around his beautiful face in a way that, in another existence, might have made him a male model, or even the pop star he longed to be. He was standing in front of the large kitchen fireplace – empty apart from an overflowing waste-paper basket and a well-worn trainer – watching proceedings with curious, hazel eyes. Angie smiled to beckon him forward. His gaze remained on the newcomer, studying him with frank intensity. It was hard for Angie to look at him without feeling an extra wave of affection, or a tug back into her past that was never welcome.
Cups of tea were soon being handed around, no sugar for Angie, two for everyone else, no biscuits – who half-inched the last digestives? Alexei, you toerag – when Craig finally stepped forward and went to stand in front of Mark. His expression was solemn, his stance stiff and awkward as he looked the older man up and down.
Clearly thrown by this scrutiny, Mark glanced at Angie, but before she could make the introduction Craig said, abruptly, ‘You are welcome here.’
Mark blinked and the others grinned.
Craig’s eyes remained on Mark as he rose hesitantly to his feet, holding out a hand to shake. ‘Thanks mate,’ he mumbled.
Craig took a step back and watched in alarm as one of Mark’s shaving papers floated like a petal down to the table.
‘Don’t take offence,’ Hamish advised. ‘It’s just his way. Isn’t it, Craig?’
Seeming not to hear, Craig turned around and reached for the guitar propped against the fireplace. After a few introductory chords that filled the kitchen with reasonably tuned sound he began to sing, ‘Welcome to Wherever You Are’.
‘Bon Jovi,’ Lennie mouthed to Angie, in case she didn’t recognize the number. Craig’s renditions didn’t always bear close resemblance to the originals; nevertheless, it was astonishing and touching the way he could come up with a song for most occasions.
When he finished, mid-chorus, mid-word even, he put the guitar down, bowed to his applauding audience and took the cuppa Lennie had poured for him. ‘I’m getting together with some people later,’ he informed everyone. ‘We’re going to form a band and make some videos.’
Angie glanced at Hamish, whose expression was saying, I’ve no idea if it’s real or imagined, but I’ll plump for the latter.
Craig said, ‘One of them reckons he can get us some gigs at a pub on Moorside.’
It would be good to know that Craig was making friends provided she could be certain they were genuine, and not out to steal his guitar, or rough him up just for the fun of it.
Finishing her tea, Angie picked up her bag and rose to her feet. ‘OK, I have to be going, guys, but tell me first, Alexei, are you remembering to take your medication?’ He’d told her himself that he’d served four years for grievous bodily harm, and she’d been warned that he’d present a danger to society, and to himself, if he forgot, or decided to stop taking his drugs.
‘Definitely,’ he assured her, tapping a finger to his forehead in an odd sort of salute.
Hamish nodded confirmation, letting her know that he was keeping a close eye on it.
Hamish was a hero in the way he looked out for the residents as if they really were his family, watching them come and go, succeed and fail, struggle with everything from computers to cravings to job searches and even personal hygiene, always ready to lend a hand. She knew he was ex-forces and had served in the first Iraq war, but it was a time of his life he never wanted to discuss, although he had once admitted that he’d come back in a terrible state and had been turfed out by his wife. These days he’d probably be diagnosed as suffering with PTSD, she realized, although it still wasn’t certain how much help he’d receive. He was as gently spoken and courteous as he was smartly turned out – always in a collar and tie when he left the house, frayed though it might be, shoes shining and trousers neatly pressed. And he was so grateful to have been made a permanent resident that he not only took care of this house and its small garden, but also the one next door that Angie’s sister, Emma, managed for their organisation Bridging the Gap.
It was Angie and Emma’s job to help the residents progress from all the difficulties they’d fought to overcome on the streets, in prison, in various shelters or rehab centres, back into a society where they could function as worthy and hard-working individuals.
As usual a barrage of questions followed her to the door as she left, mixed in with some teasing, and the merry tune of her mobile ringing. Seeing it was a resident from Hope House, presumably unable to get hold of Emma, she let it go to messages. She needed to get a move on now or a parking warden would start salivating over her little van like he’d just found a tasty sandwich still in its wrapper, and didn’t want be late for her afternoon stint at the food bank.
As she closed the front door behind her, satisfied that all was well inside for now, she started along the front path and with each step she felt herself becoming aware of her thoughts moving ahead of her across the street, and over the rooftops to a terraced house on the avenue behind. It was where she and Steve had lived when they’d first come to Kesterly, almost fourteen years ago, in a cramped and draughty second-floor flat that Steve, with his wonderful enthusiasm and decorator’s skills, had transformed into a warm and welcoming home.
She could hear Liam, aged five, calling out for his dad to come and read him a story. ‘Daddy! Giraffe, monkey, pelly,’ and minutes later Steve would be rolling up laughing at his favourite Roald Dahl story. Liam always chose it because of how much it made his daddy laugh, and Angie would stand outside the door listening, loving them with all her heart and wishing Liam was able to read it himself.
‘He’ll get there,’ Steve’s mother always assured them, ‘he’s just a late learner, that’s all. You wait, before you know it he’ll be streets ahead of everyone else and you won’t be able to keep up with him.’
Due to her role as a teaching assistant at the local school, Angie was able to monitor his progress, and it definitely wasn’t happening at the same rate as other kids his age. On the other hand he was always so happy and eager to try new things, and even when he was teased or left out of a game he never seemed to get upset. He’d just laugh along with the others, not caring that he was the butt of the joke, and if anyone ever appeared sad he’d quickly invite them home to play trains or do some colouring with him and his dad.
‘He’s a special boy,’ Hari Shalik, Steve’s boss, would often say, ruffling Liam’s hair and smiling down at the small upturned face in a grandfatherly way.
‘Can I come and work for you when I’m grown up?’ Liam would sometimes ask.
Hari’s chuckle rang with notes of surprise and delight. ‘Of course, if it’s what you still want when the time comes, but you might have other ideas by then.’
‘He’s going to fly to the moon, aren’t you, Liam?’ Steve would prompt.
Liam’s nod was earnest and slow until he broke into a grin and wrapped his arms around his daddy’s legs. ‘Only if you come with me,’ he whispered.
‘Well, I wouldn’t let you go on your own.’
‘Can we take Mummy?’
‘I think we should.’
To Hari Liam said, ‘Mummy’s going to have a baby.’
Hari’s golden-brown eyes widened with interest. ‘So you’ll have a brother or a sister? Will you take them to the moon as well?’
Liam thought about it. ‘They might be too small, so they’ll have to stay with Granny Watts until we come back.’
‘Good idea, and don’t forget to let me know when you’re going so I can come and give you a good send-off.’
Recalling that conversation now as she drove away from Hill Lodge, Angie was smiling at how precious and pure those memories were, like long hot summer days before autumn came to shadow the sunlight, and rain began falling like tears from gathering clouds.