A Grand Old Time: The laugh-out-loud and feel-good romantic comedy with a difference you must read in 2018. Judy Leigh

and I think she’s lost respect for me. She’s very independent; that’s one reason why I love her.’

      ‘Shall we take your van and go up to the headland?’ Evie said. ‘We can have a little walk and you can tell me about it. When we come back, we’ll make some supper and open a lovely bottle of wine.’

      Maddie felt in her pocket for the keys. She draped her other arm around Evie’s shoulders and took a deep breath.

      The early evening was still warm and bright. The little kitchen smelled of the warm aroma of herbs and frying potatoes. Kat stood in the doorway, a silent shadow, and Iggy moved towards his water bowl, lapping loudly. Maddie looked up hopefully from the table, which had been covered with a pretty blue-checked cloth and laden with plates full of green salad, sliced tomatoes, olives, cheese, piles of crusty bread. She patted the chair next to her, and Kat slumped down, sullen and tired, running a hand through her hair. Evie placed the Spanish omelette in the centre. It was huge, fluffy and golden, filled with peas and potatoes, peppers and onions.

      The chair squeaked as Evie sat down. She poured red wine into glasses. Kat pulled an unimpressed face. ‘What’s all this for?’

      Evie offered her most beatific smile. ‘For you, Kat. And for Maddie. To say thanks for putting me up here. For being welcoming. And because you’re both so lovely.’

      Kat turned away, wrinkled her nose and surveyed the newly whitewashed brick walls. Maddie took a slice of omelette and Evie indicated the rest of the food, then lifted her glass. ‘Sláinte.’

      Maddie raised her glass. ‘Santé.’

      Kat gulped at her wine, and mumbled to Evie, ‘That’s “cheers” in French.’

      For a moment, there was no sound except for the clank of knives and forks against plates. Then Evie looked up at both girls. ‘I’ve a confession to make.’

      Two pairs of eyes darted towards her face, so she winked. ‘I’m on the run.’

      Kat leaned forward. ‘From prison?’ Her knife and fork were in the air.

      Evie took a mouthful of wine and her laughter bubbled. ‘No. From a bloody care home.’

      Maddie’s brow creased. ‘I don’t understand.’

      Evie chewed thoughtfully. ‘My husband died and I just gave up. Felt lonely, so I went into Sheldon Lodge. I was surrounded with lots of lovely old people there and, do you know, it was the coldest, loneliest winter of my life.’

      Maddie’s fork was in the air. ‘I had no idea, Evie.’

      ‘So I ran away. I believe in the power of luck, you know. I’ve a lucky four-leaf clover in my handbag. Had it since I was four years old. Four’s my lucky number.’ Kat swallowed the last of her wine, so Evie refilled her glass. ‘I took a huge gamble and won some money, and it brought me to Liverpool where I met some grand people, but I was attacked by some poor little lad who was a chancer, and I thought about giving up, but then I came here and met you two.’

      Maddie and Kat exchanged looks. Evie passed the bread around the table and took a breath. ‘You two, you have it all. This place, youth, a future – each other. Make the most of it all. Before you know it, time’s like a whirlwind that has just rushed past and suddenly you’re seventy-five and on your own. There’s no time to waste on petty squabbles.’

      The young women stared at Evie and she beamed. ‘So come on, the pair of you. Let’s sort out priorities.’ She raised her glass. ‘Happiness. Someone you love, who loves you back. A good meal shared together. And the biggest priority of all. The present. It’s not called the present for nothing. It’s a gift.’

      Kat looked across at Evie and nodded slowly. ‘You’re right, Evie.’ She turned to Maddie and held out her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Maddie. I’ve been stupid, haven’t I?’

      Maddie leaned forward, mumbled, ‘Not your fault … nobody’s fault. Come here,’ and the two women clasped each other in a hug.

      Evie stood up, a grin on her face. ‘Will I open up a bottle? Another red one, perhaps?’

       Chapter Thirteen

      His eyes throbbed. Voices scratched in his head; all around him in the staff room, the low hum of conversation was spattered with the clink of teaspoons stirring coffee cups. He slumped over the table and wished time would stand still. His elbows slipped and pushed some papers onto the floor, reports, assessments: paperwork that would need completing tonight. He gathered them, and they rustled, dry as dead leaves, as he piled them up. He pushed his fingers into his eye sockets and rubbed hard. Penny Wray was standing behind him and she touched his shoulder. ‘Last lesson this term. Good luck.’ The klaxon sounded.

      He nodded and picked up his briefcase.

      He put the postcard inside the poetry book, at the right page for the lesson; he opened it and said to the class, ‘So, William Butler Yeats. “The Second Coming”.’

      Someone sniggered. McNally or Fearon, no doubt. Brendan carried on, his reading-to-the-class voice a little louder. He slowed his words, tried to emphasise the most important phrases, to convey the gravitas and beauty of the language.

      ‘Somewhere in sands of the desert

       A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

       A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

      Is moving its slow thighs …’

      A laugh vibrated, staccato machine-gun fire. Brendan looked up. ‘Kevin Fearon?’

      There was a pause, a face twisted in consideration. ‘I was just thinking about the slow thighs, Sir.’

      ‘He is always thinking about thighs, Sir.’

      Brendan tried to manage the moment with a half-smile. ‘All right, Jordan. Back to the poem. Where was I?’

      ‘In the middle of slow thighs, Sir.’

      Laughter ricocheted; kids’ faces were masks, distorted with hilarity and he felt himself duck a little, pushing his head down into his collar. He started again. ‘Somewhere in sands …’

      ‘Yeats is gay, Sir.’

      Brendan snapped his head towards the boy. ‘No, Gilbert, it’s believed not, Yeats married Georgiana H—’

      ‘Are you married, Sir?’

      ‘He is so; I have seen his wife, the blonde one with the big—’

      ‘She works in the doctor’s, my mother saw her.’

      ‘Now … Yeats is telling us in “The Second Coming” …’ Brendan’s heart drummed in his throat and he lifted the book. The postcard poked out from the page and Brendan pushed it back.

      ‘You and your missus, Sir,’ began Jordan Jelfs. ‘Do you write poems about her thighs, Sir?’

      Laughter crackled again. Brendan felt sweat leak and trickle down the back of his spine.

      ‘Tell us about your second coming, Sir, and her soft thighs.’

      ‘Is she a good ride?’

      Brendan put the book down on his desk and the postcard fluttered to the floor. He caught the eye of Malandra Shaw, who was applying mascara. She gave Brendan her full gaze.

      ‘Mr Gallagher would rather ride Miss Wray.’

      The boys howled, throwing themselves back