by Jenny Harper
Ibsen hated computers and had no patience with texting – his fingers were too big and the phone was usually somewhere inaccessible. He relied on Nicola Arnott, therefore, to help him organise the volunteers, and at the end of November she circulated an email calling for as many as possible to turn out for a last push before the lights were brought in and staging set up.
He didn’t expect Kate to come down.
Kate, reading Nicola’s plea, was nudged by pangs of conscience into action. She hadn’t volunteered in the garden for weeks. Too busy getting to grips with the new work, she excused herself – but was she really? She could easily have come to help for an hour or two.
Bracing herself, she wrapped up warmly and answered the call for help.
Nicola greeted her with an excited hug. ‘Isn’t it terrific? It’s been really full on, but I can almost see the end now. Look, the paths have all been delineated and some of them have been laid already.’
‘What a change,’ Kate said, her admiration tempered by guilt.
‘Hi Kate, no’ seen you for a while,’ came a nicotine-husky voice from near her shoulder. It was Maisie, the volunteer she’d befriended. ‘Afraid o’ hard work, are we?’
‘Not a bit of it.’
‘They paths, they’re buggers.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Got to mark them then dig down four inches. Backbreaking. Then compact the lot o’ it, then add wee stanes and compact again. That Jodie, mind her delicate hands?’ Maisie cackled. ‘One big blister.’
Guilt hit the heights. ‘Oh dear, have I been slacking?’
‘No worries, hen,’ Maisie chortled, ‘there’s still loads tae do.’
Kate glimpsed Ibsen from a distance, but someone slotted her into a team at the far side of the garden, so she put her head down and got on with the work.
Maisie was right about the blisters – she could feel one coming up after half an hour. It felt good to be working here again though, she had missed the physical labour as well as the community spirit, which was fantastic. When it was time for a break, she rummaged in the basket she’d brought.
‘Cookie anyone?’
‘What kind?’ Maisie asked, poking a grubby finger into the basket.
‘Three-chocolate. I made them myself,’ Kate said proudly.
‘Nae bad,’ grunted Maisie, wolfing one down.
There were some left. Why not use them as an excuse to find Ibsen? Maybe breaking a biscuit with him would also serve to break the ice.
She stood up and stretched. God, she was getting stiff. The light was beginning to fail too, they wouldn’t get much more work done tonight.
She spotted Ibsen at the very far corner of the garden, leaning against the old apple tree, barely recognisable under a vast coat, his ponytail covered by a black beanie.
When she got to within five paces, she called a cheerful, ‘Hi!’
‘Hello.’
He sounded guarded. He didn’t move towards her.
‘How are you doing?’
‘Pretty good. You?’
‘Great.’ She paused. This was unexpectedly hard going. They’d always been able to crack a joke and share a smile – what had happened to him? Had she really offended him so deeply? She waved her biscuit tin in the general direction of the garden. ‘This is looking fantastic. You must be very proud.’
‘Aye.’
Monosyllabic barely began to cover it.
‘Would you like one of my biscuits?’ She held out the willow basket.
‘No, you’re all right. Thanks.’
He seemed unwilling to move.
‘I made them myself.’ Her laugh emerged more as a nervous giggle. ‘Your mother would be proud of me.’
‘Terrific. But I’m not hungry.’
‘I thought things would have quietened down once the digging was finished.’
‘There’s always something to be done in a garden.’
‘I guess so.’
‘You haven’t been down for a while.’
‘I’ve got a new contract. It’s keeping me busy.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Yes. Ibsen—’
She took half a step towards him and he pulled the greatcoat more tightly around himself. Kate looked at him puzzled. His usual heart-warming smile had been replaced by a look of flat resignation. Under his coat, something wriggled. She glanced down. He appeared to have two pairs of legs – and one pair was definitely a woman’s.
He followed her gaze and grimaced. ‘Rumbled, Mel. Come on out.’
He opened his coat and the unmistakeable auburn hair of Melanie McGillivray appeared, followed by heavily-mascara’d emerald eyes and a mouth twisted into what could only be described as a smirk.
‘She was cold,’ Ibsen explained.
‘Right,’ Kate said, finding it impossible to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
Melanie smiled smugly. ‘And he’s so warm and cuddly.’
Kate shifted from one foot to the other. How foolish she had been to think that Ibsen might still harbour any feelings for her – if he’d had any in the first place, that is.
‘Well, I can see you’re going to have a Happy Christmas,’ she said, her voice raw with disappointment. She turned away.
For one hopeful second she thought she glimpsed movement – was he coming after her? – but all she got was a flat, ‘And you,’ from Ibsen and an arch ‘And a great New Year,’ from Melanie.
Holding her emotions firmly in check, she lifted her chin and headed for the gate. Holding onto her dignity seemed more important than retrieving her flask.
Melanie opened the passenger door of Ibsen’s van and started to climb in.
Ibsen said, ‘I’ll drop you home.’
‘I thought—’
‘I’ve got things to do.’
‘—you and me—’
He started the engine. In the dog cage at the back, Wellington barked. ‘There’s no you and me, Mel. I told you, remember?’
He was furious that Kate had caught him like that. It was the first time he’d even seen Mel since that night at the pub, but Kate would think they were together. The look on her face was something he’d prefer to forget.
‘Come on Ibs, you don’t mean it.’
She leaned across the gear lever and laid a hand on his arm. He shook it off, slammed the van into reverse and jolted off.
‘I sent in an application for that job.’
Melanie thumped back in her seat so that her head banged into the headrest. ‘Oh, shit, I thought you were kidding me. What’s your family say?’
Ibsen didn’t reply. He hadn’t told them yet.
The thought of Christmas filled Ibsen with dread. They’d never had a single Christmas with Violet, she’d died in mid December. They’d both gone mad with the presents – how stupid can you get? Why buy a baby Christmas presents? It’d be another couple of years before she’d get excited, be able to rip open the wrapping papers, brandish some pretty pink hat or rattly toy—
Still, they’d done it anyway. The inevitable cuddly reindeer as well as a musical snowman; a white porcelain night light in the shape of a dog (from Wellington); a super-soft pram blanket; a My First Christmas photo album; a door plaque with Violet beautifully painted on it and adorned with tiny purple pansies that Lynn had ordered from a Christmas Fair. It arrived the day after Vi died.
He’d no idea what had happened to the gifts. He couldn’t bear to have them near him. Had Lynn sent everything to some charity? Had his mother tactfully dealt with them? The only item he’d kept was a Peter Rabbit moneybox, because he’d been determined to give something back to the Lullaby Trust, the charity that tried to help them both to deal with their loss. He hadn’t been able to say thank you at the time. Now he put all his change into the moneybox every night, and when it was full he sent off a cheque for the amount to the charity. It was surprising how quickly it filled up.
‘We’ll have a family Christmas,’ Cassie promised, hugging her brother as
she said it.
She must knew how difficult it would be for him, with Daisy Rose replacing Violet as the first baby in the family to celebrate Christmas.
The only thing Ibsen wanted to do was slip into a sleigh bed with Kate Courtenay and play jingle bells all night long – but the look on her face when she’d seen Mel under his coat said it all. He’d messed it up again, just when she looked like she might be prepared to talk.
His phone rang just as he was leaving for Frank Griffiths’ house the following morning.
‘Ibsen Brown.’
‘Morning, Mr Brown, this is Anne in Northamptonshire.’
‘Hi Anne.’ Ibsen’s interest quickened. She was calling from the office of the estate where he’d applied for the job.
‘We’d love you to come for a final interview.’
He had to strain to understand her flat vowels. ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite get that—’
‘A final interview. I know it’s almost Christmas and really short notice, and it’s a terrible time to ask anyone to travel, but there’s a cottage in the grounds that’s free, it goes with the job and our man has already left. So if you did happen to want a few days’ break with your family, you could certainly use it.’
‘I’ll be there. Thanks.’
He cut the call. Great. He wouldn’t be taking any family, but a few days in a cottage, away from everyone who knew him, was just what he needed. He could be back in time for a last Christmas with his folks.
Predictably, Cassie gave him a tongue-lashing when he told her. ‘What about Mum and Dad?’ she demanded, her sky-blue eyes glinting with anger. ‘It’ll break their hearts if you move away, Ibsen, you know that.’
‘Just for once, I need to do something for myself.’
‘Just for once? Who sat with you night after night when Vi died and after Lynn left? Who cooks meals for you and makes sure you’re—’
‘Don’t, Cassie.’
His tone must have been forceful, because she shut up. But he knew what she thought, all right. And even though his parents, when he broke the news, were completely uncritical of his decision, he knew exactly what they thought too.
Still – what was the point in staying here?
Kate went to see Charlotte.
‘I couldn’t let Christmas go by without putting things right between us,’ she said as Charlotte led her into the kitchen at The Herons.
It was almost twenty years since she’d first met Charlotte and for nineteen and a half of those years they’d been best friends. Much as she valued her new friendship with Helena Banks, there was nothing that could replace the thousands of moments they shared.
‘What will you drink?’ Charlotte asked, letting her into The Herons.
‘A cup of tea would slip down rather well. How’s Georgie?’
‘High as a kite.’ Charlotte appeared in the doorway. ‘James has become attentive.’
‘James? The boy she fancied?’
‘That’s the one.’
She sighed. ‘Ninian’s besotted with Alice. I can’t believe our children are old enough for all this.’
‘Lurve? Scary, isn’t it?’
‘Another three years and Ninian’ll be the age we were when we met.’
‘Life’s passing quickly.’
Kate took the tea from Charlotte and laid it in front of her. ‘That’s why I’ve come, Char. We can’t let it roll on and not make up.’
Charlotte pulled a face. ‘Are you willing to forgive me? You thought I was the perfect wife, but I tried to tell you it wasn’t true. I’m just a flawed human being.’
‘You—’
Charlotte went on as if Kate hadn’t interrupted. ‘I was jealous. You were the clever one. You got all the boys, everything came so easily.’
‘That’s not true. I lost my Dad, I don’t get on that well with my mother. You lived in Forgie, you had a lovely family—’
‘Perhaps we all wish for what we don’t have. I never thought much about Forgie or my family.’
‘It seemed so idyllic. Why do you think I ended up here myself?’
‘And then you finally realised Dad isn’t exactly idyllic after all.’ Charlotte looked at her and started to splutter with laughter.
Kate grinned. Soon they were both giggling, just like the old times. When they finally stopped, Charlotte said, soberly, ‘It was years and years ago, Kate. I’m really, really sorry.’
‘Years ago? Andrew you mean? I don’t care any more about Andrew.’
‘And me? Can you forgive me?’
‘I only wish I’d known. That’s all.’
‘Would it have changed anything?’
‘Maybe. Who knows?’
‘Friends again?’
‘We’ve always been friends. We’re just wiser and sadder now.’
‘Wiser? Maybe. Sadder? Let’s not be, Kate, let’s not be.’
Chapter Thirty-one
Kate strode briskly back from Charlotte’s, her heart eased by making up with her, but her head a jumble of thoughts about a gardener who had found his way under her skin.
Was he back with Melanie because she had refused to go out with him? That was the question that haunted her most. Had she been an idiot? Had he? She couldn’t work out how, as things now stood, to put things right with him.
She was still chewing this over as she turned into the drive at Willow Corner, and she was half way up it when she realised there was a car on the gravel.
She stopped abruptly. A small figure was huddled on the front doorstep.
‘Hello, Kate,’ Sophie said.
‘Well. Sophie.’ Kate was too surprised to be cutting.
Sophie had been crying, that much was obvious. Her pale skin was blotchy and her eyes red-rimmed. She wasn’t wearing anything on her head, Kate noticed with surprise. It was the first time she had seen Sophie’s hair, which she’d dyed purple, but then neglected so that the roots showed brown. She wore no make-up and the avid, excited look that had always characterised her had been usurped by something more desperate. He’s left her, Kate thought with a surge of exhilaration, which quickly subsided. It might be gratifying to know that Andrew and Sophie had run into problems, but it was too late to save her marriage. ‘Can I ask what you’re doing here?’
Sophie gulped and she lifted her chin, as if grasping for defiance.
‘I— I suppose you hate me.’
‘Put it this way, you’re not exactly on my Christmas card list.’
‘You have every right to hate me.’
‘I guess I do.’
Sophie sniffed. The girl looked ridiculously young.
‘It’s all right, Sophie, I won’t bite. Come in, it’s cold.’
As Kate unlocked the door, she found her consideration repaid by aggression. ‘You broke his family up too, remember?’ Sophie said with savagery.
‘I don’t think the situation was quite the same,’ Kate said, but without conviction.
‘I really fell in love with him, Kate.’
‘I expect you did.’ Or thought you did.
‘He told me he loved me.’
‘Sophie, I’m not sure I really want a blow-by-blow account of your relationship with my husband.’
‘But you have to understand!’
Kate had never dealt with a daughter. She’d struggled with a stepson older than herself, and a son, whose transition to adulthood was being made more problematic by his parents’ behaviour. Might a daughter have turned out like Sophie, over-excitable, self-obsessed and dangerously volatile? Never. There were no traits she could discern in this girl that resonated in any way with herself nor, so far as she could see, with Andrew. In fact, she could see nothing in Sophie at all – apart from the obvious attributes of prettiness and youth – that would engage Andrew’s affections for much longer than it took to peel an onion.
‘I found his latest draft,’ Sophie said, clearly working hard to keep the wobble out of her voice, but failing.
‘Ah. Now I get it. Andrew’s still usin
g Martyne Noreis as a way of venting his feelings.’
‘Has he done it before— Oh! Then you’ll understand. Here. I printed it off.’ She opened her large velvet embroidered shoulder bag and took out a well-thumbed sheaf of paper.
Kate sighed. ‘Sit down.’
Sophie subsided onto a chair in the kitchen, but Kate didn’t follow suit. Instead she filled the kettle.
‘Aren’t you going to read it?’
‘I’ll read it. But I need coffee. Would you like one?’
‘I don’t drink coffee. Have you got any herbal tea?’
‘Sorry, no. Andrew can’t stand the stuff.’
The response was sheer reflex, she had not meant to be tactless – but after years of living with Andrew, she knew pretty much everything about him. He was her right glove, she his left. She remembered how she used to curl round his corkscrewed body with easy intimacy and felt weak with regret because she would do so no more. You can stop loving someone, but you can’t just stop knowing them. She still knew all Andrew’s likes and dislikes, his endearing habits and his irritating ones. She knew he could recall a face in a crowd and construct a whole back story around the image, and that he read obsessively until he found just the right historic hook for his plot. Had Sophie discovered these things yet? What would she think of the way Andrew could read deep into the night if he was pursuing a will-o-the-wisp thought? Would she find the cold place in the bed where his body should be as irritating as Kate had? How long would it take her to discover that he was tone deaf, or that he hated gadgets? Would she learn to live with his obsession for order and tidiness?
‘I know he can’t,’ Sophie said. It was almost a wail.
There was no need for tact, she owed Sophie nothing. ‘I have hot chocolate? Or tea?’
There was another sniff. ‘Hot water will be fine. Thank you.’
Kate made her coffee and presented Sophie with a mug of water from the kettle. She saw chipped red fingernails as the girl pushed the sheaf of paper across to her with a feverish movement. The Sophie she had seen a few months ago would never have allowed her nails to chip.
She picked up the top sheet and read.
