by Beth O'Leary
“I have a very good driver,” I say. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“I’m rather in the middle of things,” says Derek. “Got a May Day festival to organize, and all. I’m sure you can relate.”
“Of course,” I say, smiling. “I just wanted to say good luck to you.”
He blinks. “Ta, love,” he says, that smirk widening. “But we don’t need luck. We’ve got the best food in Yorkshire served here today.”
“Oh, I don’t mean good luck for today,” I say, “I mean with the planning applications.”
Derek freezes. “What?”
“Firs Blandon has some quite ambitious plans! That community hub on the edge of the village, you know, the one within the eyeline of several houses on Peewit Street in Hamleigh? It could be a wonderful addition to the local area, or, of course—depending on one’s viewpoint—it could be an eyesore with an adverse visual impact on the iconic landscape of the Dales.”
I now have Derek’s full attention.
“Oh, Penelope, Basil, Arnold!” I say, waving them over. “Do come and meet Derek. We’ll be seeing a lot more of him, now that we’ll all be taking a much more active interest in the planning applications coming out of Firs Blandon.” I smile brightly at Derek. “Basil and Penelope and Arnold all have very strong opinions on local issues. Don’t you?”
“I should say so!” Basil says, puffing out his chest.
“Always been very engaged in village business, me,” says Arnold.
“All I’m saying,” Penelope says, with her gaze fixed on Derek, “is there’s something about the name Derek. Never met a Derek I’ve liked. Never.”
I smile brightly and take the megaphone from Derek’s unresisting hand.
“Pack up, everybody!” I yell into the megaphone. “We’re off back to Hamleigh-in-Harksdale.”
* * *
The food stalls return to Hamleigh with their tails between their wagon wheels. Penelope drives back with the carefree abandon of a seventeen-year-old boy, and somehow gets us to the village at the same time as the food stalls even though she takes us via Knargill to pick up Nicola on the way. When we drive past Firs Blandon’s May Day sign, Penelope swerves; I shriek, clinging to the door handle, as she clips the edge of the sandwich board and sends it toppling face down onto the verge.
“Whoopsie!” says Penelope.
“Get that one too!” says a trigger-happy Nicola, pointing to a sign for a farm shop farther ahead.
As we approach Hamleigh, I figure I’ve just about got time to check the Portaloos have arrived before the drainage company gets here to deal with the flooding. But when we pull up at the edge of the field assigned for food stalls, there’s a small crowd gathered around the entranceway, blocking our view. Penelope and I frown at each other; she parks on a verge and we get out. I move to help Nicola, but Basil is already there, offering his arm with positively medieval chivalry. Arnold gives Agatha a pat as he climbs out—he’s become very attached to my car since rescuing her from Grandma’s hedge.
“What’s all that then?” Arnold asks, nodding to the melee.
“No idea.” I check my phone as we make our way over toward the crowd. There’s a message from Bee that makes my heart leap:
Leena, let’s DO IT. B&L Consulting. I’ve been talking it all through with your grandma and I’m EXCITED. If you need more time you know I’m here for you but what I’m saying is, let’s not stall on it. Let me do the legwork if you don’t have the headspace. But let’s not lose sight of the dream, my friend! We’re going to be bosses! xx
And one from Ethan that makes it sink.
Sorry, angel—things have gone crazy here. Going to need to spend a few more hours at the desk. Don’t suppose there’s any chance you could come down here instead? Xx
I swallow and tap out a reply as we make our way across the grass.
Ethan, you know I can’t leave Hamleigh today, it’s May Day. Hope you get everything done OK. Let’s try and talk on the phone at least? x
“Ethan not coming?” Arnold says quietly.
I glance at him.
“You have a very bad poker face,” he explains.
I tuck my phone in the hoody pocket. “Not his fault. Work, you know.”
Arnold gives me a long, heavy look. “Leena,” he says. “I know he was good to you when you needed him. But you don’t stay with somebody out of gratitude. That’s not how to do it.”
“I’m not with Ethan out of gratitude!” I exclaim.
“All right. Well, good.” Arnold gives me another squeeze of the shoulder. “I just think you deserve a man who treats you right, that’s all.”
“I liked you better when you were a hermit,” I tell him, eyes narrowed.
He grins, then his smile drops. We’ve both heard the same thing.
“Don’t you fucking dare!”
It’s Cliff. I push through the crowd, now, into the field, where Betsy and Cliff are facing one another like two cowboys waiting to draw. In fact, Betsy’s already drawn—but it’s not a gun in her hand, it’s a television remote.
“I’m sick of it! You hear me! I’m sick of it!” She brings both hands to the remote as if she’s about to snap it in two, and Cliff roars with rage.
Cliff looks pretty much exactly how I expected him to look. Red-faced, stocky, with sports socks and shorts on and a filthy sweatshirt stretched across his beer belly, he is in perfect contrast to neat little Betsy with her neckerchief and her pink cropped jacket. Only, of the two of them, I think Betsy genuinely looks the toughest right now.
“Cliff Harris,” she says, voice quiet and deadly. “I. Deserve. Better.”
And, with what I can only conclude is the superhuman strength of a woman who has put up with a lot of shit for a very long time, she snaps the TV remote in two.
Cliff comes toward her then, but Arnold and I are moving, and we’re quicker than he is, and we’ve got him by the arms before he can reach Betsy.
“I want you out of that house by the end of the week, do you hear me?” Betsy calls across the field.
Cliff roars obscenities, awful things, so bad it makes me gasp. Arnold hauls him backward, and gestures Basil over to help.
“We’ve got this,” Arnold says to me. I give him a nod. I’m needed elsewhere.
Betsy crumples into my arms as soon as I reach her. “Come on,” I say, leading her away. I shoot a glare at the crowd around the entrance to the field and the bystanders scatter embarrassedly, letting us through. “You were brilliant,” I tell Betsy.
She tries to turn around. “Oh, I … I…”
I grip her arm. “Now all we need to do is find you somewhere to stay. OK?” I chew the inside of my cheek. Clearwater Cottage is too close. She needs to get away for a week, until we’ve managed to clear Cliff out.
Penelope and Nicola are waiting by the car. Their eyes widen as Betsy and I stumble over, arm in arm. I help Betsy into the passenger seat, and by the time she’s all strapped in, an idea has formed.
“Nicola,” I say quietly, once I’ve closed the car door. “Betsy’s given her husband a week to find somewhere else to live.”
Nicola’s face softens. She glances at Betsy, mute in the front seat. She still has two pieces of remote control in her hands; she’s clutching them tightly.
“Aye, she has, has she?”
“Do you think…”
“She can stay with me as long as she needs,” Nicola says.
“Are you sure? I know it’s a lot for me to ask.”
“If a woman needs a place to stay, and I’ve got a bed to offer, then, well. That’s that.”
Nicola is already opening the rear passenger door. I move to help her in, on autopilot.
“Let’s get you back to my house, eh, love,” she says to Betsy as she settles. “I’ll put the kettle on, we can have a nice hot cuppa, then I’ll do us fish pie for dinner.”
It takes all my effort not to cry as I take the keys from a very worried-looking Penelope and sit myself do
wn in the driver’s seat. These people. There’s such a fierceness to them, such a lovingness. When I got here, I thought their lives were small and silly, but I was wrong. They’re some of the biggest people I know.
28
Eileen
The communal space is a whirlwind of activity. Fitz ducks just as Martha tosses Aurora a stack of napkins. Rupert catches the end of the tablecloth Letitia is spreading just in time to lay it flat. Yaz signs for the food delivery one-handed, Vanessa in the crook of her other arm. It’s Yaz and Martha’s first time back in the throng, after a few weeks of quality time as a family, and I must say they’ve hit the ground running. Not that I’d expect anything less.
We had hoped to give the Silver Shoreditchers a hot meal, but it got ever so complicated with allergies and the like, so for now it’ll just be buffet snacks. Luckily I got to the supermarket order before Fitz pressed the “buy” button, because almost everything on there would have been quite the challenge for anyone with missing teeth or new dentures. Now there are much smaller piles of carrot sticks and crisps, and much larger piles of soft sausage rolls and quiche squares.
I fish out my mobile phone. Tod should be here any moment with the tour bus for picking up our Silver Shoreditchers; I’m expecting him to call when he’s outside. And Howard said he’d get here right for the start time too, so he’s not far away either. I pat my hair nervously—Martha has pinned it all up, and it looks very smart, but I worry it’s a bit much.
I have two messages. The first is from Bee:
I’m stuck here with a client and I’m going to have to miss the launch event. I’m so SO sorry. I feel terrible.
Will you come and see me before you go tomorrow morning if you can? I’ll be at Selmount, and I’ve not got any meetings. The Selmount office is on your way, right, if you’re heading to King’s Cross?
I type my reply.
Hello, Bee. Don’t you worry. How’s 9 o’clock tomorrow morning? Perhaps if you have time, we could have one last coffee and muffin together. Not a problem if you can’t, of course. Love, Eileen xx
Her reply is almost instant.
Perfect. Sorry again Eileen xxx
The other message is from Howard.
OldCountryBoy says: I’m glad you’re happy with £300 to get us started. I promise you, we’ll have double that in donations within a week! xxx
EileenCotton79 says: I’ll give you the check when I see you. I can’t wait to see our website soon
Up pops the dot-dot-dot that means he’s typing something.
OldCountryBoy says: I’m ever so sorry, Eileen, but I don’t think I can make it to the launch party. I’ve got lots of work to be getting on with for the website! Could you transfer the money online?
My heart sinks. I thought … I’d really … Well. Never mind. This event wasn’t about Howard and it’s not the end of the world if he can’t come.
EileenCotton79 says: I’m not all set up for banking on the computer I’m afraid. I can post you the check, though. Just send me the address. All my best, Eileen xx
“Eileen?” comes a familiar voice.
I look up, and there’s Tod—wonderful, handsome Tod. My heart lifts again. I suppose this is why it’s handy to have several men on the go at once.
“You’re here!” I stand on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.
He looks very dashing in an open-necked shirt and chino trousers. He surveys the hive of activity, looking rather dazed by it all.
“You did all this?” he asks.
“Yes! Well, we all did, really,” I say, beaming.
“Oh, hi, is this Tod?” says Fitz, popping up beside us. He stretches his hand out for Tod to shake. “Pleasure to meet you. I fully intend to be you when I grow up.”
“An actor?” Tod asks.
“A proficient lover even in my seventies,” Fitz corrects him. “Ah, no, that’s not a vase, it’s for walking sticks!”
That part was to Letitia. I make an apologetic face at Tod, who is looking very amused, thank goodness.
“Sorry about the chaos,” I say, at the same time Tod says, “I have some bad news.”
“What bad news?”
“The tour bus. It’s needed by the theater company, I’m afraid.”
I clutch my chest. “What? You’ve not brought it? We’ve not got transportation?”
Tod looks worried. “Oh, dear, was it very important?”
“Of course it was important! We’ve promised to pick people up!” I wave my mobile phone at him.
“Can’t we just order them cabs?” he asks, nonplussed.
“So far the lovely people in this building have been funding this club out of their own pocket,” I snap at him, eyes narrowed. “They can’t be paying for who-knows-how-many cab fares on top of everything else.”
“Oh, right.” For a moment I think Tod might offer to pay, but he doesn’t, which makes me narrow my eyes even further.
“Excuse me,” I say rather frostily. “I had better go and sort this out.”
Men. They always bloody let you down, don’t they?
* * *
I know Sally isn’t keen on the idea of the Silver Shoreditchers, and I’ll bet she’s planning on spending the afternoon firmly locked away in her flat. But we’ve got nobody else to ask. I wait nervously outside her door. She seems to take forever to answer, and I don’t know what we’ll do if she’s out.
Eventually Sally undoes the three locks on her door, takes one look at me, and ducks back inside.
“Hello?” I call, bewildered.
She bobs back up, this time holding her car keys. “What’s the emergency this time?” she says, already closing the door behind her.
She grumbles and sighs all the way out of the building, but I’m not convinced. I think Sally likes to be the hero.
Once she and Fitz have set off, complete with their list of names and addresses, I busy myself setting up dominoes and packs of cards on the tables, nervously glancing toward the door. I’m patting at my hair so often I’m at risk of ruining my lovely new ’do. I can’t seem to stop fussing and fidgeting.
Just as I’ve run out of jobs to do, my phone beeps with a new message. It’s from Arnold.
Dear Eileen,
I thought you’d want to know Betsy gave Cliff the boot today. Leena has sorted her out a safe place to stay for a while, with Nicola from Knargill, and we’ve had some choice words with Cliff, who has promised to move in with his brother in Sheffield by next weekend so Betsy can have her house to herself at last.
Sorry if I’m interrupting your grand opening, I know it’s an important day. But I thought you would want to know.
Arnold.
I clutch the phone to my chest. My first instinct is to call Betsy, but then I remember how I felt right after Wade left, the humiliation, the shame. I didn’t want to speak to a soul, not at first.
So instead, I send her a text message.
Thinking of you, I write. And then, on impulse: You are a brave and wonderful friend. Lots of love, Eileen xxx
I open Arnold’s message again, but I’m not sure quite how to reply. It was so thoughtful of him to send me the news about Betsy. In a strange way, Arnold has been a comfort, these last few weeks, with his silly cat videos and his news from Hamleigh.
“Eileen?” Fitz calls. “They’re here!”
I turn to the door. He’s right: the Silver Shoreditchers are coming, some with walkers to help them, some briskly strolling, but all blinking bright, curious eyes at the new communal area as Sally and Fitz help them through the doorway. I see it afresh through their eyes, the sage-green walls, the beautiful bare floorboards, and I beam with pride.
“Welcome!” I say, spreading my arms. “Please, come on in!”
* * *
I asked myself, when I first met Letitia, how many other fascinating people might be pocketed away in little flats across London, never saying a word to anybody.
And now here I am, with a whole roomful of Letitias, all so different,
all so extraordinarily interesting. There’s Nancy, who used to play the flute in the London Symphony Orchestra. There’s Clive, who’s spent his whole life driving trucks at nighttime, and now can only get to sleep if it’s light. There’s Ivy, who beats everybody at Scrabble and eats sausage rolls in two mouthfuls, then rather guiltily admits that she is, technically speaking, a genius, and probably ought not to be allowed to join in with the board games.
Rupert does a little half-hour art class—he had the foresight to put down a tarpaulin, which was very wise, because more paint seems to go on the floor than the canvases. Then there’s food, and now music—Fitz’s idea. Ivy and Nancy even get up to dance. It’s glorious. I never want it to end.
“What a wonderful thing you’ve done, here, Eileen,” Martha says, kissing me on the cheek as she passes.
I take a breather on the sofa, watching Nancy and Ivy try out a slow foxtrot, dodging rummy tables as they go. Tod sits down beside me. I’m surprised to see him—he’s spent most of the afternoon up in Leena’s flat, taking calls. “I guess this isn’t really his crowd,” Martha said diplomatically when I complained about him not joining in.
It’s true that he seems out of place here. Nancy and Ivy and Clive, they’re all ordinary people, like me. It dawns on me that all the time I’ve spent with Tod has been in his world: his enormous house, his favorite coffee shops. This is the first time he’s stepped into my world, and it’s suddenly very obvious that it isn’t a place he wants to be.
But then Tod takes my hand and runs his thumb to and fro across my wrist, the way he did on our first date in the café, and just like that, my heart jumps.
“It’s goodbye today, isn’t it?” he says. His voice is deep and smooth; that voice has given me shivers more times than I can count, these last two months.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s goodbye today.” If I didn’t know it before, I know it now.
