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

The hunched figure was muttering, peering not at Emily but at something in the hedgerow. ‘Chip? Chip? Come on, you daft bugger – stop hiding.’ He stopped as the sound of her suitcase rattled towards him. Then he turned, very slowly; there was a drip on his nose and a shake in his voice. He looked Dumbledore-old, and not in any way scary; in fact, if anything, he seemed a little dazed. And quite polite. He shielded his eyes against her light. ‘Hello, can you help me? I’ve lost my dog. Perhaps you could shine that torch over here?’

‘I’ll try.’ Dropping her suitcase handle, Emily inched closer. Whoever the man was, he was ancient and frail. His hands were shaking, which wasn’t surprising given he was only wearing pyjamas. It was May but there was a cruel chill in the air along with a scent of smoky coal. ‘Are you sure your dog’s around here? It’s quite dense undergrowth. I’m not sure you should be out here, sir, dressed like that. You’ll catch pneumonia.’

She sounded like her old late grandma with a hint of Yank. She’d become, she realised, the sum of her city experiences with her highlighted hair, expensive clothes and homogenous transatlantic accent, and was probably unrecognisable these days as that volatile teenager she’d once been. ‘How about I get you home?’

‘Not until I’ve found my dog. Chip? Chip! C’mon boy!’

‘Do you live – wait a minute…’

There was something about him that was hauntingly familiar. Not the scruffy beard, or the stoop, or the wild mane. It was the deeper timbre of his voice. That was the only giveaway, though. The last time she’d seen this man he’d been stylishly dressed in a Savile Row suit and sporting a super-close shave. His eyes had bored into her with such animosity, such overinflated importance, such emptiness. Abhorred by reports of her behaviour he’d been about to throw her out, but she hadn’t given him the satisfaction. You can’t throw someone out if they’ve already left.

Immediately, she felt the swift kick of anger, reliving those last moments in Little Duxbury, all those years of hateful retorts. Bile rose in her throat. Would they just start all over again with the harsh words?

She backed away a little, readying herself for the onslaught, on edge but hoping to keep the peace somehow. Why the hell had she said yes to this? To opening a Pandora’s Box filled with years-old rage?

But he peered closer. ‘Chip? I say, can you help me, miss? My dog…’

Oh. Okay. This man was not The Judge she knew. He was lost and confused and just a little bit sad. The anger receded, ready for another day, she knew – because when she thought about it, it had been there all these years, bubbling under the surface, fuelling her resolve to fix her life. ‘Judge? Is that you?’

‘Judge?’ He paused for a moment, trembling fingers at his whiskers as he mouthed words she couldn’t hear. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Yes, I think I am. Judge Evans, that sounds right. How do you do?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. Er… It’s me. Emily. Surprise?’ She reached out, not sure whether to shake his hand or go for an awkward hug.

‘Oh. I see.’ The Judge took a step back, his body tensing as they ended up in a sort-of half-hug-handshake, a bit like the young lads in her neighbourhood with their down-with-it fist pump/shake/pat on the shoulder, but with a heck of a lot less street cred and a good deal more fumbling.

Her heart was thumping along surprisingly fast. Her hands were sweaty and shaking a little. She’d done a lot of self-talk prep on the plane, which went along the lines of – take a steadying deep breath before you speak to him, he’s human, too, things could be different now – but the rush of anger had left a residue of jitters.

She also felt indescribably wrong-footed… she’d come all this way not just to look after him, but expecting to have to defend herself, to thrash out deep-rooted differences and, hopefully, fix things. Completely thrown off balance by his frailty, she didn’t know how to act or what to say.

What she did know was that it was late, she was tired, and he was shivering. Now wasn’t the time to dredge up any of the grim past. ‘Let’s get you out of this cold, shall we?’

Taking his elbow with one hand and picking up the suitcase handle with her other she started to shuffle them both towards The Hall. There it was, up on the hill, looking down on the village, a huge house with myriad windows that looked foreboding in the dark.

She shuddered at the thought of going back in there.

The Judge kept craning his neck round and peering at the hedgerow. His lips curling into the name Chip . Then glancing towards her as if trying, hard, to place her. ‘I don’t think we’ve met before. Who are you?’

‘I’m Emily. Emily Forrester, your… daughter.’

‘Daughter?’ He shuffled to a stop and peered at her as if she were a particularly difficult cryptic crossword he was trying to solve. He shook his head. ‘No. No, no, no, no. Have you seen Chip? I can’t find him.’

Biting her lips together Emily squeezed back a sudden rip of sadness. Had he wiped her from his memory? Had he enough good daughters that he’d decided to just forget the bad one? Or was he so confused he didn’t remember he had any at all?

Now utterly out of her depth she fished around for words, her throat suddenly raw. Old feelings of alienation and isolation came reeling back – he hadn’t wanted her then, he didn’t even know her now.

But the man she’d been so angry with wasn’t this shell of a man. And the child who’d been angry, although still a part of her, wasn’t who she was now. She needed to remember that, because all these emotions she thought she’d dealt with were pinging up and taking her by surprise.

‘Right. Yes. Okay. Let’s think… yes, the dog. I’m sure he’s not lost. He sounds like he’s a clever old thing who knows where he lives. I’m sure he’ll come back soon with his tail between his legs.’ She knew exactly how that felt.

‘He’s run off again. He keeps doing that.’ The Judge was now shaking with cold. All she needed was him catching hypothermia under her watch; she could just imagine what Tamara would have to say about that.

‘We can keep looking all the way home. He’ll probably follow us, you know what they’re like. Let’s get you home and have a nice cup of tea.’ She could revisit the daughter issue later, tomorrow.

What felt like an hour or so later, but was in reality probably only a few minutes, they were pushing open the old but beautifully carved Duxbury Hall door and stepping back decades.

The scent of beeswax polish hit her first, backlit with the smoky smell of burning wood. The entrance hall was exactly how she remembered it with the shiny wooden floors she used to skid across in bare feet. Although, the wood was shabbier now. The sweeping staircase rose ahead of them, the carpet leading upstairs a little more ragged and faded, but she could still see the vibrant colours it had once had, the scarlet and the yellow pattern of swirls.

Home Sweet Home . Maybe to Tam and Tilda and even her mother, for the short time she’d lived here. Emily made a vow to try to keep looking at the positives. At least the place was warm.

Someone had lit a fire, she guessed, and discovered, as they wandered through to the library, glowing embers in the hearth.

Suddenly she heard the patter of quick footsteps in the corridor, children’s voices and laughter, and she wondered briefly if she was day-dreaming. Because she couldn’t remember much laughter happening here.

‘JUDGE? Judge Evans?’ A woman’s voice rose and the door crashed open. ‘Oh, Judge, thank goodness you’re here. We were just about to launch a search party. I was so worried, you just disappeared again into thin air – Oh. Hello?’ A pause. ‘Emily? Is that really you? Wow. Well wow, just look at you. You look amazing.’