Page 52 of Forgive Me Not
Bang on the hour, the man chosen to chair announced the start of the meeting. Someone read from the Big Book – whatever that was. The chairman welcomed Emma, Bev and another newcomer who was crying, then talked about his own drinking history and how AA made him better. Next, other people randomly shared, one at a time, airing problems or sharing their inspiring journeys.
‘Just keep coming back,’ Old Len had said at the end. He was one of the group’s old-timers – twenty-three years sober. ‘We’re all here for you – we’ve been in your shoes. Take it one day at a time.’ He’d pushed a newcomer’s pack into her hands. It included a list of the region’s meetings. Women gave Emma their phone numbers. She left as quickly as possible.
She came back to the present and smiled at the memory and her thoughts about Len. Poor bastard, she’d said to herself on the way home – fancy still attending meetings after all that time. She’d never go back. It just wasn’t for her. Except that she couldn’t stop thinking about how content everyone had seemed. She’d expected people to be glumly sitting on their hands, desperate for a drink. Instead they’d spoken cheerily about grandkids, holidays, last night’s telly…
She looked up. Rachel hugged several people and took off her duffel coat. Then she grabbed a coffee, sat down next to Emma and yawned.
‘Hard day at the office?’ said Emma in a bright voice.
‘It’s tiring combining the job with the rehab training course. I can’t wait to jack in the web designing. But until then, some of us have to work to support the economy. From what you say, recovery services is all about meditation, gardening and aromatherapy.’
Emma punched her arm playfully. ‘This week we’re also doing a course on anger management. It’s great picking up new friends and hobbies – makes me realise how much I used to isolate.’
‘Talking of new beginnings…’ Rachel cleared her throat. ‘You’re looking at the proud owner of a gorgeous tabby cat.’
‘What?’
Rachel laughed. ‘I know – I can’t believe I’ve taken responsibility for another living being. He belonged to my neighbours, who are moving abroad. They were so worried about leaving him behind, and he does have an irresistible purr. I’ve renamed him Idris, after the gorgeous Mr Elba. My feline friend is so handsome.’ She took out her phone and showed Emma a photo. ‘I always wanted a cat when I was little, but it wouldn’t have worked in a tower block and Mum said the last thing we needed was another mouth to feed. But I looked after the hamsters at school and eventually persuaded Mum that a goldfish would be cheap enough. I used to feed it biscuit crumbs on the sly. The water was always slightly cloudy. Perhaps that was why. Mum always said it was perfect company for a chatterbox like me, though she didn’t like the tank’s smell. I was heartbroken when she gave Bubbles away without me knowing.’ She squeezed Emma’s hand. ‘But what about you? How’s today been?’
‘Okay.’ Emma couldn’t face talking about it.
Today was the twentieth of January – the hardest date ever. Her due date. The day when she would have finally met her baby. Would she have had Joe’s dirty-blonde hair or Emma’s small feet? She passed one hand across her stomach. I still think of you, little Josephine.
She sipped her coffee. ‘I told you about Andrea?’
‘I was sorry she sent your letter back unopened. Will you write to her again?’
‘There’s no point. I’ll leave it now until I’m feeling stronger, and then I’ll go back. Apologise face to face. What about your mum?’
‘We’ve agreed to meet up next week.’
‘That’s great.’
‘I hope so. She sounded so bitter. We’ll see.’
The meeting started and both of them listened. Emma didn’t share, even though she really should have got her feelings out into the open. Instead, her mind kept drifting… Today she might have been in hospital, cradling her daughter, learning how to feed her and change nappies.
All week, as the twentieth approached, discontent had fluttered in her stomach. Talking would have helped to put it in perspective. Talking would have stopped it leading to negative thoughts about Bligh’s dad and Ned, about Andrea sending back the letter and how that proved Emma must still be a bad person.
On the way home, she stopped outside a baby store and stared at the toys and buggies. The shop next door was an off-licence, and for just the briefest of moments Emma glanced inside.
Just one glass won’t hurt, said the voice on her shoulder that she hadn’t heard for a long time.
Chapter 18
The farm fell into a different routine over the next fortnight. Stig started to visit every day. The shed needed a makeover inside due to holes in the roof and mouldy walls. He did the necessary work in return for food. Once his bandage came off, Gail stopped calling him Uncle Paul.
He started to stay longer and grab a wash and a late snack after work. Conversation between Emma and Bligh became easier. Nothing changed between her and Andrea, but now and again something about her older sister softened. Emma heard her briefly whistle, and Andrea didn’t snap when she forgot to mention that the bank had rung.
It was Thursday, and they were almost at the end of a long, humid week. Emma had forgotten how busy the summer got. She fell straight asleep most evenings when she went back to Phil’s. She hadn’t even opened those envelopes that she’d found – in fact she hadn’t yet decided whether she should, so they’d remained stashed in her bedside drawer.
Following an afternoon spent digging potatoes, Stig had cleaned up, and Emma had given his clothes a quick wash. Dash and the Duchess lay in the yard, panting by a large bowl of water. Gail sat in the rocking chair, fiddling with her sewing-themed necklace. Stig had found an old bench in the shed, rubbed it down and repainted it. Now there were ample seats for everyone.
Emma looked around. Her chest glowed at the familiarity.
‘It was good of Ted to bring us those chocolates. You should have seen his grandchildren petting the rabbits this morning,’ she said as Bligh joined them. Stig and Andrea were sitting on the bench chatting about their favourite David Attenborough programmes.
He dropped into the deckchair next to Emma’s. ‘They’re good kids. Didn’t they clean out the hutch?’
