The Light in the Hallway (ARC) Read online

  A DVA NCE R E A DER’S COPY — U NCOR R EC TED PROOF

  PRAISE FOR THE COORDINATES OF LOSS

  ‘An emotion-packed tearjerker.’

  Woman and Home

  ‘A thoughtful and sensitive read, well recommended.’

  Woman’s Way

  ‘We loved this raw depiction of motherhood tested to

  the limit.’

  Take a Break

  PRAISE FOR AMANDA PROWSE’S OTHER

  BOOKS

  ‘Amanda Prowse is the queen of contemporary family

  drama.’

  Daily Mail

  ‘A tragic story of loss and love.’

  Lorraine Kelly, The 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.’

  The 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, Good Morning Britain 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 Bux, 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, Sky News 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

  THE LIGHT IN THE HALLWAY

  O T H E R B O O K S B Y A M A N D A

  P R O W S E

  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

  O T H E R N O V E L L A S B Y A M A N D A

  P R O W S E

  The Game

  Something Quite Beautiful

  A Christmas Wish

  Ten Pound Ticket

  Imogen’s Baby

  Miss Potterton’s Birthday Tea

  THE LIGHT IN THE

  HALLWAY

  AMANDA PROWSE

  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 Amanda Prowse

  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

  Printed in the United States of America

  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 in 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.

  ix

  Amanda Prowse

  ‘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 hilari-

  ous. 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 ab
le 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 was eating. It was usually out of

  kindness or guilt that he 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,

  x

  The Light in the Hallway

  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 di-

  lapidated steel-framed barn, long abandoned and where

  the older lads and lasses went to go snogging. 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 stand-

  ing 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,

  xi

  Amanda Prowse

  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 the 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 ce-

  lebrities. 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 shout-

  ed, jumping up in a lightbulb moment. ‘The postman.

  He has a bike!’

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  The Light in the Hallway

  ‘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.

  xiii

  CHAPTER 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 wast-

  ing 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 exp
ression 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.

  1

  Amanda Prowse

  His son looked up briefly from the laptop, balanced

  on his bony knees, holding him captive and to which he

  returned his gaze, almost daring his dad to speak again.

  ‘The thing is, Olly,’ he 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 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 con-flict and neither of you need that on top of everything else …

  Remember that she is not only your wife, but 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

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  The Light in the Hallway

  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