A winters wish, p.1
A Winter's Wish, page 1
A Winter’s Wish
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One Monday, 29th October
Chapter Two Tuesday, 30th October
Chapter Three Wednesday, 31st October
Chapter Four Thursday, 1st November
Chapter Five Monday, 5th November
Chapter Six Monday, 12th November
Chapter Seven Wednesday, 14th November
Chapter Eight Friday, 16th November
Chapter Nine Sunday, 18th November
Chapter Ten Tuesday, 20th November
Chapter Eleven Friday, 23rd November
Chapter Twelve Saturday, 24th November
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen Thursday, 29th November
Chapter Fifteen Saturday, 1st December
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen Monday, 3rd December
Chapter Eighteen Friday, 7th December
Chapter Nineteen Monday, 10th December
Chapter Twenty Wednesday, 12th December
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three Saturday, 15th December
Chapter Twenty-Four Monday, 17th December
Chapter Twenty-Five Tuesday, 18th December
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue Two years later…
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Tracy Corbett
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
For all my amazing colleagues at Citizens Advice,
you’re stars – each and every one of you x
Chapter One
Monday, 29th October
Samantha Tipping emerged from the toilet cubicle wearing her new ‘dress-to-impress’ business outfit and checked the results of her makeover in the wide mirror. It wasn’t a conventional look. The tan-coloured linen trousers were tailored for a man, as were the navy waistcoat and polka dot tie. But the recycled white dress-shirt was freshly ironed, and teamed with the smart navy trilby hat she’d found in a retro store in Clapham, she felt appropriately dressed. More importantly, she was ready to face the hordes of guests that would soon be arriving. Including the press, local dignitaries and potential funders. Not to mention her parents.
Her enthusiasm took a dip.
Shaking off her trepidation, she checked her reflection in the mirror. Happy with the outcome, she twisted her thick wavy hair into a knot and tucked it under her hat. Aside from her flushed cheeks – reddened from hours of cleaning ahead of today’s launch – she felt confident, if somewhat nervous. There was a lot riding on today.
Shoving her dirty cleaning clothes into a carrier bag, she exited the toilet block and glanced at her watch. There was just enough time to carry out one last check before The Crash Pad officially opened to the public.
Her pulse rate kicked up a notch, reminding her of what was at stake. Today was the culmination of years of dreaming and months of hard work. When she’d purchased the rundown care home just over a year ago, her dream of opening a night shelter for homeless teenagers had been a few scribbled ideas in a notebook. The reality of what lay ahead only came to light when she’d set about obtaining the appropriate planning approvals. Not only had she had to work with contractors to ensure she adhered to the strict building regulations, she’d also had to convince Lambeth Council she was up to the task of safeguarding minors.
In the end, she’d compromised on her desired ideals, and settled on providing a service for sixteen to twenty-one-year-olds, which eradicated the need for Social Services’ involvement. It still meant liaising with the Adult Social Care Team, but the rules weren’t quite so restricting, so it enabled her to get the project off the ground.
And now the end was in sight. After months of hard graft and overseeing building renovations, her dream was about to become a reality.
She couldn’t be more excited. Or petrified.
She made her way through the large open-plan communal area to the cafe. Norah and Emily had done an amazing job getting the space ready. The design matched the rest of the shelter, with its bright industrial lighting and exposed scaffolding, accented with colourful modern furniture. The small wooden tables were handmade, with recycled napkins, and decorated with potted herbs grown in the shelter’s rooftop garden.
The chalkboards were colourful and enticing, decorated with Emily’s loopy handwriting and listing all the food on offer, from hearty meat stews to vegan not-sausage rolls. The countertop was lined with pre-baked goods, freshly made sandwiches and wholesome salads, a nutritional balance to the chips and pasties warming in the oven.
The scent of homemade mushroom soup permeated the air, reminding her she’d skipped breakfast. She’d been too nervous to eat.
Norah opened her arms as Sam approached and pulled her into a hug. ‘Well, don’t you look adorable,’ she said, rocking her from side-to-side.
When Sam had advertised for help to run the shelter, she hadn’t known what to expect in terms of applicants. But she was quickly discovering that managing volunteers was an entirely different dynamic to working in a paid environment. Not that she was complaining. She’d never experienced this much warmth from her family, let alone from her work colleagues.
Sam stepped back and tipped her hat, allowing a wave of dark curls to escape. So much for taming the mane. ‘Do you approve?’ She straightened the trilby, deciding it would be easier to keep her hair loose.
Norah smiled.
‘It’s perfect.’ Her Dublin lilt was as infectious as the glint in her blue eyes. ‘You’ll knock ’em dead.’
That was the idea. ‘Is everything ready?’
Norah nodded. ‘All’s grand. We’ll not let you down.’
‘Oh, I know you won’t.’ She touched the older woman’s arm. ‘You’ve both been absolute stars. I couldn’t have done it without you.’
Which was entirely true. It was one thing to make plans to open a night shelter, but running it was another matter altogether. As she was already discovering. And they hadn’t officially opened yet.
Dealing with young homeless people would require patience, understanding and a lot of resilience. Norah’s experience came from a long career as a paediatric nurse, followed by a stint running her own catering company, and all while raising four children singlehandedly. Whereas Emily had lived on the streets for four years before finally being housed by the local authority a few months ago. Between them, they had enough understanding and empathy to cope with whatever difficulties occurred. And there were bound to be problems. She wasn’t naive enough to think otherwise.
Emily appeared from behind the counter, her hands smeared in pink chalk. ‘Hey, Sam. Nice hat.’
‘Thanks. I got it from the retro shop.’ She admired Emily’s leaf-patterned green dress, a match for her parsley-coloured eyes. ‘Pretty dress. New?’
Emily blushed. ‘Charity shop.’
‘What a great advert we are for recycling.’ She checked her watch. ‘Oh, God. It’s almost time.’ Panic was starting to kick in.
‘It’ll be fine.’ Norah gestured to the vast open space filled with colour. ‘Who couldn’t fail to be impressed by this?’
Sam looked around. Norah was right. The walls of the old care home had been knocked through to make one large open-plan space. Around the edges, individual beach huts had been constructed, each one painted in stripes of bright colours and containing a single bed. There were fifteen huts in total.
In the centre of the space was a communal area, filled with potted palm trees, comfortable sofas, a pool table, and giant squishy beanbags. Skylights in the high ceiling flooded the space with daylight, enhanced by the strip lights hanging down from the scaffolding. A huge mural painted on the end wall depicted a beach scene, complete with palm trees, golden sands, wispy clouds and an enticing blue sky. It was a place to dream, to escape, and to hope for more.
The shelter was basic in its construction, rustic in its design, but carefully thought through in terms of providing a welcoming, calming, and secure place for homeless young people to spend the night.
‘Let’s hope potential funders agree with you,’ Sam said, the butterflies in her tummy playing havoc with her attempts to remain composed. ‘I’m going to check the roof one last time.’ She blew them a kiss. ‘Good luck.’
Emily crossed her fingers. ‘You too!’
Norah gave her a thumbs-up. ‘Go get ’em, girl.’
Satisfied the catering was in safe hands, Sam headed upstairs to the rooftop garden. Outdoor space in Streatham was in short supply. The care home hadn’t been blessed with huge grounds, so she’d had to come up with an inventive way of creating a garden.
Having somewhere to grow produce was imperative. Not only because it was good for the environment and improved poor mental health, but if they could grow their own vegetables then it would keep costs down and make them more sustainable long-term.
Setting up the project had almost wiped her out. They had enough funds to run for a year, but after that they’d need to generate further income streams if they wanted to keep the project going. Something that was playing on her mind.
She headed for the ‘Staff Only’ area and used the long pole to unhook the catch on the loft ladder. The sound of grating metal made her teeth itch as the ladder rattled down. With extra funding, they’d be able to construct a more robust method of accessing the roof, which would mean they could s
Sam climbed up and opened the hatch at the top.
Bright sunshine made her blink. It was a lovely autumn day, the last of the summer sun clinging on, as if reluctant to depart for another year.
She stepped onto the roof and was immediately hit by the smell of African basil. The rooftop was still awash with growth, despite the shortening days. Rows of carrots, beetroot and pumpkins filled the raised beds. The herb garden attracted a few lazy bees, and the last of the tomatoes provided a splash of colour.
Only the sound of busy London traffic threatened to spoil the tranquillity. The skyline was dominated by grey buildings and the chimney stacks on the disused industrial warehouse on Streatham High Road blotted the view. But if you didn’t look upwards, you could believe yourself to be in a pretty country garden somewhere in rural England, rather than a rundown area of South London.
A gust of wind dislodged her hat.
Laughing, she caught hold of it before it disappeared over the side. As much as she loved her new purchase, she wasn’t about to launch herself off the side of a building to retrieve it.
A bang made her jump – the hatch door had caught in the wind and slammed shut.
She went over and tried to lift it up, but it wouldn’t shift. She tugged harder. No joy. Kneeling down, she tried again, easing her fingers under the latch, but it wouldn’t budge.
After another few attempts, she was starting to get agitated. The guests would be here any minute. She needed to be downstairs ready to greet them. She tugged at the door again, but it was firmly stuck.
Damn.
She ran over to the edge and looked over. The car park was filling up, the guests were arriving.
Shielding her eyes, she looked for Fraser, who was manning the door, hoping to attract his attention. He was her latest volunteer recruit, an ex-Royal Engineer who’d been medically discharged from the British Army following an altercation with an IED. Even minus a leg, his large frame and ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ attitude made him a formidable person to have overseeing security. But she couldn’t see him.
She called out anyway, hoping he’d hear. ‘Fraser!’ Her voice disappeared in the wind. She tried again. ‘Fraser? Are you there?’
No response. And she didn’t even have her phone on her.
Sighing, she looked around, hoping for inspiration. Maybe she could use a shovel to bust open the latch? But then she’d have to pay for repairs.
Her only option was the fire escape.
Sam didn’t mind heights. She’d spent her early years on the slopes of Lech am Arlberg and Klosters being forced to socialise with other well-to-do families, but her aptitude for downhill slaloming hadn’t prepared her for imitating Spider-man. At least he had webbing to secure him to the wall. She was going to have to descend the building via an unstable and creaking metal ladder that immediately parted company from the brickwork when she lowered herself onto it.
Gripping hold, she descended slowly, praying the ladder would hold up and that no one would witness her humiliation.
But the fates were not on her side.
Voices could be heard below. People milling about. A crowd was gathering.
Oh, hell.
The ladder creaked louder, drawing attention. There was a drop of about six feet from the bottom of the ladder to the ground. How the hell was she going to negotiate that?
Then her mother’s voice cut through the air, ‘Samantha? Is that you?’ Her tone indicated that she really hoped it wasn’t, even though she feared it was.
The sound of talking faded. Everyone stopped their conversations to focus on the woman dangling from the fire escape.
As if the situation wasn’t bad enough, her mother appeared directly below, her tan Chanel fitted-suit a far cry from Sam’s hand-me-down charity shop bargain. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she said, as though her daughter was ‘acting out’ and not genuinely stuck. ‘Get down from there.’
Whether it was the disapproving note in her mother’s voice, or the ladder shifting beneath her, she wasn’t sure. But before she could ensure a safe landing, her grip loosened on the handrail and she tumbled inelegantly to the ground.
A collective gasp filled the air – which thankfully masked the numerous expletives tumbling from her mouth as she hit the ground with a thud, knocking the wind from her lungs.
Fortunately, she didn’t land on her mother – who was glaring at her like she’d just murdered a kitten. Or worse, sprayed gravel over her Valentino Garavani courts.
Although pain rendered Sam momentarily speechless, she didn’t appear to be badly injured. A bloody scrape on her hand was the worst of it, along with a grubby left knee.
So much for making a good first impression.
And then a flash startled her. Brilliant. The press had arrived. Her day was getting better by the minute.
‘And what are you wearing?’ her mother hissed, gesturing for her to get up and ‘stop messing about’.
It was typical of her mother to focus on what people would think, rather than whether her daughter was okay. It was the story of Sam’s life, how she never failed to embarrass the Tipping family, this time by launching herself from a building and wearing charity-shop clothes. Oh, the shame of it.
She heard laughter.
Her brother.
A hand reached down and pulled her to her feet. ‘Christ, Sammy, you sure know how to make an entrance.’ He brushed dirt from her once-white sleeve.
Max Tipping looked like something from a style magazine. His pinstriped three-piece suit was custom-made, no doubt by a top Savile Row tailor, and his haircut and trimmed-beard probably cost more than Sam spent in a month on food.
Behind him stood her father, his tweed suit teamed with a lightweight grey sweater, open-neck shirt and shiny brown brogues, a match for his year-round tan.
All three of them stared at her. But at least her brother’s expression conveyed amusement rather than disappointment.
Sam’s preference for second-hand clothing had never been approved of, even as a teenager. The idea that photos would be appearing in the newspapers of her looking ‘like that’ was clearly of abhorrence. Well, tough.
She wasn’t about to be shamed. Not today. Showing up to a charity event for homeless youths dressed like they were attending a royal garden party was hugely insensitive. Her parents would never understand that, so it was pointless to mention it.
Plus, she didn’t have the time.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, forcing a smile and ignoring the sting in her hand. ‘I’m so glad you could make it. It means a lot to me.’
‘We’re eager to see what our money has paid for,’ her father said, frowning.
Sam bit her lip. It would be too easy to retaliate. ‘The flat was my twenty-first birthday present, Dad. So really, it was my money to use.’
Her mother tutted. ‘No one in their right mind would sell a highly sought-after property in Dulwich to fund a…’ Her perfectly powdered nose wrinkled as she searched for the right word, ‘charity.’
‘If we’d known what you had planned, we might not have bought it for you,’ her father chastised.
Sam’s smile became a little more forced. At the time, she’d wished they hadn’t. The flat had felt like a bribe, a way of trying to keep her in line. Still, it had come in useful now. Without it, she couldn’t have financed her dream.
‘I hope you don’t expect us to bail you out when you run out of money,’ her father said, glancing up at the ‘Welcome to The Crash Pad’ sign.
‘Not going to happen, Dad.’ Even though running out of money was a distinct possibility.
