by Lily Graham
‘But I couldn’t, not really,’ she said, looking at the laughter lines around his dark eyes, the faint trace of stubble along his jaw, how his nose was slightly crooked. The way his eyes seemed to look into her.
‘Like that,’ she said, pointing at the tattoo on his wrist. ‘I never saw that before.’
He pushed up the sleeve of his black jumper, revealing fine dark hair and smooth, tanned skin, and the symbol of a man, holding what looked like a rainbow in his outstretched arms. ‘It’s the Indalo Man,’ he said. ‘For luck.’
‘And does it bring it?’
He looked at her. ‘Sometimes. Sometimes, you just have to make your own,’ he said with a wink.
She thought about that after he’d left. When Evie came in from feeding the hens, she found Emma sitting at the kitchen table staring at The Book, her fingers tracing over the old recipes, marvelling at all the different handwritings, seeing, perhaps for the first time in years, the magic Maggie and Jessica Flynn had seen when they looked at it.
‘What’s this?’ asked Evie in surprise.
Emma looked up, then her face changed and her eyes went sad. ‘You’re older.’
Evie blinked. ‘So I am, it happens, my lass.’
‘I didn’t see before,’ Emma said sadly.
‘But you see it now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s good.’
She saw other things too that day. Like the grey in Pennywort’s fur, how his eyes had turned slightly glassy, and how he struggled to get up to the table, and needed a little help sometimes. But how he was still the same solemn dog who watched over them like he always had.
She saw too, that the kitchen needed painting and the old navy range in the centre of the room looked like it was ready to finally fall apart, but also how cheerful the room looked with the tree by the hearth, the rows of Christmas cards on a string on the dresser. The boxes full of plum jam, the tins full of the Good Cheer Christmas Cake, ready for its next layer, stacked in a corner of the large table.
She saw the trays of tapas in the fridge, and Sandro’s guitar in the lounge.
‘I think I’m going to go for a walk,’ said Emma, getting her coat and her crutch.
Evie blinked. Aside from short walks up the street to Dot’s house, Emma hadn’t voluntarily left the cottage since she’d been home – over twelve weeks now.
‘Are you sure? Can you manage?’
Emma shrugged. ‘I won’t go too far, just the village.’
‘Okay,’ said Evie.
‘I can see your grin from here, Evie Halloway.’
‘But you can see it.’
Emma gave her a wide grin of her own. ‘Yes.’
It was like seeing the village for the first time. The rows of pale stone cottages, ribboning the fields; beyond these, the wild moorland, which stretched on for miles into the distance, covered in snow. She could hear, even from here, the cry of the last golden plovers. The moors were wild and empty, with only a stone crossing to mark the boundary along the village. It had always been her favourite part of living here; walking them had been a reprieve at times, from the stares and rumours. Out there, the only things looking at her were skylarks and short-eared owls, who didn’t know or care what her last name was.
As she walked into the snowy village, which looked like something that could fit inside a snow globe with its pretty cottages and cobbled paths, she saw that not much had changed in the years since she was here last.
There were still peeling posters on the lamp-posts, which were strewn with Christmas wreaths made of holly and cranberry leaves and twigs. The latest poster said A Moorland Christmas, and advertised the Christmas dinner that her family and Sandro were hosting down at the Tapas Hut.
Harrison Brimble and his wife were still running the same village store, which was strung now with Christmas lights. She could see Mrs Brimble through the window, behind the counter, her set of needles and yarn to the side while she helped a customer; Emma knew it would be picked up again as soon as she was finished. With winter settling its slithery fingers around Whistling’s neck, she’d be knitting from sunup till sundown, getting as many blanket squares down as she could for those in need, only putting them aside when there was no one at the till.
The Whistle Bakery with its display of festive cakes, biscuits and gingerbread houses in the window, which had been painted with frost, was still going strong; people were queueing for their cobs and their cinnamon rolls while Joseph Clarke spoke a mile a minute, telling his customers all about his specials for the day, and to please sign the petition against the extension of Patience Cottage on your way out. For as long as she could remember the Clarkes had had an ongoing war with their neighbours over their many extensions to their home, which encroached on the Clarkes’ views of the hills.
At the butcher’s next door, she could see Alfred Bright, who doled out a daily giggle along with his wares, and didn’t bother with a hello; instead he greeted you with, ‘Did you hear about the chicken who found himself drunk in a pub in Sheffield?’
There were some changes too though, like the neon sign that flashed on the new supermarket at the edge of the village; the pizza bar had been replaced by a plastics store that sold all manner of things to help organise the home, and there was a now an Indian takeaway next to the hardware store, where the eighty-year-old Mr Grigson – who’d finally plucked up the nerve to come to the cottage – was serving a customer, a grin on his usually crotchety face.
She stopped at Sue Redmond’s bridal shop, which hadn’t changed much either. There was still the same blue awning but the dresses in the window display had changed, along with the times; they were less poufy, and very few had sleeves. She looked at them, thinking how once, long ago, this shop had made her, Maggie, Jenny and Gretchen pause for hours picturing their own.
‘Would it still be the pink dress and my old troll ring for you?’ said a voice.
Emma whipped round. ‘Gretchen!’ she exclaimed. It had been ages since she’d seen her last.
‘In the flesh,’ she agreed, giving Emma a hug. Gretchen’s hair was still as straight and as sleek as ever, in a neat bob, beneath a pale blue bobble hat. Her dark eyes had circles underneath them, no doubt from staying up all hours solving major tax crises for a major firm in Scotland.
‘God, that’s wonderful,’ said Emma, holding her close. It had been over two years since she’d seen her; they kept in touch as much as they could, thanks to technology, but it wasn’t the same.
‘I got here last night, took the night train from Edinburgh – I’m here for the weekend to visit me mam, but I was just heading over to Hope Cottage right now to see you!’
Emma grinned. ‘Saved you a trip then.’
‘You got time for a cuppa, maybe some cake? The teashop still has the best chocolate fudge cake in town.’
‘Emma sighed. ‘I’d give anything to be able to taste that.’
‘Well, come on then,’ said Gretchen, linking her arm through hers, and Emma didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d meant she couldn’t actually taste it.
They sat on a crescent-shaped seat in the Harris sisters’ teashop. Soft Christmas tunes were playing in the background, and strung up all along the walls were flashing twinkly lights. It was a small, genuinely vintage place that featured pale blue walls and floral print cushions that dated back to the fifties. It hadn’t changed much in the years since. There were framed portraits on the walls of women in old-fashioned bathing suits and poodle-skirts and men with cigars and Cadillacs. Though many of the pictures now sported Christmas hats.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a bite?’ asked Gretchen, after they’d caught up on most things. Emma hadn’t explained in detail what had happened to her senses, just yet.
‘I’d love to but I can’t taste anything.’
Gretchen set her fork down. ‘You’re kidding?’
She shook her head. ‘No, unfortunately not, but it’s okay – I mean, just yesterday things were a
little fuzzy, and unfocused, it was like that for weeks, and today my vision is perfect. I can honestly say that I don’t think I will ever think of sight the same way again.’
‘It’s sort of a gift then when you think of it that way.’
Emma stared.
Gretchen coloured. ‘I mean it’s hell, I’m sure but…’
Emma shook her head. ‘No, you’re right – I never used to look at things properly, you know, I was busy…’
‘Well, we’re all busy, it’s understandable, isn’t it?’ asked Gretchen, whose job was less nine to five and more nine to nine.
‘I suppose so, but then, there’s so much we miss,’ Emma said, looking out onto the street. She blinked, and then gasped.
Jack Allen was standing right outside. When he saw her, he stopped, his eyes widening, then made to come in.
Emma drew in a breath. Gretchen gasped. ‘Bloody hell – Jack Allen is coming in here.’
They shared a look. Emma tried to smooth back her hair, quickly.
‘I was going to come past today – ask if you wanted to grab dinner or something,’ said Jack, reaching their table.
Emma could see Gretchen’s eyes widening.
‘Um, that would be great.’
‘Pull up a chair,’ invited Gretchen.
‘Okay,’ he said with a smile.
Emma and Gretchen shared bemused stares. Jack had always been a bit wary of being seen with her in public; it had been one of the biggest issues between them – till now, seemingly.
A young waitress with long brown hair came over and took his order, and while he was busy talking to her the door opened with a tinkling chime; Emma looked up and saw Sandro come in. He gave a low whistle when he saw her, his eyes lighting up, that familiar dimple appearing in his cheek, as he came over. ‘Look at you out in the world, Pajarita. Beautiful today, eh?’
She swallowed a laugh, remembering her blunder earlier. ‘Yeah, it is.’
He winked at her. ‘Todo bien,’ he said, with a wink. ‘Getting some tea for the Hut – there’s a few people who want something other than Yorkshire Tea. Barmy lot, eh?’
‘Really barmy,’ she agreed.
He grinned, then departed with a mellow ‘Adios.’
‘Who was that?’ breathed Gretchen, watching him go, her eyes popping. ‘He’s gorgeous.’
There were a few girls whispering in a booth nearby, who, from the looks they were shooting at Sandro’s back, no doubt agreed.
‘That’s Sandro,’ said Emma, for Gretchen’s benefit. Jack had already met him, the first day she had, when he’d simply strolled into her house. ‘He lives with us.’
Seeing Jack’s frown – she hadn’t actually told him that before – she explained, ‘He’s renting the annexe from Evie – he’s renovating a house, so she offered it to him. He runs the Tapas Hut.’
‘You’re kidding! I’ve heard of that,’ breathed Gretchen. ‘Maggie was raving about it the other day, says it’s gorgeous – got these views over the moors, and the owner… ah.’
‘The owner what?’ asked Emma.
Gretchen laughed. ‘That he’s this gorgeous Spaniard…’
‘Oh,’ said Emma, biting her lip.
‘Gets a bit a rowdy though, so I’ve heard,’ said Jack.
Emma shrugged. ‘Can’t say. I haven’t been yet.’
‘Sounds fun,’ said Gretchen, eyeing Sandro at the till. She seemed to really like what she saw.
Jack pulled a face. ‘I don’t know, apparently it gets a bit out of hand, wild parties, cops been called out there because of the noise.’
‘The noise I can believe,’ said Emma, who’d been driven mildly crazy by Sandro’s constant whistling and humming in her first few weeks at the cottage.
Gretchen’s phone started to ring, and her face blanched. She smacked a hand to her forehead. ‘Ah, Ems, that’s me mam, I said I’d take her into town, I completely lost track of time.’
‘Oh shame. We’ve been chatting for ages – no wonder! You go. It’s been lovely. I’ll give you a ring later.’
‘Perfect, thanks love, bye Jack, nice seeing you again,’ Gretchen said, giving Emma an incredulous look behind his back and leaving some money on the table to settle her bill, before legging it home.
The waitress brought over Jack’s coffee and he took a sip. ‘Alone at last,’ he said.
She half-laughed, half-swallowed. Why did he make her feel as if she were still sixteen?
‘You know I read your column,’ he said.
‘You get the Mail & Ledger?’ she asked, surprised.
‘I read it online. It’s really great – fascinating, considering your family history with food. It kind of explains a lot actually.’
She heard a noise, and looked up. Sandro had dropped his wallet on the floor. She turned back to Jack. ‘Like?’
‘Just some things I used to wonder about…’
‘How did you come to read it?’ she asked.
‘Can’t remember. Think Stella mentioned it.’
‘Ah,’ said Emma. Though it didn’t explain much; it was hardly the sort of thing she’d expect Stella to read.
He frowned. ‘I heard that you were seeing someone up in London?’
She nodded. ‘I was,’ she sighed. ‘We broke up.’
‘After your accident?’ He looked shocked.
She shook her head. ‘It was just a bit before, actually.’ Not wanting to go into how soon before.
‘He was a good guy actually.’
Jack made a noise.
She grinned. ‘Jealous?’
He looked at her. ‘What do you think?’
She felt her stomach flip, but she couldn’t help her smile.
‘And – Sandro?’
She looked up.
‘What about him?’
‘Are you – and he…?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s just a friend.’
There was a noise, like glass breaking. She turned to see a waitress picking up a broken cup near Sandro. He had his back to her.
‘Oh, okay, well that changes things,’ said Jack, touching her hand.
‘Does it?’
‘Yeah, I think so – or at least I hope so. Can I see you again?’
She blinked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Like maybe a date?’
‘You want to go on a date with me?’
‘Yes, I do.’
She blinked. ‘Why now?’
‘Because we should have just done it ages ago.’
She looked at him, her heart in her mouth.
‘Okay.’
* * *
She didn’t dare hope that her skin had gone back to normal, but then again, there hadn’t been any new episodes like the shower incident for a while, so perhaps it was time to hope.
When she switched on the tap that night and put her hand under the spray, testing it for a full minute, it felt the way the spray should: warm, invigorating, but nothing more. After a while, she took a deep breath and then stepped in. When she was finished, and changed into a clean pair of joggers, a T-shirt and a jumper, she couldn’t help smiling. She couldn’t remember who’d said that happiness came in the little things, but she knew they were right.
It felt good to get into bed feeling so clean and fresh. Though after a while, when she checked the time, she couldn’t help but frown. It was ten after midnight. Sandro was usually home at around this time, making her throw things at him for keeping her awake and waiting, before they settled down to listen to Midnight in Prague. At quarter past, she decided to just listen without him, though it felt a little flat without him there.
A noise startled her a few minutes later, and she pressed pause on the CD player.
‘Hey, Pajarita.’
‘Hey,’ she called, feeling her face split into a wide grin. ‘I didn’t know if you were coming home tonight.’
‘Course – just got stuck with a customer. Were you waiting?’
‘Er, no, just wondering.’
&nbs
p; ‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
He came in and took a seat on the bed, getting himself comfy, always so sure of his welcome.
‘I cannot believe you started without me,’ he said in mock outrage, his brown eyes narrowed as he plumped up a pillow. Pennywort wiggled himself into the crook of his arm.
‘So where are they now?’ he asked, crossing his feet and looking at her with a grin, the familiar dimple appearing in his cheek. ‘Don’t tell me I missed it?’
‘When they finally kiss?’ asked Emma, eyes dancing.
‘Oh that?’ he said, his voice airy, ‘a macho sort of guy like me would hardly be bothered about that, eh? No I meant, when they finally rob the bank.’
‘Oh that! No that hasn’t happened yet, so I won’t rewind then.’
His eyes popped. ‘Well, maybe just to catch up, just a little,’ he said, leaning over her to rewind it to where they’d left it off the night before.
She laughed. It was definitely the little things, she decided, trying not to think what it meant that she couldn’t really get to sleep unless Sandro was home.
After Sandro went to bed, she thought of Jack, and their date. She couldn’t believe it was finally happening for them.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The oval-shaped van was parked in the centre of the high street, across from the village green, topped with a sprinkling of snow. It was a cheerful-looking van, strung with red and green Christmas lights and painted bright yellow with a blue awning. It displayed its name in fine-brush lettering: The Whistle Stop Library.
Here you could get your books along with a cappuccino and a slice of cake, and take a seat next to a blazing heater, which was exactly what Emma was doing, though mostly she’d come to see her friend.
The library was run by her old, dear friend Jenny Hughes, and Emma was enjoying visiting it for the first time since its opening the year before. She’d chosen a stack of books – a mix of mysteries, epic romances and autobiographies – and was charmed to discover that this was where Sandro had headed for her audiobooks. She was sitting at a little table inside while she waited for Jenny, who was finishing up with her customers.
