The Difference a Day Makes (25 page)

Her lips tremble a bit at that. Then she trumps me. ‘But Guy said I could learn to ride a pony here.’

Thanks for that, Guy.

‘You wait and see.’ I squeeze them again.‘It will be wonderful.’ Tom and Jessica look at each other dolefully.

‘It will be for the best,’ I tell them. ‘I promise you.’ And I cross my fingers, hoping that I haven’t made one promise too far.

 

 

 

G
uy and Laura sat on a bench outside the Wayfarers Café, a well-worn eating establishment nestled at the foot of Staincliffe Cove. It was a fine day so the national park was dotted with back-packed walkers striding out. The enormous limestone cliff of Staincliffe Cove was a perfect spot to come when you wanted to leave all your troubles behind. A waterfall tumbled from the top of the cove, its water rushing down noisily to turn the wide brook at its foot into a raging torrent. The couple shaded their eyes against the low winter sun and watched as two climbers, tiny colourful dots in the distance, carefully scaled the sheer slab of rock on ropes.

Laura sighed contentedly. ‘I can see the attraction of living somewhere like this.’

‘Enough to give up all the bright lights of London?’

She slipped her hand self-consciously into his. ‘If there was a good enough reason for me to do it.’

‘This is what I always wanted,’ Guy said. The magnificence of the scenery never failed to take his breath away. He loved this part of the country with a fierce passion. Guy might not have been a Yorkshireman born and bred, but he reckoned he should have been. He’d never been one for nightclubs, over-priced trendy bars or restaurants. Any day of the week, he’d swap a walk round an art gallery for this.

Laura, on the other hand, had always been a city girl. His ex worked in marketing. She liked the art-house cinemas, the museums, the buzz, the hustle and bustle. Even if she hadn’t done the dirty on him, Guy could see now that their relationship would never have lasted. One of them would always have been compromising by giving up their chosen lifestyle. He wondered whether - now that she was older, wiser and more battle-scarred - she could adapt to life in the quiet of the countryside. Perhaps this too, made it easier for him to understand why Amy was so desperate to get back to London. Some people were born with the rush of the city in their blood, while others longed for the wide open spaces.

The café, one of Guy’s favourite places, was the chosen resting spot for many a hungry hiker fresh off the limestone pavements of the Cove or the Pennine Way. Today was no exception and there was an abundance of brightly coloured Goretex and muddy walking boots present.

Luckily, Laura had brought a warm sheepskin jacket with her and they were both wrapped up against the cold. She looked decidedly more chic than the usual walker in her black skinny jeans, cream cashmere sweater and designer label hiking boots. But then Guy remembered that his ex had always had the type of looks that turned heads.

Hamish lay contentedly by their feet trying to eat his own paws, but Guy knew from experience that the Setter’s quiet periods were few and far between. As a precaution he’d slipped the dog’s lead under one of the feet of the heavy metal table. Laura was giving the old boy a wide berth and it was plain to see that she was not a doggy lover. Still, it was nice to be out here on this glorious day with a pretty woman at his side and a faithful, if deranged, hound at his heel.

They’d both enjoyed an enormously calorific cooked breakfast of bacon, eggs and Cumberland sausages all washed down with a steaming pint-sized mug of tea. Guy was relieved to see that Laura’s appetite hadn’t been adversely affected by the accidental drugging incident. Even Hamish had enjoyed some tit-bits of sausage.

‘If we don’t walk soon,’ Guy said, ‘we won’t want to move.’

The winter sun warmed their faces. Beside the café, the brook that fed Staincliffe Tarn burbled speedily by.A dozen or so Mallard ducks plodded hopefully round the feet of the hikers, begging for scraps. It was an idyllic spot and he wondered whether Laura’s attachment to London was starting to wane.

‘It’s lovely here,’ his ex-girlfriend said, as if she’d read his mind. Laura leaned back in her chair, crossing her feet in front of her, sweeping her long, black hair from her face. ‘I could happily sit in this very spot all day.’ She smiled at him and his insides flipped over just as they used to when they’d first met.That, he thought, was a bad thing.‘I’m sorry about last night. I thought . . . I hoped that things would be different between us.’

Guy shrugged, unsure what to say.

‘I’ve thought about you a lot over the years,’ she told him. ‘Even when I was with . . .’ She left the name of Guy’s one-time best friend unsaid.

‘Were you happy with Craig?’ Did he really want to know that? Did he even want to be having this conversation?

‘Mostly,’ she nodded.‘Although sometimes I wondered whether I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.’

‘Why did it all go wrong?’

‘He left me for someone else,’ she confessed. Laura looked at him beneath her eyelashes. ‘Hurts, doesn’t it?’

‘Like hell,’ he agreed.

‘I value different things now,’ she said. ‘I’ve never met anyone else with the same qualities that you had.’

Why did he think that made him sound like a carpet rather than husband material?

‘Me too,’ he answered.That was true enough. Until she decided to shag his best mate, he and Laura had been very good together.

Laura’s hand squeezed his. Her skin was soft and warm despite the chill in the air. ‘Do you think we could make another go of it? Together?’

But before he could answer, Guy felt the table tremble. ‘No!’ he shouted. As always, it was too late. ‘No, Hamish!’

The dog had decided that he wanted to play with the ducks. Right now. Hamish charged across the Yorkstone patio, dragging the heavy picnic table in his wake and scattering hikers still in the throes of their breakfast.

‘Come back!’ Guy lurched after the table, but Hamish was faster than him and already out of reach.

All squawking and flapping of wings, the ducks fled in alarm driving Hamish to a frenzy of excitement. The panicked Mallards scuttled back to the safety of the brook, not realising that a mere stretch of rushing water would never stop Hamish in his quest. Heavy wooden doors were no barrier to him, nor were heavy metal chains, nor - it seemed - was a picnic table round the neck. Barking wildly, he launched himself into the air, picnic table and all, and landed - splash - in the middle of the stream. The table sank like a stone, dragging Hamish under the water with it.

They sprinted to the side of the brook, Guy ready to dive in. ‘Hamish!’

A second later, woofing with glee, Hamish surfaced minus the patio table. He doggy-paddled happily after his new, if rather reluctant playmates.

A gaggle of Goretexed people had gathered to watch. Some tried to retrieve the gritty remains of their breakfasts from the patio.

‘Hamish! Come here,’ Guy shouted and, surprisingly, the dog paddled to the bank. Guy grabbed him by the collar and hauled him out, whereupon Hamish decided to shake himself vigorously, showering them both with water. The dog seemed none the worse for his ordeal.‘Another lucky escape,’ he said to Hamish. ‘It’s cats who have nine lives, you know. Not dogs.’

Hamish woofed at him.

This was going to be costly, he could tell. Providing a dozen or more new breakfasts was going to make the first dent. ‘I’d better go inside and settle the bill,’ Guy said, shaking his head.

‘Yes,’ Laura said. And he noticed that her beautiful face was looking rather stony.

Then Hamish, to show that he was fully recovered from his traumatic ordeal and was newly energised by being back on dry land, decided to treat Laura to a friendly bottom sniff.

It was just a shame that Hamish didn’t know his own strength and it was just a shame that Laura was still standing quite so near to the edge of the stream.

She screamed as she hit the water, flailing about. This was an idyllic spot, a place where you could leave all your troubles behind - unless, of course, you took Hamish with you.

 

 

 

I
’ve been neglecting William and I feel terrible. Normally, I go to the cemetery two or three times a week, but my head’s been in such a spin that I don’t know where the time has gone. On Tuesday I’ll get some flowers from Scarsby market and put them on his grave, but for today, I content myself by taking a walk to St Mary’s churchyard in Helmshill to see him.

The kids are being entertained by Serena, who’s currently trouncing them at
Operation
- my sister is so competitive that she can’t quite grasp the concept that it isn’t necessary to paste a six year old and an eight year old into the weeds. Character building, is what she’d call it.

Tom and Jessica are still subdued after my bombshell announcement, and I feel just awful about it. In fact, I feel so dreadful that I spent the morning phoning around again trying to find a job in the local area, but to no avail. No one, it seems, has any use for an ex-BTC quiz show producer, however good they might have once been. Serena is trying to jolly the children along and she’s making a great job of it. Tonight, she’s going home again, making the hideous journey back to London. And I’m dreading it. I’m really going to miss her. Maybe that’s why I’m feeling so melancholy.

Opening the wooden lychgate, I let the quiet surround me. A grey squirrel scampers by me clutching a nut that looks like it’s been liberated from a birdfeeder. I make my way to William’s grave. The headstone hasn’t been erected yet as I’m still waiting for the stonemason to finish it. It’s my fault it’s taken so long as I just couldn’t decide what to put on it. How can you sum up an entire person’s life in a couple of meagre lines? How will people know how much Will meant to me, to the children, from a few basic dates and details?
Beloved Husband, Loving Father
.That doesn’t even begin to encompass what Will was to us. In generations to come, when I’m long gone too, will people come to weddings, christenings or funerals here at St Mary’s and glance at his grave as they pass?
William Matthew Ashurst,Aged 42
. Perhaps I should have added,
Taken From Us Too Soon
.They won’t know that he was a wonderful cricketer or that he made a mean spaghetti Bolognese. Will they care that his favourite tipple was a good red wine or that he liked his chocolate cold, straight from the fridge? Would they smile if they knew how he used to decorate the house with black and orange balloons every Halloween and drape every surface with fake cobwebs and skeletons, playing Michael Jackson’s
Thriller
at full volume to make the children shriek with excitement and fear? Would it warm their hearts to know that after more than a decade of marriage he still cuddled up on the sofa every night with his wife for a few snatched moments in their busy lives and that he never minded her putting her cold feet on him in bed? How can I reduce a full and fabulous life to a few lines chipped out on a headstone? I think my husband deserves more than that, but it can’t be fitted on a small slab of stone and so
Beloved Husband, Loving Father
it is.

All that marks the grave is the patch of recently turned soil. It has sunk now so that it’s nearly level with the rest of the ground. Someone has sown the top with grass seed and by next spring it will have nearly blended in with the rest of the lush, well-maintained lawn in the churchyard. How much does that say about the transience of life?

I sit on the grass next to William even though the ground is cold and damp, knees under my chin. It’s still not that chilly for the time of the year, but I pull my coat around me nevertheless. Toying with the grass at my feet, I say softly, ‘I miss you.’

The church here is on a small, comforting scale and it’s not hard to imagine the christenings, weddings and funerals that have taken place here over the centuries that it’s been standing at the centre of this community. Now it’s not that well attended, but there are a few stalwarts who keep the place going. The weathered stone is well settled into its surroundings, a constant in a changing world.

‘I’ve been so rudderless without you,’ I tell my husband. ‘I don’t know what to do. Making all the decisions by myself seems so difficult.We’re in a terrible mess financially. I’ve sold the house - your dream home. I don’t know how I can do that to you, but I’m trying to do what’s best for me and the kids even though I’ve no idea what that might be.’ I pluck up some of the grass and let it fall through my fingers. ‘Is this making any sense to you?’

I watch the squirrel charge back and forth. He’s obviously found a rich stream of food from somewhere and I’ll swear that he’s smiling. Nothing else moves in the churchyard. One thing I must do when we get back to London is sit still and watch the world go by. But then, I think, London isn’t the kind of sitting-still place.

‘And I’ve had feelings for someone else,’ I carry on. ‘But you probably know that. In case you don’t, it’s Guy Burton. The vet. You really liked Guy and I do too. He’s been a fantastic friend to me. But I think I let my emotions run away with me because I’m feeling so vulnerable. I’ve let him get very close to me, to the children. Perhaps that’s wrong. I feel like I’m betraying you. Betraying you because I’m moving on, thinking about planning a life without you. How can I do that so soon when you were the sun, moon and stars for me?’

I want to hear Will’s voice telling me that everything will be okay, that I’m doing the right thing. But nothing comes. Nothing fills the empty space.

Rain, which wasn’t forecast, starts to fall. I hear it pattering on the branches of the trees before I feel it on my skin. At first it’s a gentle shower and then, steadily, it grows heavier. My eyes fill with tears. And I lie down on the cold ground next to my beloved William, getting wetter and wetter, and letting the water flow down my face.