Spring Blossoms at Mill Grange

by Jenny Kane

  ‘It wouldn’t look good if your dad came home to find you with a cold because you’d got all wet helping us clean.’ Tina gave him a smile.

  ‘It’s a nice day though.’ Shaun spoke for the first time. ‘Maybe Dylan could play for a little longer, then I’ll bundle him into a nice hot shower.’

  ‘Yes!’ Dylan immediately stuck both arms into the nearest frothing bucket, pulling them out and walking around like a zombie, his frothy arms dripping as he held them out before him.

  As the others pretended to be afraid of the boy, Thea’s heart constricted. She knew Shaun wanted children one day, she’d assumed with her. But now…

  She was pulled out of her depressing thoughts by Tina’s hand tapping on her shoulder. ‘I think we’d better fetch some bath towels to wrap this lot in.’

  Seizing an excuse to be on her own to collect herself, Thea said, ‘I’ll get them. You stay here and watch the show.’

  *

  Taking refuge in the laundry, Thea took her time collecting three bath towels from the store cupboard. She clutched them to her chest, inhaling the newly washed scent. She imagined Shaun holding Dylan’s hand as they chatted on their way to the shower, ready to hose him down after his bubble adventure.

  ‘You’ve been ages. Have you taken root?’

  Shaun’s voice made her jump.

  ‘I was thinking.’ Thea swung round, holding out the towels like an offering. ‘You’d better go. I’d hate Dylan to get cold.’

  ‘He’s fine. He’s running around so much, there is more chance he’ll overheat than freeze.’

  ‘Right. Good.’

  They looked at each other, or rather, at each other’s feet, neither knowing what to say.

  Shaun gave up first, spinning around on the soles of his boots. ‘I’ll take these then.’

  ‘Okay.’ Thea let him go.

  *

  Helen couldn’t settle.

  As she’d driven through the night, she hadn’t allowed herself to think about anything except getting to the house safely. But ever since pulling the Land Rover onto the drive of her home in Bath just before three o’clock in the morning, her mind had been a mass of regrets. Yet, her resolution that she’d done the right thing, remained firm. Not that knowing that made it any easier.

  Helen hadn’t been able to sleep in her double bed. There was too much space after so many months in a single. It felt cold and alien, even though the bed, and the room it was in, had been hers for over twenty years.

  With no fresh food in the house, and not being able to face the outside world, Helen had eaten nothing since she’d arrived but a pile of fish fingers she’d found in the freezer. For the past two hours she’d paced the house like a caged tiger; disorientated and lost.

  Every surface was dusty, but she couldn’t face getting the cleaning things out of their cupboard.

  Cleaning. ‘That’s what I’m supposed to be doing at Mill Grange today.’

  Helen headed into the bathroom. ‘Enough moping, you made your decision. It was hard, but it was the right thing to do. Shower, change and go out. Get some food. Then, pop into the Baths. Tell them you’re coming back fractionally before expected.’

  They’ll ask why.

  ‘I don’t have to tell them why. I can say that the remaining work can be done from here.’ She thought of the book and its notes. That, at least, is the truth.

  Forty-one

  Wednesday April 8th

  Sweat prickled down Tom’s neck as he spotted the road he’d been looking for. Thea hadn’t been joking when she’d said it was on a steep slope, nor had she exaggerated about how hard it would be to find a parking space.

  He spotted Helen’s Land Rover as he drove up the narrow road. At least she’s here. There were no free parking spaces though.

  After doing a twenty-three-point turn, Tom eased his car back down the hill. This time he pulled onto Helen’s drive. He knew the boot of the Fiesta would overhang the pavement, but as he was far from the only driver to park in that manner, he guessed the local pedestrians were used to having their access encroached.

  Sitting where he was, Tom stared at the house. It was just how Helen had described it. A small, well presented terrace that looked as if it could only have been built in Bath. He glanced at each window in turn, but no curtains twitched.

  Suddenly nervous, Tom fired off a text to Sam, letting him know he’d arrived and to check on Dylan. Then, getting out of the car, rubbing his palms down his jeans, he headed for the front door.

  *

  Helen had wandered around Waitrose without any real clue what she was throwing into her basket. Now, as she stood in the busy street, she glanced into her two carrier bags. The contents leaned heavily towards the biscuit, chocolate, and easy cook pizza area. There was nothing that made up a proper meal. Her mouth watered at the thought of Mabel’s home cooking.

  Unable to face more shopping, and telling herself she needed to lose weight anyway, Helen took three paces in the direction of home. Halfway through the fourth step, the idea of being home alone made her stop dead, causing a fellow pedestrian to walk straight into her. In a flurry of apologies, Helen turned towards the Roman Baths.

  *

  Her desk was much as she’d left it. The in tray was full and a long overdue to-do list, scribbled on an old envelope, sat next to her computer monitor. Seeing the out of date list reminded Helen how quickly she’d left the Baths; first using the excuse of taking the chance of seeing some rare Roman remains on Exmoor as a reason to take a couple of days off. A trip that turned into a holiday and then a sabbatical. And then…

  She shook her head, batting away the pain she kept telling herself she’d get used to and would, eventually, beat. You have done the right thing. You will feel better in the end.

  Wondering if her coffee machine still worked, or if months of neglect would mean it was clogged and would refuse to serve her in a petty act of revenge, Helen stretched her tired limbs as she headed towards her personal caffeine source.

  The coffee machine spat at her; not impressed at being left unused for so long, but begrudgingly dispensing her drink anyway. Fishing a packet of biscuits out of the nearest shopping bag, Helen thought about the delighted surprise on the receptionist’s face when she’d arrived in the impressive entrance hall. Then there’d been the friendly wave of the security man as he guarded the door between the museum and the staff offices. Telling them she was back and was popping in to make a start on the hundreds of staff memos she must have missed, Helen had inhaled the familiar aroma of dust, air conditioning and stone that she’d always associate with the Roman Baths. That scent was now infused with the rich blend of Arabica coffee. I certainly missed the smell of this place.

  Back at her desk, Helen found several months’ worth of company bulletins and policy documents staring at her. As uninspiring as they ever were, at least they were largely out of date, and therefore undemanding.

  Soon immersed in the pointless correspondence, the ring of her desk phone took her by surprise, its tinny sound echoing around the office.

  ‘Hello… Yes, hello Mike, yes, I’m back in Bath. I thought I’d get my desk backlog sorted before my official restart date.’

  Helen could feel herself slipping back into curator mode as the manager of the museum’s board of directors filled her in on a forthcoming exhibition of loaned Roman artefacts. As she took notes, she could hear the relief in his voice that she was back to deal with it for him.

  ‘Week after next you say?’ Helen opened her desk diary, causing a waft of dust to float towards her. ‘Tuesday arrival, to be opened to the public on following Friday afternoon. Right. What time on the Tuesday?’

  Ten minutes later, having been told in no uncertain terms how timely her return was as the new exhibition was rather a last-minute affair, and staff holidays meant there wasn’t anyone with as much experience as her to set it up, Mike had gone on to explain how overprotective the owner of the antiquities was, and how careful handling
of him as well as the artefacts, would be required.

  Glad to have a project to concentrate on, Helen dipped a cookie into her coffee and switched on her PC. The biscuit was part way to her mouth when a knock on the door made her jump. Dropping the cookie into her drink, spraying coffee drops across the desk, Helen swore as brown stains dappled her diary.

  The security guard popped his head around the door. ‘Sorry to bother you, boss, but could you come to reception. There’s a man here who says he knows you.’

  ‘What?’ Wiping dots of coffee and biscuit off her cheek, Helen’s pulse drummed rapidly in her neck. ‘What man?’

  ‘A Mr Harris. Said he’d come from the fortlet where you’ve been working.’

  A trip of heat surged through Helen’s chest as her hands went cold. ‘Here?’

  ‘Boss?’ The security guard, whose name Helen had forgotten, was looking concerned. ‘Is he legit, or do I get rid of him?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Helen got to her feet. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone. Umm…’ What do I do? She looked at her mug, where the remains of the cookie were floating on the surface of her coffee, slowly decomposing before her eyes. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Surely Tom understands how painful it would be for me to work alongside him every day and then watch him go home to Sue?

  As they passed the fire exit, Helen had a childish urge to run through the door. Only the knowledge that she’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do if she set off the fire alarms on her first trip back to the office, stopped her.

  ‘Mr Harris, did he have a young boy with him?’

  ‘No, Boss.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Helen licked her lips. You can do this. Just tell him to go home to Dylan.

  Feeling out of breath, even though they’d walked sedately back to reception, Helen nodded her thanks to the security guard as he pushed open the door.

  Tom, looking awkward and out of place, was obviously trying hard not to look awkward and out of place. Helen heart constricted.

  Remember why you left. This is for Dylan. Remember.

  *

  The walk back to her office, with Tom walking behind her, seemed to take six times longer than usual. Helen had felt his presence with each step. His breath on the back of her neck, his hands within touching distance; yet not touching her.

  Helen had decided to get in first. To explain herself and then ask him to leave, but the second the door shut behind them Tom pulled the note she’d left him from his pocket, and thrust it out towards her.

  ‘Well?’ He sounded angry, but his expression spoke of hurtful incomprehension. ‘Perhaps you could start by telling me why you chose to leave this rather than speak to me? Or maybe we should start with you telling me why Sam and Tina got a nice long letter and I got this pathetic excuse for a note? Or how you expected me to tell Dylan that one of his favourite people – that’s you – got up in the middle of the night and disappeared without saying goodbye to him?’

  Helen’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her eyes dropped to her coffee cup. The cookie has totally disintegrated and clung in unappealing clumps to the side of her mug.

  ‘Nothing to say?’ Tom crossed his arms.

  ‘How’s Dylan?’ Helen headed back towards the coffee machine.

  ‘If by that you mean, how is he taking you walking out; I haven’t told him yet. He is safe at the house with our friends.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Tom found his resolution not to get angry fading. ‘You tell me you’re going to stay at Mill Grange, you give my son a gift that he treasures and then, five minutes later, you leave without a word.’

  ‘I told you in the note.’ Helen picked up some clean mugs, glad of the activity as she made two more coffees, even though she’d gone off the idea of drinking anything.

  ‘The note says nothing! Thea and Tina think you’re got it into your head that you aren’t good enough to help bring up Dylan! Talk about rubbish!’

  ‘What?’ Helen cheeks pricked with heat. ‘You talked to them about it?’

  ‘Of course I did! They’re our friends. I was going out of my mind.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh? Seriously? That’s it?’

  ‘Coffee?’ Helen held up a mug; her head started to thud. She’d been so sure they’d all understand; especially if Dylan had shown them his family painting too.

  ‘I don’t want anything other than an explanation.’

  Suddenly exasperated; lack of sleep and food catching up with her, on top of the heart she’d broken for herself before Tom could do it for her, Helen sagged onto her desk. ‘Are you really going to make me say it, when you know how much it’ll hurt me?’

  ‘Say what?’ Tom’s anger dipped into confusion as he saw unshed tears welling in Helen’s eyes.

  ‘The reason behind all the furtive phone calls to Sue, and then… the painting. Dylan’s painting.’

  ‘Phone calls?’ More confused by the second, Tom said, ‘A couple were to Sue, but most weren’t. I’ve been helping Sam and his parents with wedding stuff.’

  Helen’s pulse raced. ‘Wedding stuff?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you always moved away when you took them, like they were secret?’

  ‘They were – not from you specifically, but I promised Lord Malvern and Sam I’d help keep a few things a surprise until the big day.’

  ‘Oh.’ Feeling rather stupid, Helen shrugged. ‘Makes no difference anyway, not now.’

  ‘Not now, what?’

  ‘Now you’re getting back with Sue.’

  Forty-two

  Wednesday April 8th

  ‘Getting back with Sue?’ Tom was so stunned, not just by what Helen had said but by the certainty with which she’d said it, that he repeated the sentence twice.

  ‘You aren’t getting back with her?’

  ‘Not even if Hell froze over!’

  ‘But… Dylan said…’ Helen steadied herself against her desk as they confronted each other across the office.

  ‘What did Dylan say?’

  ‘That his mum wanted him to be part of a family again.’ Helen felt her head begin to thud. ‘And Sue did too. I heard her. She was speaking to you when she said, “I think we owe him some proper family time, don’t you?”’

  ‘When did she say that?’

  ‘Just before you went to Sybil’s with Dylan for a scone.’

  ‘Did she?’ Tom picked up the mug of coffee he hadn’t wanted. ‘And Dylan? When did he tell you Sue wanted to be a family again?’

  ‘When we were drawing the Easter egg map. What with that and your furtive calls, and then the painting…’ Helen sighed. ‘I can’t be the person who stops Dylan being with his parents. I love him far too much for that.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Tom gripped the mug tighter. ‘I just told you, the calls were for the wedding. Some were from Lord Malvern and some were Sam asking for help with Bert.’

  ‘Bert?’ Helen gave a ringlet of hair that had fallen across her face an agitated tug.

  ‘He needs a new suit, but he’s not well enough to go shopping yet. Sam asked me to arrange for a tailor to visit him at home.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I would have told you, but we had Dylan with us all the time, and there’s a chance he’d have told Bert in his excitement. Five-year-olds are not the best at keeping secrets.’ Tom suddenly strode across the room and put his mug down on the desk next to Helen’s. Before he could stop himself, he’d reached out a finger and pushed the ringlet from her eyes. ‘I am not, nor will I ever, get back together with Sue. Okay?’

  ‘But the painting?’

  ‘The one Dylan did of Mill Grange? What about it?’

  ‘It was of you, Dylan and Sue. I know it’s natural for him to paint his parents, but…’

  ‘That wasn’t me, Dylan and Sue; it was me, Dylan and you.’ Tom was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Sue was not amused when she saw how proud Dylan was of it. You should have seen her face w
hen Dylan’s teacher told us it was to hang on the art room wall at school.’

  ‘Not Sue.’ Helen’s hands gripped the side of the desk.

  ‘Dylan didn’t say it was, did he?’ Tom pulled up the photograph of the painting on his phone and stared at it. ‘Look, he’s even got your bouncy hair right.’

  Helen looked. ‘Kids always paint hair like that, don’t they?’

  ‘He didn’t paint his or mine like that though, did he?’

  ‘Well, no.’ Helen closed her eyes. She could feel the pulse in her fingertips buzz as she tried to make sense of what she was hearing. She’d been so sure it was Sue. ‘But what about what Sue said to Dylan about wanting him to be part of a family?’

  ‘Wishful thinking on her part maybe, or perhaps Dylan misunderstood. He’s only five.’

  Helen didn’t know what to say and she looked around her office; her safe space. Somewhere she had intended to recover from her broken heart in private, without anyone knowing she was in pain.

  ‘You must have known I’d come after you.’ Tom wrapped a ringlet around his finger.

  Not moving, Helen watched as a tiny strand of her hair coiled in his touch. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing. Making it easier for all three of you.’

  ‘Easier?’ His hand stopped moving, but he didn’t release the curl. ‘You know how hard it was for me to admit my feelings for you, how much I worried that I was letting you down? If you think having you walk away without explanation was easy…’

  ‘No, I meant…’ Helen threw up her hands. ‘I have no idea what I mean anymore.’

  Reluctantly letting go of her hair, Tom looked at his watch. ‘I need to check on Dylan.’

  Any reply Helen might have made was cancelled out by a loud unladylike growl from her belly.

  While Tom waited for his phone to connect, he gestured to the open packet of biscuits on her desk. ‘When was the last time you ate anything that wasn’t a cookie?’

  ‘I had some fish fingers last night.’

  ‘Last night?’