In the absence of a remotely convincing lie, Gemma had no choice but to tell him the truth. She replayed their conversation on the doorstep and admitted that she hadn’t been very polite. Then she told him what she remembered of the letter she’d received yesterday. Matthew didn’t say anything, but his mouth formed into a grim line as Gemma recalled the bit in the note that said he’d be furious.
‘I AM furious. It was none of her business.’
‘I think she cares about you. Any mother would do the same.’
‘Even so, it’s not on.’
‘Let’s not let it spoil today. It started so well.’ Gemma smiled and took his hand, in a gesture that she hoped would make some kind of amends for her insane overreaction in the field on Saturday.
Matthew’s face softened and he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. ‘OK, I’ll let it go until I see her next. I meant to ask, how did Autumn Club go yesterday?’
‘It was great, actually. A really good turn-out, and Yvonne’s IT husband managed all the technical challenges. Not much for me to do but smile and wave.’
‘What did they talk about?’
‘They had a nurse, I think his name was Sam? Talked about hygiene, safety and mental health. It was actually really interesting. Then everybody had a cup of tea and a nice chat about how they think this is all China’s fault . . .’
Matthew rolled his eyes. ‘Gotta love old people. Sam’s a nice guy, he’s on my pub quiz team. Knows more about the Eurovision Song Contest than anybody I know.’
Gemma raised her eyebrows. ‘I am happy to rise to that challenge.’
‘Really? Oh God, you guys have to meet.’ There was an awkward silence and Matthew blushed, but Gemma glossed over it.
‘It’s beautiful here. Tell me again where we’re going?’
‘I never told you the first time.’
‘Damn, you’re good.’
After twenty minutes of increasingly narrow and winding lanes Matthew pulled the van into a muddy lay-by next to a metal five-bar gate. There was nothing on the other side that Gemma could see other than overgrown shrubs and brambles, dripping with rain. He turned the engine off and grinned. ‘We’re here.’
‘Is this going to ruin my lovely boots?’ Gemma looked down at the glossy leather, still gleaming after only a few days of wear.
‘It’s going to give them a little of what they’re designed for, before you take them back to London and never look at them again.’ He looked at them lustfully. ‘What a waste.’
Gemma jumped down from the van and stood back so Mabel could slide under the gate and disappear into the undergrowth. Gemma watched Matthew wrestle with the padlock on the gate – she could see the white knuckles of his cold hands trying to manipulate the key. Eventually it turned and the padlock fell away, so he gathered up the heavy chain and wrapped it round the top bar of the gate, closing the lock again. ‘Come on, it’s this way.’
Matthew walked ahead, pushing wet branches and brambles aside to clear a path for Gemma, Mabel weaving in and out of their legs. The rainwater crept into the collar of her gilet, running in freezing rivulets down her neck. Gemma could see the remains of an old track or bridleway underfoot; on the right-hand side a stone wall created a border between the track and a wooded, sloped bank covered in spindly trees and a carpet of wild garlic. It was in full flower and the smell was overpowering after the heavy rain – Gemma wanted to bury her face in handfuls of it.
After a couple of minutes the path widened and the greenery fell away to an open space in front of a wreck of a cottage. It was in a terrible state, with missing glass in the windows, crumbling stonework around the front door and a hole in the ancient tiled roof big enough for Gemma to climb through. As she stood looking up at it, two pigeons fluttered out of the hole in response to Mabel’s frenzied barking and didn’t return.
The space around the cottage was equally chaotic – the driveway had once been gravelled but was now a mess of tufts of grass, rocks and random items like a roll of chicken wire, a car hubcap and an ancient rusty wheelbarrow. The surrounding trees and shrubs had encroached on the space, covering the ground with creeping elder, bindweed and goosegrass. Mabel dashed off to sniff everything, emerging from behind the wheelbarrow with a mouldy tennis ball that was split down one side.
Matthew stood with his arms folded, looking at Gemma with a challenging glint in his eye. ‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t think it’s quite ready for you to move in yet. Maybe a lick of paint?’
He grinned, clearly delighted that she was on his wavelength. ‘But you can see the potential?’
‘Of course. It used to be beautiful, it could be beautiful again. But it would be so much work. It could take years.’
‘It absolutely will take years, but it’s going to be amazing. The plot includes the house, the access road and the garden, and there are some outbuildings round the back. Come and see.’
For the next half-hour Gemma and Mabel followed Matthew around the house and garden. He opened the front door with a heavy key, although neither of the downstairs front windows had any glass and they could have easily climbed in. The house had the original stone floors downstairs, coated in what appeared to be several centuries of dust and dead woodlice. There was a cosy, low-ceilinged lounge with an open fireplace and a huge leaded window, and a spacious kitchen with an old range and a wood burner. Exposed beams riddled with woodworm held up precariously wonky ceilings, with holes in the plasterwork so big it looked like something had taken bites out of the walls.
A creaking staircase led to three good-sized bedrooms upstairs, all with oak floorboards that were missing in places and eaten away in others. The attic held two tiny cell-like rooms that Gemma immediately decided needed to be knocked together to create a cosy office or snug. It turned out the room with the big hole in the roof was a bathroom, with an old Victorian rolltop bath that was plastered in pigeon droppings; any remaining birds had vacated the premises the moment Mabel had put a paw on the staircase. The whole place stank to high heaven, and Gemma could hear rats or other scampering creatures run for cover every time they walked into a room. Behind the house was a large, overgrown garden that had seeded itself with weedy, waist-high grass, bordered on one side by a row of crumbling outbuildings that looked like stables for tiny horses. ‘Pig sheds,’ said Matthew, reading her mind, ‘they’ll make a lovely workshop.’
Matthew’s enthusiasm was infectious, and it was hard not to get caught up in his vision for the place. The doorways and stairwells were far too small for someone of his size; he had to hunch to walk in or out of every room. And yet somehow he seemed entirely at home.
‘Do you think you could buy it? Is it even on the market?’
Matthew smiled. ‘It’s definitely not on the market. My parents and I bought it a couple of years ago.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. It’s part of a country hotel estate that belongs to a guy called Nick – the hotel is about a mile that way.’ He pointed in the direction of some thick woods behind the cottage. ‘This is an old estate cottage that was empty when he bought the place, and he always intended to renovate it but never quite got round to it; it’s too far away from the main house to put guests in. He used to be my dad’s biggest client; some years Dad did nothing but building work on Nick’s properties; he’s got loads of them. They became really good friends, and Dad asked Nick to give him first refusal if he ever decided to sell this place. A couple of years ago we did the deal. Nick sold it to us for peanuts – he’s pretty sick and not long for this world, and I think he wanted us to have it before his kids inherit his estate and immediately sell it all off.’ He looked at Gemma, a smile of triumph on his face. ‘So I guess I already own it. Or at least half of it.’
Gemma felt genuinely delighted for him, and she could absolutely see Matthew turning the place around, then settling down with this wholesome, muffin-baking wife. She felt a brief burn of jealousy, but quickly brushed it aside. Not now, G
emma.
‘How come you haven’t started working on it?’
‘I’m saving up. It won’t be safe to live here for a while, and I need to keep the barn to use as a workshop for as long as possible to make any structural stuff. It’s why I’m taking on so much work at the moment; I’m saving every penny.’ He walked over to the rusty wheelbarrow and heaved it to the edge of the plot; the tyre was flat and the supports had sunk into the ground. ‘Dad and I should be able to start here in the next few months, renovating the pig sheds first to make a workshop and a space for me to live on site. Then I’ll sell the barn and buy out my parents’ half of the investment, and use the rest of the money to finish the renovation. If I work on it full-time for a few years and eat nothing but soup and lentils, it will all work out.’ He turned to look at her, his face earnest. ‘Do you like it?’
‘I love it. It’s incredible. You’ll do an amazing job of it.’
Matthew shrugged and shuffled his feet into the dirt. ‘I’m excited about it. I’ve already done a lot of sketches and planning. It’s not much to look at now, but . . . one day.’
They walked back through the dripping trees to the lay-by, Mabel snuffling hopefully at Matthew’s pockets for hidden treats. Gemma waited in the van while Matthew locked up the gate, trying to make sense of her feelings. She was envious of Matthew; not for his tumbledown house or his lifestyle or his non-dysfunctional family, but for his vision. He knew where he was going, and what he had to do to get there. Like the Cotswold Way, the route was signposted and he just had to follow the path to the end. In contrast, Gemma was a boat in a storm, drifting aimlessly in search of that safe harbour Louise had talked about. She was fine with day-to-day planning, but what was it all building towards?
Gemma scratched between Mabel’s ears, trying to find the answer. She spoke aloud in the empty echo of the van. ‘What’s it all FOR, Mabes? What are we working towards? What’s the dream?’
Mabel huffed and settled her head on Gemma’s leg. She didn’t know either, but it definitely involved biscuits.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Wednesday, 29 April
To Do
Clean everything
Pack everything
DO NOT FORGET TO PAY EGG BILL
Gemma stuffed the bedlinen and towels in the washing machine, adding detergent and softener. She wouldn’t have time to do another wash before she left tomorrow, but hopefully Caro wouldn’t mind if it had just been slept in one night. It wasn’t like Matthew was coming back tonight; they’d said their goodbyes yesterday in a way that made her feel a bit broken and forlorn, but also resolved to move on and get back to normality. He’d hugged her for a long time, his face buried in her hair, then pulled away to give her a hard, searching look, his hand on her face. ‘Take care, Gem, OK?’ She had smiled and nodded, trying not to cry. ‘I will. You too. Good luck with the house.’ Then he’d walked out of the same door he’d come in all those weeks before, and not looked back.
Despite a patchy night’s sleep, Gemma felt at peace with the way things had turned out. There was no right or wrong answer in this situation; it was about making a decision that moved her life forward and sticking with it. Matthew had big plans for his country renovation, while she was going back to London to cultivate a new version of herself. More assertive, more confident, more focussed; she would be a happier, better person for this experience.
By eleven Gemma had hung out the washing and was ready to walk Mabel to the shop so she could join the Parent Pop-In online meeting. It was still cold and showery, albeit yesterday’s relentless rain seemed to have temporarily burned itself out. Gemma put her boots and coat on, pulling up her collar to keep out the biting wind, and headed into the village. She found that her impending departure made her want to look at everything more closely, to lodge the details in her mind – the fat, pink rosebuds rambling across the front of one of the cottages; they would be in full bloom in a couple of weeks, and Gemma could only imagine how incredible they would look. The front garden scattered with plastic children’s toys and bikes lying on their sides, looking sad and dejected after a night in the rain; Gemma resisted the urge to tidy them up, leaving everything in a neat row ready for the next sunny day. The handwritten sign outside Grove Farm saying ‘We have eggs! £2.40 doz., leave money in box.’ She slipped in an envelope with enough cash to settle her egg bill, wondering how long it would be before she saw another honesty box. They weren’t big in South London.
The rain had started again by the time Gemma reached the shop, so she tucked herself into the lychgate. The first Parent Pop-In started on time and was the most well attended of all the groups Gemma had joined. It was mostly mums, but there were a handful of couples and a few lone dads. Everyone looked tired and in need of a haircut, which was pretty much the entire country these days; Gemma had given up fussing about her hair weeks ago, it would just have to wait. Eleven a.m. seemed to be the perfect time – it was a common time for baby naps, and older children seemed to take a break from schoolwork and could be popped in front of a screen for twenty minutes.
The session was joyfully chaotic, with lots of interruptions and comings-and-goings, but also uplifting and full of laughter and solidarity. Most parents were juggling more than usual, but resigned to make the best of it. What else could they do? Gemma loved how everyone seemed to know each other, and those newer to the village or parenting were made welcome and included in the conversation; it was something Aunt Laura had hugely valued about her small-town life in Norfolk, but Gemma had never really experienced until now.
The session lasted barely more than half an hour, which was all most of the parents could realistically manage – lunch, fresh air and exercise were calling. Another was planned for the following week, and several people asked Gemma to confirm if the Ladies’ Lock-In session would be happening again this week. She confirmed that it would but didn’t mention she wouldn’t be there. What was the point? Life in the village would carry on just fine without her.
As she walked back through the village, she waved at Steve the Postie, who was doing his usual daily round. He did a short mime to communicate ‘I need to speak to you’ then made a theatrical diversion across the road, stopping halfway to avoid getting too close. He had a West Country accent so strong it was almost comical, like it was 50 per cent his own voice and 50 per cent a Wurzels impression. Apparently he grew up in Somerset, a fact which Ruth shared with Gemma like Somerset was an entirely different planet, rather than the county next door.
‘I had a gurt big parcel for you; it needed a signature so I’ve left it in the porch.’
‘Great, thanks. Who signed for it?’
‘I did.’
Gemma looked confused. ‘OK. Are you allowed to do that?’
Steve shrugged. ‘Village life, my love.’ He grinned and winked, then turned and headed back to his round.
Who had sent Gemma a parcel? She hadn’t ordered anything. She mentally ran through the options, and decided it was probably Fraser sending back the remainder of her belongings. Despite the postage cost, he would get a huge kick out of knowing how inconvenient it would be for her to lug it all back to London on the train. It was exactly the kind of petty thing he’d do, just to have the final word. Pathetic.
She hurried back through the village, Mabel trotting at her heels. They were both cold from an hour outside, so Gemma welcomed the dry warmth of the porch and the opportunity to get out of her wet coat and boots. Mabel had a good shake, then headed straight for her bed for a nap.
Gemma picked up the parcel from the floor of the porch – it was a large, brown cardboard box from John Lewis, similar in size to the one her boots had been delivered in, but significantly heavier. It had clearly been re-used, as the John Lewis label had been plastered over with a white handwritten address label. The handwriting was unmistakeable; Gemma had known it all her life. The parcel was from her mother.
She put the box on the dining table and went into the kitchen to make a cu
p of tea. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had sent her anything, and for her to have gone to the trouble of finding out the address, presumably by calling Caro, it must be something significant. What could it be? She walked back into the lounge with the mug and a vegetable knife and sliced the tape along the side of the box. Inside was a chunky rainbow jumper that Gemma immediately recognised as Aunt Laura’s; it was one of her favourites for reading on a cold day. Gemma carefully unfolded it, seeing that her mother had used it to line the box and cushion the other contents – a selection of flat, brown paper parcels in various sizes, and a white envelope.
Gemma extracted the jumper and put it on. It was warm and cosy in the damp chill of the dining room, and still smelled of Aunt Laura’s favourite perfume: Trésor by Lancôme. She ignored the parcels for now and took out the heavy cream envelope, the kind her mother always used for handwritten letters. Inside were three sheets of paper in her mother’s small, tight script.
Dear Gemma
I won’t lie to you and tell you I’m writing out of the blue; Louise called me a few days ago and told me your life has been turned upside down once again. She said you feel like you’re in the wrong place, making the wrong decisions, and don’t know which way is up.
I know how that feels, my darling girl. It was my life for 25 years, from the day I married your father until the day he retired and I convinced him that we should move back to the town where I grew up. When I turned the key in the lock of this house, I felt like a bird in a cage that had finally been set free. I was about to unpack our boxes for the very last time, and you girls would finally have a place you could call home. But of course it was too late for you and Louise, because you’d both already gone.
I wish I’d convinced him sooner that a more settled life would be better for all of us, but the RAF Police was his whole world. It helps for me to remember that he was part of some important security missions during those times, that ultimately made the world a safer place. You should ask him about it sometime, although I don’t suppose he can tell you everything.
Two Metres From You Page 27