Читать книгу Truly, Madly, Deeply - Romantic Association Novelist's - Страница 37

I love my job.

It’s not glamorous or particularly well paid, nor is it anywhere near what my careers advisor had in mind for me when I left school, but it offers magic that few people looking in would see. The van I drive and company sweatshirt I wear may be emblazoned with sunnyside meals on wheels, but my job is so much more than that. I might deliver affordable, nutritionally balanced ready meals to elderly customers, but what I receive in return is priceless. For I am a collector of stories, a sharer of nostalgia, a confidant of dreams.

Not that my boss –who, awkwardly, also happens to be my mum –understands this. She would much rather I limit my conversation with customers to ‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye’, or maybe ‘See you next week’, if it’s a quiet day on my round.

‘We don’t pay you to be their friend, Emily, we pay you to deliver their food,’ she lectured one morning, clearly imagining herself to be the female incarnation of Lord Alan Sugar. ‘If they want company I’m sure their families can oblige.’

‘Mum, have you ever met the customers on my round?’ I protested, knowing full well that she hadn’t and that my argument was futile. ‘I’m the only other person some of them see all day.’

Mum cast a disapproving eye over my dyed hair –this week a fetching shade of blue. ‘What a treat for them! The point is we are not a charity or a befriending service. First and foremost, we are a business. Now, I need you to read this time and motion study Trevor’s written. And act upon it.’

As she passed me the sheet of paper, I inwardly groaned. Trevor. Repulsive, fifty-something boyfriend of my mother and the kind of man so boring even paint drying would mock him. Since Mum had met him at a business breakfast six months ago, he had fast become the balding, beige-faced bane of my life. What Trevor Mitchell didn’t know about health and safety, workplace law and mindless business jargon simply wasn’t worth knowing. In fact, he seemed to think it was his God-given right to comment on anything and everything, regardless of how much he actually knew about it. And, judging by his latest intrusion, Trev was on top form.

I cast my eyes over his calculations, unimaginatively typed in Comic Sans font –the childishness of which only served to make the whole document more insulting. Well, he could shove this exactly where all his other advice could be deposited. I knew that effectiveness in my job couldn’t be measured by miles covered per hour or minimum amount of time spent with each customer. It was in how I could share a conversation, spend a little time with someone lonely and maybe make a difference to their day. Unfortunately for me, Trevor saw our lovely elderly clients as nothing more than aged donkeys on a conveyor belt, good only for parting with their pension and having food chucked at them.

‘Trevor says you’ve been spending too long with each client,’ Mum continued, oblivious to my disdain. ‘By his calculations it should take no more than seven-point-five minutes to make a delivery. Now, there’s a new gentleman on your round today, so Trevor says you should begin the new timings on this one.’

I rolled my eyes and this time she couldn’t ignore it. ‘Oh well, if Trev says…’

Mum gave me a stare that could freeze the Sahara. ‘His name is Trevor, Emily, and I’ll thank you not to disrespect him. That man could well be your next stepfather.’

On that cheery note I left, glad for the peaceful sanity of my company van when I climbed into it. I wasn’t surprised by boring Trev’s intervention, but it still annoyed me.

‘Idiot!’ I grumbled aloud, pulling out of the gravel car park by the small industrial unit Sunnyside Meals on Wheels called home, to turn left onto the busy coast road. ‘Well, it shows how much you know, Trevor Mitchell! Our customers are more than ticks on your ridiculously timed list. And, I’m sorry, but who actually says “seven-point-five minutes” anyway?’

My indignation brought a wry smile to my face, not least because if boring Trev could see me ranting to myself in the van he’d probably accuse me of wasting company oxygen.

I glanced across at the small clipboard attached with a suction pad to the windscreen. Mrs Clements was first today –and straight away proof that Mum’s boyfriend was completely wrong.

I’ve delivered meals to Mrs Clements since my first day on this job, eight years ago, and she is one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met. When she was only seventeen years old she made the biggest decision of her life: to move to Canada to look after her nephew and brother-in-law after her older sister’s untimely death. She had been a promising student and dreamed of being a teacher but she left it all to go to another country and live the life her sister had left behind. Eventually, she married her brother-in-law and adopted her nephew as her stepson, only returning to England after her husband’s death in the mid-1970s. Mrs Clements was the first Sunnyside customer to share her memories with me and since then I have always taken time to listen when someone on my rounds wants to tell me about their past.

So yes, maybe I did take longer than the other two drivers to complete my deliveries but how else would I have learned about Mr Cooke earning his Distinguished Service Order medal by saving four of his Army comrades under intense enemy fire; or when Mrs Trellawney met the Queen; or about Miss Atkinson’s secret dream to be a champion ballroom dancer?

None of this mattered to my mother and boring Trev, of course. But that wasn’t important: it mattered to me.

Mrs Clements met me at the door already armed with a time-battered photograph album and the sound of the kettle boiling from the tiny kitchen of her retirement bungalow.

‘Oh good, you’re here, Emily. Come in, come in!’

I swung the box I was carrying into her hallway and closed the door behind me. ‘You’re chirpy today, Mrs C.’

‘That I am,’ she replied, leading the way down the hallway to her kitchen. She shuffled along in her favourite nylon skirt, polyester jumper and tartan bobble slippers and I imagined the static she created could be hooked up to the national grid to power her house. She made a pot of tea while I unpacked her week’s worth of meals, knowing her kitchen cupboards better than I did my own. It’s true what they say about trades-people: at the end of my working day the last thing I ever want to do is to cook a meal. If Mum knew how many takeaways and ready meals I consume each week, I’d be excommunicated for certain.

When her cupboards were filled and the teas were made, she ushered me through to the tropical heat of her living room. She sat in her favourite chair as I allowed her too-squashy sofa to attempt to eat me alive.

‘I found these at the weekend,’ she said, turning over the yellowing photo album pages with her blue-veined fingers until she found what she was looking for. ‘There –look at this.’

She swung the album to face me and prodded at a photograph. It was a black and white image of an opulent-looking hall filled with a huge crowd of couples, each one solemnly face to face in stiff ballroom holds.

‘This is The Rialto Ballroom in Truro,’ she chuckled. ‘It’s long gone, of course. But believe it or not, this was the happening night spot when I was young.’

‘When was this picture taken?’

‘July 1951. Two months before I left for Canada.’ Her smile carried the wistfulness of many years. ‘I used to dance there twice a week: Wednesday nights when they taught old-time ballroom to a hall full of girls and, of course, Saturday nights when you got to practice with the real thing.’ She winked at me. ‘Saturdays were when the magic happened.’

I looked at the girls with their almost identical dresses and the men looking awkward in ill-fitting suits. ‘So who danced with you?’

She flushed slightly, a wicked glint in her watery blue eyes. ‘Anyone who’d have me.’

‘Mrs C! You little scoundrel!’

‘We-ell, I was young, we’d not long come out of the war and suddenly a lot of young chaps were back on the scene. It would’ve been rude not to indulge.’ She tapped the side of her nose with her finger. ‘But it was only dancing, mind. None of that heavy petting nonsense you see young kids doing today.’

I took a sip of tea and felt the high caffeine content clunk against my teeth. ‘I’m sure you were the perfect picture of virtue.’

She nodded. ‘I was back then. It was only when I came home after Alfie died that I gave proper hanky-panky a go. Couldn’t believe what I’d missed out on…’

I was still reeling from the revelation of Mrs Clements’ late-flowering libido as I drove to my next customer. The warm September sun bathed the villages and fields whizzing past my window in a beautiful light, and I thanked heaven that I was lucky enough to work in such a breathtaking part of the world. After ten miles, the road rose steeply as I approached one of my favourite views: a sudden expanse of Cornish coastline appearing on my left; jagged cliffs falling away from the lush green above, with the wide sweep of perfect blue ocean beyond.

Inevitably, the scene brought bittersweet memories as Isaac’s face flashed into my mind. My Isaac. Until last summer the one and only love of my life. When we were together we would park not far from the road here and stride across the thick, waving grass down to the cliff path, while Django –our over-excitable Jack Russell –bounced around our feet.

I had dealt with a lot of my feelings for Isaac Pemberthy since he’d unceremoniously dumped Django and me, but somehow this single memory refused to budge. Even my dog had something of Isaac he couldn’t let go of. He refused to be parted from one of Isaac’s old socks even though it was now more chewed hole than knitted acrylic. At least Django understood. Maybe that was why I loved spending time on my rounds rather than with my friends, who still saw Isaac occasionally. Maybe I was as lonely as some of Sunnyside’s customers…

Mr Arbuthnot was in a bit of a hurry when I arrived with his delivery, so I quickly unpacked his meals and said goodbye, accepting an old Roses tin full of stodgy homemade flapjacks as his apology for not being able to chat longer. It’s so sweet when my customers make me something, which many of them do. And I’ll always eat it, even if it means I subsequently keep Gaviscon in business for the next few days. Placing the tin carefully on the passenger seat of the van, I set off again.

Mrs Wilson was next. A formidable former headmistress whose husband Eric was apparently so terrified of being in the same room as her that he almost always hid in his shed. Today, he appeared just long enough to pass a lightning-fast comment about the pleasant weather before scurrying back to the safety of the blue larch-lap hut at the bottom of the garden.

‘Always under my feet,’ Mrs Wilson tutted, at which I had to pretend to cough so that she wouldn’t see my smile. ‘Now, how’s your love life, young lady?’

Being quizzed by Mrs Wilson was a little like facing an Eastex-suited firing squad, so I felt compelled to answer. ‘Still quiet, I’m afraid.’

‘I have somebody in mind for you,’ she barked, and the appearance of what I have learned is her version of a smile flashed across her face. ‘My daughter’s boy. Lawyer. Sensible. Probably good-looking. Thoughts?’

‘I’ll certainly bear him in mind,’ I replied, not wanting to hurt her feelings but terrified by the thought of Mrs Wilson as a grandmother-in-law. ‘But I’m not sure I’m ready yet.’

‘Nonsense!’ She stirred her tea with military precision. ‘There’s no such thing as being ready when it comes to courtship. When Eric told me we were getting married I wept myself to sleep for weeks. But he was right. And here we are.’

Eric Wilson told his wife they were getting married? Today was certainly the day for revelations. The thought of the timid, pale-faced old man doing his best Rhett Butler impression amused me all the way to the next address on my list.

The address belonged to a Mr Timothy Gardner –a name I wasn’t familiar with. Smiling to myself as I parked beside a small, whitewashed fisherman’s cottage at the head of a tiny fishing village, I set the stopwatch on my mobile phone.

Seven-point-five minutes with the new customer. We’ll see about that, Trev.

I knocked several times before the door opened, revealing a tall, slender-limbed man with stunning blue eyes and a dramatic sweep of white hair forming an impressive quiff. He was dressed in a faded granddad shirt over corduroy trousers with bare feet, and immediately stood out from my other customers because I found it impossible to guess his age.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said. ‘I’m Emily from Sunnyside Meals on Wheels?’

He pushed his reading glasses up onto the top of his head and jutted out his hand in a hurried handshake.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ he said, a blush creeping across his tanned face. ‘I must confess this is the first time I’ve done this. Since my hip trouble I’ve been finding it difficult to get out. Can’t drive, you see. Doctor’s orders. I’ve only just moved back to the area after living in the States for thirty years, so I’m still finding my feet in the village. And those online delivery things scare me to death…Oh.’ His eyes fell on the heavy box in my hands as I waited politely on the doorstep and he quickly invited me inside. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, do come in.’

His walk was stilted and painful, leaning heavily on a polished mahogany walking cane in his left hand as he made slow progress towards the kitchen at the rear of the cottage. I followed at a respectful distance, not wanting to pressure him or draw attention to his snail-like pace.

The kitchen was bright and airy: teal painted bespoke units, a Belfast sink and a large Aga-style stove nestled around a central island illuminated by halogen spotlights embedded into the low ceiling. I could imagine Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall cooking with uncontrolled glee in a room like this and Mr Gardner appeared quite at home in it. He opened a large cupboard door, which concealed a full-height fridge.

‘If you could pop the meals in here, that would be wonderful.’

‘No problem.’ I opened the box and began to stock his fridge with Sunnyside’s finest meal selection, noticing that he had opted for the ‘deluxe’ menu. Not many of our customers could afford this top-of-the-range option. In fact, only Mrs Clements had ever ordered it before, and that was after she won a couple of hundred pounds from a bet on the Grand National last year. No wonder Mum and Trev were keen for me to impress our new customer.

Closing the fridge door, I turned back to Mr Gardner and smiled. ‘You’re all stocked for the week, Mr Gardner.’

‘Tim, please. Mr Gardner makes me sound like my father and he’s been dead over twenty years. Look, I don’t suppose you have time for a cuppa? I’ve not long boiled the kettle and it’d be lovely to share it with someone.’

I thought about the stopwatch on my mobile monitoring the precious Sunnyside seconds being wasted in the name of good manners. Sod it. Mum and Trev weren’t to know whether I was delayed by illegal conversations or backed-up traffic caused by a farm tractor.

‘That sounds wonderful.’

He appeared both genuinely shocked and delighted at once. ‘Great. That’s great!’

We sat on stools at the wide kitchen island and I thanked him as he passed me tea in an Emma Bridgewater mug. ‘How long have you been in St Merryn?’ I asked.

‘Four months. My son brokered the deal for me while I was still in California selling my house and wrapping up the business. I sold it for a song,’ he grinned and I found myself grinning back.

My mobile phone began to ring and I glanced at the screen: Trevor Mitchell calling.

Honestly, the nerve of the man! Barely six months with my mum and suddenly he was muscling in on her business. Well, until the odious busybody was paying my wages, he could stick his opinions right up his…

‘So what made you decide to return?’ I asked Tim, even more determined now to smash boring Trev’s seven-point-five minute target.

‘Nostalgia, I suppose. I’m a Cornishman: it was inevitable Kernow would call me back eventually. And I wanted to be close to Ethan, my son. I’ve always loved St Merryn and thanks to the success of my business sale I can finally afford to live here.’

My phone buzzed angrily: New message from Trevor Mitchell.

I ignored it. ‘Well, you have a lovely home.’ Remembering my job, I added, ‘Let me know if there are any changes you’d like to make for next week’s menu. Here’s my number.’

He accepted my business card. ‘Thank you. Hey, I don’t suppose you know anywhere that does old-time ballroom dancing around here, do you? Call it nostalgia but I was remembering my misspent youth today and suddenly had a hankering for a dance. I know The Rialto Ballroom in Truro closed years ago.’

I stared at him, amused. ‘It’s funny you should mention that. One of my other clients showed me a photo of The Rialto this morning.’

‘Well I never. Do you know when it was taken?’

I thought back to my conversation with Mrs C. ‘1951. July, I think.’

His smile vanished. ‘Really? How –strange…’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘Look, I don’t know if this breaks any confidentiality rules but is there any way your customer would lend it to me? Just to have a look?’

I hesitated. ‘I’m not really sure…’ It was Mrs C’s personal memory she had shared with me and I didn’t think I could promise something that wasn’t mine to offer.

‘I’d be really interested to see it again. The time it was taken –Well, it’s uncanny. There’s a reason I loved that place: a very good reason…’

He looked so sad all of a sudden that I felt I had to say something as I rose to leave. ‘Look, I can’t promise anything. But I’ll ask.’

‘That would be wonderful, thank you!’

I thought about the odd coincidence all the way back to Sunnyside HQ. My job has always surprised me but this was something new. Mr Gardner had appeared so startled when I mentioned the date of the photo and that made me wonder if perhaps he had been there at the same time as Mrs C. Would he have seen her there? Or been one of the many young men she had enjoyed dancing with before Canada called her away?

Boring Trev and Mum were waiting with uniform disgust for me as I walked back into the unit. It irked me that Trev was even here, but more that Mum allowed his interference.

‘Mum, Trevor, how lovely to see you!’ I chirped, enjoying the flush of fury this invoked in my not-so-welcoming committee.

‘Cut the attitude,’ Trev snapped, making even Mum stare at him in surprise. ‘You had your orders for the new client and you deliberately disobeyed them.’

‘Excuse me?’ Even for Mum’s horrible boyfriend, this was a step too far. Angrily, I whipped the now crumpled sheet of paper out from my back pocket and brandished it. ‘You mean this? I think you’ll find, Trevor, that this is a suggestion, not an order. It’s a suggestion because you don’t actually work here or employ me, therefore I’m not obliged to obey it whatsoever.’ I turned to Mum. ‘And I would have hoped, Mum, that you would have just a little more faith in your daughter. For your information, I was investing time in our new client in order to ensure he received the best service from Sunnyside and kept ordering from us. I happen to think that’s more important than impressing your boyfriend.’

Mum looked from me to her fuming other half and back. ‘Well, I…I think it’s good to protect our client list…but really the time on your round is quite a bit longer than the other drivers…not that I think you’re doing a bad job, obviously.’

‘Thank you.’ Ignoring the daggers of death Trev was now willing at me with his stare, I calmly handed my clipboard to Mum and walked into the staffroom to collect my things.

The more I considered Mr Gardner’s request that weekend, the more intrigued I became: so much so that by Monday morning I could bear it no longer and took a detour at the end of my round to visit Mrs C.

‘Emily! What a lovely surprise. Come in, dear.’

When we were sitting with china mugs of tea and large slices of homemade ginger cake, I broached the subject of the photograph.

‘I have a favour to ask,’ I began, studying her expression carefully. ‘Last Friday, I went to see a new client who has recently returned to the area and he mentioned The Rialto Ballroom.’

‘Really? How funny.’

‘I know. I said as much to him and then I happened to mention that I’d been shown a photo of it that morning. With hindsight, I realise I shouldn’t have said anything, but it took me by surprise and I mentioned the photograph before I thought better of it. The thing is he reacted very oddly when I told him the date the photo was taken. I think he might have been there the same time as you. And I know I probably shouldn’t ask, but I wondered if I might borrow the photo, just to show it to him?’

Mrs C observed me quietly and stirred her tea.

Instantly, I regretted asking. ‘Obviously if you say no I’ll completely understand,’ I added.

‘How old is this gentleman?’ she asked, her expression giving nothing away.

‘To be quite honest, I don’t know. It’s difficult to tell.’

‘Hmm.’ I watched the silver spoon make several more rotations. ‘The photograph is very precious to me, Emily. When I was in Canada it was the one thing that reminded me of home, of who I really was. Of the life that might be waiting…’ Her eyes were very still, focused a thousand miles away. ‘You have to understand that when I went to Canada I had to become somebody different: someone’s mother, someone’s wife. And for many years, I felt like my life wasn’t my own. Remembering who I’d been in England gave me strength enough to return years later. The photograph was a big part of that.’

Her candidness hit me like a fist to the stomach. I knew she hadn’t had an easy life in Canada but I’d never appreciated how much of herself she’d been asked to give. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Forget I did, OK?’

She shook her head. ‘No, it’s lovely that you asked. I know how precious my memories are: if this gentleman wants to see the photograph to bring back his, I see no reason why he shouldn’t.’ She reached for the photograph album by the side of her armchair, turned its pages and gently removed the picture. ‘There. Take good care of it.’

My hands were shaking as I accepted. ‘Thank you, Mrs C. I promise I will.’

I called Mr Gardner as soon as I returned to my van, but there was no reply. Disappointed, I placed the photograph carefully in my work diary and drove back.

For the next three days, none my attempts to reach Mr Gardner were successful. By Friday, my anticipation was at bursting point and my delivery round seemed to take an age before I was finally driving down the steep streets of St Merryn.

Waiting on the doorstep of his cottage, my heart was thudding against the cardboard box I held. I wanted to see his face when I produced the photograph, excited to see him reunited with a piece of his past.

The door opened and a young man appeared, taking me completely by surprise. It was as if I was meeting Mr Gardner over fifty years ago: his eyes were the same sapphire blue, his frame as tall and his hair as thick, albeit a dark mass of black-brown rather than silver.

‘Hi,’ he smiled, and my world seemed to spin momentarily. ‘You must be the famous Emily. Come in.’

As I shakily entered the hallway, he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Dad! Delivery!’

Tim appeared at the far end of the hall. ‘Ah, Emily! I see you’ve met Ethan. You see, son? I told you she was beautiful.’

Flushed, I hurried past him and began to unpack the meals.

‘I’m sorry I missed your calls,’ Tim said, as Ethan joined us.

‘That’s OK. I have a surprise for you.’ I closed the fridge door, opened my work diary and handed him Mrs C’s photograph.

For a moment, Tim appeared to wobble and Ethan rushed forward to steady his father. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he stared at the photo.

‘Dad?’

‘I’m fine, son. This just takes me back…’ He looked at me. ‘Can I ask the name of the person who gave this to you?’

‘I’m not sure I should say.’

He nodded. ‘Of course. But it looks so familiar. If I didn’t know better I’d swear…’ Slowly, he turned the picture over and closed his eyes. ‘T.W.M.A.’

Ethan and I watched helplessly as Tim’s loud sobs filled the kitchen.

‘What if she says no?’

‘Dad, you can’t think of that. You said it yourself, you had a connection once.’

‘I don’t know. What did you tell her, Emily?’

I smiled at Tim. ‘I said I had a surprise for her and that I was taking her out for afternoon tea.’

Tim Gardner’s face was pale as he hovered in the lobby of the hotel, wringing his hands. ‘I didn’t think she would come. What do I say to her after all these years?’

‘You start with, “Here’s the photograph that I gave you.”’ Ethan grinned at me and I found myself grinning back. Like father, like son…

‘When I handed Genevieve that picture my heart was breaking,’ Tim said, gazing through the glass door that separated him from the girl who walked out of his life sixty-two years ago. ‘She was leaving for Canada the next day. I penciled “T.W.M.A” on the back to remind her I was waiting: Till We Meet Again. I told her to keep it as a reminder of the woman I knew she was.’

I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘She said it was what kept her strong during all those years in Canada. And what made her come home. I think you might have been an important part of that. Why don’t you just go in there, say hello and see what happens?’

His blue eyes glistened as he looked at me. ‘Thank you. For finding the love of my life again.’ Shaking hands with Ethan, he turned, took a deep breath, and walked into the hotel restaurant.

And that’s when I knew: I knew my job was more than time slots and ready meals, more than delivery rounds and menu plans. It was a gift, in the truest sense of the word.

Would Mrs Clements and Mr Gardner rekindle their romance after most of their adult lives spent apart? I couldn’t say for sure. But learning that Genevieve Clements had made the ultimate sacrifice –to leave her sweetheart behind –to do what she thought was right for her family, made me wonder if maybe she had waited all her life to put right the decision she had regretted most.

‘I think they’ll be OK.’

I looked up to see Ethan Gardner smiling at me. ‘I hope so. She might never forgive me for setting her up.’

‘Maybe. But you made Dad smile and I haven’t seen him look that happy for years. I’d take that as a good sign. So, do we wait?’

‘I suppose so.’ I peered through the glass door but couldn’t see their table.

‘Well, I think I should get a coffee while I’m waiting.’ He held out his hand, his blue eyes –so like his father’s –intent on mine. ‘Shall we?’

Heart racing, I reached out and felt his warm fingers close around mine. And as we walked through the doors, I smiled to myself.

I love my job.