‘I didn’t mean Lenny,’ she says with a tinkly laugh. ‘He’s a clever guy but building stuff isn’t his forte. No, I meant I’ll give you a hand if you like. I actually enjoy it.’
‘Oh!’ Embarrassment floods his veins. But why not accept her offer? He hasn’t made any headway all afternoon. In fact he’s been dangerously close to fetching the meat tenderiser and battering the thing to pieces. ‘Well, yeah,’ he adds. ‘That’d be great, if you have the time.’
‘I’m a free agent this evening,’ Agata says, already climbing back onto her bike. ‘Give me half an hour to grab some dinner and I’ll come back with my tools—’
‘Hang on,’ he calls after her. ‘D’youneedtools?’
‘I have my methods,’ she announces gaily, and pedals off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Kate
It wasn’t supposed to be just Fergus and me having dinner in the pub. We’d asked Alice too, and Rory, planning to treat them after helping out with the flat and the shop. However, Alice zoomed off, and Rory wanted to give Liv a break by helping with the baby, so it ended up just being the two of us, tucking into the pub’s famous steak pies. ‘Well, why not?’ I remarked. ‘We’ve earned it.’
‘And no point in sitting around watching paint dry,’ Fergus remarked with a smile. We had a second beer, and although I’d have been fine normally I felt a little giddy as we left the pub.
Now the air is fresh and sharp after a sudden shower. ‘Fancy a walk?’ I suggest. ‘It’s a lovely evening.’
‘I’m up for that,’ Fergus says. So we stroll along the riverside, watching ducks on the river and swallows soaring above. Instead of looping back, the way Alice would have with the dogs, we carry on walking until we are out of town.
Fergus tells me about the day his wife passed away; how she’d felt a little poorly but they hadn’t really thought anything of it. ‘Next thing, Jane collapsed,’ he says. ‘Liv had just come home from school and saw everything – all the panic, the paramedics, her mum being taken away to hospital. She died that night.’
‘I can’t even begin to imagine what that was like,’ I say. ‘It must have been terrible. But I guess you had to hold things together for Liv?’
‘Yeah. It’s good that she was there really. Good for me, I mean, to have that focus.’ Fergus thrusts his hands into his jeans pockets. He’s wearing a thick black polo-necked sweater, a waxed jacket and a woollen beanie, well insulated against the cool air. I’ve learnt to dress for the climate too. ‘You need to layer up, girl!’ Alice had scolded, jokingly, during those first few days when I had yet to adjust.
‘Such a tough time for you though,’ I add.
Fergus nods. ‘We got through it, thanks to our friends. There are a lot of good people around here.’
‘Yes, I can see that. So what happened with the shop at that time?’ I ask, feeling privileged that he’s sharing all this with me.
‘Helen was still working with me then. She absolutely kept it going. It would’ve crumbled otherwise. Then she had the audacity to move away with her family...’ He breaks off and smiles. ‘Imagine, not wanting to spend your entire life working in a second-hand bookshop—’
‘There arefarworse things,’ I say, picturing Wilma’s pinched face at the hotel, and my seemingly colossal trotters crammed into those heels. Already, it seems like a lifetime ago.
And now, as Fergus and I find ourselves cutting through woodland along a narrow path, I’m not thinking about Shugbury Spa Hotel at all. Instead, I realise that the winding path, softly carpeted in pine needles, is throwing up memories for me. And when we reach a single-track lane, that does too. The forest clearing in the distance is as familiar and comforting as pulling on a soft, warm sweater. Or the furry bear slippers you love so much you want to sleep in them.
When we stop, and Fergus takes my hand, that feels familiar and comforting too – even though a million sparks are shooting through me.
He squeezes it lightly and smiles. ‘D’you know where we are, Kate?’ His soft grey-blue eyes catch the evening sun.
I nod. It feels as if my heart has stopped. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I do.’
And now I know. That connection between Fergus and me; it hasn’t been my mind playing tricks.
We’ve met before, many years ago. When I was a child, tearing around the campsite with the local kids – and then again, a little later, when I was fifteen.
I’d begged not to come back to Scotland that summer. My friends at school in North London went to Spain and Greece. And we were going to spend a whole week in a tent?
‘We’ll go to the ceilidh in town,’ Mum said on our last night there. ‘It’ll be fun. You might meet some people your own age.’ A night of traditional Scottish dancing? I cringed at the thought. We’d had dance classes at my primary school back in Glasgow and I’d been awful at it. My feet just wouldn’t do what they were meant to do and it had always been so embarrassing and awful. That had been another bonus of our hasty escape to London. No more Dad, obviously – and no more of those blasted Scottish reels!
However, as soon as we stepped into the hall, I was transfixed by the music and crowds and everyone dancing and laughing. And I wanted to be part of it.
Mum found a table for us, and as newcomers we were welcomed immediately into the fold. When she danced with men, I was happy for her. Because it was wonderful to see her whirling around like the young and happy woman I could see – perhaps for the first time – that she’d once been.
Eventually, I sidled off and got chatting to a bunch of teenagers installed at a table in the corner of the hall. They grabbed a vacant chair for me, and one of the boys said he remembered me from when we kids: the Glasgow family who’d come to the same campsite three years in a row. And then we’d just stopped coming. ‘I missed you!’ he said with a shy smile. I remember blushing and feeling delighted, but not knowing what to say. Then someone snuck me a beer and after a few sips I felt a little more emboldened. The night went on, and towards the end the shy boy and I stepped out of the hot and stuffy hall for a breath of air. He showed me the stars – stars like you never see in London.
