hung back, smiling as she posed for photographs with Paddy. Winston and Cheryl passed me,
pushing a sleeping Mabel in her pram.
‘You should be up there, taking some credit,’ Cheryl said, pointing towards the
photographer. ‘Winston won’t put himself forward either. This is all down to your hard work.’
‘I wouldn’t dare steal the limelight from Gran,’ I said, laughing. ‘This is her last chance
to make the papers. She’s been looking forward to it for weeks. The fundraising was originally
her idea, as she keeps telling anyone who’ll listen.’
‘Do you know what the winning name is?’ Winston asked.
‘I haven’t heard. I just hope it’s not The Phyllis Roberts …’
The launch ceremony passed off well, and the minibus was duly christened with the
name that had won the public vote: The Alfred Wainwright, after the legendary Lancashire man
who had produced famous walking guides to the nearby Lakeland fells. Gran would be
disappointed: I knew that she’d suggested Not Dunroamin’. The manager of the motor
dealership made a worthy speech about how pleased they were to support a good cause, and
then it was Paddy’s turn. He woke everyone up again with a hilarious account of the adventures
a group of pensioners might have, travelling around the country on a road trip in the bus. It was
one of those seemingly effortless performances that must have taken considerable preparation
in advance, as he name-checked many of The Chestnuts residents and gave them roles on the
grand tour – with Gran as conductor, of course. The delight on the residents’ faces made tears
clog in my throat.
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‘I think you made their day with your speech,’ I said, finding myself beside Paddy after
the press had finally finished taking photographs.
‘Ah, I wouldn’t have said that. But if I did, they deserve it, don’t they? It was no bother.’
No bother, he said – but he must have contacted someone at The Chestnuts to find out
the names and personalities of the residents, to give them all such accurate roles in his story.
He must have spent time thinking about his speech, writing it and learning it – and all for a
group of old people he didn’t know and was unlikely to see again. How did that fit with the
notion I had clung to all these years, that Paddy Friel was only interested in himself? It didn’t
– of course it didn’t.
‘How’s your mum?’ I asked, as we crossed the lawn to the table serving drinks. Only
soft drinks were left now, including my rejected elderflower pressé, although a can of Guinness
mysteriously appeared from under the table when Paddy approached. We wandered further
down the garden, away from the other guests, and he took a long slug of beer before replying.
‘She’s not so good,’ he said. He stared down at the can in his hand. ‘It’s taking her
speech now. Her mind is still full of things, you know, but she’s struggling to get it out. It’s
unbearable to see her frustration. Jeez, Eve, you wouldn’t want to watch an animal suffer like
this, never mind your mam …’
I stepped forward and hugged him. What else could I do? I couldn’t watch him suffer.
He returned the embrace one-armed, minding his Guinness, his head resting against mine. And
a memory came rushing back of us doing this before, but the other way round – of him
wrapping me in his arms and comforting me when the news first came that Faye had died, as
if he wanted to squeeze the pain out of me and protect me from further hurt; before we had
realised the implications of her death for us and our planned life together. How had I forgotten
that? Because I had let his one bad act of leaving Caitlyn – leaving me – wipe out years of good
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deeds. I tightened my hold, trying to offer the comfort he had once given me. But as I finally
pulled away, he dipped his head and kissed me.
The forbidden taste of alcohol and Paddy … Which was more intoxicating? I stepped
back, and wiped the back of my hand across my mouth.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, glancing round to see if anyone had noticed. ‘I was
offering you sympathy, nothing more. You promised not to do this!’
‘I never promised not to kiss you.’
‘You did! When we were on the rooftop in Bath …’ I tried to remember. What words
had he used? ‘You said you wouldn’t break my heart again.’
‘I won’t.’
He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t making a joke of this. I felt unsteady, wrong-footed. So
what exactly had he meant by that kiss? Nothing I wanted to hear. And yet … I wished I could
wipe a hand across my mind, to stop it reliving the moment, stop it making a connection with
all those other remembered kisses from before, as if a string of fairy lights were coming on one
by one, connecting the past with the present until I couldn’t help but see how perfectly our lips
fitted together, and always had. Before and after, no kiss had ever affected me like Paddy’s.
That hadn’t changed. So what was I to do now?
I glanced around, anywhere but at Paddy. The garden was emptying now, and I spotted
Gran sitting by herself on one of the few chairs still outside. I hurried over, and crouched down
in front of her.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to abandon you,’ I said. ‘I was just …’ What? Kissing Paddy?
My mind went blank – of excuses, but sadly not of memories.
‘No need to fret about me,’ Gran said. ‘I was having a nice little chat with the journalist.
I’m sure you were having a nice time too.’
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She said this with a twinkle that made me suspect she’d seen exactly what I’d been
doing, until I noticed that Paddy had followed me over and the twinkle was directed at him. He
was more persistent than a shadow, I thought, standing up again. What was the matter with the
man? Missing when I needed him most, and now I didn’t need him, I couldn’t shake him off.
He smiled at me and that train of thought fizzled away.
‘Don’t think you have to hang around here with me,’ Gran said. ‘They’ll be dosing us
with cocoa and shipping us off to bed soon enough. You can get off now if the pair of you have
plans for the night.’
Paddy looked at me in enquiry. He could look all he liked. I wasn’t falling for Gran’s
tricks.
‘I do have plans,’ I said. ‘After I’ve helped clear up here, I’ve arranged to speak to
Beverley on Skype. You remember Beverley,’ I said to Paddy. ‘She was with us on the dig in
the Cotswolds. The Californian lady.’
‘She was fun.’ Paddy smiled. ‘Where is she now?’
‘In Spain. She’s working her way across Europe, and doesn’t go home until November.’
‘It’s a great way to spend the summer.’
I nodded. It probably was. He should know. I assumed that after he left me with Caitlyn,
he’d picked up our plans to volunteer at digs across the world and fulfilled them by himself; it
was one subject we hadn’t discussed since we met up again. I could only imagine what it would
be like to explore the world in that way. But he could only imagine what it was like to raise a
child, to help t
hem develop and grow and become their own person. Having witnessed his
sadness in the Cotswolds, how could I envy his life over mine?
‘Never mind helping here,’ Gran said, prodding me with her stick. ‘Take Paddy out
somewhere. He put on a good show for us. The least you could do is buy him a drink.’
‘Don’t you have to get home?’ I asked him.
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‘I’m staying at The White Hart for the weekend. I thought we could do something
tomorrow.’
Do what, exactly? More kissing? He was smiling at me in a way that was dangerously
familiar. Thank goodness I had a perfect excuse.
‘I’m busy tomorrow. It’s the Inglebridge agricultural show. I’m taking Gran.’
‘Really?’ Paddy turned his attention to Gran. ‘I didn’t know you had a secret interest in
cattle, Phyllis.’
‘I don’t. Can’t stand the pong. I only agreed to go so Eve wouldn’t be lonely on her
own. She normally takes our Caitlyn. I’d rather stop here and take part in the dominoes rally.’
That put me in my place – and it wasn’t a particularly comfortable place to be. Shouldn’t I be
worried about her being lonely, rather than the other way round? What next? Would she be
inviting me to join the dominoes game soon? It was beginning to feel like life was ending at
forty, never mind beginning.
‘So that’s sorted,’ Gran said, waving her stick from Paddy to me. ‘I’ll stop here and you
two can go together.’
*
The Inglebridge agricultural show had been one of my favourite days of the year ever since we
had moved to the town, and was one of the first events I marked in my new calendar each
January. It was an important day for the local farmers, and competition was fierce to win the
colourful rosettes for having the best sheep, pigs and cattle, but there was equally stiff rivalry
amongst breeders to own a prize-winning budgie or rabbit. There was fun for the general public
too, and the main arena in the centre of the showground held livestock parades and equestrian
events such as show-jumping and carriage-driving, as well as special stunt displays that always
drew a huge crowd. The arena was surrounded by tents full of local crafts and food, an
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astonishing variety of trade stands, and a funfair that seemed to grow bigger and better each
year.
Caitlyn and I had attended every year, spending the whole day there whatever the
weather, until we had staggered home, exhausted and happy and laden down with shopping
bags. This year, after Caitlyn had accepted the job in Paris, I had wondered whether to go at all
until I had come up with the brilliant plan to take Gran: I had even paid extra for seats in the
arena grandstand, so she could sit down whenever she wanted. Never had I imagined, when I
bought the tickets so many months ago, that I would end up going along with Paddy.
It wasn’t what I’d planned; it wasn’t what I’d wanted. But as the day rolled on, and the
sun warmed our heads and made everything seem more cheerful, I couldn’t regret being there
with Paddy. His curiosity knew no bounds – it was what made him such an excellent
archaeologist and TV presenter – and he started conversations with people I recognised from
previous years but wouldn’t have thought to approach myself. We learnt about the tips and
tricks to prepare a bull for showing; heard fascinating stories about classic car rallies from the
owner of a gorgeous Austin 7 saloon dating back to 1931; and learnt about the development of
a new micro-brewery at a local farm, which even I found interesting – although not as much as
Paddy, who sampled the beers with great delight. His enthusiasm for it all sparked mine; his
curiosity sparked mine. I’d been visiting the show for sixteen years and felt as if I’d hardly
noticed half of it before. And that was Paddy – that was what made him special, what had made
me miss him so profoundly when he left. He didn’t just share life. He enriched it. I wasn’t sure
it was helping me to be reminded of that.
We bought our lunch from the food stands – the inevitable sausage sandwich for him,
and a bowl of steaming vegetable paella for me – and squeezed onto the benches in the
grandstand while we ate it. This year, the stunt display featured horse riders who had appeared
as body doubles on popular television dramas, and who stood on, dangled off and performed
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tricks on horses while cantering around the arena, jumping over obstacles and leaping through
fire. It was an entrancing performance, and we laughed and gasped at the near misses and
daring stunts, cheering loudly with the rest of the audience when it was over.
After the equestrian display, there was a sudden change in the mood, as the head teacher
of Inglebridge primary school led a long crocodile of children into the arena. I’d seen this
advertised in the show programme, and hadn’t planned to watch, but we were wedged in high
in the grandstand with no easy means of escape. One of the teachers at the primary school had
died earlier in the year, after fighting breast cancer, and the children were going to release pink
balloons in memory of her. The head gave a moving speech, as did the teacher’s widower who
was flanked by their two teenagers, and then the balloons soared into the air as cheers and
applause rang out across the showground.
I couldn’t help myself; a few stray tears rolled down my cheeks as I listened to the
glowing tributes and watched the balloons drift away on the gentle breeze. The teacher who
died had worked at the school for many years – she had taught Caitlyn – and she had been
known to many of the children and parents attending the show today. It was a fitting goodbye
from the Inglebridge community, but it was inevitable that my own personal goodbyes in my
family would enter my mind too.
The crowd in the grandstand started to move, and Paddy grabbed my hand.
‘Come on,’ he said, pulling me up and leading me down the steps. ‘It’s time for the
funfair.’
‘No …’ I began to protest, but he put his finger up to my lips.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have fun. We need it.’
He was right, of course. It proved exactly what we needed to lift the mood again. We
had a go at the hook-a-duck stall – Paddy won a plastic sword, which he brandished at me in
brutal Viking fashion before handing it over to a less successful little boy. We rode sedately on
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the painted carousel horses, and raced round on the dodgems, laughing as we chased and
bumped into each other; enjoying ourselves as if we were still the young Paddy and Eve, lovers
with a life of adventure ahead of us, rather than the middle-aged pair scarred by tragedy and
loss.
Paddy caught my hand as I stumbled down the steps away from the dodgems, dizzy
from the movement of the cars and the abundance of laughter. He led me away from the fair
and towards the bank of trees that lined the side of the showground, until we were out of the
crowd. He stopped and looked at me.
‘What do you say to me kissing you now, Ev
e? I’ll give you a fair chance this time.
Would you pull away?’
Would I? His eyes were locked on mine. I reminded myself that this was Paddy – the
man who had abandoned me with a grieving child. But it was also the Paddy I had loved more
than I had thought it possible to love another person; and the Paddy who had shown me this
year that he had become the decent, thoughtful man I had always believed him to be. The
question chased around my head, searching for the right answer, but it was too late – my body
was already leaning forwards, ready to meet his.
My mouth had almost reached his when the sound of my phone rang out from my bag.
‘Ignore it,’ Paddy said, the words blowing against my lips.
‘I can’t. It might be Gran.’
I drew away and took out my phone. It stopped ringing just as I tried to answer. There
was a long list of missed calls on the screen, all from the same unfamiliar number. All from
France, according to the display. The blood that had so recently roared around my body now
seemed to freeze in my veins. Before I could call the number back, the phone started ringing
again.
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‘Mum?’ It was Caitlyn. There was no time for relief, as the word ended on a sob. ‘Mum?
I need you.’
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CHAPTER 21
‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ Paddy had been pacing around me as I spoke, and he
clutched my arm as soon as I ended the phone call. ‘Was that Caitlyn?’
I nodded. ‘She’s been mugged. Her bag was snatched – her purse and phone have gone.’
‘But nothing worse? She’s not hurt?’
I shook my head. I’d had to be calm and soothing when talking to Caitlyn, but now the
tears I had supressed ran down my cheeks, and I felt a complicated mix of horror that she had
suffered this and relief that it hadn’t been anything worse. And Paddy pulled me into his arms,
A Dozen Second Chances (ARC) Page 26
