Louisa George - The Secret Art of Forgiveness - A feel good romance about coming home and moving on

But still… cute.

On her walk last night, she hadn’t noticed a couple of other shops that hadn’t been there all those years ago: a fish and chip shop that smelt divine even at this early hour of the day, a busy hardware shop, plus a nice-looking café that advertised Wi-Fi on its Cosy Café sign outside.

That one had been an old-fashioned newsagent’s years ago, a place her mum would take her for some sweets and her favourite comic once a week when they’d first arrived at The Hall. That was before her mum had died; before being shunted off to boarding school; before being expelled from boarding school and having to try to make a place for herself at the local high school.

Before all of that. Back when her mum had made a game of exploring their new home, feeding the ducks in the pond, playing Pooh sticks at the bridge, having picnics on blankets lakeside at The Hall. When her mum had tried so hard to make everything work. She’d been an optimist, the kindest, gentlest soul – a complete contrast to The Judge. Opposites in every way. But even at eight, Emily had understood the intensity of their passion for each other, the love in her mother’s eyes for this larger-than-life man who was a father replacement but not a daddy.

There was a sudden swell of sadness in Em’s chest. She wondered what her mother would have thought of what followed. The rage, the anger. The unbearable grief. The graffiti on the surgery walls. The smashed pub windows. Slashed tyres. Stolen alcohol. Running away.

Yet, here she was, shoulder to stooped shoulder with the man she’d believed had been the cause of it all, even though now she could see she’d been nothing more than a heartbroken little girl lashing out at the world in revenge for her abandonment and isolation. But, because of his illness, she still had nowhere to channel the vapours of those emotions that ricocheted through her.

And to add to that there was shame. Shame that she’d damaged property, caused hurt and pain and distress to people she barely knew.

‘Coffee?’ she asked The Judge, infusing her voice with sweetness. Be more like Mum . Make her proud – because, God knew, she wouldn’t have been proud of her daughter back then.

Emily assumed the Cosy Café was the place Greta had been talking about and she started to walk towards it, beckoned in by the beautiful hanging baskets above the windows, which by summer would be chock full of colour. But the White Hart pub opposite also advertised Wi-Fi and The Judge seemed to be steering towards there on autopilot, so, taking a deep breath to arm herself against whatever response she was about to get from the good ole people of Little Duxbury, she followed him in. ‘I’m not sure they’ll be open at this time in the morning, Judge –’

A lanky teenager was vacuuming the empty snug. He kicked the off switch as they walked in. ‘Come in. Come in. Hullo, Judge Evans, haven’t seen you for a while. How are you?’ Then he turned to Emily with a smile. ‘What can I get you? Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?’

The Judge seemed to make a beeline for a particular corner of the pub that she assumed was his usual seat, and sat down, picking up a discarded newspaper. The place had hardly changed since the last time she’d been in here; flock wallpaper, a pungent aroma of hops, mirrors on the walls advertising age-old beer. But, different staff. And all the windows present and correct. Thank goodness. She did not particularly feel up to confronting her past at this time in the morning.

The Judge boomed across the room, ‘Coffee will do. Hot, black and sweet. Anything to eat? I’m starving.’

Emily frowned. ‘We’ve only just had breakfa… never mind.’ The more she could get down him to fill out that loose skin, the better. ‘Can I have a look at the menu?’

The lad shook his head, swiping a hand over a muss of mousey hair. He looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed. ‘We haven’t got anything, not yet. To be honest, it’s a bit early and you’ve caught us on the hop. Give us another hour or so. But I can nip over to the Cosy Café and grab something for you? They do a mean custard tart.’

The Judge raised his hand. ‘Yes, and make it quick, lad. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut. And this one’s no help. She’s starving me, I swear it.’

The boy didn’t bother to smother his grin as he looked from The Judge to Emily. ‘This one?’

‘Is called Emily. Pleased to meet you.’ She leaned a little closer. ‘I don’t think he has an inside voice. So apologies in advance. Black coffee for him and a cappuccino for me, please.’

‘Tom. Pot collector and general dogsbody.’ He thrust out thin fingers. ‘And we all know Judge Evans, no need to apologise. His voice is bigger than his bite.’

Unless you’re in any way related to him. ‘Nice to meet you, Tom.’

He let her hand drop and his face brightened. ‘Who are you? A new carer? New… er… wife?’

If there’d been coffee in Emily’s mouth Tom would have been wearing it. ‘I’m his daughter.’ It still felt so strange to say that, but it was easier than giving everyone she met her whole life story.

‘He has another one?’

‘You haven’t heard about me?’ Why would he have? It was old news. Everyone had moved on; the only person who cared about her past was Emily. Clearly. ‘It’s like a reverse Cinderella: the evil youngest one and the gorgeous, harassed and saintly older two.’

‘Evil? No. What? Sister? You’re Tamara and Matilda’s sister? Blimey.’ He whooshed the milk in the frother while the coffee machine made spluttering noises. There was a sudden and delicious smell of coffee in the air. ‘You don’t look much like them.’

She fiddled with a beer mat while Tom made the coffee. It was good to see that not everyone here held a grudge against her. Either he was too young or too innocent to have heard the details of her misdemeanours. Or… maybe she’d blown everything out of all proportion and things hadn’t been as bad as she remembered? He was still looking at her with a bemused expression. ‘Without going into too much boring detail – we’re a stepfamily. My mum married Judge Evans. A long time ago, obviously.’

Placing the cups onto a tray Tom nodded. ‘Yes, steppies – I get it. I’ve got a couple of them myself, plus two half-blood sibs and one full-muggle brother. That’s too many people trying to play happy families in one house, and also why I’m here and not at home – couldn’t wait to get out, to be honest.’ He rang the price up on the till. ‘Four-fifty, please – I’ll let you know the price of the tart later. Liam, my brother, runs this place so, if I’m not at college, I try to doss upstairs in one of the B and B rooms. Which is all too much information. If you don’t mind my saying, Emily, you’re not a bit like the other two.’

‘That is definitely a compliment. Now, I’d better take these over before he dies of starvation – because that can happen, you know, after a double serving of scrambled eggs on toast less than an hour ago. Can you tell me the Wi-Fi password, please?’

‘No problem, it’s here...’ Tom handed over a piece of paper. ‘Here’s the spiel I have to say: no illegal downloads; no large files; no longer than thirty minutes, if possible.’

She took the paper and glanced up at a noticeboard on the wall. ‘Hot yoga classes at the community hall? Zumba? Wow, Little Duxbury is moving slowly into this century. And what’s that? Oh, really? Do you still have that quaint country fair? Do people still come to it?’

‘No, ‘fraid not.’ Tom shrugged. ‘That’s why they’re asking for volunteers for the committee. It’s died a death and they either need to stop it altogether or ramp it up a bit to attract new people.’