Jill Mansell: Falling for you

A pretty nurse passed by, pushing one of the ancient residents along in a wheelchair.

Glancing across at Den, she smiled shyly at him. So preoccupied that he didn’t even notice until too late, Den watched the nurse’s back view as she headed on up the path. Maybe, once everything was sorted out, he’d feel normal enough to think of forming a proper relationship. Over the past years, not allowing himself to get involved had become second nature to him. Fear of rejection had left its mark.

Right, time was up. Back to his mother’s room. If she hadn’t done what he’d instructed her to do – well, she just better had, that’s all.

‘Finished?’ Den said brusquely.

His mother’s eyes were dull, their whites yellowed, her shoulders slumped back against the pillows in resignation. Prodding at the envelope on her writing tray, she indicated that Den should take it.

‘I’ll just check what you’ve written.’ He pulled out the sheet of cream writing paper and rapidly scanned the contents before nodding with satisfaction. ‘Good. You see? I knew you could do it.’

‘It hasn’t happened yet,’ Pauline croaked. ‘It may not happen.’

‘Oh yes it will.’ Den tucked the all-important letter back into the envelope. ‘After coming this far?

Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it does.’

Chapter 56

As the taxi pulled into Ashcombe, Den reached instinctively for his dark glasses. One thing he would never forget was the look on Marcella Harvey’s face when she had stared at him across the courtroom during the trial.

And who could blame her?

It was four o’clock on a blisteringly hot Thursday afternoon. Apart from the usual groups of mainly foreign tourists meandering along Main Street, the town was fairly quiet. There was no one around whom Den recognised, but his heart was in his mouth nevertheless as the taxi driver slowed the car.

‘This is it then,’ said the driver. ‘Where d’you want me to stop?’

Where indeed? When you were public enemy number one, discretion was the key.

‘Pull into the pub car park.’ Den nodded at the entrance on the right, then twisted round to gaze back across the street at Snow Cottage. Did Marcella still live there? Kerr had said the Harveys were still here in Ashcombe, but who was to say they hadn’t moved house?

The next moment his question was answered as the front door swung open and a small girl raced out, a brown and white terrier at her heels. The girl, who was around seven or eight, had skin the colour of milky coffee, huge dark eyes and hair braided in cornrows. She was wearing pale green shorts, turquoise sandals and a baggy red T-shirt. As Den watched, the girl slammed the front door behind her, jiggled the terrier’s lead and headed off up the street with the dog in tow.

Well, that was good news, at least. He was pleased to see that Marcella had had a daughter of her own.

‘OK.’ Den handed the envelope, now sealed, over to the taxi driver. ‘Just post this through the letterbox of that cottage over there.’

The taxi driver, who had seen it all in his time, said wryly, ‘Come at you with a saucepan, would she, if you tried it?’

‘At the very least,’ Den agreed.

The taxi driver nodded sagely. ‘Restraining order?’

‘Something like that,’ said Den.

‘Not going to get me into trouble, is it?’ The man was running his podgy fingers over the envelope, surreptitiously checking for wires.

‘Don’t worry.’ Den smiled. ‘It’s not a bomb.’

As the taxi driver headed across the road, Den realised he was being watched. For a split second he panicked, wondering if he’d been recognised – but it was OK, no one he knew. The girl, in her late twenties, had reddish-brown hair and real curves. Glad of his dark glasses – thanks to them, she didn’t know that in return he was studying her – Den admired the way the girl’s bottom filled her jeans. Having just emerged from the Angel, she was watching him from the doorway, clearly wondering what he was doing there in the car park when the pub was closed.

Did that mean she worked there?

The next moment the girl had turned left and headed off up the road, out of sight. Something in the pit of Den’s stomach went twaaanngg, dimly recalling the memory of how it felt to be attracted to someone. Anyway, too late now. Across thestreet, the taxi driver had posted the envelope through the letterbox of Snow Cottage and was making his way back to the car park.

‘Right, job done,’ he told Den. ‘Where to now?’

Where to indeed? Without thinking, Den almost said, ‘Home.’ Instead, clearing his throat, he said, ‘Back to Hillview.’

Sophie, returning from the mini-supermarket with fifty pence worth of sweets in a paper bag, let herself into the cottage. Zig-zagging between her feet, Bean homed in on the envelope on the mat.

Post was one of Bean’s all-time favourite things. Launching herself joyfully at the letter, she nuzzled it with her nose, scrabbled furiously with her front paws and finally managed to clamp it between her teeth.

Now that she’d captured it, she could wrestle it to death, tearing it to messy shreds and—

‘ Bad dog,’ Sophie said severely, grabbing the envelope from Bean in the nick of time and whisking it out of reach. ‘Mustn’t do that to letters. No,’ she scolded as Bean leaped up once more,

‘it’s not yours.’

Turning it over, Sophie saw that it had Marcella Harvey written on the front. The handwriting was on the wobbly side but that was OK, Sophie could still read it. Her own handwriting was pretty wobbly too.

‘Dad?’ Raising her voice, she ran upstairs and hammered on the bathroom door. Her father, with a casket to deliver, had finished work early in order to shower and change before driving over to Cheltenham.

Above the sound of gushing water, Jake shouted, ‘Yes?’

‘There’s a letter for Gran. I’m going to take it to her,’ Sophie yelled back. She was allowed to visit Marcella’s house on Holly Hill since there was no road-crossing involved.

‘What?’

She heard the shower door open inside the bathroom, enabling Jake to poke his head out and hear what she was saying.

‘ Me and Bean are going up to Gran’s,’ Sophie bellowed. ‘OK. I’ll be back by six,’ said Jake. ‘I’ll pick you up from there, then we’ll go and see Tiff at the hospital.’

‘OK, see you!’ Clapping her hands at Bean, Sophie galloped downstairs clutching the envelope.

Delivering letters was easy; maybe she’d be a postman when she grew up.

Marcella had been out in the garden doing a spot of gentle pruning when Sophie arrived.

Enveloping her beloved granddaughter in an enthusiastic hug, and feeling her heart expand with love, Marcella wondered if holding a child of her very own could possibly feel better than this.

‘Are those really sharp?’ Beadily, Sophie eyed the secateurs in Marcella’s hand. ‘Can I have a go?’

‘In your dreams, sweetheart.’ Tweaking the end of one of Sophie’s braids, Marcella spotted the envelope and said, ‘What’s that? Love letter from Tiff?’

‘It’s for you. See, it’s got your name on it. What are you going to call the baby if it’s a boy?’

Sophie was extremely keen to be involved in the decision-making process. ‘How about Malfoy?’

‘I thought we’d wait until it’s born, then see what it looks like.’ Taking the envelope, Marcella glanced at her name shakily inscribed on the front and headed over to the garden bench. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘On the floor at home. The toothmarks are Bean’s – I rescued it just in time. Can I have a biscuit’ " said Sophie, because nobody kept a better supply of biscui in their house than Marcella.