Holding On

By MJ Morton

'There were certain events, things that happened to you in life that were best forgotten about. If you didn't think or talk about them then they didn't have power over you, did they?'

 

Set in the village of Heatherton, the entwined lives of Beth and Pete Scott and Charlotte Gardner are disrupted by changes beyond their control. When their pasts catch up with them, their lives and relationships begin to unravel…

 

Beth has boxed and buried away her childhood secret. When award-winning war photographer Don Meadon returns to the area to promote his autobiography, Beth has to confront the damaging effects of her abusive past.

 

Since the death of his mum, Pete and his dad, Edward, have been exceptionally close, working together at the family carpentry business. When Edward retires to Spain and meets Fiona, Pete struggles to cope with his dad leaving him.

 

When Robert Armstrong arrives in the village as her temporary deputy, Charlie, head teacher of Heatherton Junior School, finds herself attracted to him. But she's been hurt badly in the past, so when Robert tries to pursue a relationship, she's reluctant to take a chance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MJ Morton
• Release date: Sep 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9798201444310

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It was the first committee meeting of 2012 and the Harrises dining room buzzed like a beehive as they waited for their chairman, Mike Harris, to open the meeting and the year.

During the previous months, they had set initial dates and plans for the Heatherton Jubilee fete and Olympic celebrations. But now that the village’s Christmas decorations had been stored and the New Year empties recycled, the Heatherton Events Committee was free to focus on the momentous occasions of the coming year.

Sat in front of patio doors furnished with sweeping, red velvet curtains, Mike settled in the carver chair at the head of the table and studied his agenda.

Beside him, Beth Scott sipped overly strong filter coffee and eyed the plate of biscuits, wondering if there was time to ask Tom to pass them to her.

‘Welcome and, once again, Happy New Year,’ Mike said.

Beth glanced at the assortment of chocolate biscuits, no doubt leftovers from Christmas; knowing she was too late and would now have to wait for a suitable pause in the proceedings.

‘Thanks for coming out on such a miserable morning, but…’ Mike paused. ‘I think we can all agree that this is some year ahead of us.’

Mike was a respected councillor on the Heatherton Parish Council. Eighteen months ago, in the build-up to the Royal Wedding, he was tasked with setting up a sub-committee, which would focus exclusively on celebration events in Heatherton.

‘And the planning of these prestigious events begins today,’ Mike continued. ‘Following our success with the Royal Wedding, we’ve set ourselves a high standard to beat.’

Leaning forward, Mike clenched his fist and banged it against the table. ‘Let’s give them a year they won’t forget.’ He waited a beat. ‘It will be our legacy to the village.’

Beth felt a surge of excitement at the year ahead. It would be busy and stressful, she knew, but Mike always motivated them to achieve far more than they thought possible.

He was a builder by trade: short and muscular, with an outdoorsy flush throughout the year, but he always stood tall. Whether he was at a committee meeting or sat around a campfire, his back was as straight as a knitting needle.

‘We’ll need to invest lots of hours,’ he told them. ‘And there’ll be sweat and tears along the way, I’m sure. But it will be worth it. So, let’s get to work.’

There was a brief silence, then Olivia Horton-Carter eased her chair back and stood. She swept a hand along the jacket of her pink woollen suit and clapped. ‘Well said, well said, Mike.’

Lucy Evans, a middle-aged hairdresser who lived with her mother in a cottage on the high street, rose from her chair. She flicked auburn hair over her shoulders, her preferred wig for the day, the one benefit of alopecia she always told people, and joined in.

‘Here, here,’ Lucy said.

Tom Mack, a retired solicitor, watched them momentarily, then shrugged bony shoulders and, grinning across the table at Beth, clutched the handle of his walking stick to ease himself up. Once standing, he joined in, thumping his free hand against the table.

‘You can count on us,’ Tom said, getting into the spirit of it.

Beth, seeing she’d misjudged the situation and that the clapping wasn’t fading, hurried out of her chair. Her legs were stiff from sitting and in her rush to stand, her thigh banged against the edge of the table, spilling her coffee into the saucer. She steadied the cup, wiped her hands against her black nylon trousers and tried to catch the rhythm of the others as she clapped.

Mike raised his hands, showing that they should sit back down. ‘Thanks, team,’ he said. ‘Means a lot.’

Settled back in their chairs, they waited as Mike shuffled a stack of papers and cleared his throat.

‘Right, down to business,’ he said. ‘Everyone got the agenda?’

Beth pulled her copy towards her and scanned it: social media, celebrity to open the Jubilee fete, ordering celebration cakes, booking a bouncy castle, input from Heatherton Junior School, village Olympic sports day…

‘Forgive me, Mike, if I’m slow typing this morning,’ Olivia, the committee secretary, said without looking up from her iPad. ‘Only, I’m using a new app to record the minutes, and it may take me a while to get up to speed.’

Before retiring and moving to Heatherton to marry Timothy Horton-Carter, owner of Heatherton Estate, Olivia had worked as a PR consultant for a marketing agency in Bath. Since her arrival two years ago, she had been striving to modernise the village.

‘We’ll talk slowly then, shall we?’ Tom suggested.

Olivia ignored him and continued tapping the screen of her tablet.

In her capacity as Heatherton’s mobile hairdresser, Lucy knew everything about everyone, past and present. According to her, Olivia was pursuing ‘village life’ as doggedly as she had her career.

‘No problem,’ Mike said.

‘In the long run, it’ll be more efficient,’ Olivia explained, giving Tom one of her looks. ‘I’ll be able to email everyone the minutes as soon as we’ve finished.’

‘What if we don’t have email?’ Tom asked.

‘Everyone has an email address, Tom, including you,’ Olivia said.

Tom chuckled. ‘Thought I’d ask, just in case.’

‘I don’t,’ Beth admitted. She had been thinking about getting an email account for months but hadn’t bothered to do anything about it. Or rather she hadn’t got round to asking Jen, her teenage daughter who was currently upstairs, supposedly doing homework with Suzy Harris, to set it up for her.

‘Well, I know Peter does,’ Olivia said, ‘because I’ve emailed him several times about the designs for our four-poster bed.’

‘That’s true,’ Beth agreed.

‘I’ll just send yours to Peter, shall I?’ Olivia asked.

Beth nodded and peered through the patio doors as Lucy gave Olivia her email address. Outside, the morning was dark and dismal. The January sun, not powerful enough to pierce the dense layer of clouds, was illuminating the sky from behind.

Mike took a gulp of coffee. ‘Right, item one: social media—’

‘If I may interrupt, Mike,’ Olivia said, not waiting for his reply. ‘As you all know, I’ve been campaigning for us to get connected for some time.’ She stared at Tom. ‘While some people love to moan, if we want our events to be successful, then it’s crucial we embrace Facebook and Twitter, because they’re not going away.’

Mike frowned. ‘Okay, point taken, but what exactly do we do once we’re on this social media?’

‘Well,’ Olivia said. ‘It’ll connect to our website, obviously. A good example would be the pictures I took at the New Year's party. They’d be ideal to put on the village Facebook page and to tweet.’

‘And people like to see that kind of thing, do they?’ Mike asked.

‘They do,’ Olivia said. ‘We can also use them as platforms to advertise the fete.’

‘That sounds a good enough reason to do it,’ Mike said. ‘We want to get as much publicity this year as we can. That way, we’ll increase our funding for next year.’

‘And we could use that,’ Tom, the committee treasurer, said.

Beth had heard Jen talk about Facebook but had no idea what it was or how you got on it. She knew Olivia well enough to know that it was best not to admit to what you didn’t know. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be booked in for weekly classes on how to do Facebook.

‘It’ll also provide a forum for locals to connect on,’ Olivia said.

‘Why can’t we connect in the pub, like we’ve always done?’ Tom asked.

Beth smiled at Tom. He wasn’t one for computers and things, either. He’d retired a few years ago, and since then he’d become active in the village clubs and frequently came along to the weekly knitting circle, she ran in the hall. Of course, he was all fingers and thumbs trying to hold the needles in place and still couldn’t knit a stitch, but he made a lovely pot of tea.

‘There’s connecting, and then there’s connecting, Tom,’ Olivia said.

Tom shrugged. ‘Well, I still don’t understand this need for it,’ he said.

‘Olivia’s right,’ Lucy said to Tom. ‘Several new clients found me on my Facebook page.’

‘Well, I’m convinced,’ Mike said. ‘Olivia, you’re happy to take on this responsibility, are you?’

Olivia smiled. ‘It’ll be my pleasure.’

‘So, do we all agree,’ Mike asked, ‘that Heatherton should get connected to social media?’

Beth nodded, with a look at the biscuits. Maybe now was a good time. She’d finished her coffee, though, and Val, Mike’s wife, wouldn’t bring a fresh pot in for another hour.

‘About time,’ Lucy said.

‘As long as you don’t expect me to do anything with it,’ Tom said.

‘All in favour? Good.’ Mike scribbled on his agenda. ‘Right, item two, a local celebrity, to open the fete.’ Mike slowly exhaled. ‘We really can’t delay this any longer, guys. We need to find someone, and fast.’

Olivia looked up, her face jubilant. ‘No need,’ she said. ‘I’ve found us the perfect celebrity.’

‘You have?’ Mike settled back in his chair. ‘Fantastic. Then I’ve two questions for you: who is it, and can we afford them?’

‘I was about to query cost,’ Tom said.

‘They’re affordable,’ Olivia said. ‘I reached out to my colleagues at the agency, told them we needed someone special to open our fete and they had just the person.’

Lucy giggled. ‘Don’t keep us hanging,’ she said. ‘Who is it?’

‘A war photographer who’s recently won a prestigious award and has an autobiography due out.’

Tom frowned. ‘A war photographer? He’s suitable, do you think?’

‘Ah, well, the best part is that he’s from round here. He’s a local,’ Olivia said with a pointed look at Tom. ‘So I would think he’s perfectly suitable.’

‘What’s his name?’ Lucy asked.

‘Don Meadon,’ Olivia said.

Beth dropped the pen that she’d been doodling with. ‘Don Meadon?’

‘Know him?’ Mike asked, turning to look at Beth.

She shook her head. ‘No, it’s just—’

‘Don has worked all round the world in various war zones: Bosnia, Afghanistan, Iraq...’ Olivia said.

‘And he’s from around here?’ Beth asked.

Olivia nodded.

Beth shifted forward in her chair and leant across the table. Her hands left sweaty outlines against the polished mahogany, so she moved them to her lap. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘Not sure,’ Olivia said. ‘But he’s highly respected. And keen to publicise his book. He wants to open the fete and give a reading, followed by a Q&A session. Which should draw the crowds, especially if we advertise well.’

‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ Mike said. ‘We could set up a stage in the large marquee and make a thing of it. Yes… yes, I like that addition a lot.’

‘He sounds ideal,’ Mike said. ‘I mean, who better to open our Jubilee fete than a local war hero?’

Olivia looked questioningly at Mike. ‘So, shall I book him?’

‘Should we—’ Beth faltered. Her mouth was as dry as the discarded wood shavings on the floor of Pete’s carpentry workshop.

‘Beth, are you okay?’ Lucy asked. ‘You’re turned as white as talc.’

‘Oh, I’m fine,’ Beth said. ‘It’s just… Don’t you think we should find out more about him first? I mean, he could be anybody.’

‘What’s to find out?’ Olivia asked. ‘And he’s not just anybody, he’s a respected professional who is a client at my agency.’

‘No, I agree with Olivia. I think he’s just what we need,’ Mike said. ‘He’ll be a real crowd pleaser.’

‘If you think so... If you’re sure…’ Beth stopped. They were all staring at her, and she felt her face ignite as fast as dry kindling. ‘Of course, you’re right,’ she said, lifting her coffee cup and circling her hands around it. ‘He sounds great.’

She took a gulp of the leftover coffee – cold, bitter liquid. But it was too thick and there was not enough of it to ease the dryness of her mouth.

‘All in favour of Don Meadon as our celebrity. Great stuff. Job well done, Olivia,’ Mike said. ‘Now that’s settled, let’s move on to item three: choosing a supplier for the celebration cakes.’

Beth placed her cup down on to the saucer and took a slow, deep breath. ‘Tom,’ she said. ‘Would you pass me the biscuits, please?’

CHAPTER 2

It was noon by the time the committee meeting finally finished. Hazy sunlight had penetrated the clouds to light up the sky like a giant bruise: a blended palette of greys, blues, and mustard yellow.

A bitterly cold wind powered along the high street as Beth hurried across the road, struggling to keep up with Jen.

‘I don’t see why I couldn’t stay for lunch,’ Jen said, facing her above the roof of their estate.

She waited as Jen got in and slammed the door so hard the car rocked sideways, then lowered herself into the driver’s seat and closed the door against the cold.

‘Because I said so.’

Beth peered into the rear-view mirror, smoothing down her tangled, toffee coloured hair; hating the way her cheeks flushed. She looked like a panda; the dark circles under her eyes for once looking white against the letterbox red of her skin. Well, maybe a panda with an oval-shaped age spot on its face; a lasting reminder of her pregnancy.

‘Did I really give you that?’ Jen would ask, covering it with kisses when she was still young enough to want to cuddle on her lap.

She watched Jen throw her haversack into the backseat of the car. Her pale, spotty skin was just like hers at that age. Long black curls, Pete’s side of the family not hers, scraped back into a high ponytail.

Beth started the engine. ‘I’m sorry, but we’ve lots to do.’

Mike had given her the job of collecting brochures from the cake specialists in Woodborough this afternoon. Then they needed to buy school supplies for Jen, with the new term starting Monday, and she had to pick up the wool she’d ordered from the craft shop: the knitting circle had chosen a Jubilee theme for their New Year project, which they’d start this week.

‘Yeah, but why’ve I got to come with you?’

‘You spend far too much time at the Harrises as it is,’ she said.

‘Suzy wanted me to stay.’

‘I’m sure she did.’ Beth clicked the indicator on. ‘Anyway, we’ve got to pop round to Gran and Gramps before we—’

‘You. Are. Kidding. Me,’ Jen said.

Beth smiled. The ball of tension in her chest that became knotted during the meeting had unravelled a little. This phase, the ‘pausing for effect’ after each word was one of Jen’s teenage techniques that she quite liked.

Over the years, while there’d been times when she wished Jen hadn’t reached and embraced the troublesome teens, she admired her daughter for having the guts, having sufficient personality to act out.

As a young girl and, later, as a teenager, she’d known her mother wouldn’t tolerate unacceptable behaviour, so she’d never indulged in a tantrum, made a stand or given her parents a moment’s concern. Looking back, she regretted it, worrying that it made her less-than as a person.

‘No, I’m not kidding you,’ Beth said once she’d turned the car on to the main road towards Woodborough. ‘Gran needs us to collect her prescription from the chemists.’

‘Why can’t they get their own prescriptions?’

‘You know why.’ Beth focused on the road, wishing Jen didn’t voice her own silent frustrations.

Her mum and dad were retired and nearing their seventies. Each year, they became increasingly demanding on her time and patience, and she often longed for a brother or sister to share the responsibilities of aging parents with.

Beth sighed. ‘Let’s not go through this again, please.’

Jen stared out of the window.

‘Anyway,’ Beth said, injecting a cheerfulness she didn’t feel into her voice, ‘Gran and Gramps would be disappointed not to see you.’

‘Would not.’

‘Of course, they would.’

Jen had a point. Each visit and weekly shopping trip she took them on, she often had the same thought: would they even notice if she wasn’t there?

Pulling her phone from her coat pocket, Jen untangled the headphones and rammed them into her ears, turning the volume up.

She should say something; tell her to turn it down. It couldn’t be good for her ears. Hadn’t she read an article somewhere about a new generation being hard of hearing before their time, because they listened to excessively loud music through headphones?

Today she didn’t have the energy to argue, so she let it go.

In the silence, navigating the familiar roads on their way to the chemist, her thoughts returned to the name, circling it round and round: Don Meadon.

It was a coincidence. Lots of people could have the same name; and anyway, he never used to shorten it… It was a coincidence, yes, but it was just another random name.

Beth turned the car into Holt Road and felt the usual heaviness descend upon her; as if the road itself was a vice waiting to crush and constrict her; not a regular street in an average local town.

Number 14 Holt Road. This was the street, the house where she’d been born and had lived until she married Pete. It was a narrow, dingy road lined with narrow, dingy terraced houses. Residents’ cars edged along both sides of the street, cars lined bumper to bumper. While others were parked or abandoned upon trampled, dying front lawns.

Jen’s arm jerked forward. ‘There’s a space.’

‘Well spotted,’ she said, reversing into it before anyone else could.

Engine off, Beth reached a hand over to touch Jen’s arm. ‘We won’t stay long.’

‘Promise?’

Beth nodded, grabbing the prescription they’d collected from the pharmacy. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

It was gone 12:30, and she knew her parents would by now have settled in the living room at the back of the house, eating their lunch with the midday news. She should, really, have called ahead to say they were on their way. But over the years, she’d learned that when dealing with her mother, the element of surprise was a useful ally.

Beth opened the gate and waited for Jen. ‘Press the bell then,’ she said, once they were hovering by the faded blue door.

Jen pressed the buzzer and grinned. ‘Don’t think they’re in. Maybe we should go home, or we could go and get pizza?’

Beth sighed. ‘They’re in,’ she said. ‘Give it another push.’

She knew they’d be home and that the bell worked; Pete had fixed it for them the last time they’d visited for Sunday tea.

‘There’s Gran,’ Jen said. ‘I can hear her huffing.’

The door opened and Joan