A Dozen Second Chances. Field Kate

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СКАЧАТЬ as it always was on a sunny Saturday afternoon. It was a charming, slightly old-fashioned market town, with a mixture of stone buildings from various periods clustering round the market square. An elaborately carved market cross took pride of place in the centre of the square, open to the sides but covered overhead so that tired shoppers could shelter inside for a while and watch the world go by. I had fallen in love with the place on my first visit, enchanted by the independent shops, the traditional twice-weekly market, and the cobbled lanes and alleyways that led off the shopping streets down to the river, where a medieval drover’s bridge crossed the water. It had felt peaceful and safe, and exactly the sort of place where I wanted to bring up Caitlyn.

      The quaintness of the town and the beauty of the surrounding countryside, not to mention the challenge of climbing Winlow Hill, drew a steady stream of tourists, particularly during the warmer months. As I jogged past The White Hart Hotel, a gorgeous Georgian building overlooking the market square, I came across the hotel’s owner, Lexy, updating the posters in the smart glass frames on each side of the entrance.

      ‘Tourist season begins!’ she said, waving at the poster. I paused to read it: a special deal for dinner, bed and breakfast with a picnic and guides to local walks thrown in. ‘At last! It felt like winter was never going to end this year. Let’s hope this sunshine is here to stay. What do you think? Is it a tempting offer?’

      ‘Sounds great.’ I wondered about who would come: retired couples perhaps, able to enjoy a midweek break, or younger pairs escaping real life for a relaxing weekend in the countryside. It was something else I had never experienced with Rich; neither of us had shown any desire to go on holiday together. Was that normal? Normal for me. And the other sort of normal hadn’t worked out well, had it?

      ‘Now that the nights are getting longer,’ Lexy continued, locking the glass display case, ‘I’ve been thinking about ways to attract people in to the town centre again in the evening. You know the sort of thing – gin tastings, special menu nights – things I tried over winter but that weren’t enough to tempt people out in the snow. We could do with some regular events too, so what do you think about setting up a community running group?’

      ‘But you’re not a runner.’

      ‘Not yet, but I could do with getting more exercise. And you must know every possible route around here, so I thought that you were the ideal person to lead the group!’

      I’d certainly run right into that trap. Lexy was smiling in what she no doubt hoped was a winsome way. It reminded me, fleetingly, of Faye. Even now, after so many years, the combination of grief and guilt felt like a fist thumped into my chest.

      ‘What would it involve?’

      ‘Not much! You would just lead everyone on a circular run – nothing too far, as we need to appeal to all abilities – or lack of ability. It won’t be much trouble, will it, as you go running most days anyway. And now you can have company!’

      It was tempting to point out that I didn’t need company; that one of the benefits of running, apart from the physical exercise, was the freedom to switch off my thoughts and be truly alone.

      ‘What’s in it for you, if you’re not going to run?’ I asked instead.

      ‘I’ll join in sometimes, if it’s not raining. And not too cold. I thought everyone could meet at The White Hart, so the run would start and end here. Then I could offer a discount on food and drink to anyone who had taken part. What do you think? It would be more fun for you than sitting at home on your own, now Caitlyn’s gone. You’re allowed to enjoy yourself! Although I still wish you’d enjoy yourself with a bottle of wine in my bar …’

      Something about Lexy’s words made an unconscious echo of Caitlyn. Be kind to yourself, she had instructed me – and this would fall within the spirit of her rules, wouldn’t it? Perhaps it would make a change to run with other people. What harm could it do? I had navigated the best part of seventeen years keeping a wary distance from people, with Tina being the only exception; making acquaintances but not engaging my emotions, so that I wouldn’t have to face the pain of loss again. Lycra and sweat were unlikely to change that.

      By the time I had run a couple of miles out of town, as far as the ugly 1960s secondary school where I worked and which was surrounded by a barricade of conifers to prevent it blotting the landscape, I was beginning to warm to the running group idea. My dad’s premature death from a heart attack had galvanised me to change my diet and increase my exercise levels; I wasn’t obsessed with keeping fit, but I tried to encourage healthy living where I could. This running group could be good for Inglebridge, and perhaps I could put posters up around the corridors and encourage some of the students to take part too. It was worth a try, wasn’t it?

      Mentally designing the poster, I didn’t stop to check the driveway into school before crossing. It was Saturday afternoon – who would be there? A reckless idiot was the answer. I had taken two steps from the pavement when a racy, low-slung sports car tore down the drive at top speed, clipped me with the wing mirror, and roared off with an elongated hoot of aggression from the horn. As I tumbled to the ground, I caught sight of a scowling woman, a similar age to me, raising her hands in irritation and mouthing words that I was glad I couldn’t hear.

      I landed in doggy-style on my hands and knees, winded but otherwise unscathed, apart from some light grazes. My cheap leggings, on the other hand, had given in at the first hint of trouble and now sported a large hole in the knee; all the fashion in some quarters, but I guessed I was too old to pull off the ripped look. The perpetrator was long gone, having hit and run without so much as a backward glance.

      I hauled myself up, brushed off the dirt, and hobbled a short way down the drive to check the school. The gates to the playground were shut and locked, as they should be, so it didn’t look like the girl racer had been a burglar, unless she was casing the joint for a proper attempt. It was probably just someone misdirected by a sat nav, I decided, and didn’t give the incident another thought as I ran back to Rich’s house.

      *

      It was obvious that Gran had something on her mind within minutes of my arrival at The Chestnuts the following day. She didn’t press her emergency button for tea with the same relish as normal and showed hardly a flicker of enthusiasm when I pulled out the all-butter shortbread.

      ‘What’s up with your hand?’ she asked, as I tore open the packet.

      ‘Oh, this?’ I held out my palm. There was a red, grazed patch on the fleshy pad above my wrist, a legacy from my fall yesterday. ‘It’s nothing, only a scratch. I had a tumble yesterday while I was out running.’

      I spared her the details; I didn’t want her to worry, and it sounded unnecessarily dramatic to say that I had almost been run over. After a night’s reflection I was ready to concede that I wasn’t entirely blameless, by running off the footpath without checking first. It was a lesson I had spent years drumming into Caitlyn, so I had no excuse for ignoring it myself.

      ‘Have you dabbed it with TCP?’

      That made me smile. TCP had been Gran’s answer to all our childhood complaints, from cuts and scrapes to sore throats. Even now the smell could take me back instantly to those carefree days, when we had stayed with Gran during school holidays; when we had run wild in the nearby park, and cycled around the streets with children we had never met before but who shared a common goal to have fun; when summers had always seemed long and sunny, and we had believed our whole lives would be the same.

      ‘Yes, of course.’ It was a lie. I couldn’t bear to smell it now. ‘It’s nothing. But what’s the matter with you? You don’t seem your usual СКАЧАТЬ