Tall, slim, young and dressed for a night filled with cocktails and glamour, there was only one
of us she could belong to.
‘Hey, Paddy, sorry to keep you waiting. I felt like I had dust in places you wouldn’t
believe …’
She smiled prettily at us all and my heart bled for her. She was barely older than Caitlyn;
barely older than I had been when I had smiled at Paddy in the way she was doing now. I hoped
he was going to be kinder to her.
‘Eve, this is Posy, my research assistant.’
‘Good to meet you.’ I managed a smile, managed to resist the urge to pull her to one
side and give her a warning. Research assistant, indeed! How stupid did he think I was? I’d
never enjoyed weekends away in a luxury hotel when I’d acted as a research assistant. Gran
was looking Posy up and down, and I dreaded to think what gem she might be about to utter. I
took her arm and steered her towards the door.
‘I hope you have a successful day tomorrow,’ I said to Paddy. There was no way I
would be joining them, playing gooseberry. My feelings for him might have faded long ago,
but that didn’t mean I would choose to see him with a new girlfriend, sharing the tasks we had
once carried out together. ‘I’ll be in touch about the walk.’
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*
The Easter holidays were over far too soon, and not only because I had to return to school and
endure working with Jo Blair. It was also time for my mum’s regular visit, not something I was
looking forward to, especially without Caitlyn to keep conversation flowing this year. My mum
ran a bar in Spain with her partner, Juan, and visited us twice a year: once in November, to
deliver Christmas presents after the half-term break, and once in spring, when the Easter rush
was over and before the summer season took off. Each year she arrived with enough luggage
and duty-free to last a month, never mind a week, and her skin was browner, her skirts shorter
and her bangles noisier than the previous visit.
She had arrived on Sunday and by Tuesday, as I let myself in after work, I barely
recognised the house as my own. Magazines, nail files, flimsy cardigans … there was clutter
and paraphernalia over every surface. The kitchen bore the brunt of it, with dirty mugs and
used teabags mounting up by the sink, and an army of pre-mixed cans of gin and tonic standing
in line in my fridge. It felt more like living with a rebellious teenager than it ever had when
Caitlyn was here.
‘You’re late,’ Mum said, wandering into the kitchen wearing what looked suspiciously
like pyjamas. She leant past me to grab a can of gin from the fridge, while I took out a carton
of fruit juice. ‘I thought the benefits of a school job were the short hours and the holidays.’
‘Only people who don’t work in a school believe that.’ I smiled, trying to push aside
reflections on a bad day at work; Jo Blair was hell-bent on trimming the budget for each
department, and had hidden away in her office while furious department heads vented their
anger on me. Thank goodness it was Tuesday – a vigorous run was exactly what I needed now.
‘I thought we could have a Chinese tonight,’ Mum said, flapping a piece of paper at
me. ‘I found this takeaway menu in the drawer.’
I felt a pang of loss; it was from Caitlyn’s favourite takeaway.
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‘We’ll have to eat late,’ I said. ‘I’m going running tonight.’
‘But it’s raining. Can’t you give it a miss tonight? I’m only here for a week.’
‘I can’t. I lead the group.’ I had considered – for the best part of thirty seconds – whether
I should drop out this week, but had soon decided that it was too good an excuse to avoid
another evening in with Mum. We had run out of things to say in the first couple of hours
together, and our evenings passed making banal conversation on even more banal television
shows. Mum had always been closer to Faye, and I had been closer to my dad. The wrong
parent and the wrong child had been left to rub along together, making a strange imbalance in
our family. The tragic events that should have pushed us together had somehow emphasised
our differences and pulled us further apart.
‘I’ll make it a short run tonight,’ I offered, my conscience prodding me to compromise.
‘We run from The White Hart, so it will only take me a few minutes to get home.’
‘The White Hart?’ I should have known Mum would prick her ears up at that. ‘The
hotel on the market square? Do they serve food? I could wait for you there and we could eat
afterwards. I’ll put it on expenses at work. It’s research, isn’t it?’
It was a miracle that the bar in Spain was still trading if Mum spent all the profit on this
type of ‘research’, but I agreed to the change of plan; Lexy would be grateful for the business,
and it would make a change from another night in front of the television. It turned out even
better than I’d anticipated: a few of the other runners had decided to take advantage of Lexy’s
discount on food for the running group and stayed for a meal, so we pushed a few tables
together and all squashed up with each other. Mum was in her element – she loved a crowd –
and she had enough tales of Spanish life to keep everyone entertained for weeks, never mind
one night.
‘Your mum’s a hoot,’ Lexy said, as I passed her on the way back from the ladies. ‘I
hope I’m like that at her age. You must miss her when she’s in Spain.’
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I smiled and nodded, because how could I explain? I missed the old mum, the one who
had had a husband and two children. The woman at the table in front of me was an exaggerated
version of her former self. Mum had always been loud and lively, in many ways the opposite
of my quiet, studious father. Not many people would notice the difference now, but I did. I
noticed the laughs that were too loud, too long; the smile that was artificially bright; the larger-
than-life costume that shrouded the person she had once been. There was no universal
guidebook for dealing with grief; she had chosen her way, and I had chosen mine. It was
unfortunate that we had each chosen a way that sat uneasily with the other’s.
Nevertheless, as the other members of the running group gradually wandered home,
and it was only the two of us left, the atmosphere was less cautious than it usually was between
us; perhaps we had both been reminded of who and how we used to be.
‘They’re a nice bunch,’ Mum said, shifting from her seat across the table to sit on the
bench next to me. ‘It will do you good to mix more. Caitlyn said you were getting out and
about at last.’
‘Caitlyn?’ I repeated, homing in on the most important part of this speech. ‘When did
you speak to her?’
‘Last week. She looked so well …’ Mum stopped and swigged the dregs of her wine,
not meeting my eye.
‘You saw Caitlyn last week? Where? Did she visit you in Spain? She told me she
couldn’t have time off until August.’
‘Don’t blame Caitlyn. I made a surprise visit to Paris on my way here.’ Mum shrugged.
‘I miss her.’
/> I couldn’t argue with that. I missed her too, but we had agreed that I wouldn’t visit her
in these first few months. She wanted to settle in and not risk feeling homesick, or so she had
said.
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‘How was she?’ I put aside my resentment at Mum’s sneaky visit; there would be time
for that later. ‘Is she eating? Are her employers kind? Is she happy?’
‘Very.’ That brought me comfort, of sorts, but not much happiness. If she was happy,
there was no chance of her returning home. But how could I not prefer her to be happy in Paris
rather than unhappy at home with me? It was the conundrum of parents everywhere, I supposed.
‘And Luc is gorgeous,’ Mum continued. ‘Have you seen him? And that accent …’ She
fanned her face, laughing.
‘Who’s Luc?’
‘Caitlyn’s boyfriend.’ Mum stopped the fanning and pulled a comedy grimace. ‘She
hasn’t mentioned him, has she? That’s children for you. Always needing their little secrets.’
And then her grimace faded, because there was so much subtext in those words, we
couldn’t fail to feel it. Caitlyn wasn’t my child; and Faye had kept more than little secrets. I
picked up my bag, deciding to leave further questioning about Caitlyn until I was less tired,
and Mum was less drunk.
‘Hang on,’ Mum said, putting out her arm to stop me rising. ‘There are things you’ve
not told me either. I went to visit your gran today.’
I couldn’t judge where this was leading from Mum’s face. She’d had years of practice
at holding her alcohol, and could down vast quantities of gin and still maintain an inscrutable
poker face. What could Gran have told her? I didn’t have secrets, and if I did, I would have
trusted Gran not to share them with Mum; Gran had never entirely approved of her daughter-
in-law, never believing that she was good enough for my dad. So what could Mum mean?
Unless … my heart sank. Gran wouldn’t have mentioned Paddy, would she?
Careful not to fall into a trap, I pitched a casual question.
‘What did Gran tell you?’
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‘That you weren’t happy at work. That you were having problems with your new boss.
You’ve not mentioned any of that to me. I thought you enjoyed working there.’
‘I used to. But …’ I shrugged. The truth was, my motivation had been diminishing ever
since Caitlyn left. One of the main reasons for taking the job had been to keep an eye on her.
When she had gone on to college, there had still been the satisfaction of working with friends,
and of knowing I was invaluable to Mrs Armstrong. There was no pleasure now in helping Jo
Blair, and though she was only in the post as an interim measure, lately I had begun to feel
stifled, not satisfied, and to dread the thought that this was all there was for another thirty years
… More worries to be put off for another day.
Mum drew her handbag onto her knee and took out a folded paper.
‘Here,’ she said, pushing the paper into my hand. ‘It seems like a good time to give you
this. Call it an early birthday present.’
Intrigued, I unfolded the paper. It was a cheque, made out to me, for £50,000.
‘I’d have been happy with a new pair of trainers …’ I looked at Mum, too overwhelmed
to take it in. Mystified too; she had always led me to believe that the bar turned a meagre profit.
‘Where did this come from?’
‘Your dad.’ I must have looked even more mystified, because Mum hurried on. ‘You
know he was good with money. He started savings schemes as soon as I was pregnant,
especially so you’d have a windfall when you were forty. He thought it would be a midlife
treat.’
We were both silent while that sank in. Forty hadn’t been the middle of Dad’s life. Faye
hadn’t even made it close to that age. My hand shook, and I thrust the cheque back towards
Mum.
‘Is this mine?’ I asked. ‘Or ours?’
‘Yours.’ Mum clasped my hand, briefly. ‘Faye’s fund will go to Caitlyn.’
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I nodded. That was right; that was what I would have wanted.
‘Consider it your inheritance,’ Mum carried on, ‘because I can’t promise there’ll be
much else. And it’s better to have it now, while it can make a difference.’
‘What am I supposed to do with it?’ It was a question for myself as much as Mum. This
was life-changing money. But did I want to change my life? And if so, in what way? I’d had
no idea about Dad’s savings schemes. I couldn’t even begin to process this.
‘Whatever you want,’ Mum replied. ‘Build a conservatory. Buy a fancy car. Go on a
luxury holiday. Take a career break.’ She took hold of my hand again, and squeezed it. ‘Use it.
Enjoy it. Just don’t let it fester away in the bank, waiting for a rainy day that might never come.
We know more than most that life’s too short to waste a moment.’
*
Mum had been in bed for over an hour when I crept out to the garage in the dark. I couldn’t
sleep. Usually the evening run tired me out, so I had no trouble dropping off, but tonight too
many thoughts were battering my head to permit any chance of rest.
I switched on the overhead light and went straight to the old wardrobe that had stood at
the back of the garage since we had moved here. I pulled open the door for the first time in
years and considered the contents. There was my spade, still with some dried topsoil clinging
defiantly to the edge. Next to it stood a tower of assorted-sized buckets, used to carry away
rubbish or any interesting finds on a dig.
A large rucksack lay on the wardrobe shelf. I plucked it down, the texture of the canvas
between my fingers instantly evoking memories of the days when this bag had been my
constant companion. I unfastened the buckles and reached inside, taking out the objects I found:
a foam mat for kneeling on; pegs, twine, measuring tape and compass for laying out a site to
form a grid of digging areas; paintbrushes and a four-inch trowel that made up my basic
excavation tools. I held the trowel in my hand, reacquainting myself with its weight and feel,
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but it was hardly necessary; my hand reconnected with it as if it were a fifth finger or a second
thumb. It was where it belonged.
In a side pocket of the rucksack, I found my old camera, so old that it took 35mm film
rather than being digital; there was film in it, twenty-eight of the frames used. What would they
show? Who might they show? I pulled out the notebook that accompanied it. I had recorded
everything in here, every detail of a dig from first arrival onwards, noting the times and the
weather conditions, sketching each find and listing each photograph I had taken.
I flicked through the book until I found the last page I’d written on. It had been the dig
in Kent, of course: a glorious two-week break we had taken late in the summer after graduating
university, before we had knuckled down and filled our time with as many jobs as we could fit
in, to raise the money we needed to travel. As I held the book in my hand, I could feel again
the sun’s warmth on
the top of my head, smell the heat on our skin and see the wildflowers
carpeting the woods that had adjoined the fields where the dig was taking place. And there was
the list of the photographs I would find if I ever chose to develop the film, right down to number
twenty-eight, which simply read, ‘Paddy ’.
But next to my writing there was something else, something I hadn’t written and hadn’t
seen before. A thick black asterisk marked the page, followed by the letters P.T.O. and, in case
that wasn’t clear enough, a wiggly arrow snaked its way to the edge of the page. I knew the
writing, knew the style, knew only one person could have done this, but I was still unable to
resist. I turned the page, and found what I was presumably supposed to find the next time I
went on a dig: the time that had never come. Filling the next page was a sketch of a man in
Viking costume and helmet but with Paddy’s face, a man who was down on his knees and
offering up a heart in his outstretched hands.
I leant against the wardrobe, absorbing every detail. He had always been a skilled
cartoonist: a few quick strokes of the pen and he could create a wonderfully clear picture. And
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this picture was clear – but the message behind it wasn’t. What had he meant? Was it just a
quick sketch, dashed off as a surprise to make me smile next time I opened the book? Or had
it been intended as something more? The man on bended knee, offering his heart – it could be
interpreted in a particular way …
This must have been drawn only a few months before Faye had died, and before Paddy
had left. Had I misunderstood him that day when we shared lunch on the hill? Had my
assumption been wrong, that Paddy had gone because he didn’t love me?
I snapped the book shut and a puff of dust and old earth blew into the air – an
appropriate metaphor, I thought, because everything in that book was old and forgotten now. I
wouldn’t think about it; there was no point thinking about it. So Paddy had drawn a romantic
picture – whatever he had felt in that moment was consigned to history when he walked out on
A Dozen Second Chances (ARC) Page 12
