by Beth Moran
The truth was, Daniel and I were way beyond casual dating. I was fairly sure I was in love with him. I already knew what he looked like first thing in the morning after a night pacing the floor with a fretful baby. I’d seen him grieving, learnt how to handle him grumpy, knew instinctively what would make him laugh or cause his hazel eyes to spark with pleasure.
I wanted to be with him.
And now, this sham of keeping things casual and being nervous about committing too soon, concealing the truth about how committed I was whether I liked it or not, was just one more secret to hide.
How could loving someone be so wonderful and yet so heart-wrenching at the same time?
‘Of course.’ Daniel waited until I’d plucked up the courage to look him in the eye, so he could show me that he meant it. ‘We’ll take this slow. Do it right.’
‘Thank you.’
On that note, having successfully tainted the evening with my poisonous past, I called it a night and went to bed.
27
The next few days continued on much the same note. Becky was ecstatic to hear all about the trip while we added the finishing touches to Hope’s bedroom. She was unsurprisingly bewildered about my insistence on taking things slowly.
‘You are clearly potty about each other. Why hold back?’
I stood back to check that the photograph of Charlie I’d hung on the wall was straight. ‘Why not? If it’s meant to be, we’ve got plenty of time to settle into it. Besides, my track record with men is unanimously dismal. It’s wise to take things slowly, given the potential fallout if things go wrong.’
‘The only thing that could go wrong is you being so feeble and cowardly that things fizzle out and one of you moves on before it gets anywhere good!’ Becky retorted through a mouthful of curtain hooks.
‘It’s already good, thank you very much. I’m not going to let you bully me into rushing it. Especially not when there’s a baby involved.’
‘Oh, but…’ she started to protest.
‘And I will remind you, as if there was any chance of you forgetting, that Luke starts on the bathrooms on Monday. Until then, you get to decide where the line goes when it comes to embarrassing interference in friends’ love-lives.’
Becky turned bright red at the mere mention of Luke. She had it even worse than me. ‘I’ll behave. I promise! Please don’t say anything, Eleanor. It’s different with me and Luke.’
‘Like I said, you get to draw the line.’
‘The line is very, very far back!’
‘Excellent.’
By Friday evening, we were ready for the grand reveal. I didn’t go so far as to move any of Daniel’s personal possessions upstairs, but Becky and I had done what we could to make it feel homely. The main attic room was now painted a soft white, with a dark grey accent wall behind the bed. We’d added photographs of the farm and the family, along with a selection of Charlie’s old postcards set in a mahogany frame.
We’d reused the original shelving, sanding it down and painting it a lighter grey to match a rug that we’d relocated from another bedroom. Geometrically patterned blinds hung at the huge windows, and a few touches like bedside lamps made out of a tree-trunk and a stash of books and his ‘player of the year’ football trophy finished it off. It was a mix of cosy warmth and practicality, and it suited Daniel perfectly. I had even framed an old spreadsheet of farm accounts and hung it on one wall as a joke. He said that he loved it. Then he draped an arm around my neck, pulled me close and planted a smacker on my lips, right in front of Becky, so I supposed he meant what he said.
I would have been embarrassed at the show of affection, but seeing Becky wrestling with the temptation to make a comment was worth it.
Hope was less bothered about her room, but I knew in years to come she’d appreciate the cornflower walls and life-sized stencil of an apple tree. Her soft furnishings were a stripy mix of buttercup yellow, red and navy, and above the changing table we had hung an enlarged copy of the picture of her on the day she was born that Charlie had kept in her room. We had re-covered an armchair in vibrant yellow fabric scattered with tiny red chickens, and placed it next to a bookshelf crammed with stories. Everything was orderly and bright, and I was optimistic Hope would sleep long, sweet dreams in here compared to the dingy junk-room she was used to.
Daniel cried. Actual tears. Which made me cry, too.
‘I don’t know how you ended up here, or where you came from, but I’m growing more and more convinced you must be an angel,’ he whispered, burying his face in my hair.
I allowed myself to enjoy the rush of pleasure for a lingering moment until the age-old stab of guilt wormed its way between us.
Becky beamed at me, eyes brimming. I ducked my head and turned away.
Having barely spent any proper time together since arriving back home due to Daniel slaving away at his work backlog, and me alternating between working on the top floor and avoiding him, while grabbing a quick bowl of pasta that evening, he asked if I wanted to walk into Ferrington on Saturday to have lunch.
‘I would love to. On one condition.’
Daniel eyed me expectantly.
‘We go to the Water Boatman.’
He put down his fork so quickly it clattered against the bowl. ‘That’s on the New Side.’
‘I know. I’ve been there before.’
‘We can’t walk there.’
‘Yes, we can. It will take longer, that’s all.’ I carried on eating, all easy-breezy as if no one sensible would consider it a big deal.
‘It’s miles along a dual carriageway. You can’t walk it!’
I pulled out my phone and opened the maps app. ‘Here. You can follow the footpaths along the Maddon, turn off through this farm, past this wood. And look, here. There’s a footbridge over the river that leads to another footpath. It’s three and a half miles from the farm to the pub, and not a main road in sight.’
‘The Old Boat House has a really good lunch menu. Do they even allow kids in the Boatman? I’ve heard it isn’t the most… family friendly clientele.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Luke goes there every Friday night, according to you.’
‘He’s the one who told me.’ Daniel resumed eating.
‘They have a whole family dining area in a separate room. And Alice is working there on Saturday. I’ve not seen her in ages.’
Daniel raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you want to show me off?’
I shuffled in my seat. I didn’t not want to show my friend that Daniel and I were exploring being more than friends. Maybe partly because I wanted to remind her what a decent boyfriend looked like.
We set off after a fortifying breakfast of eggs on rye toast, relieved to see the good weather was continuing. We spotted a smattering of new buds on the apple trees as we weaved through the orchard, the ground awash with a sea of daffodils and speckled with the first of the bluebells.
‘Excited about reviving it again?’
Daniel nodded, his head tipped up to inspect the straggling boughs overhead. ‘I’m thinking about Apple Day. It was a much smaller thing when we used to celebrate it, but they’re all over the place now.’
‘Apple Day?’
‘It’s held in October.’ We began moving on towards the other side of the orchard. ‘Everywhere does it differently, but there’s usually cooking demonstrations and cider tasting, games and village fete stuff like music and craft stalls. Loads of apple related produce on sale. We used to serve cups of apple and parsnip soup and masses of pies and cakes. In the evening we’d have a bonfire, and get some of the old miners’ band to play. It was Charlie’s favourite day of the year, when her orchard became one big party.’
‘Sounds fantastic. Are you thinking of doing one this year?’
He shrugged as he opened the gate to the meadow beyond. ‘I spoke to Ziva about it. But we’ve both reached the point where a community day involving only the Old Side feels wrong.’
‘Were only the Old Side invited before?’
‘Only the Old Siders ever came.’
‘You never know what could happen between now and October.’
Daniel winked at me. ‘Up until somewhere around the middle of January I would have rebuffed that comment. These days, I’m inclined to believe anything is possible.’
As usual, time in Daniel’s company soon dissolved any resolve to keep an element of distance between us. Walking and talking together, Hope joining in over his shoulder with her happy nonsense chatter, felt a mixture of thrilling and at the same time blissfully comfortable. He listened to everything I had to say, asking interested questions and following up with his own stories and observations that were relevant and in no way constructed to boost his ego.
We talked more about the orchard, and potential plans, how we could incorporate pruning and fruit picking into the retreat programme. We shared more anecdotes from our childhoods, Daniel now able to fully appreciate how my parents had shaped my younger years, and both of us swapping notes about the blessings and frustrations of growing up in a home that doubled up as the family business.
By the time we’d moved on to modern conservation issues and the environmental impact of intensive farming versus the economic trials of more sustainable methods, we had braved crossing the tiny, crumbling footbridge and had officially entered the New Side.
Another mile or so, and we reached the row of red-brick terraced cottages that preceded the Water Boatman. As we wound back towards the water, tired and hot from the walk, the riverside pub garden appeared idyllic.
‘A table in the sunshine or the shade?’ I asked, already eyeing up an empty picnic bench sitting in a pool of sunlight.
‘I was thinking table inside.’ Daniel glanced warily across the water towards the Old Boat House, where every table appeared packed with a mix of families and couples out enjoying the warmer weather.
‘Seriously?’ I looked at him, surprised. ‘Are you ashamed to be seen at the Boatman?’ And then another realisation struck. ‘Or ashamed to be seen with me? The incomer who swaggered in with her grandiose saviour complex and attempted to rectify decades of devastation with a cheese and wine evening?’
‘Either that or I’ve been mates with the manager of the Old Boat House since I was four, and two days ago I met with him to pitch Damson Farm Cider. I promised him first dibs.’
‘Okay, I can see how you now turning up here could be misconstrued.’
A man around Daniel’s age, who looked as though he had sampled more than a bellyful of beer in his time, currently stood on the far side of the river, hands on hips, a knowing tilt to his head.
‘Gavin,’ Daniel called, with a half-hearted wave.
‘Danny.’ Gavin nodded back, folding his arms, bar towel dangling from one elbow.
‘Just calling in to see Eleanor’s friend. She works here.’
‘Alice Munroe.’ He sneered Alice’s name as though it was a euphemism for a pub toilet.
‘Right. Great to see you.’ Daniel turned to me, jaw set. ‘Let’s eat at that table in the sunshine. If he’s got that much of a problem with it, I’ll take the cider I haven’t even grown the apples for yet elsewhere.’
‘Okay.’ I gave an internal sigh of relief that he’d seen sense.
I fetched us drinks and menus from inside, saying a quick hello to Alice, who was busy serving plates of sandwiches to the Ferrington Foxes football club. Luke gave me a brief nod, which I guessed was his equivalent of someone else running over and throwing their arms around me.
A few minutes later Alice came to find me in the garden.
‘Well, this is cosy.’ She bent down to give Hope a kiss. ‘Nice to see you venturing over to the dark side, Daniel.’
‘Your words, not mine.’
‘Becky told me the news.’ She threw me a wink.
‘What news is that?’ Daniel asked.
‘Dating, kissing… For what it’s worth, I agree with Becks that if you’re going to take a man like Daniel off the market, the least you can do is make the most of it. Men like him are all too rare.’
Daniel looked momentarily surprised, before burying a grin behind his bottle of cider.
‘They aren’t that rare,’ I replied, pointedly. ‘Amazing women, like, ooh, I don’t know, you for instance, have no reason to be settling for a man who is any less than equally as amazing.’
Alice pursed her lips. ‘Right, what’ll it be?’
Halfway through our decidedly average burgers, there was a sudden shout from the other side of the garden. A crowd quickly gathered around the figure of a woman who had collapsed onto the grass beside her table.
‘Is anyone here a doctor?’ a younger man called out, stepping away from the huddle. His face was scrunched in distress. ‘She’s not breathing. I don’t think the ambulance will get here on time.’
‘She’s allergic to nuts,’ a woman said through floods of tears. ‘I can’t find her epi-pen anywhere. She’s always leaving it at home. Does anyone have one?’
‘Does anyone have an epi-pen?’ the man repeated, shouting loudly to catch everyone’s attention. ‘Sylvia’s allergic to nuts!’
The rest of us in the garden answered a collective no. Alice ran back out from the pub with a regretful shake of her head on behalf of the customers inside.
‘Can somebody please do something?’ the woman cried in panic. ‘There must be something at the doctor’s surgery!’
Everyone whipped their heads around in response to a shout from the other side of the river. Dr Ziva was craning her neck from the footpath beside the Old Boat House. ‘Somebody needs a doctor?’
Ziva’s face turned grim as she was offered a brief explanation. ‘I’ll fetch my bag. But keep looking for a pen. By the time I’ve driven round…’
Luke suddenly appeared from somewhere behind us, sprinting across the garden and disappearing over the river’s edge in one smooth manoeuvre.
‘Is he going to swim across?’ somebody gasped. ‘The water’s freezing!’
Before anyone could answer, a little boat came into view as he rowed furiously to where a gaggle of onlookers were waiting at the dock that gave the Old Boat House its name.
In the endless minutes it took him to reach the far side, Ziva was waiting. Ably assisted by one man on the dock and Luke in the boat, she clambered in and they set off back to where the woman on the grass was turning a terrifying shade of purple.
Daniel rushed forwards to help Ziva up, and she immediately got to work.
It felt like forever.
Sylvia’s daughter sobbed into a napkin while her son stood, white-faced and trembling, and waited to see if his mother was going to make it.
Eventually, Ziva moved back, gesturing to Sylvia’s son to help his mother into a sitting position.
There was a spontaneous smattering of applause and cheers from both sides of the river. People looked at each other as the clapping built in volume, with expressions a mixture of uncertainty, defiance and tentative joy.
Sylvia was assisted inside the pub and out of the sun’s glare and the ambulance arrived a few minutes later, but the twin crowds lingered.
After a swift assessment of the situation, Alice disappeared into the Boatman and reappeared with a microphone.
‘Right, then, Ferrington,’ she called, clambering up onto a picnic bench. ‘I think this is it. Enough. Sylvia Jackson has lived in this village her whole life, she raised her kids here. Taught most of yours, as did her grandparents, her mum and dad, and now her daughter Kerry. None of them took sides. None of them said a bad word about any of you, New or Old. Everything they did has been for the good of this village and our children. And now she nearly died, because one, she ordered a slice of cake without checking whether it contained almonds, and two, the only person who could help her was stuck twenty metres away because the bridge that should have got her here lies in ruins.
‘If it wasn’t for Luke Winters’ quick thinking, Sylvia would have been yet one more needless life lost, on the back of de
cades of pig-headedness.’
A ripple of indignation rumbled through both sides. Some shook their heads angrily.
‘It’s true!’ Alice waved her free arm in frustration. ‘I’m not talking about what happened back then. I know I can’t speak on the hardship that you older ones went through. I only need to look in my nan’s eyes to know I can’t ever understand. But for each one of you who share in that suffering, surely you should be the first to stand up and say enough! A good woman nearly died in my garden today. Who here thinks that Sylvia’s life would have been worth it?’
Alice let the microphone drop to her side, her chest heaving as the adrenaline started to take hold. The only sound was ducks quacking as they zipped through the water between us, indifferent to the momentous developments unfolding either side of them.
There was a stirring in the crowd by the far side of the river as it parted to allow someone to pass. An older woman wearing a buttoned-up beige raincoat shuffled to the water’s edge. Stooped over, her face depicting a wrinkled map of tribulation, she took a moment to survey the crowd.
‘That’s Caris Smith,’ Daniel whispered in my ear. ‘Her husband drowned after the New Siders knocked him into the river when he barred their way during the strike. She had five small children, and one of them died of an overdose at nineteen.’
Caris Smith waited a moment longer. The tension grew, forming a tangible bridge of its own.
‘You all know what I been through. Who I lost.’ Despite her frail stature, the words breached the gap with piercing clarity. ‘I got every reason to hate. To demand that bridge stays as destroyed as my life has been, that you ain’t got no right to set one foot over here. But it won’t bring my William back. It won’t save my son. But it might save our village if we decide to stop this, now! Ferrington is withering away all around us and we don’t even see it any more, how weak and rotten it’s got. But this stranger – her – she saw it. She was brave enough to say it.
