It Started With A Note. Victoria Cooke

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       Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      I never swear.

      Ever.

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

      ‘Cath, you idiot!’ I mumble instead.

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

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

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

      Just as I approach stop fifteen, there is a miracle. My bus is still in! Thank God! I slow to a walking pace, panting – СКАЧАТЬ