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!’
xii
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
2
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