Louisa George – The Secret Art of Forgiveness: A feel good romance about coming home and moving on (страница 6)
No taxis. No service. No sister, step or otherwise, to meet and greet. No one.
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 –
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
‘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.