Page 1 of The Second Chance Supper Club

Chapter 1

Cath sliced a line through the brown tape, the scissors in her hand beginning to tremble. She opened the cardboard lid to reveal a stack of tissue-wrapped photos and frames; mementoes of her not-so-long-ago-life, memories and waves of emotion crashing out with each item. She was still so bloody angry …

The third picture she unwrapped – the one she hadn’t quite had the heart to send to the tip, though it had certainly crossed her mind – stripped another layer off her heart. White lace and promises … looking so young and hopeful. Such a damned waste. All that time, all that togetherness, trashed. Thirty effing years in fact.

All she had left was a heap of memories, some happy, some sad. It was all gone. They were all gone. Divorce looming dangerously close on the horizon. Though Cath knew, all too well, divorce papers or not, you couldn’t unravel the seam on a long-term marriage that easily.

They had separated, moved homes, changed lives. And yes, over time, she’d accepted the inevitability of the divorce, but it was still so unsettling. Rejection and loneliness coming in ripples, like the circles in a lake after a stone is thrown in. Cath couldn’t help but feel like she’d lost her anchor after all these rooted years as a wife and mother. She’d bloody well given up her full-time role as deputy head and maths teacher too, which though stressful of late, she’d always loved – oh yeah, it was all part of the ‘enjoying an early retirement’ master plan the two of them had talked about and dreamed of. Perhaps she’d been the only one dreaming, after all.

Numbers and figures, they were safe, reliable. They always added up. She’d thought she would have it all worked out by now, moving solidly and securely into her fifties. She and Trevor working part time – she’d taken on some freelance maths tuition – and going off on some exciting new adventures. Cath just hadn’t imagined the adventures were going to be so damned traumatic … and on her own.

It had all kicked off eighteen months ago. Their son, Adam, away in his third year at uni, and she in what was to be her last year of secondary school teaching. She’d thought she and Trev would soon be slipping away on their travels, gathering magical memories of the Mediterranean, sitting side by side by a balmy sea, with glasses of chilled wine and some tasty tapas or mezze. The stresses of years of hands-on parenting, whilst holding down a demanding job, a thing of the past.

They were settled, content, or so she bloody well thought. She’d assumed she and Trevor would see their relationship through to old age like a comfy set of slippers. Okay, they weren’t exactly setting the world on fire anymore, but who was when they were in their fifties? And yes, sex was a bit of an occasional (okay, very occasional) afterthought. But wasn’t that just normal? She was okay with normal. But Trevor evidently had other plans – plans that didn’t include his partner of thirty years. Those comfy slippers had worn far too thin for him.

She dropped their wedding photo face down on the carpet, unsure what to do with the damn thing. Relationships, arrgh. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue … The only thing left feeling blue was her.

But, she reminded herself, clutching at the positives, it wasn’t all a disaster, they did share a wonderful son. But that hurt in itself too. He was off and away now. Finished his final year at Leeds Uni, and was travelling. Talk about empty nest. It was like some eagle had dived in and taken the bloody lot. Right, Cath, pull up those big girl knickers. This was no good. This was not the time to mope, no way José. She sighed, stood up tall for a few seconds, giving her aching knees a stretch. Then she went back to her task, pulling out more trinkets and images, and digging deeper to find a shoebox of letters and mementoes. It had been a super busy day already, both physically and emotionally; these could be stored in the bedroom cupboard for now. A task for some other day.

Just a couple more photos left. She unwrapped the white tissue folds, and found herself holding a black-and-white image of her parents, both now having passed away, bless them. Rock solid they were, right to the end. Not all relationships were doomed to fail, she reminded herself. Her dad had only held out for a few lonely months after Mum died of bowel cancer. The grip of grief, of loss, still feeling raw. And lastly, she found herself clutching a silver-framed photo of her son, who was grinning widely at the camera, sporting floral-patterned boarding shorts and a washed-out T-shirt, in some exotic beachfront location on his latest travels. That one at least made her smile.

Cath got up, on those worryingly creaky knees. (What the hell? Since when had twenty minutes’ kneeling turned her into some kind of geriatric?) As she was currently in the lounge, she put Adam’s picture in pride of place on the cottage’s weathered-oak mantelpiece, giving it a heartfelt pat. She took a brief sniff to ward off any self-pitying tears.

Brace, brace, brace. Weirdly, the plane crash mantra drummed in her head. The flights of fancy, the travel dreams of her own, all on hold for now. Hah, she felt like she’d been severely delayed at the airport for let-down middle-agers.

The cardboard packing box, now empty, sat there looking back at her, a gaping hole. She wiped a sneaky twinkle of a tear from the corner of her eye. She felt exhausted with it all. Oh, my. How everything had changed over these past few months.

Gazing out of the white sash window, trying to shake her thoughts, she re-focused on the here and now. A row of stone cottages sat opposite hers, gardens pretty with spring tulips, and bold pink and yellow primulas. And a little chink of light found its way in through the window and into her mind. She was here in her countryside cottage. Bottom line was, she’d done it. Moved into her ‘dream’ house, if slightly jaded (hah, it suited her admirably right now), in this pretty rural Northumberland village of Tilldale. Okay, so her head and her heart were still a bit fuzzy with the humungous change, but she had done it.

Tilldale village had been central to several family summer holidays for the three of them – she, Trevor and Adam – with walks in the moorland hills, trips to the coast, and supper at The Star Inn, a gorgeous country pub. There had been lots of good times spent here. She also remembered visiting the area years ago, as a teenager herself, with her parents and sister, all squished into a touring caravan. Beach days and BBQs, sun-burnished skin and freckles, teetering on the edge of youth, filled with 99 ice creams and fish and chips, and the odd stolen kiss … her first taste of romance. She’d even taken a little drive to the coast yesterday, for a breather from the packing. Though it had felt a little lonely being without her family this time, the salt air was invigorating, reviving.

Northumberland’s wildly rugged beauty had drawn her back. Yes, she felt she could make a home here, given time. No doubt some of her friends thought she was crazy going so far away (almost a three-hour drive) from her old life in suburban Leeds, but the thought of having to move out and still live on the doorstep of her old house, well, that would have felt far more bizarre to her.

She’d spent weeks scouring the internet and touring a line-up of ‘possibles’: attractive two-and three-bed detached and semis, both younger and more mature, all with ‘kerbside appeal’. It had felt like property speed dating some weekends! After a long drive up the A1, she’d walk in and then within minutes, sometimes seconds, knew that it wasn’t going to work out. It was only when she drove down into the lush green valley of Tilldale, entered the calming white-washed walls of Cheviot Cottage, and looked around the cosy sitting room with its log-burning stove, the two small but characterful double bedrooms upstairs with their sloping ceilings – plenty enough room for her and the odd visit from Adam, or perhaps a friend – and the practical but pretty galley kitchen, that she had at last sensed that comforting feeling this was ‘meant to be’.

And now the kitchen was exactly where she headed next. Time to pop the kettle on and celebrate finishing her unpacking finale with, whey-hey, a cup of tea and a chocolate hobnob. She unfolded that last empty cardboard box and placed it next to a plastic bread-crate from which she’d unloaded some crockery earlier, and pondered where in fact she might store them. The cottage didn’t exactly have a lot of space, after all. Oh well, another job for later. For now, it was time to rest those creaky knees and her overloaded mind.

A few minutes later, with a mug of strong builder’s tea to hand, she took in her new kitchen. The cupboards were a light-oak shade, the work surfaces a mottled-grey marble effect; she could live with that, but the walls had faded to an aged off-white. The sash window overlooked a back garden with slightly wilding grass and borders. The sun was trying to streak in through dusty panes – one more job for the list. Hmm, it could do with a lift in here really. Perhaps she might change the wall colour to a cheery shade of yellow? She looked outside to the garden for inspiration. Oh, yes, perhaps somewhere between a primrose and a daffodil colour. Let a little light into her life. Why not?

After all, the kitchen had always been one of the most important rooms for her: the heart of the home. She resolved to find a hardware store and buy some paint and brushes, adding this to her ever-growing to-do list.

Gazing out of the window above the sink, with her mug in hand, she then found herself staring at a garden shed. Her garden shed. It nestled beside a leafy beech hedge where the grass levelled at the top of the rise. The shed was medium-sized, wooden, and had been painted a pale moss green, quite some time ago by the looks of the cracked and peeling colour. Hmm, now that might work for storage. Hopefully, it wasn’t too damp in there. The packing boxes and crate might come in handy at some point in the future, yet they would be out of sight and out of mind there.

With her head still humming with memories, she pictured the shed at No 3 Limestone Lane, Roundhay, Leeds: Trevor’s domain. Tidy rows of tools, neat stacks of seedling trays on the potting bench, the tomato plants by the glass windows trained on wires in their compost grow-bags. She had in fact enjoyed the fruits of that particular labour, as a keen cook, and used them to experiment with various Mediterranean flavours and recipes.

With no time like the present, she grabbed the boxes and headed out of the back door, onto a small paved patio area and then up the stone garden steps. Dishearteningly, the grass was rather unkempt on each side of her, looking more like a dandelion-and-daisy weed meadow. Up close, the shed’s green paint was peeling heavily, and the middle pane of glass in one of the two front-opening doors had a zig-zag crack in it. There was a rusty padlock securing the doors together, which on closer inspection was no longer functional, though, luckily for Cath, had seized up in the open position.

Placing the boxes down, Cath removed the padlock, and with a tug, the doors opened outwards with a slight creak. A musty smell hit her, as she took a small step forward, straight into a dangling cobweb, which startled her, tickling then, eek, sticking to her face. Oof, oh shit. Her fingers floundered as she hurriedly swiped it aside, hoping there were no straggly legged spiders about to land on her. She hated spiders … and now there was no Trevor or Adam to catch the hairy little blighters for her. She pushed on; she’d started this outhouse expedition, so she’d darn well finish it.

On first inspection, the floor space at least looked relatively dry, though up above, several tendrils of ivy had found their way into the shed, pushing through a tiny gap between the slanting roof and the wooden walls. A few terracotta pots had been left behind on a shelf, along with an old set of hand tools poking out of one of them. Some bamboo canes were leaning dejectedly in a corner.

She’d learned from the estate agent that an elderly gentleman had lived in the cottage before her, having had to give it up just a few months before, after a bad fall and being too frail to stay on his own. He had moved into a residential home in the neighbouring town of Kirkton. It must have been hard for him to leave, she thought, imagining his weathered hands using those tools and tending this garden over the years, nurturing this space. Oh, he’d surely be cross about the state of the wilding grass – note to self, lawn mower to buy asap. She’d never really been much of a gardener, except for growing a few potted herbs to cook with – the grass and the shrub borders, well, they had always been Trevor’s domain.

Now she was inside, the shed looked as though it was about to fall apart at its rickety wooden seams. Blimey, there was an awful lot to take on here by herself. It wasn’t just the old stone cottage to keep up with. She was the owner of a garden, and a shed, too. What the hell was she thinking? Doubts didn’t just creep in, they exploded in her mind like popping candy. Was she up to the task? Would she be able to keep up with it all? Crikey, she was going to have to up her game, for sure.

Stepping back out into the gentle glow of the April morning sun, she spotted an orange-breasted robin cocking his head at her as he bobbed about the border. She looked around at the unruly shrubs in need of a prune, wishing her old dad was still about to give advice on the overgrown plants. Then, she looked down upon her honey-stoned, two-hundred-year-old abode, and thought of this other elderly man, no doubt most reluctant to leave this place, and she made a vow, there and then, that she’d look after this house, his old home, as best she could. In fact, she’d give it a brand-new chapter – much like herself.

Chapter 2