Another Chance, Another Life Read online

  ‘No, but I sense I’m going to hear it now.’

  ‘It’s a true story.’ Noel turned to Jonathon. ‘When we come to the tunnel, it looks just like a hole in the hill, with a stone wall built around it. “The Hole in the Wall” is what the locals call it. At the far side, one day in 1912, a cow lost its footing and rolled down the hill and into the canal. Ker-splash!’

  ‘And?’ said Jonathon.

  ‘Some canal people tried to rescue it, while a villager ran to fetch the farmer. The cow didn’t want to be rescued. She turned and swam into the tunnel, disappearing into the darkness. A canal family punted their boat into the tunnel after her, holding up a paraffin lamp to try and see where she was. They found her still swimming, and followed her right through to the end of the tunnel, 1,640 yards away. The poor cow was exhausted. But the farmer was waiting, and locals helped to rope her and pull her out.’

  Noel grinned at Becky. ‘Reports say that the cow was revived by vast amounts of ale – but how much of that reached the cow, and how much was consumed by the rescuers, we’ll never know.’

  ‘Did she live?’ asked Jonathon.

  ‘Until she was a very old lady. And she still holds the record for the fastest 1,640 yards ever swum by a cow. . . .’

  ‘Noel! You’re making that up!’ Becky accused.

  ‘I’m not!’ he replied indignantly. ‘You can still see photos of the rescue in the local pub at Foulridge.’

  ‘I’m phoning Mike,’ sighed Becky. ‘What’s his number?’

  David Harrison paused in the driving rain. No one ahead, he was sure of that. He peered back through the gloom towards the town end of the promenade. The road behind was equally empty – for the second day in succession.

  Go on, or turn back?

  Mentally, he flipped a coin . . . but was jogging forward, before his invisible coin hit the ground. The longer he stayed on the road, the better the chance he had of crossing paths again. And maybe, just maybe, finding a way of explaining to her – and himself – something which had tied him down for years.

  Maybe her shifts had changed, and she couldn’t run mornings?

  Maybe she had changed her running route – as he often did himself, to prevent boredom.

  There were a limited number of supermarkets in the town. Maybe, if he took the morning off and visited all of them? Did his weekly shopping, two items at a time? He shook his head.

  She might have decided that enough was enough. No further contact.

  If she had, then he must respect her decision. Such a pity. It was years since he’d felt attracted to another woman. So long, he had almost forgotten how to react. From the start, he’d sensed in her a woman who was unique, someone with whom he could build a stronger bond than simply running.

  Head down, he plodded along the empty promenade.

  The sea wind blew away the rain and shredded the clouds which had carried it. A weak and watery sun spilled through, then strengthened. It lit up the flat marshland all around him, bringing into it both colour and fresh life.

  But it didn’t even touch the edges of the dark cloud in his heart.

  Should we be wearing hard hats?’ Becky asked nervously.

  ‘Only if the water level rises.’ Mike’s eyes were twinkling.

  ‘And will it?’ Jonathon asked eagerly.

  Mike shook his head. ‘The canal’s main supply is from the Foulridge reservoir, and the amount of water released is tightly controlled. We’re safe.’

  ‘How do we see in the dark?’ asked Jonathon.

  ‘Switch on our headlights – just like a car,’ replied Noel.

  ‘What if we see headlights coming at us from the other end?’

  ‘We stay on the right and edge past each other.’

  Mike turned to Becky. ‘If you’ve waterproofs, put them on. There’s usually a lot of water dripping from the tunnel roof. And if it’s been raining a lot, it can be pretty mucky.’

  He smiled. ‘Permission to take control of your ship, Cap’n?’

  Did anything ever cause this man to flap, Becky wondered. ‘Permission granted,’ she replied. ‘But you pay for repairs to any dents you make in her.’

  ‘That’s only fair,’ he said.

  The fresh air had done her a power of good, Mike thought. She looked years younger, prettier too. And, joke title or not, she had brought her ship up some seriously tough miles of waterways, without a scratch. A woman who grew to match the challenges made on her – not unlike the redoubtable Ella, after whom Noel had named his boat. This woman would be an equal partner in any relationship.

  The thought surprised him. ‘Cast off,’ he said, and watched approvingly as she undid the neat knot, eased the bows of the boat from the bank, and stepped easily onto the narrow ledge around the cabin. ‘Don’t hang about there or you will need a hard hat,’ he warned, smiling.

  Becky realized she’d been staring at him. Ever since Bob had walked out on her, she had never taken up with another man. Too many responsibilities, with a child depending on her. Too many disappointments, from all the dreams with which they had started out. Too much hurt, from being rejected.

  From that day until now, she had met men on her own terms – with a high, defensive wall between herself and them. What had kept her standing on the cabin ledge was a sudden realization. With Mike, she felt so safe and comfortable that she hadn’t even bothered to set up that wall.

  ‘Just thinking about the dinner I’m going to cook,’ she said. ‘And you’re staying to share it with us this time. Because we will be moored in your yard.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Cap’n,’ he replied.

  ‘I’ve a bottle of wine hidden somewhere,’ Noel said.

  ‘Not another one,’ groaned Becky.

  ‘Purely medicinal. The best doctors recommend a glass of wine, after going through a damp and smelly tunnel.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Mike. ‘OK, here we go. . . .’

  He increased the revs and the Ella Mae slid gently into the tunnel. At first, their eyes struggled to adjust. Daylight became gloom, then darkest night. Ahead, their puny spotlights reflected off wet bricks on the tunnel roof.

  It was spooky, claustrophobic. The noise from their engine beat back at them, while the tunnel air was thick with stale diesel fumes.

  ‘Get into the cabin,’ Becky ordered, as Jonathon began to cough.

  ‘No,’ he spluttered. ‘Let me see. I promise not to cough.’

  He broke his promise instantly.

  ‘Hold this handkerchief to your nose and mouth,’ Mike said.

  In the gloom, she saw him pull out a handkerchief, still in its folds. He handed it to the boy, who held it over his mouth and nose.

  ‘Better?’ asked Mike.

  Jonathon nodded. ‘What’s that light?’ he asked. ‘Is it the end of the tunnel already?’

  ‘No, it’s a breathing shaft. Goes up to the top of the hill above us – we’ll pass three or four of them.’

  For a moment, the gloom of the tunnel turned to smoky grey, then they were back in inky blackness again.

  ‘Hope we don’t meet anybody,’ Becky said, her voice echoing.

  ‘Plenty of room, if we do.’ Mike replied. ‘We just slow down, make sure our wash doesn’t rock the other boat too much . . . it does the same for us.’

  It was the longest mile of Becky’s life, almost twenty minutes long. At last, a real glow showed at the end of the tunnel. The water of the canal in front of them turned grey, then silver, then molten gold.

  They broke through into sunshine, Foulridge village all around them.

  ‘Wow!’ said Jonathon.

  His eyes were beyond the village. Ahead, as far as Becky could see, there were rolling hills and green fields edged with dark trees, their spring leaf buds only starting to break into leaf. Then beyond the hill slopes, which the canal was hugging, rose tall blue hills.

  ‘That’s the Yorkshire Dales,’ said Mike. ‘They sweep down to the edge of the canal up north, as it turns int
o Airedale.’

  ‘That’s what I brought you both here, to see,’ said Noel. ‘That’s God’s Own Country up ahead. Better than any pot of gold at a rainbow’s end.’ He smiled gently at Becky. ‘That’s where your future could lie.’

  Becky looked at the great silent hills. Her chest tightened with emotion, until she thought she must cry. Then, gentle as an angel’s kiss, a huge wave of joy engulfed her.

  ‘Our future, Noel,’ she whispered. ‘A new future, for each and every one of us.’ She turned blindly to him, reaching out, and hugged him. Then Jonathon.

  ‘Me too?’ asked Mike hopefully.

  ‘You too,’ she said, without a second’s hesitation.

  She hugged him, felt his gentle pat on her back in response.

  Where it had touched, she tingled. . . .

  Kathy turned down her music and rose to go to the door. Who was calling this late at night? There was a spyhole set into the front door, but she never bothered to use it. As she opened the door, a gust of cold wind swirled in.

  ‘Christine!’ she said, surprised.

  It was her ex-head teacher, her coat collar pulled high against the bluster of the night – so normal on this coast, that neither noticed it.

  ‘Come in,’ said Kathy, stepping back.

  ‘If you don’t mind. I won’t take long.’

  A surge of hope coursed through Kathy. Was she getting her job back? She led the older woman through into the living space, glad she had tidied things earlier that afternoon, out of habit rather than necessity.

  ‘Can I get you a coffee? A glass of wine?’

  ‘Coffee would be nice.’ A slow smile came on Christine’s face. ‘You like your music,’ she commented. ‘I sense that your flat is built around it.’

  Kathy grinned. ‘My mum always said it was just as well I was born when CDs were in fashion. Back when everybody bought pop singles records, I’d have needed a bigger house to hold them. I’ll get your coffee.’

  She came back with the cafetiere and a couple of cups on a tray, with milk and sugar – neither of which she ever used herself – and a plate of elderly biscuits, which she prayed had not gone soggy. They felt firm enough. Snacking, or entertaining, were seldom part of Kathy’s routine.

  ‘Well, how can I help you, Christine?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t really have the right to ask . . . have you found another job yet?’

  Promising.

  ‘I’m applying for everything – but there’s not much on offer. I’m working part-time at a local supermarket. I’d go mad, stuck in the flat all day.’

  ‘I’m ever so sorry. With the funds to cover you, I would have kept both you and Rebecca on. Frankly, there are several members of staff I would have dispensed with first . . . but couldn’t, given their terms of employment.’

  Not so promising. Kathy’s hopes began to wither on the vine. She sipped her coffee, trying to look bright and interested rather than depressed and angry.

  Christine studied the biscuit collection: either it didn’t come up to standard, or there was something else on her mind. ‘I have no right to ask, but. . . .’ she said.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I can’t think of any other way to solve the problem.’

  ‘Which is?’ Kathy was never given to small talk. Least of all, now.

  ‘Do you remember our after-school Drama Club?’

  ‘Of course. I helped to rehearse its last production.’

  Christine sipped her coffee. ‘We’re in truly desperate straits, staff-wise,’ she said. ‘Obviously, there are no replacements for you or Rebecca. One other teacher off with stress-related problems. It leaves me three short, and everyone has had to take a share of the classes that are no longer covered. On top of a pretty full teaching load. People only see teaching as a 9 to 3.30 job. They never think about the hours of correction of the students’ work, or the nightly preparation of the lessons for the following day. . . .’

  She put down her cup with a double-click on the saucer. Kathy realized that the older woman’s hands were shaking. More stress symptoms?

  ‘To cut a long story short, Kathryn,’ Christine said, ‘nobody has time to set up and run the school play. For the first year since I took over, we won’t have a show for parents in the summer. It’s not a major tradition, but it means a lot to me – and to the children.’

  ‘So?’ asked Kathy.

  ‘All I can think of is to ask a favour from someone who doesn’t owe me any favours. Could you find the time at nights, to set up and organize some sort of play for the Drama Club? Then run rehearsals? I can’t promise payment – although I will try my hardest to find some sponsorship. School funds are already stretched to breaking point. . . .’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Like I said, I have no right to ask you this. . . .’

  ‘OK,’ said Kathy. ‘It’s a deal.’

  She had enjoyed her involvement, last year. And the thought of working with kids again was exciting. ‘I’d love doing that, Christine,’ she added.

  For a few moments, the lines of worry disappeared from the head teacher’s face. ‘My instinct told me that it was right for you,’ she said. ‘I would never have dreamed of asking, otherwise. You’re a natural teacher. I want to keep in touch with you – and I want you to keep in touch with teaching – just in case we ever find the funds to bring you back.’

  ‘And you’ll give me a completely free hand?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Enough funds to buy or hire a play?’

  ‘Within reason.’

  ‘And I can organize this exactly as I want to run it?’

  A warm smile appeared on the older woman’s face. Kathy’s enthusiasm was catching. ‘I have a feeling this could be a very special production,’ she said.

  ‘When do I start?’ demanded Kathy.

  Becky pulled aside the curtains, to look out onto a sunlit morning. She froze.

  On the canal boat’s window ledge was propped a mobile phone. Not hers – or Noel’s. There was only one person it could belong to – Mike Preston. He must have left it there over the meal, the night before. Probably to get a signal. And she had been so tired by night-time that she had simply made up her bed and fallen into it. Living and working in the open air cures all sleeping problems.

  Carefully, she lifted it. ‘Noel!’ she called through. ‘That phone number you’ve got for Mike – is it his mobile or his landline?’

  The cabin door opened and Noel’s head poked through. ‘Mobile.’

  Silently, she held up the phone.

  ‘Oh,’ Noel said. ‘OK. We can look up his landline in a phonebook.’

  ‘I’ll be shopping in Longbank village this morning, there’s bound to be a phone booth there. We need more coal . . . that little stove devours it. You’re sure there’s a coal merchant’s here?’

  ‘Yates,’ Noel said. ‘They’re behind the canal-side warehouses. Go over the bridge, and follow the lane north for a couple of hundred yards. It’s on the right – the business is run by a father and daughter.’

  After breakfast, leaving the others to wash the dishes, Becky walked up the canal bank towards the bridge. It was a beautiful morning, misty sunshine, dew turning both grass and cobwebs into jewels. Beyond the village’s neat houses, and the converted warehouse which was now office suites, the green fields and woods sloped ever upwards. Behind everything soared the blue hills of the Yorkshire Dales.

  She drew in a lungful of crisp, cool air. God’s Own Country indeed.

  Becky climbed through the gate and onto the road bridge. She glanced up the canal as she walked across: half a dozen narrowboats, moored at decent intervals along the south bank, smoke rising lazily from some of the stovepipes, other boats clearly closed down.

  She loved this gypsy way of life. Here today, and gone tomorrow. With no real plans beyond living each day fully, but one at a time. Her search for work must start after Skipton, down at Keighley and Bingley, perhaps even Bradford
and Leeds. Somewhere, she hoped, there was a job waiting for her knock on the door – and near it, a decent school for Jon.

  With a light step, she turned into the grey stone buildings of Joseph Yates and Son, Coal and Agricultural Merchants. A strange mix, she thought wryly. Noel had got it wrong: it was a son, not a daughter, who worked here.

  In the cobbled yard outside the small, square office building, she hesitated. The place was deserted, no one in sight or sound. Pigeons fluttered down from a roof eave, startling her. Becky knocked on the battered and peeling office door.

  No reply. She waited, then knocked again. Silence.

  Not a problem, just an inconvenience. She could always come back later, after she’d picked up groceries from the village. By then, her arms would be full of plastic bags, her knuckles scraping the ground.

  There had to be someone around, somewhere. She went to knock on the door again, then, on impulse, pushed against it instead. It creaked loudly, opening reluctantly on stiff hinges.

  ‘Hello!’ Becky called. ‘Anyone in?’

  No reply. She hesitated, and pushed the door further open.

  An empty office, with ancient and rusting filing cabinets. Shelves piled high with stacks of paper, box files leaning drunkenly against them. What looked like a couple of old heating irons, holding the ends of the mess from sliding off. Walls thickly papered with all sorts of farming notices, yellowing, shredded corners, phone numbers scrawled across them and covered with black fingerprints.

  A venerable wooden desk, only two or three peeling scabs of varnish remaining on its vertical surfaces. The desktop itself buried under office diaries, invoices, opened files with dirty smudges under the scribbled text. Behind it, a battered, leather-padded swivel chair, stuffing gaping through its back. Everything abandoned, like an experiment which had gone horribly and terminally wrong.

  Becky was turning away, when the phone rang. The ringing was transmitted out into the yard, scattering the flock of pigeons.

  Maybe somebody would come to answer it. Becky waited, hand on door.

  The phone rang on and on. Stopped, then started up again.

  On an impulse which she never understood, Becky went into the office, searched through the mess of papers and found the phone. She picked it up.