by Lucy Diamond
It was that exclamation mark that kept nagging at her. That wasn’t normal, was it? As if it was the first time she’d appeared in their lives. As if they’d only just met.
No. Just no. Shut up, Caitlin. She was definitely losing the plot.
I’m sorry, hen, she remembered her mum saying as she lay dying. I should have told you. I never knew how to say it.
I’m sorry, hen.
I’m sorry, hen.
Nausea rose inside her, hot and sour, and she ran from the room, her heart booming.
Chapter Nineteen
‘That’s nine pounds fifty-eight, please. Thanks very much.’ Gemma took the ten-pound note offered to her and opened the till.
‘Thank you, darling. Earning a bit of extra pocket money, are we?’
Gemma’s smile tightened on her face as she put the forty-two pence change into Bill Perkins’s outstretched hand. ‘Something like that,’ she said and walked away down the bar. ‘Ladies. What can I get you?’
She’d been working in The Partridge for three days now and was slowly getting to grips with having a job for the first time in twelve years. She had learned to pour a pint of Adnams without topping it with two inches of yellow froth, how to work the glass-washer and navigate the temperamental electronic till, and she was getting to know the regulars and their particular quirks. For instance, she now knew that Brian Butters kept his own silver tankard behind the bar and refused to drink from anything else. Tight old John McNaught would always wait for his single penny change, rather than wave an airy hand and say, ‘Don’t worry about it’, like every other normal person did. And Louise Brierley, who was supposedly on a health kick, would lean over the bar and whisper huskily for a sneaky vodka to be added to her orange juice, ‘But don’t tell my hubby, love, all right?’
Like Bill Perkins, a few other people had raised an eyebrow when they saw Gemma behind the bar. ‘Don’t you live in that lovely big farmhouse?’ one lady asked in surprise when Gemma served her, as if people in lovely big farmhouses couldn’t possibly need to earn a couple of extra quid.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ she replied briskly, hurrying through the order before the next question, starting ‘So why . . .?’, could be asked.
It was fun enough work, though, sociable and varied, particularly in the evenings when they had a bigger crowd. She enjoyed chatting to people she wouldn’t normally mix with – some of the old men, for example, were just adorable; and Bernie, the landlord, was brilliant. What she was most looking forward to, though, was the Friday pay packet: the little brown envelope with cash and a payslip, every penny of it earned by her. It might be ‘pocket money’ to the likes of Bill Perkins, but it would make a big difference to Gemma. Hard cash in her purse again, money actually coming in to the family, rather than pouring out. Admittedly the sum she was earning was a pittance, as Harry had said so apologetically, but a pittance could at least contribute in its own small way.
She’d telephoned the utility companies and told them she was now working and was very much going to pay the bills, but please could she have a bit of leeway for the time being? Most of them agreed that she could pay off a small amount of what she owed every few weeks, provided such payments remained regular and consistent. So that had bought them a tiny gasp of breathing space at least. As for the mounting credit-card bills . . . well, she’d have to cross that bridge when she came to it. Until she could scrape together some more money, she had simply decided to stop looking at them, stuffing the envelopes unopened in a drawer. There were only so many sleepless nights of worry that a woman could cope with, before she had a nervous breakdown.
The next mortgage payment was due at the end of the month. She was trying not to think about that, either, although the panic often seized her as she lay in bed at night, with images of bailiffs at the door leaving her unable to doze off. There was still no sign of any compensation payment for Spencer, even though she had made the application herself now and gone round to the scaffolding firm in person, only to beg despairingly in their office. (How to make a tit of yourself, part 937.) But anyway, she was doing her best.
Unfortunately, news of her job hadn’t gone down too well at home. Darcey had been positively dismayed. ‘But I will miss you,’ she said, her lower lip sticking out. ‘What about my bedtime story?’
Will, too, was unimpressed. ‘Oh, great. How intellectual! My mum’s a barmaid? You’d better not tell any of my friends.’
As for Spencer . . . he wasn’t exactly thrilled, either. ‘I don’t want all those blokes leering at you,’ he grumbled, although she suspected it was more the fact that she had replaced him as Family Breadwinner that he didn’t like. It obviously offended his macho ideas of how a husband and wife should operate. Yeah, well, that’s been really successful lately, hasn’t it? she felt like saying. It took all of her patience not to fling the red bills in his face and point out that this outdated mindset would see them ending up on the streets with a begging bowl, if they weren’t careful.
‘I’m just being practical,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I thought this was a good solution.’ When he said nothing, she couldn’t resist adding, ‘Otherwise, maybe we should seriously consider what Will suggested the other evening and sell some of our things to raise a bit of capital. While you’re not driving, we could sell the M—’
‘I’m not selling my Mazda,’ he said furiously. ‘I’m not a fucking cripple. I’ll be able to drive again in a few months, the doctor said.’
‘All right, I just thought I’d mention it.’
‘I’m not selling, Gem. No way.’
‘All right! In which case, I need to work. We’ve got no choice.’
To make a point about how disgruntled he felt, he went and sat in his wretched car, all alone, in the gloom of the garage, like a big sulky baby. Gemma ignored him. She had a job to go to and didn’t have the energy for yet another argument. Besides, Spencer was due to have the cast off his ankle soon, and she was clinging to the hope that this would lift his mood again. Something had to.
‘He’s been quite low,’ she had blurted out to the doctor, when they went back to the hospital for a check-up the week before. ‘I’ve been wondering if maybe he’s depressed. I’ve been reading up about Post-Concussion Syndrome and . . . ’
The look Spencer gave her was so ferocious she could have sworn the ground quaked. ‘Wouldn’t anyone be depressed?’ he spat. ‘I’m not exactly going to be cheerful about this, am I? Who would?’
The consultant – a woman in her fifties, with watchful brown eyes and a calm, measured manner – said to Spencer, ‘This sort of thing tests everyone’s patience and good humour. But if you’re finding it too much, then we can certainly talk about—’
‘No,’ Spencer said, visibly annoyed. ‘I’m not finding it too much. And I don’t want to be drugged up on any happy pills, either. Got that?’
They hadn’t spoken the entire way home. He didn’t even moan about her driving, as he usually did. At last, as she was pulling into the driveway, he rounded on her. ‘Don’t ever do that again.’
‘What?’
‘Talk about me as if I’m not there. Tell a doctor your opinion of me and how best to fix me, like I’m some kind of child who can’t speak for himself. Let me handle it, all right?’
He clambered awkwardly out of the car, with a painfully slow shuffle and swing of his crutches, silently daring her to offer help. She knew better by now. Instead, she sat there in the driver’s seat, watching as he leaned shakily against the porch, fumbled for his door keys, then let himself in. The front door gave an imperious slam behind him.
She let out a long shuddering sigh, her breath steaming in the cold air. When Spencer behaved like this – so pig-headed, so bloody self-centred, as if he was the only person who mattered in the entire world – she sometimes fantasized about driving away and leaving him behind. And good bloody riddance!
But in the next moment she thought of her mum, doing exactly that with the waiter from Ibiza,
and a thousand childhood hurts reared up and stung her all over again. For years she had lain in bed every night listening for the sound of her mum’s footsteps tottering up the front path – footsteps that never came. She had wished on every blown-out birthday candle, and every stir of the Christmas pudding with Grandma, that Karen would come home. On every significant occasion growing up – Christmas concerts, wobbly teeth, her first period – she’d wanted her mum there. Her dad had been Superman, nobody could have been a better father, but despite his best attempts there was still a gap in the house, an empty, ghostly presence. And now here she was, wishing herself away, to leave her own empty space.
More like your mother than you thought, after all, whispered a mean voice in her head.
No. She wasn’t like her mum. There was no way she would ever walk out on Will and Darcey. But Spencer? It had crossed her mind a few times lately.
She twisted the wedding ring on her finger and steamed up the windows with another sigh. In sickness and in health, remember?
Yep. She remembered. For richer, for poorer, too. If ever there was a test of her marriage vows, then this was it.
As well as working in the pub, Gemma had a couple of sewing jobs on the go – the bridesmaid dresses and the curtains – and had taken to working up in the tiny box room at the front of the house, away from the blasting telly and Spencer’s complaints. Sewing had always been her thing, right from the summer when she was about Darcey’s age and staying with her grandparents for a fortnight while her dad worked. Grandma Pepper had the most wonderful bag of scrap material – all colours, all fabrics – as well as a button tin and a bulging sewing box. While Grandad took the boys out fishing and kite-flying, Gemma had a crash-course in sewing with Grandma, threading her first needle and making her first clumsy, wobbling stitches. By the end of the fortnight she had stitched an entire wardrobe of outfits for her dolls and teddies and was hooked.
These days Will wouldn’t be seen dead wearing anything his mum made for him, but Gemma still made skirts and dresses for Darcey, and for herself too of course. She had set up her sewing table by the window of the box room so that she could gaze out at the street below while she sewed, and enjoyed seeing the comings and goings of her neighbours: Mrs Belafonte walking her Labradoodles; and Jan, the harassed-looking mum from number twenty-six, hurrying to playgroup with her three-year-old toddler twins. And you could set your watch by Mr Ranger, the elderly gent who lived in the rundown corner house, setting off for his midday pint of ale.
One afternoon she was surprised to see a different person walking up the lane. A young woman with a carrier bag of groceries from the Spar, who was familiar, yet not instantly recognizable. Long red hair that streamed like ribbons in the wind, a black trench coat, a short flared skirt over leggings and boots. Then she realized it was the woman who’d stayed next door over New Year. Sophia, was it? An unusual name, beginning with S. Sapphire? Suzanne?
Gemma frowned, the name on the tip of her tongue. Saffron, that was it! She had been really funny and nice, teaching everyone the ‘Single Ladies’ routine after the clock struck midnight. They’d had a right laugh that night.
She watched, her sewing forgotten, as Saffron reached the cottage next door, put down her bag of shopping and rummaged in her coat pocket for the door key. Then, as if she could feel the weight of Gemma’s gaze, she turned and looked in the direction of The Granary. Busted, Gemma thought guiltily, feeling herself blush. Caught noseying. She held her hand up in a little wave and tried to look surprised, as if she’d only just seen her.
Saffron smiled and waved back, then pointed at her door, holding up her hands in a T symbol. Then she mimed drinking something, which might have been a cup of tea or possibly a pint of wine. Gemma wasn’t about to say no to either. She put two thumbs up, switched off her sewing machine and hurried downstairs. ‘Just popping next door,’ she yelled.
‘You came back!’ she cried as Saffron opened the door and let her in. Then the smile slipped from Gemma’s face as she saw how terrible Saffron looked close-up. Puffy bloodshot eyes with enormous bags underneath, spots around her mouth, a general look of despair. Oh my goodness, she must be ill, thought Gemma, her heart squeezing in worry. Ill or recently dumped – maybe both. ‘Is everything okay?’ she asked tentatively, hoping her alarm wasn’t too visible.
‘Well, I’ve been better,’ Saffron replied breezily with a brave, trying-her-hardest sort of smile, but her shoulders sagged, a dead giveaway. No, she was not okay. ‘Come in. It’s good to see you again.’
‘You too. When did you get here? And how long are you staying this time?’
‘I arrived a few days ago. Kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision really, just upped and left. I’m not sure how long I’ll stay.’ She hesitated as if she was about to say more, but then plastered on that terrible fake smile again instead. Who was she trying to kid? Gemma had been staring despair full in the face herself recently and she recognized a fellow sufferer from twenty paces.
‘Come in, anyway. My drink options are limited to tea or coffee, but I’ve just bought some chocolate Hobnobs, which you’re welcome to share.’
In the small kitchen Saffron filled the kettle and took two clean mugs out of the cupboard while Gemma sat at the table. ‘How are things then? Last time I saw you, we were dancing under that glitterball in your living room and making our New Year’s resolutions.’
‘That’s right.’ Gemma snorted. ‘And planning world domination after reading our fortune-cookies. Not that I’ve made my fortune yet, sadly. Quite the opposite, to be honest.’
She must have been sounding more despondent than she intended, because Saffron quirked an eyebrow. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘No.’ There was a waiting sort of silence. Cards-on-the-table time. ‘It’s my husband,’ she said heavily after a few moments. ‘Gone and broken his back, hasn’t he? Well, a couple of vertebrae anyway, and an ankle for good measure, too. So he’s stuck at home, out of work, and it’s all been pretty . . . ’ Her throat felt tight all of a sudden. ‘Pretty shit, frankly.’
Saffron slid into the chair opposite her, abandoning the tea-making. ‘Oh no. So sorry to hear that. He is going to be all right, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah, eventually. But in the meantime things are a bit tight, money-wise. I’m working in the pub and taking on some dressmaking jobs, but we’re kind of hand-to-mouth right now.’ Now it was Gemma’s turn to slap on an artificial smile. Enough already. ‘But we’ll be okay. We’ll manage. How about you?’
Saffron knotted her fingers together in her lap. ‘Well, the short version is that I’m pregnant and the father doesn’t want to know, which is absolutely fine by the way – I mean, I can totally cope on my own.’
Whoa. So that was why she looked so strained and tired. ‘Of course you can,’ Gemma told her bracingly; the only possible response.
‘But then the other day I went along for a scan and . . . ’ Her face crumpled. ‘And they said there might be complications – because I’m so bloody ancient and decrepit, basically. But I’ve got to wait f . . . f . . . four weeks for another test to f . . . f . . . find out!’ She put her head in her hands and burst into sobs.
‘Oh, love,’ cried Gemma, rushing round the table to put an arm around her. Every pregnant woman’s worst fear. ‘Oh God, what a nightmare. How awful.’ She stroked Saffron’s hair, feeling desperately sorry for her. And the father . . . He doesn’t know this yet?’
Saffron shook her head, red-eyed. ‘He wouldn’t care anyway. I tried to tell him about the baby, but he . . . he’s got another girlfriend now.’
Gemma’s jaw dropped in indignation. ‘Already? That’s bloody charming, isn’t it? Sounds like you’re better off without him.’
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Saffron said, her voice laced with misery. ‘It was an accident. We’d only been together a few weeks.’
‘Oh no.’ Gutted. ‘That must have come as a surprise.’
‘Tell me about it. And at first
I was so freaked out and shocked I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to keep the baby. That’s why I came here at New Year, to try and get my head around everything.’ She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Then I decided I really did want the baby, so I wrote him a letter to tell him about it.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Nothing.’ You could see the pain in Saffron’s face. ‘Absolutely nothing. In the letter I mentioned the scan, in case he wanted to come along, but no. Didn’t show.’
Gemma shook her head. ‘The bastard. Honestly, men. What would it have taken for him to make one phone call? To meet you and talk about it, like a grown-up? Some people have no sense of decency.’ She squeezed Saffron’s shoulder and straightened up. ‘Let me make you that tea. No, sit there, I’ll do it. Where are these Hobnobs, then? You need to keep your strength up, remember.’
‘Thanks,’ Saffron said, as Gemma made the tea and tipped half the packet of biscuits onto a plate. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to manage. I’m terrified of having to do everything on my own. I haven’t got a clue about babies.’
‘Most people feel like that at first,’ Gemma assured her. ‘I know I did. As for the test – an amnio, is it? It’s the hospital taking precautions, that’s all, taking extra care of you. Look, if you give me a bit of notice, I’ll come with you if you want. I will!’ The words were out before she remembered her new job in the pub, not to mention how expensive it was to get into London on the train these days.
Saffron looked as if she was about to cry again. ‘That is so sweet of you. Thank you.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘My sister said the same when I Skyped her last night, but it’s not exactly practical because . . . ’ She broke off, sniffing, and stood up. ‘Sorry, let me just grab a tissue and blow my nose. Back in a minute.’
