Natural Born Readers (The Book Lovers 3)

by Victoria Connelly

  Georgia sighed. It was obvious that she wasn’t giving up so easily.

  ‘Why don’t you go and see Mum, Ben?’ Georgia began again. ‘She’s desperate to see you.’

  ‘Are you kidding? I’ve just had my heart pummelled by the love of my life, I’ve been deceived by a mad Italian stalker and now you want me to compound the situation with a visit to Mum?’

  Ben saw Georgia bite back a smile. ‘Just go and see her. Get it over and done with. It won’t be as bad as you think, I promise you. You’re building it up into something it isn’t.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Or I could call her and tell her to come over?’ Georgia said, getting up from the bed. ‘I keep reminding you and you shouldn’t keep putting it off.’

  ‘Don’t, Georgia!’ Ben was suddenly sitting up.

  ‘Then you’ll go and see her?’

  He pushed his dark hair out of his face. ‘If it will get you off my back.’

  ‘For a while,’ she said, grinning at him.

  He groaned. ‘I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.’

  ‘Surely it’s better than moping around.’

  Ben picked one of his pillows up and threw it at her. ‘Get out of here. You’ve ruined my morning and now you’ve made sure you’ve ruined my whole day too.’

  ‘Hey, that’s what little sisters are for!’

  Ben waited for Georgia to leave the room before getting up. He had a thumping headache; he’d had one since the dance on Saturday night and that horrendous encounter with Bryony. His heart ached too when he thought about that night. How could the picture he’d had in his head of what was going to happen that evening have differed so very greatly from the reality of it? Georgia had warned him about Bryony’s suddenly friendly messages, but he’d assumed, like an idiot, that all was well between them. His ego had allowed him to believe that he had won her back quickly and painlessly. Now, however, he realised that the pain he was feeling at her revenge was an insight into that which she had felt when he had left her.

  But perhaps his sister was right and he should stop moping, although two days to get over a broken heart wasn’t excessive, he thought, swinging his legs out of bed. He showered and got dressed, staring at his reflection in the hallway mirror. He looked awful. There were dark shadows under his eyes and he had a hollow look about him, as if a part of him had died.

  For a brief moment, he wondered if it might be best to leave Castle Clare again. His return had brought him nothing but grief. Perhaps it had been a mistake coming home. Maybe this wasn’t his home anymore. But he knew the deep hurt that would cause Georgia if he upped and left so soon after arriving, and he had made a commitment with his teaching. He also hated to give up and leaving would be an admission that he had failed and he wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet anyway.

  Georgia had taken her car to work and so Ben made his way to the little garden shed behind the house and brought out his old bike. Georgia had said she kept in working order and occasionally used it to nip into town. It felt funny riding it again and he recalled the last time he’d been on it. It was just before he’d left home. He and Bryony used to go on bike rides together, cycling into the Suffolk countryside, laughing as they sped down hills and puffing as they peddled up them. They would take little packed lunches and at least two novels between them and find a quiet spot far from the madding crowd and sit and read and kiss.

  He cursed the memory of that last bike ride with Bryony, but it clung to him as he pedalled the short distance to his mother’s house. It was six long years since he’d last seen his mother and he hadn’t spoken to her since that awful day when Paul Caston had struck him. He could still hear his mother’s cry after him as he’d left the house.

  Reaching his mother’s house, he got off the bike and wheeled it into the front garden which was little more than a patch of weeds with a wheelie bin in the middle. It used to be pretty, he thought, filled with pots of geraniums in the summer and dahlias in the autumn. It was sad to see it so neglected now. Perhaps he should do something about it. His conscience told him it would be the right thing to do.

  Summoning up his courage, he rang the doorbell and waited. It wasn’t long before the door opened and there stood his mother. She looked older, of course, her once dark hair now threaded through with grey and worn in a shorter style. She was thinner too, her face looking gaunt. He’d braced himself for the physical change he’d see in his mother after six years but, no matter how hard you try to imagine a thing, it never really prepares you for the reality.

  ‘Ben!’ she cried. Her small eyes were suddenly bright with tears as she looked at him.

  ‘Hey, Mum.’

  Her hands flew to her face and she stood there just shaking her head for what seemed like an age. Ben cleared his throat.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course.’

  He followed her into the narrow hallway of the terraced house. The wallpaper was peeling off the wall and the paintwork was scuffed, he noticed.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea? You still like your tea?’

  ‘Sure.’

  They went into the kitchen and Ben noticed that some of the tiles behind the sink were missing. The old place really hadn’t had any money spent on it, he thought. But then, his mum only worked part-time these days and her job in the office of a local solicitors wasn’t exactly lucrative.

  He watched in silence as his mum went about boiling the kettle and making the tea. When she turned around, she smiled at him.

  ‘You’ve grown a beard,’ she said unnecessarily.

  ‘I’ve had it a while.’

  ‘It suits you. You look like your father.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  His mother smiled. ‘He had his faults, but he was still a handsome man.’

  Ben found it painful to hear about the father who had abandoned him and his sister when they were so small. If there was ever a reason to shave his beard off, it was hearing that it made him look like his father.

  They walked through to the living room and, once again, Ben noticed how shabby everything looked. The furniture was the same as when he had left only more knocked about and worn, and the carpet looked grubby and was threadbare in places.

  ‘You been well?’ he asked her as they sat down opposite one another.

  ‘Can’t complain. Been missing you.’

  Ben looked down at his feet, feeling awkward.

  ‘What was it like?’ she asked him.

  ‘What was what like?’

  ‘Leaving Castle Clare?’

  His mother was one of those special East Anglians who never felt the need to leave their own county. Actually, now he came to think of it, she had once had a day trip to Frinton on the Essex coast, but she hadn’t enjoyed it.

  ‘It was good,’ he told her. ‘I needed to – get away.’

  ‘I know you did, love.’

  He nodded, not knowing what else to say about his departure.

  ‘He left a couple of weeks later,’ she told him. ‘But you know that. Georgia would have told you.’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘I should never have let him come between us as I did. I was blinded by him for a while. You of all people must understand that – how all-consuming it can be to love somebody.’ Her pained expression touched him and wasn’t all that dissimilar from what he’d seen in the mirror just a few minutes ago. ‘Paul, you see – he was the first man to pay me any sort of attention after your father… well, after he left. I mean, there were others, but I thought Paul was different.’

  ‘It’s alright, Mum,’ Ben told her. He’d come round prepared for a fight – determined to have it out with her for the years of pain he’d been carrying but, looking at her now, all the fight left him. He could clearly see that she’d been just as hurt as he had. She’d paid as great a price and had lived with the regret.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said and the tears began to spill. ‘I should never have let him into our liv
es. I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn’t, was I? I’m so sorry!’

  ‘Mum, it’s okay. It’s all over now and I’m back.’

  ‘Yes, yes!’

  He swallowed the hard lump that had formed in his throat. This was turning into a right old week for emotions, he thought.

  ‘Let me help around the place, Mum,’ he said, doing his best to keep his feelings in check.

  ‘What?’ She sounded confused.

  ‘This old house – it needs – well, it needs everything doing, doesn’t it?’

  She made a funny sort of noise that was half-laugh, half-sob and then she smiled. How he’d missed his mother’s smile, he suddenly realised. She looked half her age when she smiled.

  ‘Ben – my Ben!’ she cried, standing up and reaching out towards him. Ben stood up from the sofa and she wrapped her arms around him and sobbed into his shoulder. ‘Never leave again, my darling boy.’

  ‘I’m not planning to,’ he told her and he was absolutely sincere about that. During the tumult of the last few days, he might have thought about leaving, but he knew now that he wouldn’t. Castle Clare was his home and he was staying.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bryony pulled into the driveway of Campion House and breathed a huge sigh of relief. It was only Wednesday and yet it seemed as if the weekend was a lifetime ago. How she’d struggled through the last few days, she’d never know. The day after the dance, she’d called to excuse herself from her family’s Sunday lunch, claiming a headache, which wasn’t too far from the truth. She couldn’t have faced anyone the way she’d been feeling. She’d made her excuses to Flo on Monday, knowing that one kind word from her dear friend would have sent her over the edge. Tuesday was a little easier. Bryony had gone through the motions of running her shop, but it had been purely perfunctory and, somehow, she’d got through the day although there had been that awkward moment when she’d been reading Beauty and the Beast to a group of children and had had to blink back the tears when the happy ending arrived.

  Her mother had been distraught when she’d called her.

  ‘Polly says you’re not eating properly,’ Eleanor had cried down the phone.

  ‘I just missed lunch a couple of times,’ Bryony said. ‘It’s no big deal. I wasn’t hungry.’

  ‘Come home,’ her mother had said. ‘Come home now!’

  Trust Polly to have reported home, Bryony thought, although she was secretly touched by the fact that her sister had been caring enough to take charge. The truth was, Bryony needed the love and support of her family right now. It was what the Nightingales did best – they cared for one another. When the world turned against you and you were battling your way through it, you knew you weren’t alone. You only had to reach out for help and it would be there.

  She sighed now, taking her small overnight bag from the passenger seat and getting out of the car. The door was unlocked, but Bryony rang the bell before going in, just to let them know she’d arrived. Immediately Brontë and Hardy came charging down the hall to greet her.

  ‘Hello there!’ Bryony said, bending to kiss their soft heads. There was nothing quite like a doggy cuddle to lift the spirits.

  ‘Darling!’ her mother called, coming out of the kitchen at the back of the house and embracing her. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m good,’ Bryony said.

  ‘Yes?’ Her mother took a step back. ‘Polly says not.’

  ‘Polly meddles too much.’

  ‘Now that isn’t true and you know it.’

  Bryony nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘Then she’s right? I don’t need to ask you that – I can see it.’ Eleanor cupped her daughter’s face in her hands. ‘Are you sleeping?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘But not eating properly.’ Her mother tutted. ‘Well, we’ll soon put that right. Why don’t you go upstairs? Take your things.’ Her mother suddenly frowned. ‘Is that all you’ve brought with you?’

  ‘I’m only staying the night.’

  ‘One night? I thought you’d be here for the rest of the week, darling, and the weekend too. I’ve planned a whole week of meals to fatten you up.’

  ‘I don’t need fattening up,’ Bryony protested.

  ‘You do if Colin the baker’s no longer feeding you treats every day.’

  ‘I’m going upstairs,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on, okay?’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  Bryony breathed a sigh of relief as she climbed the stairs. There was no other place she’d rather be. Her mother had made up the bed in the room she’d once shared with Lara. As Lara was away at university, Bryony would have it to herself. Entering it now, a wave of nostalgia flooded her and she could almost hear the echoes of her younger self laughing in that very room – at some silly joke her sister had told. Lara was always the clown of the family. Gosh, she could do with a dose of that now, she thought, putting her overnight bag by the side of her bed and sitting down.

  She stayed completely still for a moment, breathing in the familiar smell of home and looking at her sister’s things on the other side of the room. As with all the Nightingales, books made up a fair proportion of Lara’s worldly goods and Bryony recognised the titles which belonged firmly on a university curriculum for their wasn’t a single Nightingale who hadn’t taken time to study literature. But there were also some wonderful modern titles too, from the realm of the book club, because it was just as important to keep up to date with what people were reading and enjoying now. The classics of the future, her mother called them whenever her father questioned why she was reading yet another modern novel.

  ‘You can’t have your head in Hardy all the time,’ she’d tell him.

  Bryony got up and opened the bedroom window, breathing in the fresh May air and taking in the glorious view. She could just see the top corner of the greenhouse and the raised beds where, no doubt, her father would be. And what was she going to tell him? How on earth was she going to explain what she’d done? Especially when it had been inspired by a story he’d told her.

  She closed her eyes, feeling the full weight of her regret once again. What had she expected to feel when she’d taken her revenge on Ben? Triumph? Satisfaction? She had felt neither of those things – just a deep sense of emptiness and self-hatred.

  When she went downstairs, her mother was in the kitchen making jam tarts.

  ‘We’ve still got heaps of bramble jam,’ she said as Bryony walked into the room. ‘I thought I’d better get it used before jam season is upon us again.’

  ‘It smells wonderful,’ Bryony said.

  ‘The kettle’s boiled. Help yourself to tea.’

  ‘Do you mind if I –’

  ‘He’s in the garden,’ her mother told her, instinctively knowing that Bryony wanted to talk to her father.

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘Where else at this time of year?’

  Bryony smiled. ‘I’d be disappointed if he wasn’t.’

  A recent shower had soaked the grass and it turned Bryony’s brown boots to black in a matter of seconds. It was good to be outside. She’d rung Flo to apologise for not coming round to help with the chores but, after Saturday, she hadn’t been good company. She’d make up for it another time. She was missing her Cuckoo Cottage fix.

  Making her way towards the greenhouse, Bryony spied her father before he saw her. He was bending over a raised bed, a serious expression on his face. Such concentration, she thought, such passion for the earth.

  ‘Dad?’ she called softly, not wanting to startle him.

  ‘Hello Bry,’ he said, opening his arms to embrace her as she approached and, oh, how good it felt to be wrapped up in such a hug. It was just what she needed and, seeming to sense this, her father held her for a little longer than usual.

  ‘What a treat to have you home. Can I expect your help in the garden?’ her father asked her.

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Good.’

  Finally, th
ey broke apart.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve done something horrible,’ she said. ‘So horrible.’

  He frowned. ‘I can’t believe that,’ he told her.

  ‘Well, it’s true.’

  He guided her towards an old bench under a beech tree and they sat down. She noted her father’s flask there. Even though he was only a short walk from the kitchen, he liked to have his flask out in the garden with him so he could sit and observe the work he’d done and that which still needed doing whilst he sipped his tea.

  Slowly, calmly, Bryony recounted the whole sorry story of her and Ben – from the dating website emails to the barn dance confrontation. Her father listened in silence, nodding, but not saying anything until she’d finished.

  ‘And you were inspired by the story I told you about your mum?’ he said.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Dad. I feel like I’ve betrayed you too. You trusted me with that story and I abused that trust.’ She could feel tears threatening again. She had cried more during that last week than she had when Ben had left Castle Clare.

  ‘I still can’t believe I did that,’ she whispered. ‘I feel horrible. I had it in me to do those things so I must be a horrible person.’

  ‘Do you think your mother is a horrible person?’ her father asked her.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘But she did something similar, didn’t she?’

  ‘It wasn’t nearly as bad as what I did,’ Bryony said, ‘and she loved you and you two got together.’

  ‘But she didn’t know we would at the time.’

  ‘I bet she did,’ Bryony said. ‘Just as I know Ben and I never will.’

  Her father took a deep breath and reached for his flask, unscrewing the lid and pouring a measure of tea into the cup. He handed it to Bryony and she took a grateful sip.

  ‘Now, I’m not saying what you did was right, Bry,’ he told her, ‘but you’ve been carrying around an awful lot of hurt this last few years. Ben knows that.’

  ‘But I led him on, Dad. We were writing to each other and it felt…’ she paused, trying to recall how she’d felt as she’d been writing those messages to him. She hadn’t been scheming then, not really. Her words had truly come from the heart and she’d needed to talk to him.