The Forgotten Gift. Kathleen McGurl

she asked for a day off at short notice Andy would almost always grant her request, even if he had to work extra hours himself to cover her shift. Their previous manager had not been so accommodating and Cassie had been glad when he’d left and Andy, tall and skinny with a shock of black hair, had arrived in his place. Now, she had to admit, the sports centre was a great place to work, and that was largely down to the fun work ethic Andy had brought with him. Vicky, the assistant manager, was more strait-laced and never came to the pub, but was still a decent person to work with.

      Occasionally Cassie wondered whether, at thirty-seven, she ought to look for a job with more prospects, greater responsibility and higher pay. Certainly her parents thought so. Cassie had tumbled into the sports centre job after dropping out of university, needing an easy job that would earn her enough to pay the rent and put food on the table. And there she’d stayed, for sixteen years now. Most of the other general centre attendants were part-timers – either students paying their way through university or older women working shifts during school hours or at the weekends. The other full-time staff were management – Andy, plus the assistant manager Vicky. And then there were the instructors like Shania, who taught classes at several sports centres, gyms and studios in the area, and topped up their income by doing a few general shifts at the sports centre. Cassie was the only full-timer with no teaching qualifications who only worked the general shifts, lifeguarding, setting up equipment, cleaning changing rooms and the like.

      ‘Here we are then, ladies,’ Andy said, putting their drinks in front of them, and earning himself a glare from Cassie. ‘What? What have I said now?’

      ‘We are women. Not ladies.’ Shania stifled a giggle as Cassie rolled her eyes.

      ‘Here we are then, women,’ Andy said. ‘Ah come on. That sounds ridiculous. If you were fellas I’d say, “here we are, gents,” so why can’t I say “ladies”?’

      ‘OK, you have a point there,’ Cassie conceded. ‘Once again I will let you off.’

      ‘My, you are magnanimous tonight,’ Andy said. ‘Anyway. How was your day, you two?’

      Shania launched into a long story about a beginners’ Zumba class she’d run, in which two of the participants had kept bumping into each other, one going left and one going right when both should have gone left. ‘They’re supposed to mirror me, but one thought she needed to do the opposite, no matter how many times I explained it. They ended up in a heap on the floor at one point, thankfully not hurt but in fits of giggles. As was I.’

      ‘Ah the perils of a keep-fit class,’ Andy said. ‘And you, Cass? Anything fun happen to you today?’

      ‘Ah you know, the usual. Watched The Back swim ten lengths of butterfly in the lunchtime swim session.’

      ‘Ooh you should have said – I’d have come poolside to watch,’ Shania squealed. The Back was the name the female lifeguards had given to a regular customer, a fit young man in his twenties who swam several times a week, showing off his rippling back muscles to great effect as he practised his butterfly stroke.

      Andy leaned back and folded his arms. ‘So I’m sexist and get told off if I refer to you two as “girls” or “ladies”, but you’re allowed to drool over a bloke’s back muscles when he comes in for a swim? You’d be furious with me if I commented on a woman’s body in her swimsuit. Doesn’t it work both ways?’

      Cassie fixed him with a stare. ‘Yes it does, but women have been oppressed for so long. The pendulum has to swing back a little before it comes to rest in the middle, when full equality for all has finally been achieved.’

      ‘Hmm. Think I’ll put Toby and Ben poolside every lunchtime from now on.’

      ‘Toby’d probably appreciate The Back just as much as we do,’ Shania said.

      ‘What? You mean … no, really?’

      Cassie laughed. ‘Yep. Didn’t you know he was gay?’

      Andy stuck out his lower lip. ‘Perils of being a manager. No one tells me anything. I have to rely on you girls, whoops I mean women, to keep me up to date.’

      ‘Also, Shania’s an alien,’ Cassie said, her face deadpan.

      They were still laughing a few minutes later when Toby, Ben and a couple of other staff arrived. It was a good evening – a few rounds were bought and drunk but not so many that Cassie would have a hangover. A lot of banter and laughter and warmth. This, she thought, was why she was still in the job after so many years. Good people, good fun. Her colleagues came and went but they were always the kind of people Cassie got on well with, on a night down the pub.

      So what if she’d never become closer to any of them. So what if none of her friends had ever been to her flat, or she to theirs. So what if when people left the sports centre they never seemed to stay in touch after a few months. So what if she’d never had a boyfriend who lasted more than a couple of months, not since … not since university. She was happy, wasn’t she? Her life was good, wasn’t it?

      Cassie had a day off the next day. She’d planned to do some food shopping and go for a run – she was supposed to be in training for a half-marathon along with some of her work colleagues. They were going to run in T-shirts advertising the sports centre, and were raising sponsorship money in aid of the local children’s hospice charity.

      But the weather had other ideas. She liked to think of herself as not just a fair-weather runner, but she had her limits, and early autumnal torrential rain and gale-force winds were definitely beyond them.

      ‘Hmm, two fish fingers and some manky potatoes for dinner, then,’ she told herself, inspecting the contents of her fridge and freezer. ‘Plus daytime TV or genealogy research. What do you reckon, Griselda?’ She turned to address her elderly tabby cat who was rubbing herself around Cassie’s ankles, clearly hoping for some tidbit from the fridge.

      ‘Yeah, you’re right. Genealogy it is.’ She made herself a cup of tea then went through to her sitting room. She settled herself on a sofa, pulled the hand-knitted blanket her mother had made her over her legs and opened up her laptop. She had about thirty seconds of peace before Griselda jumped up and insisted on claiming some lap space between the computer and Cassie’s stomach. ‘For goodness’ sake, Gris, don’t you know how awkward it is to have to type around you?’ Cassie grumbled, as she gave the cat a stroke.

      Once settled, with the laptop precariously balanced on her knees, Cassie reread the transcript she’d made of George Britten’s will. He’d been a solicitor and apparently quite well off, owning a large house overlooking Regent’s Park. Most of his estate had been left to his children, with a number of small bequests to various charities. But then there were the two odd bequests to the prison chaplain and another one, to someone whose name Cassie could not make out from the looped, old-fashioned handwriting. This one was for five hundred pounds a year.

      She googled to find out how much five hundred pounds would have been worth in the late nineteenth century. ‘A good living, in those days. Whoever you were, you were important in some way to my great-great-great-grandfather. A lover, perhaps? Or an illegitimate child?’

      The next job, of course, was to try to establish the link between George Britten and the chaplain, Nathaniel Spring, trying to work out what had made him so important to George Britten, and what his ‘time of greatest need’ referred to. Cassie opened up an ancestry website and began a search for Nathaniel Spring.

       Chapter 2

       George, 1861

       30th January 1861

      Why is it, having left the school room at long last, that now I feel inclined to start a journal? My tutor Mr Smythe was dismissed just last week, now that I am full grown and almost of age. I hated writing essays, practising handwriting and penning arguments