The Secrets of Happiness

by Lucy Diamond

  There must have been some kind of romance chemical in the Hereford water that summer because Rita and Michael had been spending a lot of time together recently too, by all accounts. Apparently Rita was teaching Michael how to make rock cakes and a really good bubble and squeak, and he in turn picked her up from the home and took her out for day trips – to Berrington Hall and Croft Castle one day, to Telford another. There was even talk of them taking a little walking holiday in his beloved Wales, so it had to be serious.

  Rita’s course of so-called exercise sessions had come to an end now, and she had apologetically told Becca that Michael had offered to take her to the allotment whenever she wanted, so she had no real need of them any more. Nonetheless, she had recommended Rachel’s services to a few of the other residents, and suggested to the manager of the home that Rachel come in and do some gentle ‘pensioner-aerobics’ (Rita’s words) with ‘the inmates’ (also her words), which sounded promising. And even though Becca no longer had any official reason for seeing the two of them now, she was definitely planning to stay in touch with both Rita and Michael, having become very fond of them during her time in Hereford. She’d popped in just the other week to present Michael with the lampshade she’d finally finished – a simple drum shape with a smart striped fabric – and she’d hung it in his hallway with great ceremony.

  A few days later she and Rachel’s family had gone to see Michael’s band play in a nearby park as part of a mini festival, and it had been a really lovely, jolly afternoon. Scarlet and Luke had got up to dance, while Rita came and joined them on their picnic blanket. Afterwards Scarlet and Michael had had a long chat about music and writing songs, and then Michael had let Luke have a go on the trombone and offered him lessons over the summer if he wanted, and everyone had left feeling happy.

  ‘So tell me again about this place you found the other day,’ Wendy said, admitting defeat on the subject of Adam as they turned the corner and approached the school gates. ‘Did you take any photos? I’m dying to see it.’

  ‘Oh yes! Here, let me show you on my phone,’ Becca replied, getting it out of her bag and flipping through to find the pictures. She still couldn’t quite believe she had done it, taking the plunge two days earlier and signing a six-month agreement on a small, light flat on the west side of town. SAD FACE, Meredith had texted when Becca told her the news. They were going to get very drunk together that coming Saturday night and reminisce before Becca packed up her belongings and moved out for good. Her tummy churned whenever she imagined herself handing the keys back to Meredith and hugging her goodbye. The end of an era! She would miss her flatmate. But as the saying went, as one door closed, another one was about to open. The door to her very own place, no less. Besides, Meredith had already persuaded her friend Alianor to move into Becca’s vacated room, and no doubt the place would soon be humming with lute-playing and the swish of medieval cloaks. It was all good, really.

  Her new home was a first-floor flat above an antique-clock shop on a quiet, sleepy sort of road. ‘We won’t disturb you,’ the man running the shop downstairs had assured her when she went to view the flat. ‘We only open three days a week now, and I’m actually hoping to retire at the end of the year, so will probably be leaving the premises then anyway.’

  Rachel had come with her and as they tramped up the stairs behind the letting agent, she was nudging Becca and raising her eyebrows at what the clock-shop man had said. ‘Interesting,’ she said in a low voice, ‘don’t you think?’

  ‘What, that he mends antique clocks?’ Becca had replied, confused. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘No, that he’s likely to leave the shop at the end of the year,’ Rachel hissed with a meaningful look. ‘Because then it’ll be empty . . .?’

  Becca had frowned at her sister in the dingy stairwell. ‘I don’t get you,’ she replied, but then the letting agent was opening the front door – her new front door, as it now turned out – and as she stepped over the threshold, she forgot all about the conversation, too distracted was she by what lay beyond.

  ‘Here,’ she said now, passing the phone to Wendy to show her. ‘What do you think?’

  The front door of the flat opened into a tiny hallway and straight through to a lovely airy living room, whose Victorian bay windows let in great shafts of golden afternoon light spangling the slow-twirling motes of dust. It was, admittedly, filthy in there, with a single raggedy curtain hanging drunkenly off its last few hooks at the window, and barely a stick of furniture in the room, but Becca had gazed around at the high ceiling with its froth of grubby cornicing around the edges, the black marble fireplace with its original rose-patterned tiles, the generous dimensions of the room, and was sold, in a heartbeat. ‘This could be amazing,’ she said under her breath.

  The rest of the flat was equally fantastic. Well, it would be anyway, once she’d scrubbed and scoured it free of all the grime, and sluiced gallons of disinfectant and mould killer and damp-proofer around the place, followed by several coats of paint. ‘Potential’, that was the term used by estate agents – which everyone interpreted to mean ‘festering shit-tip’. This place had potential by the bucketload, though. The kitchen was small and rather dated, but functional nonetheless, and the bathroom had an antique claw-foot bath that she could imagine herself wallowing in for many an hour. Best of all, the large double bedroom had French windows that opened out onto – yes! – her own tiny balcony, which had just enough space for some pot plants and a folding chair or two.

  ‘Needs a bit of a clean,’ Wendy said now, inspecting the photos. ‘But it’s going to be lovely. Your new home!’

  Becca smiled back at her. Her new home – she’d have to practise saying that. It sounded really good, though. Kind of momentous, too.

  And that wasn’t all. It was Rachel who had seen the full potential of the place, her sharp business brain noticing what Becca hadn’t. ‘What I meant earlier,’ she’d said as she rejoined Becca in the living room, having busied herself checking out the boiler and other useful practical things, ‘about the shop below was, obviously you can see how it goes with your business for the time being –’ (The business! She had an actual business! That was another concept Becca had to get used to) – ‘but if things take off and keep expanding, then you might want your own premises downstairs. A workshop, or a place to hold your hen sessions, or children’s parties, or a sewing club, or . . .’

  Oh my goodness, yes. Premises, she thought, her eyes widening, as she let herself dare to imagine. The clock shop had been rather dark and dingy, a forest of polished grandfather clocks and swinging pendulums, chiming and ticking, all those time-tellers jumbled together. But strip them away and there would be two decent-sized rooms down there, she reckoned: a proper dedicated workspace, if she needed such a thing. She could paint the walls white and hang all the loveliest things she’d made from hooks, like a miniature gallery. The back room could be used as her studio, whereas the big front room could hold a few large tables for people to sit around as well as shelves for her art supplies; she could put a kettle in one corner with pretty teacups, make colourful bunting to string across the ceiling . . .

  There went that runaway imagination of hers again. Becca knew that she was getting ahead of herself, letting herself become swept up in a daydream. All the same, she could already picture the outside of the clock shop overhauled and cleared out, with Make Yourself Happy painted in bright letters across the shop front – and it looked amazing.

  ‘What do you think?’ Rachel had prompted, when Becca didn’t immediately reply. ‘I mean, it’s a genuine possibility, what with the business starting so well and all. Worth bearing in mind, don’t you think?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Becca said. ‘It would be fab. But yeah, let’s see how it goes. I don’t want to start counting any premature chickens.’

  Rachel smiled at her. ‘Look at you, all wise and sensible. You’ll be a businesswoman yet, Rebecca Farnham.’

  ‘God, I know,’ Becca laughed. ‘What’s wrong
with me?’

  In truth, the business had taken off beyond her wildest dreams in the fortnight or so since Hayley’s article had prompted that initial deluge of enquiries. She, Rachel and Adam had sat down together and planned out a proper strategy: no more here-and-there accidental bits of work, but instead a proper list of who to target in the first six weeks, with a more ambitious long-term plan for the first year. It had all been rather head-spinning for shambling, let’s-see-what-happens Becca. They had written a spreadsheet, and everything. And then she had taken a big, brave breath and thrown herself in right at the deep end.

  So far, it was going brilliantly. The water in the deep end was perfect, as it turned out, and she had been swimming furiously ever since, barely pausing for breath. She had over one hundred tiara commissions confirmed already, and two knicker-making hen parties in the diary, as well as a meeting next week with a local youth group about providing some children’s arts and crafts days over the school holidays. Just two days earlier, she had gone to see the manager of Rita’s care home and had pitched the idea of a weekly craft club – knitting or crochet, whatever the residents preferred – and had been offered a trial run for the following week in return. She was also planning to put an ad in the local free parenting magazine, offering to run children’s arts and crafts parties . . . All sorts of things, really. She was busy, anyway, in the best kind of way – and quite literally making herself happy, as her business card suggested.

  And so, when the letting agent returned to the room, an enquiring look on his face, Becca had bestowed a beaming smile upon him. ‘I’ll take the flat,’ she’d said impulsively, and squeezed Rachel’s hand in a sudden burst of excitement. ‘Where do I sign?’

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  ‘Good evening, everyone, and thanks very much for coming along to the Poplar Primary School talent show. I’m sure we’re all in for a wonderful night, watching some real star performances from our children.’

  Mabel sniggered rather rudely, and Rachel elbowed her. They were squashed into tightly packed rows of chairs in the school hall, with the headteacher in full gush on the stage. Somewhere in the audience were Lawrence and Janice; somewhere backstage were both Scarlet and Luke, waiting to come on. It was a real family affair, one that would have been unthinkable six short weeks ago.

  Was it really only six weeks since she’d been knocked out in Manchester? It seemed much longer somehow. So much had happened. At last her body was all but mended, though. She had gone for her first run that afternoon and it felt fantastic, like she was back; the proper, real Rachel who loved to push herself and sweat and ache, the Rachel who didn’t just lie on the sofa feeling sorry for herself but got out there, under the big open sky, trainers on, ready for anything. Welcome back, she thought to herself, as her feet pounded the familiar trails, as her heart pumped joyfully, as her limbs felt the much-missed ache of hard work. Oh, it was so good to throw off the misery and feel alive again. The best!

  Gradually the pieces were slotting back together to create a new picture: the new Rachel, the new shape of the family. She had braved it out one night with her friends – only round to Jo’s house, where nobody could stare at her, for fizzy wine and chat with three other women, but it was a start. A real start. She had missed those women. She loved those women! It seemed ridiculous now that she’d ever pushed them away while she was battling to come to terms with everything going on. Well, not any more. She’d already invited them all to her place one night next week for a rematch, and by then she’d have the wires off her jaws and would be able to crunch through Doritos and pieces of crusty white baguette with the rest of them. (Bring it on. She just could not WAIT to eat properly again. The meals she was already planning! The delights she’d been denied for so long! She would be the size of a house by August, you wait, but every mouthful would be worth it.)

  The dog was home; and Lawrence had pulled himself together and started being more hands-on with the children again, and (according to Mabel) even got a job interview in a week’s time, which sounded hopeful. Ever since the showdown in Builth Wells he had been civil to her, and a bit more gracious too. What was more, Janice had actually talked him into going to see an anger management counsellor, as he had admitted, rather shamefaced, the last time they spoke. This was major progress. Seismic, in fact. Lawrence’s own worst enemy had always been himself, but Rachel had never been able to persuade him to seek professional help or do anything to change that. She knew better than to start tempting fate, but she couldn’t help feeling that the Jackson family might finally be over the worst. Full steam ahead to happiness, she thought, crossing her fingers.

  On stage, the reception children had finished singing a sweet little song about cats, and then Luke’s class were on, yo-ho-ho-ing their way through a pirate dance routine. He had been quite nervous beforehand – it had taken a full five minutes of karate-chopping to feel better (and, Rachel suspected, several jelly babies from his Aunty Becca) – but there he was now, beaming away, flailing his cardboard cutlass above his head as if he was loving every minute.

  They all clapped and cheered when it came to an end, even too-cool-for-school Mabel, who gave her brother a double thumbs up as he left the stage. Rachel put an arm around her daughter and gave her a sudden kiss, much to Mabel’s surprise. The two of them were getting on so much better lately, the dust having settled from the divorce, boundaries set down but with a restoration of humour to their relationship. The shed had been a real turning point, providing Mabel with her own space again, as well as a new freedom: a place to take friends that was an adult-free zone. You could hear screeches of laughter floating down the garden from the shed most evenings now, and it was a good sound.

  Following the pirates came a gymnastics display, and then they were into some individual performances from the juniors. Rachel tried to pay attention, knowing that Scarlet would want to discuss the entire show in great detail later on with her and would pounce on any hint of parental distractedness as a personal insult.

  ‘And now we have a very special act, which I’m sure you’re all going to enjoy,’ said Mrs Jenkins, the headteacher. Was it Rachel’s imagination, or was there something verging on mischievous about that smile? Was there even a sideways glance to where some of the teachers were sitting? No. She must be seeing things. Everyone knew that headteachers were far too sensible to indulge in mischief. ‘It’s Henry Fortescue with his lovely poem, called “My Mum”.’

  There was a polite smattering of applause – led by Sara and her cronies, no doubt. Oh, spare me, thought Rachel, trying not to roll her eyes. Here came a gigantic suck-up. You’d have thought the staff would have had enough of Sara Fortescue for one school year, but obviously not.

  Henry came on stage, his straw-coloured hair tufting up very sweetly at the crown of his head, one grey sock visibly higher than the other, and despite her dislike of his mother, Rachel felt herself soften. She’d always rather liked impish, freckled Henry.

  ‘My Mum,’ said Henry, clearing his throat. He held out a piece of paper in front of him and silence fell in somewhat weary anticipation.

  ‘My mum likes wine,’ he began, whereupon a frisson immediately went through the room. What? Had he really just said that? There was a rustle as every adult who’d ever despaired of Sara Fortescue leaned forward to listen more closely.

  ‘She thinks it’s fine.

  She likes to drink it all the time.’

  Somebody snorted with laughter. Another person tittered, and tried to hide it within a cough. Becca had her hand up to her mouth as if worried she might burst out in one of her explosive guffaws.

  ‘How many bottles? Ninety-nine,’ Henry went on, oblivious to the ripples of giggles now spreading compulsively through the audience.

  ‘Sometimes her face goes really red.

  Sometimes she—’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Sara shot up in the audience, her face – as in the poem – an unattractive brick-red, her hands clenched unmistakably in fists. ‘
Henry! That’s quite enough!’ The giggles were no longer suppressed, but were breaking out rebelliously all around the room by now.

  Henry looked down at his paper and then up at his mum, his mouth buckling with uncertainty as he broke off mid-sentence.

  ‘Let the lad read his poem!’ someone shouted from the back of the audience.

  ‘Yeah! We want to hear the poem!’ came another voice. Rachel and Becca exchanged a glance. Clearly they weren’t the only people in the audience to be guiltily enjoying Sara’s discomfort.

  ‘Henry Fortescue, get off that stage this minute, do you hear me? Don’t you dare read another word,’ Sara barked.

  ‘But—’ His face crumpled, and tears spurted in his eyes.

  ‘Aww. Poor little thing. He only wanted to read his poem,’ a woman tutted behind Rachel.

  ‘Shame,’ another woman nearby said, clicking her tongue in disapproval.

  Sara was taking no chances, though. She was making her way down the line of parents – ‘Oi!’ ‘Watch it!’ ‘Hey!’ – and clambering onto the stage, where she grabbed hold of her son. But Mrs Jenkins was there, too.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said in an icy tone to Sara. ‘Do you mind? Henry is proud of that poem. He spent a long time writing it.’

  ‘But he’s making a show of me,’ Sara hissed, daggers in her eyes. ‘And I’m sorry, but if this is your sad little attempt at making a fool of me, then—’

  ‘Booooo,’ someone jeered from the third row. ‘Get off.’

  ‘We want Henry. We want Henry.’ A chant started up, just a few voices at first, but then growing in volume. ‘We want Henry. We want Henry. We want Henry!’

  Her face twisted in annoyance, Sara had no choice but to let go of her son. She marched to the side of the stage, where she stood with her arms crossed, visibly bristling.

  Rachel found herself remembering the mean-spirited petition regarding Miss Ellis that Sara had been urging everyone to sign, and couldn’t help feeling that Sara had had this coming. No wonder Mrs Jenkins had shot that look at her team of staff.