The Summer of Wishful Thinking
EVE EDWARDS

One More Chapter

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Copyright © Eve Edwards 2020

Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Eve Edwards 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008356392

Ebook Edition © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008356385

Version: 2020-08-21

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

About the Author

About the Publisher

For my sister, Jane, the real registrar of Suffolk.

Any resemblance to actual weddings, birth and death registrations is entirely on purpose. People of Suffolk, I love your inventiveness and I wish I could’ve found space for more of your stories. Enjoy your special days.

Chapter 1

‘So he said to me “Would you mind wearing a costume?”’ Gemma smoothed the black skirt over her thighs, wondering if anyone would spot the ladder in her tights.

Diana’s laughter lines deepened around her eyes. She turned down Beyoncé so she could concentrate on the directions now they were almost there. ‘Ooo, kinky.’

‘Stop it, Di. He didn’t mean it like that.’ Gemma refreshed her phone to check they hadn’t missed the turning. In high summer, the Suffolk lanes were overflowing with grasses and lacy cow parsley, that obscured signs and even some of the narrower turnings. ‘They were sweet about it. Next right – no, other right – I mean left.’

Diana signalled, used to Gemma’s erratic grasp of directions. ‘And did you agree, Gem?’

‘I had too.’

‘Uh-uh, no you did not. All we have to do is turn up, officiate, do the paperwork and go home. We do not have to agree to join in anyone’s fantasies, unless we want to, of course.’ She directed a suggestive eyebrow wiggle at Gemma, making her laugh.

‘But they were making such an effort, Di. He’s wearing a replica of the doublet and hose in Henry VIII’s most famous portrait and she’s made herself a version of one in a painting of Anne Boleyn.’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong but they’re having, not just a Tudor-themed, but a Henry-famous-for-his-six wives wedding?’

‘Exactly.’ Gemma held her phone up, hoping 4G would be restored as she wasn’t exactly sure where they were now. ‘I think the irony escapes them.’

‘So, what costume did they want you to wear? Axeman?’

Gemma snorted. ‘I think Anne was dispatched with a sword.’

‘You’re such a history buff.’

History was a passion – one she wished she had more time to indulge. ‘A long skirt was all they specified, so I agreed.’

‘If you like them so much, you should go all out – hire something – a bishop’s robe.’

‘You know we’re not allowed any religious references.’

‘Well then, a doublet and hose deal. You’ve great legs, you know like Gwyneth Paltrow in Shakespeare in Love? I couldn’t carry it off myself.’ Diana often complained she was developing the same comfortable roundness of her mother, rather than the beanpole stature of her father. Gemma, however, thought ‘comfortable’ looked great on her friend. Who wants their best mate to be supermodel thin?

‘The female registrar in a codpiece, Di? I think that might rather detract from Jerry and Mary’s special day.’

‘Whereas getting married as the world’s most famous wife serial killer won’t?’

‘Good point.’ A white sign flashed past in Gemma’s peripheral vision. ‘There – it was back there!’

Diana slammed on the brakes, forcing them both forward in their seat belts, and threw the car into reverse. ‘Damn, girl, give us more warning next time!’

‘Buy a sat nav if you don’t like my directions.’

‘The council should provide us with one.’

‘Yeah right. Let’s put that on the agenda for our budget right after they discuss funding adult social care and filling potholes.’

Diana turned her car into the long drive leading to the castle. ‘What do you know about this new venue?’

‘Not much. Sounds like some vanity project of a Londoner, someone who thought he’d buy himself a bit of English history and pay for it by making it into an exclusive wedding destination.’

‘I thought it was derelict.’

‘It can’t be a complete ruin. I was told yesterday that we’ll be doing the ceremony in the Norman keep while the reception is held in the orangery.’

‘The what?’

‘You know, an old hot house? Claremont used to have a famous garden but it was left to run wild. The landowner is restoring that too. I saw some photos: it looks really pretty, a kind of lost garden, like Heligan down in Cornwall.’

‘I can’t manage our six square metres at home; I’d say he’s got his work cut out for him.’

‘That’s because your boys use your plants for target practice.’

‘True.’ Diana’s boys, aged thirteen and eleven, were the most destructive children Gemma had ever met – but in a nice way, as she always felt she should add. Her own son, Leo, aged fourteen, had bypassed the whole kick-a-ball-through-a-neighbour’s-window phase; she sometimes wished he’d had one.

The drive turned a corner and the castle appeared before them, top floor peeking out of the trees on the brow of the hill, flag flying from the roof of the keep. Gemma felt an unexpected pang of excitement.

‘Oh my word, Di, it’s wonderful! I used to draw castles like this when I was a kid.’

Di wrinkled her nose. ‘Bet it’s draughty, cold and impossible to heat.’

‘Yes, but the romance!’

‘Sugar, when was the last time you had any real romance in your life?’ Diana pulled up in a space that had been reserved for them.

‘Not that kind of romance.’

‘Is there any other kind?’

‘Stories, fairy tales – that kind of thing.’

‘You, honey, need more of the other in the real world. When did you last go on a date with a man?’

‘They’re more trouble than they’re worth.’

‘Your evidence?’

‘My ex – and Henry VIII.’

‘Gem, you weren’t married to the cockroach and if you’re appealing to six-hundred-year-old examples, I’d say you’re reaching.’

They got out and went to the boot to fetch their bags and document case. Guests were already beginning to arrive. A minibus crunched into the car park drawing their attention. Everyone inside was wearing a quiffed black wig and rhinestone suit.

‘You did not mention that this was an Elvis wedding!’ hissed Gemma.

‘Cute, isn’t it?’ Diana chuckled, pleased with her surprise. ‘That’s how the couple met – at a convention. Makes a change from getting married by an Elvis impersonator in Vegas. Here we’re the only ones who won’t look like the King of Rock and Roll.’ Diana did a little hip wiggle.

Groaning, Gemma grabbed the document case. They took turns on the duties. Diana was officiating at their first ceremony so Gemma’s job was to be the admin backup, filling out the registry forms and certificate. The full horror of the next hour dawned on her. ‘Oh God, it’s going to be vows with promising to “love me tender, love me do”, isn’t it?’

‘I’d say that’s a cert.’

‘I’m pleased it’s you, rather than me, having to do the “repeat after me”.’

‘Aw, Gem, it’s going to be great. Phil and Neil are nice people. You’ll love them.’ Diana gave her outfit a last check. She’d come in an orange suit, which contrasted well with her dark complexion. She’d just spent a fortune having her hair straightened so it curled around her plump cheeks like a Norman helmet, making her the jolliest guard that had ever been on duty at this keep. Gemma began to think her own black trouser suit and up-do was a bit dull for this flamboyant occasion.

She dug in her bag hoping for at least a scarf to brighten up the suit but came up empty. ‘I wish you’d warned me. I could’ve at least gone for the Dolly Parton look. I look like a funeral director.’

‘Girl, you just don’t have what it takes upfront for Dolly.’ Diana adjusted her own generous bust. ‘But I would’ve made a fine black one if I thought of it.’

Gemma spotted a man not in Elvis gear heading for them. ‘Time to put on your game face, Di. Here comes our host – or should I say, Milord Bitten-off-more-than-he-can-chew?’

‘Ooo, I like what I’m seeing. He can lock me in his dungeon any day.’

Gemma snorted. ‘Cease and desist, Di. You’re a respectable married woman.’

‘And ain’t that a shame?’

Sam Ranworth was not having a good day. His first wedding and already the caterers had messed up, not reading the detailed instructions he had sent them in advance about there being no generator yet in the orangery to run their equipment. He’d had to jury rig a line from his own cottage which would probably get him barred if Health and Safety decided to make a surprise inspection. Then Neil had had an attack of wedding nerves. Sam loved his old friend dearly but Neil was famed for his histrionic moments. Sam knew he should’ve anticipated that Neil would indulge in one on this, the most theatrical day of his life. He had calmed Neil down with a stiff drink and an equally stiff talking to in the guest room at the cottage but Sam had the feeling that while he was doing that the details of the event were darting away from him like air from a punctured tyre. And the last thing he wanted for the launch of this new venture – and his friends – was the day to fall flat.

At least the registrar was here on time, in fact ahead of time. He liked it when people were efficient at their job. He strode across the car park, hand outstretched to the smiling woman in orange, only then really noticing her companion, who looked a bit like orange-lady’s shadow in her Men-in-Black outfit.

‘Welcome to Claremont, ladies. I’m Sam Ranworth.’

‘Lovely to meet you. I’m Diana Erikson and this is Gemma Whitehall – I think you talked to Gem briefly yesterday on the phone. She’s so looking forward to exploring your facilities.’

The brunette gave her companion a pained look which Sam couldn’t quite understand. Diana seemed a friendly soul. What was her colleague’s problem?

‘Can you show us where to set up?’ asked the brunette.

‘Of course. Follow me.’ Over-compensating for his bad mood, Sam thought he probably sounded too hearty but he couldn’t tone it down now. ‘Are you OK with candles? The keep doesn’t have power yet.’

‘As long as we can all see each other and I marry the right guy to the right guy then we’ll be fine,’ said Diana.

The other one’s phone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ she muttered.

‘Do you want me to make an announcement about switching off phones at the start?’ asked Sam, a not-so subtle reprimand for the registrar taking a call when she should be focused on what they were doing here.

‘Oh, are you going to be part of the wedding party?’ asked Diana.

‘Neil’s an old friend from college. He’s asked me to be master of ceremonies.’

‘I see. Good. I’m happy for you to do it, though I’m used to doing the stern-faced thing if you prefer to relax and enjoy yourself.’

No chance of that and Sam couldn’t imagine Diana would do a warning effectively anyway. ‘It’s fine. I’m good at barking out orders.’

‘Dammit no, Leo!’ exclaimed the brunette.

‘Gemma?’ asked Diana, swinging round to her colleague. ‘Are you OK?’

The woman waved her away and turned aside in an attempt to keep her conversation private, but Sam still couldn’t help eavesdropping her end of the call. Old detective habits died hard, and if anything was threatening Neil’s special day, then he had to know. ‘Tell him he can’t, Leo – that I’m not giving him the money. What? Really? Bastard. Sorry, darling. I shouldn’t swear, I know, but … Look, I can’t sort this out now. I’ve got a couple of weddings to do before I get back. Don’t give him anything until I get home – and don’t let him in whatever you do! You have? What did he take? Oh God. That’s the last straw, Leo! I’m sick of this! Yes, it does matter. He has to stop treating us like a cash machine put on earth to solve his “temporary difficulties”!’

Sam was embarrassed to see that the woman’s eyes were filling with tears, quite at odds with her furious tone. She pushed her hand through her hair, making her neat twist sag around her ears.

‘Yes, yes, darling. I know he’s your father. But he’s not my partner any longer. He’s stealing from me, you do get that, don’t you?’

Sam felt ashamed of himself, even though Diana was also listening. Definitely nothing to do with Neil’s wedding so he had no excuse for his curiosity.

‘In here.’ Sam gestured to Diana to enter over the drawbridge. Once across, they climbed the steep stone staircase, leaving Gemma outside to complete her call. ‘So, er, Diana, do you have everything you need?’ Sam was proud of how the guardroom looked. The bare bones of the building was a stone box with hammer beam roof. To go with the Elvis theme, it was now draped with crimson cloth to give it a Vegas show feel. Flowers and candelabra brightened up the coldness of the space. It was a shame his first wedding didn’t make more use of the historical connections but he’d persuaded himself that offering versatility was a better business model.

‘I think we’re all set. I’ll just move this table a little so we can benefit from the natural light.’ Diana had pounced before he could offer to do it for her. She was right about the darkness of the corner though. The high windows were glazed with small panes of old glass which gave the place an underwater feel even in bright sunlight.

Sam looked to the door where the second registrar had failed to appear. ‘Your colleague? Is she OK?’

‘Sounds like the bastard ex has struck again,’ said Diana with a shrug.

‘Perhaps not a suitable topic when we’re about to start a wedding?’

‘Honey, when better? I’m just keeping it real.’ She winked and set about arranging the seats to her satisfaction.

Chapter 2

Gemma found it hard to concentrate on the ceremony despite the fact that she was facing an audience that included thirty Elvis impersonators. They came in all shapes and sizes, most going for the late period glitzy look, though one woman made a surprisingly convincing young Elvis straight out of Jailhouse Rock.

‘Repeat after me,’ said Diana, managing to make the words sound special rather than silly. ‘I, Neil, promise to love you tender, love you sweet, and never let you go,’

Gemma straightened the paperwork in front of her, aware that her jaundiced view of men was spoiling what was actually a lovely ceremony once you looked past their dubious taste in decorations. Red velvet? Arum lilies? It was all so clichéd and the flowers funereal. She would’ve themed each arrangement on Elvis’ most famous films – King Creole in dark blooms and white, Germanic GI Blues, a pop of flamboyant Hawaiian style. They would’ve made a fun talking point as guests had to guess the references. These flowers depressed her. Most weddings tended to fall into stereotypical gestures no matter how original the couple tried to make their day. It was the rare relationship that didn’t veer off course even from the start.

Was Leo OK? She could not believe – no, cancel that – she could completely believe that Ray had done that to them. The bastard ex knew she often had to work at weekends so would choose Saturdays to drop in on the son he usually neglected. Last time he had made off with Leo’s bike, saying he was going to get the brakes fixed. He’d sold it to a mate who had then flogged it on eBay. It had cost her eighty pounds to replace it with a decent secondhand one otherwise Leo wouldn’t have been able to cycle to school. This time, according to Leo, Ray had taken the laptop. Her laptop, but also the one Leo used for his schoolwork. The password was of course ‘password’ because she was useless at remembering that kind of thing. Ray would be able to get into it, wipe it and flog it before the end of the day, all to support his drinking habit. Should she report him to the police? What would that do to Leo? It was bad enough having an alcoholic feckless father without adding a criminal charge to the picture.

And tomorrow, if she bothered to track Ray down in the vain hope he still had the machine, he would be so apologetic. To stave off prosecution, he’d probably weep and tell her how sorry he was, how he knew he’d messed up, promise it wouldn’t happen again – until the next time he’d run out of money and the thirst was upon him. He always claimed he wouldn’t have been like this if he’d made it as a musician. The early promise as front man in a local band had fizzled out as the flutter of interest around their music subsided. He was the only one to have put all his eggs in the one basket and ended up scrambled. Band mates had gone on to be teachers and taxi drivers; only he had clung on expecting the call, the contract, that would change everything. Thankfully, they’d already split up as a couple by then – in fact, the bastard had left her when the band looked as though it might actually make it. A teenage girlfriend expecting a baby had been too much for him to cope with, he’d claimed. She cramped his style.

Gemma swallowed bile. After starting with heady infatuation for what she thought the coolest guy in her sixth form, she probably reached hatred of him now. How sad was that?

Diana cleared her throat and Gemma became aware that there was a long pause in the service. What had she missed? The happy couple were standing right in front of her. Dammit, it was time for the signing of the registry already. She had to do her bit, telling the couple and their witnesses about the special ink and pen. She leapt up, making the table wobble. She had a strong and ineradicable klutz streak.

‘Congratulations, Neil, Phil. If you’d just like to sign here. I’ve listed you alphabetically, so Neil, you’re up first.’ She was speaking too fast, earning an odd look from what’s-his-name, the owner. He was acting as one of the witnesses. She handed Neil the pen, having to work around his huge black quiff.

‘Father’s occupation? Are we out of the ark or what?’ scoffed Neil.

Gemma had already filled out most of the form. ‘Yes, I know. Seems a little archaic.’ She stepped back so the photographer could take her shots.

‘I see you didn’t put down “homophobic prick” like I suggested,’ muttered Neil.

‘No, I thought “retired” might make the document more valid.’

‘Work it, baby, work it,’ teased Phil as Neil did the Elvis lip curl to the camera.

Neither Phil nor Neil would qualify as GQ models, both reaching that stage in life, in their late thirties, where the hair was making a discreet retreat up the forehead and the middle had begun to expand. Their friend though, Milord Castle-owner, and fourth in the chair to sign the register, made a better subject with his swept back black hair – natural, not one of the many wigs in evidence – and broad shoulders. He reminded Gemma of the models in those classy watch adverts in the Sunday supplements, steely blue gaze fixed on something far more interesting in the distance. She needed a fault to cut him down to size. Studying him, she decided that perhaps his features weren’t as perfect as they should be, nose just a little too big and a faint scar on the side of his jaw. He made the pen look ridiculously small in his hands. It appeared he did a fair amount of the work around the place himself if the state of them were anything to go by.

Diana cleared her throat again. Crap, Gemma realised she’d been daydreaming about what his hands would feel like on her skin while he held the pen out to her to take back. Diana was right: it was far too long since a man had touched her, years since she’d been kissed.

‘Yes, thank you. That’s all done now.’ Gemma could feel her blush creep up her neck, bane of her life was her high-coloured complexion.

Neil and Phil led the way back to the waiting guests, greeted by a burst of ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ sung by all the impersonators. It was actually really moving, even cynical Gemma could see that. A lady in a silver jacket, who had to be Phil’s mum from her place in the front row, was dabbing her eyes, delighted that her boy had finally tied the knot. Her husband looked a little shocked at the ranks of Elvises but had come in sympathy with the theme with his wide-lapelled suit – either that or he hadn’t bought formal wear since the early 70s. Neil’s mother stood forlornly on her own dressed in sober grey. Her husband, Neil’s father, had decided to boycott the event, according to Diana.

Good riddance, thought Gemma, imagining what it must’ve been like growing up gay in that household. As bad as getting pregnant at fifteen in hers, she decided.

‘I think that went off OK,’ said Diana once the wedding party had exited the keep to take photographs outside.

Gemma nodded, concentrating on making sure she’d filled out all the forms correctly. She could not cock this up on an otherwise very cocked-up day.

‘I take it Ray’s been up to his usual tricks?’

‘Oh yes.’ She nodded like that dog in the advert.

‘What did he take this time?’

‘Computer.’

‘You’re going to tell the police?’

Gemma shook her head.

Diana sighed. This was an old argument. ‘Then you should move – go somewhere he can’t just drop round on a whim.’

Renting a street away from where Ray still bunked with his parents was probably a mistake but Gemma hadn’t wanted to separate Leo from his grandparents. Besides, it was a cheap part of Bury St Edmunds, the pretty market town in Suffolk where she had always lived.

‘Doesn’t your lease come up for renewal soon?’

She buckled the document case closed. ‘Yes.’

‘Then move.’

‘But what about Leo’s friends – family?’

‘Gemma, does Leo actually have real friends rather than virtual ones?’

‘A couple from school robot club, but they live in the villages, not Bury itself.’ That was one of her big worries. He spent so much time alone.

‘And his grandparents, do they, or do they not, have a car?’

‘They do.’

‘He’s hardly of an age where they’re needed to babysit. You can loosen some of your ties without doing any damage.’ Diana could be blasé about moving, having started in inner city Hackney and moved progressively northeast away from London during her married life, first Harlow and now rural Suffolk.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Will Leo notice?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Then do it. Maybe he’ll find more friends; new place, new people. Villages are usually friendlier than a town.’

Gemma was half persuaded. ‘Maybe.’

‘And it might be cheaper.’

That was a clincher. ‘You’re right. The rent is a drain and I don’t need to be in Bury. I’ll start looking.’

‘Avoid ones on the bus route to make Ray’s life more difficult.’

‘Yes, yes I will.’

The next wedding was a conventional do at a local golf club for a couple of divorcees. Hope springs eternal, thought Gemma as she administered the vows to the sixty-somethings who had found love again. All the paperwork complete, Diana dropped Gemma at the gate to her house and drove off with a perky toot. Looking up at the peeling woodwork of the windows on the first floor and weeds in the front garden, Gemma felt the weight of all her responsibilities settle back on her shoulders, somehow worse after spending the afternoon in Diana’s invigorating company. She was only just surviving financially and each time Ray came by it was like he was a woodcutter taking another hacking blow at her just-managing tree trunk. She could feel the precarious creaking as things shifted. How was she going to replace the laptop? No chance of claiming it on insurance without reporting it so she was stuffed.

‘Hi, darling!’ she called, dumping her bag in the hall and kicking off her pinching low-heeled shoes. Bliss. Wriggling her toes, she padded through to the kitchen-dining room. No Leo. She went upstairs to change but he wasn’t in his bedroom either. He was probably out catching those digital creatures – one of the few things that got him some fresh air so she wasn’t going to chase him up just yet. Other kids might’ve stopped with the Pokémon Go craze years ago but Leo would keep on going until he’d got every one he could, visited every PokeStop and Gym. He was always that little bit embarrassing with his choices – something she knew she shouldn’t feel as his mother, but she remembered who that kid had been in her own school and she died a little to see that her son was taking that role. He minded far less than she did.

‘I’m an awful parent,’ she told her reflection. ‘I should appreciate the fact that my child is an original.’

Feeling the need for a glass of wine to reward herself, she went down to the kitchen and opened the fridge. For heaven’s sake, Ray had raided here too, taking the nearly full bottle that she rationed to last the week. Of course he had. She hung her head over the sink.

‘I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.’

She could almost hear that other voice in her mind, the one that sounded a lot like Diana, saying: don’t get mad, get even. Fine. She reached for the laptop to begin her search for a new place to rent.

Oh right.

With a sigh, she got out her phone and started scanning the local possibilities. She found a site that offered her a price range filter. Plugging in her numbers, only two came up: one a few doors down and another, a cottage back where she’d been for the Elvis wedding in the village of Claremont Magna. The notes were suspicious – in need of renovation – but she was desperate.

Just do it. She sent off an email asking for a viewing and then put her phone on charge. Cheered up considerably by positive action, she began slicing the vegetables for the stir fry she had planned as a quick dinner.

The front door banged.

‘Leo?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Hello.’

‘Hi Mum.’ She could hear him beginning his journey up the stairs.

‘Aren’t you going to come and say hello properly? Talk about what happened?’

‘No.’ His bedroom door banged shut.

‘Can this day get any better?’ she asked the cheery face of Jamie Oliver on her recipe book. ‘Sometimes I hate you, Jamie, you and your perfect family – your Jules and the kids and your mates. But dammit, man, you know how to cook.’ Gemma decided it was pathetic to be talking to a celebrity chef’s photo so flicked on some Ed Sheeran to fill the silence. Suffolk’s most famous son, he was everything Ray had wanted to be. Both had cruised sofas and busked but only one had gone on from there to fill Wembley Stadium.

‘And it wasn’t you, was it, you laptop-stealing arse.’ She toasted the absent Ray with a glass of water.

Chapter 3

Sam was the last to leave the orangery as the final load of Elvises headed away in their minivan. The event had gone OK, though he’d had to offer up his kitchen to the caterer when the power had failed at a crucial juncture. It meant the main course was a little tepid by the time it arrived on the tables but fortunately the guests were well oiled by drink and finding everything hilarious, even cold green beans. Sam had enjoyed seeing old friends from university, though hearing about their kids made him realise how in some ways he’d been left behind. He’d always imagined he too would have children but now it looked likely it would never happen. He wasn’t sure he had regrets as he was convinced he’d make a bad father. When it came to cutting the cake, Phil had made a sweet speech about hitching up with his soulmate; Neil had gone on far too long but everyone knew to expect that and charged their glasses to the brim. Sam had spent the time usefully, chatting up the photographer who agreed that he could use a couple of her best stills for his website if he put her on the list of recommended suppliers for his future bookings.

If there were future bookings.

There had been a moment where it looked like the photographer might stay for a late-night drink but then it had passed, both tacitly realising that if they were to meet professionally again, they should avoid entanglements.

He locked the door on the neatly stacked tables and chairs and swept floor, leaving the rubbish sacks to be removed in daylight. It was a relief not to have to entertain a guest, no matter how attractive. His dating instincts had been frozen for a while now and trying to thaw them out would be painful. It was easier alone. He headed back to his cottage, walking in the dark by memory and night-sight rather than bothering with a torch. His path led from the orangery past the Norman keep in the centre, through the rockery garden that he was reviving in the ruins of the curtain wall, and out across the drawbridge to the carpark. Beyond that lay the wilder parts of the estate. Pausing for a second, Sam looked out across to his woods; he could see in his mind’s eye the remnants of a once great park hidden under brambles and ivy. In his time in the Metropolitan police, he’d got used to patrolling in the small hours so this was a walk in the park by contrast. His own park. Despite the headaches of owning such a place, the thought made him smile. His own shambolic beauty just waiting for him to reveal her true loveliness, He’d seen so much ugliness, he wanted this to be his legacy.

Taking a path on the left to enter his cottage (once the humble home to the estate gardener), Sam switched on the kettle. Things had been left spotless but in the wrong place – that was going to bug him for days. He would have to light a fire under the electrician and get him to sort out the power in the main buildings as a priority because he didn’t want caterers trooping through his home. It would set back the renovations on the cottages that came with the estate – another hoped for source of income – but he had to get his estate up and running as a venue so he could accept more bookings. There had been a bite just the day before from a couple planning a Tudor-themed one. They’d originally booked a marquee at home but when they heard he was opening Claremont for events they had had second thoughts. They sounded perfect and he was prepared to cut them a good deal just for the photo value alone. All the guests were going to dress up: it would look amazing if they were lucky with the weather.

Remembering they’d promised to get in touch, he checked his emails. There were two pieces of positive news. His letting agent had sent a notification that someone had requested a viewing of the gatehouse cottage and the Tudors had confirmed their interest. He did a quick run of the numbers. If both went ahead, that represented the possibility of being able to employ someone to help next month with the gardens. Sam moved to the wall planner to enter the details for the wedding.

9th September.

He hadn’t registered that when he discussed with them about booking the second Saturday in that month. He normally made sure he was somewhere on his own that day, up a mountain or running a half marathon, some activity that pushed him to the limit and stopped him thinking. It was not a day for him to hold the hand of a nervous bride and groom. He couldn’t be needed.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He almost sent an apology that the booking was no longer available.

It’s been five years. Surely you can hold your shit together for twelve hours?

The kettle clicked off, a prod to make a decision.

Don’t be a coward.

Dear Jerry and Mary,

I’d be delighted to host your wedding at Claremont Castle on 9th September. Please fill out the attached booking form.

Hoping he wouldn’t regret it, Sam pressed ‘send’.

Gemma checked her watch. The last client – a death – had just left with the certificate declaring her husband of fifty-five years was no more. She’d seemed surprisingly cheerful at the prospect and mentioned booking a holiday abroad, something her Terry wouldn’t allow as he didn’t like to deviate from their caravan in South Wales. The world was an odd place. Gemma tidied away the forms. The twelve-thirty appointment was running late and she was already cutting it fine trying to view the cottage during her lunch hour. She called up the list on the screen. What was it? A death or a birth? Birth.

The sound of a wailing baby heralded the arrival of the next client. She went out to the waiting room to invite them in directly.

‘Sorry we’re late. Nappy stop. We’ve not got the hang of it yet – poo everywhere,’ gushed the mum. ‘We couldn’t believe how much such a little person can produce – and what a colour!’

You know there’s such a thing as too much information, right? thought Gemma, ushering them to a seat. New parents were very often brimming over with it as it was hard for them to believe anyone else had experienced the miracle of a newborn when it was all so fresh. Gemma recalled the bewilderment of holding Leo for the first time, though ‘gushing’ about how incredible he was hadn’t been an option in her case.

‘Nice to see you all. How old is baby?’ she asked, hitting her routine mode.

‘Two days. Only kicked me out of hospital yesterday,’ said the mum, before launching into a blow by blow account of the delivery.

Gemma had a rule not to judge the people who came to see her – and that was everyone eventually – but she had a good feel for what kind of name was going to come from the parents just by how they dressed. This couple were following the fashion for being tattooed and pierced on every body part, the mum on the large side, Dad skinny and a little vacant in expression – though to be fair that could be just the result of the new phenomenon of sleepless nights. She thought they might’ve been in the year below her when she was at school. Gemma ran a little bet with herself and so far her hit rate was eighty percent correct. The name was unlikely to be a private school bound Charles or Beatrice, more likely an unusual spelling of a not quite normal name – Shanara or Flynnt – and it would be the mum’s choice. Gemma’s contemporaries liked challenging names; she’d been quite boring going with Leo.

‘So what do we have here? A little boy or girl?’ she asked, opening the certification page on her computer.

‘We don’t believe in imposing socially constructed ideas of gender on our little one,’ said the mum, crossing her arms.

Gemma revised her assumptions of where the couple fitted in the social spectrum of East Anglia, from ordinary to politically aware. Activists of some kind, switched on to current debates about gender identity. She hadn’t had the training course on this yet but knew she had to tread carefully. She was not to bat an eyelid.

‘Right, I’ll put “indeterminate”.’ She clicked on the third option on her drop-down menu. ‘So what about the name?’

‘Tobyn, spelt with a “y”, Peace Taylor.’

‘Right.’ She typed it in carefully. ‘Is that Peace with an “ea” rather than “ie”?’

‘Of course.’ The mum looked at Gemma as if she was the one who needed her head examined. ‘We didn’t want to go for anything too predictable, you know? Tobyn is so special – little one needs a special name.’

Welcome to the world of avoiding gendered pronouns for the rest of your life, Tobyn, thought Gemma wryly as she typed in the rest of the information required. She had no problem with the whole fluid gender thing but was always struck by just how awkward it made conversation, like walking over a wooden bridge with far too many planks missing. So easy to tumble through into unintended offence thanks to the limitations of the English language.

Mum appeared to want to chat, Dad was content playing with his child’s tiny fingers. Conscious of the time, Gemma tried to hurry them along but was further delayed by a printer snarl. Keeping a strained smile on her face, she silently cursed the manufacturer as she fished out a scrunched-up document. Pressing ‘print’ again, it then told her it needed a new cartridge and, of course, she didn’t have one to hand.

‘I’m so sorry about this. I’ll just send this to the printer in reception.’

She had to wait behind the receptionist who was printing out the weekend duty roster.

‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered under her breath. It was fifteen minutes at least down country lanes to Claremont Magna and it was five to one already. The landlord was due to meet her at one and she didn’t have a number with her to say she was going to be late because in a rush that morning she’d left the details at home.

‘Here you are, Ms Holder and Mr Taylor, Tobyn’s birth certificate, hot off the press! Sorry to hurry you along but I’ve another appointment.’ All but forcing them out of her office, Gemma grabbed her keys and ran for the car. Surprised by a rain shower and coatless, she was soaked by the time she slid into the front seat. She’d left the directions on the dashboard and took a quick glance at the address again. Gatehouse Cottage. From her phone, it looked as though it was in the middle of the village so all she needed to do was remember how to get to Claremont Magna.

At quarter to two, she was still circling the deserted village. It looked like everyone had fled a zombie apocalypse. Finally, she found someone to ask. She wound down the window to catch the attention of a woman walking her Labrador. The walker had a hearty Duchess of Cornwall air about her with her flicked back ash blonde hair and green waxed jacket.

‘Excuse me, can you tell me where this is?’ Gemma held out the bit of paper she’d scrawled the directions on. ‘My phone can’t seem to find it.’ And if she had a bloody laptop still, she could’ve printed off a proper map last night.

The woman peered at the address. ‘I bet you put in the postcode, didn’t you? That covers practically the whole village and then some. Gatehouse Cottage? That’s easy. It’s at the entrance to the castle. Do you know where that is?’

‘Yes, yes I do.’ Her heart sank.

‘There’s a farm track where you can turn around just down there. Good luck!’

Gemma pulled into the drive of the cottage at the entrance to the castle at one fifty-five only to find no sign of the landlord.

Bloody time waster. Sam hammered the nails into the cold frame he was mending out the back of his own cottage. He’d waited half an hour and the person had been a no show, not even a message to say they’d had second thoughts. If there was one thing he couldn’t abide – actually there were lots of things he couldn’t abide – but one was definitely rudeness.

‘Sorry to bother you, Mr Ranworth.’

He looked up to see the registrar from Saturday, the one with the life meltdown. She was looking a little frazzled, standing there without a coat despite the light shower. ‘Hi.’

‘I couldn’t get a reply from your cottage so followed the hammering.’

‘What can I do for you?’ He got up, conscious that he was wearing the dirtiest of jeans and she was standing there in one of her pristine short-skirted suits, nipped in at the waist to reveal a decent figure and very nice legs. ‘Did you leave something behind? Because if you did, I didn’t find anything.’

She swallowed and looked away. The light hit her face at a new angle revealing her eyes to be an unusual green-grey colour ringed with a darker line.

‘I have to apologise.’

‘For what? You were a bit slow on Saturday, but you were distracted, I get that.’

She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. ‘Oh God, I was, wasn’t I? Sorry for that too. No, it is about our appointment at one o’clock.’

Oh.

‘I can make excuses about running late, getting lost and leaving the number for you at home like the idiot I am, but that doesn’t change the fact that I left you waiting for me – so rude of me.’ She glanced down at her watch. ‘And now I’ve overshot my lunch hour and I have to dash.’

Sam did a quick bit of thinking. He didn’t like the idea of someone he would meet professionally living at the end of his drive, particularly when he happened to know the gatehouse was a mess and barely worth the rent. On the other hand, she represented his best chance at getting enough income to have a serious go at clearing the gardens before winter.

‘It’s OK.’ Not that he forgave her. He had developed an instinctive aversion to women with chaotic lives, having been so badly burned in the past. ‘Why don’t you come by after work?’

She bit her bottom lip. ‘I have to attend a parent teacher conference with my son.’

‘Then bring your son too, either before or after. He’ll be living here as well, right? What time works?’

‘Um, six-thirty?’

‘Fine. I’ll meet you down there then.’

‘Right, OK. Thanks. Sorry.’

‘No problem.’ He picked up his hammer again, which she rightly took as the signal that she was dismissed. ‘You might want to wear more sensible shoes.’

Startled, she looked down at her kitten heels. ‘What’s wrong with these?’

‘The path to the front door – it’s a bit uneven.’

‘Oh, OK.’ Confused, she toddled off back to her little clunker of a car.

‘Didn’t you read the bit about “in need of renovation”, sweetheart?’ he murmured to himself, whacking a nail into place.

Chapter 4

‘So, Leo, how do you think it’s gone this year?’ asked her son’s form teacher, Mr Hilton.

‘Fine.’ Leo was slumped in the chair like a puppet with his strings cut while Gemma sat bolt upright beside him, in vain willing him to offer a little charm or politeness in the cheerless surroundings of the school gym. It didn’t seem that long ago she’d been a pupil here herself and she still felt the humiliation of leaving under a cloud whenever she came into this environment. Didn’t Leo realise that these were the people who would be writing him references in a few years? Of course he didn’t: he was only fourteen.

‘You don’t feel too isolated? The teachers have noticed that you don’t seem to have a special buddy in the form.’ Mr Hilton glanced at Gemma, signalling that the concern was widespread and serious.

Oh God. Gemma wanted to weep. Her son was a social pariah. Where had she gone wrong?

‘Nah, I’m fine.’ Leo studied his scuffed trainers through his sandy fringe. He was in need of a haircut and she would have to have the talk with him about shaving the wisps on his upper lip. His dad would never think to have the puberty talk. ‘I don’t mind.’

But I do, thought Gemma. ‘Mr Hilton, could we perhaps consider moving Leo to another form?’

‘Not so late in the year. School breaks up in a week or so.’

‘Mum,’ muttered Leo mutinously.

‘I didn’t mean now. I meant next year, when they begin their options?’

‘The form won’t spend much time together as they will all be following different timetables. In fact, the shake-up might be just what Leo needs, introduce him to students with similar interests. We pride ourselves on the fact that everyone eventually finds a friend at St Bartholomew’s.’

‘I’m fine,’ Leo said again.

Gemma pleated the loose material of her skirt nervously. ‘I see. I suppose it would be good for Leo to keep with you as form tutor as you understand him.’

‘I’m afraid I won’t be his tutor next year. I’m being promoted to Head of Year 10. We’ve not decided who will be taking over but I’ll make sure whoever it is will be up to speed on Leo.’

‘Oh, congratulations.’

‘And as head of Leo’s year, I’ll keep an eye on him.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m sure this will all pass as Leo gets older and more confident, finding his niche.’

‘I thought he had, with the robot club?’

Leo looked up at the ceiling.

Mr Hilton shuffled his papers. ‘That’s not been running this year since Miss Green left to have her baby.’

‘Oh, I see.’

Mr Hilton’s eyes drifted to the next parent in the chairs behind her. ‘Keep in touch, Miss Whitehall. Email me if you have any concerns.’

Where to start? ‘Thanks.’

Gemma marched stiff-backed out of the gym with Leo slinking along a few paces behind. Mr Hilton was their last appointment. Leo’s academic report had been fine; the form tutor, though, had clearly been delegated by staff to speak up about the social disaster aspect of Leo’s school life.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about robot club?’ she whispered, fixing the ‘everything’s fine and dandy’ smile on her face for the parents she knew from the primary school gate. They had been much simpler days when her oddball son was in a supportive atmosphere where they’d known him since nursery.

‘Because you liked the idea that I went to it.’ Leo sounded so world-weary.

‘So you were, what? Managing me so I wouldn’t fret?’ Her voice sounded shrill. Turn it down, Gemma, turn it down.

‘Yeah. Mum, did you have to embarrass me like that?’

‘Me, embarrass you?’

‘I don’t need special treatment. The students in my class are horrible. Why would I want to hang out with them?’

‘They can’t all be like that!’

‘You don’t have to spend every weekday with them: how would you know?’

That was an argument she couldn’t knock down. She unlocked her car. The Fiesta was so old this was done by the key in the lock. Leo got in quickly, leaving her gazing bleakly over the school fields. She dug deep for her parenting skills, learned from a library book rather than her own judgemental mother and undemonstrative father. Try to accentuate the positive. Keep up the communication.

‘I was really proud to hear how well you’re doing in the sciences, and computing,’ she said as she slid into the driving seat.

‘No, you weren’t.’ He unwound the wire from his ear buds about to shut her out with a retreat into music.

‘No, Leo, I really was.’

‘You want me to be popular.’

‘I want you to be happy.’

‘I am happy. You’re the one who isn’t happy.’

He was right. ‘Maybe this new cottage will be the answer. It’s right by a castle. How cool is that?’

‘Mum, don’t say “cool”. It’s not cool.’ He pulled up his hoodie and went into blocking mode.

Fifteen minutes later, they turned into the castle drive and pulled off into the little slip road that led to the gatehouse. The cottage was hidden by an out-of-control hedge of blackthorn and brambles. Gemma told herself it was mysterious and atmospheric rather than creepy. At least they wouldn’t run short of blackberries come harvest. They were scattered across the bushes like little hard green jewels. The cottage itself was built in the nineteenth century as a miniature architectural echo of the castle behind it, little crenellations over the front door and tall chimneys like a turret. With some care and attention, it would be fabulous. Right now, with the boarded-up window on the first floor and the cracked stonework, it looked barely habitable.

The front door opened as the owner heard the car draw up.

‘Miss Whitehall.’

‘Gemma, please. And this is my son, Leo.’

Leo hadn’t taken out his earbuds. He was scanning the place like he had a Geiger counter and was checking for radiation leaks.

‘Mum, it’s got a gym right outside!’

‘I’m afraid there’s no gym here,’ said Mr Ranworth. Gemma noticed he hadn’t invited her to call him by his first name.

‘Not real, virtual,’ she explained. ‘You won’t have to do a hard sell to my son if it features in Pokémon Go.’

He looked bemused.

‘I take it you don’t have kids then? The game – catch digital creatures on your smart phone? Everyone was playing it a few years ago.’

‘Do I want to know?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Let me show you around.’ He gave her that smile that wasn’t a smile but tolerance.

‘Great. I changed my shoes as ordered.’ She displayed her multicoloured sparkly tennis shoes, an impulse buy in a sale last January.

‘If you take the cottage, you might want to get yourself some boots.’ He pushed aside a ratty door curtain. That would have to go. ‘Obviously, it needs a lot of work. I’m planning on renovating it entirely but for now I’m offering it at a low rent for anyone happy to put up with its current condition. I’ll engage a cleaning service to give it a thorough going over from top to bottom. I think from the evidence of letters on the doormat the last occupant moved out in the 1990s.’

‘The house that time forgot,’ she murmured, walking through the chilly rooms. It was hard to see past the cobwebs and sagging furniture but somewhere under everything was potentially a beautiful home.

‘Most of the furniture will have to be chucked out – not up to fire regulations and possibly home to several generations of mice.’

‘Oh.’ She lifted her hand quickly off the back of the chintz sofa.

‘The wooden furniture in the dining room is fine, as is the kitchen set. The bedsteads are iron so they’re in good shape but I’ll order new mattresses and get the lounge kitted out with basics, that’s unless you have furniture of your own?’

‘No, I’m renting a furnished house. I don’t own much. Can we see upstairs?’

‘Of course. Mind the third stair. I’m going to have to replace the tread.’

She climbed the steep staircase gingerly. It turned sharply which didn’t bode well for getting large items up here. She opened the door off the dark corridor. There was a nice light room overlooking the front drive and up to the castle – that could do for Leo. The master bedroom was a disaster zone: window boarded up and what little light did enter was filtered through obscuring ivy.

‘I’ll get that fixed too,’ Sam said, rubbing his neck awkwardly.

‘It’s not really ready for renting is it?’ No point beating about the bush.

‘The basic house is sound – roof OK. It would only take a few weeks to turn it around.’

Her first impression of him was right: he had bitten off more than he could chew.

‘Heating?’

‘Not yet. I’ll make sure you’re sorted for winter though.’

‘Is the wiring safe?’

‘First thing I’ll get checked.’

He was making a lot of promises. Her experience of men suggested that she should pay no heed to them.

‘So you want your tenant to live here while the work gets done around them?’

‘Will that be a problem?’

‘Not if you drop the rent by another fifty pounds a month.’ Listen to her: bargaining! Diana would be proud.

‘It’s already at the bottom of the price range for round here.’

‘OK, I understand. Good luck finding someone else.’ She headed for the door.

‘All right, fine. I’ll drop the rent while the work is happening, but when it’s done it goes back on again. Agreed?’

She’d pay the fifty pounds extra happily if she were sitting in a toasty refurbished house. ‘Agreed.’

‘You’ll take it?’ He sounded astonished.

‘Isn’t that what we just discussed?’

‘Yes, yes. OK. Oh, and one more thing. You know that I’m turning the castle into a wedding venue and restoring the garden? That will involve lots of building work and heavy machinery. Renting the gatehouse does not equal rambling rights over the rest of the estate. Please make sure your son understands that. I can’t be held responsible.’

‘Fine.’ There were lots of other green spaces if Leo suddenly developed an outdoorsy streak.

‘So, I’ll get the agent to send you a contract?’

‘You promise to have the place fit for habitation by the time we move in?’

‘I said I would so I will.’

‘Then send the contract.’

Driving away, Gemma wondered if she’d made the right decision. The landlord was turning out to be such an unsympathetic character, next to no human warmth, but if he came through with his part of the deal then she would be better off than she was at the moment, paying less in rent and far from Ray. The final task, though, was to convince Leo it would be a great adventure – and that was possibility her biggest challenge.

‘How do you like our new home?’

‘Hmm.’ Leo was flicking through his music.

‘Leo, are you listening? I’ve taken the cottage.’

‘You didn’t! Mum, the place is a dump! And how will I get to school? It’s like miles!’

‘There’s a school bus – I checked. And Mr Ranworth promised he’d have it ready for us when we move in.’

‘But I don’t want to move there.’

‘Well, we are. I can’t live in Bury any longer – can’t afford it.’ She meant that she couldn’t afford Ray’s depravations but allowed Leo to interpret that how he liked. ‘There’s a nice bedroom for you with a view of the castle. That’s, er, whatever I’m allowed to say that’s not cool.’

‘What about the Wi-Fi? Did you ask about that?’

No. And the chances of a house abandoned in the 1990s having it were minuscule. ‘Actually, I didn’t.’

‘Mum!’

‘But we’ll sort something out. Mr Ranworth was very …’ cold ‘… helpful.’

‘I can’t believe you did this to me.’

So much for Leo not caring where he lived.

‘I’m not doing it to you – I’m doing it with you – giving us a fresh start in a lovely cottage.’

‘I’m not leaving Bury.’

‘I think you’ll find that you are.’ Trying not to lose her temper, she pulled into the cinema complex on the outskirts of town. ‘Shall we celebrate with a film – or a go in the bowling alley? We’ve not done anything fun together for ages.’

‘I just want to go home – while I still have one.’ He pulled his hoodie over his eyes and crossed his arms.

‘OK, we’ll do that then.’ She pulled back out and drove home in silence, resolving to check out that library book on parenting again.

Chapter 5

Sam stepped out of the miserable excuse that was the shower over the bath in his cottage to see he had five missed calls from his sister.

‘Hey, Helen? Sorry I didn’t pick up earlier. What’s the matter?’

‘Sam? Oh, thank God you rang me back. Dad’s home has been in touch. It’s finally happened. They’re closing with immediate effect – simply can’t afford to keep going, the manager said. London wages, rising costs and everything.’

Sam sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. ‘That’s bad – a total disaster. He likes it there.’ But not really a surprise – the manager had been saying for a while that their future looked shaky. Sam had been hoping that the home would last long enough for his frail confused dad to live out the rest of his days in familiar surroundings.

‘Michael, get down off of there! Excuse me a moment.’ The phone was dumped on a table and there was the sound of a toddler protesting in the background. ‘Sorry, sorry. Little tyke should be in bed because he’s running a fever but won’t stay put. I think it’s chicken pox. It’s going round his nursery.’

‘You seem to have your hands full.’

‘Tell me about it. Dexter doesn’t know how lucky he is to be deployed right now. Peacekeeping? Someone needs to be peacekeeping right here or I’m going to go crazy. Anyway, I’ve drifted from the subject. Where was I?’

‘You were telling me the bad news about Dad’s home. I’ll get searching right away for an alternative. How long have we got?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you – we have no time at all. The home has been declared bankrupt – they can’t pay the existing staff so naturally, they, poor sods, are leaving. We have to fetch him tomorrow. Social services have appealed to those with family there to do their bit as they have to give priority to those with no one.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Me?’ Helen’s voice went shrill. ‘Sam, I simply cannot have Dad here. I have a toddler with chicken pox, a four-year-old who demands her full share of my attention, and a husband deployed in South Sudan. In what universe is it my responsibility to pick up our father who suffers from dementia and add him to the mix here? In the it’s-always-the-women-who-clear-up-shit universe?’

Sam kicked himself. He was so used to her managing or he would’ve registered her obvious appeal for him to step up earlier. ‘Sorry, yes, you’re right. But I can’t have him here either. I’m living in a building site.’

‘Better that than he gets shingles from Michael. You’ve got to do this, Sam, got to – either that or our dad is the only parent left standing on the doorstep tomorrow with his bits of things in a cardboard box.’

Sam swore under his breath. He hated it when he was manoeuvred into being needed. The only thing that kept him steady was the feeling that he was not responsible for anyone. ‘Helen, I’m not good at this. I’ll mess up.’

‘Sam, you have to stop with the pity party. It’s been years. You are a good man under your selfish git act. You’ll be a hell of a lot better for Dad than some scary social services temporary care. He knows you. Park him in front of the TV with the remote for a few days while you sort it and he’ll be fine.’

‘I don’t have a TV.’ Even he could hear he sounded like he was whining.

‘Then get one. I have to go. Michael is now pelting his sister with Lego. I’m sorry this is landing on your plate but, hey, don’t you think it’s time you got back into actually, you know, caring for someone?’

How to explain that he just wasn’t ready for this? He’d cock it up. ‘Helen …’

‘Love you. Speak tomorrow OK?’ She ended the call.

Sam stood dressed just in his towel, too numb to realise how cold he was on the quarry-tiled floor. Was he really the only option? He booted up his computer and did a quick search for local homes near to Helen in Hammersmith. Nothing available. He repeated the same for ones near to him, not surprised to find there weren’t that many out in the sticks. Some didn’t list if they had room or not so he’d have to ring them in the morning. Dad had special needs with his dementia so they had to be set up for caring for residents with that condition. What was clear was that Sam was unlikely to be able to solve this overnight.

There was one thing he could do though. Following Helen’s hint, he ordered the first TV he could find online, priority delivery, and put in a call to his electrician’s mobile, asking him to bump up to the top of his list sorting out a connection. It would have to be satellite or through a TV aerial as he was too far away from a high-speed broadband cable which had only just reached the village.

The electrician messaged back. So you don’t want me to start on the gatehouse or power in the orangery?

This first, then those jobs. It’s an emergency. And I am made of money, thought Sam sourly.

Not according to the bank. Sam had bought the estate with the money from the sale of his London home. He’d entered the property ladder wisely in the 2000s – a detached house which he’d purchased for a couple of hundred thousand with help from an inheritance from his grandparents and a hefty mortgage, fixed up and sold for two million and change. He’d then completely jumped off the housing ladder in a wild fit and spent it all on Claremont. His friends had told him he was insane but he had known that buying the estate was his last chance at making anything of his life. He was that close to giving up. There were three exits he could see from his predicament: death through alcohol, death through pills, or a new purpose. He chose life and jacked in his job with the police and reinvented himself as castle owner. This was not the moment to become full-time carer to his father but who else was there? His mother was living the life of a spry divorcee in Bournemouth and hadn’t had anything to do with her ex-husband for twenty years. Helen was clearly near breaking point with her responsibilities.

OK, man up, Sam told himself. Fetch Dad, look after him for a few days, find a good home for him, perhaps one near here where it would be easier to drop in and see him. That sounded a plan.

Leo darted up to his bedroom as soon as Mum parked outside their house. He did not want to talk to her ever again, the oppressor! She was so unfair to him, always acting so disappointed and never understanding what it was he wanted to do. She thought he was antisocial but he had loads of friends. He chatted to them every day via the PlayStation, had hundreds of followers for his game footage uploaded on his YouTube channel, and he’d even earned a couple of dollars through advertising. She had no idea. To her, he was poor little Leo Whitehall, class outcast; online he was Lionz, one of the top players in the football league game. He had earned respect.

Dad understood him though. He’d stop this well out of order attempt to move him away from civilisation.

He rang his grandma because Dad didn’t have a phone at the moment.

‘Hey, Gran, can I speak to Dad?’

‘Leo, dear, how was your school meeting?’

He could hear the rattle of pans. Gran was probably doing her usual fry up tea for Granddad. ‘It went OK but I’ve got to talk to Dad.’

‘One moment, love.’

He listened as she shouted in the hall for Ray to get his lazy bum off the sofa and come talk to his son.

‘Leoster, how are you? Giving the teachers hell, I hope? Sorry I couldn’t be there. That place gives me seriously bad vibes, crushes my creativity.’

Dad was so cool. Always talked like school was a prison or something. He really got that these days kids made their way outside conventional education. It was a whole new world online that his mum did not understand.

‘That’s fine and, yeah, I am. Mum was well pissed off about it all.’ He liked his father to think that he was a bit of a rebel.

‘Great. So why do you need to talk to me?’

‘You’ve got to stop her.’

‘Stop who?’

‘Mum. She’s trying to move us to some creepy cottage out in a field somewhere. Says she can’t afford to live in Bury any longer.’

‘Hey, man, that sucks.’ Dad didn’t sound as alarmed as Leo expected.

‘So tell her she can’t.’

‘Leo, you know I can’t tell your mother anything. She doesn’t listen to me.’

‘But she’s lying! You told me that her parents give her two hundred a month to help with my education. She could spend that on rent. That’s enough, isn’t it?’

‘Should be.’

‘I never see any of it – she hasn’t done anything about replacing the laptop and it’s been like two days already.’

‘Yeah well …’

‘You said the only way to get her to buy me decent stuff is to force her hand, like we did with the bike.’

‘Be fair, man, a bike’s a bit cheaper than a new laptop.’

‘It doesn’t have to be new – a good second hand one would be fine as long as it has a reasonable graphics card. The PlayStation and screen is OK but I can’t edit my videos on it. I’ll lose followers if I don’t upload at least a video a week.’

‘We can’t have that.’

‘And now she’s trying to move me somewhere and I don’t even think it has Wi-Fi.’

‘Shit, then that’s a definite deal-breaker.’

He’d been formulating his pitch. ‘So, Dad, I was thinking, how about I move in with you, part-time? I could do my videos on those days and spend the rest of the time out in exile with Mum.’ He loved his mum – he didn’t want to abandon her altogether.

‘You know I live here with Gran and Granddad, right? There’s no room for another person.’

‘Then you could rent somewhere on your own. Why don’t you take over this house? Then I wouldn’t even need to move out.’

‘Leo, man, I’m sorry, I can’t afford to rent somewhere. I have nothing to live on but crappy benefits.’

‘You could … you could get a job maybe? They’re hiring as the new coffee bar. Mum’s friend got a job there.’

‘Leo, do I look like the kind of guy who would be happy making cappuccinos all day?’

‘But if you needed the money for something important …?’

‘Sorry, no can do. I’ve got to keep things loose, you understand? I’ve got a couple of auditions for bands in Ipswich coming up. Maybe something will come of that. I’ll talk to your mother, tell her how you feel about the move. Got to go now. Gran’s putting dinner on the table and you know how she hates us talking on the phone during a meal. Stay strong, man.’

Leo threw his phone on the bed. He hated his parents sometimes – they never understood, never helped him out like he wanted when he had a problem. They did nothing for him. He was not moving, no how, no way. He wasn’t going to talk to his mother, not until she realised how wrong she was.

‘Leo, supper’s ready!’ called Mum from downstairs. ‘I’ve cooked your favourite – burgers.’

He contemplated staying in his bedroom, but his stomach rumbled.

‘Coming.’ Leo picked up his phone, slipped it in his back pocket, and jogged down the stairs.

Chapter 6

‘So kind of you, dear boy, so kind.’ Dad sat in the front seat of Sam’s car looking heartbreakingly dapper. The staff at the home had wept to lose their ‘gentleman’ as they called William Ranworth and dressed him this final time as he liked with his cravat and handkerchief in his top pocket. Now, winding through the country lanes, Sam wasn’t sure his father had the first idea where he was, why he was there, or even who Sam was.

‘We’ll find you a nice new home to live in, Dad. Maybe somewhere with a view of a garden and fields.’

‘I like gardens.’

‘Yes, yes, you do.’ William had spent his career at Kew as one of the head gardeners and inspired his son with his love of plants and landscaping. Sam’s childhood had been spent as much in the greenhouse as inside a schoolroom.

His father hummed something then made an abrupt ‘hah!’ sound. He made these random noises these days which was OK once you got used to them and knew not to get alarmed. Sam wondered if Dad was just testing that he was still alive. It didn’t make for relaxing driving though.

‘I’ve got a garden at my new place, Dad, but it needs a lot of work.’

‘Gardens are ninety percent toil, ten percent pleasure.’ He’d said that often when Sam was growing up. ‘How big is it?’

‘Big. Fifty acres.’

‘Then you’ve got your work cut out for you. Boy, oh boy.’

‘Yes, I have, but the structure is there – mature planting, some interesting shrubs. I’ve just got to strip it back to reveal the beauty.’

‘That’s good. You can’t buy time – that’s what any gardener knows.’

‘True.’

‘Plant a tree and your grandchildren will thank you.’ That was another of Dad’s favourite pearls of wisdom.

‘That’s right, Dad, and someone did plant them for me. We’re turning in now.’

Sam glanced sideways and saw that his dad was admiring the avenue of beech trees with shining eyes. He paid no attention to the castle visible above the trees, his focus was all on the approach.

‘You’ve hit the jackpot here, dear boy. These are wonderful specimens.’

Sam grinned. Maybe having his father here for a few days would work out fine.

The bedside clock showed that it was only six. Sam lay with the duvet pulled up to his ears, wondering what had woken him. The house was quiet, only the clicks from the boiler switching on to heat the water disturbed the silence.

Dad.

Sam leapt up and checked in the spare room. As he suspected, Dad’s bed was empty.

The moat.

Shoving his feet into sandals, he ran for the castle. The moat was low at this time of year and covered in green algae. A confused old man could mistake it for grass and step into it. There was nothing there, no sign of disturbance, only a couple of mallard ducks leaving trails of brown water as they paddled their way peacefully across to the bank.

What other hazards could be death traps? There were almost too many to count. He scanned the battlements but there was no sign of anyone up there and, besides, he kept the castle locked. His dad wouldn’t have had time or inclination to find the key in his son’s desk, surely? The drive? Thank goodness that there was next to no traffic and the builders didn’t start until eight but if he reached the country lane …

Sam sprinted to the gate. There was no sign of his father. He checked the gatehouse cottage, reminded that he had to do something about it as his tenants were arriving in a week. That would have to wait. Dad was now his priority.

He heard a vehicle approaching. Running out into the road, he flagged down a lorry.

‘All right, mate? You OK?’ asked the driver.

Sam only now realised that he was wearing nothing but boxers. ‘Yes – no – I mean I’m looking for my dad. He’s got dementia and goes wandering. Have you seen him on the road?’

‘Ah, bad luck. There’s nobody on the road between here and the village. I’ll drive slowly in the other direction and if I spot him, I’ll bring him back, OK?’

‘Mate, you’re a life saver. Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ The driver pulled away, as good as his word taking the bend with extra care.

Worry that his father might be knocked over subsiding, Sam made his way back to his cottage, calling all the way, alternating between ‘Dad!’ and ‘William!’, not sure which he would recognise. Perhaps he’d over reacted? wondered Sam. Maybe his dad was somewhere about the house or back garden?

The glint of sunlight on the orangery windows caught his eye. Of course. He opened the unlocked door and found what he was seeking. Trowel in hand, Dad was standing over some pots Sam had meant to fill for his front step but never got round to. Dressed only in his Marks and Spencer pyjamas and slippers, he was contemplating his choice of annuals: a tray of pansies and another of petunias.

‘Lovely flowers, simple, some say common, but they’ll give you a splash of colour like no other,’ he said, looking up with a smile. ‘Here, dear boy, see the yellow markings on this one – looks like a little face, doesn’t it?’

Sam bit back the torrent of ‘how could you scare me like that?’ in recognition that for William absolutely nothing had happened. ‘That’s right, Dad.’

‘I’m not sure I like this brand of potting compost. I prefer our own well-rotted stuff from the heap.’ He rolled up his pyjama sleeve.

‘Of course you do. Dad, what do you think you’re doing?’

‘Working, of course, Sam. How do you think we pay the bills?’

Sam felt a constriction in his throat. ‘I think you might’ve come to work without your uniform.’

‘Have I? Good gracious. This won’t do. And what are you doing standing there in your pants? What if your mother or your sister sees? You’re not a little boy anymore, Sam.’

‘No, I’m not. Let’s both go in and change. We can have some breakfast, then you can get on with the pots while I do some of the grunt work, OK?’

William put down the trowel and looked around him in some confusion. ‘This isn’t Kew.’

‘No, it’s my garden. Remember: I brought you here yesterday. Fifty acres.’

‘Oh yes. My boy said he’d bought himself a beast of a place but he can see the beauty. Do you know him?’

‘Yes I do, Dad. Come on in. Neither of us are dressed for the garden.’

His sister rang mid-morning.

‘How’s it going, Sam? I’ve been so worried about you both, feeling guilty how I dumped it all on you.’ How like Helen to be wracked with guilt. If he was honest, Sam felt he deserved a little suffering after all the years he’d left her to cope.

‘It’s had its moments but now I’m fine as I’ve worked out I can use Dad as slave labour in the greenhouse.’ He kept an eye on his father who was tying up some straggling plants in the cottage border. Several lupins had taken drunken dives over the cornflowers.

She laughed.

‘No, it’s true. He’s loving it. We can’t shut him back in a home with no garden. I hadn’t realised how much he missed it.’

‘But London …’

‘I know. I was thinking we’d find him somewhere out here.’

‘Sam …’

‘You said it yourself: you’re over-stretched with the kids. And it’s only a couple of hours by car if you want to visit at the weekend.’

‘I … no … actually, you’re right. I’m being a bitch: wanting you to deal with this and still trying to have it my way. I’ve got to train myself to let it go.’

‘Why are you singing that?’

‘Frozen?’

‘What?’

‘Ask your four-year-old niece sometime. See what you can find. Dad needs to get earth under his nails to be himself.’

‘How’s Michael?’

‘A dot-to-dot version of a grumpy toddler.’

‘So it was chicken pox?’

‘Oh yes. What joy. I suppose it had to happen sometime.’

‘Hang on in there, Helen.’

‘And you. Love to Dad – and to you. Don’t forget to keep him hydrated.’

‘Helen.’

‘Sorry. Love you.’

Actually, she was right. He hadn’t thought about fluids. Inspiration striking, Sam dug in the back of the cupboard and found the old flask his dad had always taken to work. He filled it up with tea just how Dad liked it and took it outside with his coffee.

‘Time for a break, Dad.’

William stood up. ‘I’m ready for one. It’s going to be a scorcher later.’

By then, Sam fully intended for his dad to be inside having a snooze in front of the TV. ‘I think so too. Here – take a pew.’ He brushed off bird droppings from the old set of iron garden furniture with a rag. He’d not yet had time to sit on them himself since moving in a few months ago.

‘Lovely. Hah!’ Echoing in the little dell where the cottage was situated, Dad’s exclamation scared the rooks in the trees behind the castle. They circled and cawed a protest.

Deal with it, birds, thought Sam wryly. He wasn’t a fan of rooks, finding them sinister, but he realised they gave the castle an authentic Macbeth vibe. It could make for a great Halloween party venue – another idea for the website he had yet to update. All he had was the most basic front door with contact details.

‘So, er …’ Dad looked at him with that slight panic that showed he’d lost contact again, like his brain functioned on an intermittent Wi-Fi signal.

‘Sam, Dad.’

‘So, Sam, how’s that lovely girl of yours – Jennifer? I haven’t seen her for a while.’

Of all the names in the lottery of what his dad forgot that was the one he remembered. ‘She left.’

‘Oh, shame. I liked her. Perhaps you can make it up to her, lure her back now you have all this?’ He gestured to the garden. ‘What girl could resist a man with his own castle?’

‘Dad, she died.’

His tired old eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’ He did – he’d been at the funeral five years ago. ‘What happened?’

‘I’m not exactly sure.’ He couldn’t talk about this now, not with someone who would promptly forget and then ask him all the same questions another day, reopening old wounds. ‘Did you know that Michael’s got chicken pox?’

‘Michael?’

‘Helen’s youngest – your grandson.’

His father chuckled. ‘Little monkey.’

‘Yes, that’s the one.’

‘Hah! Hah-hah!’

The rooks billowed and cawed as Sam sipped his coffee and William drank his tea.

Chapter 7

Diana’s house was packed with people for the end of term barbecue, a tradition that grew up during primary years when parents constituted a much more cohesive group. For the children, it was the start of wonderful freedom; for parents it was their last hurrah before tackling the impossible riddle of how to occupy their offspring while also holding down full-time jobs. Diana had squeezed the cooking into the little patch out back but guests spilled out into the downstairs rooms and some into the front garden. All the boys, except Leo, had gone to the local park to kick a ball while the food was being prepared. Gemma frowned as she spotted her son slumped on a beanbag, content now he’d got the broadband code.

‘Look at him,’ she whispered to Diana as they set out the salads on the kitchen bar.

‘I see a normal teenager, Gem.’

‘I’m so worried about him. He has no friends.’

‘You can’t live your kids’ lives for them.’

‘I know, I know.’ She’d read that in a book too. ‘Doesn’t stop you wanting to though.’

Diana went over to her husband, a cheerful giant of a man who worked as a plasterer, and had a brief word.

‘Leo, my man, all the other boys have abandoned me and I have some serious heavy-duty grilling to do. Not for sissies. You in?’ asked Henry.

Gemma watched with bated breath as the internal debate played across her son’s face: virtual or real world?

‘OK.’ He slipped his phone away. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Ever barbecued ribs? Now that’s a challenge. Come on, I’ll show you.’

Gemma choked up as she saw her son smile at the man who bothered to give him some serious attention. ‘God, I love your Henry, Di. I need a man in my life for Leo’s sake if not mine.’

‘Yeah, he’s good with boys.’ Diana smiled. ‘Are you going to enjoy yourself now?’

‘Sorry, I’ve been such a misery these last few weeks.’

‘Only the last few weeks?’

She slapped her friend lightly on the shoulder. ‘It’s just all piling up – getting ready to move, my parents threatening a visit, and high season for weekend work. There aren’t enough hours in the day. I’m only half packed.’

‘Here, have a glass of wine and get half-cut. Sounds like you need it, particularly if the parents of doom are circling. Have you been back to the cottage?’

‘No time but Mr Ranworth swore it would be ready. He’s not going to let me down, is he, when he knows we are often asked for recommendations for where to hold weddings?’ She took a sip of the cold tangy white. Ah, that was good. She’d stopped buying wine as an economy and she was missing it. ‘He must know that hell hath no fury like a registrar scorned.’

‘You’re right. He’d be mental to do that. And if the worst comes to the worst, you could always demand to share his little love shack until yours is sorted.’

‘Di, stop it.’

‘It’s just that he’s so …’ She twirled her hand. ‘That aside, we’re still on to help move you. Henry can borrow a van from work.’

‘I’ll say it again. I love that man. Fight you for him?’

‘Girl, you’re on!’ Diana chuckled. ‘Handbags at dawn? But if you win, you’d have to deal with his smelly socks and embarrassing tendency to laugh too loud in public.’

‘You’re right. You can keep him. There’s no such thing as a perfect man.’ Gemma dipped a carrot in hummus and crunched down.

‘Did you enjoy helping Henry?’ Gemma asked Leo as they walked back to their house in the dusk.

‘Yeah, it was cool. Can we do ribs at home one day? I’d like to show Dad I can do it.’

‘Maybe in the new place. There’s lots of space. We could probably build a barbecue without too much expense. That could be a summer project for you.’

Leo dug his hands in his pocket. ‘Mum, I’m not moving.’

‘Leo, we are.’

‘I want to stay here.’

‘I know you do but I’ve given up the lease on the house. It’s sorted.’

‘Why are you ruining my life?’

‘I’m trying to make it better.’

‘But I like it here. It’s so unfair! You don’t care about me – about what I want!’

Anger flared. ‘Unfair? Do you want to know the real reason why we’re moving? It’s because I can’t have your father raiding our house every time he’s short of a quid or two.’ Gemma stopped before she made an unforgivable comment about Ray’s drink habit and all-round loser status. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to tell you that, but there it is. I don’t feel safe knowing he can barge in whenever he wants.’

‘Dad’s not a threat.’

‘He made off with your bike and our laptop: that’s a threat in my book.’

‘But you’ve loads of money – you’ve got a good job and my grandparents give you money for me. You’re just being mean.’

Gemma stopped on the corner of their road, an unlovely spot smelling of dogs. ‘Who told you that?’

Leo kicked a stone against a wall.

‘Your father? And you believed him.’ She shoved her hand through her hair. ‘Why not? He’s your parent after all.’

‘He says you can afford to replace the stuff with better things. It’s not as if the money is yours in any case; it’s meant for me.’

Certain facts began lining up in new and unpleasant ways in Gemma’s mind. ‘You let him take that stuff, didn’t you?’

‘I’m going in.’

She grabbed his wrist. ‘Oh no you don’t, Leo Whitehall. Did you let your dad take our laptop because you thought I’d get you a better one?’

‘I don’t want anything special, just one that can handle graphics. The old one sucked.’

‘Oh my God, you did.’ Gemma swallowed. ‘I thought you were a victim but you were scheming with him. How could you, Leo? I’m not made of money, no matter what he tells you.’

Leo was quivering, part-anger part-shame, his poor complexion going all blotchy. ‘Don’t blame me. You’re the one not spending the money given for me – for me not you!’ He pulled his arm roughly out of her grasp. ‘I hate you.’ He ran past their front gate, heading towards his grandparents’.

‘You all right, love?’ asked the busybody from Number 5 who had watched all this drama while watering his hanging baskets.

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘He needs a clip round the ear, that one, talking to you like that.’

‘He’s just angry we’re moving, Mr Nielson. He needs to vent at someone so it might as well be me.’ Gemma hurried inside and let herself have the meltdown that she’d been holding off out on the street. Ray. The bastard. He’d turned their son against her. She’d been so careful to try to shield Leo from the truth about Ray that she hadn’t realised he was feeding Leo such poison about her. A good job? Council wages were among the lowest for public servants. Two hundred pounds a month? Her father put that straight into a trust fund for Leo’s university education and it never came anywhere near her bank account as her parents didn’t want to make her ‘life choices’, as they put it, too easy. They wanted her back under their control before they trusted her with money in case she did ‘something foolish’ again. They were still disciplining her even though she was almost thirty.

And as for her life choice: she’d had unprotected sex a couple of times at fifteen, got caught out and decided to keep the baby because she didn’t believe an innocent life should suffer for her mistake. How was that a bad decision? It was making the best of a no-win situation. She could’ve had it so much easier if she’d had an abortion or given her baby away but she’d stuck it out, raising Leo alone when Ray lived up to his feckless reputation. Both of them abandoned, she had lavished all her love on the little protesting scrap of humanity she had managed to produce. Her parents had been so embarrassed by her then, and still now it would seem. Did no one actually think she was admirable for having made the decisions she did? Apparently not. There was no one with a lower social status that a single mother, even one working all hours she could to pay the rent on a crappy house in a crappy part of town.

Gemma threw her shoes in the corner and collapsed on her bed, letting angry tears flow unchecked. Sometimes she just wished she could have someone to carry part of her burden. Even someone who could mend a tap or put the rubbish out would be welcome – she wasn’t choosy. Her top fantasy was a man who would greet her when she came home from work with a cup of tea, chat about her day, and then serve the casserole he’d already put in the oven. He’d help Leo with his homework then they’d relax with a Netflix session, just the two of them, until bedtime. And at bedtime, well then, the fun would really start. It was a simple dream that so many had as their reality. She must’ve really messed up her previous life to be born into this one. Not that she believed in reincarnation; it sounded too cruel to be expected to go through all this again.

The phone rang. She groped for it, blowing her nose on a fraying tissue. Look – even the quality of her tissues was crap!

‘Yes?’

‘Gemma, it’s Miriam here. Just to tell you that Leo’s turned up in a bit of a state. I’ve calmed him down with a hot chocolate but what do you want to do?’

At least he was safe – not that she thought he wouldn’t be. Leo’s gestures of defiance to date had never gone too far. Underneath it all, he was sensible. ‘Can you put him up on your sofa? We’ve had a bit of an argument and I’d appreciate the space for the night.’

‘Well …’

‘Isn’t Ray there?’

‘No, dear, he’s off in Ipswich tonight.’

‘It’s just for one night.’

‘Oh, all right. I’ll dig out a sleeping bag for him. Do you have to move so far away? He’s really upset about it.’

‘Yes, I do.’ Right now the cottage seemed like the best idea she’d had in a long while. ‘I’ll invite you and Gordon over once we’re in. You’ll see what I mean. It will do Leo good to be in the countryside.’

‘I suppose so – trees to climb, woods to explore.’ Miriam had romantic memories of her own childhood as a farm worker’s daughter in Essex. ‘You’re right. He spends too much time indoors. He’s quite pale and his skin will never clear up if he carries on like that.’

‘I think that’s just his age.’

‘They grow up so fast, don’t they? Don’t worry about him tonight. I’ll send him back tomorrow after breakfast. Does that suit you?’

‘Could you keep him till lunchtime? I’ve a morning wedding to do at the office.’

‘You work so hard, love.’ At least one person understood that, partly because Miriam had been the one keeping her own household afloat for years after her husband had retired early on grounds of ill health. ‘He can come shopping with me.’

Gemma smiled. Ah, so her son was getting a punishment after all. His gran would take him into charity shops and ladies clothes stores on her weekend browse for bargains. He’d hate it. ‘Thank you, Miriam.’

‘I’ll try and talk him round. He has some silly notion he can move in here.’

‘I’d be grateful if you’d head that one off.’

‘I will, don’t you worry. Good night, dear.’

Moving day arrived and Gemma was depressed to see that her entire worldly goods only half filled the small van Henry had borrowed from work.

‘Are you bringing this?’ Diana held up the chipped garden gnome with a wheelbarrow Leo had bought her at a school jumble sale when he was eight.

‘Do I have to?’ It had been a sweet gesture then but now it reminded her of lost innocence.

‘He’ll be offended if you don’t.’

Gemma doubted he’d notice. It had been hidden among the weeds in the front garden for years. ‘OK, load it up.’

Diana passed it to Henry who was standing in the back of the van with Leo. ‘You almost forgot him.’

Leo took the little figure, a childlike grin appearing on his face. ‘You found Doc. Wow! I’d forgotten about him. Mum, look!’

It was the first time he’d deigned to speak to her in anything but grunts for days. ‘You bought it for me as a Mother’s Day present, remember?’

‘Yeah. He’s so bad he’s sick! He’s going in our front garden in the new place, right?’

Her grumpy feelings towards the gnome vanished as it had proved a bridge to her son. ‘Of course. We can hardly leave without our good luck charm, could we?’

Henry jumped down to the pavement. ‘Ready?’

‘Can we drop the key at the letting agent?’

‘No problem. Let’s get the show on the road.’

By midday they were turning into the castle drive. Gemma was repeating a little prayer that the landlord had been as good as his word. Pulling up at the cottage, her heart sank. The upper-storey window was still boarded up and the ivy running wild. Leo, however, was so eager to plant Doc in his new home that he ignored all the negative signs.

‘Where do you think, Mum? Hey, someone has put a pot of flowers on the step. That’s nice. Let’s put him in there.’

Taking the pot as encouragement, Gemma got out and fished the key from the old upside-down flowerpot, left as arranged. She opened the door. Thank God, the cleaners had been. The room looked very empty as all the old furniture had been taken away and only the barest minimum of new pieces put in their place. She forgave the landlord that because there was a row of salmon pink geraniums on the window ledge.

‘I’ll just look upstairs,’ she told Leo. ‘Check it’s habitable.’

‘Hey, Mum, there’s a note.’ Leo picked it off the draining board where it had been wedged under a mug.

Gemma opened the envelope.

Dear Ms Whitehall

I apologise that the window has not yet been mended and no start made on updating the electrics. I have met with some unavoidable delays. However, I hope you’ll find it in reasonable state. Expect the builder next week to start work. I’m looking into broadband but the nearest connection is in the village and I have no record of a land line to any of the castle cottages. It might be prohibitively expense at this stage to arrange for a hook up. I’m using my mobile signal to access the internet but admittedly the reception isn’t great. This might be the best solution for the moment.

I’ll call by later this week to check you’ve got everything.

Sam Ranworth

How was she going to break the news to Leo? She didn’t have a generous data package with her mobile provider and she had next to no bars on her phone in any case. Delaying that moment, she headed upstairs. At least the tread on the third stair had been replaced. Opening the doors to the bedrooms she found them spotless but spartan. They needed decorating and her room was dark thanks to the boarded pane. Still, Sam Ranworth was right: it was habitable, if you weren’t fourteen and had a life that revolved around being able to go online. She had to sort that out first if she was going to make a success of this move.

‘Let’s unpack,’ she announced cheerfully for the benefit of her companions. ‘Then I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

Diana and Henry left after lunch. On the driveway, Henry had assured her with his professional judgement that the cottage was sound, despite its age. The cabling was passable if not up to modern standards so she need not worry about killing herself when she plugged in the kettle. The plumbing was OK but the downstairs loo was in need of complete refurbishment to be the least inviting. He knew people if the landlord didn’t.

After waving them off, Gemma sensed that showdown time with Leo was fast approaching but she pretended all was fine. The first thing she unpacked was her box of history books and novels. There was a sturdy shelf unit built in beside the fire which held them all. They looked great there, much better than on the flimsy Ikea bookcase in the old house. Gemma took that as a good sign. She tended to like modern history but maybe she should get something about medieval castles, do a little research on where she now lived? Her Open University course, one she had yet to finish as she was very slow in accumulating credits, didn’t cover that.

‘Mum?’

Uh-oh.

‘Mum?’ Leo wandered into the living room, phone held out in front of him. ‘What’s the broadband password?’

She cleared her throat. ‘There isn’t one.’

‘What!’

‘You’ll have to use our mobile data allowance but go easy on that. The contract only allows us five hundred megabytes – a couple of YouTube videos and we’ll exhaust it.’

Leo stared at her, aghast. Yes, that was the perfect word. If she hadn’t realised how serious this was to him she would’ve laughed at his expression. It could be a meme – Modern Deprived Child.

‘I can’t stay here.’ Leo looked panicked.

‘I’ll sort it out with the landlord as soon as possible, Leo. You can live offline for a few days, surely? Go and explore the village for example?’

‘Is there a café with internet?’ he asked hopefully.

She remembered the zombie apocalypse streets. Unlikely. But she didn’t need to be the bearer of bad news. ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you look while I send a message to the landlord about it? Oh, and remember to keep out of the castle gardens – he’s renovating them so they’re a building site.’

The door banged on her last words. Gemma sighed. At least he was outside.

Chapter 8

Sam wheeled the barrow of manure to the flowerbed by the car park. He was concentrating on doing quick makeovers to the parts of the garden visitors saw first and had decided on a colourful border on the path between parking and the drawbridge. He was hoping to finish preparing the ground today as he had a mechanical hedge cutter coming on Monday, which should allow him to begin to make inroads to the overgrown parts of the formal gardens close to the keep. He was content to let the parkland gardens run wild for another year. Take back control little by little. A lesson in life if ever there was one.

Tipping the contents onto the freshly dug earth, he eased out the spade from where he had planted it and began to work in the manure. Hazel poles at the back, maybe, with a rambling rose? Herbs, rosemary, lilies, periwinkles, heartsease which could spread out into the lawn? Perhaps he should do some research, visit local gardens to get ideas for what grew well locally? He wished he had more time to do these things; he wasn’t that keen on the study he knew he should do into the history of the place but he really enjoyed seeing solutions other gardeners had come up with in comparable situations.

His back was beginning to protest. Sam unbuttoned his shirt but didn’t take it off: his dad had drilled it in to him that gardeners were more sensible than builders. William had been thinking of keeping up a certain standard of decency but his advice applied as well to the avoidance of sunstroke and skin cancer. Reminded of his duties, Sam checked the app he’d installed on his phone. Dad, if he’d remembered to keep his phone on him, was shown to be inside where he’d left him for his post-lunch snooze.

A message flashed up.

Can we talk about getting broadband through a landline? Mobile signal is really bad in gatehouse. Gemma

The new tenant. He’d forgotten she’d be in by now, having left a note for her yesterday when he’d delivered one of Dad’s pots as a welcome present and some spare geraniums for the window ledge. He really should go down and check she had everything she needed. He felt bad about the window. The new pane was sitting in his shed and he’d meant to fit it himself but time had run away from him. And the ivy – damn, he’d forgotten to trim that back too. He couldn’t be blamed for the mobile blackspot though.

Sam hung his head, feeling exhausted by the list of things he had to get done. Well, she’d just have to wait in line. He couldn’t get to it right now. He had to finish here, cook supper for Dad, see that his father had a proper wash today and got to bed so Sam could have a few peaceful hours to himself to catch up with his administration. Tomorrow they had a visit to a local care home scheduled so that was out too. Monday, that was the earliest he could do anything.

I’ll come by on Monday.

A reply came through immediately. I meant today. Please. It’s very important to my son.

Sam decided not replying was a reply. He’d offered his first available slot.

She didn’t get the message inferred by his silence. I’m working Monday.

I’ll come by before you leave. 8 am? He put the phone away and wiped his forehead on the towel he’d draped on the handle of the barrow.

You chose this, he told himself. You picked this over investigating crime. Rotted manure versus rotten humanity: you’d make the same choice every time.

Something made him look up – a flicker of movement over by the keep. Dad? No, there was a boy clambering on the half-collapsed curtain wall that made up a rockery in the castle garden. Having ignored the many ‘Do not climb’ signs, the kid was trying to get up to the battlements.

‘Hey, you! Get down!’ Sam shouted, running towards the invader.

Startled, the boy gave a squawk and lost his footing. He disappeared, fortunately falling down onto the shelved slope of the rockery rather than taking the plunge into the moat. Sam cursed. He shouldn’t’ve yelled. He knew better but, dammit, he’d been scared for the lad.

He collared the boy limping away from a patch of squashed edelweiss. It was the tenant’s son. Why was he not surprised?

‘Are you crazy? You could’ve been killed!’ He was tempted to shake some sense into him but years of police training saved him from getting physical. A firm but non-bruising grip on an arm was all that was required to exert his authority.

‘Let go!’ growled the boy.

‘No chance, mate, you’re trespassing.’

‘I’m not your mate.’

‘No you’re not – so you don’t get mates’ roaming rights. Leo, isn’t it? Didn’t your mother tell you that you were not allowed into the castle gardens?’

‘She might’ve.’ The boy’s eyes skittered away, sure sign that he knew he was in the wrong.

‘Does she know you’re here?’

The boy shook his head.

‘It’s time then that we had a little chat about castle rules. Come with me.’ He released his hold. Funny how he could tell what the kid was thinking. The boy obviously wondered about running but worked out it wasn’t worth it. That showed he did have some brains. In a bristling silence, they walked down the drive to the cottage. Sam knocked on the door. His tenant appeared, checked shirt tucked into distracting cut-off shorts. How was he supposed to have a sensible conversation with a woman showing that much length of tanned leg?

‘Oh, hey.’ She smiled but then it faded when she saw who he stood beside. ‘I thought you said Monday?’

‘Ms Whitehall, I caught your son climbing on the castle keep.’ He knew he sounded a prick but he was still suffering from shock of the near miss.

‘Oh. Oh, Leo!’ She glared at her son. ‘I told you not to go into Mr Ranworth’s garden. What were you thinking?’

Leo shuffled his feet. ‘There’s a rare Pokémon, Mum. A Magikarp. It’s in the castle. I haven’t got it in my collection.’

This nonsense seemed to make sense to his tenant because she was nodding sympathetically. ‘I understand, Leo, but you have to ask Mr Ranworth permission before you try to catch Pokémon on his land.’ She looked up at him expectantly. ‘Would that be OK? It would really make Leo’s day.’

The only explanation Sam could come up with was that she was crazy too. ‘You do understand that your son almost broke his neck climbing on the ruined part of the keep?’

‘He did? Wow, Leo, I didn’t realise you were getting to be so … um … bold doing this Pokémon thing.’ She looked almost pleased for a second before covering it with concern. ‘But you have to understand that the real world has real dangers. You don’t get a second life if you take a fall.’

‘Of course, I understand that. I’m not an idiot, Mum.’

Sam begged to differ. ‘And he damaged some plants.’

‘Naturally, I’ll pay for any damage. Leo, apologise to Mr Ranworth.’

The boy muttered an ungracious ‘sorry’.

His pretty tenant nodded, relieved. Did she think that was enough? ‘Well done, Leo. Now perhaps Mr Ranworth would let you catch the Pokémon safely?’

‘You’re kidding?’ marvelled Sam.

She frowned. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘The problem is I don’t have time to escort the boy to catch this … this carp thing. I’m not a babysitting service. Tell your son to stay out of my garden. I’ve got work to do.’ He turned on his heel and began to walk away. ‘What the heck is that?’

‘A gnome.’

He glanced behind and saw his tenant was watching him with narrowed eyes, arms folded. ‘Ornaments aren’t allowed. They lower the tone.’

‘I rather thought the cracked window did that. Besides, it’s my rented cottage, my gnome. You may call the shots up at the castle, but here I am king.’

Sam stamped away, feeling that this wouldn’t be an argument he could win. One thing he could do, though, was make sure he left her hedge untouched on Monday and hide the whole damn mess she was making of his cottage.

It’s just a little gnome, Sam, his less-grumpy self nudged him. Where’s your sense of humour?

Give them a gnome and they’ll take a g-mile, he shot back. Next it will be illuminated toadstools and fake woodland creatures. Boy, he was now really ready to dig manure.

‘Leo, you should be more careful.’ Gemma had put her son on washing up duty as punishment for his incursion into the castle grounds. ‘It’s not just that he might have a good point about it being dangerous, but that it is his land and he requested you don’t wander there. It’s trespassing.’

‘But you don’t get it – a Magikarp – that’s like epic! None of my friends have got it – not even Aki in Kyoto.’ Leo splashed the water over the sink on to the floor as he dumped their lunchtime plates into the tub.

Gemma silently cursed the logarithm writers, or whatever controlled the game, for deciding anywhere with ‘castle’ in the title needed some special characters. ‘Strangely enough I do get it. I collected My Little Ponies when I was a child and I never did get the flutter one.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Mum.’

‘It was hard to get hold of in the UK and cost more than several months pocket money. People kept buying me the unicorn as they didn’t get that each pony was different and I wanted the whole stable.’ She’d chucked them out when she was thirteen which was a shame as they’d probably be worth something now.

Leo stacked a sud-streaked plate on the rack. Gemma resisted the urge to rinse it off. ‘It’s not the same.’

She thought it was exactly the same but knew better than to try to make her son see that her generation wasn’t that much different from his. ‘You’re not to go up there again without an invitation.’

‘But it’s just waiting there to be caught! Mr Ranworth might decide to ban Pokémon hunts on his land.’

‘Unlikely as he doesn’t even know what a Pokémon is …’ lucky man, ‘… so he’s hardly going to go to those lengths over something he doesn’t understand. I’ll ask him on Monday when we talk about getting the cottage online.’

‘Mum!’

‘It’s the best I can do, Leo. This whole situation is the best I can do. I’m sorry if it isn’t good enough for you.’

‘I just think he’s selfish – wants to keep it all to himself.’

Gemma remembered the Oscar Wilde story of the Selfish Giant. Maybe Sam Ranworth was worried about health and safety but she rather suspected he just didn’t want to be bothered by people. ‘Whether he is or not is his business, not ours. He can be any way he likes as it’s his castle. Just stay away, OK, until I fix this?’

‘All right, OK, stop going on about it.’

‘Promise?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Right, so while we are finally actually talking about stuff, about the laptop and the internet.’ He said nothing but she could tell he was listening from the methodical way he was washing the plate. ‘You need to understand about my budget.’ She picked up a drying cloth, remembering that the book on raising boys suggested not sitting head to head but having a side by side activity. ‘The money your grandfather and mother are putting aside for you doesn’t come to me; it’s going into a savings account for your university education.’

He wedged the plate in the rack. ‘Really? I’ve got, like, a trust fund?’

‘Yes. It’s very generous of them. But don’t get carried away: it’s to help you get started when you reach eighteen. It’s not for squandering – and I certainly can’t touch it to help out with any difficulties we might have now. Like the fact that I have to replace our computer.’

He went back to washing up.

‘Getting a connection to fast broadband is also going to be costly. There’ll be a monthly payment and that’s before we even find out about how much they’ll charge to run a cable to here. They might not be able to do it so we’ll have to look into mobile and that’s expensive and might not as good with the poor signal. Contrary to what your dad said, I don’t earn much – barely enough in fact. I have to watch every penny.’

Leo clearly didn’t like what he was hearing. ‘I told you we shouldn’t have moved.’

‘The rent is cheaper here but you might have to choose between a laptop and broadband: I can’t afford both.’

‘Broadband,’ he said quickly.

That’s what she thought. ‘Then I suggest you find a job over the summer and earn the money to buy us a secondhand laptop. After all, you owe me one.’

‘A job?’ Leo sounded distressingly like his father.

‘Yes.’

‘But who would pay me for anything round here? There’s not even a shop in the village.’

‘Dog walking, gardening, odd jobs: there are loads of possibilities. You’ll just have to knock on a few doors, won’t you, see if anyone needs any help?’

‘I can’t do that. I don’t know anyone. It’ll be embarrassing.’

‘Leo, all of us have things we don’t like doing. Learning to do them anyway is part of growing up.’ She might as well get all her stock of issues off her chest. ‘Oh and by the way, I bought you a razor and shaving gel when I did the shop. Have a look at your top lip. I think you might need to start using it.’

‘Seriously?’ Leo felt his face gingerly. ‘Cool.’

Gemma took another plate to dry and turned away, smiling. Thank you, book. That hadn’t been so bad.

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