life than none at all. I’m the lucky one.’ I sipped my tea, mentally pushing away the guilt that threatened to roll in like the mist over Winlow Hill.
‘Are you meeting Rich tonight? Is he taking you out to cheer you up?’
Tina’s attempt to lighten the mood wasn’t a huge success.
‘It’s his access weekend. His children are staying so I won’t see him.’ Despite my best efforts, there was more relief in my voice than regret. ‘Maybe we’ll go out during the week.’
‘You can do what you like now, can’t you? Life begins at almost forty! You’re lucky to have an empty nest while you still have the energy to take advantage of it. What plans do you have?’
‘Nothing special …’ And then I remembered Caitlyn’s parting gift, and I pulled the box of vouchers out of my bag to show Tina. ‘Although Caitlyn has made me these, and I promised to do twelve things to be kind to myself …’
‘Ooh, aren’t they pretty? She should sell these. I’d buy some.’ Tina inspected the cards. ‘Have you thought of anything yet?’
I shook my head.
‘I know the perfect thing to set you off,’ Tina said, reaching for her iPad. ‘Are you free next Thursday night?’
‘Maybe …’
‘I saw this advertised on my Facebook group for history teachers this morning. There’s a talk on Thursday night at a private school in Yorkshire about the Romans in Britain.’
‘A history talk? That sounds more like being kind to you,’ I said, smiling.
Tina laughed. ‘Hang on, I’m getting to your bit. The talk is a two-hander with a historian and an archaeologist speaking.’
I sipped my tea, feeling the first stirrings of disquiet. It was foolish – irrational. How many thousands of archaeologists must there be across the country? There was no reason to think it would be him …
‘Here we go,’ Tina continued, tapping at the iPad screen. ‘Jeremy Swann is the historian – you might not have heard of him, but he’s written some interesting books about life in Roman Britain. That’s your favourite time, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, when Tina paused for breath. It had been my favourite time. In the days when archaeology hadn’t only been about the past, but my future. Our future.
‘And they’ve done well to get this archaeologist,’ Tina continued. ‘He’s been on the telly – did you see that programme, Travels Through Time? Paddy Friel’s his name. Have you heard of him?’
Paddy Friel … My head began to spin. I put down my mug.
‘I’ll find you a photo. That’ll convince you to come with me.’ Tina laughed and swiped the iPad screen. ‘Here you go. Don’t tell me it’s not being kind to yourself to gaze at him for an hour …’
Tina held the iPad up towards me. A man’s profile filled the screen: a familiar face, if older than when I had last studied it in such detail, from the cleft in his chin, to the dark curls that tumbled around his face, still slightly too long for practicality. I thought I’d set aside my feelings many years ago, but as I stared at the picture, the emotions revived, flashing through my head like a spinning fairground ride: a dizzying blur of love, disappointment, hatred and anger.
‘He’s no expert on the Romans,’ I said. I turned away from the photo. Those twinkling eyes stirred too many memories, the good memories, not the bad. I didn’t want to remember those. ‘He was always more interested in the Vikings.’
And in himself – no subject was closer to Paddy Friel’s heart than Paddy Friel.
‘You know him?’ Tina looked more impressed than Paddy deserved. She smiled. ‘You’re a dark horse. How well do you know him? Academically or Biblically?’
‘Both, once. It was all over a long time ago.’
‘Blimey.’ Tina goggled at me. ‘I wasn’t serious. But, really? You had a thing with Paddy Friel? How could you not have mentioned that before?’
‘Because I’d rather forget all about him. I certainly don’t want to meet him again.’
Tina hesitated, tapping her iPad screen with her nail.
‘You won’t meet him. We can sit at the back and sneak out as soon as it ends. There’s coffee and biscuits afterwards, but we don’t need to stay for that. Come on, I don’t want to go on my own. And what about these?’ Tina pointed at the pile of ‘Be Kind to Yourself’ vouchers. ‘This is a perfect example of what Caitlyn had in mind. It’s time to start thinking of yourself again, and what you want to do. Archaeology was once your passion. You’ve no excuse not to pursue it now. You definitely can’t let some bloke put you off going to something that would interest you.’
Not just some bloke … but still, as I looked down at Caitlyn’s vouchers, a prickle of life stirred within me. I had loved archaeology once, had been fascinated by the opportunity to literally unearth traces of lives lived thousands of years ago. The Romans had been my favourite area of study. And why shouldn’t I attend a talk on them, even if Paddy Friel would be there? He was nothing to me now, and he would have long forgotten me. The time when he, or any man, had any influence over my actions was long gone.
‘You’re right,’ I said, picking up the vouchers. ‘My first act of kindness. I’ll go to the lecture, and no one will stop me.’ I laughed. ‘Paddy who?’
Paddy Friel. Or Nigel Patrick Friel, to give him his full name, the name that only people who had known him in infant school days would know. And me – because once I had known him inside out, understood every shift and sigh of his body, comprehended every turn and contemplation of his mind. Until adversity hit, and I discovered that the man I thought I had known and loved was a sham in substance as well as in name.
We had met in our first year at university, both students of archaeology, but inhabiting very different social groups. He was part of the crowd of beautiful people, the sort of group my sister Faye would have naturally belonged to, but which was far out of my league. I’d noticed him at once – impossible not to, with those glossy dark curls, confident swagger, and the Irish accent that I only discovered much later was an exaggerated version of his real voice. Despite the small number of students on our course, I would have put money on him not knowing that I existed.
But then, in the third term of my first year, as I had wandered back to the halls of residence laden down with supermarket carrier bags that scored the flesh on my fingers, a shove in the back had knocked me to the ground, sending eggs smashing to the pavement and tins of baked beans rolling into the road. A hooded man had crouched over me, with a knife in his hand, and I had been too frozen with terror to react. And then, like a dark descending angel, Paddy Friel had appeared and knocked my assailant out of the way, making him run off. Paddy had picked up my shopping, escorted me back to my room and stayed with me until the police arrived. He had wiped away my tears, made me countless drinks, talked to me and, above all else, he had simply been there for me when I needed him.
Later that night, he had insisted that I join him at the local pub for a drink, determined that I had to leave my room again before the fear took hold and kept me prisoner. The next morning he had waited outside my halls to walk me to our lecture, and that had been the beginning of everything …
The memories swept relentlessly through my head as I drove through Inglebridge on my way to pay my regular Sunday visit to my grandmother, Phyllis. She had moved into the local nursing home, The Chestnuts, eight years ago, after her first hip replacement, and had loved it so much that she never moved out again. It was a not-for-profit home, where fees were low, happiness levels high, and the staff were universally kind to the old people in their care. Gran thrived