Emma stood up and took a deep breath, then entered the shop. Ted was standing at the counter talking to Phil. She put down her rucksack.
Ted ran a hand over his bald head. He’d had a little hair left the last time she’d been in the village. ‘Emma. Glad to see you looking well. Well done for turning things around.’
‘Oh. Um… thanks. Thanks, Ted. That means a lot.’
‘How’s it going at the farm?’
She shrugged. ‘As good as can be expected after everything that happened.’
‘I hope it works out for you. I’m sorry about how things have turned out for Gail.’
This was more like the Ted she used to know – yet he’d been so harsh towards Stig.
His fingers tightened around a bundle of papers. ‘This is the petition to get the council to move the rough sleepers on. So far I’ve got over sixty signatures. Phil said you’re friends with that chap outside. Can’t you have a word? That way we can avoid any nastiness.’
‘A petition? I’m glad you’re going to do it properly then, Ted, instead of threatening people that you’ll lie about their dog.’
He flushed.
‘These people have nowhere to go,’ she continued quietly. ‘They’ve been chased out of the city for appearances’ sake. When that international art festival is over, they’ll go back. Their presence here won’t last forever.’
‘And I’m not unsympathetic, but them being here is a risk to everything we value. Healdbury’s crime rate is low. It’s safe to walk the streets at any time of night. All that will change if more of them appear, and I can’t hold on for them to leave of their own accord. My livelihood will suffer.’
‘What – because of a handful of homeless people? They aren’t even near your shop.’
‘But it looks bad. I’ve got a potential investor coming over next week and I don’t want him thinking this is a rough area where businesses might be broken into.’
‘Have any of them caused trouble so far?’ she said calmly.
‘No, but who knows how many more will turn up? Increasing numbers will bring down house prices, and what about drugs? There will be an increase in petty crime and—’
‘Drug addicts won’t move here, it’s too rural,’ said Emma. ‘They’ll stay near their dealers.’
‘Ted’s done his research,’ said Phil. ‘One council takes this matter very seriously and has brought in fines to stop the homeless sleeping in doorways. The last thing customers want is to have to step over a tramp. With rising prices it’s challenging enough to make ends meet as it is.’
‘Have a word, Emma – and give up your idea of a soup run,’ said Ted. ‘We’re a fair-minded community, you know that, and I don’t want to get the authorities here unless we have to.’
She pursed her lips.
‘What?’ said Phil. ‘It’s easy for you to take the moral high ground, but you haven’t got a mortgage or a family to support.’
‘That’s the whole point,’ she said.
Ted raised his eyebrows.
‘It’s ironic. A good number of the people I got to know on the streets were just like you two once.’ She gazed from one man to the other. ‘I used to eat in a soup kitchen with a man called Tony. He’d often set up by the black bin outside Debenhams, in Market Street. He had a good job and used to do charity work with the Round Table. But then his wife died of cancer and he subsequently lost everything, because he couldn’t cope. Tony represents a lot of professional people who due to debt or redundancy or mental health issues have ended up on the streets. There isn’t as big a gap as you might think between you and them.’
Neither of them replied.
‘We all used to be friends. You saw how easily someone’s life can spiral out of control when they aren’t happy,’ said Emma. ‘Haven’t you ever had a double shot to ease the stress of a long day? And Stig outside isn’t addicted to anything apart from books.’
The men looked at each other.
‘I’m grateful for your welcoming words, Ted. Really I am. But how can you appreciate that I’ve changed yet not give the homeless out there a chance? Don’t they deserve our help? Even the government has finally recognised their plight and set targets to deal with—’
Ted’s lips formed a firm line. ‘I am glad to see you back, Emma, but you caused a lot of damage before you left. Should we tolerate such reckless behaviour from these people? No, because the village is suffering a difficult enough time as it is. The kind of help they need is available in Manchester and Stockport. We pay our taxes to provide that. There’s nothing for them here and they don’t need you setting up some sort of lifeline that will mean they never return to where they came from. I have to think of my family – the local community. It’s a big enough job looking after the people who’ve grown up here at the moment, let alone anyone else.’ He looked at Phil. ‘I’ll let you know when the meeting is.’ He nodded to Emma and left.
‘Meeting?’ said Emma.
‘To discuss our plan of action. Some villagers, like you, are giving these people handouts. They need to know this will only exacerbate the problem.’
Emma sighed.
Phil delved into his pocket and pushed a key across the counter. ‘From now on you can use the private entrance out the back.’
Emma picked up the key. ‘I’ve just got one condition.’ Clearly this was a day for asking favours. Andrea had agreed to Emma using spare produce. Perhaps this request would be granted too. ‘No drink in the house.’ For her own good, and also because she was worried about Phil himself.
‘You’re having a laugh, right?’
‘I can’t live anywhere that’s got alcohol. Or you’ll have to hide it.’
‘So you expect me to give it up?’
‘Only at home. If that’s so much of a problem, perhaps you need to ask yourself why.’
‘How dare you try to give me advice?’
‘Say what you like, Phil. I’ve been rejected by those closest to me, so you can’t hurt me any more.’
He broke eye contact. ‘I’ll drink at home if I damn well want to.’
‘If I see it, I’ll be moving out.’
‘Don’t forget I’ve got your money up front.’
‘So for the sake of not drinking you’d throw out a lodger? Doesn’t that ring alarm bells?’
‘You’re a fine one to talk.’
‘I am. Because I’ve been there. I threw everything away and ended up in the gutter. Don’t follow my example. Because believe me, it’s no picnic trying to get back those things of value.’
‘I’ve already lost Sheila.’
‘And now you have two choices. You can wallow in self-pity. Stop fighting for your business. Go under. Or, like Sheila, you can build a new life. Why not prove you’re stronger than me, Phil, and start to make changes before it’s too late?’
Months of treatment had made her used to saying it how it was. Social niceties had often been bypassed.
‘We used to get on, didn’t we? Me working here with you and Sheila? We had laughs. You even invited me and Bligh to dinner once.’ She gave a small smile. ‘I felt really grown up.’
‘Yeah, so grown up you vomited in our front garden on your way home.’
A tide of heat rose up her neck as she picked up her bag. ‘Bligh will be dropping off some paint later. How about we freshen up this place? And a while back I met someone on the streets who used to co-own a pet shop. I’ve got some ideas – if you want them – that might bring in business.’
‘What… and then we’ll become friends again and everyone will clap you on the back and say how much you’ve changed?’ He folded his arms. ‘Are you crazy? People don’t forgive and forget. Life’s not like that. That’s why I’m on my own now.’
He disappeared out to the back. Emma closed her eyes for a moment and then followed him, dumping her belongings in the hallway and going into the kitchen. It was small. Pine. There were no curtains at the window, and empty hooks stood out from the walls. Clearly he’
d not replaced a thing since Sheila left. The room lacked her singing. The notes of her flowery perfume. The homely smell of the bread she loved baking. The sink was filled with dirty mugs. Empty takeaway boxes stood stacked on the table. Phil sat on one of the chairs, his head in his hands. Next to him was a half-empty bottle of whisky.
‘You’re no bloody martyr, you know,’ he muttered.
She sat down opposite him. ‘Never said I was. Just trying to become a better person.’
He looked up and his hand reached for the bottle. ‘You’ve clearly come back to try to make up for the past and all that crap. Well take it from me – it’s never going to work. I cheated on Sheila a decade ago. One stupid mistake. She’s been harbouring a grudge all this time and finally got her own back. Except she fell in love and actually left. Ten years and I still didn’t get forgiveness, so if I was you, I wouldn’t bother seeking it from other people.’
‘How is drinking going to help, Phil?’
‘Makes me feel better.’
‘Until you wake up tomorrow hating yourself and promising it’ll never happen again.’
Phil concentrated on the bottle.
‘I know, Phil,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s where I’ve been.’
He moved the whisky nearer.
11 months before going back
It was a humid Friday morning. The fourteenth of July. Emma had been out of detox for two weeks. Perhaps she’d have her own flat soon. That had been the plan, with her and Joe’s baby due in January.
For such a long time there’d been no sense of a yesterday or a tomorrow. It was so long since she’d spent even one minute planning for the future. Since considering taking steps to get better, however, ideas had popped into her brain that focused on cots and prams. These ideas had become something else then; she’d created a story around first days at school and built up images of herself waving her daughter off to university.
Something had told her that her baby was a girl. Josephine, she’d be called. Joe might have liked that.
She swallowed and looked around the minimalist whitewashed room at Stanley House, with the flipchart easel in front of a half-moon of chairs. She’d started the Listening EAR programme last week, straight out of detox, despite what had happened. This was her sixth session. One of the facilitators, Dave, came in. In defiance of his receding hairline, he still managed to scrape back some sort of wispy grey ponytail. He wore his standard attire – T-shirt and voluminous explorer shorts.
He switched on a fan and she gave a weak smile as he passed around a clipboard for them all to sign in. Then he started with the usual catch-up – going around the room getting everyone to say how they’d managed since the last session two days ago.
Emma tried to focus, but instead, in her mind, the unexpected scenes of her last day of detox just played over and over. She had gone to the bathroom, marvelling at how clear-headed she felt. She’d washed her hands trying to pretend that she hadn’t just seen pink spots – that the cramps in her stomach were simply due to too many vegetables at lunch. She’d got herself a coffee. Tried not to double up. But the pain was too bad and those spots had returned, like traffic lights designed to halt pregnancies rather than cars. They had turned into a stream that couldn’t be stopped.
She had lost her.
She’d lost Josephine.
Potential decades of life wiped out in a few hours.
A kind doctor had checked her over. Said she wasn’t to blame. Early miscarriages weren’t uncommon. The foetus just wasn’t viable. Nature’s way, perhaps.
The voice on her shoulder tried to persuade Emma that her former habits would fill the void, and the old her would have taken oblivion over reality any day of the week. This was all new, facing feelings head on. Her case workers supported her with sympathy and cups of tea, but what was the point of recovery now?
Night after night she’d lain curled up in her bed at the hostel, listening to shouts from the room next door as sirens approached, unable to sleep after years of simply passing out. Heart thumping, she would think about her lost baby and how the future now seemed like a blank screen. The emptiness, the loneliness made her want to join in with her neighbours’ hollers. She’d go on to recall the hurt and trouble she’d brought to her family. Instead of releasing her to darkness, closing her eyes just made her see more. The huge upset she’d caused Mum, Andrea and Bligh. The smaller things she’d forgotten, like the villagers’ disgusted expressions… it was all coming back now.
The emotional up and down made her realise just how much she missed Mum. She did. And Andrea too. But most of all she missed her Josephine and the littlest pair of arms that might one day have hugged her tight as she hugged back too.
Everything seemed so hopeless.
‘Boring you, are we, Emma?’ said Dave.
With a jolt she came back to the present. A right bastard, Dave is, but his heart’s in the right place, one of the others had said to Emma on her first day. She’d been scared of him to start with.
‘So how about you?’ He raised a wiry eyebrow. ‘What’s been going on since Wednesday?’
She shrugged.
He held her gaze.
‘Okay… you want the truth? It’s like it’s the end of the world. Like I’m the worst person ever. Like everyone must think I deserve to have lost my child. At moments I don’t see the point in staying sober.’
‘That’s some pity party. You like wallowing, don’t you?’
Her face flushed. She shifted in her seat. An accusation like that somehow held unquestioned truth when it came from a fellow recovering addict.
‘But mostly I’m disappointed that you’ve already forgotten everything we did in the last session.’
Her brow knotted.
‘Negative thinking. Go on. Just analyse your last few sentences. How about it’s the end of the world? What are you doing there?’
Okay, so the universe as she knew it hadn’t come to a halt. She still got up and washed. Still set her alarm when she went to bed. ‘I’m catastrophising,’ she said, and bit her lip.
‘And everyone must think I deserve to have lost my child. I see you’ve still got that crystal ball. Wish I was that special, being able to mind-read.’
Her cheeks felt hotter. Dave was right. She shouldn’t assume what people thought. In fact, everyone in the group had been really kind.
‘And I’m the worst person ever,’ she interjected. ‘I’ve given myself a label, haven’t I?’
‘Bingo. Do that long enough and mentally, labels stick. I’m a bad person is a common one.’
The rest of the group nodded.
‘Perhaps you have all done bad things, but you’ve also been ill,’ he continued. ‘Your habits, your behaviours and choices might have been bad – that doesn’t make you, intrinsically, a bad person. Not if you’re prepared to do what it takes to change yourself and make amends.’
He looked around the room. ‘That session on negative thinking is one of the most important ones you’ll do, folks. You’ve got to rewire your brains. So now I’ll ask you again, Emma – how are things going?’
‘I’ve had a lot of cravings since… since it happened. But I’ve followed suggestions – went out for a walk or drank a glass of water or read a book.’
He nodded.
‘And my case worker is getting rehab sorted. One we’re considering is based on a tough boot-camp style, whereas another gentler one calls itself a therapeutic community. Yesterday we visited one in Sheffield that is between the two. Lou thinks that one is best.’
‘What about our discussion on moving forward from former friends in order to safeguard yourself from old behaviours?’
‘I went to the library to use the computer to get my mates’ contact details. But when I scrolled down my accounts, I realised they were really just drinking partners.’ Her scalp had prickled as she’d studied the online photos. Facebook, Instagram, her posts had been all about showing off and duck pouts. She could hardly bear to look at t
he selfies and those bloodshot eyes, or listen to the videos narrated by her slurred words. ‘So I’ve deleted all my accounts. I’m making new friends in AA now.’
She realised she was making progress. Perhaps things weren’t quite so hopeless after all. Bit by bit she was taking charge of her life, and something warmed the inside of her chest – a small sense of self-respect that had kept away for so long.
Dave gave her a thumbs-up. ‘It’s so important not to isolate. Meeting new, like-minded people is the way to go. So lastly, let’s go back to what you said at first, about not seeing the point in staying sober…’ He paused. ‘We care, you know. Me. Your case workers. Your new friends in here. We want you to reach the end of this journey,’ he added in gentler tones. ‘We want to help.’
‘But it was my pregnancy that brought me here.’ She swallowed. ‘Now that’s gone… I can’t help wondering why I’m bothering.’ Joe had left. Now Josephine. Struggling to fight the self-pity, Emma wiped her eyes. She had to stay strong.
‘It doesn’t need to have been for nothing,’ he said. ‘Not if you carry on. Stay well. Build a future for yourself. Wouldn’t staying on this road make everything that’s happened worth something?’
He moved on to the next person, his usual brusque tone restored. Emma zoned out of the class. Turning her life around… changing things for good… of course, Dave was absolutely right. Making something of her life, contributing – that would make Josephine’s brief existence significant.
Especially if… A shiver shot down her spine. Her throat ached as she contemplated going home. She hadn’t called Foxglove Farm home for a long time. But recovery had made it hard to block out thoughts about Mum and Andrea and how they were coping now. It asked uncomfortable questions, like had they really abandoned her, or had her behaviour forced them to let go?
What if everything wasn’t their fault after all? All those second chances they gave her after her false promises – how had she repaid their patience? By continuing to hurt and humiliate them; by treating Bligh and his dad so badly.
Forgive Me Not Page 11
