It Started With A Note

VICTORIA COOKE grew up in the city of Manchester before crossing the Pennines in pursuit of her career in education. She now lives in Huddersfield with her husband and two young daughters. When she’s not at home writing by the fire with a cup of coffee in hand, she loves working out in the gym and travelling. Victoria has always had a passion for reading and writing, undertaking several writers’ courses before completing her first novel in 2016.

Praise for Victoria Cooke

‘Funny and poignant with a gloriously realistic cast of characters. I followed Charlotte’s journey avidly, cheering her on all the way. An unputdownable read’

Rachel Burton, author of The Many Colours of Us

‘Buy this book now and read it!’

Rachel’s Random Reads

‘A truly fantastic read, I couldn’t put it down’

Jessica Bell

Also by Victoria Cooke

The Secret to Falling in Love

The Holiday Cruise

Who Needs Men Anyway?

It Started with a Note

VICTORIA COOKE

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Victoria Cooke 2018

Victoria Cooke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © December 2018 ISBN: 9780008310257

Version: 2018-02-18

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Victoria Cooke

Also by Victoria Cooke

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

One Year Later …

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader

Thank You for Reading!

Keep Reading…

About the Publisher

For my great-grandfather, Private Thomas Edward Fitton, who served with the 1st Battalion in the Borders Regiment and was killed in action on 1/7/1916 in the Somme Valley aged 24.

And, my grandmother Rose (his daughter) who was six years old when he was taken from her by the Great War. She became a much-loved grandmother who always had time for her grandchildren.

***

In loving memory of my grandad, Kenneth Taylor Cooke, (1926–2018) a Second World War Royal Marine, spared from fighting the Japanese in the Pacific as the war ended during his training. Grandad is remembered for his bravery, patience, kindness, generosity and love.

Rain

Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain

On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me

Remembering again that I shall die

And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks

For washing me cleaner than I have been

Since I was born into this solitude.

Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:

But here I pray that none whom once I loved

Is dying to-night or lying still awake

Solitary, listening to the rain,

Either in pain or thus in sympathy

Helpless among the living and the dead,

Like a cold water among broken reeds,

Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,

Like me who have no love which this wild rain

Has not dissolved except the love of death,

If love it be towards what is perfect and

Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.

Edward Thomas, 1916

Chapter One

I clutch the envelope tightly to my chest – so tightly, in fact, my nails tear into the crumpled paper, which has been softened by my sweaty palm and the relentless downpour. I release my grip slightly. It’s too precious to damage, but I’m so scared of losing it. I feel like one of those mad scientists in a James Bond film who has developed a mini nuclear warhead and has to transport it somewhere with the utmost care to avoid detonating it at the wrong time. I’m not sure comparing myself to a villain is wholly accurate, though. Perhaps I should have laid it on a velvet pillow or something, like a prince carrying a glass slipper. Yes, that’s better – a prince, not a villain. A princess? I shouldn’t be in charge of something like this.

As I scurry down the high street, the eyes of passers-by rouse suspicion. Do they know what I have? Are they after me? I walk faster, heart pounding. It’s difficult because my bloody shoes are killing me. Pleather. Man-made leather. Plastic-leather pleather sandals – a bargain at £12.99, but seriously, I’ve already spent double that on plasters for all the blisters they’ve given me.

The quicker I walk, the harder my bag-for-life bashes into my legs. Dented tins of peas, beans, stew and whatever else I’d salvaged from the ‘whoops’ shelf after work all unleash their fury on my shins. It isn’t uncommon for certain staff members to accidentally-on-purpose cause a few whoopsies themselves. Not me, of course; it’s a sackable offence and I can’t risk losing my job since I’m the sole breadwinner in our house and my baby boy has just gone off to university so I need every penny.

Thirty-seven years old and I’ve already packed my Kieran off to university while most of my friends are waving their kids off to high school. It makes me feel so old. When I looked that handsome six-foot-two beanpole in the eye and kissed him goodbye, I blubbed like a baby. He was still my little boy, even if I had to stand on my tiptoes to get close enough to grab his cheek. Of course, he’d just grunted and wiped the residue of tears, snot and my kisses off on his sleeve almost instantly. Boys. He’s turning into his uncle Gary.

I’m still scurrying, every step causing me to wince in pain. Bag-for-life. Bash. Sandals. Chafe. And so continues the pattern as I dash through the town centre towards the bus station. Rain is forecast, thunderous downpours no less – an amber weather warning had been issued by that gorgeous weatherman, David Whatshisface, on the TV. He could make any weather seem bright and cheery. I’d weather his storm. I chuckle to myself, not even sure if that would even make sense to anyone other than me.

A deafening roar rips through the sky. Uh-oh. I try walking even quicker. Bash, chafe, bash, chafe. I don’t have a brolly, though I know they’re unwise in a thunderstorm anyway – David said so. I can see the bus station in the distance all lit up in the dusky evening like a heavenly portal to refuge. Just one busy road, several passers-by eyeing me (I’m still suspicious), and a plume of smoke from the smokers outside the pub to negotiate and I’ll be home and dry, literally.

Just as I allow myself to dream of being home, the heavens open. Of course they do. They couldn’t have waited just five more minutes – where would be the fun in that? The rain is so heavy it soaks through to my skin almost instantly. My denim jacket is leaden with liquid and the nylon of my uniform is soaked. I’m cold and sticky and my feet are squishing about in my sandals, squelching with every step. The envelope is getting quite soggy now so I stuff it into my handbag and tuck my bag tightly under my armpit for safety.

I slow my pace, unable to keep it up because my mascara and foundation have run straight into my eyes, partially blinding me. I wipe them with the back of my hand and notice it’s streaky black when I pull it away. I must look a sight. I’ve reached the road and the cars are coming thick and fast. Headlights, taillights, headlights, taillights. Gap. I make a dash for it, landing in a huge puddle by the kerb as I do. Brown water droplets dribble down my American Tan tights. Why didn’t I wear trousers? David promised rain!

I make it across the road and begin negotiating the shrunken smoke plume, which is now concentrated to the little canopy above the door. My task is made all the more difficult by the next torrent of foundation and mascara liquid streaming down my face. The smoke makes me cough and splutter and I’m flapping my arms about as best I can with a one-ton carrier bag on my arm and a stiff denim jacket shrink-wrapping my body.

As I near the edge of the smoking circle, I bat the air one last time – one time too many for my so-called bag-for-life, which bursts open, spewing bargain tins aplenty all over the pavement. As I scan the devastation, I notice that the pesky little pokey thing you never quite know how to work has fallen off the corned beef tin. Typical.

I never swear.

Ever.

But if I did, Hells Angels would blush at the words I’d choose right now.

‘Cath, you idiot!’ I mumble instead.

A tatty-haired man bends down and starts to pick up the tins and I follow. Warmth in my chest grows from the seed of his kindness. He has a lit cigarette in his mouth and the smoke from it is so close and raw that it’s burning my nostrils, but he’s kind enough to help so I do my best to ignore it.

‘Thanks, love,’ I say, my voice thick with implied gratitude. He just nods and hands me four of the five tins he’s picked up. I look at him, confused, as he stuffs the corned beef in his pocket and shrugs. The rain is beating down still, pummelling into my bag, and I’m shaking with the cold. Or shock. Before I can organise my thoughts and string together a sentence of scorn, he’s stubbed out his cigarette and vanished back into the pub taking my tea with him. As my eyes sink to the ground, I spot the glinting little silver twisty thing off the corned beef tin, and it’s mildly satisfying to know he’ll never get to enjoy my tin of deliciously processed meat.

Striking corned beef hash off the menu tonight would be one more thing for Gary to moan about. Still, I have the envelope and no amount of whinging from my freeloading brother would change that. Hearing those words in my head makes me feel a little guilty. I’m supposed to be helping him, supporting him, but instead, I’m slowly losing my patience with him. I make it to the bus station and can see my bus has pulled in at stop number sixteen, which is right at the other end of the station, of course. I start running. I’m holding my shopping in two arms, cradling it like a precious baby so I don’t lose any more tins. Gary will have to have the stew.

Just as I approach stop fifteen, there is a miracle. My bus is still in! Thank God! I slow to a walking pace, panting – the smoke, the bus fumes and the fact I haven’t done any exercise since my last year eleven PE lesson all contributory factors.

Juggling my groceries, I stuff a hand into my bag, fumbling for my purse, which I locate quickly, and glance down at it to find some bus fare. The rumbling sound of the bus engine coming to life alerts me to the fact it’s about to leave. I have no choice but to barge past the people queuing at stop fifteen and pop my head and arm outside; I wouldn’t make stop sixteen. I’m waving frantically, balancing my precious tin baby in the other arm. ‘Please stop.’ The headlights get closer, but they’re gaining speed. Please stop. ‘Stop!’ I yell.

He doesn’t stop.

The next bus comes an hour later.

Chapter Two

When I finally arrive at the end of my road, I’m trembling, battered, and bruised, and all I’ve done is commute home from work.

The off-licence near the bus stop is open, and I have an idea to salvage the evening. My spirits are still high; I still have the envelope and I’m almost home. I plonk a bottle of cava on the counter and rummage in my purse for six pounds.

‘Celebrating tonight?’ Jim, the owner, asks.

‘Ooh, yes I am.’ I can’t help but grin. ‘But I can’t tell you why – I don’t want to jinx it.’ I smile and give a little shrug.

‘Well, whatever it is, you enjoy it, love.’ Jim smiles back. ‘How’s that brother of yours doing?’

I want to offload and explain how exasperated I’ve become with him, how he never helps around the house and has yet to find a job, but I find myself unable to. I don’t know if it’s embarrassment or loyalty, or a complete unwillingness to bore the lovely Jim to death with my woes.

‘He’s good,’ I say instead.

‘Glad things are working out.’ He smiles. ‘I told him he could have a few shifts here to tide him over, but he said he thought things were looking up.’

Oh, did he now? ‘Yes, apparently so,’ I say.

Jim smiles again and hands me my penny change, which I pop into the charity box by the till.

When I finally make it through the front door, relief embraces me, tighter than my shrink-wrapped jacket. I’d make tea, then pull out the envelope and ask Gary if he’d help me celebrate, we’d have the bubbly and then I’d run a nice hot bath, putting that awful journey home behind me. Perhaps I’d book a meal for us at the weekend, at that new pub in town. I could even ask Kieran to come over and make it a real family affair. It would cheer Gary up and I’d quite enjoy the company and change of scenery. I smile dreamily as Gary approaches me.

‘I’m goin’ down the pub,’ he mumbles, barging past me and causing a few tins from my precariously balanced bag-for-life to tumble to the floor.

My heart sinks. Gary always goes out for an evening drink, so it was silly to feel so deflated when tonight is no different. I should have expected it, and it wasn’t like he knew I had exciting news to share with him. I contemplate asking him to stay in but as I turn around, the front door slams shut in my face.

At least I could have a bath and then make tea in my own time; that was something. My feet sting as soon as the bloodied blisters hit the hot soapy water, but the rest of my body needs a soak just to warm up because apparently it would have killed Gary to pop the heating on. The house is like an igloo and will take a good few hours to warm up. As much as I love him, I could batter him with a cut-price baguette at times.

After my bath, I heat up the tin of stew and butter some bread, which has started to go a little hard. It isn’t mouldy thankfully, but bread never does seem to go mouldy anymore, which is a little odd come to think of it; I wonder what on earth goes into it nowadays. Still, this piece is okay – it just isn’t deliciously fresh. I could have brought some deliciously fresh bread home if Gary had managed to send a simple text message to let me know we needed some. I shake my head as I take a bite.

I’d taken pity on him after our mum died. It had hit us both hard as we never knew our father and she’d been both mum and dad to us. I was so close to Mum and she was always there for me and Kieran – so much so that I’d never felt like a single parent. Gary was close to her too and after she died, he’d sunk into depression. He’d already lost his girlfriend, and a year or so after Mum died he lost his job too, but two years have passed since she died and I shouldn’t need to be looking after him anymore. I’d let him move in about six months ago while he got himself back on his feet, but so far he’s not displayed any signs of getting a job and moving out, and he only uses his feet to walk to the pub.

I place my bowl and bread on the kitchen table and remember the bottle of cava in the fridge. Celebrating alone seems a little sad but what choice do I have? A little glass wouldn’t hurt, would it? One now, and perhaps Gary would have a glass with me when he got back from the pub, I reason. Maybe we could even have a chat about him moving out if he comes home in good spirits. The bottle is disappointingly warm despite having sat in the fridge for a good few hours. The blooming thing has two settings: frozen and lukewarm. I’ve asked Gary a million times to look at it for me or call someone out, but evidently, it’s been too much trouble for him.

Remembering how fast corks can pop, I take a tea towel from the drawer to catch it in; I’d seen someone do that before at a party. Placing the towel over the cork, I begin to push at it with my thumb as hard as I can. It isn’t budging so I place my hand over it, trying to ease it out, but the thing is stuck fast. I try my other hand: more wiggling, more pulling and even a twist here and there, but it is no good. I even hold the bottle with my thighs and try with both thumbs but it’s useless and my hands are red and sore. Resigned to the fact I won’t be having a glass of bubbly, I dump the bottle on the side and put the kettle on instead before sinking into the kitchen chair, where I cry.

I hate myself for it because I try so hard to be upbeat and positive, no matter how hard things get, but sometimes things pile up and the weight becomes too heavy to bear. It’s not just the fact I’ve had an awful journey home or that I lost my corned beef. It’s the fact that I’ve never complained about my life being samey and unadventurous in all the years that it has, but the one time I try to brave something new, the cork just won’t pop. I can’t help but wonder if it’s a sign from the gods to quit trying and just accept my fate. I let out a small humourless laugh through the tears before wiping my face and finishing making my tea.

The house is still and quiet but I’m not in the mood for watching TV. I miss grumpy Kieran barging through the door, hungry, as he always is. Like most teenagers, he spent much of his time in his room, but just knowing he was up there was a comfort. I could always make an excuse to pop in and see him, to offer him a drink or collect his dirty laundry and if he was ever out, I always knew he’d be coming back. Now the emptiness of the house is a feeling rather than a state and it’s odd. But that doesn’t mean I want Gary to stay; he needs to rebuild his own life. It’s just something I’m going to have to get used to. No son, no Mum, no Gary. Just me.

The stillness thickens and prickles my skin. I’m sure it’s emphasised by the sad deflated attempt at a celebration. Needing to busy myself, I have an idea.

Kieran’s lifetime collection of junk is still cluttering up his room. It’s all stuff he hadn’t deemed important enough to take to university but apparently felt was fine to leave in my house. I decide I’m going to have a good sort-out. What’s that saying? Clean house, clean mind? I shake my head – that doesn’t sound right at all; I’ve always had a clean mind and no amount of mess in Kieran’s room could change that.

My emergency stash of cardboard boxes from work come in handy once I’ve rebuilt them and filled them with Kieran’s junk. Old school books, piles of posters kept under his bed, superhero figurines he hasn’t played with in ten years and some board games that probably have most of the vital pieces missing.

My loft hatch is stiff, but the stick I keep for opening it still works if I really yank it, and the steps come down easily after that. That’s something at least. I climb them, pulling the light cord when I reach the top. I clamber over the boxes I’d already stashed up there and feel a little bit of guilt at the fact I’m just as much of a hoarder as Kieran. I pick up a box to make some space and when the recognition of it registers, I have to sit down. For a moment, I just look at it.

After Mum died, I’d inherited this box. It contains all her little keepsakes: things that Gary would have never wanted in a million years. He was more interested in the sandwich toaster and the little retro DAB radio she had in the kitchen. I know what’s in the box but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to open it yet. I was too heartbroken and now I feel terrible because I’d forgotten all about it.

I cross my legs on the dusty boards and wipe the lid clean before lifting it. There’s a photo of me and Gary lying on top, which was taken when I was about five and he was eight. I take in my plaited pigtails and brown corduroy dress and can vaguely remember the day. Gary is wearing brown velvet jeans and a red jumper and is looking at me with disdain. We’d been to a park and he’d pushed me over and I’d grazed my knee. He was angry because I’d snitched on him to Mum. God bless the Eighties.

My father had walked out about a year before that picture was taken and whilst I barely remember him, I do remember Mum’s smile that year. It was always there, plastered on, oversized and exaggerated, but her eyes didn’t crinkle in the corners. It wasn’t until I got older I realised how hard it must have been to maintain that brave face for us and I wish we’d have behaved much better for her.