The Summer of Second Chances

by Maddie Please

  I was personally very relieved when just after three o’clock Susan was called in to see Dr Hawkins. She gathered her coat around her thin body and scooped up her handbag, somehow managing to radiate disapproval with every step as she went into his surgery. I carried on reading about Carole Middleton’s elegant outfit and admiring Pippa’s bottom. I didn’t know anyone in the waiting room and no one recognised me. Which was something of a relief.

  Time passed and a man with an arm in a sling sitting opposite me started to tut and look at his watch. Some irritated fidgeting and newspaper rustling accompanied this before he checked his watch again. Just after three thirty he got up and went over to the reception desk.

  ‘I know Doctor Hawkins is always late but this is getting ridiculous,’ he said in aggrieved tones.

  The miserable blonde stabbed away at the computer keys and huffed along with him.

  ‘Nothing I can do, Mr Hubbard, if the doctor is late there’s usually a reason.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to pick Paige up from her friend’s house at four and it’s going to take me ten minutes to walk there. I can’t drive, you know. Not with this hand. And Marge isn’t going to be back until five.’

  Miserable Blonde gave him a look showing exactly how uninterested she was in his domestic timetable and he went to sit down again.

  He looked to me for sympathy.

  ‘It’s always the same,’ he said. ‘I wonder why they bother making appointments at all. He’s never on time. Even if you get the first appointment of the day.’

  We both looked up as a woman with a pram full of crying twins struggled through the door.

  ‘And this will be someone else who’s going to be disappointed,’ he said, getting up to hold the door open. ‘He’s running late, love.’

  The newcomer sighed and jiggled the pram handle as an insistent wailing started up.

  ‘I’m three thirty,’ she said.

  Mr Hubbard rolled his eyes and tapped the face of his watch. ‘Three twenty and I still haven’t gone in. He’s got some old woman in there, not much wrong with her, I’d say. Expect it’s just an outing for her. I’ve got to get Paige in twenty minutes.’

  The three of us tutted for a few minutes and the miserable blonde tapped heavily on the computer keys.

  Just before four o’clock the surgery door opened and Susan came out.

  ‘Well,’ huffed Mr Hubbard, looking at his watch, ‘it’s about flipping time.’

  The wailing from inside the pram increased in volume as Susan, unconcerned, passed her notes to the receptionist and made for the exit.

  I trailed after her into the car park.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have to come back? Shouldn’t you have made an appointment? I don’t mind fetching you.’

  ‘No, there’s no need. Doctor Hawkins is going to make a house call next Monday.’

  ‘You’re honoured,’ I said, surprised, ‘he hardly ever does that.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ Susan patted the back of her hair, tidying away a few strands. ‘There we are.’

  We got into the car and Susan fastened her seat belt. It was obvious she was not expecting to talk to me but a long period of silence is anathema to me.

  ‘So do I need to stop at the chemist? You know, for a prescription?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘He didn’t give you a tonic or some vitamins or something?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  Another long pause as I tried to think of something to say.

  ‘And he was OK? I mean you didn’t really want to see him, did you? A male doctor; I know you had reservations.’

  Susan fiddled in her handbag and brought out a brutally ironed cotton handkerchief. She unfolded it and dabbed at the corner of her mouth.

  ‘That’s absolute nonsense, Charlotte. He was perfectly pleasant.’

  ‘Good. That’s good. And you really don’t have to go back?’

  She clicked her tongue at me. ‘No. Why don’t you ever listen? He’s going to call on me. Next week. Now please would you just drive?’

  I gave up and we passed the remainder of the journey in silence. When we pulled up outside her house Susan got out and was about to close the door without comment when she stopped and ducked her head back into the car.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Well you could have knocked me down with the proverbial.

  CHAPTER 13

  Forget-me-not – remember me, friendship

  My sister, from henceforth to be known as the Dirty Stop Out, didn’t come back from London until three days later. Her little yellow car barrelled up the drive, skidding to a halt and sending gravel everywhere. She came into the house, humming happily and swinging a large hatbox.

  ‘I’ve bought you a gift,’ she said, placing it on the kitchen table, ‘to say thank you for having me visit.’

  I noticed her American accent was back along with her good humour.

  The hatbox was grey-and-white striped with a pale pink rope handle. It was absolutely beautiful. I looked at it without enthusiasm. I didn’t wear hats. The opportunity for wearing hats in the last few months had been zero. The prospect of wearing hats in the near future was the same.

  ‘Is it a hat?’

  ‘Go to the top of the class and give out the pencils! Go on then,’ she said, almost hopping from one foot to the other in her excitement, ‘open it.’

  Inside was a confection of pale pink feathers and netting pinned down with silk roses and forget-me-nots. It was exquisite. Just the thing for keeping the sun off when I was weeding.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, trying not to sound sullen.

  ‘Look properly,’ Jenny said, her eyes sparkling.

  The crown of the hat was stuffed with pale pink tissue paper and under that was an envelope with my name on the front. I opened it. Inside was a business-class plane ticket to Houston and a substantial wad of fifty-pound notes.

  She came towards me and put an arm around my shoulders.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said. ‘It’s open ended. Just come visit when you like. Stay as long as you like.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said, not knowing what to think.

  ‘It was Trent’s idea. Isn’t he a darling? He said you must have been having a rotten time and you could come and stay with us for a bit. You could have the suite of rooms by the pool house if you’d prefer. You’d be quite independent. He thought it might cheer you up.’

  I looked at the ticket for several seconds. I couldn’t push from my mind the fact that I had the equivalent of at least six months’ rent in my hand. Not to mention the cash.

  I realised I was being an ungrateful cow. I went to give her a hug.

  ‘It’s marvellous, Jenny. So kind, I can’t thank you enough. And the hat is – well it’s divine. Really lovely. When I will get to wear it is anyone’s guess.’

  She laughed. ‘I know it was a terrible extravagance but it was just so pretty I couldn’t resist it. Perhaps you could wear it when you get onto the plane and they’ll upgrade you to first!’

  ‘Perhaps I will!’

  ‘Now I have some news,’ she said.

  She blushed. I think I knew what was coming.

  ‘You and Trent have rekindled your passion and are going back to Houston together?’

  ‘We are,’ she said, sounding astonished by my perception. ‘Trent says he’s been simply lost without me. It made him realise how much he wants us to make a go of things.’

  ‘And you? How do you feel?’

  Jenny tilted her head to one side. ‘Lottie, I’m not thirty-four like you; I’m nearly forty. I don’t feel forty, I don’t look forty, I don’t think forty and I don’t behave as though I’m forty but the fact remains, I am. I love Trent. I’ve missed our life together. I’ve missed him. I’ve missed the fun.’

  I picked up my hat and smoothed the feathers. They felt soft and cool under my fingers.

  ‘That sounds very measured and sensible and
not like you at all, not very romantic,’ I said.

  ‘You’re wrong. It is terribly romantic and it’s more than enough. Perhaps at last I’ve learned the value of friendship and companionship in relationships. God knows it’s taken me long enough. I’m the first to admit it. It takes a lot of beating. The feeling of coming home, shared interests, being part of a successful team. Of course it doesn’t hurt that Trent is so incredibly attractive –’

  Whoa! Hang on. Really? Attractive? Did she think so? Trent was fifty-eight, slightly overweight, and if the photos Jenny had shown me recently were anything to go by he had the worst dress sense of any man in North America. Bar none.

  ‘– but in the end you have to have something in common other than mind-blowing sex,’ she concluded.

  My attention was dragged back from remembering a photograph of Trent playing golf in a green-and-pink-striped sports shirt, orange Bermuda shorts, knee-length white socks and black and white golf shoes. Mind-blowing sex?

  ‘Far too much information, Jen!’

  ‘Yes. And he’s been on his own for long enough. I can’t leave him to the mercies of those witches in the golf club. I bet they’ve been circling. They can scent a vulnerable man just like a piranha smells blood in the water,’ she said, patting at her newly highlighted hair. She really had been busy while she was up in London.

  ‘You’ll be writing a self-help book next.’

  She looked a bit thoughtful. ‘Oooh, what a brilliant idea.’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. Anyway you should take a look near home if you’re looking for fun.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Mr Muscle next door. Come on, Lottie, do keep up. He’s nearby, he’s solvent, he’s attractive and he obviously fancies you.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t!’

  She gave me a world-weary-older-woman look. ‘Are you really my sister? You’re hopeless. Yes, he does. I can tell.’

  ‘He’s also got an exceptionally attractive girlfriend, or were you forgetting that?’

  Jenny made a dismissive noise and snapped her fingers.

  ‘Girlfriend? I don’t think so. And since when did that ever stop anyone? Right, I’m going to pack. And then let’s open a bottle of champagne!’

  Jenny left the following day, swanning off after lunch to return her hire car before boarding the train to London. As she drove away, I stood at the end of the drive waving. There was the scent of new-mown grass in the air, which reminded me I needed to mow my own grass; it was getting really long. I sighed – I was alone again, but somehow it felt different this time. Still, my sister was happy and she couldn’t wait to get back to Trent, their wide circle of friends and a life of luxury that she enjoyed and understood.

  I went into Stokeley to pick up some milk and a new deluge of texts and emails landed on my phone. Most of them unimportant, one from Jenny telling me she was on the train, a couple from Ian’s solicitor asking me to contact him. Several from Sophie wondering when they were going to see me again. Could they do anything to help? After such a long silence it was nice to see I wasn’t completely forgotten.

  I made a few calls, arranged to see the solicitor and called Sophie’s number. It went straight to answer phone, so I left a message explaining, yet again, my problems with phone reception and went home. As I reached the top of the hill, I found I was half expecting to see an estate agent’s board outside Holly Cottage. I was dreading it. So far there had been no viewings by any tape-measure-wielding agents, but I guessed it was only a matter of time.

  By now I was starting to decorate the last room; the room I regarded as my bedroom. Despite the prettiness of the wallpaper, it was torn and scuffed where furniture had been moved and small fingers had picked at the edges. I was going to strip it off and replace it with a glorious paper I had lusted after for years. A muted botanical thing with tiny birds and flowers. I moved my belongings into the spare room and started work, washing down the paintwork, starting to soak the wallpaper so it would come off more easily.

  After a while, I realised again how quiet this place was. I opened the windows and listened, my hands flat on the windowsill. There was an occasional tweet of a bird in the garden and the far off sound of a tractor in one of the fields across the valley. I turned the bedside radio on and listened to the news while I worked. Not much had changed in the months I had lived here. The scandal-hit politician who had provided the hot gossip for our ill-fated New Year’s Eve party had resigned from Parliament in order to spend more time with his family and was rumoured to be a contestant on the next series of Strictly. The road works on the A303 continued to cause delays and the planning officers still hadn’t given the go ahead for a proposed development of two hundred new houses near Honiton.

  I moved all the furniture into the middle of the room and covered it in dustsheets. Then I rolled up the rug and started to strip off the old wallpaper. It was a messy business, involving a sponge, buckets of hot soapy water and a fair amount of cursing.

  As I pulled the soggy paper off the walls I realised I had done little besides clean this house, decorate it or tidy up the neglected garden for months. It was looking better, I could see that, and I was pleased with what I had done. But there is only so much of this sort of work that I could take before I reached screaming point. And I was just about there. Then a text arrived from Jenny; she couldn’t get through to me on the phone but she wanted me to know they were going back to Houston and she and Trent were going to be married. I put my phone back in my pocket and got on with my work.

  I finished one wall and then chucked my sponge into the bucket. I went downstairs and out into the garden and sat on one of the rickety iron chairs. Perhaps the plane I could see leaving a pink vapour trail across the evening sky was Jenny’s, on its way back to Texas. Trent would have been only too pleased to pay the excess baggage allowance resulting from her three-day shopping spree. I could just imagine them now, settled into first class (window seat for Jenny, aisle for Trent), her hand snuggled under Trent’s arm, both holding glasses of champagne as they toasted each other and the future.

  I couldn’t help it. Suddenly I could feel my chin begin to wobble and I started to cry.

  Yes, it was probably seventy-five per cent self-pity but there was also twenty-five per cent fear. I couldn’t even get a job with a supermarket. I still didn’t know what I was going to do when Jess sold Holly Cottage. I was alone. I’d spoken pretty confidently about being OK if the house sold, but where would I go? I sat and sobbed, went into the house for some kitchen roll, wiped my eyes and started all over again. It wasn’t fair. To which the obvious retort is; who said it was going to be fair?

  I’d buried all these feeling for months, ever since Ian had died. I realised I hadn’t even known how I should feel or how I should react.

  I had wandered into the sitting room the day after Ian died to see the tracks from Sophie’s careful hoovering still visible in the carpet pile. I looked at the Christmas tree standing in a curly gold stand, jolly and twinkling in the corner. The Christmas cards lined up on the mantelpiece. Robins, snow, Christmas trees, angels. All of them wishing Ian and Lottie a wonderful time.

  That was when I really lost it.

  I think I made a sound that came from somewhere deep inside me. A gut wrenching cry of terror and misery as I swept the cards off with one arm so they fell into the hearth. There was a smash of glass as two candlesticks broke, the crash of china as a little porcelain bell Ian had bought me as a joke when I had flu broke into fragments. I turned and pulled the Christmas tree down. It bounced on the carpet, scattering peacock blue ornaments and silver tinsel and a shower of dead needles. I stood and kicked it with a howl of rage, thin glass from the broken baubles crunching under my slippers. Slippers; I mean how pathetically middle aged had I become? I kicked them off. One hit the standard lamp next to Ian’s favourite chair and it fell over in a graceful arc. The light bulb shattered, the shade fell off and rolled behind the sofa. The other
slipper knocked my mug of tea all over the cream carpet. I looked at the devastation, slumped down onto a chair and cried. I thought my heart would break. I was alone and I was terrified.

  Trust me, it’s pointless doing something like that – having an adult tantrum. After you finish you have to clear it up yourself because your mum isn’t there to do it for you. Not that my mother would ever have done so. It took me a long time.

  And then I tried to put my feelings away somewhere deep inside me and had not looked at them. Until now.

  After a while I stopped crying and calmed down a bit. What could I do but keep going? There was no magic wand to make things right again. There was no one to take away the problems and pressures. I had to deal with it myself. I had been let down by other people, the least I could do was not let myself down.

  I went back upstairs and carried on the tedious process of stripping off the wallpaper with vicious strokes of the scraper.

  I finished and bundled all the rubbish into some bin liners to take downstairs. I was tired and hungry. It was only half past six but I considered going to bed and pulling the covers over my head.

  There was a knock on the front door. It was Bryn.

  ‘I wondered if—’ He broke off when he saw my face.

  I glanced quickly at my reflection in the hall mirror. My eyes were red from crying, I had mascara stains down my cheeks, my hair was wet and speckled with bits of wallpaper. I looked a proper sight.