Page 39 of Forgive Me Not
‘That must have felt so rewarding.’
Stig ate the cheese. ‘Our planet’s always fascinated me. It was a toss-up between doing geography or physics at university. One plus of living on the streets – I get to study the night sky for free.’ He set out the cups and poured soup. Emma handed them out.
‘It’s clearer around here, away from the city lights,’ said Tilly. ‘Just look at that full moon – and I saw a shooting star last night.’
‘Me too,’ said Rita in between mouthfuls. ‘Makes a change from seeing nowt but the city’s amber street glow.’
‘Nature – keeps you going, doesn’t it?’ said Stig.
Emma bent down and ruffled the Duchess’s neck. ‘Me and Joe used to go down to the canal to feed the ducks. It would make me feel human, just for a moment.’
‘I used to live in the country – down south,’ said Tilly, and cautiously sipped her soup. ‘The neighbours had sheep and pigs. Me, Dad and Mum were in our element. Mum couldn’t wait to take on chickens rescued from battery farms. Never thought I’d miss the smell of pig shit.’
‘How did you end up here?’ said Emma.
‘Mum died when I was twelve… she’d only been ill a few months,’ Tilly said in a flat tone. ‘Dad got married again. She persuaded him to sell up and we moved to London. I had to catch the tube to school – hated every minute. Dad and me started arguing all the time.’
‘Must have been hard,’ said Emma gently.
Tilly drained her cup. ‘I ran away in the end. Dad was treating me like a baby – setting curfews, not letting me drink. I bought myself a train ticket to get as far away as possible.’ She pulled a face.
‘How old are you?’ asked Stig.
‘Isn’t it rude to ask a woman’s age?’ she said, and drained her cup.
Emma, Rita and Stig exchanged looks. On close examination, behind the grime, this woman looked more like a child – a child with swollen red eyes, bitten nails, and collarbones that protruded like bike handles.
‘How long ago was this? Have you contacted your dad?’ asked Rita.
Tilly didn’t reply.
‘Didn’t you hear me this morning, Emma?’ said a deep voice. Footsteps approached, and Emma turned around to see Phil carrying a bowl and a plastic zip bag. He looked at the Duchess and put down the bowl. She went over to it eagerly. The Labrador joined her. Phil opened the bag and dog biscuits tumbled out. The two pets wolfed down the food.
‘I told you to pop back tonight to collect these biscuits. They’ve gone out of date.’ He stood up.
‘Cheers,’ said Stig. ‘She’s been living off scraps for the last few days.’
‘No problem. My stock isn’t exactly flying off the shelves. I used to have a Staffie. She’s a beautiful dog.’ He handed Stig the bag.
‘Thanks, Phil,’ said Emma, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. ‘Would you like a cream bun? She picked up the box of spare cakes from the baker’s and lifted the lid.
He wiped his perspiring forehead with his arm and then took a bun. After demolishing it in three swift bites, he nodded, gave the dogs one last stroke and headed off.
They sat chatting, and as time passed, moonlight and cigarette ends lit up the dark. Rita shared how she’d escaped an abusive husband. He’d liked everything to be perfect – food tins lined up, shelves dust-free, books sitting in alphabetical order. He’d lost it when she’d finally rebelled by getting her lopsided haircut.
The young couple from outside the bank had been brought up in care. One of the rough sleepers Emma didn’t know suffered from bipolar. Everyone had their own story that had led to the same outcome. As the summer evening chill descended, Emma emptied the last of the flasks into cups. All the sandwiches and cream cakes had gone.
She glanced at her watch.
‘Half past ten! How’s that happened?’ she exclaimed. A few of the rough sleepers had used the station toilets and were now lying in their sleeping bags under the safety of the CCTV cameras.
Tilly picked up Gail’s old recipe book that Emma had brought so that Stig could help her choose future meals. On the front, Andrea had writtenFoxglove Farm Delightsin big fancy letters, and drawn a border decorated with images of carrots, eggs and various fruits. Tilly flicked through. It was A4-sized, and stains brought the recipes to life: jam, melted chocolate and cheese sauce.
‘This is awesome,’ she said as she carefully turned the pages, which were curling slightly at the corners. ‘It’s like something from medieval times.’
Emma burst out laughing. ‘Well it’s not quite that old, but I guess most people bookmark favourite recipes on the internet these days. It started off as a scrapbook. Mum would tear recipes out of magazines and stick them in. But then she became more experimental and made up her own. She got me to write them up for her in my best handwriting. Andrea designed the front and got the cover laminated at school.’
‘Did your sister do the illustrations inside as well?’ said Stig, peering over Emma’s shoulder.
