by Jessica Ryn
He flops to the ground and stretches his long legs out in front of him. The breeze blows his sandy-blonde hair across his face. ‘I’m just a bit freaked,’ he admits, pushing it from his eyes. Grace resists the urge to tell him he needs a haircut. She’ll suggest to Peter that he adds it to Jack’s to-do list. Grace has one for each of her key clients and gets them to tick off the tasks with her at the end of each day. That way they can all share the satisfaction of productivity.
‘This course will be the first thing I’ve stuck to in a long time. It will be so great to actually have something to fill my days up properly. Boredom’s not good for me and I can’t end up back inside. Not now I’ve come so far. I can’t let Peter down after all he’s done.’
‘Well then don’t,’ she shrugs. ‘Only you’re in charge of that, no one else. We only get one life—’ Grace breaks off as the image from the morning’s newspaper pushes its way back into her mind.
Jack hauls himself back onto his feet and they walk further along the clifftop, enjoying the quiet, broken only by the sound of sea on shingle, far below. An array of orange canoes are lined up near the shoreline and the ferry is on its way in from France. Grace looks to the castle, its stone walls shimmering in the sunshine, and her shoulders relax.
‘Drink?’ Jack asks. They’ve reached the pub already. The White Stag is kept spotless on the outside; its front always gleaming Daz-ultra white as it looks over the clifftop and across the sea. Inside is another matter, with its sticky floor and dubious graffiti on the toilet doors. Grace doesn’t go in there very often as the St Jude’s residents tend to frequent it and staff are discouraged from socialising with them outside work hours.
‘Just a Coke and a game of pool?’ Jack seems to sense her hesitation.
‘Go on then.’ Grace can’t resist a game of pool and there’s always a table free in there.
The pub is empty except for a couple of old men at the bar reading the paper, and they zoom through game after game of pool.
‘You’re pretty good,’ says Jack, wiping his forehead with his forearm. It’s boiling in there and Grace checks her pocket for some change to buy another Coke.
‘From my uni days, probably,’ she says. ‘We used to play all the time between lectures.’ Grace would have preferred to have played pool during them too, if she’s honest.
‘Bloody social work?’ Her mum had yelled when Grace had shown her the details of her first-choice course. ‘You’ll be signing up for a lifetime of paperwork and helping people who don’t want to be helped. Do something profitable. Medicine, perhaps, if you really want to be a do-gooder.’
Social work was still the obvious choice when it became apparent that she wasn’t cut out for medical school, but she’d still spent all three years waiting to feel like she belonged between the pages of her social policy handbook.
‘I haven’t played pool for ages though. I lost touch with most people around here whilst I was studying, then all my uni mates moved back home. I don’t have anyone left to do this with anymore. I even used to bring my nan for a game before she went and died.’ The lightness in Grace’s voice sounds false, even to her. ‘You’re not bad yourself.’
‘When you’ve stayed in as many Young Offender Institutions as I have, you get a lot of practice,’ he winks. ‘I’ll get these. I got my jobseeker’s money yesterday, and I’m feeling flush,’ he grins. ‘How about a proper drink and we can sit outside?’
Grace eyes up the lager taps and tries to remember the last time she’d enjoyed a pint of Foster’s with another human being. There are so many reasons this would be a bad idea. It’s against the rules to even be in here with Jack, let alone drinking with him. It doesn’t feel right to let him pay, but then she might hurt his pride if she doesn’t. And she’s supposed to be the manager. And she’s not supposed to be drinking alcohol. Too many calories and it’s on her list of things to cut out – the laminated version.
‘Pint then, please,’ she finds herself saying. ‘Foster’s. I’ll grab us a table out the back.’
Chapter 6
Dawn
DAWN STUMBLES INTO THE park, legs and lungs burning with the effort of processing oxygen and lactic acid. Running all the way from St Jude’s has numbed her brain, but her eyes are working overtime as she searches for Shaun, her throat getting tighter with each passing second.
She stops when she reaches the police tape that’s cordoned off the area around the toilets. A horde of people are standing around it, talking in low voices. Dawn scans the crowd, still looking for an oversized hoody and a Converse baseball cap.
‘I can’t believe what happened to that guy,’ a voice says from behind her. ‘I’ve seen him around here a few times. Even got a light off him once. It’s messed up.’
‘Shaun.’ Dawn’s shoulders sag, and she squeezes him tight, almost lifting his skinny frame from the ground. She’s left a mascara-stained tear on his left shoulder but hopefully he won’t mind.
‘What the hell was that?’ he mutters, dusting off his arms as if she’s ruffled his feathers. ‘I only saw you yesterday.’
‘I just thought it was you who… Never mind. You’re right. Terrible thing to happen.’ She shakes her head. ‘I heard something about it on the news.’ Then she stops because of course he wouldn’t have seen the news, on account of having no walls.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ She nods towards the café that’s squeezed between Poundland and the bookies in the row of shops that faces the park.
‘Don’t really drink coffee,’ he says. He somehow looks even younger than he did yesterday. He’s taken his hoody off and his ribs show through his faded blue T-shirt. ‘I only drink hot chocolate.’
‘Brill. You can have it like my daughter always likes it if you like. Whipped cream and marshmallows?’
‘I’m eighteen, not eight,’ he says as he swings his bag over his shoulder and saunters off in front, leading the way.
The café is jam-packed with shoppers and hungry toddlers. It’s noisy, so Dawn has to shout if she wants Shaun to hear her. A couple of times, she thinks she may be overshooting volume-wise because the pretty lady behind the counter keeps looking at her, but she keeps talking anyway. It’s nice to have someone to chat to for a change; to have a drink with as if they’re just two normal people. Plus, the more she speaks, the easier it is to push that uneasiness back into its box where it belongs.
‘You have cream all over your nose,’ Dawn laughs, grabbing a serviette. She leans over to wipe it off him, just as she used to with Rosie. She asks Shaun about his family and what sports he’s into.
‘What’s this, twenty questions?’ he says. He does tell her he supports Arsenal and starts going on about seasons and players and how much they’re all worth. It’s nice hearing his voice, but most of the words evaporate inside the steam from her hot chocolate before they reach her brain. The woman sandwiched between their table and the counter is with a baby in a sturdy stroller that’s designed to take on the Himalayan mountains. The little cutie drops a pink bunny from her chubby little fists. Dawn picks it up from the floor and waves it in front of her face.
Rosie always did her best belly-laughs when Dawn used to do her special teddy voiceovers, so she tries it now. The baby screws her eyes up in preparation for a big bawl. Dawn brings her performance to a halt, but not before she sees the mum’s face. The woman pulls the stroller away, only an inch, but it’s enough to let Dawn know what she thinks.
‘She was only trying to give her back the frickin’ toy,’ Shaun explodes, making Dawn jump. ‘Does she look like a baby-stealer?’
Dawn gets up out of her seat, spilling hot chocolate all over the table. She needs to get out of there. All these years and she still can’t bear to hear the cry of a baby. It’s both the best and the worst sound in the whole world.
She moves quickly along the pavement. She’s grateful that Shaun has followed, and he holds her elbow to steady her as she sways all over the place.
‘Thanks for standing up fo
r me. That was kind of you,’ she whispers.
‘Shit. Did you pay?’ he asks, once they’ve reached the other side of the park.
Oops. Dawn checks her handbag, £7.99 from Claire’s Accessories. Just big enough to hold her phone, a tampon and her last crumpled fiver. Some shops won’t miss the odd item here, the odd piece of clothing there. Cafés are different though, especially when they’re not from a chain. The first thing she’d borrowed from a shop was a baby-gro for Rosie. She hadn’t even meant to; it was hiding in the bottom of the trolley. Lots of expectant mothers do it.
Apparently.
It was sort of difficult to stop after that, especially when she started needing other things later on. Food, blankets. She will never steal though, only borrow. Items and prices are all noted down in her special book and when her luck turns, she will pay it all back. Life could get better at any minute, who knows what could happen? Or perhaps she just needs a few lucky hands.
She looks behind them at the café. No one is following them. Then her eyes turn a couple of feet to the left of it. She knows she should look away. She’s managed to stay out of the betting shop for months but today feels like it needs a certain something to lift it higher as it’s starting to sink.
Can’t let that happen. Must keep her spirits up.
‘Dawn! We’ve been wondering what happened to you. We’ve missed you, it’s not the same in here without you,’ Barney says from behind the desk. Well, that’s what he would say if he wasn’t busy fiddling with the CCTV monitor above his head. Hard worker, that Barney. It’s quiet for a Tuesday. Good old Bert is in the corner, chewing on a biro and moving his eyes from his paper to the screen in front of him. It’s usually the dogs with Bert.
The fruit machines stand in a trio; the middle one whistling out sounds for a lanky lad with a man-bun. He looks like a Steve, Dawn reckons. The machine takes it down a few octaves and Steve punches the side of it three times, one for each bad word he spits out.
‘Maybe we should get out of here,’ Shaun whispers in Dawn’s ear. ‘You might need that fiver for something else.’
Dawn has already smoothed out the creases and fed her note into the hungry gap; her heart beginning to thump in line with the satisfying clunks of money turning into coins. The day around her is lifting already. Five pictures to match in any direction. Parrot, parrot, parrot, skull, pirate.
Damn.
Shaun shuffles about on his feet next to her, bored. Irritating really, kids have no attention span nowadays. Too much screen time, probably. One skull, and four pirates. Nearly. The machine sings and dances with her, joining in with her celebrations as the five parrots chirp at Dawn from the screen display. Clink, clink, clink.
Now you’re talking.
Dawn steals a glance behind her. It’s quite a bit busier now, and she catches Barney’s eye. He gives her a little nod before getting back to his paper. Dawn expects he’s really pleased for her that her luck is turning. Today’s going to be a good day. Dawn keeps playing and wins again and then again.
‘Maybe we should stop now.’ Shaun points to her fistful of eight-pound coins. ‘I could pop back next door and pay for our drinks.’
‘Great idea.’ Dawn feels like hugging him. Such a lovely, honest boy. Not many around like him these days. ‘Let me just have a quick go over there, then we can double it and I’ll treat you to a Maccy Ds.’
‘Why did you do that?’ Shaun groans as they stumble back out onto the pavement. ‘Everyone knows roulette’s for losers.’
Dawn may be five pound lighter after losing the last of her benefits for this week, but she doesn’t feel like a loser just yet. She can’t find the words to explain to him. It’s such a small price to pay for the buzz inside her head. She wants him to understand how the blood’s now pumping through her veins with that extra bit of enthusiasm. She just needs to keep it going.
‘Where now?’ Shaun asks, making her smile. It’s exactly what Rosie always used to ask when they went out shopping together. She’s pleased he wants to stay around to have some more fun. She doesn’t want to go back to St Jude’s yet, and the day is a beautiful one, bursting at the edges with sunshine.
There’s a large poster with its own frame on the wall next to the hairdressers. She takes in the pictures of the beautiful wedding dress, the flowers and the small words at the bottom: Complimentary champagne and cream teas for two at Dover Castle. Dawn quickens her pace towards the traffic lights.
‘Where are you going?’ Shaun is having to break into a jog to keep up with her.
‘We, young man, are having a trip to the castle. They’re putting on a wedding fayre and I have a consultation to attend regarding my upcoming nuptials.’
Dover Castle always takes Dawn’s breath away. Partly because of its beauty and the way the sunshine bounces from its stone walls and turrets, and because it’s at the top of a bloody great hill. She and Shaun trundle up to reception and Dawn feels sorry for Shaun having to carry that heavy sports bag as the beads of sweat appear on his forehead. She would offer to hold it for him, but she can’t have the castle staff thinking she’s there to steal stuff. If they ask, she’ll tell them they’ve come straight from her son’s football match. Perhaps he could play for Dover FC. She looks again at Shaun’s face. Maybe the under 16s team, let’s make it realistic; the boy still doesn’t have a single strand of facial hair.
‘It’s Dawn Elisabeth Brightside, one word. For now, anyway,’ she adds with a girlish giggle, ignoring Shaun’s eye roll. ‘I have an appointment for the wedding consultation? My son’s joining me.’
‘You don’t need an appointment, it’s an open event,’ the girl says, each word as flat as her ghd-smooth hair. She points to the right. ‘Just go back out and up the hill a bit more to the next entrance.’
The view from the top of the hill fills Dawn’s chest up with goodness as the sparkling sea winks back through the gaps in the lush green hills that surround the town. She can even see the park from here, the roped-off toilets are just a tiny dot. She looks away and tells Shaun to hurry up.
Dawn had thought there would be more people there, but there’s just one couple sitting at a desk chatting to someone with an Event Coordinator badge on. An elderly woman is stapling photos to a display wall of various brides and grooms, smiling as they throw their vows around over the top of a tower.
‘Maybe we’re a bit early for the champagne,’ she mutters, disappointed.
‘Can I help you?’ the woman with the stapler asks.
Dawn tells her all about Hugh: millionaire property tycoon who couldn’t get out of London this week after all on account of being so busy with work. The woman nods so she carries on, letting her know every detail of his romantic proposal at the top of The Shard. Right down to the cello player he hired to play One D’s ‘What Makes You Beautiful’.
‘So, he told me to go ahead and get the prices for all the available packages and he’ll join us next time,’ Dawn finishes.
The woman looks a little relieved and Dawn wonders if she’d gone too far with the part about Hugh hiding the ring inside an oyster that she’d almost choked on, and how Daniel Radcliffe who was sitting at the next table had to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre. Sometimes she gets a little carried away.
To Dawn’s delight, a thin flute filled with sparkles is placed in her hand as soon as it’s their turn to sit at the special table with the coordinator lady. She wraps her scone up in its napkin and covertly passes it under the table to Shaun for him to put in his bag for later. He’s already eaten his, and Dawn’s not that hungry.
‘Will this be your first marriage?’ the woman asks over a pair of rimless glasses.
‘The first one that matters,’ Dawn says with a light laugh. It’s pretty rude of her to ask, really. It’s like she thinks Dawn looks old enough to be wearing a string of failed marriages around her neck like boulders, holding her down under the water when all she wants to do is rise to the top and be free.
Her chest starts to squeez
e all the air out and doesn’t seem to let enough back in, making everything seem further away as it whirls around. Dawn can feel Shaun’s hand on her elbow, anchoring her to the present. She closes her eyes, focussing on his touch for a few seconds.
‘Are you feeling unwell, madam?’
Dawn mutters something about having to leave for a dress fitting and pulls Shaun with her until they’re behind the display wall. She puts her index finger over her mouth to signal for him to be quiet and wait for a moment whilst she peeks around the side. The women are busy giggling with each other over something and she’s spotted the door she’d been looking for.
‘Follow me and stay quiet,’ Dawn whispers to Shaun. ‘If we sneak out that way, we can get into the rest of the castle without paying.’
He looks unsure, but nods as he pulls his bag higher up on his shoulder.
Twenty seconds later, they are laughing their butts off inside the chamber of King Henry the second, who built the castle, ‘No, not by himself,’ Dawn chuckles at another one of Shaun’s ridiculous questions.
After they’ve browsed through some of the grand rooms, playing imaginary games about being various kings and queens of England, they flop down in a beauty spot on the castle’s grounds so that Shaun can eat his mushed-up scone.
‘What was the matter earlier, when that lady asked you about being married before?’ Shaun asks through a mouthful of jam and cream.
‘I just don’t like remembering,’ Dawn answers after a minute.
Life had felt like one big promise in the months leading up to the wedding. A future filled up with love and each other. Bridal magazines. Home-made invitations. It had been a small ceremony at a registry office in Urmston on the outskirts of Manchester. The two of them, and two of Dawn’s midwifery colleagues as witnesses. He’d looked at her in awe when she’d walked into the room to sit behind the registry desk, a long white dress covering up the modest bump around her middle. Light-hearted jokes about shotgun weddings. A romantic honeymoon at Butlins in Bognor, followed by what was supposed to be the first few months of wedded bliss in their flat above the British Heart Foundation charity shop.
