A Dozen Second Chances

A Dozen Second Chances

KATE FIELD

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Kate Field 2020

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Kate Field asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008317836

Ebook Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008317829

Version: 2019-11-11

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

About This Book

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

About This Book

This ebook meets all accessibility requirements and standards.

Please be advised this book features the following content warnings and proceed at your own discretion: mental illness and bereavement.

To Catherine Bowdler, for being kind to herself

Chapter 1

Twenty minutes. The train would leave in twenty minutes, and time wouldn’t stop however hard I wished for it.

I looked at Caitlyn, sitting across a table littered with half-drunk coffee cups; caught her surreptitiously sliding her sleeve back down to cover her watch – not for the first time.

‘It will be fine,’ Caitlyn said. ‘No different than when I went on a school trip, only this one will last longer. I won’t be that far away. Nearer than Nan. It hardly takes more than an hour to fly to Paris.’

She would be over five hundred miles away. I’d looked it up. She’d been further on school trips, but they had been finite – a matter of days. Now she was leaving for twelve months, but really, what were the chances of her coming back? Once she’d experienced the glamour of Paris, why would she want to return to rainy Lancashire? And while part of me wept at the thought of losing her, when I had already lost so much, another part cheered her on. I’d had plans to travel once. I knew what it felt like, that heady mix of trepidation and excitement, the belief that the world was storing up opportunities with your name on, waiting to be discovered. I wouldn’t let anything get in the way of her discoveries.

‘Of course it will be fine,’ I said. I knew my allotted lines. We had played out a script all week: me trying to look pleased that Caitlyn was going, Caitlyn trying to look sorry. ‘Freedom! At last!’

I managed a smile. I shouldn’t have come. I should have dropped Caitlyn off at the local station to make her own way, not suggested driving down to Manchester and spending the night there before she caught her train. I had wanted to savour our last minutes together, not realising until now that sometimes a swift goodbye was a far less painful option after all.

‘Freedom for you too,’ Caitlyn said. ‘You could let Rich stay the night, without fear that you’ll corrupt my innocent young mind …’

I made a non-committal noise, trying to disguise my instinctive aversion to that idea. Rich in my bed … his face the first sight of my day … He wouldn’t expect that, would he? I thought we both had the measure of our relationship: it didn’t include whole nights together. Physical intimacies, yes; emotional ones, no. Besides, I’d spent years enjoying my independence. I might now have an empty nest, but filling it with a man wasn’t my idea of freedom.

Fifteen minutes. Caitlyn rummaged in her backpack and brought out a slim package wrapped in blue tissue paper. She held it out to me.

‘I’ve got something for you. It’s not much …’

I unwrapped the paper with deliberate care, eking out the seconds. It fell open to reveal a tiny gift box, and inside that lay a stack of rectangular pieces of card. I studied the top one. It was beautifully illustrated around the border with a variety of my favourite flowers – Caitlyn had inherited Faye’s artistic talent, as well as her looks. In the centre, a calligraphy message read:

BE KIND TO YOURSELF

VOUCHER ONE

I, Eve Roberts, have been kind to myself by …………………………

There were twelve numbered vouchers in total. I looked up at Caitlyn, bewildered.

‘It’s your challenge while I’m away,’ she explained, with a grin that was achingly familiar. ‘You’ve put me first forever. Now it’s your turn. You have to treat yourself, do some things that are purely for you. It doesn’t matter how small it is – even a soak in the bath with some fancy new bubble bath will count. But you have to fill in each voucher and send it to me, to prove you’ve done it. Promise?’

‘Promise,’ I replied, helpless to resist that grin, as I had always been. ‘Thank you.’ I forced myself to check the time. ‘Do you think we should …’

Caitlyn was out of her seat before the sentence was finished, wheeling her suitcase through the crowds to the platform for the London train.

‘We’ll still speak all the time, won’t we?’ she asked, hesitating at the platform barrier, ticket in hand. ‘I mean, I know it’s only Paris, we’re not going to be a million miles apart, but …’

‘Of course we will. You’ll get tired of hearing from me. Now enough of this. You can’t miss your train. Gemma will be waiting. Give me a hug and get on your way. There are amazing times ahead of you!’

I wrapped my arms around her, feeling in our embrace the memory of a lifetime of hugs, from the tiny child around my knees, to the embarrassed teenager, to the young woman who now stood over me. Who knew when the next one would be? Caitlyn was the first to draw back.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said. ‘For everything. I know I haven’t said it, but I do appreciate how much you’ve done.’

I hadn’t done enough. I could never do enough. I shook my head, dismissing such talk.

‘Still Mum?’ I said, though my heart tensed in dread at the possible answer. ‘Would you prefer it to be Eve now?’

‘No.’ Caitlyn lunged forward for a last, desperate hug. ‘You’ll always be Mum. Love you!’

I waited on the concourse, my cheeks aching with a smile she couldn’t see, watching until the last carriage of the train disappeared from sight, and wondered what the hell I was supposed to do with my life now.

*

It was late afternoon by the time I pulled on to the drive of my small, semi-detached house in the market town of Inglebridge in north Lancashire. The early March sun warmed the bricks on the front of the house as the light faded for the day, but I couldn’t help thinking it a cruel illusion: with Caitlyn gone, the inside of the house was going to seem horribly cold and bare. I glanced across the road to my friend Tina’s house, but there was no car on the drive, no sign of life – no chance of going through her front door for a while instead of my own.

The silence hit me as soon as I stepped into the hall. I was used to getting home from work before Caitlyn, and greeting an empty house, but this felt different; the silence was deeper, as if the bricks and mortar joined with me in mourning her absence. Before I’d even taken one step, I’d noticed the changes: her shoes were missing from the usual place by the front door; the peg where she hung her coat was empty; her house keys lay in the bowl on the table, because she had no use for them now. Would this ever feel normal?

The front doorbell rang, and I opened the door to see Tina.

‘I saw you arrive home,’ she said. Of course she did: Tina lived in the dormer bungalow immediately opposite my house, and missed nothing. She had brought over some sandwiches on the day we’d moved in, fourteen years ago, and we had been firm friends ever since. ‘I came to offer tea and sympathy, assuming I can’t tempt you to anything stronger. Forget the healthy living for today – your face says you need alcohol and plenty of it.’

‘That bad?’ I asked.

Tina nodded, without even a decent pause to consider her answer.

‘At least two wine bottles’ worth of bad. It’s what I needed when Liam went off to university. I needed three bottles when he boomeranged back here!’ She laughed. ‘You look like you might burst into tears at any minute. You can’t be on your own.’

‘I was going to come over, but your car wasn’t there.’

‘Graham’s gone to play golf. He’d better get back soon; the kitchen drawer has jammed, and I can’t get it open. It had to be the one with the corkscrew in, didn’t it? I’ve no screw tops left. It’s at times like this I wish my neighbour wasn’t teetotal …’ She grinned, and I laughed.

‘But you do have a neighbour with some basic DIY skills. Let me get my toolbox and I’ll have a look at the drawer.’

‘I was hoping you’d say that. You’re a lifesaver!’

And so was Tina; this was exactly the distraction I needed, as I suspected she well knew. I collected my toolbox from the garage and crossed the road to Tina’s. As soon as she opened the door, I was assaulted by the deep thrum of rock music pervading the house from upstairs; another reminder of what I was going to miss. Tina gave a wry grimace before bellowing up the stairs. ‘Turn that racket down! Eve’s here!’

The music faded by a barely perceptible notch.

‘There! Twenty-four and almost house-trained.’ Tina laughed and looked me up and down. ‘I’ll never get used to this. You look like a Boden model who wandered into the B&Q catalogue by mistake.’ She opened the cupboard under the stairs and plucked a bottle from the pine wine rack tucked away there. ‘I’ll drink your share. No one counts on a Saturday, do they?’

While she was making me a cup of tea, I examined the drawer that was stuck. It was a disappointingly easy job to fix it; something was obviously catching when I tried to open it, but jiggling the drawer wasn’t enough to move it. I’d brought over a metal coat hanger, and inserted this into the gap, manoeuvring it carefully until the contents shifted and I could open the drawer. I removed all the drawers and lubricated the runners while I was at it.

‘You’re better than a husband,’ Tina said, snatching up the corkscrew. ‘Graham would rather have a golf club in his hand than a spanner.’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t mind. I enjoy it.’ More than I’d expected. I’d signed up to lots of basic DIY courses over the years, in a bid both to save money and be self-reliant, but had found a real sense of satisfaction in learning how to identify a problem and to solve it – in some aspects of life, at least.

I followed Tina into the conservatory, a recent addition to the bungalow and her pride and joy. South-facing, and with views across the small patch of garden to the fields beyond, it made the most of the advantage of this side of the street. My garden faced north, and looked out on to Winlow Hill, the highest peak in the area, and one that drew ramblers and tourists to Inglebridge throughout the year. It was a view that I loved; I wouldn’t have switched sides of the street for any money.

‘Did Caitlyn get off okay?’

‘Yes. No delays, no cancellations. Where are leaves on the line when you need them?’ I glanced at my watch. ‘She’ll be in London now. One night at Gemma’s, and then they’ll catch the Eurostar first thing in the morning. They’ll be in Paris by lunchtime.’

‘Lucky them! It makes me wish I’d tried harder at languages at school. I’d have given my eye teeth to have had the chance to drop everything and work in Paris when I was twenty, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes.’ I gazed out through the conservatory windows, seeing nothing. I remembered too clearly how, at twenty, the world had seemed there for the taking; remembered the plans built on excitement rather than practicality, to travel the globe, to take part in ground-breaking archaeological digs across the continents. It had all been so possible, so tangible. But at twenty-one, my world had shrunk; it had all become impossible.

Tina must have read something on my face, as she stretched across and rubbed my hand.

‘Sorry. Me and my big gob. I didn’t mean …’

‘I know, it’s fine.’ I clutched my mug between my hands. ‘Sometimes life doesn’t take you where you hoped it would. Better a different life than none at all. I’m the lucky one.’ I sipped my tea, mentally pushing away the guilt that threatened to roll in like the mist over Winlow Hill.

‘Are you meeting Rich tonight? Is he taking you out to cheer you up?’

Tina’s attempt to lighten the mood wasn’t a huge success.

‘It’s his access weekend. His children are staying so I won’t see him.’ Despite my best efforts, there was more relief in my voice than regret. ‘Maybe we’ll go out during the week.’

‘You can do what you like now, can’t you? Life begins at almost forty! You’re lucky to have an empty nest while you still have the energy to take advantage of it. What plans do you have?’

‘Nothing special …’ And then I remembered Caitlyn’s parting gift, and I pulled the box of vouchers out of my bag to show Tina. ‘Although Caitlyn has made me these, and I promised to do twelve things to be kind to myself …’

‘Ooh, aren’t they pretty? She should sell these. I’d buy some.’ Tina inspected the cards. ‘Have you thought of anything yet?’

I shook my head.

‘I know the perfect thing to set you off,’ Tina said, reaching for her iPad. ‘Are you free next Thursday night?’

‘Maybe …’

‘I saw this advertised on my Facebook group for history teachers this morning. There’s a talk on Thursday night at a private school in Yorkshire about the Romans in Britain.’

‘A history talk? That sounds more like being kind to you,’ I said, smiling.

Tina laughed. ‘Hang on, I’m getting to your bit. The talk is a two-hander with a historian and an archaeologist speaking.’

I sipped my tea, feeling the first stirrings of disquiet. It was foolish – irrational. How many thousands of archaeologists must there be across the country? There was no reason to think it would be him …

‘Here we go,’ Tina continued, tapping at the iPad screen. ‘Jeremy Swann is the historian – you might not have heard of him, but he’s written some interesting books about life in Roman Britain. That’s your favourite time, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I said, when Tina paused for breath. It had been my favourite time. In the days when archaeology hadn’t only been about the past, but my future. Our future.

‘And they’ve done well to get this archaeologist,’ Tina continued. ‘He’s been on the telly – did you see that programme, Travels Through Time? Paddy Friel’s his name. Have you heard of him?’

Paddy Friel … My head began to spin. I put down my mug.

‘I’ll find you a photo. That’ll convince you to come with me.’ Tina laughed and swiped the iPad screen. ‘Here you go. Don’t tell me it’s not being kind to yourself to gaze at him for an hour …’

Tina held the iPad up towards me. A man’s profile filled the screen: a familiar face, if older than when I had last studied it in such detail, from the cleft in his chin, to the dark curls that tumbled around his face, still slightly too long for practicality. I thought I’d set aside my feelings many years ago, but as I stared at the picture, the emotions revived, flashing through my head like a spinning fairground ride: a dizzying blur of love, disappointment, hatred and anger.

‘He’s no expert on the Romans,’ I said. I turned away from the photo. Those twinkling eyes stirred too many memories, the good memories, not the bad. I didn’t want to remember those. ‘He was always more interested in the Vikings.’

And in himself – no subject was closer to Paddy Friel’s heart than Paddy Friel.

‘You know him?’ Tina looked more impressed than Paddy deserved. She smiled. ‘You’re a dark horse. How well do you know him? Academically or Biblically?’

‘Both, once. It was all over a long time ago.’

‘Blimey.’ Tina goggled at me. ‘I wasn’t serious. But, really? You had a thing with Paddy Friel? How could you not have mentioned that before?’

‘Because I’d rather forget all about him. I certainly don’t want to meet him again.’

Tina hesitated, tapping her iPad screen with her nail.

‘You won’t meet him. We can sit at the back and sneak out as soon as it ends. There’s coffee and biscuits afterwards, but we don’t need to stay for that. Come on, I don’t want to go on my own. And what about these?’ Tina pointed at the pile of ‘Be Kind to Yourself’ vouchers. ‘This is a perfect example of what Caitlyn had in mind. It’s time to start thinking of yourself again, and what you want to do. Archaeology was once your passion. You’ve no excuse not to pursue it now. You definitely can’t let some bloke put you off going to something that would interest you.’

Not just some bloke … but still, as I looked down at Caitlyn’s vouchers, a prickle of life stirred within me. I had loved archaeology once, had been fascinated by the opportunity to literally unearth traces of lives lived thousands of years ago. The Romans had been my favourite area of study. And why shouldn’t I attend a talk on them, even if Paddy Friel would be there? He was nothing to me now, and he would have long forgotten me. The time when he, or any man, had any influence over my actions was long gone.

‘You’re right,’ I said, picking up the vouchers. ‘My first act of kindness. I’ll go to the lecture, and no one will stop me.’ I laughed. ‘Paddy who?’

Chapter 2

Paddy Friel. Or Nigel Patrick Friel, to give him his full name, the name that only people who had known him in infant school days would know. And me – because once I had known him inside out, understood every shift and sigh of his body, comprehended every turn and contemplation of his mind. Until adversity hit, and I discovered that the man I thought I had known and loved was a sham in substance as well as in name.

We had met in our first year at university, both students of archaeology, but inhabiting very different social groups. He was part of the crowd of beautiful people, the sort of group my sister Faye would have naturally belonged to, but which was far out of my league. I’d noticed him at once – impossible not to, with those glossy dark curls, confident swagger, and the Irish accent that I only discovered much later was an exaggerated version of his real voice. Despite the small number of students on our course, I would have put money on him not knowing that I existed.

But then, in the third term of my first year, as I had wandered back to the halls of residence laden down with supermarket carrier bags that scored the flesh on my fingers, a shove in the back had knocked me to the ground, sending eggs smashing to the pavement and tins of baked beans rolling into the road. A hooded man had crouched over me, with a knife in his hand, and I had been too frozen with terror to react. And then, like a dark descending angel, Paddy Friel had appeared and knocked my assailant out of the way, making him run off. Paddy had picked up my shopping, escorted me back to my room and stayed with me until the police arrived. He had wiped away my tears, made me countless drinks, talked to me and, above all else, he had simply been there for me when I needed him.

Later that night, he had insisted that I join him at the local pub for a drink, determined that I had to leave my room again before the fear took hold and kept me prisoner. The next morning he had waited outside my halls to walk me to our lecture, and that had been the beginning of everything …

The memories swept relentlessly through my head as I drove through Inglebridge on my way to pay my regular Sunday visit to my grandmother, Phyllis. She had moved into the local nursing home, The Chestnuts, eight years ago, after her first hip replacement, and had loved it so much that she never moved out again. It was a not-for-profit home, where fees were low, happiness levels high, and the staff were universally kind to the old people in their care. Gran thrived on living there, and at eighty-seven, showed no sign of leaving any time soon.

The Chestnuts occupied an old manor house, extended several times as funds allowed, and as usual I found Gran basking in the sun in the large conservatory, a pile of magazines at her side. She smiled as I approached, and I relaxed, all thoughts of Paddy Friel effectively banished. With Caitlyn’s recent departure, and Mum having been settled on the Costa Brava for the last sixteen years, Gran was the only family I had left. I had never been so glad to see her.

‘Hello, Gran,’ I said, bending to kiss her soft cheek, and resting my head against hers for a moment too long. ‘You’re looking well.’

‘You’re looking thin,’ she said, never one to mince words. ‘Are you overdoing the exercise again? There’ll be nowt left of you by Christmas at this rate. I’ll be mistaking you for the turkey wishbone. You want plenty of best butter, chips cooked in dripping, and a good supply of gin. How else do you think I made it to my age?’

‘Certainly not by flattering your nearest and dearest.’ I laughed and pulled up a chair beside her. ‘I don’t know whether I should give you these biscuits now …’

‘All-butter shortbread?’ I nodded. They were her favourites; I brought them every week. Woe betide if I produced anything else. ‘I’ll ring for tea.’

Gran pressed a button on the plastic emergency necklace she wore and shortly afterwards an exasperated carer bustled in. She took one look at me and rolled her eyes.

‘You know the story of the boy who cried wolf, don’t you?’ she grumbled, but with a smile of undoubted affection. ‘One of these days there’ll be a real emergency and we won’t come. I suppose you’ll be wanting tea.’

‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ Gran said.

‘It beats some of the jobs I have to do round here …’

‘You shouldn’t take advantage,’ I said, when the carer had wandered off on her mission. ‘This isn’t a hotel.’

‘Nonsense. I’m one of the least demanding ones in here. You should hear what Mr Jacobs asks them to do. No one wants to be on rota to give him a bed bath …’