Forgive Me Not Read online

  She should have stayed on familiar ground, amongst people who’d defend her. That was how she and Joe had first met – except then it was she who’d saved him. Two kids were trying to steal his money. He was out of it and couldn’t protect his belongings. Emma had run at them screaming. Once they’d scarpered, she’d sat down with him. He’d insisted on sharing his takings.

  Finally the woman threw down the rucksack and folded her arms. Emma shoved her few belongings back into her bag, grabbed her coat and, still feeling disorientated, slunk away. Eventually she found Beth, who took her to the nearest public toilets, tidied her up and gave her a chocolate bar – Beth’s favourite Twix. Emma gave her half back. They went to the railway bridge and sat on the ground. Beth shared some wine she’d shoplifted earlier.

  ‘Just a one-off, mind. I ain’t going soft.’

  ‘You’re a good mate, Beth,’ said Emma, and wiped her mouth.

  Feeling fuzzy and calm, she hugged her knees. This was the last straw. It was time for her and Joe to leave England behind. She raised the bottle to her lips again, as grandiose plans formed of how to raise the money for those flights.

  14 months before going back

  It happened towards the middle of April, on a night when time seemed to get stuck. The evenings were much lighter now. This was good for takings. Joe and Emma had pooled their earnings and managed to raise the money necessary for a room in a bed and breakfast. That was a rare treat. Clean sheets. Hot water. Safety. A solid night’s kip.

  Cosy under the covers, they sat in bed, on the lumpy mattress, eating fried chicken. Joe had just smoked out of the window. Hotel staff became unfriendly if the wrong smell wafted out from under a door. With a satisfied sigh, Emma leant back against the soft pillows. She threw the empty takeaway box on the floor and downed the remains of a large brown plastic bottle.

  Right at that moment, life was good. Leaving Foxglove Farm was the best thing she’d ever done. She was independent, answerable to no one – mistress of her own destiny. This was what life was about – having fun. She ignored the quieter voices in her head that asked how her mum was doing; that sometimes wondered, late into the night, if Andrea ever thought about her younger sister.

  ‘Give me a cuddle,’ she said, and burped. Life would be fantastic when they were living abroad.

  ‘Fuck off, Ems,’ Joe said in the same slurred tones.

  Emma smiled and snuggled up to him. Her hand slid under his shirt and made contact with skin. She stroked his chest. He must have cared, because he held his fingers over hers. His touch healed her recently familiar sense of rejection. Her hand spread out and soaked up the intimacy.

  ‘Let’s just pretend, for one minute, that we don’t have to wake up tomorrow,’ she murmured. ‘That this night is our only existence and will last forever. Close your eyes. This could be our own proper house. We might both have jobs. Lots of friends. Money to spend on clothes. Let time stand still, Joe. Just for one night.’

  She kissed him on the mouth that told bad jokes or offered comforting words. He didn’t respond, so she pulled her hand from under his and moved it downwards.

  ‘Emma… we shouldn’t…’ But eventually his breath became rasping. All she’d ever wanted to do was make him happy. Desperate kisses juggled with awkward limbs. Joe’s eyes loomed above hers for a few seconds before his head turned away and he reached his height of pleasure.

  Heat gushed through Emma’s body and the room spun for a second. Yet why did she feel such a sense of emptiness when it was all over? Joe turned his back on her and lay separate. He must be tired. Yes. That was it.

  Yet when morning arrived and both of them were in bed wearing no underwear, Joe still kept his distance. More than that, he lay as far away from Emma as possible and… her insides squeezed… why instead of the dawn chorus did she hear him quietly crying?

  The sense of rejection returned.

  He continued to spurn their closeness over the next few days. They hardly talked and instead communicated using a series of grunts and body language. It was like being in a bad marriage, just without the rings. Gold ones, that is, thought Emma one morning, as Joe lay in his sleeping bag blowing out rings made from smoke. She wished she could catch them. One could hang around her neck. Another on her wrist. Sometimes she missed wearing jewellery. She pictured yesterday’s busy Mancunians in Market Street – the fashionable clothes, the pencilled eyebrows…

  It made her feel a little less isolated to recall moments of kindness, like the young executive in a hurry who disappeared into a coffee shop and came back out to hand her a croissant and a cappuccino. Or the middle-aged postal worker who always stopped her bike to say hello and push fifty pence into her hand.

  Emma tried not to dwell on those who’d do anything not to make eye contact. Legs would hurry past as if she were a concrete statue. She didn’t blame them. Perhaps some felt uncomfortable. Maybe a few found it easier to believe that rough sleepers were scammers and no-good benefit cheats.

  She stared across Joe and out of the dirty window. Reluctantly the sun climbed into the Manchester cloud. The early rush-hour traffic rumbled. A siren sounded in the background. Emma hadn’t slept much.

  Joe looked at her. Looked away. Stubbed out his cigarette. Sat up and packed his burgundy rucksack. Glanced back.

  ‘It’s for the best.’ His voice broke. ‘After the other night… you understand why I can’t be around you now?’

  No. Not really.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘I’m going to try my luck down south again. My life north of Watford…’ he gave a wry smile, ‘obviously hasn’t worked out. It’s what I need. Starting afresh.’

  ‘You serious? Are you thinking of getting treatment?’

  He broke eye contact.

  ‘Why not do that here? You had a permanent address for more than six months, didn’t you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘So you’re considered local. You qualify. If you feel ready to quit…’

  ‘I do. You and me… what happened… it’s given me that push. But I can stop on my own,’ he said hurriedly.

  Everyone thought that. It was known as denial.

  ‘What about us leaving England? The fruit-picking?’ she said. ‘If we could just save a bit of money…’

  ‘We’ve as much chance of flying to the moon.’ Joe chewed the skin on the side of his forefinger. ‘You’ll be okay, right?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said in a bright voice. ‘You know me. The street cat with nine lives.’

  ‘Eight. Mad Hatter Holly almost took you with her when you pulled her back from jumping off that bridge.’

  Neither of them spoke for a moment.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ Emma whispered. ‘Please don’t leave. And I liked the other night. I’m so sorry you didn’t. I thought we were getting close. You and me, we go together, don’t we?’

  Joe didn’t reply.

  He couldn’t leave. Not like her father had when she was little. With Joe, she’d finally begun to feel as somehow she fitted in.

  They stood up. Joe rolled his sleeping bag and tucked it under his arm. Awkwardly he darted forward and gave her the quickest of hugs. ‘I… I’ve got you a goodbye present.’ His hand disappeared into the bottom of his rucksack.

  Emma stared at the boyish face that so often tried to look tough. From the moment they’d met, she’d felt the urge to protect him, despite the street cockiness. Finally he pulled out a packet. Cheeks red, mouth curved upwards for the first time in days, he handed her a large box of…

  ‘Tampons?’ A smile spread tentatively across Emma’s face.

  ‘I had to get something that I wouldn’t be tempted to keep for myself. And… well, they ain’t cheap.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Emma. She took the box. A lump rose in her throat. ‘It’s quite the nicest present anyone’s ever bought me.’

  Joe’s eyes glistened. ‘It’s been good, hasn’t it? Us? You know – circumstances apart?’

  ‘You�
�ve been a lifeline, Joe. Like… like…’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘Better than that,’ she said roughly.

  His face grew ugly for a second and he rubbed his stubble. ‘Yeah, you’re right.’

  ‘We don’t have to label what we have – family, friends, whatever… We’ve just been there for each other.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll miss our chats about movies and telly.’

  ‘One day we should go into directing.’

  ‘Nah. It’d be a crime to keep my good looks off the screen.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to train to be your personal make-up artist then. You’ll need all the help you can get to be camera ready.’

  For one second it was just like old times. Then reality kicked in. Both their mouths flatlined.

  ‘Look after yourself, Emma. Stay safe.’

  ‘You won’t change your mind? We can work this out, Joe.’ Her voice sounded like a draught that had managed to escape. ‘You told me about trying to make a go of it with that Kelly woman, before you ended up on the streets. Why not chance it again? I could make you so happy.’

  His face hardened as he looked at the door. ‘You know why. Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.’

  Emma swallowed. ‘But how will we stay in touch? We could arrange to meet up in a couple of months. Decide on a meeting point either here or in London?’

  ‘I can’t think that far ahead,’ Joe said, and made to go.

  ‘Wait a minute…’ She picked up a nearby newspaper and scrabbled around for a pen. She tore off a strip of paper and wrote furiously for a minute. ‘Here’s my address, back at Foxglove Farm. It… it’s all I’ve got. I’m never going back there, but… I don’t know… post can get forwarded. Perhaps one day…’

  Joe sighed, snatched the paper and left.

  Emma’s day carried on carrying on, the sky becoming gloomier, her sitting in the dark, in the corner, doing what she did best. Eventually, in a haze, she packed up her belongings. Her supplies had run out. She needed to visit the supermarket.

  How would she cope without Joe? How would he manage? She’d looked out for him. He’d looked out for her. Where would she go from here? Joe had stirred something inside that didn’t just want to live from day to day any more.

  She felt so alone.

  She wiped her eyes and gazed around the room that had witnessed some of her happier moments over the last few months, like her and Joe curled up together, chatting through the night. He’d talk about his brother. How they’d shared a love of skateboarding and would plot against the latest nanny. And then there were the friendly arguments over who to cast in their all-time favourite films. The latest had been over Jaws. Beth, they’d finally decided, would be the mother on the beach who lost her son – she’d certainly slap honest police chief Martin Brody. He’d be played by Stig, one of the few friends both felt they could trust completely.

  Buoyed by the thought of her imminent liquid escape, with ceremony Emma said goodbye to the spiders and her memories. There’d be no return. The door rattled on its hinges as she kicked it shut behind her. She left the building, and there on the ground, caught in a bush, a strip of newspaper fluttered in the breeze. The address she’d given to Joe. She delved into her rucksack for coins and walked straight past it.

  Chapter 6

  Emma left the Badger Inn and crossed the road without looking, heading away from Broadgrass Hill and the farm. Two cars hooted. A retired couple stared. Outside the supermarket, the homeless woman with the asymmetrical hair glanced up.

  She continued ahead, down a road lined with shops. It used to be a favourite avenue, with several pubs and a takeaway for the appetite that always hit after closing time. She squinted as the pet shop came into view. She had once worked there part-time. She’d combined it with helping out at the farm, once the exam failures had quashed her dreams of becoming a vet.

  Confused for a moment, she stopped. What was she doing here? She needed to get back to the farm and fetch her belongings. About to turn back, she narrowed her eyes as a figure caught her eye. Sitting outside on the pavement, wearing a khaki bobble hat and reading a book… She stared at the chocolate Staffie dog, then broke into a run.

  ‘Stig!’ There was only one man she knew who wore his woolly hat come rain or shine.

  The man stood up. Under the gaze of curious passers-by she threw herself at him and they hugged.

  ‘Whoa!’ He stepped back and his face broke into a smile.

  With red cheeks, Emma smoothed down her top. ‘Sorry… it’s just good to see a friendly face.’

  ‘Nice to see you too. It must be over a year since I’ve bumped into you or Joe. I assumed you’d moved on. Looking good, Emma. You got into treatment?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And Joe?’

  Emma mumbled something about him going down south and a difference of opinion.

  Stig didn’t ask questions. Just said he knew they’d been close.

  ‘What are you doing in Healdbury?’ she asked, still in a daze after the falling-out with Andrea.

  ‘I could ask you the same thing.’

  ‘This is where I grew up.’

  ‘The farm?’

  Emma tried to elaborate but just couldn’t, and instead stood in silence. ‘I’m sorry, Stig,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ve just come from… You see, me and my sister…’ Her shoulders slumped. ‘I’m not the best company right now; I need to clear my head. But it’s great to see you again. I’ll be back later.’

  ‘Hey, no explanation needed,’ he said, and studied her face. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  They hugged again and she headed through the village, taking a short cut to Healdbury stream. Sometimes she and Bligh had gone that way after school, popping into the bakery for an iced bun.

  As the water came into view, her heartbeat no longer sounded in her ears. Instead she listened to the birds, wasps, the babbling current… Carefully she climbed down to the stream’s edge, took off her trainers and sat with her toes in the water, squishing mud between them. Bulrushes swayed side to side like pendulums. A frog plopped into the water.

  Life was so simple back in the day, when all she and Bligh had to worry about was maths homework and how to convince their parents to let them stay out an extra hour. But now… She breathed in the algae smell and watched tiddlers circumnavigate her feet. Did they swim in families? If one lost its way, could it easily come back and fit into the shoal again?

  Gail hadn’t said much whilst eating breakfast. Emma hadn’t known how to fill the silence. She wasn’t sure there would be much more conversation with Andrea. More apologies would be pointless – the same with Bligh. So if words wouldn’t work, that only left actions.

  But what could she do to change their minds about her staying?

  Her forehead relaxed as the sun warmed her face and the familiar surroundings took her back to her childhood. Dash used to love swimming for twigs that Emma and Andrea would throw into the stream. They’d laugh when he’d shake off the water and then go straight back in.

  What was it her case worker Lou had said? Manage your expectations. You’ve got yourself better, you’ve changed, but people won’t know that. Give them time to get up to speed. Blades of grass flattened as Emma ran her hand over the bank of the stream.

  Lou was right. An instant reunion? That was never going to be possible. She could see that now.

  She sat thinking about the past and all the people she’d hurt because she used to feel so isolated and not good enough, like some sort of misfit. Her mind switched to yesterday and the way she’d turned up so unexpectedly. She should have foreseen the shock that would cause. But it was too late now. She couldn’t take back her thoughtless arrival.

  She took her hand away from the turf and, like the blades of grass, stood upright. She brushed down her cotton trousers and put her trainers back on. Giving up was not the solution – but was it unfair on her family to persist?

  As for Polly and Al
an… one thing at a time.

  She made her way back into the village and stopped at the baker’s to buy Stig a sandwich. Then she headed to the pet shop, where he was sitting outside.

  ‘I still can’t believe you’re here,’ she said, and passed him the food before squatting down by his dog, the Duchess. She ruffled the Staffie’s soft ears and ran a hand down her coat, feeling her ribs. Then she slumped against the wall whilst Stig put his book down and ate. She had forgotten how big the world looked from this angle. She studied the litter bin opposite and imagined all sorts of half-eaten hidden treasures. Friends on the streets used to kip in tall wheelie bins. Emma had never dared, terrified that she’d wake up being crushed in the back of a rubbish truck.

  ‘What brings you out to the sticks?’ she asked. ‘I’ve noticed a few rough sleepers since I got back. There’s a woman outside the supermarket…’

  ‘Rita,’ he said, and gave the Duchess some ham.

  ‘And a couple outside the bank on Church Street. Plus a girl at the station.’

  ‘She’s called Tilly.’ Stig stopped eating for a second. ‘Have you heard of the Alternative European Arts Festival?’

  ‘I saw it on the front of the Manchester News last week.’ It had made her think of her mum. Gail would have loved to visit all the different exhibitions. There were collages made from rainforest leaves, and living works of art in the form of tattoos. It would have inspired her cross-stitching.

  ‘It started three weeks ago and goes on until the end of October. Artists from across the Continent are visiting, along with local arts ministers and groups from schools. So there’s been a huge clean-up in the city. Apparently it also happened during the Commonwealth Games in 2002 – rough sleepers were moved away to create a more pleasant impression.’

  ‘Where have they all gone?’

  ‘Stockport mainly. Some, like me, have come out further afield.’