The Way Back to You Read online

  James Bailey

  * * *

  THE WAY BACK TO YOU

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  James Bailey was born in Bristol, and currently lives and works in his home city. A graduate of King’s College London, James has previously carried the Olympic Torch, made a speech at the House of Commons, and worked as a red-carpet reporter. The Way Back to You is his second novel. His debut, The Flip Side, has been published in eleven languages. Find out more about James on www.JamesBaileyWrites.com, or on Instagram @JamesBaileyWrites.

  By the same author

  The Flip Side

  For Mum, Dad, and Rebecca

  1

  I sometimes wonder if all the difficult guests secretly conspire to stay on the same night.

  In our small B&B, in a sleepy Dorset village – or ‘quaint’, as the travel guide would say – we can go for weeks without having a single nuisance customer, but then, like London buses, they all arrive together.

  And I mean together.

  They are free to check in at any time between 3 p.m. and 7 p.m., but no, the five separate couples all choose 6.55 p.m. precisely to descend on the reception, giving the last couple a reason to start huffing and puffing as soon as they join the back of the queue.

  Clearly it’s all part of their plan.

  Today has just been one of those days.

  It didn’t start very well. Mrs Cook (our cook) had one of her usual tantrums during breakfast. Her name made me believe she would be well-suited to the role, but it seems she doesn’t actually like cooking. In her own words, she ‘doesn’t have time’ for people with dietary requirements. So when she plonked an egg on the plate of one of our vegan guests, I had to scurry into the kitchen and create an alternative dish myself.

  And then Daisy, our housekeeper, didn’t show up to work. Again.

  Although, truthfully, that is often advantageous. When she cleans she seems to leave the rooms in a messier state than the guests. I only gave her the job because she’s Sue in the Post Office’s daughter and she needs to earn some money before she goes to university.

  My daughter, Anna, who I run the place with, has got the weekend off. Her wedding is in a few months’ time, and she and her fiancé, Ollie, have gone into town to visit the florists so I could hardly disturb them for help.

  Once I’d sorted out the breakfasts and cleaned the rooms – the couple in Room 2 kindly left me whipped cream and oil stains as a parting gift – a coach-load of tourists turned up wanting afternoon tea in the gardens, swearing that they’d booked. I didn’t have anything written down, so maybe my memory is starting to go, or they’d booked through one of these new-fangled websites that Anna signed us up to. I’d already let Mrs Cook go home for the day, so I had to cater for all twenty-four of them – and then do all the washing up.

  Which brings me to now and I realize that I’ve not had the chance to sit down all day. No wonder I’m fast going grey.

  ‘Welcome to Castle Cottage B&B,’ the welcome spiel rolls off my tongue without any thought, having said those very words every day for the past thirty years. ‘Just give me a second, and then I’ll get you all checked in. Did you have a good journey here?’ I say, as I frantically try to wake the computer and load the reservation system. The PC breathes heavily, overheating with all the programmes running, and the old mahogany grandfather clock chimes the hour a few minutes early.

  I look up and smile, but no one replies, they just stare expectantly at me. None of them look very happy to be on holiday. It’s been over a decade since I last went away but I swear holidays used to be a cause for enjoyment.

  ‘Oh, not now,’ I mutter under my breath as, from the corner of my eye, I see one of our regulars coming down the stairs. Mrs Leigh is charming, but deaf as a post, and really not the person who I want coming for a chat at this very second.

  ‘My toilet isn’t flushing,’ she shouts to everyone, as if she’s delivering the official welcome speech from the staircase.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Mrs Leigh, I will come and take a look at it just as soon as I’ve checked these guests in.’ I give a strained smile, trying to convey that now isn’t the best time.

  She doesn’t get the message.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t hang about …’

  The guests waiting don’t look amused. I can tell that Mr Huff and Mrs Puff at the back are already planning their scathing TripAdvisor reviews.

  ‘OK, Mrs Leigh, I understand. I’ll be up shortly, and I’ll bring your sandwich too.’

  We don’t strictly do evening meals, but as she’s a regular, and can’t stomach a large plateful of scampi and chips at the pub round the corner, I normally make an exception and rustle her up a cheese sandwich in the evening.

  ‘Sorry, where were we,’ I turn to the couple at the front of the queue, trying to muster my most cheerful face and voice to combat their frowns, hoping that we’re not interrupted any further. ‘Can I take your names please?’

  ‘It’s Mrs Jolly,’ she replies curtly.

  I accidentally snort.

  ‘I thought you were a four-star establishment?’ Mr Jolly says bluntly, pointing at the three-star sign hanging on the wall behind me.

  ‘I’m the fourth star,’ I grin, rather than explain the nuances of the different rating systems.

  He doesn’t find that funny. His furrowed brows deepen even further.

  Clearly not the time for humour.

  ‘I’m Simon, and you might meet my daughter, Anna, during your stay. Should you need anything please just let one of us kn—’

  ‘Can we get a room service menu?’ He barks. His frame hunched over, looking out of place, with the low, dark wooden beams only inches above his head.

  ‘Sorry, we don’t do evening meals. But there is a pub just round the corner which serves very nice food.’

  ‘But you just said that you’d take a sandwich to that lady?’

  ‘She’s a …’ I decide there’s no point in trying to explain. Thanks a lot, Mrs Leigh. ‘OK, I can probably make you a sandwich but it won’t be much. Cheese, OK?’

  ‘That will be fine.’

  Thank you.

  ‘So you’re in Room 5, which is on the top floor, just up these stairs,’ I hand over the key.

  ‘Is there a lift?’

  A lift? We’re in a nineteenth-century cottage.

  ‘No, there’s no lift.’

  ‘Is there a porter then?’

  A porter?! This isn’t The Ritz.

  ‘No, sorry it’s just me.’

  ‘Can you carry our bags up then?’

  I have to stop myself sighing.

  ‘I’ll bring them up with the sandwiches, once I’ve checked in these other guests if that’s OK?’

  The couple look unimpressed, but nod, before stomping their feet loudly up the wooden stairs.

  ‘Enjoy your stay!’ I call after them, knowing that they’re bound to have a problem with the room.

  After I finish checking in the other guests, I bring in the chalkboard from the front of the cottage, and stop to admire the bright pink flowers in the garden, the green undulating countryside which surrounds the cottage, and the sliver of blue sea which pokes out between the hills. The landscape which inspired Hardy and later McEwan now distracts me from my series of tasks.

  During the peak summer months, the old castle ruins on the hill are busy with tourists clambering up for photo opportunities, looking across the majestic views of the Jurassic Coast and Chesil Beach. However, this evening there doesn’t appear to be anyone in sight. I look to the empty bench atop the hill, which used to be mine and Caroline’s spot. That was the bench from where we’d watch sunsets when we first moved from Cheltenham to Dorset. Looking down at the building work, planning our new life – our moment of tranquillity away from the construction work on the cottage. And then shortly afterwards – sooner than we had rea
lly planned – Anna joined us on the bench. In those early years, I’d carry her up the hill on my back, and twirl her around in the air as if she was flying. Until she got too heavy, and then she’d pick up a twig and use it as a walking stick, having seen my father use his. As Anna grew up we’d regularly have picnics up there, the three of us, all together. A happy family. Then three became two again, when Caroline passed. And, as I look out at the landscape, there’s part of me which selfishly fears soon, after Anna’s wedding, it will be down to just one.

  As I walk back inside to make the sandwiches, I catch sight of the framed newspaper cutting which hangs beside the door, alongside the various certificates we’ve accumulated over the years. It features Caroline and me when we opened Castle Cottage, some thirty years ago, from the front page of the village Gazette. Admittedly it’s not particularly difficult to appear in the Gazette. Last week’s front page exclusive was about the potholes in the main street.

  ‘I bet you’re laughing at me, up there,’ I think to myself.

  This was all Caroline’s dream. Her idea. Her passion project. The move, the area, the B&B. Everything.

  Of course all the annoying guests, all the problems and the mishaps were funny when she was here, we could moan and laugh about them together.

  But then a decade ago she went out and never returned, and now it’s just me.

  Alone in a house full of strangers.

  2

  ‘Can I just check if it’s gluten-free bread?’ Mr Jolly says as he opens the door, and looks down at the cheese sandwiches I’ve just conjured up for them.

  I admit, for a split-second, I’m tempted to lie.

  This is my third trip up the stairs, having already struggled with their heavy bags (God knows what they’ve got in there, they’re only staying two nights!), and seen to Mrs Leigh’s toilet troubles. A sight I wish I hadn’t seen. Maybe she should consider going gluten-free herself.

  ‘Sorry, you didn’t say you were coeliac?’ I ask.

  ‘We just prefer gluten-free. Didn’t we say?’ Mr Jolly looks behind him at his wife.

  ‘No, no you didn’t,’ I sigh.

  I don’t say anything further, hoping that they will just take these sandwiches out of my hands. But they don’t. They just stare at me.

  ‘Can we get two gluten-free sandwiches instead?’

  A ‘please’ wouldn’t go amiss.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Do you have any biscuits too?’ Mrs Jolly calls out.

  ‘I don’t think we have any gluten-free ones, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s OK, whatever you have.’

  I bite my lip as I walk away, and note that I’ll have to prepare their breakfast tomorrow. Brilliant.

  ‘And one last thing,’ he calls out as I reach the staircase. I’m tempted to pretend I can’t hear him. ‘The Wi-Fi doesn’t seem to be working.’

  ‘I’ll go and check it for you now,’ I shout, clambering down the stairs before anyone else pops out of their room with an issue. Over the years I’ve heard them all. The man who complained that the view looked better on the photos, to whom I had to explain it was currently foggy. The family who asked me to repaint their walls because they didn’t like the colour yellow. The woman who wanted a refund on behalf of her dog …

  Admittedly Mr Jolly does have a point about the internet. The signal in our small B&B is patchy at best, and the guests – especially those who venture out of London – don’t seem to realize that we’re in an isolated, sleepy countryside village. Nor do they realize I don’t run British Telecom.

  I put the two plates on the reception desk, and try the only method I know of fixing the Wi-Fi – turning the router off and on again. As I wait for the green lights to start flashing, I start nibbling at the rejected sandwiches. My doctor will be despairing. He’s already prescribed me statins to lower my cholesterol, and today I’ve eaten a series of discarded sausages, scones, and now a cheese sandwich.

  As I chew, I flick on the table lamp, and look down through my glasses at the brightly coloured Post-it notes threatening to submerge the reception desk.

  – Fix Mrs Leigh’s toilet

  – Make cheese sandwiches × 3

  – Take bags to Room 5

  – Bring cream tea chalkboard in from garden

  – Read the newspaper!

  Nearly there, I think to myself as I scrunch up the completed tasks and throw them into the bin. The scrunched-up orange ball bounces off the rim and falls on to the floor. Doesn’t that just sum up my day?

  Finally the lights turn green, and the computer pings loudly with a series of email notifications proving the Wi-Fi is working. Thank God. At last, something is going right.

  Before I let Mr Jolly know and go to make him his next set of sandwiches, I quickly scan through my emails. There is the usual spam, amidst a flurry of notifications from Booking.com and a few direct enquiries. Ryanair are having another sale – when don’t they? – the energy company want another meter reading, and Facebook are notifying me about, well, everything.

  I only signed up so I could see Anna’s photos and posts.

  ‘Wish Genny a Happy Birthday.’

  I don’t even know who Genny is.

  ‘Buy, Sell, Swap Dorset: Second-hand swivel chair for sale.’

  No, I don’t want a swivel chair. Thank you very much.

  ‘New post in QAB School Alumni.’

  Before I delete this, I catch sight of a name I’ve not seen in a very long time.

  But one which means so much to me.

  My heart stops.

  I read the post over and over again, until it sinks in.

  ‘Raj Sharma (1970–75) passed away unexpectedly on Friday 26th April aged 60 years. A memorial service will be held at the family home on Monday 6th May. All welcome. Please wear white. For more details click here.’

  Raj.

  Dead.

  I can’t believe it.

  3

  THEN

  July 1975

  ‘How long do we have?’ Raj shouts to Simon and Ian across the blare of the traffic, as they try to pedal up yet another of Bristol’s steep hills. Their legs aching, their bodies sore.

  People say that the return trip always feels shorter, but not in this case. The boys’ ill-thought-out bike ride back from Bordeaux has seemed to last an eternity, not helped by a cancelled ferry, a punctured tyre, and many wrong turns along the way. The impractical glam-rock outfits in which they started their cycle ride to France, three weeks ago, are now far less glam. Their bright, striped trousers are mud-splattered, and smelly. In fact, the wet and miserable British summer weather, which now pelts into their faces, is providing them with their first wash in days. As they continue back to school, up Park Street, pedestrians hide in red telephone boxes and women push prams into stores. Everyone is in a hurry to escape the downpour.

  ‘We’ve still got a few minutes. We’re not going to get caught if we hurry up! Come on!’ Simon’s rallying cry is drowned out by the sound of a loud moped overtaking them. The city centre is a vast contrast to the quiet of rural France.

  ‘We can’t get caught …’ Raj says, trying to keep up with Simon, his voice trembling as a green double-decker bus splashes the ever-growing puddles over them. Given the conditions, Raj’s usually neatly side-parted jet-black hair is as wild as Simon and Ian’s large barnets. He is short, thin, and looks the youngest of the trio despite being the eldest.

  Ian Pratt – ginger haired, and large in every sense of the word – follows at the back. He dwarfs the bike that they’ve ‘borrowed’ from school. Bikes which are barely suitable to ride around the city, let alone the hundreds of miles they’ve just endured.

  Their parents believe they have all been on the school summer camp to Wales. Their boarding school believes they went home for the holidays three weeks ago. Meanwhile, they’ve actually cycled all the way to Bordeaux to visit Simon’s French pen pal.

  Thanks to the boys spending the last couple of months intercepting and deviating correspondences, they’ve somehow managed to get away with their elaborate ruse until this point.

  They can’t fall at the final hurdle.

  The culmination of their grand plan relies on them arriving back to school by midday, giving them time to discreetly drop off their bikes and get cleaned up. They told their parents to collect them at 3 p.m., and they’d meet them outside the gates pretending that they’d just been dropped off by the school coach. The coach is due back at 4 p.m., by which point they’ll be long gone and neither the school nor their parents will ever be the wiser.