The Other Half of My Heart (14 page)

‘Everything will be the same. He'll still be on the yard's books for everything. But he's yours.'

‘Roddy,' she says, ‘Roddy.'

‘It was the best present I could think of, to say, don't worry,' Roddy says. He unlatches the door; Tina walks into the stall, leans hand then forehead against the horse's neck. Roddy watches from the doorway. Tina can feel his smile. She lets herself believe that she is safe, and all is well.

She remembers the feeling, in the morning, during the clatter and bustle of his departure. Roddy does nothing more than kiss her forehead and squeeze her arm before he climbs into his car and follows the horsebox, driven by Fred, down the drive. They had said a real goodbye in Roddy's room, earlier. Fred will spend a few days with the Fieldens before driving the empty horsebox back.

Fran and Tina watch the vehicles until they are out of sight. It takes a while because Missingham sits in a small valley, and so from the gate it's possible to see them wind down through the town, disappear briefly behind the church, then wend across to the sharp turn on the opposite hill that takes them out of sight.

They walk back to the farmhouse in silence, skirt the edge of the yard and go into the kitchen. Tina knows that she needs to go back to work, but she isn't quite ready. She looks at the cereal bowls in the sink as though she's never seen cereal bowls before.

Fran says, ‘You can still stay here, you know. Whenever you want. It will save me from dying of boredom watching Fred snore all evening.'

‘I don't know,' Tina says. Roddy had said the same – stay whenever you like – but she can't decide whether it would be better to be in the single bed at home, where Roddy has never been, or the too-big bed without him in it.

‘Well, you know where we are. Why don't we say that you'll come on a Friday night? If you haven't got anything else on. I won't hold you to it. And why not bring Sam when he's around? I think Sam is the only non-horsey person that Fred has ever bothered to talk to for more than ten minutes.'

‘He'll love that.' Sam's passion for history means that he and Fred always have something to talk about, chewing over old invasions and discussing the politics of the Second World War as intently as Tina and Roddy would analyse a showjumping course.

‘And Roddy wanted me to give you this.' Fran's voice has changed, from matter-of-fact cheerful to something softer. Tina turns away from the sink and sees that Fran is holding a cardboard box.

‘He's already given me a horse.' Tina is still amazed at the wonder of this gift. Her own family is consultative when it comes to gift-giving. Birthdays and Christmasses mean new riding boots, new jodhpurs, leather riding gloves for Tina, things she needs and is always glad of. She and Sam have a ‘pick your own' system, whereby at any point in the year they can buy something they like the look of and reclaim the money from the other. Sam buys obscure records, baggy pastel shirts and books from second-hand shops. Tina chooses what she calls ‘best jeans' although her mother shakes her head at such an idea. So a surprising present of any sort – let alone a horse, and her favourite horse, and a horse who is so, so far out of her league – is something that takes some thinking about.

‘Are you pleased?'

‘Yes.' Fred and Fran had been in bed when Tina and Roddy came in from the yard last night. Breakfast had been an affair of last-minute practicalities, without any chance to talk about Snowdrop, although Fred had asked, ‘Pleased?' and smiled when he saw her, and she had said ‘Yes,' and squeezed his arm, and it had felt as though they had understood each other.

‘Fran, I'd never dreamed of such a thing. I can't – I don't think I've absorbed it.'

‘It's a silly question. You've still got stars in your eyes.' Fran moves closer. ‘Are you crying?'

‘No,' Tina says, ‘I'm not crying.' But she puts her fingertips to her cheeks to check, because nothing is normal right now.

Fran smiles and hands over the box. ‘Well, this comes with Snowdrop. So it's yours, too. Roddy says to take it home with you.'

As Tina takes it, she knows from the weight what's in it. The Floods have a small bronze statue made of each of their horses. They are exquisite creations that live in the yard office, in a cabinet, along with the trophies. She lifts the perfect metal Snowdrop from the scrunch of newspaper that it's been wrapped in. It's beautiful. Heavy and true.

‘I can't.'

‘You must. Roddy will be upset if you don't. And so will we.'

‘Well – thank you.' Tina wishes there were more words: for thank you, for this is too much, for I'm overwhelmed, for I feel as though this is all too good to be true. ‘I don't know how to thank you.'

‘Thank
you
,' Fran says. ‘It's so good that Roddy's picked a girl who's so—' Tina cannot imagine how Fran will complete the sentence. She braces herself: a girl who's so pleasant? so practical? so ordinary? so unlikely to give any trouble? She wraps the bronze back up, carefully, puts it in the box, while she waits. ‘A girl who we know will take care of him.'

‘Yes,' Tina says. It's a better ending than she could have imagined. At the end of work that day, she takes the bronze, the flannel shirt she sleeps in at the Floods' and Roddy's dressing gown home with her. Watching Roddy drive away had wrenched at her; standing next to Snowdrop had comforted her. She had thought she might cry when she went to bed, after saying goodnight to Roddy down a faint phone line with what sounded like a party going on in the background at his end. But she's worn out and she goes to sleep quickly. When she wakes, although she can't remember them, she can tell that she's had bad dreams.

 

BETTINA IS PLEASED
with the prototypes of her sweet lavender loaf, and now she is wondering at the possibility of using roses, violets, delicate flavours in soft rolls and crusty rounds. Hold your horses, she says to herself as she looks at her to-do list, which is long enough as it is and has nothing about new ranges on it. Let's get the lavender loaf right. And before we even do that, let's get the wretched fête out of the way. Let's take it a day at a time. We know that that's what gets us through. Even though she's busy, Bettina is starting to think about a chain of bakeries, more staff. She reminds herself, sometimes, of the Tina that her father saw, the one who shone. She's starting to want more, and expect more. It's frightening. She feels exposed. Which is the opposite of what she's been for the last fifteen years. But – the quietest of voices suggests, in the early hours – maybe it's time.

‘Are you sure I can't help with anything?' Rufus, who has just finished loading Bettina's dishwasher, looks at her sitting at the table with baskets, a roll of red-and-white gingham, pinking shears and brown paper luggage tags. Her laptop is open at a spreadsheet; there are small blackboards at her feet.

The Throckton Spring Fête has made a lot of work for Bettina, and although Rufus keeps on offering to help, she keeps on turning him down. She's seen the precision with which he makes a bed, and puts cups in a cupboard. She knows that she couldn't ask Rufus to fold a napkin or chalk up a price list without it taking longer to discuss with him than it would have taken her to do.

‘You made supper,' she says, ‘and you've cleared up. That helps. I'll only be another half an hour, and you won't disturb me if you put the TV on.' She glances up; he looks uncertain. ‘And anyway, if you were busy at work, I wouldn't assume I could help,' she adds, with a smile. Bettina is thinking of all the people who come into Adventures in Bread, look around, smile benignly at her and say how much they would like to have a baker's shop, as though it's a charming little hobby, something anyone could do. She smiles back and resists the temptation to ask them to come and move some drums of flour, or drop in at 4.30 tomorrow morning to see how it all works behind the scenes.

‘I suppose not,' Rufus says, considering, then smiling at her. Bettina likes that he doesn't take offence at things she doesn't realize sound prickly until they come out of her mouth. She's intent on cutting out her gingham squares, but she glances up. Her eyes catch him unawares, each time; his memory can't seem to hold quite how lovely they are, and so every time he sees them he's jolted.

Rufus sits down on the sofa and picks up yesterday's newspaper. He likes to read them in order: it's something that used to annoy Richenda, and that Kate still teases him about. Bettina, on the other hand, says that she can see the sense of not coming in halfway through a story.

It's an hour until she says, ‘I think that's enough for tonight,' and gets up. She stretches each leg out to the side, in turn, something that Rufus associates with tiredness in her. ‘I was thinking. Why don't I book a weekend off, after the fête,' she says, ‘and we can go away?'

‘Really?' He is still trying to come to terms with the New Bettina. The one who stays over and treats him like – well, like a partner. Almost. She won't hear the L-word and she won't discuss much of her past. But Rufus thinks there's time for both of these things. And the more time they spend together, the closer that time comes.

Bettina is smiling at the look on his face. ‘Well, I'll definitely deserve it. Let me check things out with Angie and find a few days when she, Simon and Josh can cover for me.' As an afterthought, she adds, ‘We should set up a joint diary. So we know what we're doing.'

‘That's an excellent idea,' Rufus says. ‘Well, two excellent ideas.' He's beaming. Bettina likes making him happy. It's so much easier than trying to get him to dress and leave at midnight, and she likes the sound of someone else's breathing nearby as she works or sleeps. She can't feel much, but she can do this, and that's something – and something more than she thought. She feels pleased with herself, and along with that there's another feeling which it takes her a moment to identify: a positive sort of anticipation, something she hasn't experienced in a long time. Looking forward, she supposes, further than the next step.

It's been a long time since she's had a holiday. In fact she doesn't think she has had a holiday, as an adult. When she first went to France, her mother had talked as though her life was one long holiday, but Bettina had worked herself hard, and her breaks had been spent visiting her parents, weeks that left her exhausted and ready for the peace and quiet of a 4am shift, and the sleep that comes after ten hours on your feet in a hot, steamy kitchen. When she and Sam were small there had been caravan holidays, with Sam and Howard fishing and playing tennis, Bettina finding a place where she could go riding, and Alice making friends with the other mothers and pleading that, every other day, her family humour her with a visit to a stately home where she could wonder at the china, the silver and the portraits, and buy bookmarks and recipe books in the shop. When Bettina had cleared her parents' house she'd found a box with all of the books in the loft. There were chintzy afternoon-tea books, tomes with pictures of roasts on the covers, a pamphlet about scones. Just the sight of that one had made her think of the ginger scones, both bitter and sweet, loved by her and hated by Sam, so they became a treat for her and her mother when they were on their own. ‘Let's have proper butter,' her mother would whisper, even though there was no one else to hear and no one would begrudge them butter anyway. But she did make the scones even more of an occasion, not so much by the butter-instead-of-margarine as the conspiracy.

Rufus, his heart in his mouth, the thrush on his hand, asks, ‘Shall I book something for us? When we have the dates, I mean?'

‘If you don't mind.' She almost says: nothing too romantic, but stops herself. Rufus isn't stupid. There have never been flowers since the peonies: there were the lavender plants in pots, then a herb planter for her kitchen windowsill. Lately he's brought French wine, and a new edition of a falling-apart recipe book that she loves. He will know how to do this.

‘Shall we do a train trip? Or would you like to fly somewhere?'

‘Planes are OK, but I think I need to be able to get back. Just in case.' In the month since Bettina had taken a deep breath and knocked on Rufus's door with her toothbrush in her handbag, she has twice had to make her way over to her mother's care home in response to phone calls that began with the words ‘This isn't an emergency, but …' Once was after her mother had had a minor fall and once because of a high temperature which turned out to be no more than a high temperature, but Bettina is more aware than ever of the fragility of her mother's life. And so, now, the thought of getting on a plane – or, more to the point, not being able to get on a plane home if she needed to – is too much of a risk.

‘Of course,' Rufus says, ‘leave it to me.'

Bettina smiles and says she's going to bed now, and would Rufus like to come? And they go. Though neither says it out loud, each is privately wondering if it can really be this easy.

There's a local legend that the weather is always good for the Throckton Spring Fête, and it seems to be holding true again today. The green next to the churchyard is bright with sunshine and good spirits, people nodding at each other and the sky, as if to say, look, how clever of us, we did it again. Bettina and Angie have been making trips back and forth since 9am to arrange their trestle table, weighted tablecloth and basket after basket full of loaves. Last year, Bettina had left Angie in charge of the shop and run the stall on her own. By lunchtime, she had sold out and Angie had taken less than twenty pounds, so this year Adventures in Bread is not so much closing as decamping in its entirety, a cheerful sign on the door redirecting regular customers to the green, although Angie had laughed and said that the chances of anyone needing directions to the fête were slim to none.