of the children would agree to come to the Foxwood Farm Lancashire Evening, and as I still wasn’t used to appearing anywhere on my own, I invited Daisy to join me. The rain of the morning had finally broken to reveal a dazzling blue sky, and the temperature had risen from coat to cardigan warmth, so I walked through the village to collect Daisy at her house. She opened the front door before I was halfway up the path, and quickly pulled it shut behind her.
‘You can’t come in,’ she said, dispensing with the customary ‘hello’ and starting up the path with her bag in tow. ‘The house is a tip. Chloe is at her dad’s this weekend, so I’m having a sneaky sort out of all the old clothes and toys that she’d never let me throw away if she was here.’
‘You should have said. I would have offered to help.’
‘I know you would.’ Daisy followed me through the gate and left it swinging at a forlorn angle. I went back and closed it. ‘But I only really wanted to clear out a few things. You’d have blitzed the house like a military operation. You’d have shot me at point blank range for suggesting something had sentimental value.’
‘That’s unfair. I would have tried diplomatic negotiation first.’ I smiled, but Daisy’s words stung. The ‘efficient and capable’ label was so firmly sewn onto the back of my neck that I couldn’t imagine the world held a pair of scissors sharp enough to cut it out.
Foxwood Farm was situated at the southern edge of the village, a pleasant stroll away in the spring sunshine. The farm was looking magnificent, decorated for the event with flags and bunting showing the red rose of Lancashire. It was too early in the year for real roses, but tubs and flowerbeds filled the farmyard and pansies, tulips, and azaleas danced in a brilliant display of colour. As the weather had turned fair, the cobbled courtyard outside the main barn where the event was taking place had been scattered with bales of hay covered in furry sheepskin rugs to make benches, and old crates covered in crisp white cloths provided makeshift tables. Large braziers stood around the edge of the area, already flickering with flames that would light up the area as darkness crept in. Although we were on time – being efficient and capable, I was never wilfully late – a decent crowd was already milling around in the evening sunshine, colouring the air with conversation and laughter. I reached out and grasped Daisy’s arm, sent off-balance by an unexpected shot of loneliness.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ Daisy said, and dragged me inside. It was quieter here, apart from a small group gathered in front of a table that was set out as a bar. There was an impressive display of Lancashire drinks: real ale with weird and wonderful names from a micro-brewery a few miles away; sloe gin and blueberry vodka from a farm in a nearby village; and a delicious selection of soft drinks from Fitzgerald’s, the famous temperance bar. I picked up a glass of wine.
‘That’s French.’ Daisy pointed disapprovingly at my glass. She had chosen a pint of beer, an incongruous sight in her dainty hands, but she carried it off; she was one of those naturally pretty women who could carry off anything. Beside her petite blonde figure, I looked like the Grim Reaper’s warm-up act. If we weren’t such friends I would never have stood within ten feet of her. ‘You’re not being loyal to the spirit of the evening.’
The glass hovered halfway to my lips, as my values battled with my need for wine. Luckily Lindsay, who had organised the event, was nearby and solved my dilemma.
‘We used a Lancashire wine merchant,’ she said. ‘It was the closest we could get.’ I drank half my glass, conscience clear. Lindsay smiled, and leaned across to kiss my cheek. ‘You deserve that wine after your hard work this afternoon. The display looks great.’
Lindsay gestured over to one corner of the barn. The central space was set out with chairs ready for the entertainment to begin, and each performer – not a word I had dared use to Leo’s face – had been allocated an area to display their work around the sides. Leo’s table was a shrine to Alice Hornby. The famous picture of her stood on an easel in the centre, surrounded by glass boxes containing replicas of some of her personal items: a tiny pair of outdoor shoes, complete with battens; an ivory fan; a purse embroidered with miniature birds, which we believed Alice had sewn herself. One box held a couple of pages of a draft of her most famous novel, The Gentleman’s Daughter; her handwriting was as familiar as my own, and thrilled me every time I saw it. A discreet pile of Leo’s book lay at the rear of the display, along with postcards and bookmarks bearing some of Alice’s most beautiful quotations. I had also added some leaflets about the Alice Hornby Society, which Leo and I had started ten years ago in a bid to connect fans of her work and promote awareness of her writing.
‘Is Leo outside?’ Lindsay asked, glancing at her watch. ‘We’re starting with the rock choir soon, and Leo’s on after that.’
‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘Have you lost him?’
How could I reply to that? I had lost him, but in a more permanent way than Lindsay meant. Amazingly, and despite my conviction that the whole world must be talking about us, it seemed that there was one house in Stoneybrook where the gossip had not yet spread.
‘We’re not …’ Above the chatter around us, the clink of my wedding ring against my glass was deafening. I couldn’t finish the sentence. I finished my wine instead. Daisy gripped my hand.
‘Mary and Leo are divorced,’ she said, leaning towards Lindsay and lowering her voice. ‘Leo lives in Manchester now. He may be delayed by traffic.’
She stopped there, giving only half the news; the rest would be obvious soon enough. And the sympathy in Lindsay’s eyes, when she pulled me into a brief hug, was quite enough to bear without witnessing her reaction to the rest of it. How long would it be before someone looked at me without pity or curiosity? I longed for a life of quiet anonymity again.
The rock choir were halfway through their set of songs by North West artists, and were belting out an arrangement of Elbow’s ‘Open Arms’ which moistened even my stubbornly dry old eyes, when Leo sauntered in with Clark. I slipped out of my seat and met them at the back of the barn, horribly conscious that many members of the audience were watching us.
‘Hello,’ I whispered, dragging up my public smile, and kissing them each in turn. Leo still didn’t smell like my Leo, and he had cut his hair much shorter, losing the fluffiness that had characterised him for the last twenty years. The new look suited him. ‘You’re in perfect time. The choir has one more song after this, and then it’s your turn. I’ve marked the passage that you’re reading.’ I delved into my handbag and pulled out a copy of the book, adorned with Post-it Notes. ‘And try to squeeze in a mention of the Alice Hornby Society. I’ve left some application forms on the display over there.’
Leo turned in the direction I was pointing.
‘It looks wonderful, Mary, well done. You never let me down.’
Those words, which would have once meant so much, could only ever be bittersweet now. Loud applause for the choir shattered the awkwardness of the moment, and I motioned to Leo to go to the front, while I resumed my seat next to Daisy. Clark remained standing, leaning against the wall, his attention wholly on Leo.
Lindsay welcomed Leo, and then Leo made a few opening remarks and began to read from the book. I had chosen a lively passage, describing a prank that Alice and her sister had played on their hated governess, and which had gone on to form the basis of a scene in her most famous book, and the audience laughed as I had hoped. But I was hardly paying attention to the words, too transfixed by Leo. He didn’t smell like my Leo; he no longer looked like my Leo; and he performed for the audience in a way that my Leo would never
