The Near Miss

Chapter 5

FIVE

WREN

As Wren approached the neat red-brick bungalow, she checked her notes to make sure she was in the right place. 12, The Orchards . This must be the one. Her journalistic instincts kicked in immediately, noting the well-maintained flower beds, devoid of weeds, and a recently painted white front door. Mrs Macmillan lived alone, according to Zara, so she must be busy all the time, keeping her house looking as smart as this, as well as still having a hand in the Community Kitchen. She pushed the doorbell and waited.

She was just about to press it again, or at least double-check she had the right date and time, when the door eventually opened to reveal a tiny woman, no more than five feet tall, with a golden-white bob and a wide smile.

‘Hello, pet. You must be Wren.’ She held out a hand, which Wren shook. It was as delicate as a bird, but her grip was firm and assured. Her other hand was resting on a cane Wren could swear was marked with the Louis Vuitton pattern. Her smile faltered a little as she took in Wren’s appearance. ‘Sea World…’

‘Oh,’ said Wren, snatching off the souvenir baseball cap, having forgotten she was still wearing it. Overnight, the bump on her head had spread into a magnificent purple bruise, which she’d managed to obscure with sunglasses and the only hat she owned. Now her cheeks burned red, almost as vivid as the colour of her forehead. ‘Sorry about the get-up.’

The older woman gazed at the bruise, her mouth turning into a small O.

‘Nothing to worry about, Mrs Macmillan. Just a little accident. Thanks again for inviting me to see you.’

She followed Mrs Macmillan into the hallway as she was beckoned, giving her host a little space to walk ahead as slowly as she needed. Perhaps she had a little help in keeping this place immaculate after all.

‘I’m sorry it took me so long to answer the door,’ Mrs Macmillan said over her shoulder. ‘It’s this bloody hip. Pardon my French.’ She walked with some effort through to a tidy living room, which was immaculately decorated but had plenty of trinkets taking pride of place on the sideboard and mantelpiece – ornaments, photographs and souvenirs were placed everywhere. The figurines and commemorative plates had not one speck of dust on them, and appeared treasured and cared for.

Wren accepted the invitation to sit on the sofa, and Mrs Macmillan sat opposite. Between them, on the coffee table, was a pot of tea under a cosy, two cups and a plate of biscuits.

‘Oh, Mrs Macmillan, you didn’t need to go to any trouble,’ said Wren, gesturing at the table as she set her notebook on her lap.

‘Pfft,’ Mrs Macmillan said, waving a hand dismissively. ‘It’s not a bother, pet. And call me Edie. I’ve been Mrs Macmillan a long time, but it still reminds me of my mother-in-law.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Wren, sensing some mischief from Edie. ‘And that’s not a pleasant memory?’

‘You’re quick off the mark with the probing questions, aren’t you?’ she replied with a little wink. ‘But no, not pleasant memories, if I’m honest. The late Mrs Macmillan believed that women should be by their own kitchen sink, and she wasn’t impressed to see her daughter-in-law “gadding about running a soup kitchen” as she charmingly put it.’

‘Ah. And what about your husband? What did he think? I understand he’s no longer with us.’

‘No. He’s not.’ She smiled stoically. ‘Stan passed away quite young, only fifty. But he was very proud of it all.’

‘That’s a long time to be doing everything on your own.’ She thought again about how Edie managed to keep this place so well tended. ‘Do you have children?’

‘I do. I have a daughter, although she’s very busy these days. She’s got a life of her own. I do have the grandbairns though. They’re always here, making a nuisance of themselves.’ From the way her eyes lit up, Wren could see she thought nothing of the sort. ‘Now, let’s get the important business sorted first,’ she said and started pouring the tea. ‘So, your name’s Wren? Interesting. Is it short for something?’

Yes, thought Wren, burying this answer as soon as it came to her. She never shared her full name with anyone. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Just Wren.’

‘Like the bird?’

‘Um, yes. Like the bird. So, maybe we could start right at the beginning? The Community Kitchen began with just a trestle table and some soup, didn’t it? And it went from strength to strength, now serving hundreds of hot meals a night to the homeless of Newcastle from what look to be industrial-level kitchens. You must be incredibly proud.’

‘Oh, I am, although it’s not me I’m proud of.’ She waved her hand dismissively again, a gesture of which she seemed fond. ‘We’re a team. A big happy family, and if it wasn’t for all of them, it still would be a trestle table and some soup.’

Wren smiled. ‘But it was you who found the premises and converted it into the space it is now. It was your vision.’

Edie smiled back then stirred her tea distractedly, even though she hadn’t put any sugar in it. Wren could sense she didn’t take praise too easily and decided to change tack.

‘You know, Edie, I volunteered at the Kitchen a while back. Must have been fifteen or sixteen years ago now. It was a really amazing experience – I can see how rewarding you must have found it all.’

Edie’s face lit up. ‘Did you now? Well, thank you for giving your time, pet.’

‘I always wanted to go back and do it again but, well… I’m embarrassed to say, I never did. It was at Christmas, and it felt really good to do something for others. What’s your fondest memory of a Community Kitchen Christmas, Edie?’

‘Ah, there’s so many,’ she said, resting her cup on her lap and gazing into the middle distance. ‘There was the year my daughter’s partner dressed up as Santa and handed out selection boxes. And the year Sting turned up and did a turn for the diners. I kid you not,’ she said as Wren’s jaw dropped. ‘Oh yes, Gordon’s a great supporter of North East charities. That’s his real name, you see – Gordon.’ She gave Wren a conspiratorial look, as if she was sharing this bit of information on the down-low. ‘No, I think my favourite was when my grandbairns came along for the first time. The first Christmas anyway. They left their presents behind and came to spoon out sprouts with the rest of us, and they never moaned once.’

‘That’s lovely. What a great memory to have. And for children to be so unselfish, that must be in the genes.’ Wren smiled, hoping a little flattery would help open Edie up some more. But she looked bashful and distracted again.

‘So…’ Wren said, steering away from Edie being the focus again and wondering how on earth she was going to take it when she found out the piece was specifically about inspiring women. Edie didn’t seem to have a self-promoting bone in her body. ‘Why don’t you tell me about some of the people who you— who the team have helped over the years?’

This went down much better, and Wren spent the following half hour scribbling copious notes to go along with the recording she made on her phone. There were stories that were sad, funny, uplifting, heartbreaking. It was going to make for a very interesting article.

‘Edie, I can’t thank you enough for telling me all of this,’ Wren said, folding her notebook closed and sliding it into her bag. ‘I was just wondering if it would be possible to come to the Kitchen itself? Meet a few volunteers, take a few pictures?’

‘Of course you can, pet. In fact I’m going there myself on Thursday to do my shift. The hip doesn’t allow me to be there full-time nowadays. Silly bloody thing, pardon my French. How about you come along?’

‘That would be great. Would you like me to come and pick you up?’ Wren hadn’t seen a car outside and suspected Edie’s hip might preclude her from driving.

‘No, no, pet. The grandbairns are taking me down. No need. Now, have we finished for today?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Wren, standing up. ‘Don’t get up – I can see myself out.’

‘Thank you. I’ll stay put. Oh…’ A thought seemed to flash over Edie’s face, but she did her signature hand wave.

‘What is it?’ asked Wren.

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’m forgetting myself. I’m thinking you’re one of the grandbairns and I was about to ask you a favour.’

‘That’s no problem. What do you need?’

Edie hesitated, wincing. ‘I don’t like to ask, since you’re here in a professional capacity. Oh, and with your sore head as well… But I’ve got a box of books in the spare bedroom – I went a bit overboard at the car boot sale – and I can’t reach to put them up on the bookshelf. Would you mind?’

‘Not at all!’ said Wren, putting her bag down and heading over to the door Edie was pointing towards.

The bedroom was as clean and neat as the rest of the bungalow, with the exception of two overstuffed bookcases. Libby and Edie would get on, thought Wren. On the bed was a box of books, hardbacks and paperbacks – there must have been nearly twenty of them.

Wren regarded the bookcases, seeing that one was completely full, and the other had only the top shelf free. She could see how Edie would have no chance of reaching it. It begged the question of how she would reach a book she wanted to read, but Wren decided it was best to just do as she’d been asked. She transferred the dusty books from box to shelf, until the top shelf was completely full. There were still quite a few books left once she’d filled it, so in the absence of a better option, she loaded the remainder onto the top surface of the bookcase itself. Not ideal, but at least the box was now empty. She left it on the bed and returned to the living room.

‘All done. I’ve just left the box on the bed – is that okay?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Thank you so much, pet. Now, I’ll see you Thursday, shall I?’

‘You will,’ said Wren, finding herself smiling warmly at Edie, still sitting in her chair. As she left, carefully replacing her dark glasses, she realised she was looking forward to seeing her again.

The early evening sun made the coastline glow like embers. It reminded Wren of weekend nights from years ago, when she was a teen, lighting campfires on the beach with her friends and drinking contraband beers. Teenage Wren would never have considered that she’d one day be driving along this sandy road in her own car with a boyfriend (that she lived with ) sitting in the passenger seat. She’d felt so grown-up back then that it would have been hard to comprehend being any more so, let alone cohabiting and driving a sensible Volkswagen. A sensible Volkswagen that she’d hastily cleared of coffee cups and bits of paper before Alex had the chance to grumble.

As if he’d read her mind, he asked, ‘Did you remember to put the dishwasher on?’

‘Yep,’ she replied. Then, feeling like this conversation could take an overly domestic turn, she gave him a sideways look and a smirk. ‘But I think, when we get home, unloading it can wait until the morning?’

Alex groaned. ‘I don’t see why. It gets all clammy in there if it’s—’ Then he caught her meaningful glance. ‘Ohhh. Right. Well, maybe it can wait. I’ve got the late shift at work tomorrow after all.’ He grinned and settled back in the passenger seat, his man-spread legs spreading that little bit wider.

Wren had found herself doing this more often lately – trying to season their relationship with a little spice that it had been lacking. If sex kept him distracted from the household to-do list and the occasional lapse of her involvement in it, then all the better.

She drove down the narrow driveway to the seafront cottage, where her dad, Alan, was already waiting for them. The cottage was shrouded in dusk’s shadows but exuded cosiness, from the white-painted porch and dormer windows to the overgrown climbing plants around the door. It was ramshackle but pretty and always gave Wren a little rush of nostalgia.

‘Hello, pet. Come in. How do, Alex?’ Alan said from the doorway, backlit by the light from the kitchen beyond. He gave Wren a bear hug and Alex a firm handshake.

‘What’s happened here then?’ Alan asked, gesturing at Wren’s forehead.

‘Oh, it’s nothing…’

‘Wren had a close encounter with a window fitter’s tools,’ said Alex, shaking his head.

Alan paled. ‘Oof. That’s not young ’uns’ speak for something else, is it?’

‘No, Dad,’ Wren interjected, cringing. ‘I literally got knocked on the head with some glazing equipment, and I’m absolutely fine.’

‘Right. Well, I’ll take your word for it. Oh, here comes buggerlugs as well,’ he added as a brown spaniel skittered across the kitchen tiles and swam around Wren’s legs like a hairy shoal of fish. Alex stood back. He wasn’t overkeen on pets as a rule, and she was never sure whether it was his feelings about the dog or her dad that meant she mostly came here alone. A few times a week in fact, since she always felt guilty about her dad’s solitary existence out at the coast. He would never be drawn away from the sea, though; even his job at St Nicholas Lighthouse visitors’ centre ensured he always had the waves in sight.

Wren bent down. ‘Hello, Johnny boy,’ she said, rubbing the dog’s sides and ruffling his pendulous ears. He gave her a sly lick on the cheek and rushed off again, probably in search of some toy he wanted her to throw.

She put her handbag on the one remaining space on the kitchen counter that wasn’t covered in unwashed plates or piles of papers and magazines and tensed. She could sense Alex flinching at the sight of the mess, but he was doing his best to cover it up, exchanging manly pleasantries with her dad about an upcoming football match.

Wren didn’t normally give the grubby chaos of her dad’s cottage a second thought – after all, they’d lived together like this for the first eighteen years of her life. But because of Alex the counters would need clearing, the plates and cups washed, and the kitchen table would need a good scrub to remove the crumbs and dried egg.

‘Dad, you should really get a cleaner,’ she said with a light laugh, giving Alex a hasty glance. Wouldn’t hurt to try and show him some solidarity.

‘It’s lovely to see you too,’ he sniffed. ‘And I don’t need a cleaner when it’s only me here. I’m not bothering anyone.’

‘You’d be bothering the health inspectors if they popped round,’ said Alex, aiming for a jokey tone, although Wren could see through it. ‘And the RSPCA.’

‘John loves it,’ said Alan. ‘He gets to lick the plates, don’t you, boy?’

John had returned, a grey-stained soft toy in his mouth, and Alan rubbed the top of his head.

Wren braced herself for Alex’s horrified reaction, but he just said, ‘How about we drive out for a takeaway, Alan? Save you cooking?’ Alex frowned then raised his eyebrows at Wren as he ushered Alan out of his own front door, giving the wasteland of the kitchen a despairing last look.

Wren took the hint. She found some bin bags and threw out the orange-stained polystyrene and foil containers, junk mail and anything else she couldn’t wash. Then she filled the sink with hot water and detergent and started the lengthy process of washing-up.

There was an incredible view out of the kitchen window over the beach. Wren’s parents had inherited this cottage from her mother’s family when they were newlyweds, in the days before Northumberland sea views commanded eye-watering house prices. Her dad was probably sitting on a rat-infested goldmine. She had spent many, many hours looking at this view as a teenager while scrubbing pots. Once she was old enough, she’d reluctantly taken control of the basic elements of domestic hygiene. Not that Alan had asked her to, but because if she didn’t, they would simply run out of cups and plates. She’d known as she made the drive that she’d end up elbow deep in soap suds, mainly to appease Alex. Her natural, genetic tendency towards messiness had been curbed over the years as she’d tried to avoid him complaining.

She finished the washing-up and then went to tackle the living room.

On the dusty mantelpiece were her mother’s ashes. She stood in front of them, in their jade-green urn, and said a silent hello. She could only remember small details about her mam. Black curly hair that tickled her cheek when she was carried on her shoulder. Being in a playpen and seeing her mother’s face chequered through the gauze walls. Her mother lying down a lot, her dad saying that she was tired. And then one day, she wasn’t there anymore. Caron Rowbottom had died, and instead of seeing her through the tiny holes of the playpen, she was now inside a jar above the fireplace.

Her mother had called her Serenity – that was her given name, the name on her birth certificate. She thought she could remember being called that when she was very small, and it must have been her mam who’d used it, because her dad had always shortened it to ‘Ren’. Wren added the ‘W’ later, when she wanted to have a name that sounded complete… But deep down she knew that she kept the name Serenity to herself because it was a link to her mam, a special word that was meant only for her, and only from her mother’s mouth. She touched the urn once, lightly, then the seashell necklace at her throat, and went to the bathroom to tidy some more.

‘You love your chow mein, don’t you, Johnny boy?’ said Alan, dangling strings of noodles over the dog, who lapped at them like bait on a hook. Her dad had declined a plate and was eating out of the boxes from the Chinese takeaway they’d brought in, along with some beers – alcohol-free for Alex, who was driving them home, and full-belt alcohol for Alan. Wren sipped her second large glass of Merlot.

‘It’s not long ’til you’re off on your holidays now, is it?’ said Alan.

‘Yeah, we can’t wait,’ Alex replied, putting down the remains of his stir-fried vegetables. ‘Sorrento has some amazing hiking paths apparently – I was researching on the InterTrails app. I’ve saved some ready for our trip.’ He grinned.

Wren smiled less enthusiastically. ‘Not forgetting the amazing wine, desserts, pizza, pasta…’

‘All the more reason we’ll need those hikes. Burn off all those carbs drenched in olive oil.’

‘Is it a holiday you’re going on, son, or boot camp?’ Alan asked with a wink and a swig of beer.

Alex’s eyes flickered with poorly disguised annoyance. ‘Oh, I think there’s a lot to be said for a healthy balance.’ He looked down at his glass, which was only a quarter full. ‘I’ll go and get a top-up. Anyone want anything?’

‘No, I’m good,’ said Wren, who’d already polished off the best part of half a bottle of wine, and Alan shook his head. Alex disappeared off to the kitchen.

‘So, have you dusted off your hiking boots and compass then?’ whispered Alan with a cheeky grin.

‘Shh, Dad. It’s his holiday too, so if he wants to go on a few walks, then that’s what we’ll do.’

‘Aye, well make sure you get a bit of time to relax an’ all. That’s what a holiday’s for. In my opinion, if you don’t come back half a stone heavier…’

‘It’s a holiday wasted,’ she finished, grinning. ‘Anyway, will you be alright while I’m away? I’ll ring to say hello.’

‘Get away with you. I’m alright,’ he said, waving a hand and giving her a stiff smile.

Wren knew her dad felt guilty for depending on her for company, and she knew that her couple of visits a week were something he looked forward to. But she didn’t mind at all, although Alex openly begrudged it. Alan had spent her whole childhood being a single father, taking care of her, and other than his one friend from work, he hadn’t managed to build a thriving social life. She often wondered if he was lonelier than he let on.

‘Alan,’ interrupted Alex from the doorway. He was holding a full pack of non-alcoholic beers still encased in their cardboard sheath. ‘Why are there still six of these?’

‘We haven’t started on them yet, son. I was finishing up the other pack first.’

‘For God’s—’ Alex’s lips pursed. ‘I got these for me. They’re non-alcoholic. I’m driving, or at least I was. I thought I was just feeling a bit tired, not half-drunk!’

‘You’ll be alreet,’ said Alan. ‘You’ve only had a couple.’

‘Dad, no, he won’t be alright. And don’t be so cavalier about drink-driving. I’ve had too much as well, so we’re both over the limit.’

Alex’s nostrils flared. ‘Well, what are we going to do now? A taxi’s going to cost a fortune.’ He barely tried to conceal a glare towards Alan, who was sitting there looking like butter wouldn’t melt.

‘I’m sorry, son; I didn’t really think. And you don’t need a taxi – you can just stop here and go home in the morning.’

‘Makes sense,’ agreed Wren. ‘You don’t start work until the afternoon, and if we’re up early, I can drop you home before I go to work for ten?’

Alex’s jaw clenched, and Wren could sense he was trying and failing to find a problem with this. ‘Fine,’ he said through gritted teeth, sitting down. He opened a bottle of non-alcoholic beer and poured it into his glass. ‘I’ll stick to this though. I’ll be fine to drive in the morning, but I don’t want to be hung-over for work.’

Wren nodded sympathetically, discreetly topped up her own glass of Merlot and steered the conversation back to the shores of Sorrento.