“None that couldn’t wait, I’m sure. But I’d better get to it, all the same.” He started walking backward toward his Land Rover. “Say bye to your family for me.” He gave a wave.
“I will. And thanks for your help.”
“My pleasure. Maybe we could meet for a coffee sometime?”
“Sure.”
With one last smile that had her wanting to reach back through time and stay there, he drove down to the gates and leaned out of the window to press the intercom button. A moment later, the gates whirred open, and Ryan stuck his arm out and waved as he drove through them. She stood for a moment, considering how strange it was to feel so comfortable around him after so long apart. Then she retrieved the envelope from the car, ran her forefinger along the fastened edge and pulled out the contents.
“What?” she asked aloud, turning the papers over and checking inside the empty envelope.That’s not right.Instead of her latest layoff forms to sign, she was holding a setof divorce papers for a man named Warren Reeves. She checked the front of the envelope.Oh, for pity’s sake!It wasn’t even addressed to her. She’d been so distracted; she’d simply signed for the damn thing without checking it.
The intended recipient was staying down at the Crooked Elm. He’d probably been in the bar last night. Dammit. She’d have to go down there. She was hoping to spend the rest of the day getting her room straight and acclimatizing to being back in her old home, but she couldn’t very well leave Warren Reeves without his divorce papers, especially since she didn’t know how long he’d be staying at the pub.
5
With the van contents safelystowed inside the house, Fred wrapped herself in a thick cable-knit cardigan, heavy coat and scarf, and set off for the town with Warren Reeves’s envelope, in the hopes that he would have hers. She decided to walk, since it was only ten minutes downhill—and with the market arriving, parking would be a nightmare.
Fred found herself able to breathe more easily and knew that the cleaner air was only a part of it. Despite her protestations, being home felt like a weight had been lifted—or rather, she was feeling the divine weightlessness of being held up by the loving arms of her family. One morning here had shown her how much she’d needed to be home, even if only to perch temporarily while she caught her breath.
She stuck to the uneven paths, keeping pace with the water trickling in constant rivulets down the road from the hills above. Fir trees grew wild on the banks to one side, leading up to woodland and sporadic houses almost hiddenfrom view by the dense triangles of green. Beard lichens dripped in matted tufts from the branches of ancient oaks and sweet chestnut trees whose roots pushed up through the tarmac in ripples beneath her boots.
Being able to hear the crunch of her own footfall and the call of birds in the middle of the day was a novelty; in Islington you’d be lucky to find that kind of quiet even in the deepest part of the night.
The sound of a grumbling engine broke her thoughts and she turned to see Mr. Bishop on his old green tractor bumbling along slowly beside her.
“Need a lift, young Freddie?” he called down from the cab.
“No, thanks,” she replied, smiling. “I’m reacquainting myself with the area.”
He nodded. “Right enough.” Then he winked and said, “It’s good to have you back,” before he motored slowly off down the hill.
“I’m not back!” she called after him.
He didn’t turn around, but she heard him laugh as he waved an arm in the air. “Whatever you say, Freddie Hallow-Hart!”
Soon enough, gray-brown sandstone buildings began to dot the landscape and in another few minutes she was walking down into the town proper. Last night, the sleeping streets had rung with the shrieks and hollers from Krampus and the demon army. Today, a different kind of energy pulsed along the main thoroughfare as the wooden huts that would soon house the market stalls were being built. The music system had already been set up and MotownChristmas classics blasted out from the speakers, only marginally drowning out the smack of hammers and the whine of electric screwdrivers.
Many of the stall holders came back year after year and were greeted like old friends. Some booked into the local pubs and hotels, while others pitched their caravans on the green, free of charge, for the duration.
Fred found herself looking out for Liam, he’d no doubt be somewhere in the thick of things. She’d known him and his late wife, Claire, her whole life, though it had been a few years now since she’d seen him. She’d sent a card when Claire had passed, and received a lovely letter back from him but hadn’t had much contact with him since, which she knew was down to her.
Liam was a carpenter and sculptor. He sold beautifully turned wooden bowls and candlesticks and carved wood spirit sculptures for gardens. Liam and Claire had been favorites with the aunts, and great friends with her mum, and used to have dinner up at the house at least twice a week when the market was in town. So far as she knew, they continued the tradition still, even without Claire.
Liam and, for his part, Diggory, had been healthy male influences during her formative years, acting as an antidote to the frequent fly-by-nights her mum dated. Liam was steadfast and honorable, and without him she might have grown up with a dimmer view of the male species.
She felt guilty about not making the effort to come home the Christmas after Claire died. But at the time, she’d been consumed with trying to keep the shreds of herrelationship together—and given Tim’s feelings about her family, leaving him in London while she spent Christmas back home would only have added to the tension. She scanned the bustle of busy bodies in the high street now, looking for Liam, but didn’t spot him.
It was dark inside the Crooked Elm, the bar quieter than last night, but the tables in the restaurant were already half filled as people perused the lunch menus. The barman smiled and ambled over, a checked tea towel slung over one shoulder.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for one of your guests, a Warren Reeves. I have something of his, or we may have something of each other’s; the courier gave me his post, and I’m hoping he got mine.”
The barman started buffing the beer pumps.
“I don’t know if he’s here at the moment. Maybe you could leave it with me, and I’ll make sure he gets it?”
Fred chewed the inside of her lip. This was sensitive information; she wouldn’t like Warren’s divorce papers to be put to one side and accidentally forgotten about. She was about to ask whether the envelope could be delivered directly to his room when the pub door opened behind her, the chill wind lifting her hair, and a smooth, deep voice called out, “Hey, Sam, any messages for me?”
