‘Bit breezy!’
He doesn’t answer but acknowledges her with a nod. He is bent at the waist, struggling to lift what looks like a canvas sandbag.
‘Here, let me help.’
‘No, no, lass, I can manage.’
He clearly can’t. But this is Yorkshire; you don’t just take over a man’s job.
‘Is everything all right? What are you doing?’
‘Spring’s burst through. Gone under t’wall. Garden’s flooding.’
His white hair is blowing all around his face. Sarah finds herself wondering inexplicably if the wind has somehow caused the spring, which flows down the hill all year round, following the ditch by the side of the road, to burst its banks. But she sees quickly that the ditch is clogged with leaves and branches at the sharp bend in the road, and that as a result the water has backed up and flowed through a gap in the dry stone wall.
With a final heave, Harry manages to lift the sandbag against the dip and the rush of water changes course, channelling everything it’s got down the hill once more, over the blocked gully and out across the road.
He is in the ditch up to his knees, and, as Sarah stands there on the road, watching helplessly, he loses his balance, wobbles and regains it again. Sarah looks up over the wall to the picture window of Cragside Cottage, where Moira Button is standing watching them both.
‘Harry,’ Sarah says, ‘you’d be better sandbagging the other side of the wall. Come out of the ditch, will you? That’ll hold for now. I’ll go and get help.’
Harry looks confused, but it’s almost with relief that he takes Sarah’s offered hand to help him out of the ditch. At the age of eighty-nine, or whatever he is, he is still a tall man, an upright man. His corduroy trousers are soaked beyond the tops of his wellington boots. He can scarcely lift his feet. He holds her shoulder, lifting his feet out of each boot in turn and draining them of muddy water.
‘You must be freezing,’ Sarah says.
‘It i’n’t all that bad,’ he says, speaking up against the howl of the wind.
Sarah looks up at the scudding grey clouds and wonders when it will snow. The ditch that normally has the spring trickling through the bottom of it is a raging torrent that has crested the bank and is now flowing fast down the road.
‘Go inside,’ she says. ‘You get dried off. I’ll go and see if my friend’s in.’
She looks at the garden, which has been terraced and therefore does not properly match the slope of the hill. Despite living in such a challenging place for a keen gardener, he has made it a labour of love. Year-round, the lawn is green and carefully weed-free. From here, it looks like a giant brown puddle.
‘Aye,’ he says. ‘Thank you, Sarah. Very grateful to you, for stopping an’ all.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘Your garden’s dealt with worse over the years, I’m sure.’
He walks slowly off up the driveway towards the house and Sarah sees Moira move from her position at the window, heading towards the back door. No doubt to make sure Harry doesn’t enter until he’s stripped off the wet and muddy garments.
Sarah climbs back into the Land Rover and drives another hundred yards up the lane, pulling in through the gate of Four Winds Farm. She drives into the barn, and then heads straight to the cottage. The car is outside, and in the cottage a light is on even though it’s barely lunchtime. The clouds are coming over, promising more rain at any moment. If it rains, it seems unlikely that Harry’s single sandbag will hold.
‘Hi,’ Aiden says, opening the door.
‘Aiden,’ Sarah says, the words snatched from her mouth by the wind, ‘do you think you could give me a hand with something? You’ll need wellies. And a waterproof. Have you –’
‘What’s up?’ he asks, but he’s already pulling on a black ski jacket.
‘Have you got boots?’
‘No,’ he says.
‘Come on, I’ve got a pair of Jim’s still.’
Without waiting, she heads to her back door. As she opens it the dogs burst out, chasing each other around the yard, barking. She lets them, concentrating instead on sorting through the tangle of boots in the cupboard. Eventually she finds a matching pair. Aiden is behind her.
‘What size are you?’
‘Nine-ish.’
‘These are a ten; they’ll do.’
He kicks his way out of his brown leather boots and wraps his jeans around his calf, before slipping his socked foot into first one wellington boot, and then the other. Sarah hopes no spiders or mice have taken up residence since they were last worn, but it’s too late now.
‘My neighbour’s had a bit of bother with the spring,’ Sarah says, calling to the dogs. Tess comes readily enough, but Basil ignores her for a moment, scampering around, pretending to be deaf. ‘It’s burst through the wall into their garden.’
‘Right.’
With both dogs safely inside – she doesn’t want them running around on the road – Sarah sets off back down the hill, Aiden by her side. ‘They’re both in their eighties,’ she says. ‘Been here all their lives.’
‘Are they your nearest neighbours?’
‘Only neighbours, until you get down to the village,’ she says. They have reached the Buttons’ driveway. There is no sign of the elderly couple, which is probably a good thing.
The sandbag, slung against the bottom of the dry stone wall, is holding, but the water is forming a deep reservoir at the top of the spring. At any moment, it will back up to the edge of the dry stone wall and from there it will flow down the Buttons’ drive towards the house.
‘We need to clear that blockage,’ Aiden says, heading towards it. Sarah’s hair has escaped from the band holding it back, and she struggles to gather it all up again so that she can see. By the time she has joined Aiden at the bend in the road, he has moved a large branch and a tangle of bramble with his bare hands.
‘Christ,’ Sarah calls, ‘I should have got you some gloves!’
He is extricating himself from the bramble, throwing it on to the road. It starts to tumble down the hill so Sarah catches it, and moves it to the other side of the road.
The rain starts, and as it does so the wind picks up even more, howling and gusting around them, blowing heavy drops of icy water into their faces. Aiden works quickly, straddling the ditch precariously, heaving bundles of dead leaves, litter and twigs out of the way. The water rushes around him.
Briefly, he looks up as he hands Sarah another armful of rubbish. ‘You realise,’ he shouts with a grin, ‘any minute now I’m going to slip and fall in?’
‘You’d better not,’ Sarah responds. ‘You’d likely slide on your arse all the way down the hill to the village.’
‘Hold on,’ he says, reaching down into the black, swirling water, ‘there’s something big stuck in here.’
Sarah grasps him by the elbow to counterbalance him while he bends almost double, his arm in the water almost up to the shoulder. She can feel the muscles tense as he pulls and tugs, and then, with a triumphant, ‘Aha!’ and rushing gurgle of water, he pulls out a black plastic bucket, a big one, missing its handle.
‘That was wedged in there,’ he says, panting with the effort. ‘No wonder it was backing up.’
Already the water level in the ditch is subsiding, the stream flowing fast around the bend in the road. Sarah helps Aiden get out of the ditch and back up on to the road. It is getting dark. Sarah can see the sandbag Harry Button had put against his wall. It is about two feet clear of the water now, and the level is still dropping.
They head back up the hill as quickly as they can. Aiden is soaked to the skin, and shivering. So much for the boots, Sarah thinks. He might as well have gone swimming in it.
Aiden
You have been skiing in Finland and the Alps and you have never in your life experienced cold the way you are now. You sense you are losing focus, although the shivering is at least keeping you from slipping into unconsciousness.
Sarah is talking all the way
up the hill, striding at a pace to match your own. You cannot hear her. The wind is blowing what feels like sheet-ice horizontally into your face, making it difficult to see or breathe.
At last you turn into the gate and the wind drops slightly in the shelter of the barn.
‘I’d better get changed,’ you say lamely.
‘Come and have a bath,’ she says. ‘Warm up properly.’
‘No, no,’ you respond through chattering teeth, ‘shower’s fine, honest.’
She laughs, and you think you look a mess, dirty and wet.
‘All right, if you’re sure. I’ll make some soup. Come over, when you’re ready?’
You nod and open the door of the cottage, get inside, shut it behind you. The noise of the wind all but disappears, and you’re left standing in the hallway of the cottage, your face numb, dripping on to the rug. You strip everything off, there and then, emptying your pockets on to the kitchen worktop. Your skin appears as a mixture of white, bright pink, and bits that have a vaguely blueish tinge. You leave the clothes where they are, the trousers hanging out of Jim’s boots, and go straight to the bathroom.
The shower is so hot it stings, but at least it’s making you feel alive again. When you’ve warmed up, and got all the mud off your hands and face, you get dressed in clean jeans. Back in the living room, you’re thinking about lighting the fire when there’s a knock at the door.
The pile of wet clothes and the muddy boots are still there. You drag the laundry basket over and dump everything but the boots in that. ‘Hold on,’ you call out. ‘Just a sec.’
It’s Sarah, of course. Who else would it be? As you open the door and her face drops to your bare chest, your jeans still unbuttoned, you find yourself reacting.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘Come in,’ you say, because the wind is blasting into the cottage and your skin stands up in goosepimples all over again. ‘I’m nearly done.’
‘I was getting worried; I thought you might have collapsed or something.’ She’s looking everywhere except at you.
‘No, I just spent a while warming up. Have a seat. I’ll just be a minute.’
You go into the bedroom and pick out a clean T-shirt and jumper, doing up your jeans with a grin. By the time you get out there, she has put your dirty, wet clothes into the washing machine and is watching them turning in the drum.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says again, with a short, self-conscious laugh. ‘I guess I’ve been a mum too long. Can’t leave a pile of dirty clothes alone.’
‘That’s okay. Thank you.’
‘No, thank you for helping out. I didn’t think it would be that much of a drama. I made chicken soup.’
‘That was quick.’
‘No, no, I made it the other day. Feels as though you need it after an ordeal like that. Do you want to come over?’
Her hair is still damp so she must have showered, too; it’s scraped back into a clip. She looks pale.
‘Sure,’ you say at last.
As you leave the cottage, the Royal Mail van turns into the yard and performs a neat circle in front of you so it’s facing the right way to leave. The postwoman gets out and hands Sarah a pile of envelopes, then drives off before you’ve reached the door of the house. It’s stopped raining again but the wind is still howling around the buildings, and you’re glad to get into the kitchen and the warmth of the range, the delicious smell of soup and the slight tang of damp dogs. Sarah puts the pile of post on the kitchen table and you sit down. Basil ambles over, leaning against the side of your leg. You rub his head and he lets out a contented sigh. Sarah busies herself pouring soup into two bowls, and cutting thick slices of wholemeal bread from a misshapen loaf.
‘So, other than rescuing neighbours, what have you been up to since I last saw you?’
‘I met up with Sophie this morning,’ she says. ‘That’s about it.’
She sits opposite you, picking up the pile of post, opening it mechanically, and putting it to one side after barely glancing at it. There is something about the way she is sitting, some tension in her posture, that alerts you. She is uncomfortable about something. Her movement has a deliberate casualness about it, and instantly you find yourself staring at the letters, now discarded and just out of your reach. What is it she doesn’t want you to see?
Her cheeks are flushed and she looks miserable now, even though she’s chewing on a piece of bread, dipped into the bowl of soup. For a while you watch her while she is deep in thought, while you eat your soup, which is as incredible as you thought it would be. You can feel yourself thawing.
‘So how is Sophie?’
‘Okay,’ she says.
Her hand is on the table in front of you, loosely furled. You notice she doesn’t wear her wedding ring. You place your hand over hers, surprised to find it’s cold. You close your fingers around it, and she looks up at you in surprise.
‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ you say.
She starts, and there is the merest flicker of her eyes towards the pile of letters.
‘Nothing in particular. Thinking about the laundry.’ Her tone is quite sharp, but she’s not pulling her hand away.
It’s a lie. You let go of her hand, reach for the letters and she doesn’t stop you, even though it feels like an intrusion of the very worst kind. You flip through them. They look ordinary enough, official, but the sort of mail everyone gets every day – bills, statements, estate agents’ details. She reaches across and takes them from you before you can do more than glance, puts them face down out of reach.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s nothing, really. I mean – I don’t need looking after, thank you. I really don’t.’
You let go of her hand. ‘I wasn’t trying to do that. But we’re friends, Sarah. You can talk to me if it will help. About whatever it is.’
‘I said it’s nothing.’
Her look, now, is challenging. Her blue eyes meet yours. You find yourself longing to take her hand again, to ask her when and how she got those walls built up so high that she won’t even let you sympathise.
‘Anyway,’ she says, standing up so suddenly that the chair rocks back against the uneven tiled floor, ‘I must be getting on. Glad you’re all right, anyway.’
She picks up the two empty soup bowls and clatters them into the sink, her back to you. For a moment you watch her, giving her some space. Then you stand up and go over to her, close behind her, not touching but thinking about it. You close your eyes, thinking about sliding your hand across her bare neck, over her shoulder, then round her waist, pulling her against you. Thinking about kissing the back of her neck. You’re lost, for a moment, in some scent that is coming off her, subtle, fresh – maybe it’s her shampoo or even, who knows, it might be the washing-up liquid.
When you open your eyes again you realise you can see her reflection in the kitchen window. She’s staring at you.
This isn’t the right time. You take a step back.
‘Thanks for the soup,’ you say. ‘It was perfect.’
You follow her to the door. Outside the wind is still howling, but the rain is holding off, for now. ‘Is it often like this?’ you ask.
She pulls her thick cardigan tighter around her chest. ‘This is nothing,’ she says cheerfully. ‘Wait till the temperature drops.’
Sarah
It’s none of his business, she thinks. He has no right to waltz back into my life and take up root in it, and start to interfere.
She stands, holding on to the sink, looking out over the yard, even though he has long since gone into the cottage and closed the door. The smile has dropped from her face. When she looks down at her hands the knuckles are white.
The letters are still on the kitchen table, unread. Whatever they say, they can wait until teatime when it’s going to be too late to do anything, and then she can sleep on it and think about it all tomorrow.
In the past, she would have balked at the notion of not dealing with something financial straig
ht away. She hates debt, hates it. But most debt is like a rising flood, isn’t it? Like standing at your back door watching the water rise and creep across your beautiful green lawn. And, when that happens, you go and get the sandbags and move everything upstairs; you act, like Harry Button; you do something to help yourself.
But this – this wasn’t a rising floodwater; this was a tsunami. While Jim was in hospital, unconscious, helpless, Sarah had opened the letters addressed to him because she had to, and there she had her first inkling that there were things he had not told her. Bad investments, business loans, all the money from the sale of his internet start-up which she’d thought he had safely stored for their future – not where she thought it was.
Luckily, back then, she’d still had a good income from the first books. That had helped a bit: a bucket to bail herself out for a while. But now – now that nobody seems to like her work any more, her income has all but dried up, and the little that is coming in feels a bit like dabbing a tissue at the waves lapping at the back door.
She should have sold the house as soon as she realised the extent of it, got it over with – at least there wasn’t a mortgage. But back then property wasn’t selling well, particularly isolated farmhouses with mediocre broadband coverage; and in any case there were Kitty and Louis to consider, and her own sanity. She’d thought she might be able to get a mortgage on the house to cover the debt, but, as a freelancer with no guaranteed income, already in her forties, and with Jim in hospital, none of the banks would offer her anything. And even then, being pragmatic – and naïve – she’d thought that one of two things would happen: either Jim would survive, in which case they’d be able to discuss it, face it together; or he would die, and then there would be life insurance, and that might not be enough to cover it all but it would certainly help.
A tsunami of debt.
No life insurance.
And Sarah, grieving, spent too long ignoring it, and now denial has become an ugly habit that she cannot talk about. Not to Sophie. Certainly not to Aiden.
Never Alone Page 9