And the thought of kissing made her feel nervous, in a way she hadn’t felt since school. The kiss she’d had with Michael didn’t really count; it was just a gesture, an action she was almost looking at from outside. If she kissed Lorcan, it would be a messy, real mingling of lips and tongue and taste, and it made her shiver with fear and longing.
‘I really missed you this week,’ she said, a bit too loud, on account of the earphone. ‘You and the Kellys, I mean. It was too quiet next door.’
‘Did you?’ Lorcan turned and grinned. Even closer now, close enough to see the scratchy beginnings of his beard. He’d gone a few days without shaving for the holidays and it suited him. He looked pirate-y. ‘I missed you.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yeah. You and the dogs.’
They gazed awkwardly at each other, noses almost touching. Then Lorcan’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
‘Ignore it,’ he said. ‘So, this week, was it very—’
The phone buzzed again and he tutted.
‘Answer it,’ said Juliet, inches from his mouth. ‘It might be someone else with a sick animal who needs transport.’
‘Get out of here. I’m not Rolf Harris. I only do dog rescue for special cases.’
It buzzed a third time, and then Juliet’s phone pinged with a message too.
They both went to check them and the earphones yanked out of their ears and clattered against Lorcan’s jacket.
‘Ow,’ said Juliet, rubbing her ear. ‘And it was just Louise, wishing me happy New Year. And Mum.’
‘Snap,’ said Lorcan. ‘Only mine was from Bono.’
‘Really?’
She looked up and Lorcan was grinning at her. ‘No. Only if Emer’s sending out New Year’s greetings on his behalf. Which I wouldn’t put past her.’
Juliet’s smile hovered at half-mast as an unfamiliar longing swept through her. Lorcan was extraordinarily good-looking, even in the harsh strip lights of the waiting room. She really, really wanted to put her lips against those strong cheekbones and feel the roughness of his beard.
‘You know what this means?’ he said, arching an eyebrow.
‘No, what?’ said Juliet. She felt awkward, and teenage.
‘It means . . . It’s a new year! Happy New Year!’ Lorcan crossed his arms in ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and grabbed her hands. ‘May this year be full of happiness and new experiences and quality decoration. And friendship and new beginnings.’
Juliet let him bounce her hands up and down. ‘And which are you hoping for?’ she asked. ‘Friendship . . . or new beginnings?’
Lorcan stopped bouncing her hands and looked her straight in the eye. His own eyes were dark and a little wary, and for the first time that night, he seemed unsure of himself.
Juliet held her breath.
‘Is it greedy . . . to hope for both?’ he asked. ‘If we’re both very careful about it?’
She shook her head, then nodded, unsure which was the right response for ‘Yes, please’ and the wariness left his face, to be replaced by a nervous pleasure.
Still holding Lorcan’s hands in hers, for the first proper time since she was fifteen, Juliet leaned forward, closed her eyes and deliberately kissed a man for the first time, right on the mouth.
Lorcan’s lips moved slowly under hers and then parted, and his arms went over her head and around her waist, pulling her to him as he kissed her.
It didn’t feel like kissing Ben. It was different. Not better or worse, but different. And Juliet knew that it was different because she was too: older, tougher, sadder, but her own self. A grown woman who could deal with sick dogs and wallpaper and relationships that might not be perfect.
Lorcan pulled back, and rested his forehead on hers. He let out a long, low breath, as if he’d been holding it in for ages.
‘Is this OK?’ he whispered.
Juliet nearly laughed. ‘OK? In what way? Are you looking for marks out of ten?’
‘No! I mean, I know you don’t feel ready for anything new, and I totally understand that, but . . .’ He looked up and Juliet melted at the intense look in his blue eyes. ‘I thought I needed to wait too. But I’ve wanted to do that for quite a long time.’
‘It’s definitely OK,’ said Juliet. ‘More than OK.’ And she leaned in to kiss him again, reaching for his prickly jaw to pull him closer.
‘Juliet, I’ve got some— Can you break that up, please? I don’t care if it is New Year; this is a surgery, not a nightclub.’
They sprang apart, like guilty teenagers. George was standing by the door in his blue theatre overalls, pulling the Latex gloves off.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now, Minton’s all stitched and stabilised and tucked up in the recovery ward, so there’s really nothing more that we can do tonight. He should be fine by tomorrow afternoon, so if you want to drop by then to collect him . . .’
‘Tomorrow?’ said Lorcan. ‘New Year’s Day?’
‘Dogs don’t do bank holidays or hangovers, do they?’ George winked at Juliet. ‘As I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Juliet. Sloe gin hangover or not, she could already see herself striding through the snow in the park, Lorcan’s hand in hers, and her little pack of dogs running ahead, huffing their white breath in the crisp air. In her head, they were all heading up the hill towards the woods where the trees were covered in snow now, but where the fresh buds were already planning their spring escape.
Epilogue
The best time to plant cherry trees, according to Ben’s battered old gardening manuals, was early spring, after a cold winter.
Juliet stood in the garden, watching Lorcan digging the hole, and felt warm inside, even though it was still chilly enough for hats. They were all watching Lorcan digging – her, Louise, Peter and Toby. Emer was supposed to be making them coffee with her flashy cappuccino machine, but she’d been gone for a while.
‘Shouldn’t I be using one of those commemorative shovels?’ he asked, between gasps. The ground was still quite hard. ‘Aren’t they compulsory for memorial plantings?’
‘Is a new shovel not good enough?’ demanded Louise. ‘Come on. We polished it and everything.’
‘It’s perfect,’ said Juliet. ‘And so are these.’
She was still admiring the cherry tree saplings, now little trees in their black containers. It was hard to imagine that one day they’d be big enough to spill blossom over the road like Ben’s favourite tree on the hill but they would. Eventually. Given time.
‘I still can’t believe you grew them, Lou,’ she said.
‘I didn’t grow them, Ben did. He set them up, and grafted them. I just helped them along.’
‘Same difference.’ She squeezed her sister’s arm. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I can’t believe you kept it so quiet!’
Louise glanced sideways, and made a rueful face. ‘I didn’t want to jinx it,’ she admitted. ‘I wanted to make sure they were going to make it first.’
‘But they have,’ said Peter. He was sitting on a bench with Toby, helping him throw a ball for Minton, who was humouring them by bringing it back. Coco was watching, in a grandmotherly fashion. ‘Let’s not get morbid here. It’s a lovely idea, this memorial route thing. Where are the others going?’
‘First one here, then the next down by the canal, one in the park, and then one on the way up to Coneygreen woods.’
‘And I’m not digging all the holes,’ gasped Lorcan. ‘Before you even suggest it.’
When Louise had told Juliet about the saplings waiting in her greenhouse, Juliet’s first thought was to make a little orchard of cherry trees along her back garden. Louise had pointed out, practical as ever, that it wouldn’t leave a lot of room for grass, but she couldn’t bear the thought of getting rid of the spares.
It had been Louise’s idea to plant them along her dog-walking route, so she’d be able to follow a path of blossom with Minton once a year, and then it had been Louise who’d generously offered to twist so
me arms in the council planning department to have them planted in the spots that Juliet chose.
Louise had done some really kind things, thought Juliet. Kindness that she’d managed to ignore, out of childishness.
She gave her another squeeze.
‘What was that for?’ asked Louise.
‘For sorting out the bathroom. Buying all that stuff and getting Lorcan to fit it.’ She raised her enquiring expression to include him. He was as much behind it as them. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about that either?’ she asked. ‘Or was I just being dumb?’
‘You were . . . in a difficult place,’ said Louise, diplomatically. ‘You kept going on about wanting to do everything yourself, and Mum didn’t want to make you feel we were crowding you any more than we already were.’
Juliet knew she was being tactful from the guarded look on Peter’s face. It was only now she was emerging into something approaching normality that she could see how hard she’d made it for her family. And yet they’d stuck it out, hovering protectively on the periphery of her life – Dad mowing the lawn, Mum dropping Coco off, Louise ordering ceramic tiles.
Lorcan painting away in silence, while she went on and on as if she was the only one with a broken heart.
Thank God he’d had the patience to stick with her.
‘You were being a little bit dumb,’ said Lorcan. ‘I’d like to find this magic lorry that manages to lose an entire bathroom suite with matching tiles. There!’ He stuck his shovel into the ground. ‘Done.’
‘Are we ready?’ asked Peter. ‘Do you want to call Emer?’
‘She might need a hand with the coffees,’ said Juliet. ‘Can you pop next door and help her?’
‘No problem. Don’t plant without me!’
‘Come!’ said Toby, holding out his hand, and Peter reached down to take it. They walked up the garden together, the picture of a father-and-son mutual adoration society.
Juliet turned to her big sister, and felt a tug of affection at the way Louise’s shining eyes followed Peter and Toby up the lawn. ‘It’s good to see you two getting on.’
‘We’re getting there,’ said Louise. ‘Peter’s working four long days and taking Friday off, so we’re sharing the childcare a bit. And we’re doing a course together at the college, one night a week. Introduction to pottery. We’re both useless. Dad would be so proud.’
‘And is it . . . helping?’ Juliet didn’t want to go into details, even if Lorcan was pretending to tug out some weeds.
Louise smiled and nodded. She looked like a totally different woman when she smiled. ‘It’s helping a lot. We’ve got a lot to talk about.’
‘Good,’ said Juliet, feeling warm again.
A distant screech announced the arrival of the Kelly deputation from next door. Roisin and Florrie headed it, playing their recorders like court trumpeters, followed by Spike in his knight’s helmet and Salvador, and Emer bearing a tray of steaming coffee mugs.
Peter was leading Toby a safe distance behind, as far out of harm’s way as was polite.
Louise looked horrified. ‘That’s so dangerous!’ she started. ‘They could fall and . . .’
‘Seriously, Lou, that’s not the half of it. You want to see what they could do if they get hold of that shovel.’ She waved at Emer, who was wearing a floaty selection of scarves in celebration. ‘Hello!’
Minton and Coco galloped over to greet them, nearly causing the recorder trumpeters to fall over. Louise had to suppress a yell.
‘Hello!’ yelled Emer. ‘Thanks for waiting!’
‘Wouldn’t do it without you.’ Juliet had asked Lorcan to dig a hole near the fence, so that the Kellys would have a share of the magnificent foaming blossom too, come spring time. Not to mention the cherries themselves in the summer.
And that was the whole point. Ben might be gone, and they might not have started a family tree of their own, but he’d left this tree for her to share with her family, her neighbours, the families who came to live in Myrtle Villa long after Juliet had grown old and gone herself. Every year, for a week or so, there’d be that life-affirming explosion of nature fizzing in abundance, ridiculously generous and spectacular. It didn’t last long, but it would come again next year. And the year after, and the year after that.
Tears came to Juliet’s eyes, but they were happy tears.
Lorcan saw her blinking and stepped over at once, slinging his arm around her shoulder. The gesture was friendly, but she knew he’d been watching her with that protective love that seemed to grow slowly each day, as they each dismantled their barriers.
‘Ready?’ he said, softly.
Juliet took a deep breath and nodded. As Emer noisily marshalled everyone into some song the kids wanted to sing to give the tree a good start in its new home, Juliet picked up the first sapling, shook the earth off its roots and began to plant it in the soil, bedding it in with her hands. She pulled the freshly-turned soil in over it, and Minton sniffed around, tasting the strange new smells churned up by Lorcan’s spade.
This cherry tree has only just started to grow, she thought, as she pulled her little dog in to her side. Like me.
About the author
Lucy Dillon was born in Cumbria in 1974. She now divides her time between London and the Wye Valley, where she enjoys walking in the Malvern Hills with her Basset hounds, Violet and Bonham.
Lucy Dillon, Walking Back to Happiness
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