Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
PART ONE Summer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2 13B Addison Road
Chapter 3 Only Half in Hackney
Chapter 4 Arcadia Cottage
Chapter 5 Limbo
PART TWO Autumn
Chapter 6 Brambledown Cottage
Chapter 7 The Garden
Chapter 8 The Kitchen
Chapter 9 Cresswell Road, London N8
Chapter 10 2 Honeysuckle Lane
Chapter 11 The Bedroom
Chapter 12 The Attic
Chapter 13 The Bathroom
PART THREE Winter
Chapter 14 The Spare Bedroom – Starting
Chapter 15 The Spare Bedroom – Finishing
Chapter 16 The Hallway
Chapter 17 Rachel and Fred’s Farm
Chapter 18 The Living Room
Chapter 19 The Study
Chapter 20 Making a House a Home
Chapter 21 The Dining Room
Hello!
Create Your Own Mood Board
Fifteen Facts about Abby Clements
Acknowledgements
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Quercus Editions Ltd
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW
Copyright © 2013 Abby Clements
The moral right of Abby Clements to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
PB ISBN 978 1 78206 430 5
EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78206 431 2
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
Abby Clements worked as a book editor before switching to writing. She lives in Crouch End with her partner and son in a home that (thankfully) needed less work than the one in this story. Amelia Grey’s Fireside Dream is her third novel.
Also by Abby Clements
For anyone who’s ever made a house a home
PART ONE
Summer
Chapter 1
St Catherine’s secondary school, Hackney Wednesday, 1 May
The classroom slowly emptied, my students from 10E filing out into the school corridor in a hum of chatter, spirits high as the temperature outside soared. I walked from desk to desk collecting the copies of The Great Gatsby I’d handed out to them an hour before.
‘Do you reckon anyone even opened these?’ I asked Trey, who was lingering by his desk. At least a few of them had watched the film, so it had been possible to get some kind of discussion going.
‘Dunno, Miss.’ Trey shrugged, putting his exercise book away in his navy Nike rucksack. Behind him was the green sugar-paper display I’d put up at the start of term with examples of the class’s creative writing: If I were Prime Minister; Mo Farah for Mayor; iPhones Allowed in Exams … There was nothing from Trey there. Four years he’d been in my English class, and he still hadn’t completed a piece of work without me sitting over him.
I checked the wall clock: 11 a.m., enough time to grab a coffee in the staffroom during break. Hopefully Carly would be around and I’d have a chance to catch up with her on the weekend. She’d been planning to see Alex again and I couldn’t wait to hear how it had gone.
‘Hand over your report book, then.’ I held out my hand for it.
Trey made his way to the front of the classroom. His tie was loosely knotted and he wore a gold signet ring on his right hand. He towered over my five foot three frame these days.
I took the small book he passed me and signed it, before handing it back. ‘You know how happy it’s going to make me, the day we get you off report?’
Trey shrugged. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong this time.’
‘So what happened?’
I sat down and pulled out a chair next to me.
‘Nothing,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it, Miss.’ He dragged the chair out anyway, the legs scraping on the floor, and slumped down in it. He let his rucksack fall to the floor.
I looked him in the eye, waiting for him to speak. Noise drifted in through the open windows of the classroom, shouts and chatter as morning break got underway outside, the early burst of summer heat heightening the students’ excitement levels. Trey’s gaze dropped, his eyes shaded by thick eyelashes, and he shrugged his shoulders again.
‘Go on.’ I unlocked my desk drawer, taking out my wallet and phone – a precaution I’d started to take this term, after my bag was stolen during class time. ‘I’m not in a hurry.’ I put my things away in my handbag. Trey stayed silent.
‘Like I said, I didn’t do anything. Garrett walked in at a bad time. It looked like I hit Andy, but I never. Garrett’s got it in for me anyway; he’s been trying to get me expelled for ages.’
‘I don’t think that’s true. If Mr Garrett thinks someone is being hurt, he can’t stand there and watch it happen. He has to do something.’
‘Like put me on report again. Andy and me were just messing about. Garrett wants me out. I don’t even care any more, Miss.’
‘Well, I do. You’ve got potential, Trey, and we can get you a few passes next year if you’re willing to put the work in.’
‘Potential,’ he said, almost under his breath. ‘What potential … ?’
‘Come on.’ I gave him a gentle nudge. The faintest of smiles appeared at the corner of his mouth. For a moment he looked like the smart, cheeky kid he used to be, the one who’d joined my class in Year 7. ‘You’re bright. You’re great with group work. You make us all laugh – when you’re in a better mood than today. Now, just give me something on paper so that we can prove it to everyone else.’
‘I know.’ He scuffed the toe of his trainer against the table leg. ‘I need to work harder.’
I tried to catch his eye. ‘You can do it, you know. If you want support, I’m here. And your form tutor is too.’
He nodded silently, and bent to pick up his bag. ‘Thanks, Miss.’
‘Any time.’ I turned to switch off the interactive white-board, and closed my laptop, checking the time before I did – five minutes, no time for a coffee. My chat with Carly would have to wait – but I could still manage a quick dash to the toilet before the next class arrived.
Trey got up. I watched him step out into the buzz of the corridor, his dark St Catherine’s uniform quickly lost in the crowd by the metal lockers.
Maybe we can do it, I thought, picking up my handbag and heading for the toilet. Trey could still pull through his exams, come out with something. That glimmer of hope was why, after seven years of preparing classes and marking, sometimes barely seeing Jack, and often feeling a lot older than twenty-nine – with the wrinkles to boot – I was still teaching.
I reached into my handbag for my mobile – Jack usually messaged me about this time. I searched inside, but my hand touched nothing but a small notebook and the fabric lining. The bag felt light. You’re kidding me.
My phone and my wallet
were gone.
*
‘A large one,’ I said to Jack, as he brought a bottle of wine out that evening over dinner in our flat.
‘Here you go.’ He filled my glass, then came around to my side of the kitchen table and smoothed my dark brown hair – the short fringe never lay quite flat. ‘Sounds like you could do with it after today.’
‘Oh yes.’ I shook my head, and gave a wry laugh. With his black curls and the trace of stubble on his jaw, Jack hadn’t changed much since we’d met as students. One touch from him could still make me melt. ‘I’m so annoyed, Jack. I feel like such an idiot.’
‘You shouldn’t have to deal with this stuff, Amelia. Simple as that. Did you cancel your cards?’
‘Yeah, I sorted all that out at lunchtime. Luckily there was only a tenner in there in cash.’
‘And your phone?’
‘After the last one got nicked, I started taking my old Nokia into work. I’ve got my iPhone here.’
‘Good. What about getting it back, though? You said you knew who took it?’
‘I do. But it looks like Trey’s gone. Lewis and I spoke to his form tutor, but he didn’t turn up for afternoon registration. I’d be surprised if he turns up tomorrow. He’s been looking for an excuse not to come back and maybe this is it.’
‘You don’t want to report it to the police?’
‘Oh God, no. I mean, I’m furious with him, don’t get me wrong. But at the same time, I know what he goes home to every night. It’s a miracle he makes it into school at all. His brother left the school three years ago and went straight to prison. I don’t want him going the same way.’
‘You can’t fix everything,’ Jack said, ‘but you’re a good teacher.’
‘Thanks. I think I needed to hear that today.’ I smiled at him.
Dexter, our rescue tabby, wove his way through my chair legs, mewling gently. In our cramped kitchen, the three of us had got used to being at close quarters, and had learned how to work with and around each other. Dexter jumped up onto my lap and lay down, tilting his head towards me, inviting a stroke. A train passed by outside on its way to Dalston Junction, and the windows rattled a little in their frames. Another thing we’d all got used to.
Jack reached over to squeeze my hand. His touch – familiar, sure and steady – felt good.
‘Summer holidays are just around the corner,’ he said. ‘Just think – in a couple of weeks it’ll be lie-ins, picnics with Carly, ice creams, a chance to get perspective on it all.’
‘You’re right.’ Jack, an eternal optimist, had the knack of reminding me what really mattered. ‘Bring on the holidays.’
*
I left for St Catherine’s at 6.30 a.m. the next day, driving through the pre-rush hour morning. Even the usually smoggy city air was light and fresh with summer on the way. The early start would give me some quiet time to prepare my classes before the chaos of the school day. I parked our silver Corsa and went upstairs to the staffroom on the second floor of the 1960s school block, immediately spotting Carly over by the window as I entered. Against the morning light, the silhouette of her curvy figure and springy, shoulder-length curls was unmistakeable.
‘Hello stranger,’ she called out, her smile wide. Silver bangles jangled on her wrists.
‘Hi,’ I replied, walking over and giving her a hug.
She boiled the kettle, got my mug out of the cupboard and automatically filled it with coffee, topping it up with milk from the fridge. We never needed to ask: late nights studying for our qualifications, and now years of teaching together, meant we knew each other’s caffeine requirements pretty well. Long days in the classroom, then in and out of each other’s shared flats in the evenings, planning lessons and chatting over coffee and toast. After qualifying, we’d both applied to St Catherine’s and held our breath – we knew how unlikely it was that we’d both score jobs at the same place, but we did – and it had cemented our friendship for good.
‘Heard about what happened to you yesterday, Amelia. That sucks.’
‘It does a bit. Second time this term too. But worse things happen at sea, today’s a new day … yadda yadda. Anyway, how are you?’ I lowered my voice to a whisper; although there were only couple of other teachers already in, you never knew who might be listening. ‘How was this weekend, seeing Alex?’
‘It was amazing. We met for coffee and spent the day walking by the canal. We just chatted, walked his dog, got ice creams.’
‘Nothing happened?’
‘Nope.’ Carly laughed. ‘Nothing. And that’s fine. We’re still getting to know each other. It isn’t right to move things on yet.’
‘And is he planning to say anything to Jules?’
‘Yes. At least he wants to. It’s just a matter of finding the right time, which isn’t now. A few more weeks.’
‘After exams?’
‘I think so. When Jules has officially left.’
I remembered how Carly had looked the day after she met Alex, about a month ago. She’d come into the staffroom with a glow in her olive-skinned cheeks, something I hadn’t seen since she broke up with Ethan. Having met Alex myself, I could understand why. He was gorgeous – tall, with salt-and-pepper hair, a lilting Irish accent and a wicked sense of humour.
The only issue was how he and Carly had met – at parents’ evening. Alex’s son was Jules Garrehy, one of Carly’s A-level students, which meant they’d kept their friendship as just that, a friendship, so far.
‘You must be going out of your mind,’ I said.
‘Yes, a bit.’ Carly had a mischievous expression on her face. ‘It’s like he’s this close,’ she drew her fingers together so that they were almost touching, ‘but off limits at the same time. It’s frustrating. But then, I’m also happy.’
‘Good. That you’re happy, I mean. How do you think Jules is going to react?’
‘Who knows?’ Carly said, shaking her head. ‘I’ve never been good at predicting teenage boys’ behaviour. But Alex and Jules’s mum have been separated for years now, and she has a new partner …’
‘That’s positive.’ I took a sip of coffee. ‘Although I suppose your mum or dad getting a new partner is one thing. That partner being one of your teachers probably changes the situation a bit.’
‘True,’ Carly said, biting her lip.
‘Anyway, you’re right not to hurry things. I’m the one being impatient. I just think you guys would be great together.’
‘Thank you.’ Carly’s wide-set blue eyes lit up. ‘So do I. I hope we get a chance. For now I guess I should just try and enjoy what’s left of my twenties, being young, free and single.’
‘Don’t rub it in,’ I said, laughing. ‘A month, that’s all I’ve got! Then I’m practically middle-aged.’
‘Didn’t we make a bucket list together, back on the teaching course?’
‘God, you’re right.’ I smiled at the memory of Carly and me in the park, back when turning thirty seemed like something that would never happen to us. ‘I probably still have it somewhere. I guess now’s my last chance.’
‘A few weeks of threesomes, tequila and abseiling, then?’
I laughed. ‘Might kiss a policeman at Notting Hill Carnival. That was on there somewhere.’
Where had I expected to be at thirty? Married to Jack. Tick. Living in a flat where there was room to swing Dexter …
‘It’s only a number,’ Carly said, ‘and an excuse for a party. You’re having one, right?’
‘Yes.’ Actually, I hadn’t really thought about it. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’
‘Listen, I’d better shoot off.’ Carly gave me a hasty hug goodbye and grabbed a clear pencil case full of markers from the side. ‘Got to rearrange the desks for a debate the kids are having in period one.’
‘Oh yeah? What’s today’s topic?’ Carly’s sociology classes didn’t always adhere to the curriculum as strictly as the headmaster would have liked, but her students adored her.
‘“Women today have it ea
sier than their mothers.” Discuss.’
‘No way,’ I said, laughing. ‘Things were a breeze back then.’
I thought of my mum, Rosie. When she was my age she was an air hostess with bright, bottle-blonde waves and a permanent tan, travelling the world. Grandma Niki and my grandpa looked after me – their brunette tomboy of a granddaughter – when Mum was away, down in their house in Streatham. One moment Mum was in Bali, the next in Tel Aviv, calling me up and filling me in on her adventures, occasionally taking me with her on longer trips. Mum’s working life had seemed effortless and glamorous. OK, so apart from Dad’s occasional visits she was practically a single parent – but Gran and Grandpa had helped out. And anyway, as far as I understood it, going it alone had really been her choice.
‘It’s Class 9F. So you can guarantee they’ll think they know the answer.’
‘Good luck. And let me know what they say.’
*
After lunch, I covered Isabel Humphries’ Year 12s, as I had been doing for three months now, since she started her chemotherapy treatment. I handed out the sample exam paper I’d chosen for practice that morning, and the students, calmer and quieter than in my other classes, were writing in silence. As they worked, I caught up with some marking.
When the bell rang, signalling the end of the school day, the students filed up to my desk to hand in their answer sheets.
‘Miss Grey,’ said Eloise, a tall girl with hair tied back in a tight ponytail and foundation a shade darker than her skin. She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Is it true that Mrs Humphries is dying, Miss?’
A crowd had built up around my desk, waiting to hear my answer. ‘She’s not very well, but she’s getting the best treatment at the moment. Let’s all keep our fingers crossed for her.’
‘That means she’s going to die,’ Rob said, nudging Eloise in the side and then looking down at the ground. ‘She’s not coming back, is she? But she promised us, Miss. She said she’d help us prepare next year.’
I thought of the last time I’d seen Isabel Humphries, the Head of English and the woman who’d mentored me since I was newly qualified. She’d come into the staffroom a month previously to meet me and check how her classes were doing. She had been thinner, her blonde hair patchy, and she’d looked older than her fifty-two years. But her voice and will were still strong and she was as matter-of-fact as ever, making sure I was following her lesson plans to the letter and doing enough exam practice to ensure her Year 12s would be ready for their A-levels the following year. When she’d got up to leave, she’d paused.
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