Читать книгу The Forgotten Gift - Kathleen McGurl - Страница 10

The staff room at the sports centre was tatty and tired, its furniture functional at best, but it was one of Cassie’s favourite places. That and the Red Lion pub where she and the other staff often adjourned to at the ends of their shifts. Today, Cassie was working the early shift. She’d started at seven a.m., acting as lifeguard to cover the early morning swim session. She was due to finish at four, and after a half hour in the gym and a relaxing swim, she’d be heading straight to the pub along with Toby and Shania, who’d worked the same shift.

Now, she was on her lunch break in the staff room, sitting on one of the plastic and steel chairs with her feet up on another.

‘Shift your feet,’ said Shania, arriving for her break. ‘God do I need to sit down or what?’

‘Tough class?’ Cassie asked. Shania ran many of the fitness and Zumba classes. A more energetic job than being a lifeguard and general centre attendant, Cassie had always thought.

‘Yeah.’ Shania twisted open a bottle of fruit juice and downed half the bottle in one. Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth she looked at Cassie. ‘Hey, did you see Who Do You Think You Are? last night?’

‘The one with the fella off the soap opera? Yes, I saw it.’ Of course Cassie had seen it. She was obsessed by genealogy – both watching the TV shows where experts traced celebrities’ ancestry, and investigating her own. It’s what she did on her days off. She didn’t have much of a social life beyond the sports centre.

‘His face, when they told him his great-great-grandfather, or whoever it was, had been convicted of murder! It was a picture!’ Shania looked thoughtful. ‘Wonder how it feels, though. I mean, what would you feel if you discovered one of your ancestors was a crook or a murderer?’

Cassie shrugged. ‘Don’t know. It’d be weird, knowing those genes are in you. But if the ancestor was distant enough, the genes would be watered down.’

‘I suppose it’s that old nurture or nature argument, isn’t it? What makes you who you are – your ancestors or the way you were brought up?’ Shania got up and went to retrieve her container of salad from the fridge. ‘Anyway, would you tell me if you found a bad boy or girl amongst your ancestors?’

‘Probably. You know I tell you everything, darling,’ Cassie replied with a wink. As she said it, she wondered about the will of her great-great-great-grandfather that she’d recently come across in her latest genealogical searches. He, George Britten, had apparently bequeathed a valuable item – a mirror set with sapphires and pearls – to the wife of a prison chaplain, as well as making the chaplain a generous financial payout. Why, she had no idea, as yet. Presumably the chaplain had been a good friend. But if so, why did the will specifically refer to him as ‘Chaplain of Millbank Prison’ and not just by name? And what did it mean in recognition of his friendship and support during my time of greatest need?

It was possible, she had to admit, that George Britten had been an inmate of that prison at some point. Finding out if that was true, and if so, what crime he had committed, was high on Cassie’s list of topics to research, when she had some spare time.

Shania laughed. ‘Great – I will look forward to the juicy gossip, then. Speaking of which, are you going to the pub tonight?’

‘Of course I am! I’m going to the gym and having a swim after work, then I’ll be in the Red Lion by about seven. See you there.’

It was a regular event – at least once a week after work Cassie would meet up with her colleagues in the pub. Who turned up depended on who was working the evening shift, but today it was all her favourite people. Shania, of course, there before Cassie and already installed at their favourite table with a large glass of Prosecco for herself and a pint of Theakston’s Old Peculier for Cassie.

‘Cheers, mate,’ said Cassie as she sat down and picked up her pint. You knew you had the best ever friends when they knew exactly what you liked to drink, and had the drink ready and waiting for you.

A few minutes later they were joined by Andy, the sports centre manager, who bought himself a pint of lager before pulling up a stool. ‘Hey, my favourite girls. How are we?’

‘Your favourite women are all good,’ Cassie replied. ‘Seriously, Andy, we are both in our thirties. Time to stop referring to us as girls.’

Andy grimaced. ‘Oops, sorry. Lost a few feminist points there, didn’t I?’

‘You did, yeah.’ Cassie put on a stern face. ‘But we will let you off, if you buy the next round.’

‘Sure. Want it now?’

‘Definitely. Before you forget and try to wriggle out of it.’

‘I’d never do that.’

As Andy got up and went to the bar to order the drinks, Shania turned to Cassie and laughed. ‘You twist that poor man around your little finger, Cass. He’ll do anything for you. It’s probably actually my round – he bought two rounds last week and I bought none.’

‘Ssh. Don’t ever turn down the offer of a drink from the boss,’ Cassie said, with a smile. She liked Andy – he was a friend and a good person to work for. Shania was probably right in that Cassie seemed to have a way with him. If she asked for a day off at short notice Andy would almost always grant her request, even if he had to work extra hours himself to cover her shift. Their previous manager had not been so accommodating and Cassie had been glad when he’d left and Andy, tall and skinny with a shock of black hair, had arrived in his place. Now, she had to admit, the sports centre was a great place to work, and that was largely down to the fun work ethic Andy had brought with him. Vicky, the assistant manager, was more strait-laced and never came to the pub, but was still a decent person to work with.

Occasionally Cassie wondered whether, at thirty-seven, she ought to look for a job with more prospects, greater responsibility and higher pay. Certainly her parents thought so. Cassie had tumbled into the sports centre job after dropping out of university, needing an easy job that would earn her enough to pay the rent and put food on the table. And there she’d stayed, for sixteen years now. Most of the other general centre attendants were part-timers – either students paying their way through university or older women working shifts during school hours or at the weekends. The other full-time staff were management – Andy, plus the assistant manager Vicky. And then there were the instructors like Shania, who taught classes at several sports centres, gyms and studios in the area, and topped up their income by doing a few general shifts at the sports centre. Cassie was the only full-timer with no teaching qualifications who only worked the general shifts, lifeguarding, setting up equipment, cleaning changing rooms and the like.

‘Here we are then, ladies,’ Andy said, putting their drinks in front of them, and earning himself a glare from Cassie. ‘What? What have I said now?’

‘We are women. Not ladies.’ Shania stifled a giggle as Cassie rolled her eyes.

‘Here we are then, women,’ Andy said. ‘Ah come on. That sounds ridiculous. If you were fellas I’d say, “here we are, gents,” so why can’t I say “ladies”?’

‘OK, you have a point there,’ Cassie conceded. ‘Once again I will let you off.’

‘My, you are magnanimous tonight,’ Andy said. ‘Anyway. How was your day, you two?’

Shania launched into a long story about a beginners’ Zumba class she’d run, in which two of the participants had kept bumping into each other, one going left and one going right when both should have gone left. ‘They’re supposed to mirror me, but one thought she needed to do the opposite, no matter how many times I explained it. They ended up in a heap on the floor at one point, thankfully not hurt but in fits of giggles. As was I.’

‘Ah the perils of a keep-fit class,’ Andy said. ‘And you, Cass? Anything fun happen to you today?’

‘Ah you know, the usual. Watched The Back swim ten lengths of butterfly in the lunchtime swim session.’

‘Ooh you should have said – I’d have come poolside to watch,’ Shania squealed. The Back was the name the female lifeguards had given to a regular customer, a fit young man in his twenties who swam several times a week, showing off his rippling back muscles to great effect as he practised his butterfly stroke.

Andy leaned back and folded his arms. ‘So I’m sexist and get told off if I refer to you two as “girls” or “ladies”, but you’re allowed to drool over a bloke’s back muscles when he comes in for a swim? You’d be furious with me if I commented on a woman’s body in her swimsuit. Doesn’t it work both ways?’

Cassie fixed him with a stare. ‘Yes it does, but women have been oppressed for so long. The pendulum has to swing back a little before it comes to rest in the middle, when full equality for all has finally been achieved.’

‘Hmm. Think I’ll put Toby and Ben poolside every lunchtime from now on.’

‘Toby’d probably appreciate The Back just as much as we do,’ Shania said.

‘What? You mean … no, really?’

Cassie laughed. ‘Yep. Didn’t you know he was gay?’

Andy stuck out his lower lip. ‘Perils of being a manager. No one tells me anything. I have to rely on you girls, whoops I mean women, to keep me up to date.’

‘Also, Shania’s an alien,’ Cassie said, her face deadpan.

They were still laughing a few minutes later when Toby, Ben and a couple of other staff arrived. It was a good evening – a few rounds were bought and drunk but not so many that Cassie would have a hangover. A lot of banter and laughter and warmth. This, she thought, was why she was still in the job after so many years. Good people, good fun. Her colleagues came and went but they were always the kind of people Cassie got on well with, on a night down the pub.

So what if she’d never become closer to any of them. So what if none of her friends had ever been to her flat, or she to theirs. So what if when people left the sports centre they never seemed to stay in touch after a few months. So what if she’d never had a boyfriend who lasted more than a couple of months, not since … not since university. She was happy, wasn’t she? Her life was good, wasn’t it?

Cassie had a day off the next day. She’d planned to do some food shopping and go for a run – she was supposed to be in training for a half-marathon along with some of her work colleagues. They were going to run in T-shirts advertising the sports centre, and were raising sponsorship money in aid of the local children’s hospice charity.

But the weather had other ideas. She liked to think of herself as not just a fair-weather runner, but she had her limits, and early autumnal torrential rain and gale-force winds were definitely beyond them.

‘Hmm, two fish fingers and some manky potatoes for dinner, then,’ she told herself, inspecting the contents of her fridge and freezer. ‘Plus daytime TV or genealogy research. What do you reckon, Griselda?’ She turned to address her elderly tabby cat who was rubbing herself around Cassie’s ankles, clearly hoping for some tidbit from the fridge.

‘Yeah, you’re right. Genealogy it is.’ She made herself a cup of tea then went through to her sitting room. She settled herself on a sofa, pulled the hand-knitted blanket her mother had made her over her legs and opened up her laptop. She had about thirty seconds of peace before Griselda jumped up and insisted on claiming some lap space between the computer and Cassie’s stomach. ‘For goodness’ sake, Gris, don’t you know how awkward it is to have to type around you?’ Cassie grumbled, as she gave the cat a stroke.

Once settled, with the laptop precariously balanced on her knees, Cassie reread the transcript she’d made of George Britten’s will. He’d been a solicitor and apparently quite well off, owning a large house overlooking Regent’s Park. Most of his estate had been left to his children, with a number of small bequests to various charities. But then there were the two odd bequests to the prison chaplain and another one, to someone whose name Cassie could not make out from the looped, old-fashioned handwriting. This one was for five hundred pounds a year.

She googled to find out how much five hundred pounds would have been worth in the late nineteenth century. ‘A good living, in those days. Whoever you were, you were important in some way to my great-great-great-grandfather. A lover, perhaps? Or an illegitimate child?’

The next job, of course, was to try to establish the link between George Britten and the chaplain, Nathaniel Spring, trying to work out what had made him so important to George Britten, and what his ‘time of greatest need’ referred to. Cassie opened up an ancestry website and began a search for Nathaniel Spring.