The Secret Art of Forgiveness (7 page)

‘Oh, but I'm not…'
A cook.
She pressed her lips together. He'd been brought up in a different time and with different expectations and they'd never breached that gap of class or age.
Looking at the aged decor it felt like she was living in an episode of
Downton Abbey
. Unfortunately, without the intrigue or sex.

‘So what's this meant to be?' He looked down at his plate and prodded the eggs with the tip of his knife.

‘Scrambled eggs on toast. It was all I could rustle up from the empty cupboards. We need to go shopping.'

‘Eggs? Are you sure? Aren't eggs supposed to be yellow? You're a cook, you say? How can a cook make eggs that are green? Are you in training, is that it? Have they sent me the wrong person?'

Whoa. Not wanting to show she was in any way intimidated by him – even though she still was – she met his straightforward talking with some of her own. ‘The eggs are yellow, Judge. I just added some herbs from the garden for flavour. Try them. Go on, have a mouthful. If you don't like them we'll have to go out for breakfast because there isn't anything else.'

He reluctantly loaded his fork, sniffed, peered, then tentatively ate a mouthful. She waited with bated breath for a reaction. ‘And…?'

‘Edible. Just. Now, tell me where you were working before. How did you come to be here?'

‘Well, I did a few years in London, then I was head-hunted and moved to New York. I've been there just over five years, working for quite a prestigious agency called Baddermans.'

‘New York, eh? You like it there?'

‘I love it. It's… wonderful. It has everything I could ever want.' She paused. There was something niggling at the back of her mind, like a word she was trying to remember but that was just too far out of reach… a feeling that didn't quite sit right with her when she thought about New York.

No matter how much she tried to force it she couldn't make it tangible, real. It was an itch, or… something she couldn't put her finger on. ‘Anyway, Tamara called and said you needed some help for a few days, so here I am. Is there anything you particularly need help with? Should we make a list or have a chat about your routine?'

‘Someone's always interfering. Do this, don't do that, go there. A man isn't in charge of his own life these days. I don't need any help, I'm perfectly fine.' For someone who didn't like the look of the food he was certainly managing to demolish it. He smacked his lips together. Took a slurp of Earl Grey. Scooped up more eggs. ‘Tastes like soap, but I'll let you off this time. One more slip-up, though, and I'm afraid we might have to let you go.'

A smile hit her lips. Good Lord, he was curmudgeonly. ‘And yet somehow you've managed to eat it all.'

‘Beggars can't be choosers. A man needs to eat. Now I have to go to work.' He scraped the chair back and pushed himself upright, uncurling slowly, as if all the bones in his body were creaking awake one by one after a very long hibernation. ‘I'll be in the library.'

She scooped up his plate and popped it into the dishwasher along with hers, wiped her hands and turned as he was shuffling towards the door. ‘Wait…
Work?
Are you still working?'
Because, God help the poor client, if there was one. ‘I thought you'd retired. Aren't you retired?'

‘Actually… I don't know… Maybe I am. Retired, eh? Already?' He looked down at his veiny hands as if the answer were there in the curl of arthritic fingers. His shoulders slumped forward. When he looked back at her his eyes were clouded with confusion. ‘What am I meant to do now?'

‘Oh, Judge.' Surprisingly, her heart contracted at the thought of a once highly respected and very busy man being so utterly lost. Where she'd expected to feel anger she now just felt sorry for him. ‘Hey, we'll figure it out. Don't worry.'

‘Good.' He nodded, and even though his voice was barely audible she caught his words. ‘Thank you.'

‘Right, then. Next thing…' There wasn't any point getting emotional about this; it wasn't going to help. She had to hold herself together and fix things. Write a list. Make a plan. Action. That was what she needed.

No point in sitting around ruminating.

Emily looked round for another job to fill her time. In the cold, early-morning hours after Jacob Taylor, the International Man of Mystery, had gone back home, she'd scrubbed every surface in here clean. Washed their bedding and hung it outside to dry on the saggy line in the walled kitchen garden. Emptied and replaced the buckets under the suspicious-looking ceiling cracks.

Then she'd run around The Hall, opening all the doors and windows to let some fresh air in, and reacquainted herself with the place – which had clearly gone to rack and ruin in the time she'd been away. It needed a complete decoration overhaul and a lot of cosmetic fixing; of broken door handles, cracked wooden frames and blown light bulbs. But now she didn't feel like staying in the place a second longer, especially if The Judge needed entertaining. ‘You know what, Judge? There's a wee bit of sunshine out there. Get your coat on, we're going for a walk.'

He looked grateful to have been given a task. ‘Right you are, then. Give me a minute.'

It was humbling the way he did as he was told and it felt wrong giving him orders, but if she didn't keep him going he'd just sit and stare into space. In fact, the more he sat the more confused he seemed to get.

So, tempting as it was to just sit in her room, too, and try to get some 3G signal on her phone – she harboured no illusions that 4G might be available in this forgotten part of the twenty-first century – she couldn't let him stagnate. He needed stimulation and company. ‘We need to buy some groceries and hopefully find somewhere in the Land That Time Forgot that has Wi-Fi.'

Maybe then she could actually reach Tamara or Tilda and start solving all these problems she'd only just discovered she had.

Chapter Four

From their vantage point at the top of the hill Emily could see the rolling green hills surrounding the village that spread out towards Greater Duxbury and beyond; the many different colours of grass punctuated by stone walls and bright blooms of red and yellow. She'd forgotten how pretty it could be – or had she never even looked? She'd forgotten, too, about the sheep and the quaint noises they made. And the lambs! She grinned as she walked by them, and then laughed at herself. She was supposed to be a sophisticated city dweller now, entranced by the bustle and vibrancy of urban life, not by fluffy lambs.

But still… cute.

On her walk last night, she hadn't noticed a couple of other shops that hadn't been there all those years ago: a fish and chip shop that smelt divine even at this early hour of the day, a busy hardware shop, plus a nice-looking café that advertised Wi-Fi on its Cosy Café sign outside.

That one had been an old-fashioned newsagent's years ago, a place her mum would take her for some sweets and her favourite comic once a week when they'd first arrived at The Hall. That was before her mum had died; before being shunted off to boarding school; before being expelled from boarding school and having to try to make a place for herself at the local high school.

Before all of that. Back when her mum had made a game of exploring their new home, feeding the ducks in the pond, playing Pooh sticks at the bridge, having picnics on blankets lakeside at The Hall. When her mum had tried so hard to make everything work. She'd been an optimist, the kindest, gentlest soul – a complete contrast to The Judge. Opposites in every way. But even at eight, Emily had understood the intensity of their passion for each other, the love in her mother's eyes for this larger-than-life man who was a father replacement but not a daddy.

There was a sudden swell of sadness in Em's chest. She wondered what her mother would have thought of what followed. The rage, the anger. The unbearable grief. The graffiti on the surgery walls. The smashed pub windows. Slashed tyres. Stolen alcohol. Running away.

Yet, here she was, shoulder to stooped shoulder with the man she'd believed had been the cause of it all, even though now she could see she'd been nothing more than a heartbroken little girl lashing out at the world in revenge for her abandonment and isolation. But, because of his illness, she still had nowhere to channel the vapours of those emotions that ricocheted through her.

And to add to that there was shame. Shame that she'd damaged property, caused hurt and pain and distress to people she barely knew.

‘Coffee?' she asked The Judge, infusing her voice with sweetness.
Be more like Mum
. Make her proud – because, God knew, she wouldn't have been proud of her daughter back then.

Emily assumed the Cosy Café was the place Greta had been talking about and she started to walk towards it, beckoned in by the beautiful hanging baskets above the windows, which by summer would be chock full of colour. But the White Hart pub opposite also advertised Wi-Fi and The Judge seemed to be steering towards there on autopilot, so, taking a deep breath to arm herself against whatever response she was about to get from the good ole people of Little Duxbury, she followed him in. ‘I'm not sure they'll be open at this time in the morning, Judge –'

A lanky teenager was vacuuming the empty snug. He kicked the off switch as they walked in. ‘Come in. Come in. Hullo, Judge Evans, haven't seen you for a while. How are you?' Then he turned to Emily with a smile. ‘What can I get you? Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?'

The Judge seemed to make a beeline for a particular corner of the pub that she assumed was his usual seat, and sat down, picking up a discarded newspaper. The place had hardly changed since the last time she'd been in here; flock wallpaper, a pungent aroma of hops, mirrors on the walls advertising age-old beer. But, different staff. And all the windows present and correct. Thank goodness. She did not particularly feel up to confronting her past at this time in the morning.

The Judge boomed across the room, ‘Coffee will do. Hot, black and sweet. Anything to eat? I'm starving.'

Emily frowned. ‘We've only just had breakfa… never mind.' The more she could get down him to fill out that loose skin, the better. ‘Can I have a look at the menu?'

The lad shook his head, swiping a hand over a muss of mousey hair. He looked as if he'd just rolled out of bed. ‘We haven't got anything, not yet. To be honest, it's a bit early and you've caught us on the hop. Give us another hour or so. But I can nip over to the Cosy Café and grab something for you? They do a mean custard tart.'

The Judge raised his hand. ‘Yes, and make it quick, lad. My stomach thinks my throat's been cut. And this one's no help. She's starving me, I swear it.'

The boy didn't bother to smother his grin as he looked from The Judge to Emily. ‘This one?'

‘Is called Emily. Pleased to meet you.' She leaned a little closer. ‘I don't think he has an inside voice. So apologies in advance. Black coffee for him and a cappuccino for me, please.'

‘Tom. Pot collector and general dogsbody.' He thrust out thin fingers. ‘And we all know Judge Evans, no need to apologise. His voice is bigger than his bite.'

Unless you're in any way related to him.
‘Nice to meet you, Tom.'

He let her hand drop and his face brightened. ‘Who are you? A new carer? New… er… wife?'

If there'd been coffee in Emily's mouth Tom would have been wearing it. ‘I'm his daughter.' It still felt so strange to say that, but it was easier than giving everyone she met her whole life story.

‘He has another one?'

‘You haven't heard about me?' Why would he have? It was old news. Everyone had moved on; the only person who cared about her past was Emily. Clearly. ‘It's like a reverse Cinderella: the evil youngest one and the gorgeous, harassed and saintly older two.'

‘Evil? No. What?
Sister?
You're Tamara and Matilda's sister? Blimey.' He whooshed the milk in the frother while the coffee machine made spluttering noises. There was a sudden and delicious smell of coffee in the air. ‘You don't look much like them.'

She fiddled with a beer mat while Tom made the coffee. It was good to see that not everyone here held a grudge against her. Either he was too young or too innocent to have heard the details of her misdemeanours. Or… maybe she'd blown everything out of all proportion and things hadn't been as bad as she remembered? He was still looking at her with a bemused expression. ‘Without going into too much boring detail – we're a stepfamily. My mum married Judge Evans. A long time ago, obviously.'

Placing the cups onto a tray Tom nodded. ‘Yes, steppies – I get it. I've got a couple of them myself, plus two half-blood sibs and one full-muggle brother. That's too many people trying to play happy families in one house, and also why I'm here and not at home – couldn't wait to get out, to be honest.' He rang the price up on the till. ‘Four-fifty, please – I'll let you know the price of the tart later. Liam, my brother, runs this place so, if I'm not at college, I try to doss upstairs in one of the B and B rooms. Which is all too much information. If you don't mind my saying, Emily, you're not a bit like the other two.'

‘That is definitely a compliment. Now, I'd better take these over before he dies of starvation – because that can happen, you know, after a double serving of scrambled eggs on toast less than an hour ago. Can you tell me the Wi-Fi password, please?'

‘No problem, it's here...' Tom handed over a piece of paper. ‘Here's the spiel I have to say: no illegal downloads; no large files; no longer than thirty minutes, if possible.'

She took the paper and glanced up at a noticeboard on the wall. ‘Hot yoga classes at the community hall? Zumba? Wow, Little Duxbury is moving slowly into this century. And what's that? Oh, really? Do you still have that quaint country fair? Do people still come to it?'