Springtime at Hope Hall Read online

  “Spider!” she managed to say, her voice a high-pitched squeal. “It’s enormous. Must have escaped from a zoo or something. Shut that door – and call the fire brigade!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” snapped Shirley. “Give me that!”

  Snatching the feather duster out of the girl’s shaking hand, Shirley marched into the cupboard with all the confidence of a Ghostbuster and re-emerged triumphantly a couple of minutes later with a clear pudding bowl turned upside down on a flat white plate. Inside the bowl squatted a bemused and totally still spider, with its legs folded up neatly beneath its round, black body.

  Flattened against the wall and still trembling with panic, Rachel finally peeped at the vile offender. “Is it dead?”

  “Nope,” replied Shirley, not breaking her stride as she marched towards the back door. “It’s just terrified. And before you ask, I’m sure there are plenty more of this spider’s family living in that cupboard. So unless you’re going to stop being a complete wimp, could you clear away from the door and leave it to us to get out whatever’s needed?”

  Kath didn’t catch the nine-fifty train from Waterloo that night after the reunion. The train she caught didn’t leave until nearly midnight. But then she didn’t have to travel across London on her own, because Jack was with her.

  His was the first face she saw as she walked into the hospital library. As old friends greeted her, and gathered round for hugs and handshakes, she could feel him watching her from across the room. When the next newcomer arrived to be greeted, she walked towards him – and the years fell away.

  “You look lovely.”

  And there it was: the slight Scottish burr as he spoke, the warm tone of his voice, the gaze of his grey eyes that had always reached into the very heart of her.

  Afterwards, she could remember little of their conversation. They must have covered the basics of what they’d been doing in the years since they’d last seen each other. She knew that they talked about old friends and new jobs. They’d swapped tales about the areas in which they were now living and working, and the people who had become their colleagues and neighbours. And although she was longing to know who he’d loved since she’d left him, and who was loving him now, she didn’t ask, for fear of hearing the answer. Neither did he ask anything personal about the company she was keeping. Perhaps if he had, she could have told him the truth – that there had been no one since him. Then again, maybe she preferred him to think there just might be someone now who adored her enough to want to share her home and her life.

  “You know,” he said, as the evening drew to an end, “Southampton isn’t so far away from your town. You’re not all that far from Portsmouth, are you?”

  “Uh-huh,” she agreed.

  “Could we meet up sometime?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so”

  “How are you getting back tonight?”

  “The train from Waterloo.”

  “I’ve driven up. Why don’t I drop you off at the station? I could easily pass Waterloo on my way out of London.”

  “I don’t want to put you out.”

  There was warm affection in his eyes as he simply replied, “It’s no trouble.”

  Several others in the reunion group also had long journeys home, so were starting to say their goodbyes. Kath did the rounds of swapping phone numbers and making promises to meet up again very soon, leaving her farewell to Denise until last.

  “He’s still into you, isn’t he?” Denise whispered in her ear. “It’s written all over his face.”

  “Really?” Kath asked, glad that the evening light was hiding the flush in her cheeks.

  “Be careful, dearest Kath. Jack hurt you badly. Take care of that tender heart of yours.”

  “I’ll be fine – but thank you for your care, and thank you for making sure I did come tonight.”

  “Well, ring me first thing in the morning,” hissed Denise. “I want to hear every single little detail.”

  Jack’s car was low and sleek. Obviously not a family car, then, she realized with a touch of relief. As he drove, she found herself watching his hands, long-fingered and achingly familiar. Those hands had touched her face, stroked her hair, held her close. Turning away quickly to look at the road instead, she pushed those treacherous thoughts out of her mind.

  “Have you got time for a coffee?”

  She meant to say no, but instead found herself agreeing when a parking space loomed up just as they passed a small café where couples were still huddled round tables. The night was cold, and Jack put his arm around her as they walked towards the door, finding a table in the back corner.

  Their coffee came quickly, and when Jack reached out to take her hand, she didn’t pull away.

  “I’ve thought about you often.” He spoke so softly that she had to tilt her head closer to his to be sure she heard him clearly.

  “Have you?”

  “I’ve thought back over that time with such regret. I was unsure then what I wanted, uncertain where I would be based, nervous of dragging you along with me when you had ambitions of your own.”

  “You never asked me what I wanted. I might well have gone willingly and been happy to make a life for myself alongside yours.”

  “You expected a proposal. I knew that.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps. I remember feeling that I needed to know what you really felt.”

  “Whether my intentions were honourable?” he asked with a grin.

  “Whether you could see your life with me in it. Or whether you could imagine a life without me and be okay with that.”

  “And then your mum got sick and you said you were moving away—”

  “I wondered if you might try to stop me. You didn’t.”

  “Because the only fair way to stop you would have been to propose – and I was pretty sure that if I asked you, you’d say yes. That’s why I couldn’t do it. At that time, your feelings were so much more certain than mine. My uncertainty wasn’t about you, because I loved you without any doubt at all. It was about my career, and being free to follow that path wherever it took me. I’d worked so hard to get to consultant level…”

  She squeezed his hand. “You did work incredibly hard, and time has proved that you made the right decision for your career. It’s probably all worked out for the best.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  Kath looked down at their clasped hands while she worked her way through her muddled thoughts.

  “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I never expected to see you again, and this evening has knocked me for six. But I need to go home, back to normality, back to my job at Hope Hall. That’s where I need to digest all this, and try to make some sense of what I’m feeling.”

  “So, you are feeling something?”

  “Oh yes, Jack. I am overwhelmed by what I feel. Did we make a mistake then? Are we about to make another mistake now? Or could we be on the point of making the best and most glorious decision of a lifetime?”

  He leaned towards her then, brushing her lips with his own.

  “Sleep on it then, my darling Kath. And I will wait for as long as it takes to hear from you again.”

  Esther and David’s wedding day was simply wonderful. The day dawned chilly but bright, with cloudless skies that added a sparkle to the sprinkle of spring flowers pushing their way into view in every garden and window box. St Mark’s was packed for the occasion, as this young couple and their families had long been popular members of the congregation there. The hymns were a perfect mix of old and new. James’s sermon hit just the right note – and so did the newly formed St Mark’s Choral Choir. Not only did they sing a heart-stoppingly beautiful rendition of John Rutter’s “The Lord Bless You and Keep You”, but they sent the newly married couple down the aisle and out into their new life together in magnificent style by singing “Zadok the Priest” with such emotional fervour that the old rafters in the arched ceiling of St Mark’s shivered with pleasure.

  “They w
ere all right,” sniffed Flora as she crossed the road towards Hope Hall, holding on to the arm of Pauline Owen.

  “A bit screechy at times, I thought,” replied Pauline, “and frankly very ostentatious. ‘Zadok the Priest’ at a wedding! That’s hardly appropriate.”

  “Didn’t the Queen have it at hers?”

  “I think you’ll find that was her coronation. Not the same thing at all.”

  “Well, I thought the choir sounded as if they had plums stuffed in their mouths,” commented Betty, who was walking alongside them. “All those rolled Rs gave the impression they’d got something stuck in the backs of their throats. And I reckon the bride and groom probably got sprayed with spit every time they over-pronounced all those Ds and Ts at the end of each line they sang.”

  “Well,” chuckled Doris, as the group of ladies walked through the open doors of Hope Hall, “I certainly wouldn’t want to be part of that choir now. They’re so stuck up and full of their own importance.”

  “The Can’t Sing Singers are much more fun,” agreed Flora, hanging her coat up on the same peg as Betty and Doris’s. “Why don’t you two come along to our next rehearsal and join in? The more the merrier! You too, Ida. You’ve got a very strong voice. Honestly, Ronnie is a marvel. The hour just flies, we enjoy it so much.”

  “I might consider joining a choir.” Ida picked a tiny white fleck from the arm of her dark lilac suit jacket, which she wore with a perfectly coordinated floral blouse. “However, I really couldn’t consider joining a choir with such a frivolous name.”

  “Even if it’s an accurate description of what we are and how we sing?” asked Pauline.

  “Particularly if that’s an accurate description of what you are and how you sing.”

  And adjusting her neat cream handbag into a comfortable position on her forearm, Ida marched down the hall with stately elegance as she led the way to their table.

  For months afterwards, the wedding breakfast served that day was hailed as one of the best Hope Hall had ever seen. The newly-weds, along with their family members on both sides, had a network of friends that spanned a wide variety of nationalities and cultures. So their Caribbean friends arrived with a huge pot of goat curry, along with platters of sizzling chicken and rice; the Spanish group brought several dishes of paella topped with langoustines and calamari, while their Italian neighbours brought mushroom risotto and tagliatelle carbonara. The bride worked for a French bank, and they sent across a big parcel of elegant cake boxes filled with delicious tarte tatin, plus a selection of colourful macaroons for each table.

  The English contingent arrived with trays bearing individual portions of poached salmon topped with grapes and watercress, along with several home-cooked hams cut into thick, moist slices. And then there were pavlovas of all shapes and heights, smothered with lashings of cream beneath layers of strawberries, black cherries, tropical fruits and winter berries. They stood alongside traditional favourites like summer pudding, blueberry cheesecake – and lemon meringue pie straight out of Mary Berry’s cookbook. There were bowls of salad, pastas and couscous to suit every taste. There were savoury bite-size appetizers and after-dinner mints. The banquet kept coming, and the crowd kept eating until they could eat no more, and felt they’d never be able to move again. Then the Army band organized by the bridegroom got started with a varied programme of musical favourites for all ages. The crowd waltzed and boogied, bopped and smooched their way through a thoroughly enjoyable evening.

  “Oh, these shoes are killing me,” sighed Mary as she and her husband Trevor, Hope Hall’s accountant, slumped down into a couple of empty seats at the table Maggie was clearing.

  “Mine too,” agreed Maggie, stacking empty plates onto a large tray. “It’s been a busy day with so many wedding guests to feed.”

  “The food’s been wonderful,” said Trevor, joining the conversation. “I’ve never tasted goat curry before and only put it on my plate by accident, but I loved it. Mary, you’ve got to learn how to make that!”

  Mary looked hopefully towards Maggie.

  “Don’t worry,” Maggie laughed, “I’ve got a recipe for it in my book. I’ll let you have it. Mind you, you might have to search around a bit for the goat’s meat!”

  “I hope, Maggie, with all these people here, you haven’t been too busy to dance. This band is terrific.”

  Maggie nodded in agreement. “I may not be dancing, but I’ve been singing my head off. They’re brilliant.”

  “Have you seen Kath?” asked Trevor. “I thought she said she’d be here.”

  “I was wondering about her too. She did a lot of organizing for this evening, so I know she was meaning to come.”

  “Perhaps she’s in the middle of that crowd dancing to ‘YMCA’ then.”

  Mary giggled. “Not her style at all. I have a feeling the extent of her interest in dancing is watching Strictly on TV. But you’ve got me worried now. Perhaps she’s not well?”

  “Come to think of it,” said Trevor, “when I saw her yesterday morning, she was quite excited because she was going up to London later in the afternoon for a reunion of colleagues at that hospital where she used to work.”

  “Oh, that’s probably it then,” agreed Maggie, a note of relief in her voice. “I expect it finished late and she ended up staying the night with an old friend.”

  “Well, I’m sorry she’s missed this,” trilled Mary. “It’s a wonderful evening. All that gorgeous food, and this wine is simply delightful…”

  Just then the band struck up the familiar intro to “Just Want to Dance the Night Away”.

  “Oh, this is my absolute favourite,” yelled Mary, dragging a reluctant Trevor to his feet. “Come on, they’re playing our song!”

  Stretched out on the settee, Kath watched the shadows of the leaves on her living room wall as they were caught by the eerie light from the street lamps that glowed through her open curtains.

  And it was indeed an old friend at the reunion last night who had prevented her from going along, as she knew she should, to the wedding reception at Hope Hall that evening. She never missed appointments. She could always be relied upon to be exactly where she said she’d be, and do precisely what needed to be done. Kath never let anyone down.

  But meeting Jack after all this time had changed everything. She thought she’d succeeded in putting him out of her mind. To get him out of her heart, though – that was a different matter. Last night had proved that. What a fool she was for thinking she would ever be immune to his effect on her! And now Jack was back in her life, living less than an hour’s drive away, wanting to see her, saying he may have made a mistake and asking if it really was too late to try again.

  Was it? After all, what could he see in her now? She was no longer a powerhouse of people management, order and fashion as she’d been at the hospital. Her fiftieth birthday was only a couple of months away. Her waistline was wider, her skin drier and her hair thinner and tinged with silver – and what’s more, she knew all of that mattered so much less to her now. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d bothered to go to the beauty salon for a facial or massage, and her nails hadn’t had a pampering manicure for months.

  She had mellowed. Now, she rushed less and rested more. She was no longer afraid of her own company, embracing instead the orderly comfort of her beautiful flat. She revelled in the sheer pleasure of being able to spend a whole weekend by herself, choosing what to watch, listen to or read until she fell asleep – without the guilty conscience she’d always had in London, worrying about work that needed to be done or people who urgently needed a phone call.

  Was she happy? She considered that thought for a while and decided that perhaps the word she would use to describe herself now was “content”. No more ups and downs of emotional turmoil. No depths of despair or heights of passion. Being content was comfortable and calm, a way of life that brought peace and good health. She liked being content. She’d learned the hard way that although passion thrilled and excited, it a
lso stung and wounded. Living without passion was not so bad.

  And now, out of the blue, Jack had stepped back into her life again, upsetting her equilibrium, ripping a hole in the carefully woven fabric of her contentment. So unexpected, so breath-taking, so passionate – and so absolutely terrifying.

  There was a glorious irony to be found in the contrasting activities that were on offer at Hope Hall every Tuesday. From eleven in the morning until two in the afternoon, the Grown-ups’ Lunch gathered together elderly, infirm, lonely and vulnerable members of the community for a hearty, specially planned lunch prepared by Maggie and her catering team. The meal was served to the diners in the foyer, which was set out as if it were a high-class restaurant. There were starched tablecloths, beautifully folded serviettes, gleaming glasses and sparkling cutlery.

  The whole experience was far removed from the lifestyle of many of the members, most of whom lived on their own, often unable to enjoy a freshly cooked hot meal at any other time in the week. Some lived without company at all, often with the most basic level of assistance and a sad sense of being so irrelevant to the world beyond their front door that their welfare didn’t matter much to anyone. From the start, Maggie’s soft heart had gone out to them and she’d determined that while they were in her care at Hope Hall, they would each be treated as VIP guests.

  When it came to the menu, she saw early on that what went down best with the appreciative crowd of Tuesday lunchtime regulars was old-fashioned, traditional favourites like shepherd’s pie, roast chicken, meat pasties and tasty casseroles, followed by the sweet treats they remembered from childhood, like lemon sponge, strawberry trifle, treacle tart and rice pudding. No calories were spared, no second helpings denied and no expanding waistlines were ever clucked over – unlike the club that met in the more discreet surroundings of the old school hall from five o’clock later the same afternoon.

  Members of the Slimming Club (known affectionately by its members as the Fat Club) either tried to slip in unseen by anyone in the outside world, or marched in with heads held high as a symbol of the triumph of their steely determination over both hunger pangs and sugar deprivation, an achievement that surely deserved nothing less than a cheer from the rooftops.