Page 49 of Finding Love at Roseford Blooms
‘Of course.’ Simon passed her the glass, and she tasted the fiery but smooth whiskey. ‘Good choice.’
A ping on Simon’s phone alerted them to the taxi outside. ‘That’s our cue.’ He offered his arm to Lizzie. ‘Are you ready?’
‘As ready as I’ll ever be, my lord,’ Lizzie teased. ‘And you?’
Simon gave a grin that was a little more strained than it should have been. ‘Let’s get this over with, shall we?’
Heading out to the taxi, Lizzie felt her own flutter of nerves, in sympathy with Simon. She knew how difficult this was going to be for him, and she hoped that having her by his side would help a little. In some strange way she felt as though she was finally returning the favour from twenty years ago.
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As the taxi drew up to the front entrance to Cross Dean, Simon tried to force down the fear that had steadily been threatening to engulf him throughout the journey. He knew he should have driven them. Now there was no escape until the taxi came back for them at 11 p.m. Merely the sight of the wrought-iron gates, so often symbolic of the prison bars slamming shut upon his return at the beginning of a new term, made his palms clammy.
Lizzie, sitting beside him, seemed to sense this, and she took his right hand in her left one, squeezing it gently, as if to reassure him that it was all right, that she was here.
‘Well, here we are.’ The taxi driver stopped the engine and Simon was out of the car before he could have second thoughts. Dashing round to Lizzie’s side, he opened the door for her, and helped her out.
‘Here we go,’ he said quietly. ‘The entrance to hell itself.’
Lizzie stopped and looked at him. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know. You’ve come this far. You’ve seen the place. We could turn around and go back to the B & B now.’
Simon smiled and shook his head. ‘Just one last time,’ he said. ‘And I’ll never come back here again.’
‘Well, if you’re ready,’ Lizzie said. She reached for his hand. ‘Let’s get this over with. And remember why you’re here. It’s not about laying ghosts; it’s about seeing who might be able to be of use with RoseFest.’
‘I’ll try to remember that,’ Simon replied. Somehow, the thought comforted him.
They ascended the stone steps to the large, curved oak door of the main school building, and Simon took a deep breath. The reunion was being held in the senior dining hall, a vast oak-panelled room where the older year groups jostled for hierarchy and took their meals. Simon was assailed immediately by the familiar scents of wood polish, stodgy food and the slightest undertone of teenage sweat, which must have been locked into the walls over so many years. He struggled to keep a foothold in the present as the past threatened to rise to the surface once again.
Lizzie must have noticed his reticence, as she gave his hand another squeeze. She leaned up and whispered in his ear. ‘You’re Simon Treloar, Tenth Lord of Roseford and founder of the inaugural literary and music festival in the village. You’ve earned the right to be here.’
Simon turned to her briefly. ‘Thank you,’ he said. They crossed the threshold, and immediately Simon spotted several familiar faces. He squared his shoulders and took a step forward.
‘Well, there’s no need to remind myself whoyouare.’ A voice came from the table nearest the door. ‘I’d have recognised you a mile away.’ Behind the table, handing out name tags on metal pocket clips, was Mrs Etherington, who’d been the matron at the school in Simon’s day. A tiny but forceful woman, she handed Simon his name tag without prompting, and then, double-checking with Lizzie, handed hers over too.
‘It’s good to see you, Matron.’ Simon smiled down at the woman. ‘I thought you’d have had your fill of this place by now.’
Matron twinkled at Simon, but he wasn’t fooled; behind that gaze was a core of steel. Many a homesick boy had been put straight by Matron in his day, in a firm but compassionate way. He’d been among them. And when things had started to get intolerable, she’d seemed, somehow, to understand. That hadn’t stopped her from sending him back into the fray, but she’d offered solace on many occasions.
‘I could say the same for you, Simon,’ Matron replied eventually. ‘But it’s good to see you all the same.’
Simon glanced down at the remaining name tags that had yet to be claimed. Some were familiar, some less so. But, he figured, many classes had gone before and after him.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ he said. ‘Then we can suss out the best places to hide if needs be.’
Lizzie grinned. ‘We’re here now. Let’s make the most of it.’
After they availed themselves of a slightly indifferent glass of Prosecco each, Simon positioned himself near the bar, where he could keep an eye on the comings and goings.
‘Simon Treloar? Is that you?’ A familiar voice to one side of him made Simon turn. ‘It’s been bloody years, mate!’
Simon didn’t need to look at the name tag attached to this friendly faced, rather plump man in front of him to recognise a once close friend. Slightly greyer and a little wider than the last time Simon had seen him, some ten years prior, he still had the same welcoming manner and game smile.
‘Andy, how great to see you.’ He turned to Lizzie. ‘Lizzie Warner, I’d like you to meet Andy Watson. He pretty much saved my sanity at school.’
‘It’s nice to meet you, Lizzie,’ Andy said, seizing her hand and giving it a good shake. ‘My wife’s here somewhere, but she just had a call from her mother so she’s nipped out. Our youngest has got a bout of chicken pox, and is bad-tempered and very itchy, as you can imagine.’ He grinned. ‘Marina didn’t want to leave her for the night, but I managed to talk her into it. First night we’ve had away together for ages.’
‘And you chose to come back to this place?’ Simon laughed. ‘I thought I was a glutton for punishment!’
