by Kate Field
‘Talking of Megan,’ Helen said, ignoring Kirsty’s last sentence, ‘is there any chance you could look after her next Sunday? Sorry to ask again so soon. I’ll swap you for two evening babysits whenever you want.’
‘Aren’t you at the christening next Sunday? I thought you were taking Megan.’
‘I was, but now I think she might be bored, and it will be difficult to look after her if I’m busy doing godmotherly things.’
Kirsty saw straight through this.
‘He’s going to be there, isn’t he?’
Helen nodded. ‘But that’s not the reason…’
‘Of course it’s not.’ Kirsty oozed scepticism. ‘Okay, I’ll look after Megan, on the condition that you use the opportunity to tell him about her. Agreed?’
‘I’ll try,’ Helen said. It was the best she could do. Because she had no idea how she was ever going to make a confession of this magnitude; or how she would deal with the fall out when she blew her world apart again.
CHAPTER 4
As soon as Helen walked into St Andrew’s on Tuesday morning, she could tell that something was wrong. The other shop owners were gathered at the base of the pulpit, which was where they normally caught up on each other’s news after being closed for two days. It wasn’t normal to see the miserable expressions they were all wearing today.
‘This isn’t the happy smiling face we want to show to our public,’ Helen chided them, as she joined the group. Not that any members of the public were there. Tuesday was always a quiet day. As was Wednesday. And Thursday. St Andrew’s was on the wrong side of town to benefit from the visitors to the popular market on the days it was open. ‘Come on, you can’t all have had such a bad weekend!’
‘We’ve all had letters,’ Malcolm said gloomily. A local artist in his late fifties, Malcolm had been selling his work at St Andrew’s since it opened as a craft centre. Although, as he was often heard to point out, recently it had felt more like exhibiting his work than selling it.
‘What sort of letters? Clearly not love letters judging by your faces. Not poison pen, are they? Are they constructed from cut-out newspaper headlines?’
No one returned Helen’s smile.
‘There’s one for you.’ Fiona, the creator of fantastic handmade stationery, held out an official-looking brown envelope. Helen took it.
‘It’s from the council,’ Saskia interrupted before Helen had even managed to tear the first corner. Saskia was Helen’s neighbour on the other side from Fiona, and sold the jewellery that Tasha had pored over on her visit to St Andrew’s. ‘They’re kicking us out.’
‘What?’ Helen yanked open the envelope, pulled out the letter, and read it through. As she did, she could feel the same expression of blank misery settling over her own features. It was true. The council had leased St Andrew’s from the local diocese, but the lease was about to expire, and they had chosen not to renew it. All the owners of the shops were given three months’ notice of the closure. ‘They can’t do this, can they?’
‘I’m afraid they can.’ Ron, the oldest trader at St Andrew’s at almost seventy, waved a folded paper at Helen. ‘I’ve dug out my contract. The council only needs to give three months’ notice. It’s here in black and white, and I expect we all agreed the same terms. By Christmas, these doors will be closed for good. At least we might catch a bit of the Christmas trade before they do.’
The others nodded in resignation.
‘Surely we’re going to fight this, aren’t we?’ Helen demanded, looking round the group. ‘We can’t let this happen. There’s nowhere else like this in town. The council should be keen to promote independent shops. I know we’ve been quiet recently...’ This caused some raised eyebrows: for quiet she could as easily have said dead. ‘But it’s always been a struggle through the school holidays, and things usually pick up from autumn through to Christmas. We could start a campaign, do more advertising, hold some events… They haven’t given us a chance.’
‘They won’t,’ Malcolm replied. ‘We’re snookered. Three of the shops have stood empty since the wood turner left last year. No one wants to take on these units, not with the economy the way it is. Keeping the place open probably costs more than they get back from us.’
His Eeyore-like gloom was infecting everyone. Heavy sighs echoed around the church. Helen couldn’t let this happen. St Andrew’s was more than a shopping destination: it was a community. She knew she wasn’t the only one who had found solace here. Fiona had opened her shop in her mid-forties, when she had finally found the courage to leave her bullying husband. Saskia had turned her hobby into a career when she’d been made redundant. For Malcolm, St Andrew’s had been a place to grieve when his disabled son had died. Ron’s story was unclear, but there was no doubt that something drew him here, past the age when he would normally have retired. Surely there was something that could be done?
‘I’m going to ring the council,’ Helen said, looking at the letter again. ‘Let’s see what this Miriam Priestley has to say for herself.’ And she strode off, her mobile phone already pressed to her ear.
Ten minutes later, she rejoined the others, who hadn’t moved from the foot of the pulpit.
‘We’re too late,’ she said, screwing up the letter and throwing it to the floor. Fiona quickly bent to pick it up, hating any assault on paper, however plain. ‘Even if the council could be persuaded to change its mind – which I doubt, if Miriam Priestley is typical of the lack of imagination there – it would do no good. The diocese has already agreed to sell the building to an evangelical church movement. The deal is done, and the paperwork all signed. They want to hold their Christmas service here, then they plan to strip out all unwelcome signs of commerce – that means us – and move in permanently by February. St Andrew’s is going to be restored as a church.’
‘I suppose it is what it was built for,’ Fiona said.
Of course she was right, and as Helen gazed round at the vaulted roof, the ornate woodwork, and the original stained-glass windows, remnants of her Catholic upbringing kicked in and whispered to her that it was fitting that such a beautiful place should be given back its heart and purpose. But then her eyes fell on Crazy Little Things, and those whispers were quashed. She had put her whole heart into that shop, and the business had given her a purpose she had desperately needed in the post-Daniel days. What would she be without it? Where would she go?
‘It’s like bloody redundancy all over again,’ Saskia grumbled, her otherwise attractive face marred by a familiar scowl. ‘Except this time there isn’t any payment to sweeten the pill. What are we meant to do now? Did the council give us any thought at all?’
‘Apparently there are lots of available shop units in prime locations in the town centre if we’re interested,’ Helen replied, pulling a face as she quoted Miriam Priestley. ‘By which I assume that she means the derelict buildings between the pound shops and the takeaways. The rent is probably twice as high as here.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ Saskia said to Helen, with ill-concealed bitterness. She had a chip on her shoulder large enough to feed a whole school of hungry children. ‘You’ll be okay if you set up somewhere else. You have a following. We all know that eighty percent of the people who come in here are visiting your shop. Our business hangs on your coat tails, or on a few curious visitors that come in to browse. Even Joan’s cakes are more popular than my jewellery. I could never justify my own independent shop. I’m finished.’
As Helen glanced round, she saw that everyone else was nodding in agreement, even Joan, who had been listening silently to what the others had to say. They had all given up. There would be no battle to save St Andrew’s unless she undertook it herself. Her first instinctive thought was that she couldn’t do it: it was too much on her own; and she had no idea where to start. But as she felt the despair of the others seeping under her skin, she gazed over at Crazy Little Things again. She wasn’t useless. She had created that business, and had invested huge amounts of time and e
nergy to keep it alive. She was not going to give it up now.
‘Perhaps we can find a similar setup where we can all stay together,’ Helen suggested, looking round, willing the others to feel a spark of enthusiasm.
Saskia snorted.
‘Another unused church, which happens to have five empty retail units and space for a café? Come off it. I think you’ve been spending too long reading fairytales to Megan. Life’s not like that, at least not where I’m concerned. You might have a dream life, but for some of us it’s one long slog.’
If this was a dream life, Helen thought, she would hate to know what a nightmare one felt like. She turned away, and went to open up Crazy Little Things. She gazed round at the books, the buttons, the brightly coloured skeins of wool and embroidery threads hanging like semi-precious necklaces, and at her crazy patchwork items that she had spent hours perfecting, even when the retail price barely covered the cost of the materials. This shop had been a true labour of love: she had poured herself into it. And in return, it had saved her. Now it was her turn to save it.
By the time the christening arrived the following Sunday, Helen was no further forward. She had reluctantly accepted that they couldn’t stay in St Andrew’s, though her heart trembled every time she pictured having to pack up and leave. She was working on the idea of recreating St Andrew’s somewhere else, but an alternative location had been impossible to find so far. She had swallowed her pride and spoken to Miriam Priestley again, to see what larger units might be available, that could be divided up into smaller stalls. She’d even gone to look at a couple, sneaking out without a word to the others so she didn’t raise hope that was doomed to be unfulfilled. The rent and renovation costs had proved prohibitively expensive; and it was hard to imagine the patrons of Kevin’s Klassy Kebabs moving seamlessly next door to spend money on crafts.
So the search for new premises went on, and the worry grew about how she would afford to live in the New Year. She could sew at home, and did, through the night on too many occasions, but the income from her crazy patchwork commissions wasn’t enough to survive on, even though she claimed every benefit and credit she could; she needed the profit from the retail trade, not to mention the advertising it provided for her artistic pieces. Managing her finances was already a precarious walk across a tightrope; without Crazy Little Things, it would be a painful plunge into ruin.
The only good thing to be said about the whole business with St Andrew’s was that it had stopped Helen dwelling on the prospect of seeing Daniel again at the christening. Not even the sight of him striding into church, wearing a perfectly tailored grey suit and a beautiful Australian, could make her spirits sink much lower than they had been all week. And at least they chose to sit on the opposite side of the church, slightly further back from her, so if she kept her eyes firmly fixed ahead, and resisted the urge to turn round, she could almost pretend they weren’t there at all.
This plan proved a great success until the time came for the godparents to be called forward, and for the rest of the congregation to gather round the font. Helen took a place next to Anita’s brother, the other godparent. And then Daniel stood next to her.
‘This side of the font is for godparents,’ she said to him, in a low voice, shrinking back from any potential physical contact. His aftershave invaded her nostrils, and she took several short sniffs, not recognising the musky scent. It wasn’t the smell she associated with her Daniel, and the unfamiliarity jarred.
He didn’t even look at her.
‘I know.’
‘But you’re not…’
‘I am.’ He continued to gaze ahead, the public smile on his face at odds with the tone of his voice. ‘Not as surprising a choice as you, am I?’
Helen looked at Anita, who flashed her an apologetic smile, and bent down to straighten Sophie’s christening gown. The rest of the service raced by, and Helen heard nothing of it except the rumble of Daniel’s deep voice at her side. She could have been vowing to take on the devil single-handed in a bare knuckle fight for all she knew. She smiled, and moved her lips at the right time, but it was impossible to concentrate, especially when the baby was passed along the row, and ended with Daniel. She saw him, a baby girl in his arms, and there was only one thought: that could have been Megan. That was what he would have looked like holding their daughter. She stared at him, emotions roiling, struck as never before by the reality of what she had done, to him and to all of them.
When the service was over, the guests crossed the graveyard to the church hall, where drinks and a buffet were being served. Helen decided to have one drink then leave, but her route to the door was cut off every time she tried to make her escape. And then, as she finally spotted a gap, Tasha of all people accosted her.
‘Did you survive your soaking the other day?’ she asked, her easy smile dwarfing the polite one that Helen had quickly dug out. ‘I only thought as we were driving away that we could have given you a lift, but Danny said…’
‘What did I say?’
Daniel appeared, and slung his arm round Tasha’s shoulders. His other hand held an almost empty wine glass. He smiled down at Tasha and ignored Helen. She wondered why he had bothered coming over, if her presence was so abhorrent. Perhaps Tasha’s attraction was strong enough to overcome anything else. And who could blame him? She was gorgeous, and apparently nice as well. She really did have it all. All including Daniel, Helen thought, as he bent and kissed Tasha. Helen turned away, searching for anything to scrub that image from her head, and caught Sally’s anxious gaze. Sally came over, dragging Craig with her.
‘That’s another gorgeous bag,’ Tasha said, indicating the crazy patchwork clutch tucked under Helen’s arm. ‘You make me so jealous. I’ve never been creative, or good with my hands.’
‘I’d have to disagree with you there,’ Daniel said, smiling at her. Helen recognised the smile: it was one he used to save for her. She dug her teeth into her lip, hoping physical pain would overwhelm the emotional one. It was ridiculous; she couldn’t have expected that he would never smile that way at anyone else. She’d had over four years to accept the idea. But seeing him do it was something else entirely. She glanced at Sally again.
‘Is it one of your new lines?’ Sally asked, reading and reacting to the silent appeal. ‘I haven’t seen it before. I keep meaning to come to your shop to have a look round. I’ve not been for ages.’
‘You’ll have to come soon, then.’ Sally’s attempt at distraction had merely sent Helen leaping from one painful thought to another. ‘I’m closing the week before Christmas.’
Hearing the words aloud didn’t make it any more real.
‘Closing?’ Sally repeated. ‘For good? Why? I thought you were happy at St Andrew’s.’
‘St Andrew’s?’ Daniel’s gaze fell on Helen at last. ‘You have a shop in St Andrew’s?’
‘Yes.’ She knew why that had provoked a response. They’d discovered the craft centre together: caught in the rain one day, they had run in, seeking shelter, and as the heavy oak doors banged shut behind them, they had fallen silent, recognising that this was somewhere special. They had browsed round the shops, and enjoyed tea and cakes at Joan’s, and for the first time Helen had felt a spark of ambition and purpose, a potential answer to the question that she hadn’t until that moment known she was asking. She had shared with Daniel her idea that one day she might have a shop there. He had laughed, and said she was far too lazy ever to do it.
‘So you have what you always wanted,’ he said now.
There was no possible reply to that, not with him standing so near, with his arm around another woman.
‘Why are you closing?’ Sally asked again.
‘I have to. The council has given us all notice to leave. We have three months, then St Andrew’s will be sold.’
‘Can they do that? Craig, can’t you take a look and see if there’s any loophole?’
‘It’s not my area, but I’ll look over the contract if you like.’ Craig was
a personal injury lawyer.
‘Thanks, but it would do no good. The deal is done. The new owners move in at Christmas.’
‘But how will you manage with…’ Sally trailed off, looking as if she’d noticed the minefield ahead in the nick of time. Her eyes flicked between Helen and Daniel. ‘It seems such a shame. How long have you been there?’
‘Over three years.’
‘Three years?’ Daniel repeated. ‘It must be the longest commitment you’ve ever made. I’m amazed you lasted so long before giving up.’
His charming smile swept round, making clear it was a joke, but it pointedly excluded Helen.
‘It wasn’t my decision. The council have forced this on us. I’m not giving up. I love my work.’
‘Love? So you do know that word?’
The rest of the room fell away, leaving Helen and Daniel staring at each other, shocked by this unexpected outburst and the rich seam of bitterness it exposed. It was all too much for Helen. She couldn’t keep on doing this, having her heart fill with love when she saw him, only for him to squeeze it dry with every cutting word or hostile look. She would have to leave, and avoid their mutual friends until she was sure he was out of the country again. But if this was the last time she was going to meet him, there was something she had to do, though every drop of blood running through her veins was urging her not to.
‘Can we have a word?’ she asked. He slowly raised one eyebrow. She had forgotten how much it annoyed her when he did that.
‘What about?’
‘In private.’
‘I don’t have anything to say to you, in private or not.’
‘Fine. You can listen to what I want to say.’
Tasha stroked Daniel’s arm.
‘No worries, Danny, you two must have loads to catch up on. I’ll go with Craig and Sally for some cake.’
The other three wandered away, leaving Helen alone with Daniel.
‘Well?’
‘Not here, outside.’
Helen turned and marched out of the church hall, and into the graveyard. She pulled her cardigan tight around her as a chill autumn wind blew across the tombstones. She heard a crunch behind her. Daniel waited, saying nothing. This was her moment. She needed to do it now. But something about him – the lowered eyebrows, the crossed arms, the narrowed lips – killed the words before they reached the back of her throat.
