Another Chance, Another Life Read online

  Chapters

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Copyright

  By the same author

  Chapter 1

  Rebecca Calderwood quietly closed her front door, then leaned her back against it, looking as if she was taking refuge there from hordes of pursuers. The coldness of the glass struck through to her back and arms.

  She refused to cry: crying solved nothing. Here, in the quiet sanctuary of her home, she would somehow find a way out of the catastrophe which had broken over her at the end of autumn term, and which was threatening to destroy everything she had built.

  ‘Mum?’ The boy’s voice came uncertainly into the hall.

  ‘Jon?’ Becky’s eyes snapped open. ‘What are you doing home, at this time of day?’ Three swift strides took her down the hallway and into their lounge, where the drawn and heavy curtains left barely any light. Her hand groped for, found the light switch. She blinked in the glare.

  ‘Oh, no!’ she whispered.

  Her son was huddled in an armchair looking even smaller and more vulnerable than he was. Her eyes took in the dribble of blood smeared and caked beneath a nostril. The skinned knee. The scuffed shoulder bag, lying at his feet.

  ‘Not again?’ she said, sagging wearily against the door frame.

  Her mind rebelled against the thought of taking on someone else’s problems, when she was barely able to cope with her own. But this was her son, and he had no one else to turn to.

  ‘Your dinner money? Did they take that too?’ she asked.

  His face crumpled. Suddenly, they were in each other’s arms. She gently held his body, feeling the sobs which were tearing him apart. ‘Shoosh,’ she crooned, rocking back and forwards. ‘Shoosh!’ The old comforting Scottish word came instinctively to her tongue. His sobs gradually subsided.

  ‘I’m not going back there,’ he said mutinously.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s take a time-out . . . I think we both need it. Have you eaten anything since breakfast?’ She felt his head shake. ‘Right. How about some cordon bleu scrambled eggs? No? Cordon bleu beans on toast? You be chef, I’ll set the kitchen table. . . .’

  She gently steered him to the bathroom. ‘First, let’s get that face clean – your nose stopped bleeding, ages ago.’ She turned the hot tap on, let it run while she gathered some cotton swabs. She was getting expert at this – too expert. Even in a quiet school in Southport, bullies lurked, waiting for someone who was scared and smaller than themselves. After their marriage had finally collapsed, and Bob had left them behind, Jonathon had retreated into uncertainty, then fear. It had hurt, being abandoned; then hurt even worse, when her child was abandoned too.

  She itched to confront the bullies but that wasn’t how to handle it. She had been to the head teacher at his school, several times. They seemed powerless to stamp it out. The group of lads hung together and pleaded innocence, while everybody else made sure they didn’t see anything – making it Jon’s word against theirs.

  ‘Why are you back so early, Mum?’ he asked.

  She gently dried his face. ‘I’ve been sort of beaten up too. Been out looking for work, and got nowhere. I need care and attention. Get on that apron, and cook me up a storm.’

  He grinned, mercurial as any small boy. ‘Right, Mum,’ he said.

  Becky didn’t want to eat. She had no appetite, no idea where to turn, what to do. After her marriage crumbled, she had taken her teacher training – only to lose her first job at Christmas – a victim of the education cuts. January and most of February had passed, without even making an interview. Her minor savings were almost exhausted. How was she going to keep up the mortgage payments on their flat? How long would the bank give her, to find another job? Would their home be repossessed?

  She stared blindly at the place settings, listening to Jonathon clattering behind her at the cooker. She needed to talk this over with someone she trusted – and who better than the close friend she had made at teacher training? She would phone Kathy and arrange to meet her somewhere for a coffee and a chat.

  They had plenty time to meet, and plenty to talk about – they had been released within minutes of each other by the same embarrassed head teacher. But that’s what friends were for, to lean on when things got tough. And it couldn’t get much tougher than this, surely?

  ‘What were you working on today, Jon?’ she asked.

  Frowning with concentration as he stirred the beans to stop them from sticking to the pot, he told her. Either he wasn’t making sense, or she wasn’t listening. His words simply didn’t register. No matter.

  ‘Show me, after lunch,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll take you through it myself, this afternoon.’ Once a teacher, always a teacher.

  Even when you hadn’t a classroom any more.

  ‘OK, so we lost our jobs,’ Kathy said defiantly. ‘That’s not the end of the world – things could be worse. . . .’

  ‘How?’ Becky asked wryly.

  Katie’s brown eyes twinkled. ‘Well, maybe a tsunami could sweep away Southport pier . . . or aliens might take over Pleasureland. . . .’

  ‘Would we notice any difference?’ Becky smiled, her spirits lifting, responding to the energy and resilience of the younger woman.

  They were sitting in a coffee shop known only to locals, well away from the funparks and the shopping arcade. It made the best coffee in town, and home baking to die for. A State of Emergency had been declared, all diets suspended, and the two girls had each indulged themselves in a cream cake.

  Katie licked her fingers. ‘There was nothing personal in losing our jobs,’ she said. ‘It happens to lots of people. We were the last two teachers in, so the first two to go. The head told us that she would have kept us both, if she had the choice. But she hadn’t. So we simply make a fresh start on the rest of our lives.’

  ‘Yes, but how?’ asked Becky. ‘I’ve been drawing blanks, for weeks.’

  ‘Too soon to get worried. January is always the silly season, where nobody has really settled back to work and February isn’t much better. I’ve been holding off looking, up until now – it’s a waste of time. There has to be something out there, for us! Two young and gorgeous women . . . well, one gorgeous and the other not too bad.’

  ‘So I’m “not too bad”?’ demanded Becky, taking mock offence.

  Kathy blinked. ‘Actually, I had you down for gorgeous. I was the other.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘I run forty miles a week, and you’re every bit as slim. If I look half as good as you when I’m forty. . . .’

  ‘I’m only thirty-three!’ Becky exclaimed.

  Kathy grinned. ‘That’s better! Come out of your corner, fighting.’

  ‘So we look for new jobs. Does that mean we buy the same newspapers, and apply for the same posts? Then sit at opposite sides of the interview room, and pretend we don’t know each other?’

  ‘No way!’ said Kathy. ‘We sit together, while I try to think up a way to ladder your tights, or smudge your lipstick, before you go in for interview.’

  Becky laughed out loud. ‘Seriously, Kathy. How do we find work?’

  Kathy chased crumbs round her plate. ‘Actually, you’ve given me a good wake-up call. I’ve been drifting, waiting to start. I’m going to go home, put on my trainers, and go for a long hard run. That’s when I think best. Let’s both decide what we would most like to do with our lives, then meet on Thursday for a brainstorming session on what we need to do to achieve that.’

 
‘I can’t wait to start,’ said Becky.

  ‘Meanwhile, what are you doing this afternoon?’

  ‘Catching a bus out to the convalescent home in Ormskirk, to see my old uncle Noel.’

  ‘Convalescent? Is he . . . senile?’

  Becky smiled. ‘No. Nothing like that. He lost my aunt Ella about three years ago, and turned in on himself. Such a shame. When I was young, he was an overseas reporter for one of the big London dailies. He was like a cat – whatever happened to him, he always landed on his feet. Until Ella died, I didn’t even think of him as old. But he’s been neglecting himself, not eating properly. So I’ve been going over once a week, cooking a proper meal. And he’s so stubborn! Last week he climbed a ladder to clear leaves from his gutter – then fell off. Cut his head – it needed stitches. The hospital saw how thin he was, and sent him to a convalescent home, to be assessed. He hates it there – and has gone into the huff.’

  ‘Shame,’ Kathy said quietly. ‘A duty visit?’

  ‘Anything but! Since my father died, he’s been a father-substitute. When I was a kid, he was fantastic to visit, full of stories about what was going on in the world. I wanted to be an overseas reporter too. He used to take me places in his car, or their narrowboat, then make me sit down and write 500 words about what I’d seen . . . pruning it down to journalistic basics.’

  ‘A narrowboat?’ asked Kathy.

  ‘My aunt and he used to disappear into the canal system for weeks, even months on end. They were like gypsies. Two inseparable people, poles apart in everything but their love for each other. Wherever they were, there was always fun and laughter. Never was any question of duty visits. In fact, I used to kick and scream, when my mum tried to drag me home.’

  ‘He sounds a real character.’

  ‘He was – and is. But when Ella went, she took all the sunshine from his world.’

  Kathy stood up. ‘I’m off. I’ve got a date with my running gear, to burn off that cream bun. I want to run out to Martin Mere, before the rush hour starts – fancy coming?’

  Becky smiled. ‘The only running I do these days is to catch a bus.’

  ‘I could put you in a supermarket trolley, and push you in front of me?’

  ‘Save that for Guy Fawkes Night,’ Becky laughed.

  The two women embraced, and Becky watched her friend stride off, with the easy co-ordination of a born athlete. For the four years she had known her, almost since the marriage break-up, Kathy had exuded an appetite for life and boundless enthusiasm. Which had made her a natural teacher, even if that was no longer an option.

  Becky picked up the tab and searched through her bag for her purse. This coffee was a luxury she should have done without; but the contact with her younger friend, tapping into her strength and energy, had been priceless.

  She walked to the cash desk. Trust Kathy, to see the way ahead. Losing your job wasn’t the end of everything. It was the start of the rest of your life.

  ‘Can I see you in here for a moment, Miss Calderwood?’

  Becky turned, in the gloom of the hallway. It was the nursing sister, beckoning from the office door. She stepped inside, and the sister quietly closed the door, waving Becky over to the plastic chair on the far side of the office desk.

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Becky. ‘Has Noel got himself into trouble?’

  ‘Not yet. . . .’ The sister’s smile was wry. ‘No, I just wanted to talk to you briefly. Mr Medwin’s a lovely old gentleman. . . .’

  ‘But. . . ?’

  The sister sighed. ‘This huff he’s taken at the world in general, is the start of a slippery slope. He’s cutting himself off from the other patients, from staff, and drifting into a world of his own.’ She studied her reddened nurse’s hands. ‘That’s dangerous – we need to nip it in the bud. I hear warning bells when an independent person gradually loses interest in what’s going on around him.’

  ‘Would it help if you sent him home?’

  ‘Quite possibly – but we can’t really take the risk of letting him out. Would he pick up again – or would the recent pattern of self-neglect continue, when he has no help? We have to balance the risks.’

  The electric clock’s minute hand jumped forward, startling Becky. ‘I hear you,’ she said uneasily. ‘I feel so guilty about this. I would do just about anything, to help him recover, but I’ve lost my job. I can’t take him in – in fact, I may have to give up my own flat. What I can do is spend a lot more time with him.’

  ‘Sorry about your job – it’s a bad time to be looking for work. But human company is exactly what he’s needing. If you have time to work with him, you might reclaim his interest, turn him round again.’

  Becky stared at the neat desk, blurring through sudden tears.

  ‘The person who could turn him round was buried three years ago,’ she said bleakly. ‘I’ll do what I can. Thank you.’ She rose to go.

  The nurse gently put a hand on her arm. ‘Miss Calderwood, so far as I can see, the only problem your uncle has is that he feels completely useless. He is neither sick, nor senile. Stubborn, yes – but what man isn’t? To turn him round, you simply need to convince him that you’re needing him. Even critically ill people will always rally to a cry for help, respond to a feeling that they’re being useful again. And Mr Medwin’s far from ill. . . .’

  ‘Thank you,’ Becky replied.

  She steadied herself and walked firmly along the corridor, climbing the stairs to Noel’s floor. Outside his door, she hesitated. Knocked. Silence.

  Becky opened the door and stepped inside.

  Noel was sitting beside the window, his chair angled to let him see out to the garden below. His head was drooping, chin almost resting on his chest. As if he’d fallen asleep, he made no move to see who had come into his room.

  ‘Noel,’ she said gently. ‘It’s me. Becky.’

  No response. From outside came the muffled noises of distant voices, people walking, furniture scraping, trolleys moving, all the muted hubbub that makes up the sound-track of any hospital.

  Becky hesitated, then picked up the second chair and carried it over to the window, setting it down opposite him. He still seemed asleep, even when she sat down in it and edged forward towards him.

  She took one of his thin hands into her own. His skin was cold.

  ‘Ella would be so angry,’ she said quietly. ‘She’d never have believed that you would simply turn your face to the wall, and give up on all of us.’

  An eternity, before his head lifted slowly, moved round.

  Faded blue eyes found hers, locked on.

  ‘The world goes on, Noel,’ she said. ‘I know you’re hurting. But I need you now. . . . I need you more than at any other time in my life. Be there for me.’

  The blue eyes were suddenly steady.

  ‘Help me, Noel,’ she said blindly. ‘I’ve lost my job, in the teaching cuts . . . and without that job, how will I find the mortgage money? Everybody’s cutting back, private sector and public sector alike. Where can I find another job? There is no work out there, not for anyone, let alone a single mother, with a child who’s being bullied at his school. I’m almost out of my mind, with worry. I need someone strong to lean on, Noel. You’ve always been there, showing me how to land on my feet, how to move on with my life. I need you desperately, Noel, don’t abandon me. . . .’

  It started as a shamefaced, manipulative trick to catch his attention. But somewhere along the line, she had become a little girl again, with a skinned knee from trying to jump much further than she was able. Turning blindly to her tough, worldly-wise substitute father, the steadfast anchor in her life. And it had all come tumbling out, words and tears together.

  Becky felt his other hand cover hers. She looked up.

  ‘Dinna fret,’ he said, his voice dry from lack of use. He coughed. ‘Can you keep a secret from that sister? She has eyes in the back of her head. . . .’

  ‘What secret?’

  ‘My bedside cabinet. Bottom drawer. Under the
pyjamas, right corner, at the back. It’s only a quarter bottle, for emergencies. I’d say this is an emergency, wouldn’t you? There’s a packet of Polo mints, beside it – for confusion of the local Gestapo. Bring that out too. You have the glass, I’ll drink from the bottle. Here, let me pour your dram . . . it’s exactly what we’re needing for a day like this.’

  As he poured a small amount of whisky, Becky found herself smiling again, relief flooding through her. ‘You crafty old devil,’ she accused.

  ‘Guilty, as charged.’ He held out the glass. ‘Let’s trust the distiller to have put in the right amount of water. Slainthe!’

  ‘They told me you had drifted into a world of your own.’

  ‘And you, needing me?’

  Becky sobbed, choked, the whisky burning her throat.

  ‘Get it down you,’ he said briskly. ‘There’s brighter minds than ours have turned to drink, to help them think.’

  ‘The day is better already – now that you’ve decided to come back.’

  ‘If a useless old uncle can’t be a bad example to his favourite niece, what other use does he have?’

  ‘I’m your only niece,’ she protested.

  ‘Doesn’t change the logic. Right, let’s cut through the flimflam to the subheads.’ He stopped to take a sip of whisky, pulled a face. ‘I’m out of practice,’ he excused. ‘This used to taste better. You’ve lost your job. You need time to find another one. And in the meantime, there’s a mortgage to pay.’

  ‘Is this where you pull a white rabbit out of your hat?’ Becky asked hopefully.

  ‘Never had a hat in my life. Or rabbits.’ Thoughtfully, he screwed the cap back onto the whisky bottle, and reached for a mint to kill the smell. ‘Can you hide this again?’ he asked.

  ‘How did you bring it here, in the first place?’ she demanded.

  ‘A good newspaperman never reveals his sources.’ He grinned, the old devil-may-care glint in his eyes. ‘OK, here’s my first stab at a solution – with young Jonathon’s problem uppermost in my mind. We need a change of scene for both of you. So, rent out your flat. . . .’

  ‘But. . . .’

  ‘Rent out your flat,’ Noel said firmly. ‘It will bring in enough money to pay your mortgage while you’re looking for work. Next, find a new school for Jonathon, give him a fresh chance in life. And in doing that, follow your nose and look for work – any kind of work. Just as you would settle for any port in a storm.’