Eve and Paddy
‘He wasn’t.’ And yet I had never doubted his fidelity. He had told me whenever girls
tried to chat him up; we had laughed together at some of the ridiculous things they had done to
gain his attention. Perhaps it would have been easier if he had cheated. Perhaps I would have
found it easier to forgive him if I was the only person he had hurt.
‘He wasn’t unfaithful,’ I said. ‘Or not in the sense you mean. But he did break my faith
in him.’
I studied Tina, considered the confused expression on her face. I didn’t talk about those
days; everything was too closely bound together, the loss of Faye and of Dad, and Paddy’s
betrayal, all jumbling together into one twisted knot of pain, so I couldn’t think of one of them
without being reminded of the absence of them all. The acute feelings had faded, but they could
never vanish. The encounter with Paddy had brought them closer to the surface than normal,
and perhaps I needed to give them a moment’s airspace before wrapping them up again. I took
a long drink of my cranberry juice.
‘When Faye died,’ I began, my heart weeping as it always would at the sound of those
words, ‘Caitlyn went to stay with my parents. She’d had no contact with her father since she
was born, and we didn’t know who he was so couldn’t get in touch. But anyway, she was ours:
we couldn’t have given her up to a stranger.’
She had been the most adorable child: thick white-blonde hair, huge blue eyes, and the
ability to wrap us all round her finger. She was the image of Faye in every way.
‘My dad wasn’t strong after suffering a heart attack a few months before, and it soon
became clear that the arrangement wouldn’t work. The toll of his grief and the demands of a
child were too much. I was living with Paddy at the time, and so the solution was obvious.
Caitlyn would move in with us.’
How I had loved Paddy for agreeing to it! Despite the dramatic impact on our lives, the
end to our plans to travel, he had backed me at once. We had begun by taking Caitlyn out with
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us for the odd day, so we could all get to know each other better, and my broken heart sputtered
back to life when I saw my devastated niece take hold of Paddy’s hand in the park one day,
and whisper in his ear.
‘So five or six weeks later, we packed up all her teddies and treasures and took her
home to our flat, to begin our life as a family. And eight days later, just after we had celebrated
her third birthday, just when Caitlyn had settled in and begun to trust us, to believe that we
would always be there for her, Nigel Friel decided it wasn’t the life he wanted, packed his bags
and left.’
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CHAPTER 4
I put down my pen and read back the note I had written to Caitlyn, hoping I had caught the
right tone: cheerful, not wistful; entertaining, not embarrassing; missing her, but not too much.
I was out of practice at this sort of thing. It was years since I had written a letter rather than
sent a text or email. In fact, the last person I had probably written to was … I sighed. He had
proved he was good at leaving, so why couldn’t he leave my thoughts alone?
‘Shh!’ Rich turned up the volume on the television. ‘I’m trying to watch the football.’
The match looked no different to me than any other, but apparently it was crucial to the
relegation positions and it was important enough to Rich that he had rushed through sex to be
up in time to watch it. I hadn’t minded that so much, but it had ruined the shape of our
afternoon. We were normally able to kill a couple of hours in bed, followed by a cup of tea and
a cursory chat before I headed home – a decent length for a visit. Today the bed part had barely
taken twenty minutes, and there was something seedy about me leaving for home so soon. So
I’d taken out the herbal tea bags I’d bought for Caitlyn, wrapped them into a parcel, and written
her a note.
I reached in my bag and took out one of the ‘Be Kind to Yourself’ vouchers. I needed
to send her the first one, to show that I was keeping my promise, but what could I say? I had
always been at pains to show no sign of regret at the direction my life had taken. I couldn’t
stop the ‘what ifs’ occasionally sneaking into my head: when contributing to the wedding or
baby collections at work; when I’d inadvertently caught stories on the news about amazing
archaeological discoveries. But I’d kept them to myself. I hadn’t wanted Caitlyn ever to think
I regretted giving it all up to be a mother to her. So how would it look that less than a week
after she moved out, I had attended a talk on a subject that I had claimed not to miss? I decided
to fudge it.
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BE KIND TO YOURSELF
VOUCHER ONE
I, Eve Roberts, have been kind to myself by enjoying a night out with Tina!
That sounded suitably vague but fun, didn’t it? Although ‘enjoying’ was stretching the
truth thin. I taped up the parcel. Rich was still engrossed in the football, oblivious to my
presence other than the occasional tut as I unrolled a length of sticky tape. A rectangle of
sunlight illuminated the carpet, picking out the fluff and crumbs that were scattered like
confetti. I suddenly felt stifled.
‘I think I’ll take this to the post office and go for a run,’ I said. Rich pressed pause on
the Sky remote control, and the football froze in mid-air. I was touched by this unexpected
show of interest.
‘Are you coming back here?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m leaving my car.’
‘Great.’ I smiled. How could I have thought he was oblivious? ‘Can you pick me up
some cans on the way back? This is my last one.’ He waved a can of lager at me. ‘And if you
take at least an hour, the match will be over, and I can join you in the shower.’
Clinging on to my smile as he winked at me and restarted the football, I changed into
my running clothes and headed towards the post office in the centre of Inglebridge. The spring
sunshine was surprisingly warm on my face, and as I jogged through the residential streets
towards town, and relaxed into the rhythm of the run, I stamped out my irritation with Rich as
my feet slapped against the pavement.
Had it always been like this? Such a one-dimensional connection, an arrangement more
than a love affair? We had been seeing each other for two years now, a series of snatched
afternoons and evenings that could just about be strung together and called a relationship, but
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it was a hollow one. I hadn’t met his children; he had only met Caitlyn because of an accidental
encounter in the supermarket. We had never spent a whole night together or gone to social
occasions as a couple. And I couldn’t complain, because wasn’t this exactly the type of casual
relationship I had wanted, setting down the ground rules before we had even shared a kiss? He
was a good-looking man, fit from playing football, and was single – quite a catch in a town
that was popular with families. I’d done well to find him.
So
why was I now feeling this creep of dissatisfaction with what we had? Because
seeing Paddy again had reminded me what a real relationship could be like. The shared interests
and mutual support. The conversation and the laughter. The excitement. And the pain. I should
focus on remembering that.
Inglebridge town centre was bustling, as it always was on a sunny Saturday afternoon.
It was a charming, slightly old-fashioned market town, with a mixture of stone buildings from
various periods clustering round the market square. An elaborately carved market cross took
pride of place in the centre of the square, open to the sides but covered overhead so that tired
shoppers could shelter inside for a while and watch the world go by. I had fallen in love with
the place on my first visit, enchanted by the independent shops, the traditional twice-weekly
market, and the cobbled lanes and alleyways that led off the shopping streets down to the river,
where a medieval drover’s bridge crossed the water. It had felt peaceful and safe, and exactly
the sort of place where I wanted to bring up Caitlyn.
The quaintness of the town and the beauty of the surrounding countryside, not to
mention the challenge of climbing Winlow Hill, drew a steady stream of tourists, particularly
during the warmer months. As I jogged past The White Hart Hotel, a gorgeous Georgian
building overlooking the market square, I came across the hotel’s owner, Lexy, updating the
posters in the smart glass frames on each side of the entrance.
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‘Tourist season begins!’ she said, waving at the poster. I paused to read it: a special
deal for dinner, bed and breakfast with a picnic and guides to local walks thrown in. ‘At last!
It felt like winter was never going to end this year. Let’s hope this sunshine is here to stay.
What do you think? Is it a tempting offer?’
‘Sounds great.’ I wondered about who would come: retired couples perhaps, able to
enjoy a midweek break, or younger pairs escaping real life for a relaxing weekend in the
countryside. It was something else I had never experienced with Rich; neither of us had shown
any desire to go on holiday together. Was that normal? Normal for me. And the other sort of
normal hadn’t worked out well, had it?
‘Now that the nights are getting longer,’ Lexy continued, locking the glass display case,
‘I’ve been thinking about ways to attract people in to the town centre again in the evening. You
know the sort of thing – gin tastings, special menu nights – things I tried over winter but that
weren’t enough to tempt people out in the snow. We could do with some regular events too, so
what do you think about setting up a community running group?’
‘But you’re not a runner.’
‘Not yet, but I could do with getting more exercise. And you must know every possible
route around here, so I thought that you were the ideal person to lead the group!’
I’d certainly run right into that trap. Lexy was smiling in what she no doubt hoped was
a winsome way. It reminded me, fleetingly, of Faye. Even now, after so many years, the
combination of grief and guilt felt like a fist thumped into my chest.
‘What would it involve?’
‘Not much! You would just lead everyone on a circular run – nothing too far, as we
need to appeal to all abilities – or lack of ability. It won’t be much trouble, will it, as you go
running most days anyway. And now you can have company!’
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It was tempting to point out that I didn’t need company; that one of the benefits of
running, apart from the physical exercise, was the freedom to switch off my thoughts and be
truly alone.
‘What’s in it for you, if you’re not going to run?’ I asked instead.
‘I’ll join in sometimes, if it’s not raining. And not too cold. I thought everyone could
meet at The White Hart, so the run would start and end here. Then I could offer a discount on
food and drink to anyone who had taken part. What do you think? It would be more fun for
you than sitting at home on your own, now Caitlyn’s gone. You’re allowed to enjoy yourself!
Although I still wish you’d enjoy yourself with a bottle of wine in my bar …’
Something about Lexy’s words made an unconscious echo of Caitlyn. Be kind to
yourself, she had instructed me – and this would fall within the spirit of her rules, wouldn’t it?
Perhaps it would make a change to run with other people. What harm could it do? I had
navigated the best part of seventeen years keeping a wary distance from people, with Tina
being the only exception; making acquaintances but not engaging my emotions, so that I
wouldn’t have to face the pain of loss again. Lycra and sweat were unlikely to change that.
By the time I had run a couple of miles out of town, as far as the ugly 1960s secondary
school where I worked and which was surrounded by a barricade of conifers to prevent it
blotting the landscape, I was beginning to warm to the running group idea. My dad’s premature
death from a heart attack had galvanised me to change my diet and increase my exercise levels;
I wasn’t obsessed with keeping fit, but I tried to encourage healthy living where I could. This
running group could be good for Inglebridge, and perhaps I could put posters up around the
corridors and encourage some of the students to take part too. It was worth a try, wasn’t it?
Mentally designing the poster, I didn’t stop to check the driveway into school before
crossing. It was Saturday afternoon – who would be there? A reckless idiot was the answer. I
had taken two steps from the pavement when a racy, low-slung sports car tore down the drive
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at top speed, clipped me with the wing mirror, and roared off with an elongated hoot of
aggression from the horn. As I tumbled to the ground, I caught sight of a scowling woman, a
similar age to me, raising her hands in irritation and mouthing words that I was glad I couldn’t
hear.
I landed in doggy-style on my hands and knees, winded but otherwise unscathed, apart
from some light grazes. My cheap leggings, on the other hand, had given in at the first hint of
trouble and now sported a large hole in the knee; all the fashion in some quarters, but I guessed
I was too old to pull off the ripped look. The perpetrator was long gone, having hit and run
without so much as a backward glance.
I hauled myself up, brushed off the dirt, and hobbled a short way down the drive to
check the school. The gates to the playground were shut and locked, as they should be, so it
didn’t look like the girl racer had been a burglar, unless she was casing the joint for a proper
attempt. It was probably just someone misdirected by a sat nav, I decided, and didn’t give the
incident another thought as I ran back to Rich’s house.
*
It was obvious that Gran had something on her mind within minutes of my arrival at The
Chestnuts the following day. She didn’t press her emergency button for tea with the same relish
as normal and showed hardly a flicker of enthusiasm when I pulled out the all-butter shortbread.
‘What’s up with your hand?’ she asked, as I tore open the packet.
‘Oh, this?’ I held out my palm. There was a red, grazed patch on the fleshy pad above
my wrist, a legacy from my fall yesterday. ‘It’s nothing, only a scratch. I had a tumble yesterday
while I was out running.’
I spared her the details; I didn’t want her to worry, and it sounded unnecessarily
dramatic to say that I had almost been run over. After a night’s reflection I was ready to concede
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that I wasn’t entirely blameless, by running off the footpath without checking first. It was a
lesson I had spent years drumming into Caitlyn, so I had no excuse for ignoring it myself.
‘Have you dabbed it with TCP?’
That made me smile. TCP had been Gran’s answer to all our childhood complaints,
from cuts and scrapes to sore throats. Even now the smell could take me back instantly to those
carefree days, when we had stayed with Gran during school holidays; when we had run wild
in the nearby park, and cycled around the streets with children we had never met before but
who shared a common goal to have fun; when summers had always seemed long and sunny,
and we had believed our whole lives would be the same.
‘Yes, of course.’ It was a lie. I couldn’t bear to smell it now. ‘It’s nothing. But what’s
the matter with you? You don’t seem your usual mischievous self. You haven’t harassed the
nurses yet or criticised the other residents.’
‘It’s the minibus,’ Gran said, shaking her head. ‘We’ve lost it.’
‘It’s been stolen?’ I immediately thought of the woman in the sports car yesterday.
Perhaps I should have been more concerned, if there was a crime wave sweeping town.
‘No, it’s conked out. It’s been on its last legs for a long time, but last Wednesday it
wouldn’t budge. It was cinema night too, the most popular outing of the month. You can
imagine the to-do.’
I could; I knew how important the monthly trip to the cinema was at The Chestnuts. It
wasn’t a real cinema – Inglebridge wasn’t cosmopolitan enough for that – but the old playhouse
A Dozen Second Chances (ARC) Page 4
