Holly beamed. ‘Thanks again, Cora. I’ll try not to be under your feet here for too long.’
‘No need for that, dear, you’ve already thanked me a hundred times, and there’s no rush to leave at all. You’re welcome to stay for as long as you like. In fact, I sincerely hope you will.’
Chapter Six
Holly
After what seemed like an age, Holly made her bid to finally escape Cora’s chatter.
She felt unkind thinking such a thing, but she couldn’t simply sit around drinking tea and listening to Cora’s life story day after day, as tempting as Cora obviously thought it was. It was time to face the contents of her meagre cases.
‘I’d better go upstairs and get the unpacking out of the way,’ she said, edging towards the door.
‘That’s a good idea.’ Cora placed her cup and saucer on the coffee table and shuffled to the edge of her seat. ‘I’ll come up and help you.’
‘No!’ Holly said it too quickly, and Cora looked rather taken aback. ‘What I mean is, it’s very kind of you, Mrs Barr… Cora, but I won’t have you wearing yourself out on my account.’
Cora opened her mouth to protest, but Holly shook her head.
‘Honestly, I’d feel much better if you just stayed down here and enjoyed your tea. I’ll be back before you know it and you can finish telling me about your lovely wedding day.’
‘Fair enough, dear,’ Cora said, placated. ‘I admit that if I do too much, I probably will suffer with my lower back all evening.’
Upstairs in her room, Holly sighed and sank down onto the bed. There was no harm in taking just five minutes first to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet before she started on the onerous task that lay ahead.
It felt almost like she’d gone deaf, escaping Cora’s endless litany about how she’d met her late husband, Harold, and then the riveting run-up to him proposing on Tower Bridge in London. The worrying thing was that Cora was only up to her early twenties in the timeline of her life. Goodness knows how many more hours of reminiscing it would take to bring Holly up to the present day.
Holly silently scolded herself. A thoughtful person wouldn’t entertain such mocking thoughts. It wouldn’t do her any harm to lend a friendly ear to a lonely lady who’d taken pity on her.
Poor Cora had obviously been starved of contact with other people since Harold’s death and had stored up all her happy memories, having no one to share them with. It was clear that now Holly had arrived, the floodgates had been opened and they were all simply spilling out.
Was it really too much to ask of herself to take a more compassionate view?
If Holly wanted to stay here in Cora’s home – and there was no doubt at all in her mind that she did – she would just have to learn to put up with her new friend’s constant chatter and focus instead on being thankful for her kindness and hospitality.
Holly stared trance-like at the large picture window. A cool, stark brightness lit up the glass, although the inside of the room was still quite dark. It was mid March and the sun, in its higher position in the sky, seemed to be trying to stoke up a little heat and cheer but wasn’t quite managing to sustain it.
When Holly closed her eyes, she could still see the glaring square of the window emblazoned on the dark canvas of her mind’s eye, like the moment a camera flashes and captures a photograph.
The side window was slightly ajar, and a faint breeze crept in, tickling the surface of Holly’s skin like a lingering shadow. It was too cool in here, and now rather draughty, too. She glanced around the room and noted there was no radiator.
Cora had already told her that she and her late husband had lived in the house all their married life and, like lots of elderly people, had never got around to installing central heating. Holly could understand that decision if money was scarce, but somehow she didn’t think that was a problem for Cora Barrett.
She made a mental note to ask if there was a small heater she could use to warm up the room for an hour before she came to bed.
She sat up and shifted to the edge of the mattress. Maybe the cold was a blessing in disguise. If it had been warm and cosy in here, she could probably have come up with a hundred great excuses to put off the dreaded task of unpacking.
Her motley collection of luggage hunkered down against the opposite wall, almost daring her to gather the courage to begin. In an impulsive burst of action, she sprang across and grasped the straps of the ragged canvas rucksack that had accompanied her to half a dozen music festivals over the years.
She squeezed her eyes closed and then opened them again, ordering the memories back in their box. Now was not the time.
Thinking about music festivals was safe ground, but before she knew it, she’d be trying to work out how she could have made better decisions and stopped the whole horrendous business from happening.
Sadly, it just wasn’t possible to wipe out the mistakes of the past. All she could do now was set things straight, however long that might take.
She would find a way to build a better future.
Chapter Seven
Holly
As Holly tugged at the buckles of the rucksack, a small pile of trainers and shoes spilled out over the floor.
She paired them up and arranged them neatly on the bottom of the fusty-smelling old wardrobe.
Next, she took a deep breath and pulled the suitcase across. Layers of folded tops, cardigans, jeans and sweaters were revealed when she unzipped it and peeled back the canvas top.
She’d already dumped some of the clothing she’d brought with her in a bin bag out in Cora’s back yard. The clothes had been old, but that wasn’t the reason she’d discarded them. It had been because of the memories attached to them.
Day after dragging day, week after long week spent hidden away from the outside world at the clinic. The same pair of old black leggings and baggy grey sweater, worn like a second skin that had the power to protect her.
She bent down and began to unload the contents of her sparse wardrobe. Most of this stuff now bagged around her shoulders and bottom and gaped at the waist, but it hadn’t always been like that. She could remember a time when her hip bones were undetectable beneath a padding of fat.
Her fingers quivered slightly in nervous anticipation at what lay beneath the garments.
She took her time, hanging the two pairs of trousers over the heavy wooden coat hangers that Mrs Barrett had kindly left for her use.
She laid her worn knitwear more carefully than required in the chest of drawers lined with faded floral paper that perhaps had once been scented. Now all she could smell was the distinctive unpleasant odour of camphor.
As she removed the garments, one by one, the horror of what lay beneath began to reveal itself.
Lots of envelopes, in different colours, shapes and sizes. Some opened, with their rucked contents shoved hastily back in, but most unopened, as if they had just slid through the letter box that morning.
Holly hastily gathered them together in an untidy pile, purposely refusing to look at them directly but side-glancing just enough to shuffle them into something that resembled a vague order.
She took out the brown folder that she’d filled with paperwork before she left Manchester. Reaching for an empty plastic carrier bag that had held the sandwich and drink she had purchased when she’d alighted from the train, she crammed all the envelopes and paperwork inside and tied a knot in the top, then stuffed the bag unceremoniously under the bed.
Her breathing felt rapid and shallow now and her hands were shaking a little as she remembered hiding from debt collectors as they hammered on the door of her tiny flat.
She leaned on the narrow windowsill and pressed her face close to the glass, feeling the now welcome chill of moving air against her cheek.