‘I’ve dug up the deadly nightshade bushes,’ she said.
‘Bligh told me what you’ve been up to.’ Andrea put down her mug and gave Emma a cold stare. ‘One afternoon of tidying up doesn’t put straight the mess from the past.’
‘I know. But please, let me stay a bit longer and help – try to put things right. I think you need me.’
Andrea picked up her mug again and sipped. ‘You can forget staying here,’ she said eventually, ‘and I can’t imagine anyone in the village wanting to put you up.’
‘Then I’ll sleep rough until I get something sorted and the inheritance money comes through.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic.’ Andrea shook her head. ‘That’s not a solution.’ She was still refusing to make eye contact.
‘What about the barn for… for a couple of days, to start with?’ asked Emma, bending down to stroke Dash, who’d snuck in the back door and was sleeping by her feet.
‘But there’s no furniture, no hot water…’ countered Bligh.
She looked up. ‘If Andrea doesn’t mind, I’ll use the bathroom in the house – but apart from that, it’s more than adequate.’
‘No.’ Andrea shook her head. ‘I said you can’t stay here.’
‘What about Mum?’
‘I’m managing,’ said Andrea, as if she were trying to convince herself. She screwed up her eyes and muttered something about one of her headaches.
‘You look worn out. Today’s taken its toll what with you having to go to the hospital on top of everything else, and… and I know I didn’t help, taking Mum into the village.’ Emma’s voice softened. ‘Please. Let me help, Andrea – for your sake as well as hers.’
‘But she won’t understand who you are if you call her Mum, and any confusion… that’s when she’s most scared.’
‘Then I won’t tell her who I am. I’ll only call her Gail.’
‘You’d really agree to that?’ scoffed Andrea. ‘Because this visit is simply about easing your conscience, isn’t it? It’s not as if you really care.’
I do, Emma thought, and pushed away her mug. More than you’ll ever know. I hate the deep circles around your eyes. I’d do anything to stop Mum looking vacant and directionless.
‘If that’s what it takes, I’ll not say a word. I’ll take her out. Keep her busy. Help you two where I can if she’s having a sleep or just contented to watch. I can help make jam. Man the shop. I can do the shopping and look after the animals. I’ll more than pull my weight. And I’ve been thinking of some ideas to improve things on the farm. I can see money’s tight. What about—’
‘Whoa!’ Bligh held up his hand. ‘After everything – after today – you’re asking for our trust?’ He faced Andrea. ‘You need to think very carefully about letting her stay longer. I don’t want to see you and Gail hurt again.’
Bligh used to be someone who believed in giving people another chance. Like the friend at school who stole his Kings of Leon CD. Like the new grain supplier who muddled up the first order.
Emma held her sister’s stare as if patiently waiting for an internet connection.
‘I’m not lending you any money,’ Andrea said eventually. ‘And the only reason I’m agreeing to this – temporarily – is that I just don’t have the time to give to Mum at the moment. She deserves some one-on-one attention – even if it’s from you.’
‘Thanks, I really—’
‘Just keep out of my way. You can use the shower and the kitchen when I’m not around, but that’s it. And if I find any money missing… if I smell anything stronger than tea on your breath, you’re gone.’
Bligh pursed his lips, put his mug in the sink and abruptly left. The back door swung shut and the two sisters sat in silence as the rain fell harder.
‘You should get an early night,’ said Emma with a tentative smile. ‘Remember what a night owl you were as a teenager? You were always reading or chatting on your phone, and there was that phase when you binge-watched Friends. Secretly you’d let me watch too, even though Mum said I was too young. I felt so grown up.’
Andrea actually met her gaze for a moment and then shook her head. ‘You think I’ve ever had the opportunity for an early night since you left? You haven’t got any idea, have you, what the last few years have been like?’ She broke the brief eye contact. ‘You’ve only been back a couple of days and already I’m sick of you saying sorry. It’s as if you expect that word to magically shut down the past in the way that saying abracadabra opens doors.’ She drained her mug. ‘You know, I had ambitions too – away from Foxglove Farm.’
Emma’s brow knotted as Andrea got up, brushed past and went to the sink. She ran some water and squirted in washing-up liquid. ‘You always assumed that you were the one with big dreams. That reliable old Andrea was more than happy to keep Mum company on the farm.’
Emma’s mind rewound to their schooldays. ‘Is this about travel?’ she said in a small voice. ‘I remember now… you were desperate to go to America. In fact you drew up a bucket list: you wanted to visit every continent by the age of forty.’ And her paintings were usually set in foreign countries too. Was that it? Andrea was just over thirty now, and as far as Emma knew, she had never even holidayed outside of Britain.
‘When you finally reached eighteen, I felt that perhaps my time had come. I’d helped Mum see you through to adulthood. I was twenty-three and ready to leave.’
As Emma listened, a tide of shame swept over her, pooling into all the nooks and crevices, so that when it pulled back, puddles still lingered.
‘I had no idea.’
‘Of course you didn’t – your life revolved around having a good laugh, as you called it.’ Andrea abandoned the washing-up and rummaged in a drawer, pulling out some paracetamol. She poured a glass of water and knocked back two tablets, then pushed the kitchen chair in and stared out of the window.
‘You can stay for a few days, Emma, but then you must leave. Foxglove Farm, Mum, Bligh, me – this is no more your life than mine is to travel the world.’ She headed to the dining room and switched off the computer. ‘Don’t forget to lock the door on your way out.’
Chapter 9
Somehow a few days stretched into two weeks. A fortnight at the farm passed as quickly as her life in the city had dragged. Each day Emma buttoned Gail’s tops and brushed her hair, helped her clean her teeth and made sure she got into bed okay – all the busy things she would have been doing if…
She wrapped her arms around a cushion. Andrea still insisted on doing the bedtime routine. A small glass of sherry apparently helped Gail to sleep. Andrea would sit in her room until she nodded off. Emma walked past once, on her way from the bathroom, and heard Andrea quietly singing Gail a favourite eighties ballad.
Emma had seen lots of Stig and helped him whenever she could, along with the other homeless. More had trickled into the village. She’d started to talk to shopkeepers. A few answered her. Some, like old Mrs Beatty, didn’t.
At the moment she was sitting in the lounge, watching the breakfast news – a new privilege of late. Soon Gail would wake up. Footsteps approached from the kitchen – her sister. Emma pretended to watch the telly.
Things had been awkward with Bligh since coming back, but at least they’d started to chat a bit.
‘But weren’t you scared the whole time you were on the streets of getting attacked?’ he’d asked.
Yes. But there was no need to tell him that.
‘Wasn’t it difficult sharing personal stuff with a bunch of strangers in rehab?’
Emma found it hard to explain that no, her varied new friends all shared the same hopeless feelings.
And she had questioned him; discovered that he’d dated a couple of women.
‘Neither relationship was serious, though,’ he’d said. ‘Not like…’
He didn’t finish that sentence.
There hadn’t been deep conversations with hugs, tears and jokes. But it was a start. Today she hoped to take their discussions further, a
s she could be asked to leave at any minute.
With Andrea, on the other hand, she realised it served no purpose to push deeper. Since that short chat about travel, her older sister had kept her distance. Emma didn’t like to ask why she and her boyfriend, Dean, had split. Slowly she was realising that her old behaviours meant she’d relinquished any rights to intimacy.
Andrea came into the dining area holding a mug of tea. ‘Bligh had to stay late last night to finish the repairs you started on the goats’ shelter in case we got a storm or heavy rain overnight – you might have heard him. Although the forecasters got it wrong again. So I insisted he comes in a little later today. He asked if you could give him a hand with the jam-making.’ She yawned. ‘Mum can sit in the shop with me. Polly’s coming over. She’s baked Mum’s favourite brownies.’
Emma nodded, forced a bright smile and headed upstairs as she heard her mum get out of bed. Eventually they both came down, Gail washed and dressed. She sat in the kitchen whilst Emma made blueberry pancakes. After eating, Emma took her outside to leave her with her sister. When she returned, Bligh was there wiping dirt off the fruit.
‘Do you want a coffee?’ she asked.
‘Not at the moment.’
Emma watched him remove the soil and get rid of the green leaves with a knife by making a cone-shaped cut in the top. He’d always been practical, even as a child, identifying star constellations and tying complicated knots.
She opened the cupboard under the sink and glanced at a half-full sherry bottle. Bligh shot her an intense stare.
‘I’m looking for a new washing-up sponge.’
‘Andrea’s had to start hiding the sherry from Gail in case she thinks it’s squash and drinks a load.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Does she need to hide it from you as well?’
Emma blushed. She’d seen the bottle yesterday, and all night the bad voice on her shoulder, from the old days, had reminded her about it, trying to tempt her to take a mouthful.
‘It might be an idea.’
‘You said you were over all that.’
‘And I am – by keeping myself safe.’ She closed the cupboard door and picked up a packet of sugar. She studied the label. ‘It’s already got pectin mixed in?’
‘Time-wise we cut corners where we can.’ Bligh rolled a few lemons over to her. ‘Start squeezing the juice out. It’s time to get the preserving pan on.’
She did as instructed, and then weighed out the sugar. Before long, the sweet mixture was bubbling. Emma took the clean jars and lids out of the dishwasher. Bligh had always enjoyed the domestic side of life when he was little. Emma would often find him cooking or folding washing with his mum when she called to play. When his parents split, he took over his mother’s chores – his new word for the jobs he used to revel in.
‘Thanks, Bligh,’ she said, blurting it out as he removed scum from the top of the boiling liquid. ‘Thanks for standing by Andrea. It’s clear you’ve been her rock. I’m so grateful.’
‘I would say my pleasure, but it’s been hard – seeing her change.’
‘I… I hadn’t realised she’d missed out on so much.’
‘She was in bits after your mum’s appendix operation that worsened the Alzheimer’s. Neither of them really recovered from that.’ He skimmed off some more scum.
Emma tried to fight the cloying guilt by keeping busy. Carefully she tested the set of a spoonful of jam on a cold saucer, removed from the freezer. She gave the thumbs-up and Bligh started to ladle the mix into jars. Whilst roughing it on the street, she’d only ever thought of Andrea as having it easy. No one could be suffering as much as Emma was. Her sister had the farm, Mum, a life amongst the locals. But now she saw that meant Andrea had no time left for herself. Their situations couldn’t have been more different, as Emma had spent the last couple of years focusing solely on her own problems. Yet like so many extremes, this meant there was common ground between them. Those feelings of isolation, and that no one truly understood their predicament.
Without thinking, she stuck her finger in the leftover jam mixture, with the intention of having a lick. She needed a sugar boost. Chocolate bars and sweets had helped with the initial cravings, and now the habit was proving hard to give up.
‘Ow!’ She jerked back and banged into the table. The jar nearest the edge toppled onto the floor and smashed.
Broken glass and red liquid splatted across the tiles. Hurriedly Bligh and Emma bent down to pick up the pieces of glass. A large dollop of scalding jam found its way into Bligh’s palm, and Emma suffered a small cut.
Shaking his burnt hand, Bligh sighed as they stood up. ‘Wait there. I’ll get you a plaster.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Gently she manoeuvred him over to the sink. ‘A small cut will heal quicker than a burn. Your wound is the priority.’ She switched on the cold tap and held his palm underneath. She had forgotten how big his hands were. She recalled them carrying her up to bed after yet another night of carnage, and the same strong hands gently caressing her curves. Sometimes she’d giggled. Found it funny. Sober sex? Had she ever really had that?
Eventually she let go of his hand and cleaned up her own wound. Wincing, she covered it with a square of kitchen roll. Bligh tried to help.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, and pulled away. ‘Thanks, but I can manage on my own.’
He stared at her. ‘Where’s the jumping up and down? The squealing? That’s how you always used to react to the slightest pain.’ He sat down at the kitchen table. ‘The Emma I know never managed alone. All the scrapes… I became a dab hand with antiseptic cream and a bandage.’
For a few minutes the sound of running water cut between them like a time portal – him in the past, her in the present.
‘Remember what you used to call me?’ he said.
Emma sat down.
‘The fixer,’ he said. ‘Mediating between you and an angry Andrea – paying back your debts.’
He went to stand up, but gently Emma held his arm. ‘Please. Don’t go. Let’s talk about it.’
Bligh hesitated for a moment, then with a stony expression sat down again.
‘Yes, I did call you that, even before my behaviour started to get out of control. At school you were always there, lending me your homework to copy if I’d not gone mine done.’
‘I thought you really loved me, you know.’ His voice quietened. ‘But over the last year or so, you just saw me as someone to sort out your problems, didn’t you?’
‘I thought the world of you, Bligh.’ The wooden chair creaked as she shifted from side to side.
‘And was this Joe person, the good friend you mentioned when Gail went missing… was he another fixer?’
‘No. We helped each other.’
‘I couldn’t believe my luck when you agreed to go out with me, after years of us just being friends. Even as kids I knew you only liked me because I got you out of trouble. Like when I took the blame for Dad’s broken china teapot.’
‘I admit that caring side of you always appealed, because…’
‘What?’
‘My dad…’ she said.
‘You never had one.’
‘Exactly. Then you came along. Looked out for me. You were always so strong.’
‘You’re saying that you saw some school kid as a father figure – that’s pretty messed up.’ He got to his feet and made for the door.
‘Bligh. Please. Stay. We need to talk. It’s just… you gave me hope that not all men were losers like him. Every time you stood up for me, it made me feel good. I couldn’t believe my luck, either – couldn’t believe you thought of me romantically.’ All the girls in the class had admired his dark looks and easy manner, not that Bligh ever seemed to notice, laughing off love notes in his locker as his male friends’ idea of a joke.
‘Don’t lie,’ he said roughly, and folded his arms.
‘I’m not. Honest.’
‘Honest? That word used to be your tell. Honest, Bligh, I’ll be back for dinner. Honest, Bligh,
I’ll never do it again. Honest, Bligh, this is the last time. I’ll give up tomorrow. I eventually worked out that honest meant the complete opposite.’
Emma hadn’t counted on other people’s memories being quite so detailed, as if they were reading from the memoir of someone she used to know. The new Emma was an empty book. It was up to her to fill it with positive words.
‘Remember all the dates we went on at the beginning, just before I started college?’ she said. ‘We lay in the fields amongst the wild flowers, holding hands, watching clouds. And we’d paddle in Healdbury stream, arms around each other’s waists. Before I got ill, those simple moments meant everything.’
Bligh’s arms dropped to his sides. ‘Even if they did, that phase didn’t last long. Once you started at that college in the city, you only wanted to go out with your friends. And that wouldn’t have mattered if you’d included me.’
‘I remember offering to shape your eyebrows once.’ She looked at his forehead and wondered why.
‘Yeah – it was obvious you didn’t think I fitted in with your new crowd.’
Emma stared at his palm – the burnt skin. Scars never healed. Oh, they faded. You could cover them with make-up. Invent an entertaining story to explain them away. But they’d always be there, reminding you of the truth.
‘And then you stopped calling me the fixer. You chose another word instead.’
Emma scrolled back through her memories. She drew a blank.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Maybe I should leave you to figure it out,’ he said, and the stony expression returned. ‘Why did you have to come back, Emma – just when I was managing to put all of this to rest?’
He left to check on Andrea and Gail in the shop. After finishing tidying up, Emma too went outside. Dust flew into the air as she slid down the wall by the back door and landed on the ground. Dash ran over, panting, candyfloss-pink tongue hanging out. He nuzzled her neck and lay down, his head on her knees. Briefly, old, familiar negative thoughts jumped into her head: I hate myself. I’m a bad person. I wish I was dead.
Forgive Me Not Page 8
