Needlemouse

by Jane O'Connor

  Jane O’connor

  * * *

  NEEDLEMOUSE

  Contents

  Autumn Wednesday 2 September

  Saturday 5 September

  Friday 11 September

  Saturday 12 September

  Monday 21 September

  Thursday 1 October

  Tuesday 6 October

  Wednesday 7 October

  Thursday 15 October

  Saturday 17 October

  Tuesday 20 October

  Friday 23 October

  Saturday 24 October

  Wednesday 28 October

  Saturday 31 October

  Sunday 1 November

  Tuesday 3 November

  Wednesday 4 November

  Wednesday 11 November

  Thursday 12 November

  Friday 13 November

  Saturday 14 November

  Sunday 15 November

  Thursday 19 November

  Friday 20 November

  Tuesday 24 November

  Thursday 26 November

  Saturday 28 November

  Winter Friday 11 December

  Monday 21 December

  Sunday 3 January

  Wednesday 6 January

  Monday 11 January

  Thursday 14 January

  Wednesday 20 January

  Friday 29 January

  Tuesday 16 February

  Spring Wednesday 9 March

  Friday 18 March

  Monday 21 March

  Tuesday 22 March

  Friday 8 April

  Wednesday 27 April

  Sunday 8 May

  Saturday 21 May

  Saturday 28 May

  Sunday 29 May

  Thursday 9 June

  Friday 10 June

  Sunday 12 June

  Tuesday 14 June

  Saturday 25 June

  Summer Friday 21 July (One Year Later)

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Jane O’Connor is a former primary school teacher turned academic and writer. She was born and brought up in Surrey and lived in London until she moved to the West Midlands in her mid-thirties. Jane’s PhD was about child stars and she is now a Reader at Birmingham City University where she researches children’s experiences of celebrity, media and everyday life. Jane lives in Sutton Coldfield with her husband and two young sons in a house full of pirates, dinosaurs, superheroes and lots of books. She really likes all animals, especially hedgehogs.

  Needlemouse is her debut novel.

  For Graham, with love.

  And for hedgehogs everywhere …

  What readers are saying about

  Needlemouse

  *****

  ‘I was charmed by this tale of unrequited love, redemption and hedgehogs. A feel-good book’ – Heather, Netgalley

  *****

  ‘An eccentrically heartwarming tale of stepping out of your comfort zone. I was rooting for Sylvia to get the happy ending she so deserves’ – Lottie, Netgalley

  *****

  ‘A lovely story with delightful characters. I loved this novel and would highly recommend, especially if you are a fan of Ruth Hogan and Gail Honeyman’ – Mary, Netgalley

  *****

  ‘This is an absolutely superb novel about someone who is dissatisfied with her life but feels it’s difficult to change. I would highly recommend to anyone who likes a quirky novel to entertain them’ – Sue, Netgalley

  *****

  ‘A delightful and heartwarming novel that I thoroughly enjoyed. It had a charming story written with compassion and empathy, interesting and likeable characters, and a poignant ending’ – Joan, Netgalley

  *****

  ‘Oh how I adored this book which is reminiscent of Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine’ – Justine, Netgalley

  *****

  ‘I like a book that makes me feel uplifted, that soothes the soul, and this book certainly did that. Sylvia is definitely one of my favourite fictional characters’ – Joanne, Netgalley

  Autumn

  * * *

  The European hedgehog (Erinaceus europaeus) is so called due to its fondness for foraging in hedges and other undergrowth, and the pig-like grunts it makes as it does so. Hedgehogs are nocturnal animals and only come out at night. If you see a hedgehog during the day it usually means it is sick or injured.

  Hedgehogs are covered in up to seven thousand spines which are a defence mechanism. When it feels threatened, the hedgehog can draw itself into a ball to protect its vulnerable underbody from predators such as badgers and foxes. Unfortunately, hedgehogs also ball up in response to traffic, which is why so many of them end up being killed on busy roads.

  It is vital that during the autumn hedgehogs build up enough fat reserves to see them through the winter. They can roam up to two miles every night looking for food such as beetles, slugs and earthworms. Hedgehogs have also been considered a delicacy themselves over the years. For example, baked hedgehog used to be a traditional Romany dish made by rolling hedgehogs in clay and placing them in the embers of a bonfire. After cooking the prickles would come away when the clay was broken open.

  Jonas Entwistle, The Hedgehog Year

  Wednesday 2 September

  I look forward to this day all year. Not because I enjoy getting older (heaven’s no), but because Prof takes me out somewhere special for lunch on my birthday, just the two of us. He likes to surprise me with the venue and I love it when he takes the lead. Last year he took me to a very upmarket French restaurant where he decided, rather impetuously I thought, to order the snails. Prof’s face as he made his way through them! I did laugh.

  We are exactly the same age, Prof and I. Well, I say exactly: I am actually forty-one days older than him as his birthday isn’t until October, but I don’t suppose that matters. I just think of us as the same age, fifty-two, and that’s nice. I suppose it would be even better if he was a little bit older than me, but being the same age gives us one more thing in common and that’s the way I like to think about it.

  I got into work about ten to nine. I always get there before Prof so I can make sure everything is perfect for him when he arrives – computer on, blinds up, post laid out on his desk. He came bursting through the door at quarter past, holding up his black leather briefcase as if it were a trophy. It made me giggle as he knew it would – I think that’s why he does silly things like that. He needs a strong cup of tea (two teabags) as soon as he gets to his desk, to ‘get the cogs working’ as he puts it, and I couldn’t help tutting with frustration as Margaret fussed around making her coffee, blocking my way to the kettle.

  ‘Won’t be a minute, Sylvia,’ she said as she poured milk slowly into her mug and then reached for the sweetener. ‘Patience is a virtue, remember.’

  I glared at her as she sailed past with her drink and had to overcome the urge to put my foot out to trip her up.

  Tea duly made and delivered, Prof and I then had our golden time together. This is my favourite part of the day, when we spend ten, or maybe even fifteen, minutes going through his diary, discussing the meetings he has to attend and the people who are coming to see him. Often Prof has earmarked time for writing in his daily schedule and this is when my shielding of him becomes invaluable. I see myself very much as his defender, fending off the hordes of students and faculty staff who are desperate for a piece of him. They would suck Prof dry if they had the chance. He doesn’t know the half of it, what I do for him, how I keep them at bay so he can just get on, but he is safe in the knowledge that my loyalty to him is complete.

  ‘Lunch today then, Sylvia?’ Prof said, swivelling round in his chair to face me when we had finished going through the day’s business.

  I nodd
ed and managed to say ‘yes, please,’ as I tried not to look overly eager at the prospect of Prof’s full attention for an hour and a half and us looking to all the world like a proper couple.

  ‘Righto, we’ll leave around noon.’ He turned back to his computer, immediately absorbed in the on-screen text as I slipped back to my desk and tried to concentrate on typing up the minutes from yesterday’s finance meeting. I sat in anticipation from 11.30 onwards, not knowing exactly when Prof would be ready to go, covertly touching up my face every few minutes behind my computer screen. Finally, at twenty past twelve, he caught my eye through the glass partition and held up five fingers. I nodded in agreement and gave myself a final spritz of perfume while he finished up with his emails.

  ‘OK, let’s get going,’ he said, clapping his hands together and beaming at me as I dropped my make-up on the floor in a fluster. ‘I’ll meet you in the lobby when you’re ready,’ he said with a backwards wave as he grabbed his jacket off the coat rack and went out the door.

  I knelt down to retrieve my lipstick which had rolled right under my desk and ignored Margaret’s nasty little snigger as I bumped my head on the way back up. I took a couple of deep breaths to compose myself before heading out into the corridor, relieved that Prof had not been witness to the ungainly scene.

  He stood in the entrance hall downstairs, talking into his mobile, and I watched fondly as he repeatedly stepped back from the electronic doors that he kept opening by mistake. He always paces up and down when he speaks on the phone; I notice little things like that about him, it’s part of what makes us so close. He saw me and indicated the doors and we walked through them together into bright sunshine. Prof finished his call and put on his aviator sunglasses which, along with his tailored blue suit and open-necked shirt, made him look completely dashing. He has changed so little in the fifteen years I have worked for him, a more generous sprinkling of grey in his hair perhaps, a slight darkening under the eyes, a thickening around the middle, I suppose, but there’s no denying he is still a fine figure of a man. I couldn’t help but gaze at him as he hailed us a cab. ‘Antonio’s in Drayton Street,’ he instructed the driver and I climbed in beside him.

  A moment’s awkward silence ensued as we both adjusted to the dim coolness of the car’s interior and then, just as I was about to comment on the weather, Prof’s phone started ringing again. Throwing an apologetic look in my direction he answered it and spent the rest of the journey thrashing out the finer details of a research project with one of his academic colleagues. Disappointed that my precious time with him was already being shared, I distracted myself by watching the shabby roads around our university slowly transform into a more salubrious area of London until we came to a stop outside an unremarkable-looking Italian restaurant in a side street off the Fulham Road.

  I got out and the taxi hovered while Prof finished his call, paid and got a receipt. His attention back on me, he did a silly mock bow on the pavement. ‘Shall we go in?’ he said.

  I smiled as he held the door for me and we entered the busy trattoria. The décor in the room was uninspired to say the least. Red and white gingham cloths covered the many tables, bunches of fake herbs hung from the ceiling, and an amateurish fresco of the Coliseum covered the right-hand wall. There was an open kitchen at the far end where several teenage chefs were urgently making pizzas and shoving them into ovens using huge wooden spatulas. I felt a slight dip in spirits as I had hoped for somewhere a little more elegant for our special lunch.

  ‘Madame?’ I allowed a waiter to help me off with my jacket and took the seat opposite Prof at the window table that he had reserved, trying to ignore another minor wave of disappointment that he hadn’t rushed over to pull it out for me. Prof seemed somewhat distracted and ordered a bottle of house red with no consultation whatsoever. He examined the menu for what seemed like a long time, turning it over once or twice to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, then he sighed, put it down between us and started fiddling with the cutlery, arranging and rearranging it around his wicker plate mat. I had glanced at my menu and automatically identified the least calorific dish – the food, for me, being the least interesting part of this lunchtime by a mile. We ordered when the wine arrived and Prof poured himself a large glass. Then, as somewhat of an afterthought, he poured some for me. He took a long drink, put down the glass and stared intently at the mural.

  ‘It’s all over, Sylvia,’ he said finally, his eyes flicking back to meet mine.

  Panic rose as I thought for a moment that he meant the department was closing or that my job was being made redundant. ‘What do you mean?’ I whispered, my fingers clutching the edge of the table.

  ‘Me and Martha. She wants a divorce.’

  The words hung between us as I tried to get a handle on what he was telling me. My initial reaction was to laugh with relief and joy, but I could tell by his hangdog expression that this wasn’t happy news for him. I altered the tone of my surprised response halfway through from celebration to commiseration and hoped it hit the right note.

  ‘She’s been sleeping with Julian,’ he said taking another big swig of wine. I looked at him blankly.

  ‘That guy who’s been designing our extension. The architect. Julian Delaroche,’ he said his name as if I should have known. ‘He with the Jag and the hipster beard,’ he said, tutting and shaking his head. ‘She’s in love this time, apparently. She wants me out.’

  A frenzied combination of emotions and thoughts swirled round my head as I took a sip of my wine, buying myself time before I responded. I needed to get this right. Was he looking for advice from a friend, a new love … or just a shoulder to cry on?

  ‘You know I’m always here for you, Carl,’ I said, careful not to stray from our professional relationship, but hoping he picked up the alternative meaning.

  ‘Yes, I know, Sylvia.’ He patted the side of my arm. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re my rock.’ He held my gaze for a second as I flushed pink with pride.

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ I said, aslant of the questions I really wanted to ask.

  ‘I’m moving into the house in Dulwich.’ I remembered as he spoke that they had bought a place a few years back as a rental property. ‘I’ve given the tenants a month’s notice. What else can I do? The boys will stay with me every other weekend.’

  ‘And Julian?’

  ‘Julian is moving in.’ Prof shrugged his shoulders and opened his palms in a helpless gesture that made me want to jump into his lap, but I sufficed with a head tilt and was just reaching for his hand when the food arrived.

  There was a flurry of plates and Parmesan and pepper mills and then all was quiet again as we contemplated our meal. I wondered if Prof would be able to eat, he seemed so upset, and I considered asking if he would prefer to go for a walk along the river but the sight of his lasagne seemed to revive him and he ate with gusto. I pushed my penne around, adept at making it look like I was eating when I wasn’t; but truly, today I couldn’t have eaten a thing anyway. He and Martha had split up so many times, but they always ended up getting back together. More than anything I wanted to dare to hope that it was different this time – he had said the ‘D’ word, after all, which had never been mentioned before. Surely this would mean that we could be together at last? It would have to be after a discreet period of time, of course, so as to avoid any scandal or malicious gossip. I understand the importance of reputation for a man of Prof’s standing.

  I waited for him to say more about it, but it seemed that the subject was closed and my heart sank when he began telling me about the exciting new research project he was planning with Dr Bastow. I nodded along, asking relevant questions, but I could have screamed. I was desperate to know all the details of his fall out with Martha, but I knew better than to try to steer the conversation back to where I wanted it when he had already moved it on.

  It occurred to me, as we were having coffee, that he hadn’t asked me one question during the whole meal or even
said ‘Happy Birthday’ and I felt a surge of annoyance that I immediately squashed down, reminding myself that he was in the midst of an intensely difficult time. Having repositioned myself emotionally towards his well-being, rather than mine, I was able to watch him drink his coffee with renewed affection.

  ‘Why did you choose this place?’ I asked him with a smile.

  He looked round as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. ‘Don’t you like it?’ A question at last.

  ‘It’s lovely. Thank you.’

  ‘I don’t know, really. There’s a conference coming up in Rome and that was in my head and everyone likes Italian food. Imagine if we were in Rome right now, wouldn’t that be wonderful?’ He put his cup down and raised an eyebrow. ‘You do like Italian food, don’t you?’ Another question – and, thrillingly, a possible hint about accompanying him to an international conference at last.

  ‘Yes, I most certainly do. I love it.’ I smiled again, surreptitiously moving my napkin from my lap over my untouched plate of pasta.

  ‘Good, that’s good,’ he said distractedly as he motioned to the waiter for the bill.

  ‘Sylvia, I need to get across town to meet up with a potential new PhD student, Lola somebody or another. She’s a bright spark, by all accounts, and the Dean wants her on board in the department. I’ll be in the office again later this afternoon.’ I could tell he was back in work mode now as he fished the university credit card out of his wallet. ‘Are you all right to jump in a cab back to campus?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, that’s fine.’

  I was a little taken aback at the abrupt end to our lunch, given the intimacy with which we had spoken, but I tried hard not to let it show as we walked out onto the pavement. He hailed a taxi almost immediately, which I assumed was for me, but he leapt in without a backwards glance. I was left standing alone, squinting against the afternoon sun, wondering just how brilliant a student must be to have a professor trek across London to meet them.