Chapter 51
Was that OK? Gemma, flushed from her short walk with Barry when they’d bumped into Joe and his friends, reread the draft for the December Puddleducks newsletter that she was about to finalise and email out. It was later than usual but then again, as Barry said, she had every excuse.
‘I still think you should be resting instead of working,’ he chided gently as she sat on the floor, laptop on her knee and her head leaning back against him. ‘Sure you’re doing the right thing in going back tomorrow?’
Absolutely! The doctor had said she could, providing she felt better. And she did. It was incredible, really. When she’d read about people donating bone marrow, she’d presumed they were hospitalised for weeks. But nowadays it was apparently a couple of days and then anything between two and four weeks off. She’d had more than a fortnight and that had been plenty. Now she was itching to get back to her small Puddleducks. Seeing Joe just now in the high street with his lovely godchildren made her even keener. It was obvious that they adored him – clearly poor Joe, who was still grieving for the baby he could have had, was a real hands-on godfather. She could just imagine him arriving at Christmas with his arms full of goodies from Hamleys.
Still, enough of that. She had to get on. ‘I’m not sure whether I ought to refer to Lily in my newsletter,’ she mused out loud.
‘Lily?’
She felt slightly irritated.
‘Lily,’ she repeated. ‘My little girl who went missing.’
‘Your little girl?’ Barry teased her. ‘I knew you were married, but you didn’t tell me you had kids.’
Her skin began to prickle the way it had once when she’d put on an angora cardigan of Kitty’s. Your colour, her friend had said, but if it doesn’t feel right you shouldn’t wear it. The weird thing was that, usually, Barry did feel right. Really right. But every now and then he’d say something jarring, like just now. If there was one thing she couldn’t joke about, it was having children. She’d have thought he’d have understood that. ‘I see all the Puddleducks as my children,’ said Gemma, hurt. ‘Their parents put them in my care.’
Barry wrapped his arm around her and she couldn’t help snuggling in to him; it felt so good to be loved. Besides, didn’t everyone have tiffs?
‘Someone clearly didn’t care very well for Lily or Natasha or whatever her real name is.’ He bent to kiss the top of her head. ‘It would have been different if you had been there to supervise.’
Would it? Gemma had briefly wondered that. Joe wasn’t used to dealing with under-fours and Miriam was still in a post-natal stupor, from all accounts. She felt concerned for Joe. She’d heard through Bella that he had felt obliged to shoulder the responsibility himself, even though Lily (as she still thought of her) had been in Miriam’s group and not his.
As for the Dilly Dalung story, she could hardly believe it. Sometimes mothers did some really irresponsible things.
Gemma pressed Send and jumped up. ‘Right. That’s done. I went without mentioning Lily in the end. It occurred to me that as there are legal implications, it’s safest not referring to her.’
‘Good point. Now come here and allow Dr Barry to check if you really are on the mend.’ He put his hand in his pocket. ‘Actually, I’ve brought you a present. I saw it in the antique shop on the high street and thought it was perfect for you. May I? Here, let me take off that old silver chain.’
But I’ve always worn it, she wanted to say, although at the same time she could almost hear her grandmother’s voice in her head. It doesn’t belong to you any more, just as Sam can never belong to you. Not now he has a partner and child.
‘Thank you.’ She stood in front of the mirror with Barry behind her, fastening the pretty pale-pink coral necklace round her neck. It felt different from the chain. Heavier.
‘It suits you!’ Barry’s eyes met hers in the mirror. ‘There’s something I want to tell you.’
As he spoke, there was the sound of footsteps running up the stairs and children’s voices. ‘I’ll knock first.’
‘No. Me. Me. ’
Barry’s voice was firm as he opened Gemma’s door. ‘Wrong one, mate. Your godfather lives next door.’
The pair of freckled faces stared up at both of them. ‘We know that. Uncle Joe is on his way up behind us. He needs to tell Gemma something.’
The other one nodded. ‘’Shreally important.’
Joe was puffing slightly as he came up the stairs, something that Barry – who worked out twice a day in his mother’s sitting room – clearly noticed too.
‘Gemma.’ His eyes flickered across to Barry and then back again. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. But we’ve just been up to see the mural.’
His voice was wobbling. Joe never wobbled. ‘I’m afraid it’s been vandalised.’
‘No!’
Gemma was aware of someone putting their arms around her. Not Barry. Not Joe. They belonged to a woman who sensed her distress and knew that she was trying hard, so hard, not to break down in front of the children. ‘Tell you what, Gemma,’ the kind auburn-haired woman was saying. Gemma remembered her name was Lynette. ‘Why don’t we all walk up and you can see for yourself? Then maybe we can work out what to do.’
Barry wanted to drive her there, but she refused politely. It was only a ten-minute walk and she needed the time to come to terms with what she’d just been told. But nothing could have prepared her for the huge red slashes of paint on the mural that had been so close to completion.
‘Vandals again,’ she said in disgust. ‘They smashed up the front window of the chemist last week. And a newsagent the week before.’
Mike looked shocked. ‘I didn’t think this sort of thing happened out here in Corrytown.’
She smiled sadly. ‘I’m afraid it does.’ She looked at Joe. ‘What are we going to do?’
He didn’t sound optimistic. ‘Mike’s already rung a decorator friend from Dorset who’s suggested a few things. He’s going to come up tomorrow to have a look.’
Barry’s deep voice cut in. ‘Dorset? That’s miles away! I’ll see if I can find someone local. We must be able to salvage it somehow.’
‘Doug the mosaics tutor might have some ideas too,’ Gemma said, as they all stood looking sombrely at the mural. Whoever was responsible had been thorough. The red paint had been smeared on thickly, while the obscenity had probably come from an aerosol can and was unlikely to come off easily.
‘Mum, what does that mean?’ asked Charlie, pointing to it.
Lynette put her arm around both her sons’ shoulders and drew them to her, an action which made Gemma’s heart churn. ‘It’s a very rude way of saying go away.’ How calm she was. And honest, too. If she ever became a mother, thought Gemma, she’d like to be like that. ‘The deadline for the award is in a week’s time,’ she said quietly. ‘We’ll never get another one done by then.’
The taller boy piped up brightly. ‘Don’t worry, Gemma. Uncle Joe will think of something! He always does!’