One Good Thing, page 33
I shook my head, feeling the tears prickling my eyelashes.
‘The thing is, I don’t think she can. You know, I still write to her, even though she never replies. I send emails about what I’m doing and where I am. It makes feel close to her; it makes me feel like I haven’t given up—’ I broke off, realizing how stupid I must sound.
Valentine hadn’t said anything the whole time I’d been talking. He just listened. But now he reached his bandaged hand across the table and placed it on mine.
‘Sometimes it’s easier to be lost than it is to be found.’
I raised my eyes to see he was looking at me, with that steady, solid gaze of his.
‘That’s how I felt when you waved at me that day in the window. After Gisele went into care, I didn’t want to see anyone or do anything. I wanted to disappear. But then you came along with Harry and you pushed your way in, with your persistence and bloody cheerfulness.’
He smiled then, which made me smile, and raised his eyebrows.
‘Have you ever wanted to disappear?’
‘Yes,’ I nodded, remembering how I felt after my marriage broke down and I left London. ‘Yes, I have.’
‘Well then, don’t worry. She’ll be in touch when she’s ready. It’s like that bird feeder I made you.’
‘You mean the one that no birds have found yet?’ I said ruefully, but his gaze didn’t waver.
‘Be patient. They’ll come.’
Downstairs in the kitchen the kettle flicks off and I pour boiling water into the small stainless-steel flask. As the teabags steep, I reach for my coat hanging over the back of the chair and the packet of mince pies I bought when I was in town. I know I should try to make my own, but I also know I can never make shortcrust pastry to rival M&S’s. Popping a couple in my deep pockets, I add a splash of milk to the flask, making sure to fish out the teabags. I’ve learned my lesson.
Afterwards Valentine told me it was only years later that he learned Gisele had known of his affair, but had chosen not to say anything. When he asked her why she had stayed and not left him – why she had chosen to forgive and trust him again – she’d simply replied that she loved him and knew he loved her, and that love was always worth the risk. Which made me think how often the hardest person to forgive is yourself.
It was then that I told him why my marriage ended. Valentine had never asked me, but it felt dishonest to keep it from him, when we’d been so honest with each other. At the mention of David’s affair, he looked upset and asked me if I was disappointed in him, and I said of course not and told him what Josie once told me: that the same story is different for everyone. You just have to live the one that’s right for you.
I find Valentine sitting on Helen’s bench, to which he’s added a dedication to Gisele. I take a seat beside him as Harry beats his legs with his tail, overjoyed to see his friend again. I think how simple life is for Harry, and how complicated we humans make our own lives.
‘It’s cold – I thought you might want some tea.’ Producing the flask, I unscrew the lid and pour him a cup. ‘Don’t worry, I took out the teabag,’ I add, passing it to him, along with a mince pie that I fish out of my pocket.
‘Thanks, love.’ He smiles at the gesture and moves his umbrella so that we can both shelter underneath it. Pouring the hot, steaming liquid into an extra cup, I settle myself next to him, looking out across the graveyard, watching the dusk falling quickly.
‘Will he know about me yet?’
He doesn’t need to explain that he’s talking about the child he’s discovered he fathered. Both of us have thought of nothing else.
‘He could, yes.’ I admit, feeling the weight of responsibility. My breath exhales and I go over my thought process from the last few days. ‘But the likelihood is he probably hasn’t logged into his account for ages. DNA tests were popular Christmas presents a few years ago – my ex and I got them, though it didn’t throw up any surprises . . . My ex-husband was very disappointed he wasn’t royalty, either.’
I try to make a joke, but we both know how serious it is and Valentine nods, absorbing the information.
‘I imagine a lot of people have forgotten about them. Plus, even if he does remember, he won’t be able to identify you.’
‘But I saw his photograph.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t upload one of you or use your real name—’
‘I’m not ashamed of him, he’s my son.’ He cuts me off and turns to me, his jaw set determinedly.
‘No, I know.’
‘And I don’t want to try to forget the past. If Gisele’s disease taught me anything, it’s that.’ Shaking his head, he gestures towards the small garden of remembrance where Gisele’s ashes are scattered, his voice quietly filled with resolve. ‘That’s why I came here today. I owed it to her to tell her first . . . I want to contact him.’
I listen, but don’t say anything.
‘But I don’t want to cause any trouble. He might not want to know me. Not after all these years. So I was thinking . . .’
He doesn’t finish the sentence. For a moment it hangs there as he raises his eyes to mine.
‘Will you?’
Like with so many momentous choices in life, it’s made without fanfare. And as Valentine’s words disappear into the darkness, we remain there, sitting on the bench, savouring hot tea and sweet pastry. Lost in our thoughts of what’s to come, being lulled by the soft pattering of the rain on a pink polka-dot umbrella.
The Grand Opening
‘This place looks amazing! I wouldn’t recognize it!’
With her arms flung wide, Naomi is racing through every room in the house, showering me with compliments and exclaiming at every detail. ‘I love that old French chandelier in the kitchen. Are those gorgeous paintings the ones we found in the shed? Oh, wow, I can’t believe it’s the same garden!’ Her enthusiasm is exactly the reaction you want from a friend, whether it’s in response to a new hairstyle, or a dress, or a house renovation. Though in my case, it’s all three.
‘Danny, come look at Liv’s roll-top bath,’ she cries, bounding into the guest bedroom where her fiancé lies, dozing on the bed before we get ready to go out. ‘She found it in a field. It used to be a water trough for the cows! You’re gonna love it.’
‘Babe, do you have to emote so loudly?’ I hear him groan, before minutes later dutifully appearing at the doorway of the bedroom to inspect it.
It’s the dance tonight, to mark the opening of the village hall, and they’ve travelled up from London to stay for the weekend. Ellie has come too and Ben was right about converting the attic. She couldn’t have been more excited to discover her bed under the eaves, which I’ve strung with fairy lights, and is now firmly ensconced up there with Harry. The last time I looked, she was playing hairdressers and Harry was sitting there obediently, having his fur brushed and plaited.
‘You know, maybe we should get married here,’ Danny is saying now. It’s his first visit to the Yorkshire Dales, and earlier he caused quite a stir as he walked around the village dressed in his leather jacket, bandana and sunglasses. Sunglasses in December. I think Sheila at the post office thought he was Bono. ‘Hire a field, get some yurts, put on a music festival.’
‘Now who’s emoting?’ laughs Naomi. ‘Not sure I can imagine my parents in a yurt.’
‘They must be pleased about the engagement,’ I say.
‘That I’m finally going to be respectable?’ Naomi rolls her eyes and sighs. ‘Still, I suppose if it makes them happy, and their church-group happy.’
‘Are we going to be respectable?’ says Danny, slipping his hand around her waist and making her smile.
Which is lovely to see, as Naomi has always had such a tough time with her parents, though I can imagine Danny might not be quite the son-in-law they’re imagining.
‘No, you’re right, this place is amazing,’ he’s saying now in admiration, looking over at me. ‘Total respect, Liv.’ With his free hand he gives me a fist-bump.
‘Thanks.’ I laugh with embarrassment as I fist-bump him back.
‘And I’m not just talking about the house and garden, when I say I don’t recognize it,’ adds Naomi. ‘Remember when I told you that life was going to get bigger and better?’
My mind flicks back to that moment, standing outside my old house in London, feeling like life was over. It seems so long ago, and yet I can still conjure it up in a heartbeat.
‘See, I’m always right,’ she says pointedly at Danny.
‘Yes, she is,’ I nod and he groans good-naturedly, which makes us all laugh.
But what no one tells you is that the darkest moments make you look for the light. And I looked for it and found it.
We get ready for the dance in a haze of hair spray and high spirits, and as we step out into the night there’s a veritable feeling of festivity. The air has that crisp coldness that makes your breath appear like cobwebs, and the village has been decorated for Christmas. A large trimmed tree shimmers in the cobbled square and warm white fairy lights are strung across the lane leading to the top of the village.
The sounds of the band warming up are wafting into the darkness, and up ahead the village hall is lit up. Earlier an army of volunteers draped a banner across the front with the words ‘Grand Opening’ painted by the local primary school, while others erected ladders against the old oak tree that grows in front of the hall and hung garlands of carnival lights in the branches. The effect is magical.
‘It looks like the Faraway Tree,’ whispers Ellie, her voice heavy with excitement as we pick our way across the cobbles. I’m usually always wearing wellies, but now I tiptoe carefully, trying not get the kitten heels of my slingback stilettos stuck.
‘You’re right, it does,’ says Naomi. ‘I wonder where it’s going to take us?’
‘Back to the 1950s,’ quips Danny as he smooths a hand over his quiff, which is set rock-hard with sugar and water.
Danny has gone full Teddy boy, in a dark suit with drainpipe trousers. Naomi is resplendent in a canary-yellow tea dress, cinched at her tiny waist, with a full skirt and netted petticoats. They look like two exotic birds, cooing and chattering in the darkness, as they hold Ellie’s hands and swing her between them.
Meanwhile I’ve taken my inspiration from an old photograph that I found of my mum, the one where I think she looks like Audrey Hepburn, and have worn my hair up in a French pleat, with red lips, black eyeliner and pearl-button earrings. I’m wearing an original fifties swing coat and a black satin dress that I found in one of the vintage shops in town. The owner informed me it was called a ‘wiggle dress’, as that’s how the pencil skirt makes you walk. I mentioned that it wasn’t the walking I was worried about so much; it was the dancing, but she assured me that’s what the split up the back was for.
Plus the dress looked and felt fabulous, and after a lifetime spent putting practicality first, I took a leaf out of Harry’s guide to life and put fun first. One thing’s for sure: it won’t be long before I find out what it’s like to dance in it, as the first person I see when we walk inside is Valentine.
‘You’re early!’
‘Well, I didn’t want to keep my date waiting.’ He beams, taking my coat and handing it to the one of volunteer cloakroom assistants. ‘And don’t you look grand!’
‘So do you. Love the suit. Very sharp. Is it vintage?’
‘Aye, like its owner,’ he laughs and holds out his elbow for me to take.
I smile gratefully. He knows how nervous I am about tonight and, slipping my arm through his, we walk inside.
We’re early, but there are quite a few people here already, mingling around on the edges of the dance floor, which are lined with chairs, just like they used to be in traditional dance halls. A small pop-up bar is serving beers and Babycham and Cherry Bs, a cherry-flavoured drink that comes in little bottles and was all the rage in the 1950s. That’s according to quite a few of the elderly villagers who, on discovering news of the dance, were more than happy to help with the research. Margaret, who lives in one of new retirement flats, has even donated several bottles of Advocaat and is on hand to make Snowballs.
‘The place looks wonderful.’
‘Isn’t it amazing!’
‘What a transformation!’
As we make our way across the dance floor I catch snippets of conversation and people’s eyes, and am greeted with nods and smiles and waves of hello as they come over to offer their congratulations on tonight and the opening of the village hall. Though really we all end up congratulating each other, as it’s been such a team effort.
‘Evelyn, you look marvellous!’
Spotting her by the bar, I go to kiss her on the cheek and get a mouthful of her feather boa. She seems to have missed the memo and appears to be dressed for the Roaring Twenties.
‘So much better than a raffle,’ she beams, sipping a Babycham.
Music is being piped through the speakers as we wait for the band to go onstage. It’s set with a drum kit, a double bass and the hall’s original stand-up piano, which has been retuned and wheeled in against the silver curtain that is serving as a backdrop. Apparently we had it in storage from when they last put on a production of The Wizard of Oz and it’s been cleaned and retuned. All part of Evelyn’s recycling and sustainability programme, of course.
As the hall begins to fill up, it buzzes with the sound of laughter and merriment and I get a warm glow of satisfaction at seeing it all finally come together – and the local community too. I never would have believed it when I moved here, less than a year ago, but this tiny village, which once seemed so full of strangers, is now filled with all my friends.
And I feel something else: a sense of belonging. I’ve moved around such a lot in life and, while I was happy when I lived in London, now I know what people mean when they talk about feeling like they’ve come home.
That’s not to say I’m not as nervous as hell. There’s so much riding on tonight. I don’t want anything to go wrong. As Valentine goes to get me a Cherry B to calm my butterflies, I watch the tiny lights swirling around the room and gaze up at the glitter ball above my head. Well, it wouldn’t be a dance without a glitter ball, would it?
‘The band’s coming on,’ says Valentine, as he returns with our drinks, and I look over to see them walking onto the stage. Dressed in matching red jackets with Brylcreemed hair, they take up their positions. I gulp back my Cherry B, feeling the fizz of alcohol and anticipation.
‘Do you think we’ve done enough practise?’
During the past week we met up to run through the steps. Valentine had put together a routine and we rehearsed it a few times. Still, I can’t remember the last time I was this jittery.
‘We’ll soon find out.’
As the first chords strike up, he grabs me by my hand.
‘Right, we’re on.’
Quickstep. Slow dance. Jive. Swing.
Oh, wow, I’m having so much fun. The band is amazing. Brilliant, in fact. They blast out tunes, and any nerves or fears vanish into thin air as Valentine expertly underarm-twirls, swivels and dips me. Plus the lady in the shop was right: who knew you could move so freely in a pencil skirt? The dance floor quickly fills up. I soon realize that my generation, and younger, don’t know how to dance.
White-haired locals that I’ve seen wheeling shopping trolleys and strolling along the river with walking poles are bouncing, kicking and swinging their partners around with the kind of energy and fancy footwork that could rival anything I’ve seen on Strictly. And I’m talking about the professional dancers, not the contestants.
High on adrenaline and filled with exhilaration, we dance to one hit after another and, believe it or not, I don’t trip over once. 1-2-3-and-4-5-and-6. As the band blasts out one boppy melody after the other, we lift our knees and rock our hips, and all the while I’m trying desperately to stay in time. Rock step. Chassé to the left. Chassé to the right. Pretty soon I’m exhausted – unlike Valentine, who’s been practising for weeks with a chair in the garage. Apparently old habits die hard.
Breathlessly I make my apologies: I’m going to have to sit a few out. Though I needn’t have worried. No sooner do I find my seat than he’s swooped upon by the legion of widows who live in the village; older, spirited ladies who are perfectly happy being single and independent, with no one but themselves to cook and clean for, but who just for one evening would really like a man to dance with.
With his fancy footwork and underarm twirls, Valentine is in high demand and I watch him doing the Lindy Hop, thinking about how different he is now from when I first met him, and not only in terms of his fitness. I know how much he misses Gisele – it should have been her that he was dancing with tonight – but it gives me a swell of happiness to see how much he’s valued by everyone. People have been asking if he’ll teach some decorating classes and I think it’s a great idea, though Valentine said in that case he’ll need a new jotter pad. Which I didn’t quite understand, but anyway he looked really pleased.
‘Maya, hi – you made it!’
I spot her pink hair first, as it emerges through the crowd.
‘Yeah, uni broke up. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
It’s swept up in a high ponytail and she’s wearing a full skirt and trainers. She looks like a pink-haired Sandy from Grease.
‘Well, if it wasn’t for you starting the crowdfunder.’
‘Oh, it was nothing.’ She bats it away. ‘My parents said they’d come by later, when Mum’s finished her shift.’
‘Great! Though you might end up having to dance with your dad,’ I warn.
‘I am never dancing with my dad!’ Maya laughs and pulls a horrified expression.
‘Well, there’s not that many men here – the women seem to be outnumbering them.’
‘I’ve brought my own dance partner.’
‘You have?’
I turn then and shriek as I spot Will resembling a blond Danny Zuko.
