Between Friends Read online

  Between Friends

  By

  Melanie Hudson

  First published in 2017

  Copyright © Melanie Hudson

  The right of Melanie Hudson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  Cover art reproduced with kind permission of original artist, Robert Kelsey

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage

  or retrieval system

  The characters in this novel are fictional and any similarities to persons alive or dead should be regarded as entirely coincidental.

  For Andrew

  Prologue

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: My First Chapter!

  Date: 28 June 2003

  Hi, Polly

  I know I’m going to see you soon but I had to write and tell you that I’ve completed chapter one of my new novel. I know, halle-bloody-luiah! Of all the books I have written in the past, and of all the books I’ll write in the future, this one is going to be the most special to me, after all, it’s inspired by my new home and by the people and magnificent landscape that surround it. But more importantly, in writing this novel, I carry with me aspects of your story, too, and our renewed friendship, and that is something very special to me indeed.

  And so thank you, my wonderful friend, for allowing me to tell your story, albeit weaved into my own. I promise to take the very best of care of it. I’m wetting myself with excitement about writing the final chapter, which is going to be so blooming heart-warming, there will not be a dry eye in the house. Just imagine the scene: two old friends meet up for the first time on an achingly beautiful Scottish beach, one having just come back from a war zone in the desert, the other having found purpose to her life, after years of being lost in a desert of her own. We lost many years of friendship, you and I, but once you get home, I’m determined we will never lose touch again. Anyway, enough mush. Here’s the blurb for the book. Let me know what you think:

  Between Friends

  By

  Agatha Braithwaite

  Blurb

  It all began - as perhaps all such romantic stories should – with a miserable heroine, a crazy idea and an epic train journey. Such was the case for Stella Valentine, a beautiful but lonely romance writer who, on a dank December afternoon, decided on a whim to escape to the wilds of the Scottish Highlands, having lobbed her laptop and latest manuscript into the nearest river first. As anyone who has embarked on a bugger-it, life-changing journey will confess, at the outset it is impossible to know if the new path will lead to the much-longed-for ‘happy ever after’ or if it will simply prove to be yet another crappy, pot-holed road leading to even deeper depths of despair.

  But as Stella glanced whimsically out of the window of the old steam train as it powered its way down the glen, any last minute reservations were forced to the back of her mind: she didn’t notice the driving wind and rain, but felt her heart lifted – yes, physically lifted - by the deep dark lochs, towering mountains and faded heather moorlands; a landscape surely designed for the swaddling of the lost and lonely. And as she stepped onto the platform at Mallaig station, she had the definite notion – or the ‘ken’ as her new Scottish friends would say - that the next six months would prove to be the most pivotal of her life.

  What Stella did not know, however, was that at the very same moment she stepped off the train and walked across the platform, dragging her case behind her and smiling into the rain, her childhood friend, Polly Fletcher, was not only thinking of her but had, quite coincidentally and on the very same day, embarked on an epic journey of her own, but to a significantly more dangerous corner of the globe.

  This is not just Stella’s story, then, but a story of rekindled friendship, and of two women who find that every single day somehow has to matter, and that nothing in life is so bad or so utterly unfathomable, when shared between friends …

  With all the love in the world,

  Aggie (AKA Stella Valentine – I told you I’d find a use for the name)

  Part One

  Six Months Earlier

  Electronic Letter (‘E’ Bluey)

  From: Agatha Braithwaite, Midhope-on-the-Moor, West Yorkshire

  To: Lieutenant Pollyanna Fletcher, British Army Headquarters, Kuwait

  Date: 2 January

  Oh my Jesus Christ, Polly. I’ve just found out you’ve gone to war!

  Before I go on, it’s me, Aggie Braithwaite. We used to play Charlie’s Angels together after school. You were Farrah Fawcett and I was the one with the brown hair. Your mum always made sure I ate a vitamin C tablet when I came round for tea. I’ve worked it out and it’s been over ten years since we saw each other – crazy or what?

  I bumped into your dad in the shop this morning and I knew something must be wrong because he was turning a squidgy mango over in his hand while staring into the ‘past its best’ fridge. Bearing in mind your dad is from that generation of Yorkshiremen who would never dream of buying a mango (not even a squidgy one) I guessed something was wrong and asked him if he was OK. He said, ‘Oh, I’m bearing up, lass, considering …’. I thought, shit, someone must be dead. So I followed on with, ‘Considering what, Mr Day?’. And then he told me how you’d flown to Kuwait yesterday - with the army. What were you thinking? No-one looks good in khaki, Polly. Not even you.

  The last time I bumped into your dad was a couple of years ago in Midhope. He was at the Chinese picking up a sweet and sour chicken. I broke open a fortune cracker and wrote my number on the back of the paper, but he probably forgot to pass it on. He told me you and Josh were living in a thatched cottage in Devon and you were working at the Met Office in Exeter. But now I hear you’re back in the Navy as a reservist met forecaster and you’re getting divorced? Eh? I thought you left the Navy ages ago? And even if you hadn’t, what’s a sailor doing in the desert? I know we’ve lost touch over the past few years (disgraceful and entirely your fault by the way), but unless you’ve grown a foot taller and taken to pumping iron and drinking protein shakes, your physique and personality are not equipped for combat. If you were built like me (an Amazonian Warrior Goddess) it would be different. Also, you don’t have the name of a war hero (and I’m an author, so I know these things). How can someone called Pollyanna go to war? It’s too soft a name. You should be sitting in a cosy cottage surrounded by children, surely?

  Despite my best efforts, I didn’t get much information out of your dad. He had to rush off because he was parked on double yellow lines and had lent his dashboard disability sticker to your Aunty Joan - she’s got fluid on her knee due to a nasty fall down the steps of the mobile library. But he told me about the forces electronic bluey letter system and pressed your BFPO address (and the mango, bizarrely) into my hands before he disappeared.

  My own life has been a series of bad decisions meshed together by good intentions, and you won’t be surprised to learn that I still haven’t managed to nail it, and by ‘it’ I mean that thing called love. I’ve moved back to Midhope and I’m a writer, which despite being my lifelong dream, bores me to death. I joined the operatic society again with the hope of bagging myself a leading man (I never learn), but all of the men are either spoken for or just plain boring, and anyway that casting bitch at MAOS gave the part of Maria in The Sound of Music to Jessie Cartwright so I told them to fuck right off. I mean to say, Jessie Cartwright as Maria?! Apparently, I can’t just rock up in Yorkshire after ten years of absence and expect to be a leading lady?

  Why? Why can’t I
?

  It was exactly like that time in lower sixth when they gave the part of Juliet to Cheryl Brown just because she was light enough to stand on the balsa wood balcony. And to rub insult into injury, they’ve offered me a consolatory part playing a nun, and I don’t mean the pretty one. They offered me the part of Bitch Nun, the one with a face like crumpled steel. Honestly, Pol, Jessie Cartwright has a weak, tinny voice and – mark my words - she will struggle to reach the back row. But I suppose she’s impish which fits the stereotypical image of Maria. When will people realise that the real Maria was a buxom, single-minded, man-eater who got chucked out of a nunnery for being a slapper? And I bet she was a total bitch with those kids once she’d got that ring on her finger. And answer me this: who else but me (in West Yorkshire) could play a buxom Austrian ex-nun who shags a sea captain? I nailed that audition. Mrs Butterworth was actually crying when I closed the final line. Anyway, I’ve told them to stick the part of ugly nun up their arses. I’m not remotely suitable for the role and I refuse to play her, it’s degrading. But it doesn’t matter as I’m fleeing to Scotland soon. More anon.

  Lots of love, Aggie

  P.S. Any hunks over there? If there are, don’t forget, he has to be tall. Despite my best efforts soaking myself in the Dead Sea for ten hours on retreat last year, I have not shrunk.

  Bluey

  From: Polly

  To: Aggie

  Date: 3 January

  Oh, Aggie.

  It was just brilliant to get your letter. I’ve only been here for a couple of days, but the delivery system for electronic letters from home is amazingly quick and it’s been a real tonic to get a letter so quickly.

  It’s odd because I was listening to the General’s evening briefing yesterday and found myself drifting off thinking about you – wishing you back into my life, my best ever friend - and here you are. Do you remember all the wacky adventures we had on the moor hiding from your mum? You really knew how to put that woman through the ropes. I loved your house - so remote. No wonder you became a writer, your house was exactly like Wuthering Heights. Despite all our searching, we never did find Heathcliff, did we? Do you remember the time we went to the Proms in Leeds on a Sixth Form night out? A woman in the balcony leant forward to wave to her friend and her false teeth fell out and landed in your pint. Did you drink the pint after you fished the teeth out? I can’t remember. I’ve been wanting to get in touch for ages but my life’s been so bloody crap lately. I’ll fess up that Dad did give me your number. The fortune cookie made my throat catch. It said, ‘A friend asks only for your time, not money’. I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch sooner. Truth is, I didn’t want to talk about the divorce, amongst other things. I was going to come and see you before I left for Kuwait, but then thought it best to come and see you when I get home, when I’ve got more time. So, why am I in Kuwait with the army?

  Honestly, I have no idea. When Josh and I decided to separate, I couldn’t bear the thought of selling up my home on Dartmoor. Remember when I used to draw pictures of my dream home? Thatch roof, roses, duck pond, loads of kids? Well, I pretty much nailed it, except for the kids. Josh agreed he’d leave his half of the money in the property for a couple of years and rent in town, he was away at sea most of the time anyway, but he said if I was staying at the cottage then I would have to pay all the bills. I agreed, but the reality was that I couldn’t afford it. I left the Royal Navy in 1999 after the shortest military career in history. I liked being a Navy met officer, but once I married Josh I wanted to settle down and start a family. I got a job at the Met Office in Exeter, but joining the reserves was a way of keeping my link to the Navy and it also meant I could afford to keep the house. All I had to do was to give a couple of weekends per month at one of their air bases and that was that. Then, last November, I was asked if I’d consider deploying to Kuwait, to support the army as a met forecaster.

  Call it impetuous irrationality, but I said yes - probably because I didn’t want to look like a coward. The Met Office released me for six months. I picked up my kit, did a bit of training, jumped onto an RAF transport jet, flew to the desert and here I am.

  Shit, look at the time! Must dash. I have to prepare a forecast for the 1800 briefing, but I’ll write later with more info. Please write as often and as much as you can. I’m miserable and friendless out here. I want to know what you’re up to now. You said you’re an author? What are you writing? Did you ever finish that steamy novel?

  Love, Polly

  P.S. I haven’t the heart to look at any man, but if I did, even though I’m in a target-rich environment, there are no hunks around here – sorry.

  P.P.S. Apparently the whole village is in bewilderment as to how you’ve managed to buy that flash barn conversion overlooking the river. Bloody hell, Aggie! Have your lottery numbers come up or something?

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Mr Day, Polly’s Dad

  To: Polly

  Date: 3 January

  Dear Babe

  How are you settling in? How was the journey? Mammy wants to know where you are exactly and if you’ll be staying in Kuwait if it kicks off? Are you in a bunker? Also, she wants to know if they’re feeding you enough (I know you’ve only been there a day or so but you know how she worries). We took Fluffy to the vet this morning because she kept wiping her backside on Mammy’s sheepskin rug. She’s had her anal glands squeezed (£45 quid!) and seems brighter so fingers crossed the rug will be spared the embarrassment when Aunty Joan comes round.

  I bumped into that big lass you used to knock about with at school the other day. She’s not fat now, but big enough to see that she still likes her food. She stole my mango (perfectly ripe and half price too!). I was going to cut a bit up for Mammy with some avocado, although why I persevere with avocado God only knows, the bloody things are either as hard as iron or on the turn and I never catch them right. Anyway, she’s going to write to you - Agatha, not Mammy. Mammy sends her love in my letters (you know she’s not one for writing).

  What else to tell you? Bill and Mary over the road are having their windows done. We don’t think they’ve thought it through. Faux wood effect … nuff said. They’re having a big conservatory built, too. He calls it an ‘orangery’, the daft sod. How can a terrace house cope with an orangery? The new bloke next door to Bill (Tracy and Jack’s old place) put in a complaint to the council. He thinks it will block out all the light from his chicken hutch, but Bill is ploughing on with it. We don’t mind what he does because, like Mammy says, having a house in the street with an orangery will put the price of ours up and she’s fancying a bungalow. But I’ll only ever leave this place in a wooden box, so she can think again!

  The weather has been raw this week with a vicious wind but at least it’s too cold to snow so that’s something. Well, I’ve just heard the letterbox go and I’m waiting for my metal detecting magazine to come so I’ll sign off. Mammy is sitting in her chair looking through holiday brochures (she says she fancies a cruise but I think we all know she could never cope with all the people and the chatter). Maybe we’ll treat ourselves to a new caravan at Whitby, although they are such a price these days I doubt we will.

  Well, that’s all for now. If you feel a bit low over the next few weeks, take out this letter and pretend I’m singing along with Nat King Cole in the car, just like we used to:

  Light up you face with gladness, hide every trace of sadness, although a tear may be ever so near, that’s the time you must keep on trying, smile what the use of crying, you’ll find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile

  And remember - Keep Your Head Down (KYHD)

  Love you, babe

  MammynDad x

  P.S. Did you take my snow shovel to Devon? It had a smooth handle and the angle of the scoop was perfect. I can’t find another one for love nor money.

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Polly

  Date: 7 January

  Dear, Polly

  Of cou
rse I drank my bloody pint! We only had our bus fare and there was no way I wasn’t having a drink. Admittedly, there was a faint trace of Polygrip and I had to fish out a bit of popcorn, but other than that, it was pretty tasty. Have you heard from your brother lately? Jeesuz, that man had great abs. Your dad mentioned he’d moved to Australia, how awful for you all. What on earth possessed him to go (I bet he was running from a woman).

  Here’s a quick update on the past few years. As you know, after university I moved to London and worked as an editor at Maddison and Black. It was a fab job, loads of social, loads of shagging and a couple of years later I even finished my much-discussed first novel (plus another two) and sent them off to a few agents. After a dozen rejection letters I was invited to meet an agent I knew through my job who said she had an unusual proposition for me. I’ll let you into a big secret (but only because you’re stuck in the desert and can’t spill the beans) … I ghost write comedy romance novels for (none other than) celebrity chef, Isabella Gambino (Isabella my arse, she’s called Joanne Froggat). Isabella is a sweetheart and I suppose it’s fitting that I (a woman who was whipping up a Victoria sponge transiting the birth canal) now write books for the best baker on the planet. And the best bit of all is this – Isabella sends me free copies of all her cookbooks, so unfortunately I have to run the equivalent of a marathon every week just to keep the diabetic nurse from my door. But here’s confession time: after banging out eight books in eight years, I’ve dried up. My latest work in progress, My Foolish Heart, is just not coming together. I’ve left my characters languishing in the doldrums, and they hate that.