by Lily Graham
She giggled. ‘I live to please. Why stay then, in England I mean?’
‘Well, I came down here, just to clear my head – I was planning on leaving, but then I saw the valley and I’ve always wanted to open up my own restaurant… I was sitting in the teashop when I ran into Dot.’
‘Dot Halloway? My Dot?’ she exclaimed, sitting up.
‘There’s another?’
She laughed. ‘Well, no… definitely not. Go on.’
‘Well, next thing I was telling her all my plans and she was telling me to come to the cottage to see her sister, that they would help me. She pretty much marched me over here, Pajarita, your family are forceful – forceful,’ he repeated with a wink, though he seemed to approve, quite a bit.
Emma’s mouth fell open. ‘They made a recipe for you?’
He looked at her, his eyes wide. ‘Course they did! Had to give up my favourite guitar pick and everything,’ he said with a wink. ‘Worth it though.’
‘Just a pick?’
‘Santana’s pick,’ he said with emphasis. ‘Eh.’
She just stared. She had no idea who Santana was. He looked at her, shook his head. ‘Ay, Pajarita…’ he muttered, clearly horrified at her ignorance. ‘Anyway, soon after that I approached the council about the land, got the van – hired Nico – and it all fell into place. I had some money saved up, you see. Then Evie offered me the annexe, and the rest is history.’
* * *
There was a knock on the door that afternoon. Emma opened it and was surprised to see Jack Allen standing there, a thick blue and white striped woollen scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth, the tops of his cheeks pink from cold and a bakery box in his hands.
‘Hi,’ he said, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners.
‘Jack,’ she said, her mouth opening in surprise.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked with a grin, stamping his feet from the cold.
She blinked. ‘Of course.’
She was taken aback, though. Jack was usually a bit reluctant to come inside the cottage; his mother had forbidden it when they were young, and so over the years they’d spent many hours chatting just outside. It was hard to believe but even after all this time he’d never actually been inside for longer than a minute or two.
Thankfully, Evie and her aunts weren’t home. Perhaps Jack had waited until they’d left. Old habits are hard to break, she thought.
Jack stared around at the stone walls, looked from the range to the alcove, saw The Book on the table and gave a short, amazed laugh. ‘Hope Cottage,’ he said, echoing her thoughts from earlier. ‘And there’s The Book.’
She gave him a half-smile. ‘Was it what you expected?’ she asked, pulling out a chair for him to sit and adding, ‘Tea?’
‘Please,’ he said, and she went and filled the old copper kettle and set it on the range, and got two blue mugs from the dresser.
‘Gosh – old school,’ he said eyeing the kettle.
Emma shrugged. ‘Evie doesn’t trust a kettle that boils in thirty seconds. There’s something about the ritual of lighting the fire, and waiting for the water to boil… though she bought me a little modern kettle for the greenhouse – that’s where I work now – which was sweet of her.’
He looked around. ‘I’m not sure what I expected… potions and strange things in jars, maybe.’ He laughed. ‘A cauldron…’
She laughed. ‘Really?’
His face coloured slightly. ‘When I was little, yes. The way my mother spoke about this place… it’s silly when I think of it now.’
His eyes scanned the dresser, fell on Pennywort asleep on Emma’s bed, and he shook his head, smiled. Then he put the box on the table and opened it. Inside there were four perfect little muffins, topped with little reindeer in white fondant, with red glitterballs for noses.
‘I saw these in the bakery and I thought of you… remember that time when we got there just when it was opening and we got these…?’
She bit her lip. ‘Course I do.’
She had never forgotten, that was the trouble, none of it.
‘So, um, what have you been doing with yourself?’ she asked, handing him his mug. Tearing her gaze away from his.
‘I joined the family business – the Allen Printworks.’
‘Oh?’
He gave a small, self-deprecating sort of laugh. ‘I sold out…’
Jack had always spoken of escaping the family business, doing something in art and design, perhaps going to New York.
Emma shook her head. ‘It’s easy to think you’ll do things differently when you’re young.’
‘You did.’
She shrugged. ‘Yeah, well…’ She didn’t point out that she had felt like she had no choice – because of him.
‘The funny thing is, I enjoy it, more than I thought I would anyway. I run the sales department now and…’
Emma wasn’t really listening. She couldn’t take it any more; she had to know. Couldn’t just sweep what had happened the other day away and pretend it had never happened.
‘Jack?’ she interrupted. ‘What happened with Stella?’
He sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. ‘It’s a long story, but we ended it a little while ago, and well…’
‘She isn’t taking it very well,’ Emma guessed.
‘She, um… well, she thinks I ended it because you’re back.’
Emma swallowed. He reached out, touched her hand. Emma looked up, into his hazel eyes. ‘And did you?’
He stared at her, ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Jack,’ she said, feeling her heart start to race.
A noise from behind made them both start.
‘I didn’t know you had a visitor,’ said Evie, her voice, a little cool.
Emma closed her eyes. ‘Jack just came over to say hello.’
‘That’s nice of him,’ said Evie. Her tone, however, implied otherwise.
Jack swallowed. ‘I just stopped by to see how Emma was doing,’ he said. ‘I better get going though.’
‘You don’t have to leave,’ protested Emma. ‘Stay a while.’
He shot a look at Evie, who’d actually crossed her arms. ‘Can’t, sorry – got to get back to the office,’ he said, leaning over and giving her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Nice seeing you again, Mrs Halloway,’ he said before he left.
Evie harrumphed. ‘Mrs Halloway?’
Emma let out an impatient breath. ‘Well, it’s not like he could just call you Evie.’
‘What do I care what an Allen calls me?’
Emma rolled her eyes. ‘You could have been a bit nicer to him, you know – it couldn’t have been easy coming in here.’
Evie scoffed. ‘Yeah, but as usual it was just so very easy for him to run away when things got a little tough.’
‘Yes, and who made it tough?’
‘Love, it wasn’t me that made it hard.’
‘You did tonight.’
Evie sighed. ‘I know… look love, I’ll be his best pal, I promise, if Jack finds a way to be the man you need. If he stood up for you to his family, no one would be happier than me. I’m just afraid that you’ll get your hopes up again, only for them to come crashing down.’
* * *
She was still angry later that evening, trying to block out Evie’s words, when she decided to finally try having a proper shower. Since her accident, she’d got by with a flannel, soap and a sink full of water. It did the job, but it was tiresome, and Evie had to wash her hair for her every few days. What she craved, really, was to be more independent, to not have to rely so much on Evie for everything, particularly now when she was so annoyed with her. The trouble was that she shared Evie’s fear about having her hopes crushed by Jack again, but she was trying not to think about it, trying to make sense of what she felt.
Wrapping her damaged arm and the cast on her leg in plastic bags, she ran the water and stepped gingerly under the spray, careful to keep her broken leg as far away as she could. It felt fine at first, the wate
r warm, invigorating; but then, without warning, everything changed – suddenly it was like she was being tortured alive, by hundreds of stinging insects. The pain stealing her breath away, like nothing she’d ever felt before, she scrabbled to open the glass door, falling, gasping, wet and howling on the floor.
It was a long while before she could scoop herself off the linoleum, or even risk putting a towel across her skin, terrified as she was of what it might feel like. When she sat up though, once the shock had worn off, her stomach plummeted and hot, angry tears pricked her eyes: she realised she’d landed on her already damaged wrist.
Evie took her the next day to see the doctor who was monitoring her recovery. Emma sat with her heart in her mouth as Dr Norton examined the arm. He’d had to take off the cast, and she could see that her hand looked swollen, the skin a mottled shade of purple and red.
He peered at her from above his black-framed glasses. ‘It didn’t break again.’
She exhaled in relief, not realising that she’d been holding her breath.
‘You’ll have to go back into a full cast though. I’m sorry, I know you were looking forward to having it off soon.’
Emma closed her eyes. ‘Will it set it back – the recovery?’
‘A few weeks, yes, but nothing serious. Just no more showers, all right – stick to what you know. For now, we know that water isn’t always your friend.’
Emma frowned. ‘But for how long – I mean, I need to be able to shower at some point, to live a normal life.’
His eyes were sad. ‘I’d suggest taking smaller steps. Holding your hand under the tap, for instance – if it stings, well then at least it’s felt on a reduced area, you know what I mean?’
She nodded. It made sense. ‘Small steps.’
‘Small steps,’ he agreed.
When she got home, she found Sandro waiting for her in the greenhouse. Her laptop was open. He greeted her with a wink. ‘Hello there, soldier. I heard about what happened. I’m sorry.’
She gave a small smile. ‘Thanks.’
She felt completely worn out from her trip to the doctors. Her brain felt loose and flabby, like a punctured balloon.
He shook his head, eyes concerned, no doubt noting her flat, straggly hair, her pale skin and the purple, bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes.
‘You look exhausted,’ he said, standing up. ‘I know we said we’d do the column now, but let’s leave it till tomorrow, okay? Get some rest. I can go in a bit later tomorrow so you can do a longer session. I can get Nico to open up for me.’
Emma took a seat at the garden bench.
‘No – don’t worry, I’m fine, we can do it now, I’ll rally. How about one of your super-volt coffees?’
He grinned. ‘Super-volt?’
‘Yep – couldn’t taste it the other night, but my brain was buzzing for hours.’
He laughed. ‘You sure you want to carry on?’
She nodded. As much as she’d dearly love to just sink onto her bed, she didn’t want to make him give up any more of his free time for her.
‘Who’s Nico?’ she asked as he made their coffee.
‘He’s an employee – helps out with the Tapas Hut, good kid.’
She nodded. ‘I must come and see it. Dot and Aggie said I’d like it.’
‘Yeah? That would be great.’
His mobile started to ring. Emma saw the name flash up on the screen, Holly.
Sandro switched it to silent.
‘Aren’t you going to get that?’
His eyes were dark, unreadable. ‘Nah. Here you go,’ he said, handing her a mug, and they got to work.
An hour later, despite the strong coffee, he was shaking her gently awake.
‘W-what?’ she said, staring into dark, concerned eyes.
‘We can pick up the rest tomorrow morning, but for now, bedtime,’ he said, firmly.
She blinked, sitting up. ‘But I can’t ask that of you.’
He gave a soft laugh. ‘You haven’t – I’m offering.’
‘But why?’
He shrugged. ‘Why not? We’re friends, right, Pajarita?’
She grinned. ‘Not that I deserve it. I was pretty horrid to you when I first got here.’
‘Not really. Anyway, I’m tough, I can take it – and I mean, you’ve been through the wars, I get it.’
She swallowed, trying to find the right words. ‘Well, anyway, thanks.’
‘See you later.’
When he left, she heard him speaking on the phone. ‘Sorry, Holly – it wasn’t a good time, what’s up?’ And before she climbed into her bed, the silk screen blocking out most of the wintry sun’s rays, Pennywort snoring softly, she wondered briefly who Holly was before she fell into a deep sleep.
* * *
The next morning, Sandro looked at her. ‘I got something for you.’
‘For me?’ she said, surprised, as he bent over and placed something next to her on the small gardening bench.
‘It’s nothing much, but I was thinking about what you said the other day – how hard it is for you to read – and I thought, well, this might help. You mentioned that sounds are okay now…’
It was an old portable CD player. She looked at it in surprise. ‘It’s old – but it works. I thought you could listen to audiobooks, maybe? I went past the library.’ He gave a little laugh as he admitted, ‘I had to join. I didn’t really know what you might like, so I got a few.’
He handed over two audiobooks, one a detective story, the other an epic saga called Midnight in Prague.
She turned them over, looking at the pictures, her voice wobbling slightly, and she felt tears prick her eyes. ‘Thank you.’
He touched her hand. His eyes were gentle, kind. She felt herself staring, and then frowning in confusion when he suddenly stood up.
‘So, where did we leave off?’ he asked, taking a seat at the laptop.
That afternoon, while the snow fell down, and Evie and her aunts worked on a recipe to bring a family together over the holidays, she put the first CD in the player and sat back in the alcove, with Pennywort’s head in her lap, listening to the detective story Sandro had brought her, a smile on her face. For the first time in ages, she felt almost normal.
Chapter Twelve
Through the frosted window, Emma watched as Jack jogged past with Gus at his heels, the bear-like Newfoundland matching his pace. The household was still with that quiet hum that cloaked the cottage in its slumber. It was icy cold, but she didn’t bother with her robe, or putting on a hat; there wasn’t time.
Hesitating just for a second, she unlocked the door, crossing the garden quickly to open the low iron gate.
Jack stopped and circled back, pushing his hair out of his eyes.
‘Hi,’ she said, a little hesitantly.
His face was serious. ‘Hi.’
His eyes were dark in the pre-dawn light. They were standing on either side of the low gate, a hand’s breath apart.
His hand came out to touch her face, his long fingers gentle. She closed her eyes. She knew she should move away, but she couldn’t.
‘I love you,’ he said. ‘It’s only ever been you, you know that?’
Then he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. She sank into it, her hands coming up to touch his hair; somehow they, and her leg, were miraculously healed. She felt deliriously happy, and warmth spread throughout her chest. It was everything she had ever wanted.
Her eyes snapped open. She was back in her bed, Pennywort snoring loudly on her pillow and letting out small yips in his sleep, which must have woken her up.
One of her hands came up to touch her flushed cheeks. The other was still in its cast. It was just a dream, she told herself. But it had felt so real, so wonderful. Her body had been healed, and she had Jack in her arms… She sighed, lay back against the pillows and tried not to think about him – and failed. She closed her eyes and groaned, cursing the dream, how it had made things so simple, when it had always been anything but sim
ple between them. Even from the start.
Chapter Thirteen
Whistling Moors, 2002
* * *
There were touches of frost on the heather, and the moors were quiet in the darkening afternoon, as thirteen-year-old Emma saw Jack Allen approaching. He passed the old farmhouse at the edge of the village. In the distance, she could just make out the amber lights of the town, and the top of a church spire.
‘Hi,’ he said, his hazel eyes warm as she neared.
‘Hi, Jack,’ she said, pushing her frozen fingers into her pockets. When she breathed puffs of white fog billowed out. She felt her stomach clench, like something was inside her, bouncing on a trampoline. She wondered why they called it butterflies, when surely a swarm of bees would be more appropriate?
They started walking along the path, which cut through the moors and across to the next village.
‘Have you spoken to your mam?’ asked Emma. She’d been up, tossing and turning, worrying about it. Hoping that just for once Janet Allen might be persuaded to change her mind.
He shook his head. ‘I tried, but all that happened was I got a ten-hour lecture.’
Emma felt her stomach plummet. ‘So, I won’t be coming then.’
She kicked at a stray rock. Had she really thought that she’d be able to go to Jack’s thirteenth-birthday party? Not really, said a small voice within. Still, every year the Allens threw a birthday party for Jack at their large triple-storey home, usually in one of the converted barns. It was one of the highlights of the young social scene in Whistling and Emma had always longed to be able to go, but due to their family’s long feuding history, she’d never been invited. Perhaps, she thought now, she never would. She scowled at the ground.
Jack ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s your party – you could have insisted that you wanted all your friends there,’ she said.
‘If I did that she would have just cancelled it, I’m sure.’
Emma looked away. If it had been her, she’d rather have cancelled it than not have Jack come.
