Page 75 of Forgive Me Not
Rice salad
Potato wedges
Coleslaw
White and brown rolls
Chocolate anything
(Fish and chips – hopefully Gail would forget about this)
As the days passed, they refined the menu. They decided on chocolate tart and mocha muffins for dessert. Emma was thrilled that Joe would be able to come. In fact everyone on the list could make it apart fromthingamabob.
Ever since the list had been compiled, Emma had found it increasingly difficult to get Ned out of her head. As her father slowly exited the darkest spot in her mind, Polly and Alan’s son crept back in to fill it. At night she started to suffer nightmares like the ones she’d had in rehab. In them she relived the crash – hitting something and not knowing what it was. Except that when she pulled up at Foxglove Farm, on top of the bonnet was a mangled bike and a pile of bloodied newspapers.
Chapter 27
Gail was taking her usual late-afternoon nap. It was a cloudy day but still warm. Emma told Andrea she wouldn’t be long. Her sister was cleaning out the chicken coop with the help of Stig. Bligh was on the computer designing labels for the new items they’d sell when the Sunday market was eventually up and running.
He’d done a lot of research and found sites where you could personalise items like cups and tea towels. Already thinking ahead to Christmas, he decided they needed to offer more gift options. So last night he, Andrea and Emma had brainstormed ideas such as reproducing photographs of Foxglove Farm onto a range of products. The name wouldn’t be needed – it wasn’t a well-known place – but scenic photos might help items sell. Andrea had asked ex-teacher Stig to share his views on what might appeal to younger customers. He came up with pens, notebooks and mouse mats bearing cute or funny photos of the farm’s rescued animals.
Andrea’s face practically split in two after the work was done and Stig instructed the Duchess to perform her two tricks – holding out her paw for a shake, and a rollover. Emma had forgotten how infectious her sister’s laughter was – the way you could hear it rise from her belly and suddenly shoot out.
She set off down Broadgrass Hill. She had been unable to face lunch. Gail had managed a cheese and ham toastie followed by a small slice of the frosted carrot cake that she’d helped Emma make the day before. The recipe had come out of her scrapbook. Emma never tired of flicking through the pages and reminiscing over the meals the three of them used to make together. Vegetable hotpot – that was a favourite of Mum’s. Parsnip mash, delicious with double cream and a pinch of nutmeg. And raspberry mousse, refreshing and light. On Sundays they’d really treat themselves, with a roast followed by cinnamon apple crumble.
The recipes she was adding at the back had already filled a lot of the spare pages. Stig had come up with ideas for the soup run, including potato and leek soup and a tomato relish his mum made every Christmas.
The new pages of the book represented the new story of her life.
She approached the village, but instead of continuing ahead, she turned right. The church stood behind the Tudor hall next to the butcher’s. It was made up of grey stone, crumbling in parts, with a small spire above the belfry. The tiled roof was covered with intermittent moss. At the front was a clock that bore Roman numerals. The large oak door had two circular black handles. Sunlight illuminated the reds, yellows and purples of stained glass.
The graveyard extended the whole way round and was home to an array of headstones and sculptures. Emma’s stomach rolled as she pushed open the little entrance gate. She wondered if Ned’s stone carried his full name, and where to find it. But as she turned left and started to cut her way through patches of ragged grass, the answer was suddenly staring her straight in the face.
Polly and Alan were standing next to a white headstone, accompanied by a big helium balloon bearing the number 18. Emma slipped behind a tall sculpture of an angel, feeling anything but angelic. The couple were smartly dressed, Alan in a suit, Polly wearing a tailored dress. Fresh flowers lay at their feet. They had their arms around each other’s waists and were speaking to the stone. After a while, Alan took his phone out and fiddled with it. An Ed Sheeran song started to play, and Polly looked up at him. Emma could make out tears in the landlady’s eyes.
She’d heard Polly talk about Ned once when she’d visited Andrea, saying that he was worth ten times the huge amount she and Alan had paid for fertility treatment. Ned must have been about fourteen at the time, and had spent the previous two days looking after Alan, who was ill with a bug, while Polly ran the pub. She’d described how he dashed home from school in his lunch hour and made soup. Then, at the end of the day, he’d read one of Alan’s favourite books out loud and kept him supplied with fluids and cold flannels.
Emma looked back at the couple. The music had stopped. They stood wrapped up in each other, swaying gently as if it were still playing. Eventually Alan kissed his hand and placed it on the headstone, while Polly blew a kiss through the air. The balloon ducked backwards as if it had been hit.
She could hold off no longer. Tonight she would talk to Andrea and Bligh, before going to the police.
She slipped away and left the churchyard. The bench outside squeaked as she collapsed onto it. A trail of ants led into a crack in the bottom of the cobbled wall behind her, a kind of regimented form of chaos. Maybe that was what prison was like.
If Ned was alive, Polly and Alan would no doubt have been in the pub today, throwing a huge party for their son’s eighteenth birthday. He’d probably have been preparing for university. Perhaps he’d have a girlfriend. Would he have been a doctor? A teacher? An entrepreneur? His parents would never know.
She got up and walked past the side of the church hall, turning right down the village’s main street. She passed the butcher’s and crossed the road at the Badger Inn. She wanted one last tour of the village to appreciate everything she used to take for granted.
To start with, she just stood outside the pub and breathed in the tobacco smoke from a nearby customer nursing a cigarette and a pint of beer. As a child, she’d had happy times here. The landlords before Polly and Alan had loved children and always put a straw and a cocktail umbrella in her orange juice. One Christmas, there had been a lock-in. She and Andrea had been so excited. The locals had played cards and darts and the landlords had made turkey sandwiches. Emma had felt so grown up drinking her fancy juice as the adults jokingly put fingers to their lips to keep everyone quiet.
She crossed the road and paused by the pet shop. Phil and Sheila had been good employers and given her a Christmas bonus. As her drinking got worse, they’d tried to be lenient when she turned up late or mischarged a customer. She’d loved that job. Often she’d stayed late to play with the hamsters or cuddle a new batch of rabbits. Some things didn’t change.
‘Coming in?’ said a voice behind her.
Emma turned around.
Phil shrugged. ‘Thought I’d try my hand at making a lasagne tonight. You can share the inevitable carnage if you want.’
‘Tempting as that invitation is, I’ll have to decline.’
