E-Book, Englisch, 368 Seiten
Hogan The Light a Candle Society
Main
ISBN: 978-1-80546-076-3
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
The most heartwarming, joyful, uplifting BESTSELLING read for 2025 from the author of The Keeper of Lost Things Ruth Hogan
E-Book, Englisch, 368 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-80546-076-3
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Ruth Hogan studied English and Drama at Goldsmiths College and went on to work in local government. A car accident and a subsequent run-in with cancer convinced her finally to pursue her dream of becoming a writer. The result was her debut novel - The Keeper of Lost Things, which went on to become a global bestseller. She is now a full-time author and lives with her husband and rescue dogs in a rambling Victorian house stuffed with treasure that inspires her novels. Insta: @ruthmariehoganauthor
Autoren/Hrsg.
Weitere Infos & Material
Chapter 4
On the day of the move, it rained relentlessly. The sky was dark and disapproving, and water was smashing down on the flowers in the garden, shattering the blooms and battering their torn petals onto the sodden grass. As portents go, it wasn’t encouraging. But Derek didn’t believe in portents. When the removal man – Dan with a Van – had turned up at his flat in Hackney that morning and announced that they might do better with an ark than his aging Transit, Derek had smiled serenely and offered him a cup of tea – and a chocolate digestive. And now they had arrived in the picturesque, though currently rain-lashed, village where Derek was to make his new home with the love of his life. Jack was at the door to greet them as soon as they pulled onto the drive. A broad smile lit up his attractive face, and he ran his hand through his ever mussed-up mop of silver hair as he stood waiting for Derek to get out of the van. He had remembered to put on the navy check shirt that Derek liked so much, and his usually rumpled chinos were neatly pressed for the occasion.
‘Welcome home, my darling!’ he murmured, as he pulled Derek into a brief hug and then released him with a quick glance in Dan’s direction.
‘Don’t mind me,’ said Dan, pulling the first of the boxes from his van. ‘I’m Elton John’s biggest fan.’
Between them, they unloaded Derek’s belongings – getting drenched in the process – and Jack insisted on making Dan a sandwich and a mug of tea before he set off back to London. They sat in the kitchen, eating and drinking and drying off in the heat of the Aga, which looked strangely incongruous in the 1960s-built bungalow. It had been Jack’s retirement gift to himself. He had always dreamt of living in a large country house with a boot room and an Aga – he never missed an episode of – but on a college lecturer’s salary, the bungalow had been the best he could afford. He had, however, furnished it as though it were a country cottage, its colourful vintage interiors completely and rather splendidly at odds with the building’s plain, boxy exterior. Continuing the theme outside was the epitome of a cottage garden, a feast for both body and soul. The regimented beds of runner beans, carrots, potatoes and onions, the fruit trees and raspberry canes and the riot of delphiniums, roses and honeysuckle made the bungalow they surrounded look like an imposter.
A haughty marmalade cat with tufted fur stalked the kitchen, inspecting them with his baleful yellow eyes before approaching Derek and rubbing his head against his calf. Derek leaned down to stroke him. ‘I’m honoured, Kathmandu. You never normally come near me.’
Jack laughed. ‘He’s trying to get round you now that he knows you’re moving in. He’s hoping for extra titbits.’
Once Dan had gone, they began to organise Derek’s things.
‘I’ve cleared some space on the bookshelves in the study, and your records can go with mine in the sitting room,’ Jack told him as he carried Derek’s suitcase into his new bedroom. It was cosily furnished with a single bed, a carved mahogany wardrobe and a comfortable looking armchair positioned next to a side table on which stood a handsome brass reading lamp.
‘Of course, I hope you won’t be in here,’ Jack said, with that slow smile that always made Derek’s stomach flip. ‘I’ll leave you to unpack.’
Jack kissed him lightly on the cheek and then left the room, closing the door behind him.
Derek sat down hard on the bed, allowing himself to bounce a couple of times with sheer happiness. He could hardly believe that he’d actually done it. After years of living alone and having no friends – only work colleagues and people he knew from the pub – he had retired, sold his flat and moved to the country to live with his boyfriend. Derek smiled to himself. Boyfriend! They were middle-aged men and both of them drawing a pension. But Derek had never felt so young – and so full of hope for the future. His actual boyhood had been spent in a series of children’s homes, or ‘in care’ as it was so often called. But care wasn’t a concept that Derek had been familiar with back then. He had felt lonely, bullied, angry, afraid and sometimes completely invisible. But he couldn’t remember ever feeling cared for. Until now. Until Jack.
He got up and lifted the suitcase onto the bed. He opened it and began decanting his clothes. He didn’t have that many, having spent most of his adult life wearing the uniform of a police o?cer – specifically that of a custody sergeant for the past fifteen years. He was sure Jack would soon remedy that. Jack loved shopping for clothes, an activity that for Derek was on a par with filling out a tax return. But with Jack it would be more bearable. He might even learn to enjoy it. Perhaps he could use the John Lewis vouchers he had been given as a retirement gift by his colleagues. His departure from the force had been marked by a few drinks at a local pub. It had been well attended but had only lasted an hour or so before people began to drift away. Derek had never been that close to anyone at work. He had participated su?ciently in the day-to-day banter, pulled his weight and been a reliable member of whichever team he had been assigned to, but he had never socialised with any of them. His childhood had made him stubbornly self-reliant and reluctant to trust anyone, and being gay was an added complication. Yes, attitudes within the force had gradually changed over the years, and some of the younger o?cers were now o?cially ‘out’, but it hadn’t been something that Derek had ever felt comfortable sharing with his colleagues. Opening up to a friendship with any of them would have made him feel exposed and vulnerable, and Derek preferred the protective carapace that social solitude afforded him. Until Jack.
As he hung his shirts on the hangers in the wardrobe, he recalled their first meeting a little over a year ago. It had been on a Saturday in The National Gallery. Derek had been standing in front of by Georges Seurat. He didn’t know much about art, but he knew what he liked, and he enjoyed visiting galleries and museums in his spare time and absorbing rather than analysing what he saw. The painting was one of his favourites. He loved the muted colours and the languid poses of the bathers. The picture conveyed an otherworldly serenity that Derek found mesmerising.
After a while he had become aware of someone standing next to him and had glanced across to see Jack staring at the painting. They had stood in silence for several minutes before Jack said, without looking at him, ‘It’s wondrous, isn’t it?’ Jack always chose his words so carefully, and his description had been perfect. They had both been standing there lost in wonderment at the picture before them.
They had exchanged a few pleasantries, Derek reluctant at first – his natural reticence reinforced by the assumption that Jack was an academic and his own ignorance of art would make him look foolish. But Jack’s warmth and humour had won him over and they had ended up going for a drink. From that first day, Derek had felt safe with Jack. And over the months that feeling had expanded and elaborated into trust and finally love, and now here he was.
There was a knock on the door. ‘Are you done yet?’
Jack came in and glanced at the wardrobe, which now contained the contents of the suitcase but was still half-empty. ‘I can see that we need to take you shopping. But perhaps we could start with a few online purchases’ he added, seeing the expression of mock horror on Derek’s face. ‘Now, come and have a glass of wine and talk to me while I cook dinner.’
Derek followed Jack through into the kitchen where the table had been laid with a white tablecloth, silver candlesticks and flowers rescued from the garden. Sade was playing in the background and something that smelled delicious was simmering on the Aga.
Jack handed him a glass of wine and raised his own in a toast. ‘To us!’
——
Derek was horribly cold when he woke up on the floor. He tried to move but a bolt of pain shot through his head. His left side was numb, and his limbs lay immobile – uncooperative and useless. When he attempted to call out, the only sound he could manage was a guttural moan. He tried to remember what had caused him to fall. The headache had arrived without warning – intense and agonising. He had been on his way to the kitchen to get some painkillers when he had suddenly collapsed, as though the headache had blown the main fuse to the rest of his body. How long had he been on the floor? He couldn’t move his arm to see his watch, but it had been lunchtime and now it was dark outside. It was dark inside too. Derek wondered if he was going to die. He couldn’t raise the alarm. His phone was charging in the kitchen, and he couldn’t even speak let alone shout for help. How long would it take for him to be found? Days? Weeks? Months? No one came to the bungalow except to deliver post and parcels. Would anyone in the village notice his absence? He doubted it. They might just assume that he’d gone away for a bit. He wasn’t afraid. In fact, it would be a relief.
Since Jack had died, Derek had disengaged from the world,...
