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A flush of pleasure rises warm in Joyce’s cheeks. ‘I would, love. I would indeed.’
She takes off her gloves and places them on the ground next to the Tomorite, the slug pellets and the garden wire. She digs in her pocket for the keys.
‘Big one is the shed,’ she says, handing them over. ‘Little ’un is the back door. When you’re done, just pop them—’
‘Under the big geranium pot?’
Joyce smiles. ‘You remembered.’
Joyce is already testing Tommy’s food against the back of her hand, sitting beside the high chair that Sam bought off eBay and repaired, when Naomi appears, sudden and stealthy as a cat.
‘Are you all right for a second?’ she asks. ‘I was just going to gather my stuff.’
‘Of course. Off you go, love.’
Joyce spoons the mushed-up food into Tommy’s mouth. She can hear Naomi upstairs, her light footsteps, her keen, swift movements. The next moment, the back door creaks open and she calls out to Sam that she’s heading off in a few minutes. Guiltily, nosily, Joyce stands up so she can see out of the back window. Sam and Naomi are embracing, her head resting on his chest.
A shout breaks into her thoughts. Tommy is staring at her, indignant.
‘Sorry, little man! Nonna not concentrating? Nonna is knackered, I can tell you that much. Nonna will be having a deep soaky bath, yes she will, yes she will, a deep soaky bath with bubbabubbabubbles!’ She leans in and rubs her nose against his; he squeals with delight then opens his mouth for another spoonful. ‘Nonna loves little Tommy, doesn’t she? Doesn’t she? Little Tommy is the light of her life, yes he is, yes he is.’
‘You’re so good with him.’ It is Naomi. From the garden to the kitchen in seconds. She strokes her son’s head, kisses him tenderly. ‘You love your nonna, don’t you, Tom-Toms? Eh? Love your nonna to the moon and back, don’t you?’
Yes, Joyce thinks, studying the girl a moment. It is time to let go of old hurts. It is time to forgive. It is time for a new start – for all of them.
CHAPTER 35
That night, Sam is sitting up in bed readingA Man Called Ovewhen there’s a knock on his bedroom door.
‘Who is it?’ he calls out with a smile, laying the book on his lap.
‘Lady Margaret Thatcher, ghost of.’
‘Enter.’
Joyce limps in, stiff after the afternoon’s hard work. She is wearing her dark pink silk pyjamas with a paler pink scarf and is holding something in her hand, something small. She hobbles over to the bed and sits down next to him, the mattress barely registering her birdlike weight.
She hands him a midnight-blue velvet jewellery box. ‘You’ll be wanting this.’
‘What is it?’ But he knows what it is. Knows what it means. Already he can feel heat climbing his neck, his face, and when he opens the box, it is as he has guessed. A single diamond, clasped in a platinum claw on a platinum ring. He knows the details of this ring because Joyce has shown it to him before, and when she speaks, it is to reiterate what she said years ago.
‘I said when you met the love of your life,’ she says, ‘I said, didn’t I, that this would be yours to give her. I told you that, didn’t I?’
‘You did.’
‘Well, now you’ve met her, and I don’t think I’ll be going on Tinder any time soon.’
‘Joyce,’ he says, plucking it from the velvet mount.
‘It might need resizing.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so much. Not just for this, but, you know, for all of it.’
‘Don’t be daft. It was always yours. You just needed the right woman to wear it for you.’
Excitement seizes him; he checks his watch. ‘It’s only half past ten. I should drive round there right now.’
She chuckles. ‘Break in and leave it on her pillow like the Milk Tray man.’
