Page 1 of A Forever Home at Honey Bee Croft

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JOEL

‘It’s all yours,’ Chris said, logging off the shared PC after our shift change handover. He stood up and pulled on his jacket. ‘Any news about the job yet?’

I shook my head. ‘Hoping no news doesn’t mean bad news.’

‘Got everything crossed for you. Have a good one.’

As he closed the door to the small office which the shift managers and engineering managers shared, I plonked myself down in the swivel chair he’d vacated and logged on for the last of three twelve-hour day shifts.

The wait for news was driving me mad and nobody seemed to know what the delay was – or they weren’t telling me if they did. I was one of four shift managers at Claybridge Fresh Foods – a factory specialising in bacon and pork products on the outskirts of the North Yorkshire market town of Claybridge – and I’d been interviewed a few weeks back for the role of production manager.

Three years ago, I’d been interviewed for the same job and I don’t think anyone in the history of being interviewed has ever made a bigger mess of the process. The outgoing production manager, Roger, had championed me at the application stageand I’d put in stacks of preparation, determined not to let him down, but I’d let the pressure get to me. Leaving my notes at home on interview day had been a bad start and, even though my best mate Barney had managed to calm me down after I panic-called him, nobody could help me in the interview itself. Dry mouth, shaking hands, blank mind. I sat there looking at the thick script in front of each member of the interview panel thinkingDon’t turn the page and ask me another question. We all know it’s a definite no, so can one of you please show some mercy and end this torture?But they continued to plough through the questions and I continued to stumble over my words, the facts and figures I’d so carefully prepared completely evading me.

‘There’ll be other opportunities,’ our HR Director, Eloise, had said after confirming the only outcome possible – that I hadn’t got the job.

I’d nodded and apologised for wasting her time.

‘You didn’t waste anyone’s time, Joel,’ she reassured me. ‘You were a strong candidate and we were all rooting for you. What would you say to some coaching from me so you can perform at your best next time there’s a vacancy?’

‘The questions weren’t the problem. It was the nerves.’

‘I can coach you on that too.’

So she did, although neither of us expected the same role to come up so soon. Jeremy Dunn – the external candidate who’d secured the position – needed to relocate back down south due to a change in family circumstances. Thanks to a combination of Eloise’s coaching and some amazing opportunities that Jeremy had given me during his tenure to further develop my skills, my interview this time couldn’t have been more different. Calm, confident and articulate with stronger examples than before, I couldn’t have performed better. I knew I was up against tough competition but the factory manager, Mack, hadalso championed me for the position, which had to stand for something.

If only they’d hurry up with their decision because I felt like my life was on hold until they did. It wasn’t just about the promotion or the increased salary, although both would be nice. The reason I really wanted the job was so that I could spend more time with my eight-year-old daughter, Imogen.

I’d met her mum, Tilly, a decade ago when she’d temporarily joined the reception team at the factory. A couple of months later, we started seeing each other and were engaged within a year. We hadn’t planned to start a family until after we were married so Imogen was a surprise, but an amazing one. We’d talked about expanding our family after the wedding, but then Tilly dropped her bombshell. One Saturday morning, exactly a fortnight before our wedding, she handed me a mug of tea, a plate of toast, and casually told me she was leaving.I’m really sorry, Joel, but I can’t do this. The whole marriage and kids thing isn’t for me.Despite us already having a two-year-old!

Turned out that marriage and kidswerefor her – just not with me. That night she went out with her friendsto celebrate being free– her exact words to me later – and bumped into Greg, who’d been her boyfriend from age fourteen to sixteen. She’d spoken fondly of him when we’d been together but it was a shock to hear that he wasthe one that got awayand that I’d never quite compared. He’d asked her out that night, proposed on their one-month anniversary and less than a year later, they saidI do. Greg was divorced with a son two years older than Imogen and, over the next couple of years, two more children joined their blended family and I was left licking my wounds, wondering how I could have believed we were happy when clearly one of us wasn’t.

You’d think I was the one who’d ripped Tilly’s heart out from the way she’d treated me ever since. I often wondered whathad happened to the kind-hearted, bubbly woman I’d fallen for because I struggled to recognise her in the woman constantly putting up barriers in my relationship with our daughter, the biggest one being my job. According to Tilly, my shifts weredisruptive to Imogen and to family life, so she’d repeatedly pushed back against my requests to produce a formal schedule around them. I’d spent a small fortune on solicitor fees over the years – money that could have been put aside for Imogen’s future – before I had to accept it was getting me nowhere. Every time my solicitor made contact with Tilly’s, the response was a proposal for shared custody on set days each week, when Tilly knew full well that I was unable to commit to that due to a rotating shift pattern. I therefore only saw Imogen on an ad hoc basis, which broke my heart. That little girl was the best thing that had ever happened to me and I hated that some weeks could pass with me only seeing her for a few precious hours between school and bed or, even worse, not seeing her at all. Those weeks felt so bleak.

I could have applied for a court order, but I hadn’t wanted to go down that route. Tilly and I had a just-about-tolerable relationship, so why escalate that into something hostile and risk dragging Imogen into it? And what would it do to her if she knew her parents were fighting over her in court?

If I landed the production manager job, I’d be working regular hours Monday to Friday. With the barrier of my shifts gone, Tilly would hopefully agree to a parent plan where I saw Imogen on regular days each week. I wasn’t expecting her to spend half the week with me as I recognised that Imogen had friends who she’d want to play with and a couple of after-school clubs, but surely a couple of nights a week and every other weekend wasn’t too much to ask.

But what if I didn’t get the job? I’d spent the past few weeks imagining all the things Imogen and I could do together. I couldteach her to cook, like my dad had taught me, I could take her to the riding lessons she longed for and to gymnastics. We could also enjoy just being together – how itshouldbe. Ihadto get the job. Because we couldn’t continue like this. This wasn’t the kind of dad I wanted to be or that Imogen deserved.

‘I still don’t know how you can drink that.’ I handed Sal – the engineering manager who worked the same shift as me – a mug of strong black tea four hours into our shift.

‘And I don’t know how you can drink that stuff,’ she said, pulling a playful scowl at my coffee. ‘Can’t stand the smell or taste.’

The phone rang and she grabbed it. ‘Managers’ office… yeah, he’s here.’ She glanced up at me. ‘Ten minutes? I’ll tell him.’

I looked at her expectantly when she hung up.

‘That was the new lass in HR. Can you go to Jeremy’s office to see him and Eloise in ten minutes?’ She grinned at me. ‘About time too!’

I ran my hand across my chin, nerves tingling. ‘This must be it!’

‘Unless you’ve done something naughty that you haven’t told me about,’ she said, making me laugh. ‘Look, whatever happens, you know you gave it your best shot and that we all believe in you.’

‘Thanks, Sal. At least they’ve timed it on my last day on. Two days off to get my head together if it’s bad news.’

‘It won’t be.’ She held up both hands, fingers crossed.

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