Two Metres From You

by Heidi Stephens

  Gemma wondered if Mabel remembered her original owner; it had been almost three years since Gemma had had a phone conversation with Aunt Laura’s occupational therapist and the move to a specialist care home was confirmed. The fate of her dog had caused Aunt Laura some distress, so Gemma didn’t hesitate to offer to take her to Warwick Mews. Of course at the time she had no idea the house would be sold barely two years later and she would be moving Mabel to Fraser’s house, where she had been grudgingly welcomed by a man who seemed to be caught in an internal battle between his love of dogs and his passion for white furnishings. Only six months there, and now Mabel was here. In a week or two she would be living somewhere else. Poor Mabel, thought Gemma, she was supposed to live out her life in the comfort of the house in Norfolk. Now she’s being moved around like just another piece of my luggage. She stroked Mabel’s head for a few minutes, in time with her contented growls.

  By midday Gemma had ticked a half-hour run down the lane off her list, and Mabel was asleep again, this time back in her bed in the dining room of the cottage. Gemma climbed the stairs to shower and wash her hair, thinking it would be good to do it again on Thursday morning before Matthew got back. Not having him consume her every thought felt like a relief; being sad and needy was quite draining. It also inexplicably made her want to eat biscuits.

  She had also stopped obsessing about Claire, rationalising that the trip finished five years ago and people’s tastes changed. She’d been dating Johannes at that time, and while she had loved that he was creative and interesting and musically gifted, for the life of her she couldn’t remember what had kept them together for two years. He had pale, feminine hands with unfeasibly long fingers, no appreciation of irony or satire, and approached sex like one of his musical scores – to be rigidly followed note-for-note, with no artistic interpretation whatsoever. He played her just like his French horn – a little light fingering to warm up, then a deep breath and absolute focus to the end.

  So yes, Claire had been young and glossy-haired and beautiful, but maybe she’d also been a right moaning cow throughout that trip and gave REALLY bad blow jobs. The worst kind, all teeth and gagging. The thought made Gemma laugh out loud in the shower, and the noise echoed off the tiled walls. Uh oh, you’ve started laughing at your own internal dialogue. You need to get out more.

  Gemma came downstairs with her hair wrapped in a towel and checked her emails. Ruth and Erica had approved her copy and leaflet design, so Ruth would get them all printed and delivered to Steve the Postie later today. Gemma felt tense and nervous about the whole project – perhaps nobody would donate or people wouldn’t want to get involved. Perhaps she’d overestimated the need for something like this. Maybe the police would turn up and arrest them all. For the thousandth time in the last twenty-four hours, she asked herself why on earth she had started this, when she could just have opted for a quiet life in the cottage until it was time to go back to London.

  The reason, as always, was Aunt Laura. She’d have told her to go for it, and not let obstacles or excuses get in her way. The future is promised to no one, Gemma; you have to make things happen. How true that turned out to be; Aunt Laura’s future had been curtailed far too soon. Gemma wondered what she would have said about Matthew, but she knew the answer to that too. It was another one of her favourite sayings – Follow your heart, but take your brain with you.

  Gemma walked into the lounge and opened the wood burner. Crumpled on top of the unlit tinder was the list she had written on the back of an envelope almost two weeks ago, the day before she’d gone to Matthew’s barn for the first time. She smoothed the envelope out until it was mostly flat, then grabbed her pen and made some additional notes.

  Reasons not to fancy Matthew

  Social distancing – bit late for that

  He’s not your type (local man for local people) – no longer applies

  He’s Caro’s friend (awks) – she seems OK with it

  He might not fancy you – indications are positive

  He could be gay – he’s definitely not gay

  You’ll make an idiot of yourself – guaranteed

  You’re moving back to London soon – still true and problematic

  You’re on the rebound – still true, less problematic

  You’re crap at relationships – still true, can’t be helped

  Men are shits – possibly not all men, tbc

  You are 32 and don’t look great naked – Can’t believe you wrote this, behave yourself

  Reasons to fancy Matthew

  He’s kind and nice (underrated qualities, tbc if sexy) – can confirm v. sexy

  He’s literally next door – sore point right now

  He might fancy you too – see above, indications positive

  He probably looks great naked (also: good with hands) – still tbc

  You’re trapped in a small village in a global pandemic, normal rules have gone out the window – still true

  Gemma stabbed the envelope on to the rusty nail above the dining-room fireplace so she could revisit it later. The thought of Matthew made her skin prickle and her stomach do backflips, but the consequences loomed in the corner of her mind like little nagging goblins. Her heart told her to give into the feelings, her head told her to be careful. The relentless battle between the two was at risk of bringing on a migraine, so she turned her attention to more practical matters. It would be nice to put a few groceries in Matthew’s flat before he got back, things like bread and milk, maybe a few flowers from the garden. The peonies weren’t quite ready – the buds were tightly closed and perfectly round, like pink table tennis balls – but there were still some wild daffodils left. She added a few items to her shopping list, found a blue striped jug in the kitchen and headed outside.

  By 3 p.m., Gemma was entirely at a loose end and couldn’t settle to anything. All her lists were done, the house was clean, and the jug of wild daffodils was in the kitchen waiting to be transferred to Matthew’s place on Thursday. She made a mug of tea and hunted in the cupboard for more biscuits, then remembered she’d finished the last few yesterday. They were chocolate Hobnobs, eaten as a celebration of a successful Zoom call and a very poor substitute for dinner.

  She opened the cupboard and took a quick inventory – she’d managed to acquire a small bag of flour from the shop, which Ruth extracted from a locked store cupboard and told her not to tell anyone about, like she was dealing hard drugs or stolen goods. She also had butter and caster sugar – Aunt Laura had made an amazing shortbread with those three ingredients, but Gemma couldn’t remember the proportions. She opened WhatsApp and her finger hovered over the green phone icon for a moment before she pressed decisively. Her mother answered after a few rings.

  ‘Hello, Gemma darling, this is a surprise.’

  Gemma closed her eyes and focussed on her mindful breathing. ‘Hello, Mum, how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, keeping busy in the garden. Your father is digging, I’m directing operations.’

  Gemma laughed; she could just imagine her dad huffing and grumbling in the borders.

  ‘Mum, I need your help. I want to make Aunt Laura’s shortbread but I can’t remember the quantities. Do you know?’

  Her mother was silent, and the moment dragged out long enough that Gemma wondered if she’d been cut off. ‘Mum? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here, I’m just thinking. Hold on a moment.’

  Gemma heard her mother open the kitchen door and the creak of her feet on the stairs. Another door opened, presumably a bedroom. Then a brief knocking sound as the phone was placed on a hard surface, followed by the dragging of wood on wood as a drawer was opened. Gemma had heard that sound a hundred times and knew exactly where her mother was right now – kneeling in front of the old wooden chest of drawers in the blue guest bedroom, wiggling open the big bottom drawer that stuck halfway. She couldn’t think what her mother was doing in there; she’d slept in that room at Christmas and that chest had contained not
hing but offensively floral bedlinen and mustard towels.

  There was a sound of squeaky bedsprings as Gemma’s mother sat down on the bed, and her voice returned. ‘Here we are.’

  ‘What is it? What have you found?’

  ‘It’s your aunt Laura’s recipe book. She used it to write down favourite recipes, and she’s stuck some in from magazines. It used to be in her kitchen in her house in Wymondham. I think the shortbread recipe is in here.’

  Gemma knew for sure that it was, she could picture the book perfectly. A large spiral-bound notebook with a pale green cover and unlined white paper, the kind of thing you’d buy in a stationery shop for a couple of pounds and use as a sketchbook. ‘Recipes’ had been written in black marker pen in the white box on the front cover, and the cardboard back was a mess of swirly scribbles where Aunt Laura used it to check if her pen was working. Gemma had flicked through the pages so many times, some containing nothing more than a few lines of handwritten instructions in Aunt Laura’s spidery scrawl, others crisp and heavy with glue and recipe cuttings from Good Housekeeping or the Sunday Times food magazine. Gemma remembered that the shortbread recipe page was handwritten, the page spattered with smears of butter and tiny hardened blobs of dough. Aunt Laura didn’t care; as far as she was concerned sticky recipe books were the sign of devoted use. According to Nigella, anyway, and Nigella was never wrong.

  ‘I know exactly the one you mean. Where did you get it?’

  Barbara sighed heavily. ‘I helped to clear out her house in Norfolk before it was sold. I suppose it was nearly three years ago now. It seemed like something she might ask for, or perhaps I thought there was a chance she might live independently again. Silly, really. A couple of months ago I unpacked the box and put it in a drawer for you. I thought you might want it.’

  Gemma’s eyes welled with tears; she hadn’t realised just how much she wanted it until that moment. ‘I do, Mum. Thank you.’ Her mother cleared her throat; Gemma could hear her flicking through the pages. ‘Here we are. It’s easy enough. Six ounces of flour, four ounces of butter and two ounces of caster sugar. I’m sure you can convert that into your metric nonsense.’

  Gemma laughed. ‘I definitely can. Thanks, Mum. I’ll send you a photo when they’re done, shall I?’

  ‘What on earth for? What would I do with a photo?’

  Hey you. I made some shortbread today. If you’re lucky there might be some left when you get back. Gx

  There better had be. I’ve been eating kettle food for days. I need home cooking, and also you. Mx

  You’ve been out in the big wide world. Don’t you need to self-isolate for two weeks? Gx

  I definitely do not. But if you’ll self-isolate with me, I might consider it. Mx

  I’m afraid I’ve become a mainstay of the village community while you’ve been away, I’m organising inspiring projects to improve lockdown life and am extremely busy and important. Gx

  Hahahahahaha Mx

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Thursday, 16 April

  To Do

  Running again (ugh ugh)

  Change sheets (just in case)

  Scrubber duty 1 p.m.

  Wash village hall out of hair

  Re-shave everything

  Gemma woke up with a jittery, nervous feeling in her stomach after a turbulent night’s sleep. Whichever way she looked at it, today was going to be a very big day. It was donation sorting day, and at some point Matthew was coming back from Bristol. He hadn’t said when, but Gemma expected to be at the village hall all afternoon, so chances were he’d be back by the time she got home. She still hadn’t resolved the situation between them in her head, and had made a decision yesterday to talk to him when he got back. She had popped up to his apartment the previous evening to leave a few items of fresh food and the jug of flowers, and had borrowed a few more books. It was unlikely she’d have time to do much reading in the coming days, but at least it was a legitimate reason to be there.

  She started the day by taking Mabel for a run and checking her emails; she’d had no new work assignments for a few days, which to some extent was a relief since she had so little time right now, but in other respects was a bit of a worry. She’d considered pitching a story about lockdown village life and her swap shop idea, but wanted to see how it went first and run it past the committee. She didn’t want them to think she was an opportunist, selling them out for column inches.

  By late morning Gemma had changed the sheets and laid out a change of clothes for this evening – she’d shower and wash her hair when she got back from the village hall, and do some quick personal grooming. She thought about how much Caro and Joe would tease her for such blatant sex preparation, but she’d never known a situation when she’d regretted being prepared, and anyway they’d never know. Only Mabel was here, and she was currently asleep and wouldn’t judge.

  After lunch Gemma put Mabel on her lead and walked her to the village hall. She had no idea how long this would take and didn’t want to leave her at home alone, so she’d agreed with Ruth that she’d bring her along. Mabel would happily settle down in the office at the back of the shop, and Gemma could take her for a quick walk round the churchyard later. As they strolled through the village Gemma returned a few waves and nods of greeting, and smiled at the odd ‘’Lo, Mabel’ that came her way. Even if people didn’t know her name, they always remembered her dog.

  Ruth was waiting in the village hall when Gemma arrived, armed with a couple of bottles of Dettol, a packet of J-cloths, two surgical face masks and some white latex gloves like the ones Gemma’s doctor snapped on before giving her a smear test. She made them both a cup of tea in the small kitchen at the back of the hall, and they settled down to wait for the van to arrive. Gemma sat on a table and swung her legs, her hands gripping the table edge. Ruth watched her carefully, her face softer than the first day she’d seen Gemma in the village shop, but still missing nothing.

  ‘What you worrying about now.’ Always a statement, never a question.

  ‘Everything. What if nobody donates anything, or nobody turns up on Saturday? It could be a stupid idea and I’ll have wasted everybody’s time.’

  ‘Most of the slots for Saturday have already gone, you’re flapping about nothing.’

  Gemma looked up. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. I’ve had loads of people asking in the shop, they seem keen. To be honest, everyone’s bored out of their minds, anything for a change of scenery.’

  Gemma smiled and relaxed a little. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve never done anything like this before.’

  ‘I can tell. I thought you were a right madam that day you came here, turns out you’ve got a bit of something about you. You’ll fit in just fine here.’

  Gemma looked up in alarm. ‘I’m not staying. I have to get back to London soon.’

  Ruth raised her eyebrows. ‘Why’s that then.’

  ‘Because that’s where I live. It’s my home.’ Gemma watched Mabel, sleeping in the warmth of the window. Her barrel chest heaved in and out with sleep, and every now and then her front paws twitched. Perhaps she’s finally caught that magpie, thought Gemma.

  ‘Not right now it’s not. Right now you live here.’ Ruth paused for a few moments. ‘When’s Matthew back.’

  Gemma smiled wryly to herself, people in this village missed nothing. They’d probably set up neighbourhood watch when she arrived; the barbecue last week must have set off all kinds of alerts, like smoke signals across the garden fences.

  ‘Later today, I think, I’m not sure.’

  Ruth made a sardonic huffing noise that was no doubt accompanied by more raised eyebrows, but Gemma wasn’t looking – the white van had pulled up in the car park and she was momentarily saved.

  For the next half-hour, Gemma and Ruth worked with Rachel and Chris, the couple with the van, to unload a huge pile of bags and boxes, alongside loose items like children’s scooters and toddler ride-on toys. It seemed like everyone who had been asked had taken the oppor
tunity to have a clear-out of unwanted items, and Gemma was relieved and gratified by the generosity. The collection volunteers left, and Gemma and Ruth set to work sorting and cleaning all the donations.

  Not everything made the grade – some of the toys were cracked or broken, there were games and puzzles that clearly had pieces missing, and someone had given a stack of baking trays that were flaking with rust. Gemma put all these in a crate marked ‘tip’ – they would be taken to the local recycling centre whenever it re-opened. Everything else was inspected for damage, then sprayed with Dettol and carefully wiped. Books were quick and easy, but some of the toys and games had intricate nooks and crannies that they needed to poke around in, so Ruth went into the shop and came back with a couple of toothbrushes. It was boring, mindless work, but once they were clean, everything was packed into labelled crates and dragged into the storeroom to sit in quarantine until Saturday.

  Gemma and Ruth wasted little energy on idle chat; there was a job to be done and anyway the masks muffled their conversation. At one point Ruth observed how thorough Gemma’s cleaning was; clearly she had expected it to be more slapdash. ‘Cleaning is my superpower,’ replied Gemma. ‘I learned from a master.’

  By 4 p.m. they’d made a decent dent in the donation pile, so Gemma took Mabel over to the church for a walk. It was ostensibly for Mabel’s benefit, but Gemma also needed a break – the gloves and mask had made her hot and sweaty, and kneeling on the wooden floor was making her back hurt. The pain made her think of the day she tackled the garden when Matthew mowed the lawn, and she wondered idly if he was back in the barn yet. If so he would have found the food and flowers, and the little parcel of homemade shortbread she had wrapped in baking parchment and tied with brown garden string. Gemma hadn’t told him about the Swap Shop yet; it still felt like a dumb idea that was doomed to fail.