The Homecoming Read online

  CHAPTER THREE

  When Maddy woke again it was dawn. She took several seconds to remember where she was. As she stared around the gloomy little room, the previous day came back to her.

  Summoning courage and what energy she could muster, she dealt with the most pressing task first.

  ‘Mum?’ she said, clutching the receiver of the old-fashioned bar phone too tight and winding the cord around her fingers.

  ‘Darling, how lovely,’ said Helen, who was whisking around her little house, phone in hand, gathering up her yoga kit. ‘You don’t usually call at this time of day. Everything alright?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, fine. I’m in Havenbury Magna, oddly enough,’ she said lightly.

  Helen dropped her gym bag and straightened, the phone now clamped to her ear. ‘You are? What brought that on?’

  ‘I had a call.’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s Patrick.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Tell me.’ The words came out in a little gasp, like the breath had suddenly left Helen’s body. She sagged down onto the little sofa.

  ‘He …’ Maddy’s eyes filled with tears again. ‘He had a heart attack.’ The last word came out with a sob attached. She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath.

  ‘Mum?’

  Helen was still silent.

  ‘He’s alive. He’s in hospital. Talking, and everything …’

  Helen breathed out at last, swaying slightly. ‘He’s nothing but trouble, that man,’ she said angrily.

  ‘They say he needs an operation. A bypass. Valve replacement. He’s been lucky. They caught it just in time …’

  ‘It’s his lifestyle,’ snapped Helen. ‘It’s his own silly fault. He’s always smoked and drunk too much.’

  ‘Not now, though, Mum,’ protested Maddy. ‘When I was doing my degree I never saw him smoke …’

  ‘Really? It’s the sins of the past, then. No sympathy required. Anyway, why did they call you?’ she added, working herself up from anger to indignation. ‘Being down there again, with all that stuff before. It’s the last thing you need. It’s selfish. He’s got no right …’

  After the call, Helen sat, unmoving, on the sofa in the pretty little red-brick terraced house – just twelve feet wide – with its tiny fireplace in the sitting room and a table just big enough for two in the kitchen, where she and little Maddy had made cupcakes when it was too wet to go out. All thoughts of her yoga class were forgotten. She stared sightlessly at her carefully tended garden, the sunny, brick-paved terrace, the generously planted pots, the honeysuckle billowing from the old garden wall, meeting and twining around the pearl-white climbing rose she chose because it had her daughter’s name.

  And now, after more than twenty years, she gave herself over to remembering: the anger and hurt she had felt so passionately as a younger woman; the years of protective isolation, turning in on herself, working, saving, raising her child in the safe, predictable world she had created, followed by that tentative rapprochement some six years ago now … Then – of course – there was the further, unforgivable failure and betrayal when he hurt her again via the most precious thing in her world – her daughter.

  ‘Nothing but trouble, that man,’ she said again, into the silence.

  As always, Maddy felt better after she had spoken to her mother. In contrast, she was pretty sure she would feel worse if she spoke to Simon. Which is why she didn’t. Instead, she decided to finish cleaning the bar and get to grips with the catering. Then, when she visited Patrick later, she could give him a positive report.

  With the kitchen shut, she hadn’t bothered to eat the previous evening. As a matter of fact she couldn’t remember eating at all the previous day, which probably did as much to explain the churning stomach as the familiar and unwelcome anxieties that were surfacing unbidden.

  After a brief shower – the bathroom was none too appealing – she made a proper inspection of the kitchen. Things were not great. However, unlike the flat upstairs, the place was clean with stainless steel worktops scrubbed and clear.

  It was no surprise. Patrick was uncompromising about food safety and had a cordial relationship with the food hygiene officer who always seemed to go away with a bacon sandwich and a smile on his face. Beyond that though, she was surprised at how chaotic it was. The cold store was stuffed full of vegetables but the order quantities seemed odd. There were piles of leeks but hardly any carrots or broccoli, the staples of the fresh vegetables he served with most of his dishes. By the looks of it the butcher hadn’t delivered the day before, or perhaps he had tried and found the pub unstaffed like the drayman had. Examining the freezer, she found several catering packets of peas – clearly Patrick had some anxiety about running out – but there was little else other than some unidentifiable packets of food of which only he knew the exact provenance.

  She scratched her head. What could she possibly order in that would pull this lot together?

  An even bigger concern was that there were several unpaid supplier invoices pinned to the noticeboard on the back of the kitchen door. One was from her old friends, the local bakery, who usually supplied tarts and cheesecakes, which she also noticed were not in stock. Patrick was clearly not giving her the whole story even now. And yet the bar was teeming the previous night. Surely they were turning over a reasonable amount?

  Next she went to the safe at the back of the storeroom to see if a trip to the bank with the takings was in order. It struck her that the combination might have changed after all this time, but the dial turned sweetly, and clunked open, just as it always had. She wondered how many other people were able to wander in and open it. Inside was the cash box with the float, the bundle of takings and the till rolls. Checking the till roll from the previous night, she noticed a rather smaller figure than she might have expected on the total, but what did she know? It had been such a long time, she probably felt as rushed as she had because she was out of practice, not because the bar was doing that well.

  Stifling her misgivings for the time being, she got on with the bar cleaning with an eye on the clock. Without Patrick around she was assuming none of the usual suppliers had had orders placed. She would need to go shopping if she was going to be able to serve food this lunchtime.

  Tying her hair back in a scarf to hide the fact it could do with a wash, she grabbed a basket and headed out. Luckily it was Saturday, which – every other week – was market day. That meant the steep main street through Havenbury Magna was closed to traffic and was given over to the market stalls of local farmers and small-scale food suppliers.

  The heady scent of freshly baked bread drew her to the baker’s stall.

  ‘Those look fabulous,’ she breathed, trying not to dribble as she talked, admiring a heap of fresh pains au chocolat and almond croissants.

  ‘They are,’ said the handsome, ruddy-faced baker. ‘Here you go, if I can persuade you?’ he added, passing her a plate of pastry samples.

  ‘Not enough,’ she admitted, picking up a whole almond croissant instead. With just a black coffee for breakfast her stomach was now groaning with deprivation.

  Breaking off large pieces of the croissant and stuffing it into her mouth, she regarded the piles of fresh loaves and pies. ‘I’ll have six of those big rustic rye loaves,’ she said through a mouthful of pastry. ‘And a dozen pasties – actually, make that twenty.’

  ‘You are a hungry girl this morning,’ he joked. ‘Where do you put it all?’ he added, giving her an admiring survey from head to foot.

  ‘Got a bit of a catering problem,’ she grinned in reply. ‘Need to offer lunch at the pub.’

  ‘You’re trade, then,’ said the young man. ‘That gets you a discount.’ He tapped on a calculator and mentioned a sum that Maddy knew she could turn a decent profit on. She counted out the notes she had stuffed into her jeans pocket and handed them over gratefully.

  ‘Here’s my card.’ He popped it into her basket. ‘Always happy to supply the local trade. I’ll get my lad to take
the stuff around to you. The Havenbury Arms? Fine … be in the next half hour at the most, if that’s alright?’

  Maddy nodded, smiling as she licked the sugar off her fingers.

  ‘You’re from Pandora’s Pantry,’ she said, glancing at the card. It was the little delicatessen at the bottom of the high street. As a student she hadn’t been in there much because the food was delicious but expensive.

  ‘I am!’ He held out his hand. ‘Brendan.’

  ‘Maddy.’ She wiped her sticky hand on her jeans before reciprocating. ‘I didn’t realise you did the market as well. Is this all from your usual supplier?’ she asked, waving her hand at all the tantalising breads and pies.

  Brendan looked shy. ‘Well, in a manner of speaking, yes.’ He paused. ‘I’ve actually started doing a bit of baking myself …’

  ‘This is you?’ she exclaimed through the last mouthful of croissant. She rolled her eyes in appreciation. ‘They’re amazing. You’re amazing. When on earth do you find time to bake?’

  ‘At night. Before market day it’s pretty much all night. I’m a bit glad it’s only once a fortnight. Keeps me out of trouble on a Friday evening, though, I suppose …’

  ‘I’m impressed. And I love the local angle too. I’m going to make sure everyone knows their pasties are freshly baked a hundred yards away from where they’re eating them.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Brendan, blushing. ‘One for the road,’ he added, deftly popping another croissant in a bag and twirling the corners closed before dropping it into her basket on top of the card. ‘You look like you need feeding up.’

  After that, glancing at her watch anxiously, Maddy quickly snapped up a big chunk of locally produced cheddar, several vines of wonderful-smelling tomatoes and some locally home-made chutney.

  Back at the pub she grabbed a wet cloth to clean off the food menu on the boards. There were ten starters and a similar number of main courses with a whole blackboard dedicated to the puddings, but Maddy had other ideas. It was a struggle to find some chalk but eventually she found a couple of little stubs in a kitchen drawer. Writing quickly she replaced the pub food with her simple lunchtime menu. All fresh, local food, just soup, pasties and a ploughman’s with the cheddar, which was the best she had ever tasted. She planned to serve it with the rye bread, tomatoes and chutney. As an afterthought she scribbled a single extra word: ‘Chips’.

  Her ankle was aching even more than yesterday. She couldn’t remember having had to spend quite so much time on her feet since she left for London. Her job, other than travelling to client meetings, generally involved poring over a hot computer, putting together web-marketing proposals. When she explained her job to her friends she knew it sounded boring, but she loved what she did and her sheer enthusiasm was why Simon always sent her out as the ‘frontman’.

  She was surprised Simon hadn’t called, and then it occurred to her it had been a while since she saw her phone.

  No time to call him now but she made a solemn vow that – whatever the other priorities – she would sit down with her laptop and go through the business queries just as soon as she finished the lunchtime session.

  Market day meant that trade was brisk in the bar. Beautiful blue skies had chilled the air, and people came in rubbing their hands together, praising the autumn sunshine.

  The ploughman’s and pasties sold as well as she had hoped and she was flattered her leek and potato soup was popular too. She had to concede it was probably more to do with the first real cold snap of the autumn than her – hardly Michelin-starred – cooking. She was relieved no one had objected to her removing the extended menu Patrick had been offering, although the sweet, skinny girl who had been selling handmade jewellery in the market was pining for treacle tart.

  ‘I’ll make you some for tomorrow – promise,’ Maddy reassured her as she settled for a big plate of chips instead. It hardly seemed fair the girl was so thin, but she was too nice to resent, Maddy decided.

  She was relieved when she called last orders. Her ankle badly needed her to spend an hour or two sitting down. She was just collecting glasses from the emptying tables when Ben came in.

  ‘Am I too late for lunch?’ he asked.

  ‘’Fraid so,’ she said, more unkindly than she meant, as she tried not to limp on the way back to the bar. ‘That is, the soup’s all gone,’ she added, forcing herself to feel more generous, ‘but I could do you a ploughman’s?’

  ‘That’d be great. And a pint of bitter, if you would.’

  Once she had got him settled at the bar with his pint and food she decided to try really hard to be polite.

  ‘Thanks for the lift to see Patrick yesterday,’ she began. ‘I’m fine for this afternoon, though.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, because I’ve got tutorials and a lecture this afternoon.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m really busy this afternoon as well,’ she replied, feeling silly.

  ‘I thought I might pop in and see how he’s doing this evening, though.’

  ‘I wish I could come with you, but I’d better not leave Kevin on his own.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Ben, ‘I don’t think I’d want to either. Tell you what, I’ll pop in afterwards and let you know how he is.’

  ‘I thought you’d died,’ snapped Simon, picking up the phone on the first ring.

  ‘I’m fine thanks – how are you?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Simon, not sounding it. ‘How is the old guy?’

  Maddy explained about the forthcoming surgery. ‘They say he’s not well enough at the moment, but they hope to do it at some point in the next few days.’

  ‘How long do you reckon you’ll be there?’

  ‘Assuming he gets the surgery in the next week or so, he’ll definitely need at least six weeks recovery time,’ she said. ‘Minimum.’

  ‘How the hell are we going to manage that?’ he replied, his voice rising to a querulous pitch. ‘We’ve got two pitch meetings next week and I don’t even have the proposal from you for Adams and Quinn. You do realise we weren’t the only ones who pitched?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ she promised. ‘I’ll email it to you by tomorrow morning.’ So much for catching up on her sleep.

  Caught up in student tutorials for longer than he’d intended, Ben arrived at the hospital just ten minutes before visiting time ended.

  Patrick was in bed, his head turned away from the door, staring bleakly out of the window.

  ‘Ben!’ he said, with relief. ‘Damned decent of you to come.’

  The men fell easily into chatter about nothing in particular as they always did, but Ben was watching his friend carefully.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘it’s been a pleasure to meet Maddy. I’m a bit surprised I haven’t met her before …’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Patrick sighed heavily. ‘That.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know what possessed me to give them her details as next of kin. Poor girl, being called in the middle of the night and dragged down here to sit about in hospital looking at me lying around the place moaning and groaning for hours on end. What a massive bore for her.’

  Ben waited.

  ‘Plus, of course,’ Patrick went on, ‘I was quite wrong to ask her to come back here.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because she left here three years ago with no intention of coming back at all. And I don’t blame her one bit for it, although I must admit I’ve missed her. There, I’ve said it. I miss her, and I suppose that’s why she popped into my mind that night. And her mother, of course. Although even I wouldn’t be mad or deluded enough to ask her to come,’ he snorted, with a mirthless laugh.

  ‘It’s quite natural that you should think of people who are important to you,’ Ben said. ‘Interesting that you thought of Maddy, though … and touching that she came. She’s clearly a friend you ought to feel you can rely on.’

  ‘Spare me the psychology-speak,’ said Patrick. ‘I knew you as a spotty teenager, remember?’ He gave Ben an appraising look. ‘Get you now, though. So assured and full of yoursel
f. Who’d have thought? All you were interested in when I first knew you was how to get drunk and then persuade girls to kiss you.’

  ‘Not a good combination, as I learnt,’ agreed Ben. ‘And – I tell you what – psychology gave me a useful insight into the subject. I’m a damned sight better at getting girls to kiss me now.’

  ‘I bet you bloody are,’ said Patrick. ‘You turned out alright in the end.’

  ‘I had good guidance at a critical age,’ acknowledged Ben with a smile. ‘Anyway, back to Maddy. Whether you should have called her or not she’s here now, and I can’t see you getting rid of her for a while. Not until she can see you up on your feet. When I left her she was organising herself to stay for a few weeks.’

  ‘Weeks? She can’t. That’ll kill her.’ He plucked at the sheets agitatedly, and his breathing quickened.

  ‘What can I do to help?’ Ben asked, gently.

  Patrick looked at him, then looked away. ‘Actually,’ he said, looking back, with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, ‘maybe you can help her. As a matter of fact you might be the only person I know who can …’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Ben. ‘What happened to make her leave? Is it something to do with the injury to her leg?’

  ‘You don’t miss much, do you? You’ll need to ask her that.’

  ‘That won’t be easy. She seems pretty spiky.’

  ‘Yep. Just like her mother.’

  ‘So, I’m not sure she’ll welcome my interventions.’

  The older man’s face fell. ‘Absolutely, old chap, no right to ask …’

  ‘No, no, listen … I’ll try,’ said Ben, putting his hand on Patrick’s shoulder, thinking that – from what he had seen of Maddy so far – there was a good chance he was making a promise he couldn’t keep.