Roxanne flopped, gasping and panting, onto the seat on the train. She had caught it with ninety seconds to spare. She had forgotten how difficult it was to do anything spontaneously in Burley Bridge – like call a taxi to Heathfield station. Of course, it wasn’t really a proper taxi company with multiple cars all waiting to be booked. It was just Bill Swinley and his Vauxhall Astra and he wasn’t geared up for mercy dashes to catch the next London-bound train. ‘I’m just having my lunch,’ he’d explained, when she’d called. What was it with country people and their lack of urgency?
There had also been Stanley to sort out, as Della wasn’t due back until late and he would need his dinner and an afternoon walk. Luckily, Frank was around and had driven over with Eddie to collect him. As Bill the taxi driver seemed to be still eating his lunch – perhaps pasta, piece by piece? – Roxanne had called back to cancel her booking, as Frank had insisted on driving her to Heathfield himself.
‘You’ll be fine,’ he’d assured her, speeding along the country roads with Eddie in the back seat and Stanley looking rather perplexed in his basket beside him.
Roxanne felt terrible about not showing up at Michael’s for lunch. However, he’d have understood when he’d listened to the apologetic rambling messages she’d left, not just on his mobile voicemail but on the shop landline answerphone too. She had hastily googled the bakery, hoping the real Michael would pick up the phone, as he wasn’t answering his mobile. But no luck. It niggled her now that what she should have done was leg it round to the bakery and tell him, face to face – but then she would have missed this train, and on a Sunday there wasn’t another for three hours.
Roxanne tried to steady her breathing to something resembling normal. The grey-haired man sitting opposite, wearing silver-rimmed specs and tapping at his laptop, kept throwing her startled looks. Next to her, at the window seat, a woman in a matted brown sweater was tucking into an extensive array of smelly home-made tuna sandwiches, their crinkled foil wrappers scattered all over the table.
Roxanne exhaled forcefully and pushed her hair roughly back from her face. She really was a lunatic for doing this, when she was supposed to be on a restorative break and had only just persuaded her sister that she was capable of operating a till. Surely Isabelle must have someone else she could call?
What about Henry and Emma from the first floor – couldn’t they have stepped in and spent some time with her? They were terribly proactive when a faint whiff of burning brandy snaps could be detected; clearly, less so when a seventy-five-year-old lady had had her flat burgled and needed help.
Less than ten minutes out of Heathfield station and already the man opposite was barking into his phone. ‘Yes, well, tell Casper Jollip that we expect a seriously impressive turnaround by Thursday …’
Roxanne fixed her gaze on the flat horizon. As the day progressed, the sky had turned from a cheering blue to a washed-out grey, and rain now streaked diagonally across the window.
She picked up her mobile from the table and scrolled through her contacts to find Sean’s number, poised to call him, to let him know she was on her way. But did she really want to speak to him now? She decided to assess the damage at Isabelle’s, and help to tidy up her flat, and when that was done she would go over to his place to surprise him. Instead, she texted Della, giving a brief résumé of events and hoping she wouldn’t be cross or upset at Roxanne lurching off like this with no warning. At least Della would be back to open up the shop tomorrow.
She bought a chicken salad sandwich in the buffet car and nibbled at it without any pleasure whatsoever, trying to quell another prickle of unease about Michael and wondering if she should try calling him again. Her phone bleeped with a text, and she snatched it, expecting it to be him. I think it’s wonderful you’re doing this, Della had written, but come back soon! xx
Would she? There was no reason why not, as long as Isabelle was okay – although right now, she couldn’t even think that far ahead. But perhaps she should go back to work early and forget all about this break? Would Marsha even allow her back so soon? And, if she did, Roxanne considered with a sinking feeling: what on earth would she do there, now her fashion director role had effectively been erased?
It was almost 4 p.m. when she arrived in London and dragged her wheeled case across the station concourse towards the taxi rank. She tried calling Isabelle from the cab, just to say she’d be home soon – but there was no answer. That was hardly unusual. Although Isabelle had a mobile, in some bizarre act of protest she rarely switched the thing on – and even her landline handset was often left lying around her flat in unlikely locations, out of charge.
Through the taxi window, Roxanne watched the hustle and bustle of traffic all around her. She had been away for less than two weeks, yet London seemed busier than she had ever remembered it. Usually, when she came home from a holiday, she was relieved to be back in the city she loved, the place where she belonged; perhaps because she often went away alone. She didn’t feel that way on this damp and grey afternoon.
The taxi pulled up in front of her block, and she thanked and paid the driver, glancing around in horror as he drove away. Records were scattered all over the road. Parking her wheelie case at the front door, she quickly gathered up as many as she could. Some were still in their sleeves, all of which were wet and scuffed, but perhaps the actual vinyl inside would still be playable. Others, however, had clearly been run over, and most of the albums weren’t even in their sleeves at all. ‘They threw them out like frisbees,’ Isabelle had said. Roxanne could tell just with a glance that any without sleeves were damaged beyond repair, but she still collected as many as she could. All the jazz ladies that she and Isabelle had listened to so many times: she wasn’t prepared to just leave them lying out there in the road.
With an armful of records clasped to her chest, Roxanne let herself into the block, dragging her case into the hallway. She knocked on Isabelle’s door, just out of courtesy really as the woodwork around the lock was cracked and splintered, presumably from where the burglar had forced entry into the flat, and it hung ajar.
‘Oh, you’re here,’ Isabelle said as she came to meet Roxanne, hugging her and taking the albums from her. ‘You picked them all up for me!’
‘Well, as many as I could find. There might be more lying about out there, I can have another look later.’
‘Thank you. I couldn’t face it.’ Isabelle’s dark eyes watered as she beckoned her into the living room.
As Roxanne glanced around, taking in the terrible sight, she realised she had done the right thing in rushing home. The room was all but destroyed. The floor was covered with smashed crockery, books and magazines. There was broken glass everywhere. Isabelle’s record player lay in the middle of the room, its lid cracked – possibly stamped on – its arm clearly broken.
‘Oh, Isabelle,’ Roxanne gasped, ‘this is just awful. It’s so disgustingly mean. Why would anyone do this to someone’s home?’ Tears had filled her own eyes, and she wiped them away hastily with her hand. The last thing Isabelle needed was her crying over the mess.
‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ she said. ‘But, like I said on the phone, the police reckoned they were probably on something …’
Roxanne shook her head in disgust. Glancing through to the kitchen, she could see that a great pile of cutlery and kitchen implements had been thrown all over the floor and were lying in a pool of what looked like milk. Most of the living room shelves were bare, suggesting that someone had swept a hand along them, knocking off all the ornaments and knick-knacks that Isabelle treasured. Roxanne doubted if anything was valuable, but the point was, they mattered to Isabelle, very much. In the corner of the living room, the sewing machine lay on its side, and fabric and clothes were strewn around as if a small child had tired of a game of dressing up, and run off to play. However, the most shocking aspect was the living room walls, which had been sprayed liberally with aerosol cans – not in any legible way, just a mass of random scribblings in angry red and black over the numerous framed photographs and paintings.
Roxanne couldn’t bear to just stand there, staring, so she clicked into action and started to pick up shards of glass and crockery, placing them on a sheet of newspaper. ‘When did it happen exactly?’
‘This morning, when I went out for a walk,’ Isabelle replied. ‘I was only gone an hour.’
‘So, what else did the police say? Do they think there’s any chance of catching them?’
Isabelle perched on the edge of the sofa and stared down at the floor. ‘Not really. They told me I’d need to get my door fixed as soon as possible, like I didn’t realise that: as if I was planning to leave it wide open so I could be burgled again.’ She stopped, catching herself. ‘Oh, I suppose they were kind enough. They gave me a number of an emergency joiner and he’s on his way now.’
No sooner had she spoken than the joiner turned up: not Tommy, thankfully, as Roxanne didn’t feel up to discussing Jessica-the-spaniel’s debut photo shoot right now, but a short, stocky man of very few words named Gary, who got straight down to work at Isabelle’s front door.
‘The police also said I was lucky,’ Isabelle added wryly, ‘that nothing valuable was taken. I mean, I don’t even have a TV, do I? Or a computer or a proper camera. Hardly any of my jewellery’s valuable and the pieces that are – gold necklaces, earrings, a ruby ring – they didn’t find …’
Roxanne picked up a broken table lamp, its ceramic base cracked, its pink paper shade dented, and surveyed the room again. ‘That’s not the point, though, is it? Your things are important to you. It’s not about how much they’re worth, money-wise. This is your home, you’ve lived here for forty-five years and you should feel safe.’
Isabelle nodded mutely, her lips pressed tightly together, then bent to reach for a small silver photo frame. Its glass was cracked, obscuring whoever the couple were in the tiny black-and-white photo behind it. It wasn’t a photo Roxanne recalled seeing before. ‘You know what I feel really dreadful about?’ Isabelle remarked.
Roxanne sat beside her on the sofa and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Someone being in your home, I’d imagine. It’s such an awful feeling – like being violated.’
‘Well, yes, there is that. But I feel bad about you, too, coming all the way back here just for me …’
‘Isabelle, it’s not a big deal,’ Roxanne murmured, squeezing her hand. ‘I’m glad you called me, truly—’
‘Well, Henry and Emma are away, and I wouldn’t want them here anyway, lecturing me about how I should’ve been more careful …’
Roxanne turned and looked at her. ‘You left the front door ajar. It’s easily done – and the burglars just went for the first flat door they came to. After nearly burning my own place down I’m the last person to judge you.’
Isabelle’s eyes shone with tears. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’
‘So am I.’ Roxanne stood up and made her way through to the kitchen. ‘D’you mind if I carry on clearing up? I think it might make you feel better …’
‘Yes, I suppose we should get stuck in …’
‘I can do it,’ she added quickly. ‘You can just tell me what you’d like me to do. I’ll make us some tea first …’ She stepped over the milk lake, filled the kettle and glanced back to the living room. ‘D’you have any bin bags?’
‘Cupboard under the sink,’ Isabelle replied. Roxanne fished some out, plus some old cloths to mop up the spillage.
They drank their tea black – Roxanne always did anyway – and then Roxanne began to tackle the mess.
‘I’m not sitting here watching you working,’ Isabelle retorted, and she joined in.
Within an hour, the floor had been cleared of broken possessions, and any remaining fragments of glass and crockery had been hoovered up. Any books and unbroken knick-knacks had been put back in their rightful places on the shelves. While the record player appeared to be beyond repair, the sewing machine seemed to have survived its rough treatment. The flat still looked dreadful with the sprayed walls, but at least there was a sense of order again with the carpet visible.
Roxanne stopped, pushed back her hair and checked the time on her phone. ‘It’s almost seven. We should eat something. How about coming up to mine for a bit of supper?’
‘Oh, I don’t expect you to cook. Not when you’ve been on a train for hours and hours …’
‘Well, three hours,’ Roxanne said with a smile. That was the thing about Londonders like Isabelle and Sean: they had this idea that Yorkshire was somewhere near Greenland, with permafrost. ‘It’ll only be something from the cupboard like a bowl of soup,’ she added. ‘I’ll just go up and get myself sorted, then I’ll rustle up something for us.’
As Isabelle thanked her, Roxanne felt gratified to see her looking brighter already. Perhaps it did feel right to be back in London. Burley Bridge would always be there for her and, now she had settled into the everyday workings of the bookshop, she felt confident that she could visit at any time and actually have a part to play there. Any awkwardness about returning to her childhood village seemed to have disappeared.
Roxanne hauled her suitcase upstairs and let herself into her own flat, flinching as a mouse scooted across the living room floor. Well, at least she wouldn’t be here alone tonight. She wandered into her kitchen. Of course the fridge would be as empty as she’d left it, having assumed that she would be away for several weeks – but no harm in checking, in case it had magically self-filled with all sorts of tempting delicacies. It was bare apart from a small green puddle at the bottom (kale seepage).
Her food cupboard was only marginally less depressing in that it did at least have food in it: non-perishables, the kind of tins an elderly couple might keep in their static caravan in Whitley Bay (sardines, sweetcorn, kidney beans – but no soup), plus rice, dried noodles and muesli. Clearly, she wasn’t going to be ‘rustling up’ anything for supper tonight.
Feeling grubby after her journey, she showered quickly and wrapped herself in a scratchy bath towel. In her bedroom now, she stood naked and looked down at her pale body, noticing for the first time that she was a little more toned than when she had set off for Yorkshire. Of course, she had been hoofing up that hill every morning, with Stanley, whereas in London, leisurely strolls with Isabelle were pretty much the only exercise she involved herself in.
A little blast of the countryside had done her good.
Della would be home from Berlin now, Roxanne realised. She hoped Michael had played her message and wasn’t too cross with her. As for Sean: she needed to stay with Isabelle, so she wouldn’t be going around tonight. How would he react to her surprise early return? she wondered. Surely he’d be delighted; after all, he had driven all the way to Burley Bridge, just to be with her for one night. Yet these days, she could never quite predict what sort of mood he’d be in. What a fuss he’d made over a trickle of dog pee on a socket board. Meanwhile, two floors down lived a seventy-five-year-old lady whose flat had been trashed, and whose lifelong record collection had been slung out into the street like old junk – and she was doing her damnedest to be stoical about it.
They wouldn’t eat here tonight, Roxanne decided. Her flat felt as if it had been lying empty for months, and even sitting there eating takeaway pizza would be depressing. No, she would treat Isabelle to an Italian tonight. Roxanne pulled on jeans, a jauntily striped lambswool sweater and her silver LK Bennetts – which had survived the battering they’d received, thank you very much, Irene Bagshott – and set off to take her friend out to dinner.
They strolled arm in arm, down the steps to the towpath and along the canal, to the little Italian where Roxanne had first been with Isabelle, then with Sean on his fiftieth birthday.
While the two women tucked into what they agreed was the best spaghetti carbonara they had ever tasted, two hundred miles north, Michael Bramley was eyeing the half-eaten tart that was sitting on his kitchen table. The first time he had cooked for a woman who wasn’t his wife since – well, it felt like medieval times – and she hadn’t turned up. As well as the tart, he had also planned to serve a green salad and new potatoes with fresh mint. He’d kept checking his watch, calculating how late Roxanne was now and reassuring himself that the food didn’t need to be piping hot; in fact it would be nicer served warm. The new potatoes were a little more time-sensitive, but they only took minutes and he wouldn’t put them on to boil until Roxanne had arrived.
So Michael waited and waited. By 1.30 p.m. the tart was tepid, and by 2 p.m., rather worried now, he had nipped down the road to the bookshop and buzzed the door to Della’s flat above. No answer. Perhaps she had forgotten, or something more enticing had come up? Whatever had happened, Michael had to face the fact that he would be eating that tart alone – not that he’d managed much of it. Being stood up tended to be a bit of an appetite quasher. He and the kids had had another slice for dinner – by which point he was heartily sick of the thing. He gave up and offered the rest of it to Bob, which triggered an episode of canine flatulence.
It wasn’t until 5 a.m. on Monday morning, as Michael pulled on a clean stripy apron in preparation for a morning’s baking, that he noticed the red answerphone light winking at him. Elsa was always getting onto him about that – about not checking the phone in the bakery: ‘Dad, you have to listen to the messages. What if someone wants some catering done? Or a massive order? We could be really missing out!’
He smiled, wondering when exactly their roles had switched like that; when had she become the eye-rolling one, keeping him in check. He didn’t mind it; in fact, he rather liked it. His daughter’s concern was somehow comforting and sweet.
He pressed ‘play’.
Michael? Hi, it’s Roxanne here. I am so sorry. I’ve tried calling your mobile but maybe it’s switched off? I’d have come round to tell you in person but I’ve had trouble getting a cab to Heathfield and there’s no time now, you know what Sunday travel’s like, it’s a nightmare with trains – so Frank’s coming over and I need to be ready and it’s such a rush. Sorry, I’m babbling on here …
She wasn’t half. What on earth had happened?
What I should have said right at the start is that I have a neighbour, Isabelle, lovely old lady – bit eccentric, says she’s a jazz singer but I’ve never found any evidence of that. Anyway, we’re friends. She lives two floors below me and we go for coffee or lunch sometimes. She likes to wander around, discovering new places, and she called me just now – well, half an hour ago. I’m so sorry. I do hope you didn’t go to too much trouble …
Michael shook his head in bewilderment. Would she ever get to the point?
… So, she was burgled and phoned me and I’m on my way to catch a train to London in a minute because she really doesn’t have anyone else.
Pause.
Can you believe that, Michael? That something so terrible could happen to an elderly lady, and there was no one else she could call? I do hope you’ll understand. It’s been lovely getting to know you and I’m sorry about, er – what I mean is, I know Della sort of …
Tried to set us up, that night in the Red Lion? Was that what she was referring to? He shuffled uncomfortably and twiddled with his apron strings.
Anyway, never mind all that, she added, in that rather scatty but lovely way she had of speaking, I really would have loved to have had lunch with you today.
And that was it. Michael tried to take comfort in the fact that Roxanne had called and not simply stood him up. But he still couldn’t shake off the rather desolate thought that he didn’t know when, or even if, Roxanne Cartwright would be coming back to Burley Bridge.