had to get out.
Quietly I turned the bathroom lock to shut myself in. Then I opened the window and looked down.
Yep. It was happening. I was going to do something I’d only ever seen in films, something that twenty-four hours ago I could never have imagined myself doing.
I was going to shin down a drainpipe. In my wedding dress and wellies, like some low-budget Yorkshire remake of Kill Bill.
I eyed the iron drainpipe with trepidation. I didn’t have much time: if Mum set off right away she could be here in two hours, and I wanted to be as far away as possible by then. But I’d never climbed down a drainpipe before, and although I asked myself how hard it could really be, the ground seemed a long way off.
‘Kitty! Do you need a towel?’ Aunty Julia’s voice sailed up.
‘Er, no,’ I called back. ‘Managed to find one, thanks.’
Okay, that settled it. I needed to get out, before she cottoned on that something was up.
I turned off the taps. It might take Aunty Julia a while to work out I was gone, and I didn’t want to end up flooding her house.
Clambering up onto the sink as quietly as possible, I leaned out of the window to grab the drainpipe with both hands, my enormous flared skirt billowing over the porcelain. With a huge effort and a barely suppressed squeal, I managed to manoeuvre myself out, supporting my weight as best I could.
Still, as I scrambled down the pipe, trying not to look at the ground, it was really less of a climb than a slide. When I got to the bottom, the skin of both hands was friction-burnt and painful, little pieces of black paint dotting the palms where they’d embedded themselves in my flesh. I’d managed to tear my dress too, but that was the least of my worries.
Health to wear it, strength to tear it, money to buy another…
Money. I patted my bosom, where the £50 Jack had lent me was stashed in my bra. Thank God I hadn’t talked him into taking it back. It was all that was standing between me and complete destitution right now.
I started walking towards the road. Once I was out of sight of the house, I broke into a sprint. My plan was to get as far away as possible on foot, out of sight of Aunty Julia and any of her neighbours and friends who might recognise me, before I tried hitching another lift. Christ only knew where I’d end up spending the night. Hopefully there’d be a youth hostel or something that wouldn’t dent my £50 too much. As for what would happen to me after that, I had no idea. All I knew was, I’d rather sleep rough than go back to the place that used to be my home.
Once I was a good mile clear of the cottage, I had my second go at hitch-hiking. It took a lot longer to get a lift this time – I think I probably looked a bit scary, with make-up all down my face and a big rip in my dress. But eventually a kind elderly couple, who obviously thought I was some sort of eccentric debutante who’d fallen on hard times, picked me up. They were heading to Keswick in northern Lakeland, a reasonable distance away, and offered to drop me off.
‘Where do you want to be, my dear?’ the old lady asked gently when we were nearly there. She said everything gently, so as not to get the lunatic in the ballgown too excited.
‘Um… is there a pub near here? One that does cheap meals?’ After throwing up my sandwiches I was starving again, and I needed somewhere warm to hole up while I worked out where I was going to sleep. Hopefully the bar staff would know if there was a hostel nearby.
‘The Shepherd’s Rest,’ her husband said promptly. ‘Main meal and a pint for £8 on Thursdays. Great ale selection too.’
‘Trust you to know that.’ The woman rolled her eyes at me. ‘No drunk like an old drunk, I always say.’
I forced a smile.
Ten minutes later, they dropped me off outside and I waved them goodbye.
The Shepherd’s Rest was a sweet country pub, all whitewash and mock-Tudor. The sign over the half-timbered front showed a cloth-capped old gent slumbering near a flock of Herdwicks, and a chalkboard by the entrance declared ‘Well Behaved Dog’s & Badly Behaved Women Welcome!!!’
Through the door, I could see an unseasonal but welcoming log fire and a wealth of brass and mahogany. On the mantelpiece were the obligatory pair of china spaniels, beloved of nanas and country pub landlords the world over, with an old shotgun and a moth-eaten fox’s head mounted overhead. A brass plaque above the doorframe said, ‘Duck or grouse – mind your head!!’, while a mock specials board on the wall announced, ‘Soup of the Day: Beer!!!’ The landlord was clearly a man who liked his gags old-school and heavy on the exclamation marks.
There’s something about the pub after a day on the move, isn’t there? The way it glows with warmth and welcome, the door propped open invitingly. I think it calls out to the traveller in all of us, the one who longs to lay down his pack and rest away from the elements a while.
I ventured in, too cold and hungry to care what impression my bedraggled appearance was likely to make on the other customers. To his credit though, the young barman didn’t say a word when I approached him.
‘What can I get you, love?’ he asked politely.
‘Just a tap water.’ I didn’t want to waste the only cash I had in the world on alcohol, much as I could’ve murdered a glass of wine. ‘And a menu, please.’
‘Sorry. We stopped serving food half an hour ago.’
It was only a little thing. But it was the last little thing in a long day of pretty big things, and something inside me just broke.
I burst into tears.
‘Er, hey,’ the lad said, his eyes widening. Hysterical customers in ballgowns clearly hadn’t been part of barman basic training. ‘No need to take it so hard.’ He grabbed a packet of dry-roasted peanuts from behind him and slapped them down on the bar. ‘Here. On the house.’
‘Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just… I’ve had a rough day.’
There was something cold and wet pressing against the sore palm dangling at my side. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and glanced down to find a chubby yellow mongrel with its nose against me, tail wagging like we were old friends.
I frowned. ‘Whose dog is this?’
‘Still mine,’ a voice behind me said. ‘And we really must stop meeting like this.’
The surge of relief at hearing Jack’s voice was so strong I could’ve hugged him. Yes, I’d only met him a few hours ago, but in that whole long day of betrayals and heartbreak, it felt like he was the one person who’d been unequivocally on my side.
‘Oh God, I’m glad to see you,’ I said with a shaky smile.
‘Me too. You owe me fifty quid.’ He nodded to the barman. ‘Another pint, Ryan, and whatever the lady’s having.’
‘I already ordered a tap water.’
‘Well now I’m buying. What do you really want?’
‘I’d commit mass murder for a glass of white wine,’ I admitted.
‘Then it’s yours. Can’t have you turning to crime.’ He glanced at the packet of peanuts on the bar. ‘That’s not your dinner, is it?’
‘It’ll have to be. They’ve stopped serving food.’
‘You can manage a little something, can’t you, Ry?’ Jack asked with a winning smile.
Ryan looked unsure. ‘Dunno, Jack. Dad’ll go spare if I start taking special orders after hours.’
‘He won’t, not if