The Light in the Hallway Read online

  PRAISE FOR AMANDA PROWSE

  ‘Amanda Prowse is the queen of contemporary family drama.’

  Daily Mail

  ‘A tragic story of loss and love.’

  Lorraine Kelly, Sun

  ‘Captivating, heartbreaking and superbly written.’

  Closer

  ‘A deeply emotional, unputdownable read.’

  Red

  ‘Uplifting and positive, but you may still need a box of tissues.’

  Cosmopolitan

  ‘You’ll fall in love with this.’

  Cosmopolitan

  ‘Warning: you will need tissues.’

  Sun on Sunday

  ‘Handles her explosive subject with delicate care.’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Deeply moving and eye-opening.’

  Heat

  ‘A perfect marriage morphs into harrowing territory . . . a real tear-jerker.’

  Sunday Mirror

  ‘Powerful and emotional drama that packs a real punch.’

  Heat

  ‘Warmly accessible but subtle . . . moving and inspiring.’

  Daily Mail

  ‘A powerful and emotional work of fiction with a unique twist – a practical lesson in how to spot a fatal, but often treatable disease.’

  Piers Morgan, CNN presenter

  ‘A truly amazing piece of drama about a condition that could affect any one of us in a heartbeat. Every mother should read this book.’

  Danielle Lineker, actor

  ‘A powerful and emotional page-turner that teaches people with no medical training how to recognise sepsis and save lives.’

  Dr Ranj Singh, paediatric doctor and BBC presenter

  ‘A powerful and moving story with a real purpose. It brings home the dreadful nature of this deadly condition.’

  Mark Austin, ITN presenter

  ‘A festive treat . . . if you love Jojo Moyes and Freya North, you’ll love this.’

  Closer

  ‘Magical.’

  Now

  ‘Nobody writes contemporary family dramas as well as Amanda Prowse.’

  Daily Mail

  OTHER BOOKS BY AMANDA PROWSE

  The Girl in The Corner

  The Coordinates of Loss

  Anna

  Theo

  How to Fall in Love Again: Kitty’s Story

  The Art of Hiding

  The Idea of You

  Poppy Day

  What Have I Done?

  Clover’s Child

  A Little Love

  Christmas for One

  Will You Remember Me?

  A Mother’s Story

  Perfect Daughter

  Three-and-a-Half Heartbeats (exclusive to Amazon Kindle)

  The Second Chance Café (originally published as The Christmas Café)

  Another Love

  My Husband’s Wife

  I Won’t Be Home for Christmas

  The Food of Love

  OTHER NOVELLAS BY AMANDA PROWSE

  The Game

  Something Quite Beautiful

  A Christmas Wish

  Ten Pound Ticket

  Imogen’s Baby

  Miss Potterton’s Birthday Tea

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Lionhead Media Ltd

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542041171

  ISBN-10: 1542041171

  Cover design by Rose Cooper

  CONTENTS

  1992

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1992

  ‘I asked my mum. She said no. And not just a regular no, but a no with her hand up.’ He pictured her serious face and pose, like a policeman stopping traffic. ‘That means a forever no and not an “I’ll think about it” no, which usually turns into a yes, eventually.’

  Ten-year-old Nick sat on the kerb outside his house and kicked his scuffed trainers at the softening tarmac floor warmed by the hot sun, huffing at the injustice of it all.

  ‘She said she had asked my dad and he said he wasn’t about to go into debt just so I could have a bike.’ Nick had heard his father before on the topic; it made his face red and his nostrils flare. Debt provides the right level of worry to send a working man to an early grave. I saw it rip my parents apart and it’s a state in which I will never live. Better to go without than go into debt. Mark my words . . .

  Nick wasn’t sure he agreed with this, figuring that to have a bike would be the best thing in the whole wide world, early grave or not.

  Alex, his classmate, folded his arms across his faded Alvin and the Chipmunks T-shirt and bounced his small rubber ball repeatedly on the same spot, catching it with one hand. The sound was both captivating and irritating.

  ‘Well, my mum said if we could afford things like bikes then she wouldn’t be pulling extra shifts at the Co-op and stacking shelves when she’d rather be at home with a cup of tea and her feet up, watching Corrie.’

  Eric, the third member of this esteemed yet nameless gang, whose Yorkshire twang was the strongest, sighed and looked from Alex to Nick. ‘My mum said, “Get out of the sodding kitchen, you little bas’tad,” and then she threw a potato at me.’ He let this sink in as their snickers burbled. ‘I’m taking it as a maybe.’

  As ever, Eric, their sharp-witted friend, was able to turn the upset of having asked and been denied the one thing they truly wanted – bikes – into something hilarious. Nick was in awe of how his lanky mate trotted out swear words and funny responses, unafraid to answer back at a particular volume from the side of his mouth, which meant adults didn’t always hear but he and Alex always did, making it a battle to keep those giggles in and their faces straight until they were able to explode. This was one of Eric’s skills. This and his enormous capacity for food; they called him the ‘Human Dustbin’, and how much he ate was mightily impressive. It was the norm that Eric would quickly finish what he was eating, whether it be a bag of crisps, a school lunch or a biscuit, and then stare at him and Alex in the way a family dog might, watching with wide eyes and a mouth that quivered at the possibility of a share in the food Nick or Alex was eating. It was usually out of kindness or guilt that Nick would hand over at least a bite to Eric, who would be so happy, his reaction so grateful, it far outweighed the discarded morsel he had been cast.

  Nick was stumped. With a flat-out ‘no’ from all parents, how were they going to get bikes so they could roam the moors, get from A to B with haste and, more important, circle the market square, looking casual while showing off to anyone who might be loitering? This particular mode of transport was, in Nick’s opinion, the one thing that shouted out, LOOK AT ME! I’M A KID WHO IS GOING PLACES! He clamped his top teeth over his bottom lip, as he did when he had to try to figure something out.

  It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair!
He hadn’t asked to be born in this small, rubbish town in the middle of nowhere where there was only one rubbish cinema, one rubbish shop, no ice rink – something he had seen on television and was very keen to try – and no motocross club (ditto). In fact, the only places to hang out were the garage at his parents’ house, the Rec, Market Square and the Old Dairy Shed on the outskirts of town – a rather dilapidated steel-framed barn, long abandoned and where the older lads and lasses went to snog. This he knew for a fact because he and his friends would sneak up from the east side and climb on an old crate to peer in on the shenanigans from the little window in the side where the glass had long been pelted away by forcefully chucked stones. There the three would stand and gawp, fascinated, offended and delighted by the moans, squeals and fumblings that took place on the cold concrete floor of the Old Dairy Shed, which was scattered with pigeon shit, discarded cigarette butts and old chip wrappers. On one occasion they had observed fumblings taking place up against the steel girder in the middle of the echoey space. Nick had loped home in silence, more than a little unnerved by this athletic feat. It didn’t seem right standing up. Not that it seemed very right lying down either.

  The other place they liked to congregate was the long green-painted iron bench in Market Square. The bench, with its worn brass plaque to Albert Digby, the son of a farming family who had lost his life serving his country, carried a fiercely adhered to ‘hierarchy of occupancy’ code. It was quite simple. Grown-ups took precedence. After them, if you were in upper school the bench was yours, followed by junior school attendees and then primary school. But then there were caveats: boys who played football for the school team could oust just about anyone; the footie team players really were like mini celebrities. Then there were the groups of girls who took ownership of the bench by dint of the fact that no one wanted to intervene, get too close or talk to the huddle. They were intimidating – a seething mass of flicked hair, cheap perfume and loud, loud laughter. Nick and his mates thought these huddles were glorious. Contained within were all the mysteries of the universe and the only two things they coveted and admired as much if not more than the racing bikes which eluded them: boobs. They found boobs fascinating and hilarious in equal measure. The sight of boobs was enough to transfix them, and hearing the word ‘boobs’ enough to send them into paroxysms of laughter.

  ‘So, if our parents aren’t going to buy us bikes’ – Nick continued to ponder the dilemma in hand – ‘how are we going to get them? There has to be a way.’

  ‘We could rob some!’ Eric suggested enthusiastically.

  ‘Who could we rob bikes from?’ This seemed to be Alex’s concern, rather than the illegality and immorality of the suggested act.

  ‘Dunno.’ Eric chewed his thumbnail. ‘Ooh!’ he shouted, jumping up in a lightbulb moment. ‘The postman. He has a bike!’

  ‘That big red one with the rack on the front where he rests his postbag?’ Alex hinted at the rather distinct nature of the man’s standard-issue bike, the only one in the town. ‘I think people might notice if it went missing and we were doing wheelies on one very similar in the street!’

  There was a beat of silence.

  Nick stared at his mate. ‘Anyway, isn’t the postman your uncle John who lives next door to you?’

  ‘He’s not next door,’ Eric fired back. ‘He’s next door but one.’ As if this might be all the difference needed to give his idea the possibility of success.

  Nick and Alex exchanged a look.

  ‘You’re such a div, Eric!’

  ‘And you’re a knobhead!’

  And so it went, the trading of various insults that covered everything from mental impairment, physical defects and sexuality, all standard fare in these exchanges.

  ‘You’ve got a girl’s foo-foo instead of a willy!’

  ‘You’ve got a girl’s foo-foo, no willy and you wear frilly knickers!’ Eric retorted.

  The boys shouted ridiculously and raucously, as if volume were a big weapon in the war of words. Nick shook his head. Their verbal jousting might be funny but it wasn’t helping him figure out how they could get bikes. He sighed again.

  Life was not fair.

  ONE

  ‘So, are you going to come with me, Oliver?’ Nick hated the hesitancy to his tone, torn between wanting to keep the question casual and not alarm the boy, but at the same time feeling the pressing need to leave, knowing this was it. The sole reason for his return home was to try to encourage his son, give him the opportunity to be part of this. Thinking ahead and trying, as he had over the last few months, to eliminate any future regrets. Not only was this easier said than done, but he was now wasting precious time. He hovered in the bedroom doorway, certain Oliver had heard the question despite the dire electronic music that blared from the laptop. This was the second time he had asked in as many seconds. The fact he felt the need to repeat it suggested he was hoping for a different response the second time around.

  Oliver shook his head, his expression neutral but his jaw tense, gripped as ever by whatever game now flashed on the screen, the bright colours, pings, beeps and whistles, the modern-day equivalent to a pinball machine, the mastery of which was always infinitely more urgent than anything Nick might have to say.

  Even today.

  ‘I know you’re saying no, it’s just that . . .’ he began, not knowing how to finish.

  His son looked up briefly from the laptop balanced on his bony knees which held him captive and to which he returned his gaze, almost daring his dad to speak again.

  ‘The thing is, Olly,’ Nick tried again, and again the words ran out. The roof of his mouth was dry and his tongue stuck there. He had never fully understood the phrase ‘paddling like a duck beneath the water’, but in that moment he did. He looked calm, his voice was level and yet inside he was screaming.

  ‘I’m not going. I don’t want to.’

  ‘But they said—’

  ‘I’m not going, Dad! That’s it.’ Oliver’s tone was a little more forceful now.

  Nick took a deep breath and tried to recall the words Peter, the counsellor, had said during their last chat.

  ‘Try to remember that there is no right or wrong way to behave . . . Don’t force or coerce, because that’s the road to conflict and neither of you need that on top of everything else . . . Remember that she is not only your wife, she’s Olly’s mum too. Tread gently. Leave doors open, encourage, listen and try to understand that this is everyone’s personal journey and everyone takes a different route. Be ready to prop him up when he most needs it, and if it’s at a time when you most need propping up, that’s when it can seem hardest . . .’

  ‘Okay.’ He nodded, tapping his wedding ring on the door frame. ‘Okay, son. But if you change your mind, I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.’

  ‘I won’t change my mind.’ Oliver worked his fingers on the keys at double speed and bit his bottom lip.

  Nick left the bedroom door ajar and, having neglected to do so that morning in a mad rush to leave the house, he cleaned his teeth quickly in the sparse green-tiled bathroom at the top of the stairs. He popped his blue toothbrush in the pot next to his wife’s lilac one and splashed his face with cold water, patting it dry on the hand towel that felt a little stiff to the touch and had a vague smell of mould about it. Laundry, yet another task, an aspect of ordinary life that had fallen by the wayside in the shadow of the tidal wave from which he was running. Although with his energy levels sapped, it would be fair to say it was now more of a crawl than a run. He balled the towel and threw it into the plastic laundry basket which lived in the corner by the sink.

  He took his time, though aware of the urgency, opening the kitchen window, inviting a breeze into the stuffy room where the sun beat against the misty window for the best part of the day. He put the milk back in the fridge and located his car keys, giving the boy a chance to change his mind.

  Hoping . . .

  He carried a weird sensation, empty with a hollow thump to his gut, which
felt a lot like hunger, and yet he was simultaneously wired, full, as if on high alert.

  With one last opportunity looming, his eye on the clock and his heart racing, he ran back up the stairs and walked purposefully into Oliver’s room. His son had slipped down on the pillows and pulled the duvet cover up to his chin. The sight of him curled up like this reminded Nick so much of when his boy was five, six, seven – hiding from the monsters that might lurk under the bed – and his heart tore a little. The actual quilt had been discarded in a heap on the bedroom floor – no need of the fibre-filled warmth on this balmy summer evening – and yet he felt an unwelcome chill to his limbs.

  ‘Olly.’

  Oliver stayed silent.

  ‘Olly, this is the last chance—’

  ‘I know. Just go! Go then! I’ve already said!’ he shouted, and Nick knew this newly ignited row was more than either of them could cope with.

  ‘Okay, son. Okay.’

  He ran back down the stairs, his pace urgent now, and out of the door, to sit in the driver’s seat, letting the engine run and rubbing and flexing his hands, as if this might remove their tremor. He revved the accelerator with a desperate desire to see Oliver launch himself from the front door at the last minute and jump in beside him, like he might do if this were a movie, when with the clock ticking and the risk of getting trapped or left behind was at its highest, the hero would buckle up, safe. Enabling the audience to breathe a huge sigh of relief . . .

  He didn’t.

  It was as if he heard the clock on the dashboard tick as the big hand jumped forward. Nick reversed at speed down the steep slope of the narrow driveway and travelled the route towards Thirsk that was now so familiar he often arrived at either end of the journey with little memory of driving it.

  He thought he would feel more, but his numbness, an emotional anaesthesia of sorts, was not wholly unwelcome. It had been an odd day. A day he had tried to predict many times in the preceding months, attempting to play it out in his mind, imagine what it might be like, but to no avail. He had been with Kerry since he was sixteen years of age and yet this was the last day – the last day for her and the last day for them. It was surreal. In his ponderings there was higher drama, background tension and a swell of emotion that he figured would carry him along in its wake, but so far everything, up until this point, had felt rather ordinary. A little flat even and, for that, disappointing. He had been into work for an hour that morning, sorted his shift pattern for the next month, explained to Mr Siddley, Julian Siddley, that his routine might be in turmoil for a while as things had taken a sudden but not unexpected turn.