Jessica Redland
Jessica had never considered writing as a career until a former manager kept telling her that her business reports read more like stories and she should write a book. She loved writing but had no plot ideas. Then something happened to her that prompted the premise for her debut novel, Searching for Steven. She put fingers to keyboard and soon realised she had a trilogy and a novella!
She lives on the stunning North Yorkshire Coast – the inspiration for the settings in her books – with her husband, daughter, cat, Sprocker Spaniel, and an ever-growing collection of collectible teddy bears. Although if the dog has her way, the collection will be reduced to a pile of stuffing and chewed limbs!
Jessica tries to balance her time – often unsuccessfully – between being an HR tutor and writing. She’s been a Brown Owl since 2010 although she says that 24 excitable girls can sometimes be a shock to the system after a day of peace and quiet working from home.
‘Bear With Me’ is her fifth book, and her fourth full-length novel.
Visit her website: www.jessicaredland.com
Also available by Jessica Redland
Raving About Rhys (a novella)
Searching for Steven (Whitsborough Bay Trilogy Book 1)
Getting Over Gary (Whitsborough Bay Trilogy Book 2)
Dreaming About Daran (Whitsborough Bay Trilogy Book 3)
Bear
with
Me
When you’ve loved and lost,
can you bear to let love in again?
Jessica Redland
Published in Great Britain in 2017 by:
LITTLE BEAR BOOKS
Scarborough
North Yorkshire
www.littlebearbooks.uk
email: [email protected]
Copyright © 2017 Jessica Redland
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Mark Heslington
email: [email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
For all those who are affected by Parkinson’s and dementia, especially Auntie Jennifer and her family x
Chapter 1
Jemma
Three years ago – 21st May
‘Mum!’ I called up the stairs. ‘Mum! The hearse is here.’ I cocked my head to one side, listening for her reply. Nothing. What was she doing up there? She’d told me 40 minutes earlier that she was “almost ready” and, as she isn’t one of those women who spend hours teasing one strand of hair into place, there was no reason to disbelieve her. Of all the mornings to take forever, why choose today? Shaking my head, I opened the front door to Mum’s cottage, Bear’s Pad, before Mr Golding, the funeral director, had a chance to lift the grizzly-bear knocker.
‘Good morning, Ms Browne.’ He gave a reverential bow of his head. ‘We’re ready when you are.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘We’ll be out in five minutes.’ I glanced back towards the stairs. ‘Actually, it could be ten. Do we have time?’
‘We’re a little early,’ he said. ‘Ten minutes will be no problem.’
My throat tightened as I glanced past him at the black limousine parked on the sloped driveway, and the hearse parked on the road. It was still hard to take in. This wasn’t a day I’d expected to experience for several decades.
I tried not to curl my lip up at the orange and yellow floral lettering arrangement resting against the side of the coffin. I hated them, but Sean had requested it because his best friend Billy Thomas had apparently told him that people who didn’t have one were mean and that the dead would come back to haunt them. I could have throttled Billy Thomas. Sean had also wanted a floral teddy bear to thoroughly protect him against any risk of ghosts, but Mum and I managed to talk him out of that. The deceased would not have been impressed with a bear. He probably would have haunted us for that.
‘Mum!’ I called again, after I’d closed the door. Still no answer. Just a lot of clattering and banging.
‘What’s Mum doing?’ asked my seven-year-old brother, looking up from where he was playing with his Lego on the lounge rug. ‘She’s being very noisy.’
‘I’ve no idea, Sean, but I’m about to find out. Have you been to the toilet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Can you do that while I check on Mum? And make sure you wash your hands.’
He put down his Lego and pouted. ‘I always do.’
‘Sean! What have we discussed about telling fibs?’
‘Okay. I promise I’ll wash them. You can smell them if you want.’
‘Tempting, but I might pass on that.’
Sean headed past me and through the kitchen towards the utility room/cloakroom, giggling as he made a big show of sniffing at his hands. Happy that he was doing as asked, I kicked off my stilettos and ran up the stairs. I paused for a moment outside Mum’s bedroom listening to the racket, punctuated with the occasional expletive, then pushed open the door and gasped.
‘Oh my God! What’s going on? Mum! Why aren’t you ready?’
Wrapped in a fluffy cream towel, Mum turned to face me and blew a wisp of dark hair out of her face.
‘I only bought them on Saturday,’ she said, as if that explained why half the contents of her drawers were strewn all over the floor.
‘Bought what on Saturday?’
‘Black knickers. But I can’t find them, Jemma.’
That much was obvious. ‘Are they in a packet or loose?’
‘In a packet. M&S three-pack.’
‘Where did you last have them?’
She planted her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes at me. ‘Why do people always say that? If I knew the answer, then this wouldn’t have happened, would it?’ She waved her arm across the carnage.
‘The hearse is here,’ I said, equally unhelpfully.
Mum frowned. ‘I thought they weren’t due till 10.15.’
‘It is 10.15. Well, near enough.’
‘Crap! It isn’t, is it?’ She twisted round to look at her bedside clock. ‘Why didn’t you call me sooner?’
‘Because you told me you were nearly ready 40 minutes ago, and because I was busy with Sean.’
‘Sean? Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, Jemma. Is he ready?’
‘Yes. He’s downstairs waiting. We need to go in about seven minutes. Can you manage without the knickers?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Jemma-bear! Are you suggesting that I go commando to your father’s funeral? I’m not sure that’s appropriate.’
I laughed loudly; also not appropriate for a funeral. ‘I didn’t mean go without any knickers. I just meant without the new black ones.’
‘Oh! That makes more sense.’ Mum grinned. ‘I suppose I’d better. I can’t believe I lost track of time like that. Give me five minutes. Hair and make-up are done. It’s just clothes I need.’ She bent down and plucked a pair of scarlet lacy knickers from the pile on the floor. ‘Sod it. I’ll say goodbye in style.’ She paused as she stared at the knickers in her hands. ‘Do you know what? The last time I wore these was the night Sean was conceived. That was the end of our marriage
and today’s the end of everything for him. How apt.’
I didn’t really know what to say to that so I closed the door behind me and headed downstairs to check that Sean had washed his hands, hopefully without having to sniff them.
I’ll never forget the day Mum told me that I was going to have a new brother or sister because it was the day that Dad packed up his stuff and moved out. I’d recently turned eighteen, had finished my A Levels and was working in Mum’s shop, Bear With Me, before going away to university. It was a surprise to hear that she was pregnant and a greater shock to hear that the baby was Dad’s because I’d been aware for a long time that my parents had a marriage in name only. Growing up, I remembered them constantly arguing but then the arguments seemed to stop. Dad moved into the spare room and they somehow managed to co-exist in the same house whilst living completely separate lives. Dad acted more like a lodger than a husband or father. He spent all his time at work or the golf club, only venturing home to eat, shower, or sleep.
Dad had worked in a bank in Whitsborough Bay since leaving school; a steady, sensible career. Mum, on the other hand, had an amazingly exciting jet-setting career. She’d set up specialist teddy bear shop, Bear With Me, in Whitsborough Bay when I was four. A genius with a sewing machine, she designed and made her own jointed bears. She’d been a guest bear artist for some of the leading collectible bear manufacturers, making her Ju-Sea Bears highly sought-after and taking her all over the world. And as if that didn’t keep her busy enough, she valued teddy bears for a local and a national auction house.
For years – even the ones when they’d shared a bedroom and argued a lot – they’d holidayed separately, Dad going away with his golfing buddies and Mum and I travelling around Europe visiting bear manufacturers and retailers. Dad hated bears, Mum hated golf, and I was pretty certain they hated each other. I’d therefore never understood why they didn’t just call it a day.
So how had she ended up expecting his baby? Grief. What’s that phrase? Grief does funny things to you? It certainly did funny things to my parents. My grandma – Mum’s mum – had sadly passed away during my exams. It turned out that the “bit of a dicky tummy” was actually terminal cancer. Grandma had known that her days were numbered yet she hadn’t breathed a word to anyone. Mum had been very close to her and was devastated that she’d not known how ill her mum was. A few weeks after the funeral, I was having a sleepover at my best friend, Karen’s, to celebrate the end of college. I’d registered the date too late: Grandma’s birthday. Mum refused to let me cancel and insisted that she’d be fine. She’d have a glass of wine and toast Grandma, then maybe design a new bear in her honour. Only the glass of wine turned into a full bottle. She was an emotional mess when Dad arrived home from partaking in a few too many at the 19th hole. Surprisingly, he’d been a great comfort. A bit too much of a comfort. The consequences changed everything.
Mum had thought that I was in my room when she told him she was pregnant but I’d been thirsty and was on my way to the kitchen when I stopped dead on the stairs, my jaw dropping at what I’d just heard.
Dad had asked, ‘Are you planning on keeping the baby?’
‘Of course.’
‘Despite the fact that we barely have a relationship, let alone a marriage?’
‘It’s not the baby’s fault.’
‘True. Look, Jules, you can do what you want, but I don’t want another baby. If I was to offer you an ultimatum of me or the baby, we both know what the answer would be, don’t we? Which begs the question: why the hell are we still married?’
I assume Mum had no answer to that because it went quiet. Then Dad said, ‘I guess it’s goodbye, then.’
‘I guess it is.’
Scurrying back up the stairs, I sat on my bed and hugged my pillow to my chest while I listened to Dad moving around in the next bedroom, presumably packing the essentials. He came back at the weekend and collected the rest. He didn’t even say goodbye.
Mum put the house on the market and, four months later, with my university place deferred for a year, the two of us moved to the cottage in Little Sandby, a village ten minutes west of the North Yorkshire seaside town of Whitsborough Bay, where we prepared for the arrival of my baby brother.
Mum admitted she should have left Dad years before. I agreed.
‘Why did you stay?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘Habit? Laziness? Too embarrassed to admit I’d made a mistake?’
‘Did you love him?’
‘I thought I did. I quickly realised I didn’t, but I was already pregnant with you. He was a good man. He was steady and reliable and he took charge. I needed those qualities in him back then, but they stifled me as the years progressed. When you meet someone, Ellie, make sure he makes your heart sing and your tummy fizz. I never had that with your dad, or at least not after the first few dates.’
Life in Little Sandby without Dad was like a breath of fresh air. A new hairdo and a fresh style of clothes changed Mum’s physical appearance, but her whole personality seemed to change too. She was more relaxed, full of fun and laughter, and constantly singing. Dad had always tried to control me: what I was wearing, who my friends were, when I did my homework, and how I should “get a proper job instead of playing with teddies all day like your mum”. I hadn’t realised how much he’d tried – and succeeded – to control Mum too. I don’t think she had either.
But now he was dead.
‘Are those hands washed?’ I asked Sean, who’d returned to his Lego by the time I got back downstairs.
‘You want to smell them?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m going to trust you. Let’s get your shoes on. Mum will be down in a few minutes, then we’ll be going.’
Sean picked up his school shoes, plonked himself down on the sofa, and fumbled with the laces. ‘Jemma…’ he pleaded, exasperation in his voice. I knelt down and fastened them for him.
‘All done, Sean-Paws.’
He usually smiled at his pet name, but his little face looked very serious when I stood up again.
‘Jemma?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is today a sad day?’
I sat down next to him. ‘Yes. It is.’
‘I don’t feel very sad. Billy Thomas said people cry when people die. Should I be crying?’
Tears pricked my eyes as I put my arm round him and cuddled him against me. I took a moment to compose myself so he didn’t hear any wobble in my voice. ‘Billy Thomas is right. When someone dies, people do often cry because they’re sad that they won’t see that person again and they’ll miss them.’
‘Oh! I didn’t see Daddy much and I never missed him when he wasn’t here. Not like I miss you when you go back to London. Is that why I’m not sad?’
‘Probably.’ I cuddled him even more tightly against me. For all he’d tried to control my life and Mum’s, Dad had been completely the opposite with Sean. It hadn’t just been the baby years he wasn’t interested in; he hadn’t wanted any of the years with his son. He made a token effort to see him around his birthday or Christmas and give him a gift that was usually age-inappropriate or something he already had. He’d maybe see him two or three other times during the year, but only if I was home for the weekend, and he’d spend all the time talking at me and still trying to control me, only acknowledging Sean to tell him to be quiet, stop talking with his mouth full, get his elbows off the table, stop playing with his food, and so on. So I guess he was trying to control Sean too.
‘Will God be angry with me if I don’t cry?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Will you cry?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are you sad that Daddy’s gone to heaven?’
I swallowed hard on the lump in my throat. Was I? I didn’t want to lie to Sean but the truth was that Dad and I weren’t close. We had been when I was little, but the minute I show
ed interest in Mum’s passion for bears rather than his passion for golf, he seemed to lose interest in me. You’d have thought he’d have been proud of his daughter for securing her first job aged 14 but he’d always resented Mum for the success of Bear With Me so he just rolled his eyes when I told him I had a Saturday job as Assistant Bear Keeper.
I chose my words carefully. ‘It’s always sad when someone dies, especially when it’s unexpected.’
‘Will the drunk man go to prison?’
‘I hope so, Sean.’
A creature of habit, Dad always took a flask of coffee and The Sunday Times to a bench on a quiet country lane just outside Cranton where he’d settled. He’d been killed instantly when a drunk driver misjudged a bend and ploughed straight into the bench… and Dad.
‘Billy Thomas says that the drunk man wasn’t allowed to drive a car. He says he was dequal… decoll…’ He wriggled free of my hug. ‘I can’t remember the word.’
I stood up. ‘It’s disqualified. Billy Thomas says lots of things, doesn’t he?’
‘His daddy drives an ambulance. He tried to fix our daddy, but he couldn’t.’
Oh crikey! I hadn’t known that.
‘He said Daddy didn’t stand a chance. What does that mean?’
What had Billy’s dad been thinking of, having so much to say about the situation in Billy’s presence? ‘It means that it was a horrible accident and Daddy could have done nothing to stop it. He probably didn’t even see the car coming, and he won’t have felt anything.’ I hoped. An image of Dad seeing the car veering towards him, helpless to move, then… I shuddered. I couldn’t bear to think about it.
The sound of Mum running down the stairs brought me out of the dark place my mind was heading towards. She appeared in the lounge doorway, looking calm, relaxed, and stunning. She didn’t look like someone who, minutes earlier, had been wrapped in a towel surrounded by piles of knickers and bras. Her layered shoulder-length dark hair with streaks of red and copper in it was flicked out at the sides and back in her trademark style. She wore a simple black shift dress with capped sleeves and a thin red belt. Pulling on a black fitted jacket, she smiled at us both. ‘Ready?’
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