plus –sshh, don’t tell our editors –it’s always good to have an excuse to stop writing the books and have a little online chat instead!
A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell as Sweet (#u09dabf40-ac8f-5b3e-9288-2ed55d9a9af0)
Adele Parks
ADELE PARKS worked in advertising until she published her first novel, Playing Away, in 2000; she’s since published thirteen novels, including Whatever It Takes and The State We’re In. All her novels have been top ten bestsellers; she’s sold 2.5 million copies of her work in the UK alone, and has been translated into twenty-five different languages. Adele is known for writing unforgettable heroes and lovable (although sometimes cheeky!) heroines.
She has spent her adult life in Italy, Botswana and London until 2005 when she moved to Guildford, where she now lives very happily with her husband and son. Adele believes reading is a basic human right and good for your health! Therefore she’s an Ambassador for The Reading Agency, a charity that encourages the love of literacy in all.
Visit www.adeleparks.com (http://www.adeleparks.com) to learn more about Adele. Find her on Facebook www.facebook.com/OfficialAdeleParks (http://www.facebook.com/OfficialAdeleParks) and follow her on Twitter @adeleparks (http://twitter.com/adeleparks)
A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet (#ulink_1e38b4ce-3429-5745-8b07-b51d8d2e3e67)
‘I’m thinking of throwing a Valentine’s party this year,’ said Katie, dishing up a big, innocent grin.
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘More partying is in everyone’s interest.’
Jane sighed and looked at her sister with a blatant mix of accusation and incredulity. ‘You’ve hosted three birthday parties this year. Why would you even think of having another party?’
‘They were for the kids. I want to throw a party for grown-ups? I mean adults.’ Katie corrected herself. The adults she knew were not all grown up; that was her point.
Jane felt sick. This was the most ridiculous and painful idea her well-intentioned, but woefully misguided, sister had come up with yet. Valentine’s Day! Jane’s own private hell. These were the two words most likely to strike fear into her heart; crueller than ‘facial hair’, more uncomfortable than ‘smear examination’.
Jane, unlike her sister, did not have children to throw birthday parties for. Nor did she have a husband or even a boyfriend. She had been engaged once, in her early twenties. They’d split up before the wedding. On Valentine’s Day. To coin an old-fashioned phrase, she’d jilted him. Sometimes, when she looked back on her actions, she struggled to remember them with absolute clarity; she laboured to justify them. She remembered feeling panicked that the wedding planning was cutting into far too much of her studying time –she had her exams to think of –and she remembered thinking that Mark was a nice enough guy but that nice enough wasn’t enough. Although it wasn’t clear exactly what might be enough for Jane. It was all such a long time ago. She’d since dated various men on and off but she’d never committed. Sexy, bad boy types disappointed her, she ridiculed and distrusted devoted romantics and she dismissed any one in between as, ‘Boring, far too normal.’
‘What are you looking for?’ Katie often asked, exasperated.
‘Just someone who understands I have a career and friends of my own. Someone who has that too but wants to share.’ Jane didn’t think this was too much to ask. It seemed practical and sensible so it should be possible. Jane was all about the practical and sensible; admittedly she gave less thought to what was possible.
Her mother had never quite forgiven her. ‘What sort of girl calls off her wedding on Valentine’s Day?’ she’d yelled. ‘You’ve ruined your one chance of happiness.’
Jane thought her mother was wrong about her ruining her one chance of happiness. It simply wasn’t true. Jane was happy. At least, she felt very content, which was a lot like happiness. She had a full life. She was a solicitor and would probably make Partner next year; all her studying and hard work had paid off. She went to gigs with the frequency of a teenager, she had good friends, two dogs –not cats, she’d resisted becoming a cliché –and a stylish home. A home in which she was free to eat whatever she liked, whenever she liked and to watch anything she pleased on TV. Microwave meals for one and uninterrupted viewing of The Walking Dead were sufficiently compensatory. The only time that she found being single difficult, and contentment illusive, was on Valentine’s Day.
On February 14th, Jane’s life felt like an enormous black hole. No matter how many computer literacy or yoga classes she fitted in, committees she sat on or hours she spent in the office, she could not fill that day. She found herself dwelling on the fact that every other woman in the United Kingdom was wearing silky lingerie under her new, fabulous dress, eating a delicious meal by candlelight and drinking vintage champagne while her husband or boyfriend serenaded her and threw red rose petals in her path. Jane told herself that it was actually, simply a materialistic, manufactured, almost grotesque commercial enterprise but the image of a more beautiful and romantic version of Valentine’s Day, largely manufactured by glossy, glorious magazines, always chewed its way into her consciousness and, secretly, she longed for it.
Not that she’d ever admit such a thing. If there was one thing a single girl understood the importance of, it was saving face.
‘Well, count me out,’ declared Jane.
‘Have plans do you?’ asked Katie.
Jane glared at her. ‘No one will come anyway. Don’t couples want time by themselves on Valentine’s Day? Isn’t that the point?’
‘I don’t just know couples.’ Actually, Katie’s friends were mostly couples but she thought they would rally when they heard her plan; all her friends were aware of Jane’s singledom.
‘Why would you want a bunch of drunks staggering around your house and throwing up in the cloakroom?’
Katie laughed at Jane, obviously unwilling to be put off. ‘It won’t be like that. I’m going to have a romantic theme and ask everyone to wear pink.’
‘Even the men?’
‘I’ll serve salmon canapés and rosé cava.’
‘You’ll find it spilt on your new cream sofa.’
Katie ignored her. ‘I’ll have a chocolate fountain.’
‘Chocolate is not pink, it’s not theme appropriate,’ pointed out Jane churlishly.
‘Don’t be such a spoilsport, Aunt Jane. A party is a marvelous idea. You might meet someone and find luuurvvve?’ Isobel, Katie’s eldest, interrupted the conversation. She had a habit of sneaking up on her aunt and mother when they were chatting. She’d found eavesdropping a tremendous source of information since she was an infant.
‘No, I won’t,’ said Jane. ‘I believe in “luuurvvve” less than I believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.’
‘Don’t let George hear you. He wavered in his belief this year.’
‘At least George is eight. Your mother told me Santa didn’t exist when I was three!’ The outrage in Jane’s voice was as crystal clear now as it had been back in 1979 when the truth was first revealed.
Katie cringed inwardly. She’d only been seven when she blurted out her discovery that the man who filled the stockings was their dad and that the elves that produced the gifts didn’t exist, it was their mum who spent from November trailing the stores for treats. Katie had spent her life trying to make up for the faux pas that robbed her sister of her innocence. Sometimes, Katie worried that the early disillusionment was the reason behind Jane growing up to be such a pragmatist. She was so sensible, rational and logical which was, in Katie’s opinion, the real reason she’d never fallen in love. To do so, you had to give a little. In fact you had to give a lot. You had to trust, hope and lose control.
Katie didn’t think that being married was the only way to find happiness, but it was the way she’d found happiness. She, Graham and their three children already had ‘it’. They were healthy, loved and loving. Between them they formed that enigmatic and enviable thing –a happy family. Of course, they squabbled, snapped and snipped at one another from time to time. There had been that very worrying period when Isobel became secretive and dated unsuitable boys. George was dyslexic, which had its challenges, and Sarah, the middle child, had started to cuss this year, repeatedly and ferociously, just to see if she got a reaction. But most of the time they were one another’s heart ease. Magic dust. Happiness. Call ‘it’ what you will.
Katie wanted more of the same for her sister. Jane had the bigger home in the smarter part of town, a career, foreign holidays, a wardrobe to die for and Katie had a demanding family whose needs had long since drowned out her own desires. Unfashionably, she had no problem with that. She believed it to be the natural order of things. Her own mother had always made Katie and Jane a priority. Katie had suggested that her sister try blind dating once.
‘I don’t know anyone who knows anyone who’s single anymore! Who could fix me up?’
‘Well then, internet dating.’
‘I’m not in the market to meet psychos.’
‘Speed dating?’
‘I have to enter into enough high-pressure pitches at work, thank you. I don’t want that sort of nonsense intruding into my private life.’
So Katie had decided to go back to basics. The good old-fashioned method of meeting people at parties.
Katie made a huge effort with the party. She blew a silly amount of cash on rosé cava and she baked and cleaned for hours. She nearly passed out blowing up pink balloons and she decked the kitchen, living room and hall with enormous red crêpe paper hearts. She was very strict about the entrance policy. Not only did she insist that her guests wear red or pink, she also explained that, instead of having to bring a bottle, every couple had to bring a spare man.
Her friends were surprised but after a little cajoling, they agreed to the stipulation. After all, it was Valentine’s Day, generally, most women are secret matchmakers and delighted in the possibility of being responsible for new love blossoming even if it did mean they had to sacrifice a romantic meal in the local restaurant.
Finally, the big day arrived; Katie could not have been more excited. It was, as she’d expected, lovely to see her friends discard their coats, hats, scarves and gloves and melt in the warmth that her home oozed. But it was especially exciting to see the number of single men that had been brought along. She quickly assessed them, as though it was a beauty contest. At least two were especially handsome men, four had friendly smiles, the rest were passable. They probably had lovely personalities. Only one chap stuck out like a sore thumb. He was sitting on his own, drinking tap water instead of the frothy cava, he wasn’t wearing so much as a red tie or pair of socks, he was dressed in jeans and a grey jumper; he was not even faking an interest in the conversations around him, the only person he deigned to speak with was Isobel.
Jane was late.
‘The invite said 7.30 p.m.,’ scolded Katie as she took her sister’s coat. She noticed that Jane had ignored the dress code too. She was wearing black as though she was at a funeral. Katie shoved her towards the kitchen, where the party –like all parties –was thriving. ‘Ta-dah.’
‘What?’
‘What’s different about this party?’ prompted Katie.
Jane looked around the kitchen. It was heaving. There were a lot of men, which was a bit odd; normally at parties the women stayed in the kitchen and the men hung around the iPlayer.
She hazarded a guess. ‘Decent food?’
‘Men!’
‘What?’
‘These are all single men. I asked my guests to bring a single man rather than a bottle. I asked them all to play cupid for you.’ Katie beamed. ‘Most of them know about your broken engagement and everything, so they were really sympathetic.’
Jane starred at her sister in horror. How could she have been so cruel? So thoughtless? The humiliation was intense; a hot blush was already forming on Jane’s neck. Valentine’s had always been ghastly when Jane was privately fighting her demons –the lack of a picture perfect scenario: flowers and hearts, hubby and kiddies –but it had been bearable. Now, Katie had outed her and the mortification was overwhelming.
Jane turned, grabbed her coat and ran. She didn’t notice that she’d dropped her glove. She had to get out of the stifling house full of pitying and patronising couples.
Jane nearly slipped on the icy path. She stopped at the gate; fighting angry tears, she had never felt so alone.
‘Excuse me.’
Oh God, that was the last thing she needed. Someone had followed her out of the house. Jane pretended she couldn’t hear him calling to her and she began to walk along the street.
The man jogged to catch up. ‘You dropped a glove,’ he called.
Normally, Jane loved her soft, beige buckskin gloves. Right now, she hated them.
‘Thank you.’ She refused to meet his eye.
‘I saw your dramatic exit. Very Cinderella.’
‘I don’t believe in fairy tales,’ she said stiffly. ‘Not even on Valentine’s Day.’
‘Nor do I. Especially not on Valentine’s Day. I hate it. The sickest day of the year.’
Jane looked up startled. It was refreshing, although somewhat surprising, to find someone else who was equally vitriolic about the day. She’d always found that there was a deep and dark silence surrounding the gloomy reality of the day. Single women simply dared not roll their eyes at the torturous nylon basques that seeped from every shop window, even though it seemed that the sole purpose of such garments was to humiliate flat chested and saggy bummed women, aka normal women.
‘Do you know what I most hate about it?’ he asked.
‘The pink, plastic “I Love You” stamps for toast and similar plethora of tack that are no doubt mass-produced by children working in illegal conditions?’ Jane wondered whether she sounded bitter and defeatist.
‘Ha! No, although that is offensive. It’s my birthday too.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘Wish I was.’
Jane took the glove.
‘So why do you hate it then? I’d have thought it being your birthday made it tolerable. At least you’re guaranteed cards.’
He smiled wanly but didn’t answer her question. ‘I’ll walk with you, if you’re going to the tube station.’
Jane stole a glance. The guy didn’t look like a psycho. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Err, embarrassing thing is, nowhere. So I’ve got time to squander. It’s my birthday and Valentine’s Day and yet I have some time to kill until my sister-in-law and brother emerge from the party. Then I’m staying with them for the weekend. I think they thought that if they took me along to the party, then all their duties towards me, in terms of celebrating my birthday, were null and void. It’s always such a disappointing day.’ the man grinned as he made this awful admission.
Jane noticed he had nice eyes. Particularly attractive when he grinned.
‘Isn’t it?’
‘What were you hurrying from?’
‘All of it.’
‘I see.’ They both fell silent. It was a comfortable silence. Jane realised she was enjoying the peaceful company of her fellow anti-romantic.
He sighed deeply; his hot breath clouded the cold night air. ‘I know you think you are having a bad night but somewhere in that house, something truly awful is happening.’
‘What?’ Jane asked.
‘I was talking to this teenager. Her mother has set up this whole party to try to off-load some maiden aunt.’
Jane gasped. ‘How terrible.’
‘Isn’t it? I told the girl her mother shouldn’t be so interfering and pushy. Just because it’s Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean the maiden aunt is suddenly going to find love or even want it. It’s such an imposition.’
Jane nodded, mute with shock and embarrassment. She couldn’t let this cute guy know that she was the spinster aunt. Because he was, well, a cute guy. He had full lips and lovely curly hair. And a cynical side that she appreciated.
‘What did the teenager say?’ Jane knew that the forthright Isobel would have expressed an opinion.
He grinned at the memory of the bolshie teenager dressing him down. ‘She said I was a miserable devil. She said her mother was only trying to help and that she did believe things were different on Valentine’s Day; that there is a little more magic everywhere and, of course, the aunt wanted to find love.’
‘Teenagers,’ said Jane with a tut. ‘So damned optimistic.’
They both fell silent again.
‘Look, would you like to go for a drink? No bubbles though, anything but that.’
Jane considered it. Maybe. She quite liked him. She liked his sensible attitude to Valentine’s Day. She was so fed up of people insisting that it was a romantic, enchanted time. It’s just another date on the calendar. And it was his birthday, after all. No one wanted to be alone on their birthday.
‘I’m Jane.’ She held out her hand, he shook it.
‘Pleased to meet you, Jane.’
Jane waited for him to volunteer his name. He didn’t.
‘And you are?’
‘OK, well, this is it, I suppose. Crunch time. So it’s my birthday today, right.’
‘Yes, you said.’
‘I’m Valentino Lovelass.’ Jane snorted with laughter. ‘What’s funny?’ he asked with mock incredulity.
‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Jane was practically choking on her laughter. ‘Are you joking?’ she asked eventually.
‘I never joke. I’m eminently sensible and practical. I’m always serious.’ There was a glint in his eyes that belied the fact that he was always serious so Jane insisted he produce his driving licence to prove he wasn’t making up a ridiculous alias.
‘I do at least understand why you hate Valentine’s Day,’ she said as they set off towards the pub.
‘And my parents too, don’t underestimate how much I hate them,’ he joked.
‘Oh get over it.’ Jane laughed. Teasingly she added, ‘It’s not like they destroyed your belief in Santa Claus at an early age.’
‘True, that would be really bad. Very bad indeed.’
Katie and Isobel were watching from Isobel’s bedroom window. Katie winked at her daughter. ‘Perfect,’ she sighed.
‘You are a regular cupid, Mum. Congratulations. You do know his name though, right?’
‘Oh yes. And how I’m going to enjoy hearing my sister introduce him!’
A Sensible Proposal (#ulink_21948a8c-4d6e-5209-999d-5efc9ea5f8c7)
Anna Jacobs
Award-winning author ANNA JACOBS writes both historical and modern romantic novels about families and relationships. She’s had over sixty novels published, with more in the pipeline, and she’s the sixth most borrowed author of adult fiction in the UK. She and her husband live half the year in Australia and half in the UK.
This story is a spin-off from her Swan River Saga series, set in Lancashire and Western Australia in the 1860s. If you’d like to read more about the group of young women sent to Australia as maids, try her three novels Farewell to Lancashire, Beyond the Sunset and Destiny’s Path and the spin-off series The Traders (starting with The Trader’s Wife).
You can find out more about her books, each of which has a separate page on her website, where you can read the first chapters and find about what gave her the ideas for the various stories on her website: http://www.annajacobs.com (http://www.annajacobs.com)
A Sensible Proposal (#ulink_21948a8c-4d6e-5209-999d-5efc9ea5f8c7)1 (#ulink_40a98b30-387b-55a8-b87d-ada3db0e475f)
1863, Lancashire
Sarah Boswick had been hungry for so long she couldn’t remember her last full meal. She stood quietly in the queue, not expecting more from the soup kitchen at the church than a bowl of thin soup and a chunk of stale bread. It would be her only food of the day.
None of the mill workers had realised that the war between the states in America would affect Lancashire so badly, cutting off supplies of cotton and therefore putting people out of work. Sarah’s husband had been delighted to think of all the slaves being freed. He’d been such an idealist, poor Daniel. He’d died a year ago, weakened by lack of food, and she still missed him.
The line of women shuffled forward and someone poked Sarah to make her move with them.
When a gentleman with silver hair stopped nearby, Sarah didn’t at first realise he was speaking to her.
Mrs Foster, one of the supervisors, said sharply, ‘You, Boswick! Step out of the line and answer the gentleman. He’s spoken to you twice already. Where are your manners?’
Sarah moved quickly, not allowing herself the luxury of resenting the scolding –it didn’t pay to cross the supervisors, not if you wanted to eat here regularly. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid my thoughts were miles away.’
‘It’s partly my fault. I should have waited to be introduced to you before I spoke. I’m Simon Marville, from the town of Swindon in the south, and I’m here because my church has raised some money for the relief fund in this area.’
She tried to pay attention but the smell of food nearby was intoxicating. Sometimes gentlemen or ladies came to the north to stare at the poor starving cotton operatives. It was annoying to be treated like a wild animal on display and it did little good that she could see. There would still be no work for those in Lancashire after the visitors had gone back to their comfortable lives.
‘Could we talk for a few minutes, Miss Boswick?’
‘Mrs I’m a widow.’ Sarah couldn’t help looking towards the food and as she did, her stomach growled.
‘Have you eaten today?’ he asked, still in that same gentle tone.
‘No, sir. The only food I’ll eat today is what’s offered here at the soup kitchen.’ She saw Mrs Foster looking at her and added quickly, ‘For which I’m very grateful.’
He turned to the supervisor. ‘Do you think we could have some food brought for this poor woman, ma’am? It’ll be hard for her to concentrate on what I’m saying if she hasn’t eaten anything yet.’
‘Of course. If you sit down over there, I’ll bring some across for you both.’
‘None for me, thank you. Save it for those who need it so desperately.’ He led the way to the table indicated, pulling out a chair for Sarah.
At least this visitor was treating her courteously, she thought as she sat down.
He took his own seat and was about to speak again when Mrs Foster brought her a big bowl of soup and two pieces of bread.
Sarah’s mouth watered at the sight of the larger bowl and extra bread. Clearly the lady patronesses were out to impress. She looked at him, wondering whether to start eating.
He waved one hand as if giving her permission and she could hold back no longer. She didn’t gobble down the food, because that would make her ill, but chewed slowly, spooning up soup in between each dry mouthful of bread. As she finished the first slice, she looked round and whispered, ‘Would you mind if I put this other piece of bread in my pocket, sir? I have a neighbour whose child isn’t thriving.’
‘No, of course not. Though you look as if you need it yourself. You’re very thin.’
‘I’m managing but it’s harder on the little ones.’
When she’d finished, he asked, ‘How long have you been hungering?’
‘Since my husband died last year, before that even.’
‘May I ask what happened to him?’
‘Daniel came down with a fever and hadn’t the strength to resist it. He was low in spirits, took it very badly not to be able to earn a living.’
Mr Marville’s expression was so genuinely sympathetic, Sarah felt tears rise in her eyes. She tried to change the subject. ‘What do you wish to talk about, sir?’
‘You, my dear. I’d like to find out more about your life.’
That puzzled her. What had the ladies been telling him?
‘I’ve been charged with helping select a group of cotton lasses to go to Australia, where there is plenty of work for those willing to become maidservants. The supervisor has suggested you. What do you think?’
She gaped at him. ‘Go to Australia? Me?’
‘Yes. Do you know where Australia is?’
‘On the other side of the world. I saw it on the globe at school. But I don’t know much else about it. I’ll have to see if there’s a book in the library.’ It had saved her sanity, the new free library had. If you could lose yourself in a book, you could forget the gnawing hunger for a while.
‘A ship going to the Swan River Colony will be leaving in two weeks. How long will it take you to decide whether to go?’
She looked round and laughed, though it came out more like a croak. ‘I don’t need any time at all, sir. If there’s work there, I’ll be happy to go because there’s nothing for me here, not now.’ Only Daniel’s grave, and beside him in the coffin a tiny baby who had not lived even one day.
‘How long will you need to get ready, pack your things?’
She looked down at herself and grimaced. ‘I have very little beyond the clothes on my back. I regret that. I’d keep myself cleaner if I could.’
‘A complete set of clothes can be supplied.’
‘I’d be very grateful.’
He hesitated and asked again, ‘Are you quite sure?’
She wasn’t sure of anything but to do something was surely better than doing nothing. ‘I shan’t change my mind, sir.’
‘Then you may as well travel south with me when I return. I’m sure Mrs Foster will provide you with clothes for the journey and we have other clothes in my church.’
‘Thank you.’ Poor box clothes. She knew what those were like but beggars couldn’t afford vanity.
‘Do you have any family here, anyone you should consult?’
‘No, sir. I’m an orphan.’ She’d only had Daniel. At the moment she was sharing a room with five other young women to save money. The others would be jealous of this chance she’d been given, so the sooner she could leave the better.
When Mr Marville had gone, she took her platter to the clearing up table and went to thank Mrs Foster for recommending her.
The other woman nodded then reached for a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. ‘You’ll need better food to face such a long journey. There’s more bread here and a boiled egg. Eat it all yourself.’ She held on to the cloth. ‘Promise you’ll not give this to anyone else like that bread in your pocket.’
She blushed in embarrassment. ‘I promise. Um, could I ask why you recommended me?’
‘Because you’re still trying to help others, sharing what little food you have. You deserve this chance.’
‘Thank you.’ Tears welled in Sarah’s eyes at these unexpected words of kindness.
‘Come back at four o’clock and we’ll go through the clothing in the church poor box to see what else we can find for you.’
She’d look a mess, Sarah thought, but at least she’d be decently clad. And warm. She’d been so cold during the winter.
2 (#ulink_40a98b30-387b-55a8-b87d-ada3db0e475f)
Ellis Doyle stood by the rails, his back to Ireland, staring out across the water towards England. He and his wife had planned to go to Australia, and now it seemed the only place far enough away to escape the anger of his employer, an arrogant, spiteful man.
After the funeral he’d overheard Mr Colereigh gloating to his wife that Doyle would make a fine new husband for Mary Riley and get the expense of her and her children off the parish –well, he’d better marry her if he wanted to keep his job.
Mary was a slovenly woman with a nasty temper and three whining children of her own. Ellis wasn’t having his sons raised by such as her, nor did he want her in his bed.
He and Shona had made such plans for their boys and saved their money so carefully. As he saw her splintered wooden coffin lowered into the ground, he’d sworn that somehow he’d still make her dreams come true.
Ellis had heard good things about Australia. A man had come back to the next village to take his family out there to live. Ellis had spent hours talking to him.
He watched the massive buildings of Liverpool show on the horizon in the chill grey light of dawn, then went to wake Kevin and Rory, who were huddled together on a hard wooden bench below decks. ‘We’re nearly there and it’s light already. Come and look at Liverpool, boys.’
He helped seven-year-old Rory straighten his clothes, and checked nine-year-old Kevin, annoyed that however hard he tried, he couldn’t keep the lads looking as neat as his wife had.
He wondered what Mr Colereigh would say when he found that Ellis had run away while the master was visiting friends. Would he come after them? Surely even he wouldn’t go so far to get his own back?
By the time they arrived in Southampton, after a long rail journey from Liverpool, the boys were bickering and complaining. Ellis was exhausted but didn’t dare take his eyes off his sons.
The emigrant hostel consisted of large rooms full of bunk beds: families and single women were housed in one, single men in another. After they’d eaten, he put the boys to bed, warning them sternly that if they moved away from their bunks without his permission, they’d be in big trouble.
In the middle of the night he woke with a start to find Kevin standing beside him, tugging his sleeve.
‘I need to go, Da. You said not to go on our own.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
They used the necessary, then Rory said, ‘I don’t like it here, Da.’
‘It’s just a place to stay till we go on the ship.’
‘There’s nowhere to play.’
‘There’s a yard outside. They’ll let you out tomorrow after we’ve seen the doctor.’ He knew they were all three healthy, so didn’t fear failing the medical –well, not much. But they couldn’t leave the hostel now until they went on the ship. The supervisor had been very clear about that.
Ellis didn’t care. He didn’t want to go anywhere in England. All he wanted was to make a new start in Australia.
3 (#ulink_40a98b30-387b-55a8-b87d-ada3db0e475f)
Passage was booked for the group of sixty female paupers from Lancashire on a ship called the Tartar. Sarah hated being called a pauper but it was just one indignity among many. They were sent to the emigrants’ hostel, which was crowded with people waiting to board the ship.
She was dreading the medical examination. Her new underwear wasn’t ragged or dirty but it was an older woman’s sensible flannel clothing, washed until it was grey and matted. She should be glad of it but with better food, vanity had returned. She hated to see her gaunt face and dull hair in the mirror. She looked years older than her age.
Most of the other women were haggard and some didn’t look respectable. A few even had the cropped hair of women coming out of prison.
Sarah saw a young woman from their group beckoning to her from the corner where there were four bunks. She hesitated but soon went across to join the woman and her two companions. They looked better fed than most and proved to be sisters.
‘I’m Sarah,’ she said to the one nearest.
‘I’m Pandora Blake. These are my sisters: Maia and Xanthe.’
Maia was weeping, mopping up the tears with a handkerchief, then having to use it again.
From what she overheard during the next few hours, Sarah realised the sisters had been forced to go to Australia by an aunt and were leaving behind a much loved older sister, for whose life they feared.
‘I have no one,’ she said when they asked about her family.
But she had hope now, shining brightly in her heart.
The medical examination took place the next morning: quick but still embarrassing. Then Sarah was sent to wait in the yard.
Some lads were there waiting for their father, and when two of them got into a fight, she took it upon herself to separate them.
‘What will your mother say if you tear your clothes?’ she scolded. ‘You want to look your best when you board the ship.’
‘The Mammy died,’ the older boy muttered. ‘And Da’s taking us to Australia. I don’t want to go.’
‘I do,’ the younger boy said
‘Well, I don’t! I won’t have any friends in Australia.’
A man came across to join them. ‘I hope my boys weren’t giving you any trouble?’
‘No, but they were quarrelling and needed settling down.’
He turned to glare at them. ‘Did I not tell you to behave yourselves?’
They scuffed their feet and stared at the ground.
He turned back to Sarah, sighing. ‘Thank you for your help, ma’am.’
Just then there was a disturbance by the gate. As he turned to see who it was, his face turned pale. ‘Dear God, the master’s sent his bailiff after us.’
Sarah looked at him quickly. ‘What did you do?’
‘Left the estate after my wife died instead of marrying a woman the landowner chose.’
Sarah saw the desperation on his face. She knew how arrogant some employers could be and her heart went out to him. ‘You could pretend I’m your wife. He won’t have any use for you then.’
He stared at her. ‘Are you sure? Thank you.’
‘My name’s Sarah Boswick.’
‘Mine’s Ellis Doyle.’
‘Put your arm round my shoulders and look affectionate. Rory, in this game I’m your new mother. Come and stand next to me.’
‘I want to go back,’ Kevin said.
‘And have Mary Riley for your mother?’
Kevin hesitated then went to his father’s side.
By the time the constable got to them, they were standing as a family group.
‘This is Doyle,’ the bailiff said. ‘He’s running away from the woman he promised to marry. Mr Colereigh wants him back.’
Ellis seemed to be fumbling for words, so Sarah spoke for him. ‘Well, he can’t marry anyone else. He’s married to me.’
‘There hasn’t been time.’
‘We bought a special licence.’
‘I’d not have come back, even if I hadn’t married Sarah,’ Ellis said. ‘And there’s no law that says I have to.’
The bailiff leaned forward. ‘What if the master said you’d stolen some money? You don’t have enough for a special licence.’
‘You never said anything about stolen money,’ the supervisor said, looking suspiciously from the bailiff to Doyle.
‘It was my money that bought the special licence,’ Sarah said. ‘It took every penny I had. He had none left from paying the fares.’
Ellis put his arm round her and pulled her close. ‘Even if you forced me to go back, I couldn’t marry Mary Riley now, could I?’
Everything hung in the balance for a moment or two, then the bailiff stepped back. ‘I’d not marry her either. It’d be better if I tell him I couldn’t find you. Don’t ever come back, though.’
They watched him walk away, then Sarah realised Ellis was still holding her close. She didn’t dare move until the bailiff was out of sight. And she didn’t want to move either. She’d missed the feel of a man’s strong arm round her shoulders.
Ellis moved away. ‘Your quick thinking saved us. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’
‘He didn’t ask to see the marriage lines. He could have proved us wrong.’
‘No. He’s not a bad fellow but if he wants to keep his job and home, he has to do as he’s told.’
Rory tugged at her skirt. ‘Are you really our new mother?’
‘No. We were just pretending. But I can be your new friend.’ Her eyes sought Ellis’s for permission and he nodded.
4 (#ulink_40a98b30-387b-55a8-b87d-ada3db0e475f)
As they stood there, Ellis cleared his throat. ‘Um, I probably need to go and see the supervisor and explain to him that we aren’t really married. Will you keep an eye on these two rascals for a few moments?’
‘Of course.’
But suddenly the supervisor came striding back into the yard. He walked across to Sarah and Ellis, scowling. ‘I want the truth now. Are you two married or not?’
‘No, we’re not,’ Ellis said in his lilting Irish voice.
‘Well, you’ll need to get married if you want to travel as a family.’ The supervisor studied the children. ‘Looks to me as if these two need a mother’s care.’
Sarah could feel her cheeks burning because she’d had a sudden fervent wish that she was married again. She was so tired of being alone, fending for herself.
The supervisor looked at her disapprovingly. ‘We don’t allow any hanky-panky on board, Miss. They’re very strict about that sort of thing.’
‘I’m a widow, not a “Miss”.’
‘It’s not hanky-panky to be courting someone,’ Ellis told him. ‘And that’s what we’re doing, courting.’ He put the arm back round her shoulders.
It felt good.
The supervisor’s voice softened. ‘Oh, it’s like that, is it? Well, I’ll have to report this but no one can stop you talking to one another on deck.’
He walked away and Ellis turned to Sarah. ‘I had to say something to save your good name.’
‘I’m really grateful. But…we’ll have to meet and talk to one another or they’ll be suspicious.’
‘I know. I hope you don’t mind.’ He looked at her as he spoke but not the way a man looks at a woman he desires. Pity.
There would be other women on the ship who were nicely dressed, who would attract and keep the attention of a man like him. Such a nice-looking man.
She sighed and told herself not to be stupid. But she wasn’t used to being ignored. She’d been told many times she was a fine-looking woman. Other men had wanted to court her when she was younger, not just Daniel.
She wasn’t fine-looking now, wouldn’t have been even if she had been dressed nicely. Haggard was the best way of describing her, and she knew she looked years older than her age.
Perhaps one day she’d attract a man again, even if not this one. She’d like to marry, have children, live a normal life.
In the meantime, she had an adventure to face: a journey by ship to the other side of the world.
She had new friends: Ellis and his boys, and the Blake sisters. They were well-read and always had something interesting to say. She envied them their education. They must have read many more books than she had. She would enjoy their companionship on the ship.
5 (#ulink_40a98b30-387b-55a8-b87d-ada3db0e475f)
Sarah was glad when it was time to board the ship but sorry to find herself lodged with another group of single women –widows like herself –instead of with Pandora and her sisters.
Her cabin was large. It had a long narrow table down the middle and cubicles down the sides, each sleeping four women in two pairs of hard, narrow bunks. They were placed in messes of eight with a leader appointed to take care of the food for the whole group. Why they chose Sarah as leader, she couldn’t work out. She didn’t want to be singled out in any way, just wanted to build up her health.
When they went up on deck, the matron kept a careful eye on the single women. That amused Sarah. Did they think any of the men would want women who looked like starvelings?
She didn’t see the Doyles the first time on deck, but on her second outing little Rory came running towards her smiling and she found herself sitting there talking to him, telling him stories as her mother used to do with her.
Kevin stood to one side pretending not to listen.
Ellis came across to join his sons, speaking politely about the weather, not staying long. He didn’t waste words, that was for sure.
At first time hung heavy on their hands. Everyone feared for the three months the voyage would take, but to her delight the ship’s passengers organised classes to help pass the three month journey to Australia. She joined groups for reading and sewing, went to the regular weekly concert. She’d have joined the choir, because she loved music, but she was a poor singer, often making people wince when she did join in.
She noticed that Ellis was in the choir and found the boys coming to sit with her during the concerts. Afterwards he would always hurry them away.
There was no pretence of courting. Well, it wasn’t real, was it? He probably found her ugly, with her scrawny body and horrible old clothes.
Only once did they have a real conversation.
‘What did you do in Ireland, Mr Doyle?’ she asked.
‘I was a stable hand. I’m good with horses. But I’ll work at anything to make a good life for my lads in Australia. It must be hard for you, going so far away on your own.’
‘Yes, but I have a job waiting, as a maid.’
‘Will you like that?’
‘I’ll like eating regularly and being paid. And it’ll give me a start.’
‘I don’t have a job waiting. But I’m hopeful. People always need help with horses, don’t you think?’
He stood as if trying to think of something to say, then walked away abruptly.
Although the journey was long and the confines of the ship so stifling, Sarah found enjoyment in reading and sewing classes.
In the reading class, the Blake sisters were the best speakers. Sarah could have sat and listened to them all day.
Ellis was also a member of the reading group but when he was asked to take his turn, he read so haltingly and looked so embarrassed that he wasn’t asked again. The teacher was tactful like that.
A very short woman called Miss Roswell was the best at sewing. It was obvious that she didn’t need lessons, just wanted the company. She soon began helping the teacher, who could get a bit impatient if people were clumsy in their work.
When the teacher claimed exhaustion and gave up running the class, Miss Roswell took over, which was all to the good.
One day she asked Sarah to stay behind. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being too personal but I know what it’s been like for the people of Lancashire. I can see that your clothes were made for other women and I wondered if you’d like me to help you alter them?’
Sarah felt ashamed but wasn’t going to miss an opportunity like that. ‘Would you have time?’
‘I have all too much time on my hands at the moment. You’d be doing me a favour.’
Gradually, Sarah’s hand-me-downs were transformed into well-fitting and even stylish clothes. Oh, that made her feel so much better.
But out of perversity, she didn’t wear the best of them, even though Miss Roswell had hinted that Ellis kept looking at her when he thought no one would notice and she should encourage him.
Sarah knew her face had become rosier, could see for herself that she was getting her shape back under her newly altered clothes. But if he had to have her wearing new clothes to want her, then he wasn’t worth it. Was he? Or was she being too proud?
Ellis joined the reading group to while away the long hours of doing nothing. He sent his lads to a class for children, relieved that they wouldn’t see how poor he was at reading. Well, when had he ever had the chance for a proper education?
He saw Mrs Boswick in the class but when he made a mess of his first reading and heard how well she could read, he felt too ashamed to do anything but sit at the back and try to escape everyone’s notice.
He was glad to see her looking better, filling out a little, getting nice rosy cheeks. She must have been short of food for a long time. She wasn’t the only woman whose appearance had changed since they set off. Quite a few of them had blossomed. But the others didn’t interest him. She did.
After the second reading group meeting the teacher asked him to stay behind.
‘Would you like me to give you some extra help with the reading, Mr Doyle?’
‘Why would you do that, Mr Paine?’
‘Because I have too much time on my hands and because reading is such a joy to me that I like to share it with others.’
‘Oh. Well. If you don’t mind, I’d be grateful, I would so.’
‘You can come to my cabin for the lessons. We can be private there.’
But what was he going to do with his boys? They were so lively, they needed someone to keep an eye on them. He didn’t want them falling overboard.
After some thought, he asked Mrs Boswick if she’d mind watching them because she seemed to enjoy their company. He was too embarrassed to explain why, but she didn’t ask, just said in her usual quiet way, ‘I’d enjoy that. We can play games or I can read to them.’
Rory in particular seemed very attached to her. Ellis wasn’t sure whether that fondness for her was a good or bad thing. After all, they might never see one another again after they arrived in Australia and Rory had already lost one person he loved. But learning to read better was so important, Ellis took the risk of her finding out what he was doing and looking down on him.
6 (#ulink_40a98b30-387b-55a8-b87d-ada3db0e475f)
The men talked quite a lot, sharing what they’d heard about life in Australia, revealing their hopes for a better life. A few knew what it was like because they had relatives there. A man called Martin had lived there for a while and was going back, along with his new wife. When he talked about Australia, people hung on his every word.
‘Couldn’t you find a wife there?’ one man teased.
‘No, I couldn’t. There are ten men to every woman in the Swan River Colony, so I went home and let my aunt find me a wife. And she did very well by me. A fine, sensible woman, my Dora is.’
‘Do you think being sensible matters?’ Ellis asked.
Martin looked at him as if he was utterly stupid. ‘Of course it does. Women are much more practical about marriage than people give them credit for.’
That gave Ellis a lot to think about. He wanted to marry again. And it hadn’t taken him long to realise Sarah would suit him well because she made him feel so comfortable and…Oh, just because!
But if there were ten men to every woman, she’d have other suitors. She could choose someone better than him, someone who could read and write fluently, who didn’t already have a family.
And even if he asked her, she might say no. She could be very sharp when annoyed
But…Ellis did like her. A lot.
So he had to be sensible about this and do it quickly, before someone else beat him to it. He chose a moment when he could get her on his own, planning to ask her straight out. ‘I’ve been thinking…’ He couldn’t get the words he’d rehearsed out. They sounded stilted.
‘Thinking what?’
‘Thinking we should…get married.’ He couldn’t bear to look her in the eyes. If she looked scornful, he’d shrivel up and die.
Her voice was cool. ‘Why should we do that?’
He summoned up the main argument, the one he thought would appeal to a woman most. ‘Because the boys need a mother and I need a wife. It’s the most sensible thing to do.’
‘Is that all?’
Words stuck in his throat. ‘Isn’t it enough?’
She shook her head. ‘No, it’s not enough. You didn’t say you cared for me.’
Someone came along just then and he turned to look over the rail, screwing up his courage to try again.
But when he turned back to say of course he cared for her, Sarah had gone.
After his failed proposal, Ellis tried several times to catch Sarah on her own but she seemed to be avoiding him. Maybe that was her way of saying no.
He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t sleep at night for thinking of her.
Then he heard two of the other men joking about a bet they’d made: they were competing to see which of them could get Sarah to marry him. Pete and Jim had also listened to Martin, it seemed.
Ellis got up the next day determined to have it out with her even if he had to shout out his feelings for the whole ship to hear. He wasn’t going to lose her now.
After breakfast he saw her at the other end of the deck and hurried along. This was it. He’d do it. As he got closer he saw Pete on his knees in front of her and he knew what that meant.
Ellis would have turned away but she looked across at him. It seemed to him that she was pleading with him, that she was trying to pull her hand away from Pete’s.
Something snapped inside him and Ellis ran across the last few yards of deck, pushing between Sarah and Pete. ‘Don’t do it! Don’t marry him. He won’t love you half as much as I do. I can’t bear it if you marry him.’
‘Oi!’ Pete tried to pull him away.
He shoved Pete aside but the man came barrelling back.
Sarah stepped between them. ‘Go away, Peter Millton!’ she yelled. ‘Or you’ll spoil it for me.’
She turned back to Ellis.
He smiled, his anxiety past now, at what her words had revealed. ‘I love you, Sarah Boswick. I can’t think of anything else but how much I love you. Will you marry me?’
‘Of course I will, you fool. I’d have said yes last time but you were so horridly sensible.’
He laughed and wrapped her in his arms, kissing her soundly. It took him a while to realise that someone was tapping his shoulder. He swung round, ready to punch Pete if he had to. But it was the matron of the women’s quarters. So in his joy, he gave her a big hug too. ‘She’s just agreed to marry me.’
Then he turned back to finish kissing his Sarah properly.
Author’s Note (#ulink_40a98b30-387b-55a8-b87d-ada3db0e475f)
They really did send sixty starving cotton lasses from Lancashire out to Western Australia in 1863. I’ve written a whole series based on this fact, the Swan River Saga (Farewell to Lancashire, Beyond the Sunset and Destiny’s Path). But that wasn’t enough to get those young women out of my mind. When I was asked to write a story for this anthology, I immediately thought of using this scenario again. My heroine may be imaginary but the background is as true to life as I can make it.
The Corporate Wife (#ulink_f0b52940-9dcd-5eca-8117-02cb078f2775)
Carole Matthews
CAROLE MATTHEWS is a bestselling author of twenty-four hugely successful romantic comedy novels. As well as appearing on the Sunday Times and USA Today bestseller lists, Carole is published in thirty-one different countries and has sold over 4 million books. Her books Welcome To The Real World and Wrapped up in You have both been short-listed for the Romantic Novel of the Year.
Previously unlucky in love, she now lives happily ever after with her partner, Lovely Kev, in a minimalist home with no ornaments or curtains. She likes to drink champagne, eat chocolate and spends too much time on Facebook and Twitter. Her latest book is A Place to Call Home.
For more information visit her website
www.carolematthews.com (http://www.carolematthews.com)
The Corporate Wife (#ulink_f0b52940-9dcd-5eca-8117-02cb078f2775)
I was a trophy wife when Ethan married me, you know. Oh, yes. I could have had my pick of anyone. Men buzzed round me like bees round a honeypot: they were irresistibly drawn to me. I was showered with gifts morning, noon and night. I was wined and dined on private yachts from Antibes to Antigua. That was the life I had.
I was a model, a bloody good one too. I’d done Vogue, Harper’s, Vanity Fair: all the glossies. I didn’t do catwalk though. My breasts were too luscious, my hips too curved. It was all heroin chic in my day and they wanted six-stone skeletons for that. I’m a woman and have always been proud to look like one. I was never going to be just a walking coat hanger. Which meant that I wasn’t ever quite as big as someone like Elle or Naomi. But I never minded that. Not really. I did get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars a day though not that often. And, let me tell you, I’d been offered far more than that to get into bed too. Not that I ever did. I was very choosy. There were no scandalous pictures of me falling drunk out of nightclubs, wrapped round a different man every night, or snorting cocaine with some unsavoury, unwashed rock star. I always kept myself nice. Held myself well.
I’d had more marriage proposals than you could shake a stick at and had batted them all away. But when Ethan asked me, I said yes straightaway. Ethan was different. He didn’t fawn over me like other men. He was secure in his confidence. We met at a polo match in Windsor. I was presenting the prize and he was the captain of the winning team. His smile lit up my life in a way that nothing had before and made me weak at the knees. I gave him my number and he didn’t call me for weeks. I liked that. Not too eager. It continued like that throughout the whole time we dated. My phone was never deluged with texts and calls from Ethan. I had to ring him. That was a new experience for me. Sometimes he’d leave me sitting alone waiting in restaurants for him –how the press loved that. When I called he’d simply say that he’d forgotten about our arrangement. I thought he was playing a game with me. I guess I learned the hard way.
Ethan was rich, even then. Not as ridiculously wealthy as some of my suitors, of course, but we were never going to be on the breadline. He was from good stock with a family pile in Hertfordshire, a solid, handsome house where we eventually lived. I had my own money too, at one time. But it was expensive being me –looking like that doesn’t come cheap, I’m sure you can imagine –and soon there was very little of it left. Plus, once we were married, Ethan didn’t like other men looking at me. Not in magazines, anyway. The shoots were getting raunchier, less and less clothing. I could have had a big contract with a line of very racy underwear but Ethan didn’t like the idea of that either. He didn’t think that it would be good for my image. On his advice, I turned down so many bookings that eventually, I slipped off the radar. As soon as I hit thirty-five, the agency stopped calling at all. The paparazzi didn’t wait outside our London apartment or chase after me when I came out of restaurants. Ethan said that he was relieved. And I was too. In a way. Plus there were always the hungry young things snapping at your heels: nineteen-year-olds with more confidence and attitude than experience. I was one of them once.
‘Are you ready, darling?’ Ethan asks as he swings into the dressing room. He glances impatiently at his watch and does that tapping thing with his foot. ‘We’re going to be late.’
He’s still handsome, my husband. There’s a smattering of grey in his hair, but it only makes him look more distinguished over the years. It’s so terribly unfair that men grow more beautiful with age whereas women, inevitably, do not. He looks so smart in his hand-tailored charcoal grey suit and crisp white shirt.
‘Is that a new tie?’ I usually bought all his clothes and I didn’t recognise it.
He looks down. It’s grey silk with a faint black line through it. Very stylish. ‘Yes.’
‘You bought it yourself?’
Ethan rolls his eyes. ‘I am perfectly capable of buying my own ties, Lydia. I don’t see why you should be so surprised.’
But I am surprised. That was my role: I looked after the house, I looked after Ethan, I shopped for him.
‘It’s nice,’ I offer.
Even after all this time, I still love him. We’ recently celebrated our fifteenth wedding anniversary. Well, when I say ‘celebrated’ I mean that Ethan was away on business somewhere –Denmark, I think –and I opened a bottle of fizz on my own and watched re-runs of Wallander. When he was less busy we were hoping to hop off for a week somewhere warm.
It’s a party tonight. Another one. This one at The Dorchester. A thank you for five hundred of Ethan’s staff for hitting their targets in these terrible times of recession. Some of them will be made redundant next week, but they don’t know that yet. Tonight, they’ll still be blissfully unaware of their fate and on a high.
I take one last look in the mirror. The last time I appeared in the Daily Mail it was a shot from our beach holiday in Barbados pointing out the cellulite on the back of my thighs. I was mortified. That was the day that my unswerving attachment to the sarong started. Of course, that was years ago. I’ll be forty-five next birthday. Not a milestone birthday, as such, but one that takes me another step further away from my prime. None of the newspapers care what I look like now. But I do. My skin used to be like porcelain, white and flawless. There are wrinkles now –fine ones, thanks to Crème de la Mer and some well-aimed Botox. But they’re undeniably there. Perhaps I’ll have some of the lights taken away from around this mirror. It’s too bright, unforgiving. I might like myself better if I were perpetually in soft focus. I ease back my cheeks with my fingertips and watch my jawline tighten. That’s how I used to look. Once when I was young and desirable.
‘How much longer, Lydia?’ Ethan presses. ‘The car is waiting.’
‘I just want to make sure that I look my best.’ I clip on my diamond studs, then stand up and check myself in the full-length mirror. This dress is cut on the bias and flatters my figure, which is fuller than it used to be despite the hours I spend in the gym and the hours that I spend looking at food rather than eating it. It’s sapphire blue and emphasises the colour of my eyes.
‘No one will be looking at you,’ my husband says. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’
It’s not just the newspapers who don’t care what I look like anymore, it seems.
It wasn’t always like that. Obviously. Ethan used to love having me on his arm at his corporate functions. Mouths used to gape when he introduced me. I knew what they were thinking. That Ethan had punched above his weight. That he had married well. My husband might not have wanted me to carry on with my career, but he liked men to look at me. He liked their mouths to water when they saw me with him. He encouraged me to dress in the skimpiest of clothes. And I was happy to oblige. He couldn’t keep his hands off me then. At the most inappropriate moments, I’d feel his thumb graze my nipples, his fingers inching up my thighs. I’ve lost count of the corporate dinners where his hand would be between my legs under the table before we’d even reached dessert.
There was a photograph of me in the tabloids. We’re on a yacht in the Med –I can’t remember whose now –and I’m standing at the bow alone in impossibly high heels, the tiniest of gold bikinis that barely contains my breasts, a gold chain accentuating my slender waist, the scant thong exposing my tanned buttocks. My long blonde hair streamed behind me. It was my natural colour then. I look like the cat who’s got the cream. It made page four of the Sun. I remember exactly the day it was. We were with a party of businessmen who we were entertaining for lunch. I was the only woman on board and yet Ethan insisted that I wore the bikini and nothing else. He even picked it out for me. Even after we’d spotted the paparazzi on another boat, he’d come behind me and slipped a finger under the thin fabric of my swimsuit and inside me. The other men were all lounging on the deck with champagne just behind us, but he didn’t care. Then Ethan took me down below, lifted me straight onto the counter in the galley, pulled down my bikini bottoms and made love to me right there. At any moment, any one of the men, or all of them, could have walked in. I thought he’d done it because he was overwhelmed by passion, because he loved me so much.
I’m older and wiser now.
I slick on my lipstick, smooth down my dress and plump my cleavage. It’s all still my own but it needs help now from well-cut and ferociously expensive underwear. Picking up my diamanté purse, I make my way down the stairs.
The Dorchester is one of my favourite venues and this is from someone who has been to the Burj al Arab on a regular basis. But that is tacky in its opulence whereas The Dorchester is all about understated elegance. Mind you, every five star hotel thinks that they’re far better than they are. We like the Terrace Suite here, which has the most marvellous view over London, and we were booked in overnight. I’m hoping to do some shopping in town tomorrow and perhaps have some lunch at Harvey Nics. Ethan, of course, is going into the office even though it’s Sunday.
The Ballroom Suite is already thronging with Ethan’s colleagues. They’re all bright young things, university educated with degrees in such things as philosophy and politics. They have conversations where they all shout over each other about the FTSE and the Dow Jones and I have no idea what they’re talking about and have no desire to. I stand and sip my champagne and try to look interested.
The room is beautiful, stylish, all cream and gold. We stand at the top of the sweeping staircase so that Ethan can greet his staff. We shake hands endlessly with the damp, the sweaty, the cool, the dry, the over eager, the bone-crushingly aggressive and the limp-wristed. No wonder the Queen always wears gloves. How could she bear to have all those strangers touch her?
‘Hello, Lydia.’ I look up to see one of Ethan’s managers, Colette, standing in front of me, smiling widely. I think she’s one of his favourites as she always seems to accompany him to his business meetings. ‘Beautiful dress. You look lovely.’
‘Thank you.’ She’s visited the house several times too, so we are familiar enough with each other to air kiss cheeks. ‘You look simply divine too.’
She’s slender, Colette. Sickeningly so. Self-consciously, I pull in my tummy. Tonight she’s dressed in a black, clinging number with a perilously plunging neckline that leaves little to the imagination. It must be held on with tit-tape and I’d bet a pound to a penny that she’s not wearing any underwear. It makes the brightness of my blue look garish in comparison. Like I’m trying too hard. She’s young. Twenty-six at most and has a boyish figure with a washboard stomach and no hips. For work she power dresses in crisp white shirts and pencil skirts with vertiginous black patent heels. She looks like a woman who wears stockings to the office. Her skin is soft and coffee-coloured. Her corkscrew curls –the height of fashion –bounce onto her bare shoulders.
I feel I should ask her a question but I don’t know what to say, so she moves on and turns her attention to my husband. ‘Ethan.’ Her eyes brighten.
‘Good evening, Colette.’ His hand slips onto her hip and his thumb traces the arched curve of her bone. Very few people would notice, but I do. She wets her lips and leans into him slightly as her kiss lingers too long on his cheek. ‘Great tie.’ Her fingertips stroke it lightly and a glimmer of a smile plays at her mouth.
And I know instantly who bought it. Of course, I do. Does Ethan think that I’m gullible enough to believe that he would ever trouble himself with his own shopping? Colette moves on and I watch Ethan’s eyes as they follow her. I feel sick to my stomach. If she thinks she is the only one, the first, then she is sadly mistaken.
It’s hot in here, stuffy and I wonder if they’ve forgotten to turn on the air-conditioning. The rest of the line snakes past us and soon we make our way down the staircase into the ballroom below. I always used to like this dramatic entrance, felt as if I was in a movie, Folies Bergère or something starring Fred and Ginger. I liked the heads that turned to look at me. Now I can’t wait to rush down to my seat and my legs shake as I take the steps.
‘Are you all right?’ Ethan snaps. ‘Do pull yourself together, Lydia.’
I trail in his wake until we reach the top table. ‘I need to talk to Colette and Brad Walker,’ he says over his shoulder, pulling out his own chair. ‘I’ve sat them either side of me. Hope you don’t mind entertaining Canning. He’s a bit of an old bore, but he’ll love you.’
What he means is that he’s old enough to remember the photograph of that wretched gold bikini and will leer at me all night. I take my place next to Stuart Canning halfway down the ballroom. He pulls out my chair for me and kisses my hand. There’s spittle at the corner of his mouth.
I have no idea what’s served for dinner, my stomach is too knotted to be able to consider eating. At the top table, there’s much banter and laughter and I have to drag my attention back from Ethan and listen to the man droning on at my side.
After dinner, the music starts. The dance floor starts to fill. Ethan kicks back his chair, unbuttons his collar, loosens that tie. The laughter doesn’t stop. Soon, I hope he will remember me and ask me to come to his table. But the minutes stretch on, the songs continue and, still, he doesn’t make a move. Eventually, I make my excuses to the extremely dull Mr Canning and weave my way through the tables to Ethan’s side. I wait until he finishes his conversation and then I kiss his cheek. He looks at me in surprise. Perhaps he had forgotten that I was here at all.
‘Dance with me, darling,’ I say brightly.
‘Have to keep the wife happy,’ he jokes and stands up. I take his hand and lead him to the dance floor. I risk a backwards glance and see that the laughter has gone from Colette’s lips.
Ethan takes me in his arms and we sway to whatever’s pounding out. His face is flushed with drink and he’s a bit unsteady on his feet. Trying to keep to the beat is pointless. I want to speak to him, be witty and bright, but my brain is frozen and nothing will come to my mouth. I hold onto him tightly for three songs but, already, he’s looking bored and his gaze starts to wander.
‘Is this a ladies’ excuse-me?’ Colette asks over my shoulder. Before I can answer or register a protest, she manoeuvres her way in between me and my husband with such breath-taking impudence that I have to give her credit for her audacity. ‘You don’t mind if I do, Lydia?’
I do mind, but how can I make a scene? These are Ethan’s staff, his colleagues. He would be embarrassed if I made a stand against her. And what if I lost? What if, publicly, he brushed me aside for her?
She sweeps Ethan away from me and he brightens instantly. Now I stand on the dance floor, alone, abandoned and I don’t quite know what to do. In days gone by, there would be a dozen men clamouring to take his place. But not now.
Gathering my senses, I hold my head high and walk from the dance floor. I may not have graced the catwalk, but I can still strut my stuff like a model. I’m not sure where I’m going, but my feet take me to the grand staircase again and I climb them on auto-pilot. When I reach the mezzanine floor, I lean on the balcony and watch the revellers below me. I’m breathing heavily, sounding as if I’ve exerted myself when I haven’t. It’s just that my body is having difficulty processing this. My heart is beating erratically and there’s a thrumming in my ears, the rush of blood. My cheeks blaze. I know that there have been others in the past. No one travels so regularly on business without finding some female company. I’ve been on the receiving end of enough male attention to be well aware of that.
I watch Ethan and Colette twirl round the floor, moving in unison. Ethan is a good dancer, something else that I used to love about him. I dig my nails into my palms and push the tears away with pain. A woman comes and stands next to me, leaning on the rail.
She nods at my husband below us. ‘He’s a slimy bastard,’ she says, casually. ‘He’s shagged his way through half of the office.’
My mouth goes dry.
‘He might be the President, but that doesn’t stop him from trying it on with just about every woman in the place.’
I turn to her. She is also young and pretty. ‘You too?’
‘Groped me in the lift after a long night in the bar at a conference. I should have slapped him with a sexual harassment complaint. But you don’t, do you?’
‘No,’ I agree. ‘You don’t.’
‘I got off lightly really.’ She swigs at the drink in her hand. ‘He’s married too.’
‘So I understand.’
‘I’ve heard she was a model. A real beauty once.’
‘Yes. I’d heard that too.’
‘She must be a bloody idiot. Or a saint.’
‘I think idiot.’
The girl laughs. ‘Yeah. You’re probably right. Poor bitch.’
Poor bitch, indeed.
My husband twirls Colette again and she tuts her disapproval at them. ‘She’s a bloody idiot too. She’s thinks she’s special. Her sort always do.’
And she’s right because I once was that sort too.
‘He’ll tire of her and move on.’ She points an accusing finger in Ethan’s direction. ‘He always does.’
She sounds too bitter and I wonder if their encounter went further than she’s admitting or whether her prospects suffered because it didn’t. The girl raises her eyebrows at me and lifts her glass. ‘Bar calls again,’ she says. ‘Can I get you one?’
‘No, thank you. But it’s very nice of you to ask.’
She leaves and it’s all I can do to hold myself upright. Bile rises to my throat. I thought that they respected him. Above everything, I thought that Ethan was held in high esteem by his co-workers. It seems that I was wrong about that too.
Reeling, I make my way to the powder room. Thankfully, I’m alone in there and I run my wrists under the cold tap. I’d like to splash water on my face too, but I can’t risk ruining my make-up. People would know that there’s something wrong and for the last ten years or more, I’ve been pretending that there isn’t. I rinse the sour taste from my tongue and stare at myself in the mirror. If I could will myself to be twenty years younger, then I would. I would do things differently, make different choices. But no matter, how hard I wish, it’s still resolutely the older me who looks back.
When did he last make love to me, my husband? When did he last tear the buttons from my blouse in his haste, rip my underwear from my body, consume me with hunger in his eyes, take me on the marble floor of the hall or in the leather seats of the Aston. Not for a long time. It has even been months since he grunted above me in the darkness of our bedroom.
When I feel that I can hide in here no longer –surely Ethan will be missing me now –I go back out onto the balcony. My chatty companion hasn’t reappeared and I take up my position again. The dance floor is crowded now. The party in full swing. My eyes search the gyrating bodies, but there’s no sign of Ethan or Colette. I swivel my gaze to their table, but they aren’t there either. Perhaps I should make my way down to the bar, grab some champagne, drink and be merry.
I can’t make another entrance down the main stairs. I can’t face it. I want to slide anonymously back to the party, so I make my way down the quiet side corridor and the back stairs. When I open the door, I see them there and I stop in my tracks, the shock making me stagger with pain as surely as if I’ve been stabbed in the heart.
Colette is pressed against the wall, the weight of my husband pinning her there. Her dress is hitched up to her thighs and I would have won my bet regarding her lack of underwear. The top of her dress is pulled down, exposing her breasts. With one hand, Ethan toys with a nipple. The other is between her legs and she squirms against his hand, head thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted in ecstasy. I remember that feeling. But only just.
I back out of the stairwell before they see me and I lean on the wall too, but not in ecstasy. My heart is hammering in my chest and I only know that I need to get out of here fast. Blackness threatens the edge of my vision. Biting down my panic, I walk to the foyer, smiling as I go. When I was a model I learned how to smile even when my feet were cold, or my back hurt or my head pounded. I developed my very own technique and now I’ve found that it also works when your heart is broken.
Retrieving my wrap from the cloakroom, I head out into the night. It’s a summer’s evening and London is muggy, heavy with exhaust fumes. I glance at my watch and see that it’s nearly midnight. The trees on Park Lane sparkle with white lights. I always think that they look Christmassy, somewhat strange in August. I slip off my shoes and hold them in my hand. High heels hurt my feet now and I think I have the beginnings of a bunion.
I make my way down Park Lane. Even at this hour the traffic is still busy. I wonder where they’re all going, where they’ve been. I wonder do they think of me. A middle-aged woman wandering alone in the middle of the night. I wonder do they realise, do they care that I might be suffering or in need of help. But I forget that I’m only bleeding inside.
I could have done so much with my life. I went to grammar school, I could have gone to university. A good one. In the days when not everyone went. But I chose to use my body and not my brains. It was on a rare day out to London that the model scout handed me a card. My parents were against it, of course. No one in our family had ever earned a living in such a frivolous way. I wonder where they are now, my mother and father. I haven’t seen them in years. Ethan was always reluctant to go to the small terraced house that they lived in and so we drifted apart. I didn’t want them uncomfortable in their own home. I’ve a sister too, similarly estranged.
We never had children either. Ethan isn’t much for families and I was always terrified of losing my figure. Can you imagine it? How could I waddle onto parties on yachts heavy with child in voluminous pregnancy dresses? Ethan would never have allowed it. That wasn’t what we were about as a couple. And I was frightened that he would want me to stay at home, out of sight, go off alone and leave me. Ironic really. I used to long for a daughter. Someone who I could bring up to be strong and independent. Someone who would find a man to love her for who she was, not how she looked.
I thought I would always be beautiful, always be wanted. Now my husband looks at younger women, the way he looked at me. His eyes and his hands tear the clothes from them too. The cars whoosh past me, billowing my dress. I pull my wrap tighter round me even though it isn’t cold. I walk the entire length of Park Lane, past the glitzy car showrooms, the lavish estate agents’ windows, the glittering hotel entrances. A few people pass me, but this is London, and they don’t look twice at the barefooted woman in their way. Eventually, I find my way back. There are tables outside The Dorchester, closed up for the night, patio heaters cold. I sit there watching the lights, letting my mind roam free. What will I do? Where will I go? Who will look after me? How will I live? What do you do when you are forty-five and have nothing to show for your life beyond a marvellous wardrobe and a hoard of designer shoes? I can’t hold a conversation. I can’t bake a cake. I can’t arrange flowers. For my entire marriage, I’ve been nothing but a shadow. A pretty, empty shadow.
When I next look at my watch its gone two o’clock. The night is cooler now, the traffic has slowed to a constant trickle and I’m shivering. I should reach inside myself and find anger, but all that’s there is fear. I’m afraid to confront Ethan. Afraid to confront my future. Afraid that if I cry or scream I will never stop. My feet are numb and my head throbs, but still I stay in my chair. I don’t know how long I wait, but eventually I notice that’s there’s a refreshing breeze. I can taste autumn in it, a subtle change, a freshening. I like autumn –a time when the old dies away heralding in the way for the new. I feel something in my heart gently settle. When I can put it off no longer, I pick up my shoes and head back into the hotel. The party is over. Streamers from party poppers litter the floor and weary, heavy-eyed staff tidy up and rearrange the tables. Soon there will be no sign of the party at all.
I make my way back up to our suite and let myself in, tossing my designer shoes to the floor. I can’t face the discomfort of them any longer. Ethan is sprawled out on the bed, naked, face down. He’s snoring heavily. His charcoal suit, his white shirt, his traitorous grey tie are scattered on the floor. The tie catches the moonlight and shines up at me. One by one, I pick them all up and put them on the clothes horse at the foot of the bed, folding the trousers carefully, smoothing down the lapels of the jacket as I have done for many years.
My suitcase is on the stand, still unpacked. Could I leave? Just walk out on my life? I pour myself a brandy from the decanter and go to the terrace. Looking out over London, the lights of the city beckon. It’s a place of infinite possibilities. I could lose myself here. I could start again. Learn things. Do things. Believe things. Look at my face in the mirror and like myself again. I had dreams. Once. I could have them again.
I take the last sip of the brandy and it burns down my throat and sizzles in my stomach like acid. The cut glass makes a clink when I put it back on the sideboard and I’m worried that it will rouse him. But he snores on, oblivious. He grunts and twitches, but doesn’t wake. Standing at the bottom of the bed, unmoving, I watch Ethan breathe, deeply, evenly. Nothing can disturb his sleep. Is this what I have to look forward to?
Quietly, I undo the zip of my overnight case-one from a matching set of Louis Vuitton. Inside my cosmetics bag, there’s a pair of nail scissors. I cross to the clothes horse. Carefully, meticulously I cut the bottom half from the grey silk tie and let it fall. It lies on the plush carpet, torn. There is hope in that severed tie, I think. Just a glimmer. But hope nevertheless.
I put the scissors away and zip up my case. It’s quite heavy but I don’t want to ring the concierge. I can manage by myself. I can manage everything by myself. I know I can. With one last lingering look at Ethan, I pull my wrap around me. When I leave, still barefoot, I softly close the door behind me.
The Art of Travel (#ulink_50b051bc-46b7-586e-b0a5-a79b1a161c37)
Elizabeth Buchan
ELIZABETH BUCHAN began her career as a blurb writer at Penguin Books and moved on to become a fiction editor at Random House before leaving to write full time. Her novels include Light of the Moon and the prize-winning Consider the Lily –reviewed in the Independent as ‘a gorgeously well written tale: funny, sad and sophisticated’. A subsequent novel, Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman, became an international bestseller and was made into a CBS Primetime Drama. This was followed by several other novels, including The Second Wife, Separate Beds and Daughters. She has just finished a novel about SOE agents operating in Denmark during the World War II.
Elizabeth Buchan’s short stories are broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and published in magazines. She reviews for the Sunday Times, has chaired the Betty Trask and Desmond Elliot literary prizes, and has been a judge for the Whitbread (now Costa) awards. She is a past Chairman of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, and is currently a patron of the Guildford Book Festival and The National Academy of Writing.
The Art Of Travel (#ulink_50b051bc-46b7-586e-b0a5-a79b1a161c37)
Polly consults the ferry timetable. Having puzzled over it many times during the past seven years, she knows its little ways.
Buried in its print, is the key to the vessels which skim over the sunlit Greek seas and plough through the stormy ones. And, yes, there is one due to sail from Piraeus at 11.30 the following morning. This gives Polly plenty of time to arrive at the port and to find a coffee and sandwich. She is sometimes sea-sick and copes better being so on a full stomach.
Dan used to tease her about that.
In Athens, she checks in at her usual hotel –discovered quite early on in her travels. It is cheap and central and nobody bothers about her there. In her room there are the familiar blue-and-white striped ticking window blinds and the matching bedspread.
The mirror is new though, and Polly peers into it. She has left London in a rush –working in the office until the very last-minute, which meant there had been no time for leisurely preparation. She doesn’t much care what she looks like but others do. If you’re travelling on your own, it’s best to make an effort.
She phones Nico at the salon.
‘Ah Polly, Polly. Please come at once.’
Nico owns a chain of hairdressing salons but is always to be found in the one near Avidi Square. He is waiting for her when she walks in.
‘Hallo beautiful Polly,’ he says in his mixture of Greek and English. ‘Very, very good to see you.’
Polly replies in a similar mixture of language–only, in her case as she often teases him, her Greek improves each year.
Nico sits her down and wraps her up in a gown. ‘Your hair is good.’ Their eyes meet in the mirror. ‘You have kept it well.’
She has. She has. Shoulder length and still blonde with touches of honey and toffee, Dan loved her hair.
Nico examines a lock in a professional manner. ‘A small trim?’
‘Please.’
He cuts it wet and gives Polly his news. The fifth grandchild arrived. The family is well. Times are hard.
He knows that Polly will not respond with similar information. Polly’s lack of family always shocks him.
The scissors emit a faintly metallic sound and, despite herself, the hairs on the back of Polly’s neck rise.
No, she lectures herself.
‘And where are going to this time, Polly?’
‘Skopolos.’
Nico cuts a meticulous half inch of hair across her back. He knows that, after his ministrations, Polly is unlikely to visit a hairdresser for weeks and he has a professional reputation to maintain.
‘Why Skopolos?’
‘I’ve never been there.’
‘When are you going?’
It’s a question Nico has asked seven times before and he knows the answer. He sighs and puts down the scissors. ‘Helena is expecting you at seven-ish. Is that alright?’
Polly grins at them both in the mirror. ‘Your wife is a very good woman.’
Helena never changes. Never looks a day older. Her hair is still as dark and her olive-y skin still as smooth.
‘You’re thinner,’ she says. She gives the once-over to Polly’s tamed, shining hair and her skinny jeans and jacket. ‘But very smart.’
Polly kisses Helena and gives her the selection of expensive teas she has bought from England. ‘I gather another grandchild has just arrived. I hope I’m no trouble.’
‘Trouble? My role is to deal with trouble. Nico earns our money. I arrange the important things.’
The new mother, Andrea, is sitting in the garden feeding the baby. Her other two children wheel like starlings around the adults who sit and gossip until Helena calls them into eat.
Halfway through the meal of rice and meatballs, Nico rises to his feet. ‘We are so glad to have you with us again, Polly. Nothing can take away the circumstances of how we met but the friendship which has come from them…well, there is something good.’ He raises his glass. ‘Let us meet for many, many more years.’
Towards midnight, Polly gets up to go. ‘How can I thank you both?’
The new baby cries and Andrea catches it up with a great deal of cooing and shushing. They are happy sounds.
Helena rests her hands on Polly’s shoulders. ‘Tomorrow is the anniversary…’
‘Yes.’
Walking hand in hand with Dan along a crowded Athens street. The car veering out of control. Body and bone impacting on it. Dan sprawled on the pavement outside Nico’s salon. Bright red blood. Too bright to look at.
Scissors in hand, Nico running out and shouting, ‘Get back everyone.’ Nico cutting Dan’s shirt away with the scissors.
Polly cradling Dan and begging him. ‘Don’t die.’
Nico holding Polly.
‘What time?’
‘Mid-morning.’
Helena looks long and hard into Polly’s eyes. What she sees evidently does not please her. ‘Spend it with us,’ she says. ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow and the whole family will be here. I keep telling you that you should be with family and not travelling alone.’
Polly says. ‘I think it’s what I do best now.’
She kisses them all fondly, thanks them over and over again and returns to her silent room in the hotel.
Emerging from the Metro the following morning, the warmth hits her. It’s 22 or 23 degrees which is normal for late spring. Knowing what to expect, she is dressed in linen trousers and good quality cotton T-shirt unlike many of the sweating, overdressed tourists who are arriving from the airport.
She makes for the coffee shop adjacent to departure gate E8 and queues.
‘I’m worn out,’ says the woman directly in front of Polly.
Her companion, a woman with white hair and bright pink lipstick, looks alarmed. ‘We’ve only just got here.’
‘And my feet have swollen.’ The woman points to her unsuitable leather shoes. ‘See.’
Polly has some sympathy. She remembers the early years of her annual pilgrimages. The decision to go, but where? What to wear? What to pack? How to live without Dan? The unknown is tiring and mistakes are made.
Coffee in hand, she moves off to join the queue for the ferry –and spots that the handsome local hustler dressed up in a fake uniform is back in business. She watches him size up an affluent looking older couple with copious amounts of luggage and slip into his routine. He is so charming. So persuasive. Within minutes, they will allow him to carry their bags to the head of the impatient queue…’the captain would wish it’. Only then, would he demand a hefty tip.
She listens to the subsequent row, which she can rehearse, almost word for word. Should she have intervened? Perhaps she should have done. Yet, the most useful experience is the most hard-won and Piraeus is a tough, chaotic place.
The queue moves forward. Embarked, Polly will head forward, which allows her to manoeuvre between sun and shade, her book for the trip easily accessible in a rucksack pocket. This year it is Anna Karenina, and she anticipates biting down on Tolstoy’s combination of story and philosophy. The idea of reading only one book on her travels is to ensure that its text becomes second nature. In this way, she has tackled seven classics, each one soldered imaginatively to the place she read them. Great Expectations is Rhodes. A Portrait of a Lady is Crete.
At the front of the ferry, she would watch the sea, with a touch of heat haze layering above it. At Skopolos the ferry would lumber into its berth with the usual noise of arrival in any port. Then, she would search for a bed and breakfast. Check for insects. Check the water ran properly. Check for an extra blanket. She would be loose in time and space, her past discarded as easily as tossing old bread crust into the water.
Dan.
Seven years ago, he died. Her new husband. Each year, on the anniversary, she travels alone, for three weeks or so, and always around the Greek islands. It is something which is now second nature. Cyclades, Dodecanese…there were as many as there were years in which to face life without Dan.
The sun was growing hotter. The queue is undulating. She swings her rucksack up onto her back. Her foot is on the gangplank…
Dan.
Dan?
She feels his hand grasp her hair. The smell of him which she loved.
She needed him. He needed her.
His warm skin.
He is living in her, and she suspects he always will.
Polly, he says. Don’t do this.
Why tell me now? she cries silently. I am about to go in pursuit of the memories.
Because Polly…
Suddenly, she swivels on her heel and, pushing her way through the hot, cross tourists, retraces her steps. In the Metro she is forced to balance her rucksack on her knees. Dense with odours of discarded food and bodies crushed too tight together, it is impossible to read.
It is late afternoon when she reaches Nico and Helena’s house. The front door is open and in Polly walks.
The kitchen is very warm, steamy and filled with good cooking smells. Nico is chopping onions and Helena is stirring a pot on the stove. The table is piled with vegetables and cheeses wrapped in waxy paper. Since yesterday, someone had strung dried peppers over the door leading to the garden and they make a necklace of blood red drops.
‘Hallo.’
Helena drops the spoon into the pot. ‘Polly…’
‘Do you mind? I have come back…like you said.’
Helena gestures to the garden where the table has been laid. ‘We allocated you a place.’
‘How did you know?’
‘We didn’t. But each year Nico and I hope.’
Polly licked her fingertip and caught up a grain of sea salt on a chopping board and put it in her mouth. The insides of her cheeks pucker.
Nico continues with his chopping. ‘You can only go on so long, Polly. The time comes…’
‘You are good to me,’ she says with a rush of emotion.
Helena wipes her hands on her apron and grabs Polly’s hand. ‘Do you remember…afterwards that you came to stay with us and we looked after you? That makes you family.’
The onions were making Polly cry. She holds on to Helena’s hand. ‘I suddenly thought I didn’t want to be alone today. And Nico…’
Nico stopped the chopping.
‘Nico, you knew Dan. For just a few seconds, but they were important ones. You shared the moment of his death.’
Nico frowns and Helena shakes her head at him. ‘Go on Polly.’
‘I can’t go on thinking about it. I can’t go over, and over the details any more.’
‘At last,’ says Nico.
‘It’s as if I am travelling over the same ground, over and over again, and never getting anywhere.’ She pauses. ‘I never arrive, however carefully I prepare.’
Helena extracts a clean knife from the rack and hands it to Polly. ‘The tomatoes need chopping. Can you do that?’
Polly smiles. ‘In slices?’
‘If you like. They’re for the sauce.’
‘But I must do it right.’
‘You do it the way which suits you,’ said Helena.
Polly sets to, the red flesh falling away from the knife blade and the seeds spurting onto the board in a crimson gel. Just like blood. She hesitates.
‘Go on Polly,’ urges Helena. ‘It’s getting late.’
Polly smiles at them both to show that she is perfectly in control. Her movements gather speed and dexterity.
Helena adds a handful of thyme to the saucepan. ‘A bed is made up,’ she says. ‘No need to go back to the hotel.’
She glances at her watch. At this moment, the ferry would be berthing at Skopolos and a brief, but intense, regret flits through her mind. Then it is gone.
She glances up at the laid table where her place is waiting to be occupied. The image of Dan, held so long and violently in her mind, dims and softens into the bearable.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’
The Rough with the Smooth (#ulink_ef5933af-9f97-5a80-8ab5-b3abbee03cb5)
Elizabeth Chadwick
Born in Bury, Lancashire, ELIZABETH CHADWICK began telling herself stories as soon as she could talk. She is the author of more than twenty historical novels, which have been translated into sixteen languages. Five times shortlisted for the Romantic Novelists’ Association Major Award, her novel To Defy A King won the historical prize in 2011. The Greatest Knight, about forgotten hero William Marshal, became a New York Times bestselling title, and its sequel The Scarlet Lion was nominated by Richard Lee, founder of the Historical Novel Society, as one of the best historical novels of the decade. The Summer Queen, the first novel in her new trilogy about Eleanor of Aquitaine was published in June 2013.
When not at her desk in her country cottage, she can be found researching, taking long walks with her husband and their three terriers, reading, baking, and drinking tea in copious quantities.
She can be contacted at her website www.elizabethchadwick.com (http://www.elizabethchadwick.com) At Twitter @chadwickauthor (http://twitter.com/chadwickauthor) On Facebook https://www.facebook.com/elizabeth.chadwick.90 (https://www.facebook.com/elizabeth.chadwick.90)
The Rough With The Smooth (#ulink_ef5933af-9f97-5a80-8ab5-b3abbee03cb5)
May 1164
Isabel Countess de Warenne was smiling as she supervised the flurry of activity in her chamber. Spring sunshine spilled through the open shutters, flooding the room with light and drawing in the garland scent of tender greenery. It was time to wash and scrub the linens, to beat the old season out of blankets and hangings, and to let new air into the room.
She and Hamelin had married seven weeks ago, and the sky had done nothing but rain ever since. Not that they had noticed at first, being too caught up in discovering that sometimes, against the odds, arranged marriages were very compatible. However, emerging from their cocoon of mutual delight, the constant rain had been a source of nuisance and concern; it was a relief to see the sun.
Hamelin was the King’s half-brother and had needed an inheritance to bolster his standing at court. She was the means of providing that inheritance –a wealthy widow, just over thirty years old with castles and vast estates to her name. They had known each other for several years from a polite distance that had not allowed any room for intimacy: glance and a bow at court; a curtsey and move on. That was until the King had given the command that they wed, and without recourse to refusal.
The potential for disaster had been huge but the opposite had happened. It was a long time since Isabel had felt so happy and fulfilled. Indeed, after the death of her first husband while on campaign in Toulouse, she had not expected to ever feel whole again. But now the sun had emerged and the world was glittering and new, like a golden chalice sparkling with pale green wine, waiting like a loving cup to be shared.
Hamelin had ridden out on the King’s business and she had decided to use the time to spruce up their chamber so that she could surprise him on his return.
Her steward, Thomas D’Acre, entered the room and bowed. ‘Madam, there are men at the gate craving entrance,’ he announced, his expression screwed up and doubtful. ‘Their leader claims to be a close friend of my lord Hamelin, but I have not heard of him before and he is dressed like a ruffian. He gives his name as Geoffrey of le Mans.’
Isabel had not heard Hamelin speak of such a friend, nor had she encountered anyone of that name at court. Although England was at peace these days, common scoundrels still abounded and with Hamelin away it would be the height of folly to admit someone lacking credentials. Perhaps there was a good reason for their arrival while her husband was absent.
‘I will come and look,’ she said, and bidding her women continue with their task, she followed Thomas to the gatehouse where she climbed the tower to look down at their prospective visitors. They were as Thomas had stated: a rough looking group, mud-spattered and clad in rough woollens, scuffed and disreputable. Their leader, red in the face, was bellowing at the gate guards, calling them turds and idiots, and waving his fist. Isabel could see a sword hilt poking out from beneath his cloak.
‘Tell him to come back when my husband is at home,’ she told Thomas, looking down her nose at such uncouth behaviour. ‘They are not dressed like noblemen or anyone he would know. If they are mercenaries looking to be hired, they can go and bide their time in Lynn.’
‘I thought that too, Madam.’ Standing tall and expanding his chest, Thomas went off to deal with the situation.
Feeling like a bird with ruffled feathers, Isabel returned to her spring refurbishment, chivvying the maids and immersing herself in the task until she began to feel less perturbed. Incidents such as this brought back disturbing memories of the violent war for the throne that had engulfed England for fifteen years; when strangers at the castle gate meant danger of attack and no one could be trusted.
The exquisite whitework embroidery on the new coverlet, the jug of spring flowers on the polished coffer, and the honey scent of beeswax permeating the room eventually worked their spell and Isabel was able to put the visitors to the back of her mind. She went to sit at her sewing frame in the embrasure, where she could look out on the lovely spring day while working on the tunic hem she was embroidering for Hamelin. Selecting a warm red silk, she threaded her silver needle and began work on the lion she had outlined yesterday.
It was early afternoon when the horn sounded at the gate again. Isabel looked up from her work, her stomach lurching with anticipation and anxiety. When Thomas sent a squire to tell her that the Earl had returned, she abandoned her sewing and flew down the stairs to the hall, arriving to greet him just as he walked in from the yard.
Her heart opened wide at the sight of him; his height, his thick tawny-gold hair and warm brown eyes with smile creases at their edges. She greeted him with a proper formal curtsey to his bow, and although she was past thirty years old, she felt like a girl in the first flush of new love.
‘Husband,’ she murmured.
‘Wife,’ Hamelin responded, the word full of intimacy and amused affection.
Blushing, she took him up to their chamber so that he could refresh himself, and because she wanted him to see the changes she had made. She watched his reaction as he paused on the threshold and gazed round the fresh, refurbished chamber. ‘You have been busy,’ he said with approval. ‘Very restful indeed.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘I like everything you do.’ He pulled her to him, nuzzling her throat and kissing her softly on the lips. ‘I have to say the bed looks very inviting.’
Isabel laughed and nestled against his broad chest. ‘Indeed it is, but you need to take your boots off before you try it. And are you not hungry?’
‘I’m ravenous but not necessarily for food.’ Giving her a wicked look, he sat down swiftly on the box chair at the bedside and began tugging off his footwear.
Isabel dismissed the servants with a peremptory wave of her hand, and as the door closed behind the last one, knelt to help him with the task. With gentle fingers he removed her headdress and unwound her braids, letting her hair tumble around them in waves of heavy brunette silk: a sight and a privilege reserved only for a husband. He was indeed ravenous but he wanted this particular banquet to go on for ever.
‘We had some disreputable visitors while you were gone,’ Isabel said some considerable time later as they lazed in the aftermath of their lovemaking. ‘But Thomas saw them off.’
‘What do you mean “disreputable”?’ He had been stroking his forefinger up and down her bare arm but now he pulled back slightly, alert to the suggestion of danger.
‘Mercenary types looking to hire their swords but it might be wise to send men out to see if they caused troubled in any of the villages. Their leader claimed to know you but I doubt it. I told them to come back when you were home and that there was accommodation in Lynn should they wish to wait: I had no intention of allowing them under my roof.’
‘Did their leader give a name?’ There was a frown between Hamelin’s brows as he reached for his discarded shirt.
‘Yes, Geoffrey of le Mans. He was not the sort of person I would want to admit through my gates the way he looked and behaved. What’s wrong?’
Hamelin had stiffened as she spoke the name and his frown had deepened.
‘Geoffrey of le Mans,’ he said. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Red hair, red beard with a white streak in the centre. Not a young man and dressed like a common peasant with manners to suit.’ Isabel bit her lip. ‘Surely you don’t know him?’
‘Very well indeed,’ Hamelin said grimly. ‘He’s my mother’s cousin and was one of my father’s most trusted knights, not to mention my tutor in arms and horsemanship when I was a boy.’
Isabel swallowed. ‘He was dressed like a common hired soldier. Anyone looking at him would think he had mischief in mind!’
‘Life is not like a tale spun by a troubadour,’ he said curtly and began dressing rapidly. ‘If a man has been on the road for a while or met with difficult circumstances, he may not arrive at your door looking as if he’s about to dine at a court banquet.’
‘And what if I had admitted him and he had turned out to be a thief and cutthroat? How was I to know?’ Tears prickled her eyes at the injustice of his words.
Hamelin sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots. ‘Would you say that if the Christ Child came calling dressed in rags? Would you turn Him away because you were not to know?’
Her own anger began to rise. ‘So by that rule do you expect me to admit every beggar and vagabond that arrives at our gates and sit them at our table?’
‘By that rule I expect you not to judge people by their appearances. You have offended not only my kin but a very fine and old friend, and this might cost me that friendship.’ He stood up, his face flushed with anger. ‘Go and consult your mirror and your etiquette concerning the matter of true courtesy. You will greet all guests as my guests, not just your own.’
Isabel watched him, a lump of misery in her stomach that felt like a lead weight. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked as he stalked towards the door.
‘To find him and atone where I can, because I doubt he will want to come back this way after the treatment he received.’ He clattered from the room and she heard him calling to his men.
Isabel gave a soft gasp and pulled the covers over her head. She was angry at the way he had spoken to her but she was chastised too. She should have investigated further and not been so swift to judge. She had been too involved in sprucing up the bedchamber and too wary to consider further. Refusal had been the easiest road to take.
It was the first argument of their marriage and her heart was bruised in a way that it would never be bruised again.
Riding on the Lynn road, Hamelin encountered a large alehouse that had recently brewed a fresh batch as denoted by the bunch of evergreen hanging on a pole outside the door. Dismounting, he handed his horse to his squire and entered the establishment. The trestles were full of drinkers; Dame Agatha’s brew was famous and when the sign of the bush went up outside her dwelling, men flocked to taste her ale. Seated around a table at the back of the room was a motley group of men, muddy from travel. They looked weary but well able to handle themselves, especially one with a beard of rust and silver, and sharp grey eyes.
Hamelin signalled to the pot boy and walked over to them. ‘I hear you have been creating mayhem over at Acre, cousin,’ he said, as he sat down on the bench. ‘My good wife thought you were up to no good.’
Geoffrey of Le Mans raised his brow. ‘I came to wish you well of your marriage,’ he replied. ‘I did not expect to be turned away from your gate like a common vagabond.’
‘I am sorry for that. Had I been home, it would have been a different matter. It is a pity no one was there who would recognise you, but they were my wife’s attendants. After all the troubles of Stephen’s reign, the Countess is wary –and justly so.’
‘You make excuses?’
Hamelin gestured at his friend’s rough tunic. ‘You must admit that you are hardly dressed to announce your rank.’
Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. Hamelin met his gaze steadily, feeling like the youth he had once been, training under the knight’s stern scrutiny. ‘Well, that is true,’ Geoffrey said after a long moment. ‘But we had suffered a difficult sea crossing and I thought we could make ourselves presentable at your fine castle –but we were turned away.’
‘I am sorry for that, as I have said, and so is my lady, and I have come to make amends. You are very welcome at the castle, although I will understand if you choose not to ride back my way.’
Geoffrey gave him another long look. ‘Perhaps I shall ride your way, and look forward to a welcome, but it will be in my own time.’ He leaned forward on the trestle. ‘Now, since you have a full pitcher in front of you, let us catch up on old times, and then move on to new.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Hamelin said with a smile.
It was very late, and Isabel had given up on Hamelin when he finally returned to Castle Acre. She ran to her chamber door but immediately thought better of it. Whatever was said was probably best done in private, not in the hall.
Her heart started to pound as she heard footsteps on the stairs. Hamelin opened the door and walked in. His tread was steady; he was not drunk but as he came to her she could smell drink on his breath.
‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I should not have been so swift to judge.’
He touched her face. ‘I am sorry too. I should not have been so swift to castigate you for your prudence. There has been no harm done. Geoffrey saw the humour in the situation and agreed that he could have arrived better presented. He swears he will wear his best robes next time he comes to visit.’ He gave her a large embrace. ‘You must not mistake me if I ever come home in muddy boots!’
She gave him a little push, feeling giddy with relief that the awkward moment was over and all seemed to have been resolved. ‘I thought you might not come back,’ she admitted.
‘Why would I do that? Geoffrey is good company, but you are more beautiful and I would rather sleep in my own bed than on an alehouse mattress.’
That made her feel guilty for a moment, thinking of the troop she had turned away, but Hamelin’s evident good humour made her cheerful enough to set it aside.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Bring your cloak and walk with me.’
Strolling at his side, with his arm around her waist, and the world to themselves, Isabel felt the last of her unease slip away and was supremely content.
Standing on tiptoe, she murmured in Hamelin’s ear, and when he turned to her with an exclamation of delight, she smiled and drew his hand to her womb and kissed him in the moon-silvered night.
Hamelin was out riding when the troop of horsemen arrived at the gates of Castle Acre. Isabel was inspecting a new horse in the stables when Thomas came to her with the news. ‘Sir Geoffrey of le Mans is back, my lady,’ he said wryly.
‘Bid him enter and be welcome,’ she replied in a calm voice, although her heart had begun to pound. She decided she had better follow Thomas to the gate and greet them herself.
She was in time to see the great wooden doors creak open and a band of riders trot through the gateway, clad in rich garments and furs that would not have looked out of place at a tournament parade. The horses had been groomed until their hides shone. Harness gleamed and sparkled, sunbursts dazzling on bits and stirrups. Even the pack ponies were spruced, with smart saddlecloths and scarlet ribbons plaited in their manes.
The leading rider swung down from a glossy black stallion and knelt to her, elegantly flicking his blue woollen cloak out of the way. The cuffs of his tunic were embroidered in red and gold, banded with small seed pearls. Behind him his men dismounted and knelt too in a jingle of harness and shiny equipment. ‘Geoffrey de le Mans, your servant, Madam Countess,’ he said. ‘I trust I meet your exacting standards today.’
Isabel curtseyed and knew she was blushing because her cheeks were hot. ‘I have no complaint sire,’ she said. ‘Please accept my apology for the previous occasion and be welcome at Castle Acre. Will you come in and take refreshment?’
Before the kneeling man could reply, Hamelin rode through the gate at a canter, his garments and horse mud-spattered from a swift ride over moist ground.
A smile lit in Geoffrey’s eyes. ‘Who is this vagabond?’ he demanded. ‘Shall I see him off for you, Madam?’ He set his hand lightly to his gleaming sword hilt.
Isabel laughed, ‘I can do that for myself if I so choose,’ she said, entering into the spirit of the teasing.
Hamelin clapped Geoffrey on the shoulder and then turned to his wife. ‘I would far rather be taken hostage to good food, fine wine shared with friends and kin, and then a warm bed shared only by my wife.’
‘I am sure that can be arranged,’ Isabel said demurely as he slipped his arm around her waist.
The company entered the castle together. Once inside, Geoffrey formally presented Isabel and Hamelin with a wedding gift of a set of silver gilt spoons for the high table, wrapped in a valuable purple silk cloth. Once they had thanked him and marvelled at the exquisite workmanship, he produced another set and presented them to Isabel with a flourish. This time the spoons were fashioned of rustic, crudely carved wood, standing upright in a plain earthenware jar.
‘For any eventuality you may come across,’ he said with a twinkle in his eyes.
Isabel thanked him. ‘You are very thoughtful,’ she said gravely. ‘I promise that I shall always hold them both in equal esteem.’
Author’s Note (#ulink_6918b52b-ca97-5c60-83f5-1b5aa079902e)
Isabel de Warenne was a wealthy widow who married King Henry II’s illegitimate half-brother Hamelin in 1164. Hamelin took her name as his as far as the family line went and they seem to have had a long and happy marriage blessed by a son and three daughters.
Castle Acre in Norfolk was the core castle of Isabel’s estates, but Hamelin went on to build a magnificent fortress in Yorkshire at Conisburgh. The couple will feature significantly in my forthcoming trilogy about Eleanor of Aquitaine, The Summer Queen, The Winter Crown and The Autumn Throne.
Living the Dream (#ulink_6918b52b-ca97-5c60-83f5-1b5aa079902e)
Katie Fforde
KATIE is currently the President of the RNA and the author of twenty books. She lives in the Cotswolds with her husband, some of her three children, and three dogs. Her hobbies include being a member of a choir and Lindy Hop, a new hobby which may or may not be continued.
She declares herself to be the RNA’s biggest fan.
Living the Dream (#ulink_6918b52b-ca97-5c60-83f5-1b5aa079902e)
Isobel had always been a fan of those books set in Cornwall, where the sea roiled (there was never a book when it didn’t) and the sun danced like stars on the waves. Either the sun shone like it hadn’t done for years in real life, or the sky brooded and storms blew, lightning highlighting the passion of secret lovers, or murders, or books containing the dark secrets of the ancient family.
There was always a matriarch, always beautiful, and either with an amazing talent for something –opera singing, poetry, painting –or with a secret. Every man she met fell in love with her, even when she was in her seventies.
Life was not like this for Isobel. She had a perfectly happy life but as she had got older, her confidence had begun to wane and she longed to be the sort of powerful, charismatic older woman who starred in those books.
She also wanted the beautiful house in Cornwall. Instead of the large, detached house with plenty of garden on the edge of a very pleasant town, where she had brought up her children and where she and her husband still lived, she yearned for a wild cliff top, or the bottom of a wooded valley, either an ancient farmhouse, a large Victorian mansion, or even an architect-designed modern house with spectacular views. All of these imaginary houses would have some sort of dwelling in the grounds. Her favourite daydream was a boathouse; there was something very sexy about a boathouse.
One year, she decided to make her dream real. She searched the internet exhaustively and eventually found the perfect house. It didn’t have another dwelling in the grounds but it was right on the river and the views were sensational. She went to find her husband who was working on a model ship in his shed. He was always working on a model ship in his shed, apparently finding this more absorbing than the company of his wife, now the children had all left home.
‘Darling, I want to take the whole family on holiday. Jenny said the other day they couldn’t afford to go away this year and I suddenly thought what fun it would be to get together.’ She glanced at him and then went on. ‘It would be good for the grandchildren to spend quality time with each other.’
Rather to her surprise he didn’t grunt when she said ‘quality time’. Instead, he nodded. ‘And we pay for it all?’
‘Yes,’ Isobel said firmly. The children would never give up their holiday allowance to go to Cornwall if they had to pay.
‘OK,’ he said, and went back to his scale model of the Cutty Sark.
Isobel went back to the house, half annoyed that he hadn’t said, ‘But I wanted to take you to Antibes,’ and delighted that he’d agreed to her plan.
Her husband’s early retirement had been a bit disappointing. She’d imagined lovely days out and meals in pubs now they had time to be with each other but mostly he made models. And nowadays, if she asked him if she looked all right, he always said ‘fine’ but never glanced in her direction.
Her three children, two sons and a daughter, all married or with partners, were all keen on the idea of a paid-for holiday in a luxury holiday home. ‘Lovely to have built-in baby-sitters,’ said one son. ‘Good to have time to catch up with the sibs,’ said another.
Isobel made the booking. Now she would live the dream. She would become charismatic, beautiful, in spite of her nearly sixty years. She wouldn’t just be ‘good old Mum’.
What she hadn’t envisaged when she’d been searching for the perfect house was the amount of cooking and washing up a family holiday with grandchildren entailed –all in a kitchen a lot less well organised than her own. It was not so much ‘living the dream’ as ‘living the washing up’. What had seemed such a good idea in January, when she booked the house, now seemed a terrible idea. As for her transformation into the heroine of one of those books, she felt more like the faithful family housekeeper than her employer.
The men all loved cooking –that wasn’t a problem –except they used every implement in the house and while they sloshed water around quite a bit, they somehow never actually cleared up. Considering they had cooked this seemed sort of OK, but it was the same when she cooked. Her husband wiped half washed saucepans with clean tea towels, which meant very soon none of the tea towels were clean.
She realised sadly that she was not a matriarch, she was a woman who was a member of a book group, shopped in Waitrose and had to travel with her own pillows. And while, during the holiday at least, she had some trappings of the Yummy Mummy –the pale marks on the shoulder of every garment, the faint odour of sour milk, and Babybels loose in her handbag ready to feed a hungry toddler at a moment’s notice –she didn’t feel remotely yummy. And she didn’t even have a wicked past to look back on either. She’d married young, had children and stayed married. Her life was completely free of delicious memories of past loves. What had always seemed something to be admired now seemed plain boring.
At least the holiday was going well. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Days on the beach with the children, with Grandpa willing to go rock pooling, buy ice creams and carry small children for miles. And later, meals cooked and served at the huge table with ample quantities of wine. Yet somehow she still found herself doing most of the donkeywork. Everyone was happy to fill the dishwasher but no one wanted to empty it, carrying the clean things to a cupboard across the kitchen. It was a job Isobel hated too but still found herself doing it several times a day.
One morning, when she’d got up early to do the washing up that the men had sworn they’d do, she went on strike halfway through. She made herself a cup of tea and took the visitors’ book out onto the terrace. The sun was shining and no one else was up. She felt entitled to a few moments not looking after people. These moments were hers.
Earlier, when they’d first arrived at the house and were reading the instructions to the Aga and the telephone number of the woman who ‘did’ plus the way to the nearest beach, which was several miles through traffic-filled lanes, Isobel had looked at the visitors’ book. In it had been a name she’d recognised. A man she’d known briefly and rather fancied –Leo Stark –had obviously stayed at the same house with his family. They’d both been married when they met but she was fairly sure there’d been some sort of spark.
On impulse she went to find her phone and emailed him. After all, there were no other ways she could rebel that wouldn’t impinge unpleasantly on someone else. This was a little private thing that would go no further.
‘Dear Leo, I’m sure you won’t remember me, Isobel Dunbar, but we met at the McCreadys’ once. We’re staying in the house where you stayed last year. Such a coincidence, I had to get in touch.’
Feeling very slightly naughty, and so cheered up, she went back into the house to finish the clearing she had abandoned.
Very much to her surprise she had a reply from Leo. She sneaked a look, feeling wonderfully teenage, while supervising the two-year-old’s porridge consumption.
‘Isobel! Of course I remember you! How could I forget? And by an amazing coincidence we’re down here too! Do you think you could manage a lunch? Not the whole family, just us?’
She was so shocked and delighted she couldn’t even think of replying. She just held her glorious –and guilty –secret to herself. She whizzed through the chores and even made up some batter for pancakes for breakfast. She almost ran down the lane to the little shop that stocked everything a holidaymaker might require and was open almost continuously. She panted back up the hill clutching croissants and maple syrup.
‘Mum!’ said her daughter, a plump baby on her hip. ‘You didn’t get any nappies while you were in the shop, did you? We’re nearly out.’
‘Sorry, darling, I didn’t know about the nappies and just thought it would be fun to have pancakes.’ The adrenalin shot of the email protected her from resentment. ‘Now, shall I take Immi so you can start frying?’
All day she was superwoman. She packed a picnic of homemade pizzas and sent the whole lot off to the beach. ‘I’ll meet you at lunchtime. There are just a few things I want to do here!’ she said, as she waved them off.
Then she ran to her phone. ‘It’s as if I have a lover!’ she told herself, slightly breathless, as she switched it on. The thought of having a lover was like being submerged by a huge wave and then being lifted up by the same wave. She couldn’t decide if the feeling of exhilaration matched the feeling of utter doom. It was while she was feeling ridiculously happy she wrote a quick reply: ‘That should be possible. When did you have in mind? Not today,’ she added hurriedly.
She doubted if Leo had had to tidy the kitchen, go shopping and make pancakes –not to mention the picnic –in order to have a few moments to send an email, but was very pleased to hear the ping of a reply while she was clearing up sodden towels from the shower. It was him. He mentioned a pub in a little village a reassuring distance from the house: ‘Tomorrow any good? We’re going back at the end of the week.’
‘Lovely,’ she wrote back, not giving herself time to think further. If she passed up this opportunity it wouldn’t happen and she’d regret it for ever. ‘One o’clock?’
Feeling as guilty as if she had made a pact with the devil, Isobel made her way to the beach, bringing chilled bottles, extra cardies and some sunscreen with her.
‘Oh great, beer,’ said one of her sons, taking a couple of bottles out of her bag, which had been very heavy.
‘That’s fine, darling,’ Isobel muttered. ‘It was no trouble bringing it at all…’
The following morning Isobel got everyone’s attention at breakfast time –as far as one could, given that they all had separate distractions. ‘I’m going out for the day,’ she said. ‘I’ll be taking the car.’
‘What do you want to do that for?’ asked her husband, utterly bemused.
‘Oh you know. I just need a bit of time on my own. “Me time”.’ She bit her lip to stop herself adding ‘because I’m worth it.’
‘Will you be back to help with bath-time?’ asked one daughter-in-law. ‘You promised to read Otto a story!’
‘I’ll be back in plenty of time for that.’
‘This is a bit out of left-field, isn’t it?’ said a son.
‘Yes, and what about supper?’ asked her daughter. ‘What are we having?’
‘Why don’t you decide?’ she asked. She turned to leave but before she had got out of the room her daughter stopped her.
‘Don’t you think you ought to at least wash your hair first?’
Isobel laughed. ‘Oh no, my hair is just fine.’
She managed not to spray gravel as she drove away, feeling as if the family car had turned into a getaway vehicle. In her Cath Kidson shopper, like stolen goods, were as many of her clothes that she felt she could get away with taking, and her entire make-up kit. Her holiday packing had not included control pants or a sexy dress but she had bought a couple of new tops and some new linen trousers that were quite flattering. She knew of a public lavatory with quite big cubicles, she’d do her changing there.
Her hair would be sorted by a quick wash and blow-dry at a local salon. It couldn’t go too wrong and if it did, she could gussy it up with some products that the local Boots would provide. She was going to enjoy every minute of this.
But in between the wonderful excitement came troughs of guilt. She was struggling into her new trousers in the public convenience, giggling at the ridiculousness of it all, when she suddenly pictured her husband. What would happen if he found out? She suddenly felt sick. It would be too awful. He would be so hurt. Her mouth went dry and for a moment she couldn’t move. After a few minutes she collected herself and carried on getting dressed in a more sombre manner. She walked out of the cubicle in two minds. Should she cancel?
A glance in the mirror decided her. She was looking good. Well, as good as she could look given the circumstances. The local salon had done a good job on her hair and her new clothes were nice. She would meet an old friend for lunch, she would do a bit of shopping and then go back in time to bathe the babies and cook supper. After she’d had her few hours of intrigue would she go back to her humdrum role of wife and mother and not care that no one seemed to appreciate her, let alone treat her as the sort of goddess who starred in her favourite sort of reading material. She would have her secret, even if it was a very small one.
She felt so sick with nerves when she arrived at the pub that she nearly turned round and went back to the holiday house. But she knew she’d regret it if she did that –and it was only lunch, for God’s sake. She and Leo might wonder what on earth they had ever seen in each other. She would more than likely go home wondering what on earth she’d gone to all that trouble for –but she had to find out.
Leo was waiting for her, watching the door for her to come in, and stood up the moment she appeared. She recognised him instantly, and going by the smile on his face he recognised her too.
They hugged briefly, and then Isobel sat down. Her knees were shaking.
‘What can I get you?’ Leo asked.
‘A white wine spritzer,’ she said. She needed at least some alcohol to get her through this. And if she stuffed herself with sandwiches when she was alone again, after the salad she would have in front of Leo, she should be OK to drive back.
‘So, Isobel. This is so nice.’ His words were bland but the expression in his eyes was anything but. She may have forgotten some of the signs but she was fairly sure she saw a twinkle of admiration. ‘I’ve often wondered what would have happened if we hadn’t both been married when we met.’
Isobel took a sip of her drink –she wouldn’t have been able to talk if she hadn’t. ‘But we were both married and still are.’
He smiled ruefully and nodded. ‘So there’s no point in suggesting we get a room then?’
She started to laugh. It was so ridiculous. He laughed too and then they were both chuckling away. Isobel knew it was a release of tension –for her anyway –but whatever the reason it was lovely.
‘All I can say,’ he said, when they had recovered themselves, ‘is that your husband is a very lucky man. Now what would you like for lunch?’
When Isobel drove away from the pub she was on a cloud. Her self-esteem had rocketed and she felt powerful and attractive. Nothing untoward had happened during the lunch but she knew Leo had fancied her. She may not be a matriarch, adored by all, but she now had a secret, even if it wasn’t really a wicked one.
Rather to her surprise, the family was all in the kitchen when she arrived. As they all had slightly odd expressions she wondered for one ghastly moment if she had been discovered.
‘Mum!’ said her daughter, coming forward and kissing her. ‘You look great! Got your hair done?’ Isobel nodded. ‘Which is good because we’ve got a plan!’
‘We’re going out for dinner,’ said her husband.
Isobel beamed, her happiness and relief when she realised she hadn’t been discovered having lunch with another man. ‘How lovely!’
‘We realised you’ve spent most of the holiday looking after us, so today I’m taking you out,’ her husband said. ‘And Adam has kindly offered to take us and pick us up so we can drink.’ He smiled at her and she recognised the man she had once been madly in love with.
All she really wanted from life was with her right now. She didn’t really need a secret or a luscious Cornish house.
‘Lovely, I’ll go and get ready then.’
‘The table’s not booked until seven,’ said her daughter. ‘You can still help with bath time…’
‘I’d love to,’ she said.
True Love (#ulink_1db6ae0d-b61f-5f4a-b420-c34af6fd959d)
Maureen Lee
MAUREEN LEE has had twenty-seven novels published, most of them family sagas, one of which won the Romantic Novel of the Year Award in 2000. In an earlier life she sold about 150 short stories to magazines all over the world. Her musical play, When Adam Delved and Eve Span, had a three-week run at the Mercury Theatre in Colchester. She is married to Richard and has three grown up sons. After writing, her main interests are politics and reading other authors’ books.
True Love (#ulink_1db6ae0d-b61f-5f4a-b420-c34af6fd959d)
The sun came out, flooding the room with brilliant light. Although his eyes were closed, the man turned restlessly on the bed and uttered a little moan. The sudden light had disturbed him. His wife rose and hurriedly pulled the curtains together, then returned to her chair beside the bed. She smoothed his brow.
‘There, there, darling,’ she murmured.
‘Where are we?’ he asked in a deep young voice that surprised her.
‘Why, at home, Robert,’ she replied. ‘On the farm. It’s morning, the sun’s just appeared, and two of your grandsons have already telephoned to ask how you are.’
His son, their only child, had enquired merely from a sense of duty. He’d been a strict, unforgiving father, not at all well-loved. But with his grandchildren he’d been openly fond and caring.
He was old, in his ninetieth year, and he was dying. Everybody knew that, his wife most of all. She’d loved him since they’d first met: she had been sixteen and he more than twice her age. Her father had been a parish councillor and he’d come to the house about a planning matter. He was a farmer; sternly handsome, smiling rarely. He’d proposed within six months and she’d accepted gladly.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said, not that he would understand. He’d heard nothing for days apart from internal voices he would occasionally converse with, voices that belonged to people she had never known. She left the dining room and went into the kitchen –he’d been brought downstairs and the dining room had been turned into a bedroom.
Through the window, the modern bungalow –built for their son when he took over the management of the farm –throbbed with life. Her great grandchildren, two little girls, were spending the summer there, and were already playing on a swing in the garden. Dorothy, her daughter-in-law, was hanging washing on the line and Francis, the ‘Crown Prince’ as Robert sometimes called him in a rare moment of humour, was staring at the house where he’d been born as if wondering how his father was today. At some time this morning, he’d come over and enquire about his health.
She was tempted to wave, but Francis would come immediately out of a sense of duty and she would sooner he didn’t. He would argue that his father should be in hospital.
‘He loathes hospitals,’ she would insist. ‘He’d far sooner be at home.’
She made tea and took two digestive biscuits out of the tin –she’d make herself a proper breakfast later –and took them into the dining room where, to her utter astonishment, her husband was singing an old war song.
‘There’ll be bluebirds over…’ he sang, followed by unrecognisable murmurings.
‘The white cliffs of Dover,’ his wife offered. Then she sang the line in full, ‘There’ll be bluebirds over, the white cliffs of Dover.’
She was even more astonished when he opened his eyes and smiled at her, a brilliant, open, truly gorgeous smile that was totally unfamiliar.
‘Hello,’ she said, taken aback, overwhelmed by the feeling of aching sadness that she would shortly lose him.
‘Hello,’ Robert MacEvoy exclaimed, almost exactly seventy years earlier. It was late September, the war was just over a year old –it had only been predicted to last six months. He’d just woken from his afternoon nap in the hospital of an RAF camp on the Essex coast and she was standing beside his bed with a cup of tea. She wore a blue and white uniform. A new nurse!
She laughed and put the tea on his bedside cabinet. ‘Hello,’ she cried, adding, ‘You’ve got a lovely smile.’
‘You’ve got a lovely everything.’ She was outstandingly pretty, with dark curly hair and eyes the colour of forget-me-nots. He was twenty-one and had never spoken so frankly to a girl before –flirtatiously almost. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Moira. Moira Graham.’ She made a face, squinting her eyes and wrinkling her nose. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Robert. People call me Rob.’
‘Well, I shall call you Robert, if you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t mind a bit. Will you be at the dance tonight?’ Another first for him; virtually asking a girl for a date.
‘I will indeed. Shall I save the last dance for you?’ She spoke in a deep sultry voice like Marlene Dietrich while fluttering her eyelashes.
He nodded. ‘As well as the first and all the dances in between.’
‘There’s just one thing, Robert,’ she said.
‘And what’s that, Moira?’
‘Have you forgotten you have a broken leg? It’s why you’re in hospital.’
He looked down at his feet protruding from under the blanket. The right one was heavily plastered, leaving only his toes bare. His ankle was also broken and his knee shattered.
‘I hadn’t forgotten, no. I thought we could sit the dances out. You can take me in my wheelchair.’
She looked serious for a change. Perhaps she felt the same as he did; that something remarkable and truly wonderful had occurred.
‘Oh, all right, so we’ll sit the dances out.’
The dance was being held in the canteen, the tables folded in a corner, piled on top of one another. He could limp a bit, his wheelchair was outside, and they were holding hands and sitting on one of the benches tucked against the walls. He was keeping his leg well out of the way, not so much bothered that someone would fall over it but that they would stand on his unprotected toes. The big room was crowded and the band played ear splittingly loudly.
‘What happened to you?’ she asked.
‘My plane crashed on landing,’ he said simply. ‘I was the rear gunner and thrown forward. Broke half a dozen bones. We’d taken a few hits over Berlin. It had needed a wing and a prayer to get us home.’
She shuddered and squeezed his hand. ‘Poor Robert,’ she whispered. ‘It must have been terribly painful.’
Robert shook his head. ‘I was knocked unconscious straightaway. I woke up in hospital, pleased to find I was alive and all in one piece. They sent me here to recuperate. Apparently, the hospital has a great reputation –it’s bound to improve with you there.’
‘I only recently passed my final exams. This is my first week as a nurse.’ She laid her head on his shoulder and began to croon ‘There’s A Boy Coming Home On Leave’ along with the band’s singer, a blonde in a tight red sequin dress.
Couples shuffled past locked in each other’s arms, even though they may have only met that night. There was a war on: Dunkirk was still painfully fresh in their memories, bombs were dropping all over Britain, Germany occupied several European countries, ships were being sunk. Life was cheap and thousands had already died. It meant that people lived for today and to hell with tomorrow.
It was hot in the canteen and his leg was itching madly. He wriggled uncomfortably.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘I’d pay five quid to be able to scratch my leg,’ he groaned.
‘When’s the plaster due to come off?’
‘Another three weeks.’
She stiffened. ‘Will you be sent somewhere else?’
He shrugged, unsure. ‘I’m supposed to spend three months convalescing. Whether they’ll leave me here, I’ve no idea.’ He still suffered excruciating headaches.
His hand was squeezed again. ‘Let’s hope that they will.’
He’d been born in Kent when his mother was in her late forties and her other children had grown up and left. He’d been an unpleasant surprise and she had no love left for him. his father, a farmer, spent little time at home. Robert had sometimes wondered what life was for.
And now he knew. It was to meet Moira. She was meant for him and he for her. Both realised that after just a few magical, dreamlike days.
What good luck it had been that his plane had crashed when it had and with him as the only one seriously injured. He wouldn’t have wanted his good fortune to come as a result of a tragedy for others. He was in love, they were in love, and every day was a miracle.
‘Will you marry me?’ he asked when they’d known each other a fortnight.
‘Of course,’ she smiled back. ‘But do we really need a piece of paper to prove we love each other? We’re already married in spirit, if not in law.’
She was so familiar to him it was as if they’d known each other all their lives.
The day after the plaster was removed from his leg, they made love. For both it was the first time. Moira laughed a lot and cried a bit at their initial fumbling attempts to do it properly.
They chose the private ward of the hospital, the one with only two beds reserved for officers, empty now. The door was locked but they still worried. There were only three patients in the main ward: the other two were asleep. But Moira had been left in charge and if someone came and there was no sign of her, there’d be hell to pay. And if someone came and discovered what they were up to…!
‘We’d be shot at dawn,’ she said soberly.
‘Not before they’d pulled our fingernails out.’
‘Don’t joke, it’s not funny. We’ll have to find somewhere else.’
Night after night more bombs fell on more British cities. Sixty miles away London was being pounded ceaselessly. The war was spreading as the weather became colder and winter drew in.
As if in defiance of the misery being wrought upon them, the atmosphere in the camp became quite joyful. It was impossible to walk far without hearing a song being sung, a mouth organ being played, someone whistling. The dances got quite wild, but they finished with couples clinging to each other as if they never wanted to part. Groups of people would suddenly burst into song but likely end in tears as the lyrics touched hearts in a way the composer had never imagined. ‘Kiss the Boys Goodbye’, ‘We’ll Meet Again’, ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’: it was the language of love and loss, of words easier to say in song than spoken.
Robert was transferred from the hospital to a single room befitting his rank of Flight Sergeant. He needed a stick to get about so, for now, there was no mention of him being sent elsewhere. He was given a part-time job in the stores filling out order forms. Otherwise nobody bothered him.
When advised he could go home on leave, he replied he’d sooner stay on the premises.
‘Strange chap,’ commented the clerk who’d made the offer, eyeing him suspiciously.
Robert shrugged and said nothing. He just wanted to be with Moira. Nothing else mattered.
Three times a week, when Moira wasn’t working nights, they stayed in an old pub in Mersea, a watery village five miles from the camp. It was reached by a rambling bus usually full of RAF and Army personnel. Their attic room had a sloping ceiling, and was clean, comfortable and cheap. They were committed to sign in at the camp before eight o’clock next morning.
‘I don’t want us making love in a doorway,’ Moira said wrinkling her nose.
‘Or behind the canteen,’ said Robert. Some nights there’d be a whole row of couples.
Moira giggled. ‘Or in a lavatory!’
‘Oh, God, no.’
Other nights they sat in pubs or walked arm in arm on the flat sands where the moon was reflected over and over in the little pools that shimmered like diamonds, pausing to kiss and say, ‘I love you,’ for perhaps the hundredth or the thousandth time.
Sometimes, a German plane would fly over on its way back from London, occasionally dropping the odd bomb there hadn’t been time to release on its intended target.
They knew one day it would have to end. Robert’s health was improving, the headaches fading; he no longer needed a stick. They thought it unlikely both would still be there by Christmas.
‘What shall we do then?’ Moira asked.
‘Write to each other. See each other as often as we can –if we can.’ He could be sent abroad. So could she.
December came. Time was short. Each day began as if it was their last together. The weather worsened and it became icily cold. They spent as many nights as they could manage in the pub, making love full of wonder as well as sadness.
They were there one Saturday when the bar was crowded with military men and women, and locals. Songs, old and new, were sung, as well as Christmas carols.
Upstairs in their attic Robert and Moira made love. It was a surreal experience. The songs filtering up through the floorboards and sounding as if they were being sung in the room with them. As the night wore on, the music slowly faded until all that could be heard were faint voices, still singing, on their way to the bus stop.
They were lying in each other’s arms when they heard the plane approach. Moira got out of bed to watch it passing over.
‘Stay here,’ Robert implored. Had he sensed the danger he was to wonder afterwards?
She was at the window when the bomb plunged through the roof, taking away half the room, leaving him safely in bed on a shelf of severed floorboards. Robert watched, horrified, as she disappeared from sight amid tons of debris and a thunderous whooshing sound.
For a long time, it was like the end of everything.
Many years went by until the time came when he met a woman who loved him. They were married and she bore him a child. A day never passed when he didn’t think of Moira. Nor did a day come when he was as happy as he’d been with her: his one and only love.
And now, seventy years later, he knew they were about to meet again. He could see her more clearly than he’d ever done. She drifted in and out of his mind, she was foremost in his thoughts; singing, always singing. And now here she was, coming towards him, smiling, holding out her arms ready to embrace him.
‘I love you,’ he cried, opening his own arms to greet her. ‘Did I ever tell you how much I love you?’
The wife knew that he had gone. She wept, not just at his passing, but at the words he’d never said, not once, throughout their long married life. Still, it was wonderful to know that all that time he had really loved her.
Love on Wheels (#ulink_74ed579b-1788-5840-ba5a-19819b6da38a)
Miranda Dickinson
MIRANDA DICKINSON is the author of five Sunday Times Bestselling novels, two of which have been international bestsellers in four countries. She is published in six languages and to this date has sold over half a million books worldwide. She is also the founder of the New Rose Short Story prize. She has been nominated for two RNA awards –the RNA Romantic Novel of the Year award 2010 for Fairytale of New York and the RONA for contemporary novel of the year in 2012 for It Started With a Kiss. Her fifth novel, Take A Look At Me Now, is available now, published by Avon (HarperCollins).
Miranda publishes regular vlogs at her website: www.miranda-dickinson.com (http://www.miranda-dickinson.com) and blog: coffeeandroses.blogspot.com (http://coffeeandroses.blogspot.com). You can follow Miranda on twitter @wurdsmyth (http://twitter.com/wurdsmyth) and on Facebook: www.facebook.com/MirandaDickinsonAuthor (http://www.facebook.com/MirandaDickinsonAuthor).
Love On Wheels (#ulink_74ed579b-1788-5840-ba5a-19819b6da38a)
I love my job.
It’s not glamorous or particularly well paid, nor is it anywhere near what my careers advisor had in mind for me when I left school, but it offers magic that few people looking in would see. The van I drive and company sweatshirt I wear may be emblazoned with sunnyside meals on wheels, but my job is so much more than that. I might deliver affordable, nutritionally balanced ready meals to elderly customers, but what I receive in return is priceless. For I am a collector of stories, a sharer of nostalgia, a confidant of dreams.
Not that my boss –who, awkwardly, also happens to be my mum –understands this. She would much rather I limit my conversation with customers to ‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye’, or maybe ‘See you next week’, if it’s a quiet day on my round.
‘We don’t pay you to be their friend, Emily, we pay you to deliver their food,’ she lectured one morning, clearly imagining herself to be the female incarnation of Lord Alan Sugar. ‘If they want company I’m sure their families can oblige.’
‘Mum, have you ever met the customers on my round?’ I protested, knowing full well that she hadn’t and that my argument was futile. ‘I’m the only other person some of them see all day.’
Mum cast a disapproving eye over my dyed hair –this week a fetching shade of blue. ‘What a treat for them! The point is we are not a charity or a befriending service. First and foremost, we are a business. Now, I need you to read this time and motion study Trevor’s written. And act upon it.’
As she passed me the sheet of paper, I inwardly groaned. Trevor. Repulsive, fifty-something boyfriend of my mother and the kind of man so boring even paint drying would mock him. Since Mum had met him at a business breakfast six months ago, he had fast become the balding, beige-faced bane of my life. What Trevor Mitchell didn’t know about health and safety, workplace law and mindless business jargon simply wasn’t worth knowing. In fact, he seemed to think it was his God-given right to comment on anything and everything, regardless of how much he actually knew about it. And, judging by his latest intrusion, Trev was on top form.
I cast my eyes over his calculations, unimaginatively typed in Comic Sans font –the childishness of which only served to make the whole document more insulting. Well, he could shove this exactly where all his other advice could be deposited. I knew that effectiveness in my job couldn’t be measured by miles covered per hour or minimum amount of time spent with each customer. It was in how I could share a conversation, spend a little time with someone lonely and maybe make a difference to their day. Unfortunately for me, Trevor saw our lovely elderly clients as nothing more than aged donkeys on a conveyor belt, good only for parting with their pension and having food chucked at them.
‘Trevor says you’ve been spending too long with each client,’ Mum continued, oblivious to my disdain. ‘By his calculations it should take no more than seven-point-five minutes to make a delivery. Now, there’s a new gentleman on your round today, so Trevor says you should begin the new timings on this one.’
I rolled my eyes and this time she couldn’t ignore it. ‘Oh well, if Trev says…’
Mum gave me a stare that could freeze the Sahara. ‘His name is Trevor, Emily, and I’ll thank you not to disrespect him. That man could well be your next stepfather.’
On that cheery note I left, glad for the peaceful sanity of my company van when I climbed into it. I wasn’t surprised by boring Trev’s intervention, but it still annoyed me.
‘Idiot!’ I grumbled aloud, pulling out of the gravel car park by the small industrial unit Sunnyside Meals on Wheels called home, to turn left onto the busy coast road. ‘Well, it shows how much you know, Trevor Mitchell! Our customers are more than ticks on your ridiculously timed list. And, I’m sorry, but who actually says “seven-point-five minutes” anyway?’
My indignation brought a wry smile to my face, not least because if boring Trev could see me ranting to myself in the van he’d probably accuse me of wasting company oxygen.
I glanced across at the small clipboard attached with a suction pad to the windscreen. Mrs Clements was first today –and straight away proof that Mum’s boyfriend was completely wrong.
I’ve delivered meals to Mrs Clements since my first day on this job, eight years ago, and she is one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met. When she was only seventeen years old she made the biggest decision of her life: to move to Canada to look after her nephew and brother-in-law after her older sister’s untimely death. She had been a promising student and dreamed of being a teacher but she left it all to go to another country and live the life her sister had left behind. Eventually, she married her brother-in-law and adopted her nephew as her stepson, only returning to England after her husband’s death in the mid-1970s. Mrs Clements was the first Sunnyside customer to share her memories with me and since then I have always taken time to listen when someone on my rounds wants to tell me about their past.
So yes, maybe I did take longer than the other two drivers to complete my deliveries but how else would I have learned about Mr Cooke earning his Distinguished Service Order medal by saving four of his Army comrades under intense enemy fire; or when Mrs Trellawney met the Queen; or about Miss Atkinson’s secret dream to be a champion ballroom dancer?
None of this mattered to my mother and boring Trev, of course. But that wasn’t important: it mattered to me.
Mrs Clements met me at the door already armed with a time-battered photograph album and the sound of the kettle boiling from the tiny kitchen of her retirement bungalow.
‘Oh good, you’re here, Emily. Come in, come in!’
I swung the box I was carrying into her hallway and closed the door behind me. ‘You’re chirpy today, Mrs C.’
‘That I am,’ she replied, leading the way down the hallway to her kitchen. She shuffled along in her favourite nylon skirt, polyester jumper and tartan bobble slippers and I imagined the static she created could be hooked up to the national grid to power her house. She made a pot of tea while I unpacked her week’s worth of meals, knowing her kitchen cupboards better than I did my own. It’s true what they say about trades-people: at the end of my working day the last thing I ever want to do is to cook a meal. If Mum knew how many takeaways and ready meals I consume each week, I’d be excommunicated for certain.
When her cupboards were filled and the teas were made, she ushered me through to the tropical heat of her living room. She sat in her favourite chair as I allowed her too-squashy sofa to attempt to eat me alive.
‘I found these at the weekend,’ she said, turning over the yellowing photo album pages with her blue-veined fingers until she found what she was looking for. ‘There –look at this.’
She swung the album to face me and prodded at a photograph. It was a black and white image of an opulent-looking hall filled with a huge crowd of couples, each one solemnly face to face in stiff ballroom holds.
‘This is The Rialto Ballroom in Truro,’ she chuckled. ‘It’s long gone, of course. But believe it or not, this was the happening night spot when I was young.’
‘When was this picture taken?’
‘July 1951. Two months before I left for Canada.’ Her smile carried the wistfulness of many years. ‘I used to dance there twice a week: Wednesday nights when they taught old-time ballroom to a hall full of girls and, of course, Saturday nights when you got to practice with the real thing.’ She winked at me. ‘Saturdays were when the magic happened.’
I looked at the girls with their almost identical dresses and the men looking awkward in ill-fitting suits. ‘So who danced with you?’
She flushed slightly, a wicked glint in her watery blue eyes. ‘Anyone who’d have me.’
‘Mrs C! You little scoundrel!’
‘We-ell, I was young, we’d not long come out of the war and suddenly a lot of young chaps were back on the scene. It would’ve been rude not to indulge.’ She tapped the side of her nose with her finger. ‘But it was only dancing, mind. None of that heavy petting nonsense you see young kids doing today.’
I took a sip of tea and felt the high caffeine content clunk against my teeth. ‘I’m sure you were the perfect picture of virtue.’
She nodded. ‘I was back then. It was only when I came home after Alfie died that I gave proper hanky-panky a go. Couldn’t believe what I’d missed out on…’
I was still reeling from the revelation of Mrs Clements’ late-flowering libido as I drove to my next customer. The warm September sun bathed the villages and fields whizzing past my window in a beautiful light, and I thanked heaven that I was lucky enough to work in such a breathtaking part of the world. After ten miles, the road rose steeply as I approached one of my favourite views: a sudden expanse of Cornish coastline appearing on my left; jagged cliffs falling away from the lush green above, with the wide sweep of perfect blue ocean beyond.
Inevitably, the scene brought bittersweet memories as Isaac’s face flashed into my mind. My Isaac. Until last summer the one and only love of my life. When we were together we would park not far from the road here and stride across the thick, waving grass down to the cliff path, while Django –our over-excitable Jack Russell –bounced around our feet.
I had dealt with a lot of my feelings for Isaac Pemberthy since he’d unceremoniously dumped Django and me, but somehow this single memory refused to budge. Even my dog had something of Isaac he couldn’t let go of. He refused to be parted from one of Isaac’s old socks even though it was now more chewed hole than knitted acrylic. At least Django understood. Maybe that was why I loved spending time on my rounds rather than with my friends, who still saw Isaac occasionally. Maybe I was as lonely as some of Sunnyside’s customers…
Mr Arbuthnot was in a bit of a hurry when I arrived with his delivery, so I quickly unpacked his meals and said goodbye, accepting an old Roses tin full of stodgy homemade flapjacks as his apology for not being able to chat longer. It’s so sweet when my customers make me something, which many of them do. And I’ll always eat it, even if it means I subsequently keep Gaviscon in business for the next few days. Placing the tin carefully on the passenger seat of the van, I set off again.
Mrs Wilson was next. A formidable former headmistress whose husband Eric was apparently so terrified of being in the same room as her that he almost always hid in his shed. Today, he appeared just long enough to pass a lightning-fast comment about the pleasant weather before scurrying back to the safety of the blue larch-lap hut at the bottom of the garden.
‘Always under my feet,’ Mrs Wilson tutted, at which I had to pretend to cough so that she wouldn’t see my smile. ‘Now, how’s your love life, young lady?’
Being quizzed by Mrs Wilson was a little like facing an Eastex-suited firing squad, so I felt compelled to answer. ‘Still quiet, I’m afraid.’
‘I have somebody in mind for you,’ she barked, and the appearance of what I have learned is her version of a smile flashed across her face. ‘My daughter’s boy. Lawyer. Sensible. Probably good-looking. Thoughts?’
‘I’ll certainly bear him in mind,’ I replied, not wanting to hurt her feelings but terrified by the thought of Mrs Wilson as a grandmother-in-law. ‘But I’m not sure I’m ready yet.’
‘Nonsense!’ She stirred her tea with military precision. ‘There’s no such thing as being ready when it comes to courtship. When Eric told me we were getting married I wept myself to sleep for weeks. But he was right. And here we are.’
Eric Wilson told his wife they were getting married? Today was certainly the day for revelations. The thought of the timid, pale-faced old man doing his best Rhett Butler impression amused me all the way to the next address on my list.
The address belonged to a Mr Timothy Gardner –a name I wasn’t familiar with. Smiling to myself as I parked beside a small, whitewashed fisherman’s cottage at the head of a tiny fishing village, I set the stopwatch on my mobile phone.
Seven-point-five minutes with the new customer. We’ll see about that, Trev.
I knocked several times before the door opened, revealing a tall, slender-limbed man with stunning blue eyes and a dramatic sweep of white hair forming an impressive quiff. He was dressed in a faded granddad shirt over corduroy trousers with bare feet, and immediately stood out from my other customers because I found it impossible to guess his age.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said. ‘I’m Emily from Sunnyside Meals on Wheels?’
He pushed his reading glasses up onto the top of his head and jutted out his hand in a hurried handshake.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ he said, a blush creeping across his tanned face. ‘I must confess this is the first time I’ve done this. Since my hip trouble I’ve been finding it difficult to get out. Can’t drive, you see. Doctor’s orders. I’ve only just moved back to the area after living in the States for thirty years, so I’m still finding my feet in the village. And those online delivery things scare me to death…Oh.’ His eyes fell on the heavy box in my hands as I waited politely on the doorstep and he quickly invited me inside. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, do come in.’
His walk was stilted and painful, leaning heavily on a polished mahogany walking cane in his left hand as he made slow progress towards the kitchen at the rear of the cottage. I followed at a respectful distance, not wanting to pressure him or draw attention to his snail-like pace.
The kitchen was bright and airy: teal painted bespoke units, a Belfast sink and a large Aga-style stove nestled around a central island illuminated by halogen spotlights embedded into the low ceiling. I could imagine Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall cooking with uncontrolled glee in a room like this and Mr Gardner appeared quite at home in it. He opened a large cupboard door, which concealed a full-height fridge.
‘If you could pop the meals in here, that would be wonderful.’
‘No problem.’ I opened the box and began to stock his fridge with Sunnyside’s finest meal selection, noticing that he had opted for the ‘deluxe’ menu. Not many of our customers could afford this top-of-the-range option. In fact, only Mrs Clements had ever ordered it before, and that was after she won a couple of hundred pounds from a bet on the Grand National last year. No wonder Mum and Trev were keen for me to impress our new customer.
Closing the fridge door, I turned back to Mr Gardner and smiled. ‘You’re all stocked for the week, Mr Gardner.’
‘Tim, please. Mr Gardner makes me sound like my father and he’s been dead over twenty years. Look, I don’t suppose you have time for a cuppa? I’ve not long boiled the kettle and it’d be lovely to share it with someone.’
I thought about the stopwatch on my mobile monitoring the precious Sunnyside seconds being wasted in the name of good manners. Sod it. Mum and Trev weren’t to know whether I was delayed by illegal conversations or backed-up traffic caused by a farm tractor.
‘That sounds wonderful.’
He appeared both genuinely shocked and delighted at once. ‘Great. That’s great!’
We sat on stools at the wide kitchen island and I thanked him as he passed me tea in an Emma Bridgewater mug. ‘How long have you been in St Merryn?’ I asked.
‘Four months. My son brokered the deal for me while I was still in California selling my house and wrapping up the business. I sold it for a song,’ he grinned and I found myself grinning back.
My mobile phone began to ring and I glanced at the screen: Trevor Mitchell calling.
Honestly, the nerve of the man! Barely six months with my mum and suddenly he was muscling in on her business. Well, until the odious busybody was paying my wages, he could stick his opinions right up his…
‘So what made you decide to return?’ I asked Tim, even more determined now to smash boring Trev’s seven-point-five minute target.
‘Nostalgia, I suppose. I’m a Cornishman: it was inevitable Kernow would call me back eventually. And I wanted to be close to Ethan, my son. I’ve always loved St Merryn and thanks to the success of my business sale I can finally afford to live here.’
My phone buzzed angrily: New message from Trevor Mitchell.
I ignored it. ‘Well, you have a lovely home.’ Remembering my job, I added, ‘Let me know if there are any changes you’d like to make for next week’s menu. Here’s my number.’
He accepted my business card. ‘Thank you. Hey, I don’t suppose you know anywhere that does old-time ballroom dancing around here, do you? Call it nostalgia but I was remembering my misspent youth today and suddenly had a hankering for a dance. I know The Rialto Ballroom in Truro closed years ago.’
I stared at him, amused. ‘It’s funny you should mention that. One of my other clients showed me a photo of The Rialto this morning.’
‘Well I never. Do you know when it was taken?’
I thought back to my conversation with Mrs C. ‘1951. July, I think.’
His smile vanished. ‘Really? How –strange…’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘Look, I don’t know if this breaks any confidentiality rules but is there any way your customer would lend it to me? Just to have a look?’
I hesitated. ‘I’m not really sure…’ It was Mrs C’s personal memory she had shared with me and I didn’t think I could promise something that wasn’t mine to offer.
‘I’d be really interested to see it again. The time it was taken –Well, it’s uncanny. There’s a reason I loved that place: a very good reason…’
He looked so sad all of a sudden that I felt I had to say something as I rose to leave. ‘Look, I can’t promise anything. But I’ll ask.’
‘That would be wonderful, thank you!’
I thought about the odd coincidence all the way back to Sunnyside HQ. My job has always surprised me but this was something new. Mr Gardner had appeared so startled when I mentioned the date of the photo and that made me wonder if perhaps he had been there at the same time as Mrs C. Would he have seen her there? Or been one of the many young men she had enjoyed dancing with before Canada called her away?
Boring Trev and Mum were waiting with uniform disgust for me as I walked back into the unit. It irked me that Trev was even here, but more that Mum allowed his interference.
‘Mum, Trevor, how lovely to see you!’ I chirped, enjoying the flush of fury this invoked in my not-so-welcoming committee.
‘Cut the attitude,’ Trev snapped, making even Mum stare at him in surprise. ‘You had your orders for the new client and you deliberately disobeyed them.’
‘Excuse me?’ Even for Mum’s horrible boyfriend, this was a step too far. Angrily, I whipped the now crumpled sheet of paper out from my back pocket and brandished it. ‘You mean this? I think you’ll find, Trevor, that this is a suggestion, not an order. It’s a suggestion because you don’t actually work here or employ me, therefore I’m not obliged to obey it whatsoever.’ I turned to Mum. ‘And I would have hoped, Mum, that you would have just a little more faith in your daughter. For your information, I was investing time in our new client in order to ensure he received the best service from Sunnyside and kept ordering from us. I happen to think that’s more important than impressing your boyfriend.’
Mum looked from me to her fuming other half and back. ‘Well, I…I think it’s good to protect our client list…but really the time on your round is quite a bit longer than the other drivers…not that I think you’re doing a bad job, obviously.’
‘Thank you.’ Ignoring the daggers of death Trev was now willing at me with his stare, I calmly handed my clipboard to Mum and walked into the staffroom to collect my things.
The more I considered Mr Gardner’s request that weekend, the more intrigued I became: so much so that by Monday morning I could bear it no longer and took a detour at the end of my round to visit Mrs C.
‘Emily! What a lovely surprise. Come in, dear.’
When we were sitting with china mugs of tea and large slices of homemade ginger cake, I broached the subject of the photograph.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ I began, studying her expression carefully. ‘Last Friday, I went to see a new client who has recently returned to the area and he mentioned The Rialto Ballroom.’
‘Really? How funny.’
‘I know. I said as much to him and then I happened to mention that I’d been shown a photo of it that morning. With hindsight, I realise I shouldn’t have said anything, but it took me by surprise and I mentioned the photograph before I thought better of it. The thing is he reacted very oddly when I told him the date the photo was taken. I think he might have been there the same time as you. And I know I probably shouldn’t ask, but I wondered if I might borrow the photo, just to show it to him?’
Mrs C observed me quietly and stirred her tea.
Instantly, I regretted asking. ‘Obviously if you say no I’ll completely understand,’ I added.
‘How old is this gentleman?’ she asked, her expression giving nothing away.
‘To be quite honest, I don’t know. It’s difficult to tell.’
‘Hmm.’ I watched the silver spoon make several more rotations. ‘The photograph is very precious to me, Emily. When I was in Canada it was the one thing that reminded me of home, of who I really was. Of the life that might be waiting…’ Her eyes were very still, focused a thousand miles away. ‘You have to understand that when I went to Canada I had to become somebody different: someone’s mother, someone’s wife. And for many years, I felt like my life wasn’t my own. Remembering who I’d been in England gave me strength enough to return years later. The photograph was a big part of that.’
Her candidness hit me like a fist to the stomach. I knew she hadn’t had an easy life in Canada but I’d never appreciated how much of herself she’d been asked to give. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Forget I did, OK?’
She shook her head. ‘No, it’s lovely that you asked. I know how precious my memories are: if this gentleman wants to see the photograph to bring back his, I see no reason why he shouldn’t.’ She reached for the photograph album by the side of her armchair, turned its pages and gently removed the picture. ‘There. Take good care of it.’
My hands were shaking as I accepted. ‘Thank you, Mrs C. I promise I will.’
I called Mr Gardner as soon as I returned to my van, but there was no reply. Disappointed, I placed the photograph carefully in my work diary and drove back.
For the next three days, none my attempts to reach Mr Gardner were successful. By Friday, my anticipation was at bursting point and my delivery round seemed to take an age before I was finally driving down the steep streets of St Merryn.
Waiting on the doorstep of his cottage, my heart was thudding against the cardboard box I held. I wanted to see his face when I produced the photograph, excited to see him reunited with a piece of his past.
The door opened and a young man appeared, taking me completely by surprise. It was as if I was meeting Mr Gardner over fifty years ago: his eyes were the same sapphire blue, his frame as tall and his hair as thick, albeit a dark mass of black-brown rather than silver.
‘Hi,’ he smiled, and my world seemed to spin momentarily. ‘You must be the famous Emily. Come in.’
As I shakily entered the hallway, he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Dad! Delivery!’
Tim appeared at the far end of the hall. ‘Ah, Emily! I see you’ve met Ethan. You see, son? I told you she was beautiful.’
Flushed, I hurried past him and began to unpack the meals.
‘I’m sorry I missed your calls,’ Tim said, as Ethan joined us.
‘That’s OK. I have a surprise for you.’ I closed the fridge door, opened my work diary and handed him Mrs C’s photograph.
For a moment, Tim appeared to wobble and Ethan rushed forward to steady his father. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he stared at the photo.
‘Dad?’
‘I’m fine, son. This just takes me back…’ He looked at me. ‘Can I ask the name of the person who gave this to you?’
‘I’m not sure I should say.’
He nodded. ‘Of course. But it looks so familiar. If I didn’t know better I’d swear…’ Slowly, he turned the picture over and closed his eyes. ‘T.W.M.A.’
Ethan and I watched helplessly as Tim’s loud sobs filled the kitchen.
‘What if she says no?’
‘Dad, you can’t think of that. You said it yourself, you had a connection once.’
‘I don’t know. What did you tell her, Emily?’
I smiled at Tim. ‘I said I had a surprise for her and that I was taking her out for afternoon tea.’
Tim Gardner’s face was pale as he hovered in the lobby of the hotel, wringing his hands. ‘I didn’t think she would come. What do I say to her after all these years?’
‘You start with, “Here’s the photograph that I gave you.”’ Ethan grinned at me and I found myself grinning back. Like father, like son…
‘When I handed Genevieve that picture my heart was breaking,’ Tim said, gazing through the glass door that separated him from the girl who walked out of his life sixty-two years ago. ‘She was leaving for Canada the next day. I penciled “T.W.M.A” on the back to remind her I was waiting: Till We Meet Again. I told her to keep it as a reminder of the woman I knew she was.’
I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘She said it was what kept her strong during all those years in Canada. And what made her come home. I think you might have been an important part of that. Why don’t you just go in there, say hello and see what happens?’
His blue eyes glistened as he looked at me. ‘Thank you. For finding the love of my life again.’ Shaking hands with Ethan, he turned, took a deep breath, and walked into the hotel restaurant.
And that’s when I knew: I knew my job was more than time slots and ready meals, more than delivery rounds and menu plans. It was a gift, in the truest sense of the word.
Would Mrs Clements and Mr Gardner rekindle their romance after most of their adult lives spent apart? I couldn’t say for sure. But learning that Genevieve Clements had made the ultimate sacrifice –to leave her sweetheart behind –to do what she thought was right for her family, made me wonder if maybe she had waited all her life to put right the decision she had regretted most.
‘I think they’ll be OK.’
I looked up to see Ethan Gardner smiling at me. ‘I hope so. She might never forgive me for setting her up.’
‘Maybe. But you made Dad smile and I haven’t seen him look that happy for years. I’d take that as a good sign. So, do we wait?’
‘I suppose so.’ I peered through the glass door but couldn’t see their table.
‘Well, I think I should get a coffee while I’m waiting.’ He held out his hand, his blue eyes –so like his father’s –intent on mine. ‘Shall we?’
Heart racing, I reached out and felt his warm fingers close around mine. And as we walked through the doors, I smiled to myself.
I love my job.
Clarion Call (#ulink_0d9b2f09-e1b0-50f4-9182-9cb788597f96)
Catherine King
CATHERINE KING was born in Rotherham, South Yorkshire. A search for her roots –her father, grandfather and great-grandfather all worked with coal, steel or iron –and an interest in local industrial history provide inspiration for her stories.
Clarion Call (#ulink_0d9b2f09-e1b0-50f4-9182-9cb788597f96)
The Yorkshire Dales, Spring, 1905
Bright sun streamed into the warm kitchen and Meg felt her excitement bubbling. She hoped Jacob would be at the Mission today and she looked forward to spending time on her appearance before she went out. She could hardly wait to see him again.
‘My, that was a grand dinner, Meg.’ Her father scraped back his chair and stretched out his legs.
‘Thank you, Father.’ Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with fresh greens from the garden was his favourite Sunday dinner and she hoped it had put him in a good mood. He wouldn’t be happy when she told him she was going out. She stood up and said, ‘I’ll get on with the washing-up now. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘We’ll have it later, love. My roly-poly pudding hasn’t gone down yet.’
That meant tea in the middle of the afternoon and Meg wanted to be at the Mission Hall by half past three.
Meg loved her father. He was a good parent to all of his six children, even though they were scattered across the county. As youngsters, they never went short of shoes or night school fees for the boys, and he still worked hard at the quarry all week. But she was the youngest and the others had grown up and gone.
Meg had helped her mother cook Sunday dinner for years and had run the household since Mother had been taken from them two years ago. It had been just before Meg’s eighteenth birthday; her elder sister had married and only two of her brothers had been living at home then. Now the boys were young men and had good jobs and lodgings in Bradford and Sheffield. So there was only Meg left to look after Father.
He was wedded to his routine. Meg thought she had done the right thing by keeping it going when Mother died. But recently she had noticed that he was becoming more set in his ways and dependent on her. She didn’t want to grow old as a spinster looking after her aging father. She was already twenty and her friends were beginning to marry.
Meg cleared the table and washed up in the scullery while father enjoyed a pipe of tobacco in his easy chair by the kitchen fire. The casement clock in the hall chimed. She dried her hands and said, ‘Well, that’s all done for today. I said I’d meet Sally to help out at the Mission Hall this afternoon.’
‘Don’t you want to give me a hand in the garden?’ Father sounded hurt. ‘Your mother used like sowing seeds on a sunny day.’
I’m not Mother, Meg answered silently. She felt disloyal. Her mother and father had been close and had brought up their six children to support each other. She had loved Mother as much as he had. A tear threatened and she pulled herself together. Why don’t I tell him about Jacob? she thought. Because there’s nothing to say yet, and there never will be if I can’t get out and meet him on a Sunday.
‘Isn’t Sally stepping out with a young man?’ Father queried.
‘She is. Robert’s a clerk in an office now.’
Father nodded with approval. ‘She’s done well for herself.’
Meg cheered up at this comment. At least Father would approve of Jacob. He’d been at the grammar school with Robert and he worked in a lawyer’s office in Leeds. But he came out to the Dales every Sunday on the railway train even when it rained.
‘They won’t want you tagging along, will they?’ Father added.
‘Robert will be cycling with the Clarion Club until teatime.’ So will Jacob, she thought, and dreamed for a moment about seeing his tanned smiling face and bright blue eyes when he returned.
‘There’ll be a Clarion Club in every town soon,’ Father commented.
‘Well, so many folk have bicycles nowadays. Sally and I have been asked to help with teas at the Mission Hall. They’re busy on a Sunday with all the cyclists as well as the ramblers.’
‘Haven’t you enough to do here, after a week at the mill?’
More than enough, Meg thought. She never grumbled, as a rule. She had gone to work in the mill as soon as she left school. The hours were long but the money was good and sometimes she and Sally got best quality cloth cheaper than from the market because the loom had produced a flaw in the bolt and it couldn’t be sold to a warehouse. She made most of her own clothes and looked forward to wearing her new blouse this afternoon.
‘We are raising money for the chapel roof,’ she explained.
He couldn’t argue with that, she thought, but he sounded disgruntled. ‘I see. What time will you be back?’
Meg’s heart sank. She decided to stand her ground. Father would have to get his own tea today. ‘I don’t know. We might go for a walk by the river afterwards.’ With Robert and Jacob, she added silently.
Father made a grunting noise in his throat and Meg hoped he wasn’t going to be difficult. She stifled her mounting impatience and went on, ‘I’ve made your favourite lemon curd tarts. I’ll leave them on the kitchen table under a tea cloth. There’s a full kettle on the range and I’ve put the tea in the pot ready for you.’
‘You’ve made up your mind then.’
‘Don’t be like that, Father. I don’t go out in the week. By the time I’ve walked home from the mill, cooked a meal and tidied round, it’s too late to do anything.’ Not that there was anywhere to go in their small market town
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- Жанр: Зарубежные любовные романы, Современная зарубежная литература, Современные любовные романы
- Язык: Книги на английском языке
- Объём: 480 стр. 6 иллюстраций
- ISBN: 9781472054845
- Дата выхода книги: 02 января 2019
- Версия: 📚 Электронная книга
Fall Head-Over-Heels…From wedding days to special anniversaries, steamy one-night encounters to everlasting loves, Truly, Madly, Deeply takes you on an unforgettable romantic adventure where love really is all you need.This collection brings together all-new specially selected stories from star authors from the Romantic Novelists’ Association, including international bestsellers Adele Parks, Katie Fforde, Carole Matthews and Miranda Dickinson, and many, many more and is edited by Sue Moorcroft.The perfect indulgence to curl up with, Truly, Madly, Deeply is the ultimate romantic treat!DIGITAL EXTENDED EDITION – FEATURING 11 NEW STORIES EXCLUSIVE TO E-READERS
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