Kate Field - A Dozen Second Chances

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 mischievous self. You haven’t harassed the nurses yet or criticised the other residents.’

‘It’s the minibus,’ Gran said, shaking her head. ‘We’ve lost it.’

‘It’s been stolen?’ I immediately thought of the woman in the sports car yesterday. Perhaps I should have been more concerned, if there was a crime wave sweeping town.

‘No, it’s conked out. It’s been on its last legs for a long time, but last Wednesday it wouldn’t budge. It was cinema night too, the most popular outing of the month. You can imagine the to-do.’

I could; I knew how important the monthly trip to the cinema was at The Chestnuts. It wasn’t a real cinema – Inglebridge wasn’t cosmopolitan enough for that – but the old playhouse held weekly screenings of classic films and the best seats in the house were reserved for The Chestnuts when it was their night out.

‘Can it be mended?’

‘No, it’s knackered. Fit for nowt but the scrapheap, like the rest of us. On the up side, it’s been a good week. The minibus is the only loss we’ve had.’

I hated it when Gran spoke like this, making light of mortality. Death held no fear for her; she was fond of telling me that she’d had a good innings, and wouldn’t grumble when her chips were up. She wanted to go while she still had full control of her mind and her bladder, she would say, and I could understand that. But I wasn’t ready to lose anyone else. I wouldn’t ever be ready.

‘So what will happen?’ I asked. ‘Will the minibus be replaced?’

‘Aye, but only if someone snuffs it and leaves money to this place. There’s nowt spare in the kitty at the moment.’

I didn’t ask how Gran knew the financial situation of The Chestnuts. She knew everything.

‘Could you use taxis for the time being?’

‘We’re banned since Mr Craig had an unfortunate accident in one a couple of months back.’ Gran wrinkled her nose, and I didn’t press for more details. ‘We need to raise some money, but heaven knows how we’ll do that. There’s barely one fully functioning body between us.’

‘There’s the summer fair,’ I reminded her. It was well supported by the town, as so many of the locals had sent relatives to The Chestnuts at one time or another. ‘That will bring in some money.’

‘That’s earmarked for a new bathroom on the second floor. We need summat else. Come on, our Eve. You were always the clever one. Can you not come up with something?’

Like what? My gaze roved around the room, seeing all the dozing residents. A sponsored sleep? Then I paused at a painting of Winlow Hill over the fireplace. It wasn’t one of the famous Three Peaks in the area, but it was still a popular climb, and one that walkers liked to tick off the list.

‘What about a sponsored climb of Winlow Hill?’ I said.

‘Aye, that’s one solution. Kill us all off and then there’ll be no need for a minibus …’

I laughed. ‘I didn’t mean the residents. Relatives, people from the town, and perhaps tourists too … We could sell drinks and cakes at the bottom. I wonder if we could try for a world record, for the most people to climb the hill in a day? If we could find an angle to interest the press, we might draw a good crowd. How much would we need, do you know?’

‘Beats me. Do I look like a used bus salesman?’

I took out my phone, and quickly searched the internet for an idea of the cost of a relatively new minibus. My heart sank.

‘It could be £20,000, depending on how many seats you need,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realise it would be so much. We’d need hundreds of walkers to raise even a fraction of that sum.’

‘We’re not beaten yet,’ Gran said. ‘What we need is someone famous to head the campaign.’

‘We don’t know anyone famous,’ I said, still flicking through minibus adverts on my phone. ‘Old Fred Taylor from Fell Farm appeared on Countryfile last year, but I can’t see him drawing a crowd …’

I trailed off as a horrible suspicion crept into my head. I looked up. Gran was grinning at me and wagging her finger in my direction. How could I have missed where she was heading?

‘No.’

‘Why not? Your Paddy would be perfect. Send him up the hill and you’ll have dozens of lasses running up after him.’

‘No.’

‘Don’t be so stubborn. We need that minibus or we’ll all go doolally cooped up here over the summer.’

‘I’m not asking any favours from Paddy Friel.’ I couldn’t believe she had even suggested it. But Gran didn’t know the full story behind his departure. She had been so fond of Paddy that I hadn’t wanted to upset her. As far as she was concerned, we had mutually agreed to separate, a platonic break with no hard feelings. She knew nothing of his heartlessness, or my heartbreak.

‘Why not? He’s not shy of anything that brings him a bit of publicity, is he?’ She reached over and patted my knee. ‘Besides, I think he owes you, don’t you?’