*
By the time Tuesday evening arrived, I was in the mood for a fast and furious run, so it was
disappointing to see a motley collection of people arrive for the inaugural running club event.
Lexy’s advertising on Facebook and in The White Hart had paid off in the end, and ten people
turned up, ranging from a veteran of half-marathons to a lady who admitted with a cheerful
grin that she hadn’t run since her baby was born eighteen months ago, but she was keen to get
back in shape.
One of the fitter runners, Winston, was vaguely familiar and after an extensive guessing
game as we jogged along at an infuriatingly slow pace, we established that we had crossed
paths at The Chestnuts, where his grandmother was also a resident.
‘You’re Phyllis’s granddaughter?’ he said, when we paused on the crest of the drover’s
bridge that spanned the river to the south of the town centre, to allow the others to catch up. I
wouldn’t have stopped if I’d been alone, but I couldn’t deny the charm of the scene, or how
peaceful it was to watch the water meander below us.
‘Yes. Do you know her?’
Winston laughed. ‘Everyone knows Phyllis. She’s the Queen of The Chestnuts, isn’t
she? Nothing goes on there without her knowing, and no one comes and goes without her
noticing.’
‘Noticing or interfering?’
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‘Maybe both,’ Winston acknowledged with a grin, as we set off again. ‘I hear you’re
organising a sponsored walk to raise money for a new minibus.’
‘Am I? I did suggest it, but I hadn’t realised it was definitely going ahead.’ I hadn’t
raised the subject again with Gran, in case she dropped any more hints about a celebrity
endorsement. I wanted to help The Chestnuts, but there were limits.
‘It’s definitely happening. Phyllis has even decided on the date. The third Sunday in
May. She had wanted it to be the Bank Holiday weekend, but then she decided that people
might be going away for half-term, so she brought it forward.’
‘But that’s only seven weeks away! How am I supposed to sort it out in that time?’
‘I did hear her mention that the Easter break was coming up, and you would have
nothing else to do.’ Winston laughed as he repeated what was undoubtedly one of Gran’s bon
mots. ‘Tell you what, why don’t I give you a hand? I’m on paternity leave for a couple of
months. It will be good to keep my brain active. Only if you need the help,’ he added, as I
slowed to let him go first where the riverside path narrowed to single file. ‘I don’t want to butt
in.’
Did I need the help? Probably, if I only had seven weeks. But I wasn’t used to accepting
it. I was the one who offered help, not took it. I had many acquaintances around Inglebridge,
people who I would happily pass time chatting to, but in the seventeen years I had lived here,
only Tina had slipped through my barriers and become a true friend. My Christmas card list
was extensive, my Christmas present list short. It was the way I had chosen it to be. I prided
myself on being independent, and on not relying on anyone else. My history had made me
cautious; if I didn’t get too close to people, I wouldn’t go through the pain of losing them. But
a sudden thought struck me, as I ran along the uneven path. I might be spared the pain – but
was I losing out on happiness too? And why had a simple question about a sponsored walk
turned the spotlight on my whole way of life?
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The path widened again, and Winston slowed until I caught him up.
‘Sorry,’ he said, as we carried on running. ‘I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Have
a think about it. If you need some help, I’m here. Strictly speaking, me and a seven-month-old
are here, but I’m probably better with a spreadsheet than she is.’
It could have been the embarrassed smile, or the reference to the spreadsheet that swung
it – or perhaps I recognised in him the same urge to help that drove me. Before I could think
better of it, I heard myself giving him an answer.
‘I’d love some help,’ I said.
*
I definitely seemed to have swapped roles with Caitlyn. Not so long ago, I had been
encouraging her to stretch her wings and try new opportunities. She had taken childcare
qualifications at a local college after A levels, and then found a job at a nursery in Inglebridge,
but it had been obvious to me that she had been restless. She had always loved languages at
school, and longed to travel, but I knew she hadn’t looked for jobs abroad, and I knew why.
She was worried about leaving me. So I had researched a huge variety of jobs in near and far-
flung places that I thought she might enjoy, printed them off, and circled a few that she seemed
most qualified for. She had chosen the au pair position in Paris, and I had polished my acting
skills to feign delight when she won the job, comforting myself with the reminder that she
might have ended up much further away.
Now she was playing me at my own game. I arrived home from work one day to find a
large envelope postmarked from Paris. Inside, I discovered a sheaf of papers, listing a range of
volunteering opportunities to work on archaeological digs over the summer, from Peru to
Penzance. Caitlyn had circled one in the Cotswolds and added a message: ‘Sounds perfect! Be
kind to yourself!’
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Flicking through the details she had sent, I couldn’t deny it: it was perfect. The dig was
taking place over two weeks on a site south of Cirencester, carrying on the excavation of a
Roman villa. The photographs of what had been discovered so far were tantalising: tiles from
a hypocaust system that would have been used to heat the villa, numerous coins and pottery
pieces, and an amazing mosaic floor that I longed to see for myself. It was an area I knew
relatively well, as I had been brought up in Warwickshire and had volunteered at another dig
in the Cotswolds in the summer holiday before I started university.
And as my gaze roved over the details, soaking it all in, trying to keep a check on my
growing excitement, I saw who was in charge of the dig: Christopher Porter, my former
university tutor, the man who had taken my raw enthusiasm and polished it. I had learnt so
much from him, and my heart fizzed at the prospect of working with him again, even as a
humble volunteer. Some might call it a sign, but not me: I was no longer romantic enough to
be superstitious or to set any store by fate. Even so, I moved the details to the top of the pile
and left it on the kitchen table. I was curious, that was all. I already had a job, one that kept me
quite busy enough. I wasn’t going to do anything about it – was I?
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CHAPTER 7
It was normally one of the most boring parts of my day – sorting through the post, allocating it
into piles for each department, and filling the recycling bin with the junk mail the school
inevitably received. I did it on autopilot. The last thing I expected to find was an envelope
addressed to me, in the barely legible handwriting that I had once k
nown so well, when I had
eagerly pored over every loop and dot and cross of the letters that Paddy had sent me during
those never-ending days of university holidays when we had been apart.
Now I looked at his scruffy scrawl and felt nothing but resentment that he had bothered
me here, in a place where there ought to be no reminders of Paddy. Wasn’t it bad enough that
he was giving a talk at school tonight, against my wishes? Had I not made it perfectly clear that
I wasn’t interested in renewing our acquaintance?
The envelope sat on the edge of my desk throughout the morning, as I dithered over
whether to open it or throw it straight in the recycling bin. In the end, and despite my better
judgement, curiosity won. I opened the envelope and pulled out a postcard. The picture side
showed Lindisfarne and my heart gave a few uncomfortable thumps, because we had visited
there together during the glorious summer we had spent working at Vindolanda in
Northumberland. He must remember, surely – so what was the significance of him choosing
that card? I turned it over and read the message.
Dear Eve
Remember that summer? Happy times, weren’t they?
I know I screwed up. I’m the biggest idiot going. But can we meet after the talk on
Wednesday? There’s something I need to explain – something I should have explained
years ago.
Give me a chance.
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Paddy
I read it three times, and it still made no sense. What good were explanations now? The
moment was long gone, gone seventeen years ago, gone the moment Paddy had chosen not to
attend my dad’s funeral. A stubborn streak of love had lingered, to my shame, even after he
had walked out on me and Caitlyn, but it couldn’t survive a second rejection. And he really
didn’t need to explain his behaviour. I’d figured it out for myself. He cared about no one but
Paddy Friel. What more was there to say?
‘Personal mail again, Eve?’
Jo Blair lurked in the doorway of her office, staring pointedly at the postcard in my
hand. My hand was trembling; I hoped she couldn’t see that from where she stood.
‘Junk mail,’ I replied, and without a second’s hesitation I crossed to the recycling bin
and dropped in the postcard. ‘Nothing important.’
‘About the event tonight,’ she said, with an unexpected degree of awkwardness. ‘It
would be helpful if you could be on hand for the Year 10 presentation, to set up the screen and
the PowerPoint slides. I haven’t had a chance to familiarise myself with the system yet.’
‘Why me?’ I asked, my head still too full of Paddy’s message to make a show of good
grace. ‘Can’t one of the IT technicians do it?’
‘They both have other plans. And I’m told that you are the expert on such things.’
That was true, but I wasn’t going to be won over by a titbit of flattery, especially when
she hadn’t scrupled to let me know that I was her last choice.
‘I have plans too,’ I said.
‘Really?’
Of course I didn’t. That sceptical inflection in Jo’s question was infuriatingly justified.
Rich was working away, Tina would be at school drooling over Paddy … My plans consisted
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of nothing more than a run and a night in front of the TV – an identical night to every other. Jo
sniffed my weakness.
‘It will all be over by seven o’clock. It will hardly eat into your night at all. I’m sure
you will be keen to support school events. It’s exactly the sort of thing I’ll be looking at in the
annual Performance Management at the end of the year. And I wouldn’t be surprised to find
that it’s in your job description to help out.’
She smiled and retreated to her office, no doubt pleased with herself for that parting
shot – because wasn’t I the one who had relied on my job description when she had suggested
I spy for her? How could I refuse now? Especially if our annual reviews were coming up.
Reviews with Mrs Armstrong had been an opportunity to ignore the phone and have a natter
for half an hour. I suspected Jo Blair would take it more seriously. And what if she appraised
me and found me wanting? Did she have the power to sack me, as an interim head? What would
I do without my job?
Determined to show my commitment, however much it pained me, I behaved as the
model assistant at the Year 10 talk that evening, keeping my face neutral as Jo baffled the
parents with talk of SPaG and cohorts as she tried to explain the exam system. Everything went
so well that she even managed a ‘thank you’ as she wandered off to prepare for the next event
of the night – Paddy’s talk – leaving me to tidy up and make sure the hall was ready. I didn’t
mind. I glanced at my watch. One good thing about Jo’s love of efficiency was that she had
finished bang on time. I had forty-five minutes to make my escape before Paddy’s arrival. He
had never wasted time in the past by turning up a minute before he needed to, and I didn’t
expect he had changed. There was no danger of seeing him.
With thirty minutes to spare, I was about to grab my bag and leave when running
footsteps echoed through the hall. I looked up, expecting to see a Paddy fan dashing for a seat
on the front row – she or he would be disappointed to find they were already reserved for
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governors and members of staff. I was half right – it was Tina, and she was dashing my way
wearing an anxious expression that immediately worried me.
‘Have you finished?’ she asked, grabbing the back of the nearest chair as she gasped
for breath.
‘Yes. He’s not here already, is he? He’s never usually early.’ I pulled my bag from
under my chair, assuming she had come to give me a warning, and touched by this evidence of
Tina’s friendship. I hadn’t thought she understood my aversion to Paddy. ‘Where have you put
him? Is it safe to use the main doors?’
‘Put who? Oh, Paddy. No, he’s not here yet.’ Tina glanced at the clock on the wall, and
her anxious expression deepened. ‘I asked him to be here for seven so we could chat through
the arrangements. He’s cutting it fine. Is he not good at punctuality?’
He wasn’t good full stop – I thought I’d already made that clear. But I simply shrugged
in response, accepting no responsibility for his faults.
‘What did you want me for, if it wasn’t about Paddy?’ I asked.
‘We have another crisis brewing – or more accurately, not brewing,’ Tina said, with a
rueful grin. ‘Bev has had to go home because one of the kids is ill, so …’
‘No.’ I knew where this was going, and I didn’t like it. ‘I’m not doing the teas. No way.’
‘I wouldn’t ask if there was anyone else. But you know what Jo Blair is like. She’s
expecting to make some money tonight, even if it’s only a tenner. It will be on one of her
spreadsheets. And she’ll want to put on a good show as the press are supposed to be coming.’
That job had left a nasty taste in my mouth – having to ring up the local paper and invite
them to the event, gushing about what a coup it was to have the renowned celebrity
archaeologist Paddy Friel visiting our school. Part of me had hoped they would say, ‘Who?’
Unfortunately, I had spoken to a female journalist who had hardly let me finish my patter before
she had begged to come.
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‘Surely there must be someone else …’
Even I could hear the resignation in my voice. Tina pounced on it.
‘You’d be in the canteen during the talk, so you wouldn’t see or hear him,’ she said.
‘And I’d fetch him a cup of tea myself, so he wouldn’t come anywhere near you.’ She reached
out and rubbed my arm. ‘I know you didn’t want to be here, but I have to make it work tonight.
Jo has already been dropping hints about my Performance Management next term. Please help.’
I nodded. What else could I do? Tina had been a good friend to me over the years, and
had saved my sanity on more occasions than I could remember. Friendship trumped personal
inclination every time.
It wasn’t a taxing job to set out the tea things; I’d done it countless times before. But
when all the cups and saucers were set out, the biscuits displayed on plates and the ‘50p per
cup’ sign prominently displayed, I still had thirty minutes to kill before the first of the thirsty
hordes were likely to descend. I messed around with my phone for a while, checked my emails,
replied to a text from Rich and generally did everything I could to distract myself from what
was going on in the hall.
I straightened a teacup and looked critically at the display. Were there enough cups?
There were more in the cupboard that I had judged unnecessary – but what if my prejudice was
underestimating the popularity of this event? What if I let Tina down?
It was a matter of seconds between the thought creeping into my head and my feet
carrying me to the door of the hall. Standing to one side, I peered through the glass panel,
focusing only on the rows of chairs stretching back down the length of the hall. It was far busier
A Dozen Second Chances (ARC) Page 7
