“I’m not,” he said, serious now.
“Move over so that I can sit on the edge of that groundsheet.” she said.
He moved over and she came and sat next to him, and they were silent for a moment.
“They’re all looking for you,” she said, eventually.
“I know,” he said, “but you found me.”
“Yes, eventually,” said Poppy, “and I’m not doing this walk in these shoes again.”
He looked at her wet, muddy shoes.
“We’ll get you some decent footwear,” he said, and put his arm around her.
She looked at him, and noticed the plastic tub on the groundsheet next to him. It contained a half-eaten sandwich and a few segments of orange, the remains of his lunch.
“I didn’t know you have to prepare for a walk like this,” she said. “It’s like gearing up for an adventure in the Himalayas.”
He smiled again. Sitting so close he caught again the hint of her scent; it reminded him of Paris and their last time together. He lifted up the box and she reached over, opened the lid and took one of the remaining orange segments. He was silent as she ate the fruit, just watching her eating, watching a bead of orange juice touching the corner of her lip.
“So,” he said eventually, “how was the climb?”
“You really want to ask me that?” she said, licking her lips. “I’ve got the wrong clothes, the wrong shoes and I’m cold and everything aches. And I might have been here in time to share your lunch if I hadn’t climbed up onto the wrong piece of rock to start with!”
Conner laughed out loud, and somewhere within him the dam broke. He laughed, and cried and laughed and shook his head, and she let him do all of this until he’d finished.
“So how are you doing?” she asked.
“You really want to ask me that?” he said, mimicking her comment. Then he said, “I wondered if you could answer some of the questions for me.”
She frowned at him and then shivered again, and he felt her body shake as she sat next to him.
“Can we go somewhere warm first,” she said, “then we can talk.”
For Poppy, the return journey proved to be as difficult as the ascent. Her knees did not take kindly to the constant jolt of the descent and the boggy ground caught her a couple of times, submerging her feet up to the ankles.
The second time it happened Conner laughed, and then immediately regretted doing so.
“Funny, is it?” she shouted furiously. “Think you are so smug with your smart walking boots! You’re the one with the problems, not me.” Her voice echoed across the landscape.
“I know, I am sorry, Poppy, I…”
“Forget it,” she said. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, that was really stupid.”
“It’s okay,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she said again and he could see the tears forming in her eyes.
“Really,” he said, “it’s okay, you came for me, and it’s okay. Come on, let’s get back.” He helped her out of the bog and she was about to say something else when she was interrupted by the rattled call of a sheep standing just a few metres from them.
“What do you want?” she shouted.
The animal stared at her, unmoved by her outburst, and bowed its head, bleating again; then it took two or three paces towards her.
“I think we’d better get on,” ventured Conner.
“Well you’ve a better coat than I have,” said Poppy, still staring at the animal.
They didn’t say anything else to each other as they scrambled their way down past Stickle Tarn. The steep incline of the descent held their attention all the way back to the base of the mountain.
By the time they arrived back at Conner’s car, Poppy was wet, tired, aching in too many places to count, and exhausted. Conner got a spare jumper and trousers from the back of his car and offered them to her.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s get some food in the pub.”
A few minutes later they found a corner in the lounge bar of the Sticklebarn Tavern, and Poppy changed as much of her wet clothing as she could. His jumper held his scent and it felt rough but warm against her skin. When she returned Conner looked at her, hair still a little damp, wearing his trousers and his jumper, which was rather too big on her. And all he could think was that she was beautiful in his eyes, and she looked even more beautiful today than she had been in Paris. Perhaps it was the fact that she was here, that she had made this much effort just to find him. For the first time, he wondered if there might be a way back from this. Her presence gave him hope.
The lounge was warm and humid, with logs alight in the fireplace. The wood hummed and cracked, and Conner got up and walked towards the bar.
“Hot chocolate,” said Poppy, before he could ask her what she wanted, “and a ploughman’s, please.”
He returned with their food and drink and put it all on a low table in front of them.
“Bon appétit, as they say in France,” said Conner.
“Thanks,” she said, but she didn’t move to pick up her food.
“Eat,” he said, picking up the ham roll he’d bought himself. “God knows, you’ve earned it.”
“Conner,” she said, “I want to help you work this out. I don’t know what I can do, but I want to help.”
“Well you can eat the food I’ve bought you to start with,” he said, a thin smile on his face. The truth was, the smell of pub food had made him very hungry too.
They ate for a minute in silence, listening to the spit of the logs and the pub chatter around them. Then Poppy looked up at him.
“So what were you going to ask me?” she said.
He looked at her and was quiet for a very long time, and then he spoke:
“A long time ago, I did a stupid thing. I’d forgotten I’d even done it. I did a stupid thing and now it’s all come back to haunt me.” His voice was so quiet she had to lean forward to catch his words even above the crackle of the embers in the nearby hearth.
“I took something that didn’t belong to me.”
She waited for further explanation, sipping at her chocolate. He smiled at her and she realized that she had frothy milk over her top lip. She picked up a napkin.
“Go on,” she said.
“Remember I told you about when I was younger; all the stuff about drugs?”
She nodded.
“Something I did then is affecting me now.”
“Go on,” she said.
“You know I told you how some of my old mates used to steal things, and I thought it was such a stupid thing to do.”
She nodded.
“Well it’s true, I never stole anything while I was with them, but I did steal, once. I stole the guitar I use.”
“You stole that guitar?” she said, frowning. “The one you use now?”
“Yes.” His voice was quiet now and there were tears forming in his eyes. “I’ve been using it all this time, and it’s not mine. It was never mine, I stole it from a shop and I had forgotten I had even taken it. It’s the only thing I ever stole, one of the most expensive things I ever had, and it wasn’t even mine. I mean it still belongs to the shop I suppose, the place I stole it from.”
He stopped speaking and stared at the lip of the cup in his hands.
“Are you okay?” said Poppy.
“Yes,” he said, “just thinking about what happened to me, it comes into my head a lot still, I think I’m just processing it.”
“So, anyway,” he continued, “a few days ago I started to get some text messages and calls from some guy I had never heard of before.”
And he told her all of it; all about the sinister figure who had called on his mobile, and then visited him at his own home.
“He knows, Poppy,” he continued, close to tears now. “I don’t know how, but he does. And it’s not really this guy, it’s more that what he says is true. Everything I’ve done is compromised; I thought I was so clever, so talented, so righteous, but the w
hole thing was a sham. I can’t play it now; I don’t feel as if I can play anything now. I know we have a concert in ten days’ time, and I can’t do it. I don’t know what to do.”
They both sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the hiss and the crackle of the logs on the fire.
Finally, Poppy spoke:
“Is that all you’ve done wrong?”
He looked at her, with what Daisy would have described as his “stupid face”.
“Eh?” he said.
“Is that all you’ve done?” she repeated.
“Isn’t that enough?” he said.
“Conner, this is something you can put right,” she said. “This man has acted to hurt you, but he has made you face the truth, and now because of that, you can do something to put it right.”
He looked at her, and the truth of what she was saying seeped into his mind.
“These people,” she said leaning forward, “whoever they are, they really don’t have that much of a hold on you. They are just the accusers, they are not the people you have wronged.”
She stared at him. “Conner, you owe them nothing, certainly not your fear.”
“It’s true,” he said.
“But you may still need some other help,” she added, “like Daisy did after Mr Wicks prayed over her. Prayer and reconciliation are wonderful but you’ll also need some support for your mental and emotional health.”
“I’ll make sure I look after myself,” he said. “I have heard all this from Alex, and I believe her, I believe you. Even the simple things like drinking enough water, and getting enough sleep.”
“Sometimes it is the simple things that will help the most,” she said, “but talking of help, I can help you as well, if you want me to.”
“You’ve helped me so much already,” said Conner.
“Maybe I have,” she said, “but there is something else. I can take the guitar back to the shop, and give it back to them. Tell them what has happened. They can do whatever they want to about it, they can say ‘thank you’, they can call the police, but at least your conscience will be clear.”
He stared at her, amazed, as if with a few words she had lifted a crushing burden from his back and he could stand up again.
“That’s all very well,” he said hesitantly, “but–”
“But what?” she cut in on him. “But what, Conner? There is no ‘but’, it can all be done.”
“But what would I play?” he said.
“Another guitar,” she answered. “We’ll find you one.”
“Do the right thing, Conner,” she said, “and then you can properly discover the gift you have. And know that you are loved by so many people.”
He seemed to brighten before her eyes.
“You can get through this,” she said. “I am not belittling what you have been through. The abuse you received is something else, you may need time to get over that, and these things can’t just be brushed off.”
He thought about the mysterious figure that had visited his home. He realized now that he had been frightened and overwrought. This man had talked him into believing that stealing this guitar was the worst thing that ever happened, the unforgivable sin. Now that he thought about it, this visitor hadn’t even accused him of stealing the guitar. Somehow Conner had been taken in, overawed by all this puffed up condemnation, and now Poppy had come along with a sharp pin and, BANG…
But still there was something else not quite right. He stared at the table, the food and the drink, and he thought about the guitar.
“Yes, but there’s one change I’d make to your plan,” he said, “I need to take it back. Thank you for everything, Poppy, I mean it, but it shouldn’t be you who takes it back for me, I need to face this, and they can do what they wish.”
Poppy looked at him and nodded.
“Okay, Conner, that’s good.” She moved her chair back, stood up and came around next to him. “Now come here.”
He stood up and she stepped towards him and she hugged him and he drank in all of it, everything she had to offer, and through her he felt all the love of family and friends surrounding him, and he felt himself, the deepest parts of himself, beginning to heal.
“Now I’m really hungry,” he said, and they’d sat back down to finish their meal.
When they’d finished, he got up from his seat.
“I need to go for a walk on my own for a while if that’s okay, just for a few minutes, and I think I’d better make some calls as well.”
She nodded and he looked at her.
“What?” she said.
“Listen, Poppy, since we’re being honest, whatever happens between us, I’m really grateful to you, I’ll always be grateful for what you did for me.” Before she could reply he turned and opened the door, and went out into the late afternoon sun, like a free man.
He called his mother and she asked him a lot of questions, first about the guitar and then about Poppy. Then he phoned Al from the band. All the guys happened to be together, and when, reluctantly, he admitted that Poppy had found him he could hear the cheers in the background.
Then he made one more call.
“Hi, Alex,” he said.
“Conner? Are you okay? You’re up in the Lakes, aren’t you? Is Poppy with you?”
“Yes,” he said, “she’s here, and it’s okay. We’re coming home.”
“Thank God,” said Alex, “You know, Poppy said you’d be there, and I was pretty sure she was right.”
“I’m doing the concert,” he said. “I am sorry about all of this, but I’m okay, I’ll be okay, I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”
There was a pause before Alex spoke again.
“Okay, Conner. Take it easy okay and let me know when you are back home.”
“Sure, I will.”
“Have you spoken to your mum?” she asked.
“Yes, I’ve spoken to her, and to the band.”
“You know Caleb will want to go over the details of this man’s visit to you, every point.”
“It’s okay,” he said, “I’m ready to do that, you know, this guy even tried to take the guitar from me, crazy.”
“Well,” said Alex, “save the details for a chat with Caleb, and look after yourself, okay?”
“Sure.”
“And, Conner?”
“What?”
“It’s good to hear your voice again.”
“You too, sis, bye.”
He switched off the phone and smiled. His sister loved him.
14
Barrow Instruments Limited stood on a narrow street in Conner’s hometown. The shop had been there for over fifty years; and Conner still went there occasionally to buy strings and put up posters advertising gigs for the various bands he had been involved with.
A couple of days after Conner and Poppy returned from the Lake District, Conner got up early and was waiting outside the door of Barrow Instruments when they opened for business at nine thirty in the morning. As soon as the bolts were drawn and the “closed” sign flipped over to “open” he walked in, carrying the guitar in its case.
His pounding heart contrasted sharply with the quiet, sleepy atmosphere of the shop in the first few minutes of opening and he was relieved to see that he was the only customer in the shop.
“Can I help you?” said the assistant, a fine-haired youth who looked younger than Conner. He was casually sipping on a mug of tea.
“Yes, I would like to return this to you.” Conner indicated the guitar in its case.
The assistant put down his mug. “Do you have the receipt?” he asked.
“Well, no I’ve had it a while,” said Conner.
“Is there some problem with the instrument, sir?” the assistant said.
“No, nothing is wrong with it,” said Conner, tasting the adrenaline as his heart continued to beat. “It’s just that I stole it from this shop about three and a half years ago, and I want to return it, it does not belong to me.”
The a
ssistant looked at him, unsure how to respond. Then he put down his mug and disappeared into the back office. Conner stood alone in the shop, listening to one of the keyboards piping out a prerecorded tune, and resisting the temptation to leave the guitar and run.
After a minute, he began to look around the shop. All of the available wall space was fitted with shelving, supporting woodwind, brass and stringed instruments, music stands, manuscripts stacked at crazy angles, and threatening to fall to the floor, and cardboard boxes of various sizes that might have held anything from drumsticks to flute cases to shiny new trombones.
Conner glanced at the sheet music books on display near the sales counter, some of them were new, but some of them had been on sale in their stands for as long as he had been coming here, the numbers on the price tickets almost faded to nothing. He wandered over to the stand and browsed through some of the Beatles material. He was about to look at some of the other acoustic guitar music when he realized that someone else was standing at the counter, staring at him. It so happened that the now rather elderly Mr Barrow was in the shop that morning, and he wanted to see for himself this customer who had stolen his stock, and now wanted to return it.
“Don’t I know you, sir?” said Mr Barrow in a rather loud baritone voice. He fixed his sharp grey eyes on Conner.
“You might have seen me in the shop,” said Conner, feeling distinctly awkward.
“Hmm.” Mr Barrow looked skeptically at Conner. “No, I’ve seen you on the internet somewhere, you play in a band, don’t you?”
“Yes I do.”
“Well you must be famous if I’ve recognized you,” said the old man. “Now, my assistant tells me that you are returning some property you stole from us, is that correct?”
“Yes,” said Conner, indicating the guitar.
“Open the case for me, will you,” said Mr Barrow, and Conner obliged. The owner peered intently at the instrument, saying nothing. The silence began to make Conner fidget.
At last he looked up again at Conner.
“Is it damaged?” he asked.
“No, it’s in very good nick, really,” said Conner honestly.
“You do realize that this is a Martin, a very valuable instrument,” said Mr Barrow.
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