Shirley Jump - A Forever Family - Falling For You

‘So, what? You’re just playing at it?’

She shook her head, as if to deny it but her mouth was clamped tight and Hal felt a moment of pity for her. What the hell was she doing in a job she clearly wasn’t cut out for?

‘Would it reassure you if I told you that I was the one who used apples to train Archie to be my wing man?’ he said.

He saw the ripple in her neck as she swallowed hard, taking a mental step back from what she’d just said.

‘Wing man?’

‘Once he got the hang of being bribed to be quiet, he kicked up a fuss whenever anyone came near.’

‘Giving you time to disappear.’ A smile broke through, lighting up her eyes. ‘That would be the same apples,’ she said. ‘From the tree in my garden?’

‘It would.’

She shook her head. ‘Now I feel really stupid.’

‘You look it. Here…’ He took her chin in her hand, lifted her face and taking the cloth she was holding, wiped at the smear of grease.

Her skin was warm against his fingers and her soft pink lips, parted as if to ask a question she’d thought better of, invited a kiss. Not the harsh, punishing kiss he’d inflicted on her that day on the path, that she’d subverted into something else, but the kind that could only ever have one conclusion.

‘Has it gone?’ she asked.

‘No, I’ve just made it worse,’ he said, dropping his hand, turning away.

Not in this lifetime.

‘You’d better come inside and clean up. You don’t want to be on the street looking like that.’ Gary was in the kitchen, emptying the biscuit tin. ‘Lunch break’s over,’ he said. The lad looked startled and Hal being aware that he’d been abrupt said, ‘We’ll finish your bike tomorrow.’

‘Really? Gosh, thanks, Mr North… Hal. Actually…’ He waited. ‘Would you mind if I brought a mate with me to watch? We’re hoping to start a scramble team and—’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Now get back to work.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ she said, when Gary had gone.

‘It’s nothing. Pure self-indulgence.’

‘Helping Gary isn’t nothing. Recapturing your boyhood isn’t nothing.’

‘I don’t have time for that.’

‘No?’ She gave a little sigh. ‘Growing up isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it? I’d better go and wash my hands.’

‘I’ll be in the morning room.’

* * *

Claire used the staff cloakroom to clean up, splashing cold water onto her face and neck to cool herself down.

Standing out there in the courtyard she’d been sure that Hal was going to kiss her again and not to punish her this time, even if she deserved it.

For one reckless, forget-the-world moment, she’d wanted him to. She scooped up more water, splashed herself again. Gathered the ends of her hair and re-fastened the clip. Tidying everything up. Restoring order out of the chaos of her thoughts, her life.

Blanking out that moment when he’d challenged her and the ground had seemed to open up in front of her. What on earth was she thinking?

Not a real journalist…

A glance in the mirror belied any hope of order.

She wasn’t about to use anti-bacterial hand wash on her face and she’d been a bit too enthusiastic with the splashing. Her shirt was wet, almost transparent. She had to change, get back to work. Bad enough to be going back empty-handed, but late buses was an excuse that she could only take so far.

Hal wasn’t in the kitchen and she pushed open the green baize door that divided upstairs from downstairs. She’d expected it to be stripped bare, but it was much as she remembered, family portraits and all.

‘Having a good look round?’

‘I’m just surprised it’s all still here, but I don’t suppose there’s much of market for second-hand ancestors.’

‘It depends whose ancestors they are,’ he said.

She glanced at him.

‘There’s no one here important enough, distinguished enough to excite anyone who isn’t a Cranbrook, and the previous owner’s nursing-home room isn’t big enough to accommodate them.’

‘Poor man. It must be so difficult for him.’

‘He made bad choices, Claire. He has to live with them.’

He sounded, looked so hard.

‘Have you never made a bad choice?’ she asked.

‘I got married.’ For a moment she thought he was going to say more, but he just looked at her. ‘What about you?’

‘I fell in love with the wrong man,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure that choice had much to do with it but I let down my family.’

‘And Robert Cranbrook let down his.’

‘I suppose.’ She looked up at a portrait of Sir Robert’s mother, holding her son. There was a faded border around it, where there had once hung a larger portrait of his father, replaced when it was damaged. ‘So,’ she said, turning away, looking around at the serried ranks of Cranbrooks rising up the stairs, ‘the portraits were thrown in with the fixtures and fittings. Like unwanted carpets and curtains.’

‘I can almost see the cogs turning in your brain. It’s not a story, Claire.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Something told her that it was, but she let it go. ‘I told you, I’m off the clock.’

‘So you did. Shall we take these into the morning room?’

He handed her a mug and led the way to a small, shabby but comfortable sitting room with French windows that stood open on to a sunken walled rose garden.

She carried her mug onto the terrace.

‘It breaks my heart to see it in this state,’ she said, sipping at her tea. ‘It makes my fingers itch to get stuck in with the sécateurs.’

‘You love gardening?’

‘There’s something about restoring order out of chaos that appeals to me,’ she said. ‘And then putting back just enough chaos to make it interesting.’

‘You’ll find all the chaos you need here. This has been neglected since Cranbrook’s wife left him. Fortunately, it’s not like the Hall, where every single item of architectural detail has to be approved before it can be replaced.’

‘Replaced?’ She looked up at him. ‘Please tell me that you’re not planning to grub it up? Plant tidy rows of bedding plants. All the same colour, the same height…’

‘You said it. Order out of chaos.’

‘I didn’t mean… Some of these roses are really old, Hal. Heritage varieties.’

‘Old, dying, heritage varieties.’

‘It takes more than neglect to kill a rose. These just need some TLC. You should consult a specialist. You might be able to interest a grower in a restoration project.’

‘And have sponsorship signs all over the place? I’ll stick to the bedding plants, thanks.’

‘All they’d want is a discrete little plaque somewhere, acknowledging their contribution. I’ve seen them in other great gardens.’

‘So what do they get out of it?’

‘In this case I imagine they’d love the chance to take cuttings, use modern methods to breed from your old varieties,’ she offered. ‘Their PR people would commission a book on the restoration project—you could sell it to your guests—and provide articles for gardening magazines, the Sunday supplements, lifestyle magazines. Everyone wins.’ She put down the mug, aware that she was letting her passion run away with her tongue. ‘I have to get back to work, Hal.’

‘Next time bring cake.’

‘Is that an open invitation? I do a great Victoria sandwich with homemade raspberry jam—’

‘Goodbye, Claire.’

‘I make the jam myself,’ she said, her mouth running away with her, even while her head was saying, ‘Go. Now.’ ‘With raspberries from my garden.’

‘That would be perfect. And don’t forget that you owe Archie two applies.’

‘Two?’ He’d remembered her desperate appeal as she was chased down the path? ‘While I’d be the first to admit that Archie is a smart donkey, I doubt he keeps a tally,’ she said. ‘Besides, since he didn’t deliver on the deal, I don’t think he has a leg to stand on.’