Forgive Me Not Page 3

  ‘Have you fallen out?’

  She focused on the last mouthful of sponge. ‘Joe is only two years younger than me.’

  ‘He done a runner?’

  ‘No.’ Almost.

  ‘He’s thinking about it then?’

  ‘London,’ she replied in a flat voice. ‘He’s stopped coming back every night.’ There. She’d said it without crying. Emma’s friendship wasn’t enough to keep him in Manchester, and that thought fuelled her thirst more than anything else.

  A few days ago, Joe had announced his thoughts about a new start after… Emma swallowed… after more than just a kiss. It had been his twenty-second birthday. They’d both been out of it. Emma had lit a candle. Stuck it in an empty bottle. Said that in a fantasy world she’d bake him the most amazing chocolate peanut butter cake. He’d held her tight. Said she knew him so well. Then she’d done her best to sing him ‘Happy Birthday’. She’d never reached the end. Their lips had collided. Their hands explored. She’d thought it felt so right, but just as things were progressing, he’d pulled back and now was more distant than ever. Why was it so wrong?

  Joe was the first person in ages who’d made her feel normal, with their chats about telly and their visits to the canal. They both loved Jammie Dodgers and told each other when they had bad breath. They were movie fanatics and enjoyed casting friends into film. Tony was Harry Potter’s Hagrid.

  Beth rolled her eyes. ‘You can’t leave your head behind and that’s the whole problem with leaving. It doesn’t achieve anything.’

  Emma shrugged.

  Beth pushed her tray away and her hands hugged the steaming cup of coffee. ‘So where you sleeping when he isn’t around?’

  ‘Not alone in that building. I go out, move around, keep to the street lights and CCTV cameras, walking, hoping no one will try to steal my stuff. I’ll snatch a kip during the day if I can, somewhere busy.’ Emma sighed. ‘I don’t need to tell you what it’s like. I kept with Marta for a couple of nights last week – until her fella came back.’

  ‘The one who beat her up?’ Beth snorted. ‘There’s no helping some people.’

  They looked at each other. Gave wry smiles.

  ‘Well, if your boy does leave, stick with me if you like,’ she said. ‘I’ve found a decent place under a railway bridge. We haven’t been moved on yet, and we pull together when strange faces turn up.’

  Emma stopped eating for a second. ‘Cheers, Beth. That’d be good.’ Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. But it might. Joe was a special person. Everyone’s friend. Sometimes she wondered why he’d stuck with her this long.

  ‘Shower’s vacant. Just ask for a towel,’ hollered one of the kitchen workers.

  ‘Guess I’d better have one,’ said Beth. ‘Get meself a bit of dignity. Yesterday a little lad told me I smelt like his dad’s compost heap.’ The brassy edge left her face for a second. ‘He was right. And I could do with some new clothes – jeans, underwear…’

  ‘My missus always wore nice undies. Loved Marks and Spencer, she did,’ said Tony, and stared at his tea.

  ‘Bet you liked them an’ all,’ said Beth with a grin.

  ‘She looked right classy whatever she wore.’ He looked up. ‘My missus would make a bin liner look like the Duchess of Cambridge’s latest clobber.’

  ‘Show us your photo again,’ said Emma gently.

  Like a young lad sharing football cards, he eagerly zipped open the inner pocket of his rucksack. He held firmly onto the photo as he showed it to them.

  ‘Took it myself,’ he said, ‘a couple of years ago on her sixtieth birthday.’

  It was creased down the middle, with a stain on the right. Both flaws conveyed his post-mortem love. His life had fallen apart after she died. Emma gazed at the woman looking back at her. The slight tilt of the head that hinted she was shy. The smile that said: I can’t say cheese for much longer. The eyes that promised: but for you, I’ll try.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ said Emma.

  ‘How did you manage to hook her?’ said Stig, giving Tony’s shoulder a playful push.

  ‘Often asked myself the same question,’ he said, and sat just a little bit taller.

  ‘Wotcha got there, Tone?’ asked a phlegm-filled Mancunian accent. A young man with tattooed fingers, in a torn anorak, snatched the photo away. ‘Ooh, bet she was a right goer in her day.’

  ‘Give that back,’ shouted Tony, and lunged at the thief. They fell to the ground. The tattooed man laughed. They fought on the floor, Tony’s arms flailing as if he were drowning, despite his large build. The scuffle continued until Stig managed to drag Tony away just before Emma got stuck in.

  Staff threw out all three men, not sure who had started the fight. Desperately Tony knocked at the window and pointed to the ground.

  Emma looked to Beth for help, but she’d disappeared into the shower. She dropped to her knees. Looked under the table. Scoured the floor.

  Finally she found the photo, almost torn in half, just by the front door. Tony hovered by the entrance, gazing skywards as it started to snow – small flakes at first that rapidly morphed into featherweight sugar cubes. With a shaking hand, he took the snap from Emma. Stared at it for a few seconds. Put it back in his pocket. Emma leant forward. Smoothed down his wild hair.

  She went back into the dining room and sat, elbows on the table, head in her hands. Bing Crosby’s voice floated across the room, inspiring images of blazing fires, excited children, and gifts wrapped under a spruce. Would she and Joe ever share a Christmas like that? She had to stop him leaving. Had to make him see that they were perfect for each other.

  ‘Shower’s free again, chickie,’ said Beth as she sat down beside her, rubbing her hair vigorously with a towel. It would have caught fire if it was kindling.

  ‘Not today. See ya later.’ Emma left and headed to the nearest newsagent. She needed something stronger than coffee to help her formulate a plan.

  Chapter 4

  Emma opened her eyes and stretched out on the barn floor. Dash nudged her nose. Of course, she was at Foxglove Farm. Her watch said half past five. The sun did its best to raise her mood. She’d spent a restless night listening to owls and feeling the familiar ache in her bones from sleeping on a hard floor.

  ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from the past year, Dash, there’s no point tying myself up in knots over something I can’t change,’ she said, sitting up and staring into his loyal eyes. Despite that, however, she still wished she could stay. She ran her hand across his forehead and behind his ears, and he tilted his head so that she could scratch the right spot. Then she meditated for several minutes, focusing on the morning countryside sounds that slid through the window crack. Once again, routine, routine, routine.

  In front of the sink, she turned on the taps. The water ran cold. She pulled a small towel out of her rucksack and stood in her underwear. She washed her face and armpits, running a thumb across the smooth skin. When she was twelve, it had been Andrea, not busy Mum, who’d taught her to shave, declaring that hair removal cream was messy and smelt like Dash after he’d broken wind.

  She examined her nails, glad to see that the pale polish wasn’t chipped. She thought back to her group therapy and the transformation she and her new friends had undergone. Some had lost weight and got fit. Others had gained much-needed pounds. They’d got new hairstyles, too. Hers was bobbed now, and a light natural brown.

  She pulled on shorts and a baggy T-shirt and packed her belongings before heading outside. With relish she breathed in the smell of manure and damp grass. Images came to mind of her and Bligh underneath the weeping willow. They’d been to an eighteenth birthday party in the village. It was shortly after he’d asked her out, and they were getting used to being more than friends. Sparks? As time passed Emma wondered just how many of those bubbly feelings for him had come out of a bottle. When she’d left, she had mostly missed his practical side – how he’d find her lost purse or put her to bed after a night out. Bligh was used to pe
ople needing looking after, like his dad. He was used to people hurting him, like his mum.

  It made her question if she’d ever truly loved him, or whether she’d just taken him for granted because he tolerated what other people wouldn’t.

  Yet they had enjoyed many fun, carefree times before Emma lost control of her life, cycling along country lanes, Emma sitting on his handlebars. Never the academic, Bligh had worked for his handyman dad as soon as he could leave school. Sometimes she’d meet him after work and they’d take a picnic into the cornfields that Gail would pack. As a thank you, Emma always did the ironing when she got back. Her mum made the best cheese and home-made cucumber relish sandwiches, and would wrap up two slices of cake. Bligh’s contribution was a bottle of cider. They’d lie on their fronts enjoying the feast and see who could spot a mouse first. As Bligh’s parents argued more and more, he’d take refuge in Emma. She’d stroke his soft hair and hold him so tightly.

  Now she made her way over to the animal enclosures and collected up the food and water bowls – though not before giving the rabbits a stroke and smiling as she pushed away goats keen to chew her T-shirt. She was determined to make the most of these precious hours back at the farm and do whatever she could to help, however small. She headed back to the barn and gave the bowls a thorough wash. The animal feed still sat in the large shed next to the pond. After checking that all the animals were enjoying breakfast, she examined the fences. Some needed reinforcing with concrete around the bottom of the posts. She relished working like this – every small achievement.

  She caught the eye of a young postman about to walk back down the drive. He gave a cheery wave. It felt good to wave back. Bligh’s car appeared, driving past him, and parked up.

  ‘Emma?’

  She looked at her watch. Seven o’clock. She headed over to Bligh. ‘How come you’re here so early?’

  ‘Why are you here at all?’ He gazed at the animals eating.

  ‘I didn’t have enough money for a hotel, so I slept on the barn floor. The first trains will be up and running now. Don’t worry… I’ll just get my bags.’ She went into the barn to fetch her belongings, wishing these glorious hours back home didn’t have to end. Bligh followed. So did Dash.

  A haystack rustled as she dropped down onto it to tighten a shoelace. An ant marched across the ground by her feet. It carried a slice of leaf one hundred times its own size. Emma used to take it for granted that other people were strong like that; assumed that her behaviour never affected them as deeply as it hurt her inside.

  Bligh stared at the top of her left leg.

  She looked down at the pink scar. ‘I got stabbed by a friend.’

  ‘What kind of a friend does that?’ he asked in an incredulous voice.

  A friend like Mad Hatter Holly, who was just about to jump off a bridge. She was holding a knife in case anyone tried to ruin her plans. After Emma yanked her back from the edge, they’d fallen to the ground, and in frustration, Holly had stabbed her thigh.

  ‘And how on earth could you sleep on the floor?’

  ‘Best not to ask,’ she replied, forcing a bright tone.

  ‘So Andrea and I deserve no explanation? You turn up expecting to just slot back in?’ He shook his head. ‘This is no different to when you used to stay out all hours and refuse to tell me where you’d been.’

  Her stomach clenched. ‘Look… when I left, I found a place to stay. Almost got a job. But… things didn’t work out. I ran out of money.’

  ‘You had no problem spending it then.’ He shook his head. ‘Christ, how could you live with yourself after what you’d done?’

  She avoided his eye. ‘I looked over my shoulder for days and felt sick whenever I heard a police siren.’ She wanted to say she’d felt bad during the days immediately afterwards, but at the time, she had just blotted out the whole sordid episode: the used condoms scattered across that hotel room’s plush carpet along with empty bottles of champagne… the reckless car journey back to the farm, when she’d skidded badly outside the Christmas tree farm… ‘Eventually I lost my bedsit.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  Emma swallowed. ‘I was homeless for just over a year.’

  ‘Forever the drama queen.’ Andrea appeared in the doorway of the barn. ‘Don’t forget how my sister used to exaggerate at every opportunity, Bligh.’

  Emma caught her eye.

  ‘Just go,’ said Andrea.

  Emma stood up and lifted her rucksack, briefly squeezing her eyes as she bent over. Who could blame them? Getting better had sharpened her memory.

  The three of them went out into the sunshine.

  ‘By the way, a couple of the posts in the goats’ fencing need to be reinforced,’ said Emma. ‘I’ve washed and refilled the food bowls, but the rabbits’ are cracked and could do with replacing. And maybe consider dragging that old bench into the goats’ enclosure. I’m sure they’d love to jump on top of it.’

  Without looking back, Andrea disappeared into the farmhouse.

  ‘Right. I’ll be off. Look, Bligh… that last Christmas… I never meant to… The money… How did your dad manage?’

  ‘He lasted just one month after you left.’

  Nausea backed up her throat. ‘He was a decent man – just like you.’

  ‘Save it.’ His voice had a dangerous edge.

  ‘Bligh… please… it’s Emmie, the girl you played chase with whilst your dad worked on the renovations; who made a sugar solution to save those exhausted bees down by Healdbury stream; who helped you bury that run-over fox.’ She touched his fingers as if that might ignite better memories.

  Andrea appeared at the back door with Gail. ‘Thanks for coming in early, Bligh. I reckon we can pick most of the ripe strawberries today if we put our backs into it. I’m just going to give Mum breakfast.’

  Emma and Andrea had loved picking strawberries as children. They had a secret rule – every third one went into their mouths. Emma loved the glossy red fruits with cream. Andrea preferred a simple sprinkling of sugar. When they were old enough, Gail taught them how to make jam. This prompted regular scone-making. Emma’s scones never looked quite as tall as Andrea’s, but Mum always insisted they were equally well-risen.

  Emma longed for the old Gail. ‘Why not let me stay for a few more hours and look after Mum? That way, you two can get on without worrying.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Gail. ‘Breakfast with the woman who talks too much.’

  Andrea folded her arms. ‘You’re joking, right? Why should I trust you?’

  ‘Please. She’s my mother too.’

  Bligh clenched his teeth and looked from sister to sister. Gail’s eyes had lit up and she walked towards Emma.

  ‘Breakfast – that’s all I’m asking,’ said Emma.

  ‘I’m hungry. I never get fed at this place,’ whispered Gail. ‘No one gave me dinner last night, but you look kind.’

  Andrea paused. Then she sighed. ‘Just for a couple of hours. But if Mum gets the slightest bit upset…’

  ‘She won’t. Thanks so much.’ Emma’s face lit up. ‘I really appreciate this.’

  Bligh shook his head and walked over to the kitchen door.

  ‘I’m doing it for Mum,’ said Andrea curtly. ‘Just make sure your train ticket back to the city is one-way only.’

  Chapter 5

  Would Mum need to drink from a special beaker or wear a bib? Emma’s eyes pricked when she saw two identical places set at the table with tumblers and napkins. Perhaps her condition hadn’t become that bad. When they were little, she and Andrea used to think their mum was so sophisticated, with her strict table manners and weekend glass of sherry that she would sip during Saturday evening’s tea.

  ‘Just make sure she eats as much as possible. Her appetite’s waned lately,’ said Bligh. ‘Sometimes she’s more lucid and can hold a conversation. Others not. But we’re lucky, most of the time she seems content.’

  Emma looked at Gail. The big clock ticked. The room missed her
mum’s bustle and chat.

  ‘Why the rush to start work? Can’t the strawberries wait until your usual nine o’clock start?’

  He shook his head. ‘They’re begging to be picked, plus I made a new batch of red onion chutney last week. I want to stick on the labels and put the jars out before I check the emails.’

  ‘I saw the computer. What’s with all the jiffy bags?’

  ‘We’ve recently set up online – we need to stretch our reach. Profits have dwindled since a huge out-of-town supermarket was built around twelve months ago. Its success has affected many other businesses in Healdbury – the butcher’s, the cheese shop and Phil’s pet shop. It’s early days, but our online sales are slowly expanding. There’s definitely a market for delivering home-grown organic vegetables. We’ve already secured several regular customers in south Manchester, and it’s not far to drive. As for the jiffy bags, they’re for the smaller, long-life items such as pickles and jams.’ Bligh turned to go outside. ‘At least we’ve got a decent amount of stock now, stacked up in your old room.’

  Emma winced.

  ‘Right, I’ll be in the shop if you need me.’ He hesitated, as if reluctant to leave Emma in charge.

  ‘You’re the woman who talks too much,’ said Gail, folding and unfolding a chocolate wrapper – a gold one today.

  ‘Yes,’ said Emma in a cheerful tone. She peered into the fridge. Blueberries. Her mum’s favourite. ‘How about pancakes?’

  ‘Is Andrea eating with us?’

  ‘No. She’s picking strawberries.’

  ‘Pity it’s not tomatoes.’

  Emma smiled. ‘Why? They’re the one thing you can’t abide.’

  ‘I like tomatoes. Can we have them on toast for breakfast?’

  Emma stared.

  ‘Is Andrea eating with us?’ Gail asked again.

  ‘No. She’s busy outside.’

  Gail lifted a glass of orange juice to her lips. The simple act made her seem so fragile. The way her hand shook as if she were in her ninth decade rather than her sixth. The detached look in her eyes. Would she miss her mouth? And the parting in her hair wasn’t quite straight. Emma glanced under the table. Yet again she was wearing odd socks.