Just The Way You Are(7)

Even better, at the end of the garden was a hedge, and in the middle section of the hedge was a gate. And on the other side of the gate was miles of nobody and nothing but the trees, birds, deer and whatever else happened to live in this offshoot of Sherwood Forest.

End Cottage sat right on the border of Bigley Forest Park, consisting of over a thousand acres of woodland footpaths and bike trails. I gazed at the sunlight dancing off the treetops, stretching out into the distance, and I resolved to explore them all.

I did have one question for the estate agent: why on earth would ANYONE in their right mind want to sell this Dream Cottage?

‘Why are the owners selling in such a hurry?’ I asked, once I’d re-joined him in the kitchen.

‘They won the Euro Millions and moved to Monaco. They want everything here sorted as soon as possible.’ He squinted at me. ‘I know people expect the sales pitch and the spin, but I’m telling you straight that you are not going to find a better house than this for anywhere near the price. Not even in Bigley.’ He pulled a wry grin. ‘Honestly, if you don’t put an offer in, I think I will.’

I took another deep breath of galvanising country air, closed my eyes for a brief moment, and with trembling voice, offered him the asking price.

I was moving out.





But before then, I had some major work to do. Otherwise, I was going to end up paying the mortgage on a house I didn’t have the guts to ever move into. To force me into action, I had orchestrated a multi-step plan. The next stage in the plan was happening this evening.

As I set off home, a girl of about ten or eleven was wheeling a bike around the corner of the cottage at the other end of the row. She paused to glance at me as I unlocked my car and climbed in, offering a shy nod of her head and the hint of a smile before starting to pedal in the opposite direction to the village. I watched her whizzing off to freedom, T-shirt flapping in the late-afternoon breeze and, in that moment, I knew exactly how she felt.





‘Who’s this friend again?’ Mum asked, one side of her mouth twitching downwards as she took three large bowls out of the cupboard.

‘Her name’s Karina.’

‘And you met her at work?’

‘Yes.’ I lifted the lid on the pot of chilli I’d made and gave it a stir. ‘Can you take that sour cream out to the table too?’

Mum just stood there, clutching the bowls to her midriff. ‘So she can’t read?’

‘She found reading challenging when she started classes two years ago. She’s just signed up to do her English GCSE.’

Mum frowned, unconvinced that a woman lacking in basic qualifications was a suitable dinner guest. I smiled and carried on grating cheese. I had absolute faith in Karina’s ability to change her mind.

‘She’ll be happy to tell you if you ask her. In fact, you definitely should ask. It’s a good story.’

She sniffed, but at least went to finish setting the table. I also noticed that she added her favourite hand-embroidered table runner. My optimism cranked up one more notch.

At precisely six o’clock, the exact time I’d asked Karina to arrive, the doorbell rang. Karina entered with a blast of fresh air, an enormous smile, a bunch of Mum’s favourite pink roses and a box of Quality Street.

‘Oh! How thoughtful of you,’ Mum said, sufficiently thrown by the gesture to forget that she was being aloof. ‘I love the strawberry creams!’

‘What?’ Karina cried, her Ukrainian accent booming off the ceiling. ‘I brought them because they’re my favourites. But I hate the strawberry creams. How perfect!’

Mum blinked in surprise. ‘Let me take your coat for you.’

By the time I’d brought the pots of chilli and rice out to join the salad and crusty bread, Mum had already spotted Karina’s pinafore dress, perfectly fitting her stout frame.

‘That’s very fine stitching,’ she said, peering closer at the appliqué on the front pockets.

‘Oh, thank you!’ Karina beamed even harder. ‘It took me ages, but worth the effort.’

‘You made this?’ Mum stepped back, her eyes narrowing.

‘Of course! I make all my own clothes. I can’t follow a pattern, so sometimes the process is slower than I’d like, but it beats paying for tat produced by slave labour on the other side of the world.’

‘Yes.’ Mum was agog. I mentally punched the air before inviting Karina to take a seat.

All it took was a couple of opening questions, and Mum and Karina were chatting like old friends. They were a similar age, both soap opera superfans who drank revoltingly milky tea with two sugars. While Karina wasn’t divorced, her husband, Mr Rivers, had died eighteen months earlier.

‘I’m so sorry to hear it,’ Mum said.

‘Don’t be.’ Karina shook her head of cropped grey hair. ‘I didn’t like him. Or the woman who he pretended to play tennis with every Sunday. That involved a whole different type of ballgame.’

‘He was unfaithful?’ Mum asked, a forgotten slice of garlic bread now hovering halfway to her mouth.

‘For thirty-one years. On and off. Mostly on. But. Eh. You know how it is.’

‘I do.’ Mum certainly did. ‘Why didn’t you leave him?’

Karina shrugged. ‘He ran our lives; everything was in his name. How can a part-time care worker who can barely read survive on her own?’