Читать книгу The Secret Art of Forgiveness: A feel good romance about coming home and moving on - Louisa George, Louisa George - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Tam’s voice started to rise a little hysterically. ‘Daddy’s… well… how to put it? He’s gone downhill over the last few months.’

Emily had never called him Daddy. Mainly because he wasn’t hers, no matter how many times her mum had told her to ‘call him Dad, Emily Jane. He’d like that.’ She’d had a perfectly good father, who just happened to have died – and she certainly hadn’t been in the market to replace him any time soon. Or at all, really. She’d just wanted his car accident to have been a huge mistake and for him to come back to her. She’d missed him so much. Still did.

And, sad fact of the matter was, The Judge hadn’t seemed to care about anything Emily thought or needed anyway. And yet, even so, there was a clutch in her chest. He was the only parent, no matter how spurious the connection, that she had left. She hadn’t seen him for years, but the thought of him being gone filled her with surprising dread. ‘So, how bad?’

‘Up and down, to be honest. He has good days and… not so good days.’

Her heart was thumping now. ‘Is he dying? Oh, Tam… is he dying?’

Her stepsister tutted. ‘You always were overly dramatic, Emily Jane. No, he’s not dying. He’s chronically ill.’

‘Oh, good, thank goodness…’ Then she realised that must sound pretty shallow. ‘Not for the chronic illness, obviously, but for the fact he’s not at death’s door.’ And great, now she was babbling again – funny, her stepsisters had always had that kind of effect on her, made her nervous, on edge, as if by filling the silences she was filling the void where normal sisterly love should have been.

To say things had never been easy between Emily, Tamara and Matilda was an understatement. She’d entered their lives kicking and screaming and grieving for her father. Then later, sullenly and silently grieving for her mother.

By the time she was twelve and an orphan in the truest sense of the word – both blood parents dead – she’d been bundled off to boarding school, out of sight, out of mind.

By age thirteen she’d been left on her own to rattle around that huge cold house in the long holidays, Tam and Tilda choosing to visit their glamorous mother in Paris rather than stay in the Cotswolds with a brittle, younger stepsister. She could hardly blame them; she hadn’t exactly been the world’s nicest child to be around. They probably hadn’t, she realised now, known what the heck to do with her.

‘Chronic illness is not a good thing, Emily. Do you know how hard it is being here with him? Tilda and I are exhausted. It’s been a terrible year with Daddy, and now Mummy is going into hospital for cataract surgery. We need to be with her and we can’t be in two places at once.’

‘Is she still in Paris? You’re going to Paris to be with her, then? Both of you?’

‘Yes.’ There was a heavy sigh and Em felt it all the way across the Atlantic. ‘We did have a carer booked for him, but she’s fallen and broken her leg and so now we’re stuck. And don’t ask if one of us can stay in Little Duxbury, because we just can’t, okay? Tilda really needs to get away and it looks as if I’m going to have to look after everyone. As usual.’

Emily had clearly missed an awful lot of their lives. She felt a little pang in her chest. ‘I’m sure you’ll do a sterling job. What’s wrong with Tilda?’

‘Nothing that a few days away won’t fix, I’m sure. She just needs some time out from that useless husband of hers. So, as you can see, we have no one else to ask. We need you to come back and do your bit.’ There was another pause. Then a very quiet, and somewhat difficult, ‘Please’.

Emily knew what that single word would have cost Tamara. They’d never wanted her before. They’d definitely never begged her to come home. ‘I don’t know, Tam. It’s been such a long time, I doubt he’d want me there, honestly. Is it high blood pressure? Because, I might even make it worse. You know how it is between us.’

‘Now, now, we need to put all that water under the bridge. We need to pull together.’

She was right, of course; it would be selfish to think otherwise, but a large part of Emily – admittedly, the cowardly part – really didn’t want to go back and confront their past. Not at all. It wasn’t just about how she’d left things with The Judge either… it was pretty much the whole village. She’d probably succeeded in offending all of them at some point, in one way or another. Troubled, her head teacher had labelled her in yet another parent-teacher interview. Disruptive, manipulative…

And yes, she’d been all those things, but mostly she’d just been a sad little girl who missed her parents and their hugs so badly it physically hurt. Moving to New York and reinventing herself had meant she could leave all that hurt behind. But no matter what she did, it was still there in her memories of Little Duxbury and, no doubt, in its memories of her.

But maybe it was being around Brett and his lovely supportive family that made her yearn for something like he had, or maybe it really was just time to try to make things better between them all. She found herself saying, ‘Yes, yes, you’re right, we do need to move on.’

Which would be a whole lot easier said than done.

Tam sighed. ‘Good. Well, I should tell you, he’s changed a lot… not been himself for a while.’

‘So, why didn’t you tell me before now?’

‘It’s been insidious, a bit of memory loss here, an easily explained confusion there. A tendency to repeat himself. Christ, don’t we all? But now we can’t ignore that he’s actually got a real problem. He’s fine physically, you know, he can manage his… self-care – that’s what they call it – if you remind him. But he can’t cook or… anything much.’ Another pause. Then, ‘So you’ll come?’

‘I don’t know…’ But as she said the words, guilt rolled through Emily’s stomach. Even though he’d done as little of his duty towards her as he could, he’d at least not seen her be homeless.

‘When do you leave for Paris?’ She began to mentally pack things for a cooler climate.

‘Sunday.’

‘Sunday? This Sunday? That’s madness. It’s what? Four days away? I can’t just –’

‘You can just, Emily. One week, that’s all we’re asking. One week to help us out. You’ve been doing exactly as you please your whole life.’

Because she’d had no one else.

‘Well, I have a few things I need to sort out. We’re in the middle of some important campaigns…’ It all sounded like feeble excuses, because what kind of person put work before a sick relative? But even so… there were things she needed to put in place before she upped sticks and left the country.

Work, and Brett.

Brett. Her skin prickled at the thought of him kneeling in the restaurant.

His proposal had, for a few minutes, been pushed out of her head by more pressing things. But now, coupled with this call, she felt as if everything she knew was tilting off balance.

The weekend at his parents’ would have to be put on hold. She looked down at the ring, the symbol of their promise, and that little frisson of panic still bubbled away in the bottom of her gut.

Tam interrupted her thoughts. ‘Sunday, then. That’s sorted. Email me your arrival details.’

‘But –’ The line was suddenly as dead as she had believed her family relationships to be.

‘Shit.’

Despite Emily’s bad feeling about this she was already working through the logistics. Even she couldn’t imagine The Judge being ill and left to cope on his own in that rambling mansion.

She threw her phone into her bag and pinched the top of her nose. Took a deep breath and blew it out. Her eyes were on the brink of leaking, but she would not cry about this. It was shock, that was all. A shock about The Judge, and a shock about the proposal.

Emily never cried. Living with The Judge she’d learnt pretty swiftly that crying never achieved anything; it certainly didn’t harness sympathy and was a pretty useless thing to do.

But in a few short hours her life had taken a detour into Crazyville.

She’d said yes. Brett was a good guy, a great guy in fact. Most women would jump at the chance of spending the rest of their lives with him.

Even so, underneath the excitement of what the future held for her, that little panic bubble would not go away. Was it a bad sign that she hadn’t jumped in and told her stepsister about her engagement? That it hadn’t been at the forefront of her mind? That even now there was a small part of her that wanted to keep it to herself until she’d worked things out in her head?

Worked out what exactly?

She didn’t really know. There was just a little niggle that wouldn’t go away.

So maybe, just maybe, some time away from New York would be a good thing. She could fix things with The Judge, and get things back into perspective.

Just maybe going back to Little Duxbury would be a good thing for all concerned.

***

It turned out that fog could do real damage to an airline’s schedule, so Emily was running late… very late indeed.

After landing at Heathrow she tried Tam’s phone but there was just a voice message and a whole lot more static.

Stuart, Tilda’s husband, was no help, either, with his gruff, ‘They left at five.’

‘What? What do you mean? They’ve left already?’ Emily was trying to make herself heard over the tannoy of one of London’s busiest train stations. Although her loud voice was probably more panic-fuelled than forced.

‘They said they couldn’t wait any longer or they’d miss their plane. You’re her sister, right? The runaway one?’

Em sighed. ‘Really? That’s all you know about me?’

‘Well, a few other things, too –’

‘Best not to go there; trust me on this,’ she cut him off, laughing.

She guessed that was what happened when you opted out of family engagements and moved far away; people talked and history was rewritten in whatever form they wanted. It was reinforced by those recounting it and loaded with emotions that instead of lessening, seemed to deepen and grow. Plus, she had crept out of Duxbury Hall in the middle of the night without leaving a note, so what did she expect?

‘But yes, that’s me. Not quite the tearaway I once was, to be honest, so I hope I don’t disappoint anyone. I did hope Tam and Tilda would be able to give me some kind of handover… The Judge’s routine, his medications, that kind of thing.’

‘Sorry, I don’t know anything.’

Me neither.

Work on the positives. ‘Okay, well… how hard can it be, right? Maybe they left me a note. The good news is, I’m at Paddington station. My train’s arriving at Little Duxbury at eight-fifty-nine. Oh, and I’m going to need some help getting to the house with my suitcase.’

‘This house? Oh, no, you can’t… you can’t stay here.’ She could actually feel his anxiety reaching down the phone.

‘Oh, no, don’t worry, really, I’m going straight to The Judge’s. I’ll just need a…’ The station display flashed up the designated platform for her train. ‘Okay, it’s here, I’ve got to run. I’ll Uber when I get there.’

There was a pause, through which she could have sworn she heard the cogs in his brain turning. ‘Er… Uber?’

Now alarm bells were ringing so loudly she had to take notice. There was no welcoming committee. No one to hand over any details. She’d have to get to know The Judge all on her own. No buffer. Just a straight-out family reunion with the man who hadn’t ever wanted her in his family in the first place.

Plus, no Uber? Little Duxbury had obviously not moved out of the eighteen-hundreds. ‘It’s a… Look, never mind. I’ll just get a cab.’ Probably attached to a horse, but she’d take whatever the sleepy village threw at her.

Except…

There was radio silence when she got off the train. The only passenger to do so. Clearly, she was the only person in the entire world wild enough to be going to Little Duxbury on a Sunday night.

She sensed that any minute there’d be tumbleweed blowing down the dark main street, but even the tumbleweed had grown bored of the place and hotfooted out. Sitting on her case she raised her arm in various directions trying to get some reception for her cell phone, but the blobs on the screen weren’t reassuring. No service. Just brilliant.

No taxis. No service. No sister, step or otherwise, to meet and greet. No one. So much for the universe being good to me, Frankie.

No missed calls or texts from Brett either since she’d landed at Heathrow. Things had become a little frosty once she’d told him she was taking a week’s break due to family circumstances. She’d hardly painted a picture of childhood idylls and The Waltons, so she understood why he’d be confused she wanted to suddenly help a sick old man she hadn’t spoken to in over a decade. Especially when she’d chosen to do that over going to his parents’ house and celebrating their engagement in Boston.

After ten minutes of sitting in the whipping wind she realised there was nothing more for her to do but walk the mile or so to her old home. Thank goodness her suitcase had wheels.

She walked slowly, unused to the eerie silence, broken only by the rrrrr rrrrr rrrrr of her suitcase over the uneven pavement. The darkness cast shadows from the oak trees that lined the road, past the post office that was still there. Even in this light she could see the sign needed replacing – currently it read P s Off, which at least made her smile amidst her jangling nerves. One of the two pubs, which had always been the life and soul of the little community, had closed down and was sitting empty.

Turning Heads, the hairdresser’s, was still there, though – she’d once had fun cajoling Debbie to dye her hair a deep acid purple to the shock of her family, and at the cost of a school suspension. The doctor’s surgery was still there – minus graffiti – and the corner shop was still next door.

She skirted the line of pretty thatched cottages that edged the large village green where summers had been spent at the annual fair. And where, in the autumn, they’d spent Bonfire Nights roasting marshmallows and burning their fronts as their backs froze in the icy north easterlies.

It was still a quintessential English country village, adored by its inhabitants; all except her, who had arrived at the age of eight, an outsider who had never quite fit in. But maybe that was more about her than the place. You couldn’t force a square peg into a round hole, after all – and that was how she’d always felt. An outsider.

It seemed as if nothing had changed.

In the light of twelve years’ absence and working in two of the busiest cities in the world, she could see the quaint, old-world charm and the picture-postcard prettiness. There were no neon lights, no noise. It was surprisingly peaceful. She’d bet everyone else here had actually lived the idyllic childhood she’d craved.

She only hoped they had short memories, or that peace would be shattered by the return of the prodigal stepdaughter. She almost smiled at the thought.

Up ahead there was a solitary figure.

Maybe she’d spent too much time in New York, but she knew better than to walk towards a man in the shadows even in a tiny village in the Cotswolds. She slowed, her heart hammering just a little too quickly against her ribcage.

‘Er… Hello?’ she ventured, infusing her voice with a strength she didn’t feel. It wasn’t like her to be spooked so easily, but the place was so dark, so quiet, so unlike NYC where there was always noise, a pulsing beat, always light. Thankfully, she found the torch app on her phone and lit the air.

The hunched figure was muttering, peering not at Emily but at something in the hedgerow. ‘Chip? Chip? Come on, you daft bugger – stop hiding.’ He stopped as the sound of her suitcase rattled towards him. Then he turned, very slowly; there was a drip on his nose and a shake in his voice. He looked Dumbledore-old, and not in any way scary; in fact, if anything, he seemed a little dazed. And quite polite. He shielded his eyes against her light. ‘Hello, can you help me? I’ve lost my dog. Perhaps you could shine that torch over here?’

‘I’ll try.’ Dropping her suitcase handle, Emily inched closer. Whoever the man was, he was ancient and frail. His hands were shaking, which wasn’t surprising given he was only wearing pyjamas. It was May but there was a cruel chill in the air along with a scent of smoky coal. ‘Are you sure your dog’s around here? It’s quite dense undergrowth. I’m not sure you should be out here, sir, dressed like that. You’ll catch pneumonia.’

She sounded like her old late grandma with a hint of Yank. She’d become, she realised, the sum of her city experiences with her highlighted hair, expensive clothes and homogenous transatlantic accent, and was probably unrecognisable these days as that volatile teenager she’d once been. ‘How about I get you home?’

‘Not until I’ve found my dog. Chip? Chip! C’mon boy!’

‘Do you live – wait a minute…’

There was something about him that was hauntingly familiar. Not the scruffy beard, or the stoop, or the wild mane. It was the deeper timbre of his voice. That was the only giveaway, though. The last time she’d seen this man he’d been stylishly dressed in a Savile Row suit and sporting a super-close shave. His eyes had bored into her with such animosity, such overinflated importance, such emptiness. Abhorred by reports of her behaviour he’d been about to throw her out, but she hadn’t given him the satisfaction. You can’t throw someone out if they’ve already left.

Immediately, she felt the swift kick of anger, reliving those last moments in Little Duxbury, all those years of hateful retorts. Bile rose in her throat. Would they just start all over again with the harsh words?

She backed away a little, readying herself for the onslaught, on edge but hoping to keep the peace somehow. Why the hell had she said yes to this? To opening a Pandora’s Box filled with years-old rage?

But he peered closer. ‘Chip? I say, can you help me, miss? My dog…’

Oh. Okay. This man was not The Judge she knew. He was lost and confused and just a little bit sad. The anger receded, ready for another day, she knew – because when she thought about it, it had been there all these years, bubbling under the surface, fuelling her resolve to fix her life. ‘Judge? Is that you?’

‘Judge?’ He paused for a moment, trembling fingers at his whiskers as he mouthed words she couldn’t hear. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Yes, I think I am. Judge Evans, that sounds right. How do you do?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. Er… It’s me. Emily. Surprise?’ She reached out, not sure whether to shake his hand or go for an awkward hug.

‘Oh. I see.’ The Judge took a step back, his body tensing as they ended up in a sort-of half-hug-handshake, a bit like the young lads in her neighbourhood with their down-with-it fist pump/shake/pat on the shoulder, but with a heck of a lot less street cred and a good deal more fumbling.

Her heart was thumping along surprisingly fast. Her hands were sweaty and shaking a little. She’d done a lot of self-talk prep on the plane, which went along the lines of – take a steadying deep breath before you speak to him, he’s human, too, things could be different now – but the rush of anger had left a residue of jitters.

She also felt indescribably wrong-footed… she’d come all this way not just to look after him, but expecting to have to defend herself, to thrash out deep-rooted differences and, hopefully, fix things. Completely thrown off balance by his frailty, she didn’t know how to act or what to say.

What she did know was that it was late, she was tired, and he was shivering. Now wasn’t the time to dredge up any of the grim past. ‘Let’s get you out of this cold, shall we?’

Taking his elbow with one hand and picking up the suitcase handle with her other she started to shuffle them both towards The Hall. There it was, up on the hill, looking down on the village, a huge house with myriad windows that looked foreboding in the dark.

She shuddered at the thought of going back in there.

The Judge kept craning his neck round and peering at the hedgerow. His lips curling into the name Chip. Then glancing towards her as if trying, hard, to place her. ‘I don’t think we’ve met before. Who are you?’

‘I’m Emily. Emily Forrester, your… daughter.’

‘Daughter?’ He shuffled to a stop and peered at her as if she were a particularly difficult cryptic crossword he was trying to solve. He shook his head. ‘No. No, no, no, no. Have you seen Chip? I can’t find him.’

Biting her lips together Emily squeezed back a sudden rip of sadness. Had he wiped her from his memory? Had he enough good daughters that he’d decided to just forget the bad one? Or was he so confused he didn’t remember he had any at all?

Now utterly out of her depth she fished around for words, her throat suddenly raw. Old feelings of alienation and isolation came reeling back – he hadn’t wanted her then, he didn’t even know her now.

But the man she’d been so angry with wasn’t this shell of a man. And the child who’d been angry, although still a part of her, wasn’t who she was now. She needed to remember that, because all these emotions she thought she’d dealt with were pinging up and taking her by surprise.

‘Right. Yes. Okay. Let’s think… yes, the dog. I’m sure he’s not lost. He sounds like he’s a clever old thing who knows where he lives. I’m sure he’ll come back soon with his tail between his legs.’ She knew exactly how that felt.

‘He’s run off again. He keeps doing that.’ The Judge was now shaking with cold. All she needed was him catching hypothermia under her watch; she could just imagine what Tamara would have to say about that.

‘We can keep looking all the way home. He’ll probably follow us, you know what they’re like. Let’s get you home and have a nice cup of tea.’ She could revisit the daughter issue later, tomorrow.

What felt like an hour or so later, but was in reality probably only a few minutes, they were pushing open the old but beautifully carved Duxbury Hall door and stepping back decades.

The scent of beeswax polish hit her first, backlit with the smoky smell of burning wood. The entrance hall was exactly how she remembered it with the shiny wooden floors she used to skid across in bare feet. Although, the wood was shabbier now. The sweeping staircase rose ahead of them, the carpet leading upstairs a little more ragged and faded, but she could still see the vibrant colours it had once had, the scarlet and the yellow pattern of swirls.

Home Sweet Home. Maybe to Tam and Tilda and even her mother, for the short time she’d lived here. Emily made a vow to try to keep looking at the positives. At least the place was warm.

Someone had lit a fire, she guessed, and discovered, as they wandered through to the library, glowing embers in the hearth.

Suddenly she heard the patter of quick footsteps in the corridor, children’s voices and laughter, and she wondered briefly if she was day-dreaming. Because she couldn’t remember much laughter happening here.

‘JUDGE? Judge Evans?’ A woman’s voice rose and the door crashed open. ‘Oh, Judge, thank goodness you’re here. We were just about to launch a search party. I was so worried, you just disappeared again into thin air – Oh. Hello?’ A pause. ‘Emily? Is that really you? Wow. Well wow, just look at you. You look amazing.’

The thin woman standing in front of her, with two small, dark-haired children hiding behind her legs, gave her a grin. There was something familiar about her, and yet different. Tangled in her memory, Emily had images of a youth club disco, some stolen vodka and a lot of tears.

‘Greta?’

‘You remembered! I wasn’t sure if you would.’

Greta Barnes had been one of those girls on the periphery of the group of teenagers Emily had been part of for about five minutes. Greta had been simultaneously the butt of jokes and the ring leader’s gopher and had been willing to do anything to be accepted into the tight ring of friendship. But they’d made it damned hard for her.

God, Emily hated the way teenage girls behaved sometimes. She’d felt sorry for Greta and had always tried to be nice to her, but when eventually they’d all turned against Emily, Greta had too. ‘Oh my goodness, hello, Greta. I barely recognised you.’

The young woman grimaced and rubbed her palms down her loose, flowery T-shirt and then the tops of her jean-clad thighs. Colour flushed her cheeks. ‘Yes, well, two kids can change a body beyond recognition, believe me. Everything goes south after pregnancy…’

Emily had girded herself against a wall of general animosity from everyone in Little Duxbury, so to be met by a little warmth was surprising. She gave Greta a smile, even though she knew it was a little wary and possibly even wobbly. ‘Don’t be silly, you look fine to me, just the same as twelve years ago. You look great, honestly.’ She did. Okay, so she looked tired, but it was late and she had two little ones, plus, clearly, The Judge. ‘I dread to think how I look after that flight.’

‘So, I should introduce you…’ Greta took hold of the little girl’s hand and drew her forward. ‘This is Caitlin, she’s four and a half… and the half is very important. Say hi, Caitlin. And this wee troublemaker is Beni. Three, going on eighteen. God help me when he’s a teenager. At least at this age I can lock us all in the house and know he’s safe. It’s the quiet moments that worry me most. That’s when I know he’s up to something very bad.’

‘Hi, guys.’ Emily raised her hand in a wave as they both ducked back behind their mum. ‘But, what are you all doing here?’

‘When Tam discovered your flight was delayed, she asked me to come sit with your… er… Judge Evans. Which was fine. I do it from time to time, but usually Sean has the kids when I pop up here.’

‘Sean?’ The jetlag was setting in and Em was finding it hard to keep up.

‘Sean Carter. You remember him? Tall, geeky lad who ran the scouts? Yeah, I married him.’

‘Oh, great. Congratulations. Didn’t you…? Do I vaguely remember you had a crush on him way back when?’

‘Yep. Turns out he had one on me, too. Who knew? All that teenage angst and worry – I’m so glad I’m not there now.’ She did a mock shudder. ‘And that’s probably my whole dull life story; one husband, two kids and not enough hours in the day. And I still never know when to shut up. What about you? What’ve you been doing? It’s been so long.’

Emily glanced over at The Judge just to check he was okay so close to the fire. He was watching them all bemused, but he was smiling. Smiling! ‘Er… nutshell… I live in New York. Not married. No kids.’ She fingered her engagement ring and thought about mentioning it – but everything was just a little too overwhelming right now.

‘Oooh, lucky. Double lucky. And wow – no wonder you look so amazing. Everything’s still in its right place.’ Beni was tugging at his mum’s hand and whispering loudly I’m bored over and over. Greta smiled. ‘Okay, little man, just give Mummy a second. Emily, I do want to hear all about your life and live it vicariously, but I really, really have to go now. Bedtime was hours ago and I’ve got work in the morning. Good to see you.’

‘You, too.’ It really was. Which was something of a surprise. A nice one.

Then Greta paused, biting her bottom lip, and Emily just knew what was coming. Because it had been going well, things had to take their inevitable turn downwards. ‘Er, does Sally know you’re back?’

Emily’s stomach tightened at the thought of her former best friend and the way things had turned so sour at the end. ‘I can’t imagine so. I’m only here for a week. I’m planning on keeping a low profile and hoping she doesn’t notice.’

‘Trust me, she will. She’s got an uncanny gossip radar; she will find out.’

Emily’s tight stomach bumped. ‘I don’t suppose she could have forgotten about it all?’

Greta’s eyes flickered to her kids and she leaned in out of their earshot and whispered, ‘Sleeping with her fiancé? I doubt it.’

‘But… oh… no, probably not.’ Emily closed her eyes briefly and fought the urge to protest her innocence. One day she’d tell everyone the truth about that night; she’d make them all listen to her side of that ridiculous story, but that would have to wait. She really didn’t want to get into it now in front of the kids and The Judge. Perhaps, too, when she did tell them, they’d all believe her this time. ‘Do you two still hang out?’

‘Hang out? What, with two kids, a job and a husband?’ Greta looked about as bemused as The Judge. ‘What planet do you live on?’

‘Planet New York.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. That explains a lot. No, I don’t get the chance to hang out – God, that would be lovely. Look, I do need to go. Sorry about losing The Judge earlier. Potty training and babysitting Houdini don’t go well together.’

But Emily just smiled. ‘It’s fine. Really. He was only down the road.’

The Judge stood up and boomed across the room. ‘Where’s Chip? Have you seen my dog? He was here a minute ago. I need to go and find him.’

Greta nodded. ‘Better sort him out. I’m at the Cosy Café every day. Pop in.’

‘I will.’

‘And good luck. You’re going to need it. And a tracker system. He’s a crafty old bugger. Yes, Mummy said a bad word.’ Greta pigged her eyes at her staring children then whispered again to Emily, ‘I say them a lot. There’s something about having two under five that makes you swear like a trooper. See you.’

‘Wait – I don’t suppose you know what I’m meant to be doing here with him?’

Greta shrugged as she settled Beni onto her hip. ‘Not really; I usually just come up for the odd hour and chat about random nothingness, to be honest. Did Tam not say?’

‘No. You’d have thought she’d have left a message or a note or something.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Looks like it’s baptism by fire, then.’ Emily waved them out, then turned her attention to the matter in hand. ‘Hey, why don’t you sit down, Judge? I’ll pop the kettle on.’

‘Sorry, my dear… but who are you again?’

‘Emily.’ How could he have forgotten so quickly? How did you deal with a confused man? Did you spend your time correcting him or did you just go with whatever flow he chose? ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Oh! Are you the new cook? Excellent!’ He was still shivering, and it seemed as if every muscle in his body was twitching. She found a throw and wrapped it around him and made him sit back in front of the fire. Now, in the full glare of the library lights, she could see just how much he’d aged. It was like looking at a completely different man. Certainly not the one who’d stood here with his hands behind his back and a face of stone, refusing to hear anything she was saying.

‘No… well, maybe I am the cook.’ Among other things. Who knew what she was going to be doing over the next few days? Other than repressing her anger all over again? ‘I can rustle up a pot of Earl Grey if you like and maybe have a look for a biscuit or two?’

He looked so very tired and old. ‘No. No, I think I’ll just turn in. It’s late and I’m cold. There’s a hell of a draught. Did someone leave the door open?’

‘No. No, but you probably haven’t thawed out properly after your walk.’

‘Walk? Did we have a walk?’ He looked down at his pyjamas. ‘Don’t be silly, my dear. Who’d go for a walk dressed like this?’

Exactly, she thought, who would indeed?