The Secret Art of Forgiveness: A feel good romance about coming home and moving on

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?

Chapter Three

‘He’s a lot worse than I thought. We need to get some regular paid help. Or move him into a home.’

Yes. That’s what she’d say to Tam and Tilda. Firmly and politely as if she were pitching for a new account. Someone needed to take control here and it looked as if it was going to be Emily, whether she liked it or not. All in a week.

Then, when they got back from Paris, she’d be able to leave knowing she’d done her bit. ‘We can use his retirement money. He worked hard all his life, so there must be lots, right? How do we get the ball rolling on this one?’ That’s how she’d pitch it.

After a woeful night’s sleep she was lying in her old single bed staring up at the ceiling, and planning. It was five-thirteen in the morning and the first fingers of daylight were creeping through the ill-fitting, faded, white-and-pink floral curtains – still the same ones as when she’d spent many, many hours sitting here plotting her escape the first time around. The pale-blue wallpaper hadn’t changed either.

Although, now the room had the addition of a strategically placed bucket under what appeared to be a crack in the ceiling. Thank goodness it hadn’t rained overnight. The hole explained the fetid damp smell, and clearly the room hadn’t been used as anything much since she’d left.

They’d removed all trace of her, though. Her boy-band posters had gone, the clothes she hadn’t had room for in her bag when she’d hurriedly packed and tiptoed out in the early hours of that July morning. Her duvet – the one her mum had bought her the Christmas before she died – gone. Now it was just another box room in a house full of empty spaces.

She pulled back the curtains and at the same time heard a beep. Her phone! Back to life! She reached into her bag, which she’d left by the window, and found one lonely blob in the top corner of the phone display.

‘Yay! Reception! Hello, world! I’m here! Anyone? Someone!’ She crawled back into bed and settled herself to read.

The blob disappeared.

‘No. No, no, no! Come back. This is like an end-of-the-world zombie movie and I’m the only survivor. Is there anybody out there?’ She crawled out from under the duvet again and stood by the window. One blob! Clearly phone reception only worked in this corner of the room.

She scanned through her messages – none from Brett, she noticed with disappointment. Timing meant he was probably asleep. She’d call him later and explain again why she was here and see if he understood. Which was probably a fruitless idea, really, because she didn’t wholly understand her need to be here herself.

There was a noise outside, below her room. A thud. Two.

What the hell? Emily held her breath, wondering what to do.

Then she heard the creak of the big front door and voices.

Strange.

Was The Judge up and about already? Who was he talking to?

‘Judge? Judge, is that you?’ she called out. Then clamped her lips together. What if it wasn’t The Judge?

Myriad horror scenes flooded her head.

‘Too many zombie movies, you stupid cow,’ she whispered, as she crept out of bed and tiptoed down the two flights of stairs. ‘It’ll be fine. Just a cat… or something.’

Investigating the noise was a sure-fire way of meeting a grisly end. But what else could she do?

There was a definite chill in the air, as if someone had let a gust of snow through the house, and muffled voices coming from the kitchen. She followed them.

Through the crack in the door she could see The Judge, dressed in a flimsy, overlarge, collared shirt that would have given his Savile Row tailors nightmares, and ancient khaki shorts. Another man had his back to the door, but from what she could see he was very tall with short hair, and dressed all in black. Like a cat burglar.

Who the heck was he? And why was he here at this time in the morning? Her fists curled by her sides.

If this was someone taking advantage of a confused old man she’d throw everything she had at them. She looked down at her empty hands. She wouldn’t be much of a threat like this. Glancing around, she found an old boot by the door, which she picked up ready to fling if necessary, and another bucket, sitting underneath yet another crack in the ceiling. The whole house seemed to be about to crumble.

‘Judge? What’s going on?’ She strode into the room, aware that she probably didn’t look terribly menacing in her sparkly I heart New York T-shirt and Daisy Duke Denim shorts, brandishing a single, moss-green wellington boot – but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. She snarled at the stranger’s back. ‘Who are you?’

‘I might ask you the very same thing.’ The man turned around and stared at her – a long, slow burn taking in her bed hair and T-shirt, her legs, which incidentally felt pretty naked – his eyes widened. Suspicion curled around his tone.

And, whoa. Not a cat burglar at all, but a tall, quite broad man who looked like an extra from a James Bond movie with his all-black get-up outlining honed muscles, and short, mussed-up, blond hair.

She wasn’t scared by him. She probably should have been, but she wasn’t. He was trespassing, after all, not her. ‘I’m Emi – actually, what has it got to do with you?’

His voice was stone. ‘Judge Evans is a friend of mine and I’ve never seen you before. Who are you?’

Hey, she was family not him. ‘I’m his… er… daughter.’

‘No, you’re not. I know Matilda and Tamara and you’re neither of them. Believe me, I’d have remembered meeting you.’ And he didn’t mean that in a good way if the frown over his penetrating blue eyes was anything to go by.

They made her feel just a little on edge. Okay, a lot on edge. ‘I’m Emily. The one no one mentions.’