by Fiona Lucas
Brody had just about got his dog back to the study, but Lewis wriggled, pulling his collar out of Brody’s grasp, and raced back to the French doors, making twice as much noise as before.
Anna laughed softly. Brody had to stick a finger in his free ear so he could hear her properly. “I’d better let you go and sort him out,” she said. “Thank you, Brody, for listening. I’m so glad you picked up when I called.”
Brody nodded to himself. “So am I,” he admitted, before ending the call to go and deal with his dog. He opened the doors to let Lewis run around the garden. Hopefully, it would confirm the owl was long gone.
When Lewis finally trotted back inside, panting, Brody didn’t scold him. Instead, he gave him a treat, reached down and scratched his head. “Good boy,” he said softly. “Excellent timing.” Because he’d had a nasty feeling Anna had been about to ask him a question he didn’t want to answer. There were some things he’d really rather she didn’t know about him.
Chapter Fifteen
Brody opened the door to his study just before dawn and flicked on the light. He walked over to the desk and took a moment to look out over his garden through the window. There was only just enough light to differentiate the edges of the bushes and the trees from the receding night.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled a notebook from a stack crammed into one of the shelves and leafed through it to see if there were any empty pages. There were. Lots of them. Only a few at the front had been filled. As he glanced at them, he noticed how much his handwriting had changed in the years since he’d last used it. The scrawl in these pages wasn’t that of a schoolboy, although it had something of that innocence, that optimism. These days, he printed carefully, making deep black scratches in the paper.
Okay, he thought to himself. It’s just words. Nothing to be scared of. Once upon a time, you used to be good at this.
Years ago, a little voice in his head whispered. And how many times have you tried since then? How many times have you walked away leaving nothing but a blank page? Plenty, he told himself. But he hadn’t pulled a notebook off this shelf in at least five years, possibly more. It might be different this time.
He sat down and picked up a fountain pen from a pot on the windowsill. He had to shake it a few times before it would make a mark on the paper, but he eventually got the ink flowing. He lifted the pen, letting the nib hover just above the creamy paper, and exhaled.
And that was how he sat, staring at a spotless page of empty lines, for a good ten minutes. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he stood up, threw the pen down and stormed out of the room.
He tugged on a fleece and headed out the back door. Lewis followed behind and immediately disappeared down the garden, running after an unseen quarry with glee. Brody shook his head then entered one of the small outbuildings in his yard. It was pretty rough-looking, with no plaster on the walls, and a rumpled and crumbling concrete floor, but it had electricity and everything else he needed. He flicked on the light and the old oil-filled heater sitting on the floor, then pulled a tarp off a long workbench.
Underneath were tools and some partially carved wooden shapes: rings, chunky blocks, a few other irregular pieces. He picked up one of the rings. It was still rough in places where the grain had fought being shaped. He reached for a piece of sandpaper and gently, rhythmically, rubbed the possible splinters away, using finer and finer grades of paper until the object was smooth and shiny, ready for paint.
He worked on five rings, each progressively smaller than the last, and when that was done, he began painting them in colors so bright they jarred with the muted greens, soft grays and cool browns of the moor outside.
Leaving them to dry, he hauled a large box from under the workbench and placed it on top. It was full of similar wooden shapes in bright colors. He stared at the assortment of handmade toys for a moment and began pulling them out one by one, assessing them. Most went back in the box once it was empty. One or two remained on the workbench. Not quite perfect. He’d see to them later.
Once all the acceptable pieces had been loaded back in the box, he looked at it and sighed. Moji had left a message on his voicemail last week, saying she was desperate for stacking rings and building blocks. According to her, there’d been a bit of a baby boom in Totnes. Her children’s book and toy shop was crying out for more stock.
He would make one of his semi-regular deliveries today, more to help Moji out than because he needed the money his hobby brought in. In the days when he’d earned plenty, he’d invested well, and he lived frugally now. Still, a little extra spending money wouldn’t hurt.
However, the thought of leaving Dartmoor, of driving into town, even one as quaint and friendly as Totnes, filled Brody’s stomach with ice. He ignored the sensation, opened the workshop door and whistled for Lewis, who came running immediately, ears raised, eyes aglow with anticipation.
The dog raced for the car the second Brody reached for his keys. Brody followed him, trudging toward his ancient Land Rover with his box full of hope and joy. At least one of them was looking forward to this trip.
THE SUN WAS still low on the horizon, coloring it with broad streaks of lemon and peach, when Brody pulled into the public parking lot behind the High Street in Totnes. Since the place was virtually empty, he chose a space close to the exit. He turned the engine off and sat there, staring straight ahead. Lewis, who had been curled up in the back, jumped through to the passenger seat, looked at him and woofed.
Brody looked back at him. “I know,” he said wearily. “Give me a minute.”
He’d caught a segment on television a few months ago, something about well-being and mental health. What had the slick-looking, white-smiled TV doctor said about calming yourself down in stressful situations? Something about breathing? The need for mental preparation? He’d been determined not to pay attention to the segment, but it seemed as if some of the information must have sunk in anyway.
And as he sat there not remembering, he was aware of his heart pumping, rapidly but not uncontrollably, in his chest. The bottom half of his lungs seemed to be closed for business, causing him to suck air in through his nostrils and release it again unwillingly. His hands, which gripped the steering wheel, were starting to get clammy.
But he couldn’t stay here like this, frozen, all day. The shops would be opening soon and he wanted to be driving back toward the moor, foot pressing pleasingly on the accelerator, when that moment came.
He glanced across at Lewis. “Just do it, right?”
Lewis cocked his head and barked joyfully. Brody swore he’d never met a dog so unfailingly enthusiastic and optimistic. It was almost sickening.
He took a deep breath and opened the car door. The first thing that struck him was the noise, even though it was early and hardly any cars or people were about. There was a hum in the air, the particular collective reverberation of people living and working in close proximity. When his home had been in the city, he wouldn’t even have noticed the sounds—just part of the wallpaper of life—but compared to his cottage on the moor, even the rumble of a distant car a few streets away seemed noticeable and loud.
Had he really lived in London for all those years? It seemed like a different person who’d done that.
He quickly retrieved the box full of toys from the trunk and, taking Lewis with him on his lead, navigated the narrow back streets and alleyways, ending up at the rear of a shop near the bottom of the narrow, steep High Street.
He placed his cargo down by the back door and slipped an envelope with an inventory and prices for each item inside. He was just about to walk away when he paused and glanced at the door. Speaking with Anna had made him realize what a hermit he’d become. Instead of retracing his steps, he picked the box up again, making sure it was secure in his left arm, and rapped on the wood with his free hand.
A few moments later, the door opened, and Moji appeared. “Brody! To what do I owe this pleasure?”
He’d known Moji for
close to two decades. Long ago, in that other life, she’d owned a children’s bookshop in South London, but then, when her husband had divorced her and flown back to Nigeria, she’d moved down here, along with her eldest daughter. It had been on Moji’s recommendation he’d looked in this area for somewhere quieter six years ago, when the city had become unbearable.
She was petite and round, and she had to reach up to put her arms around him so she could pull him into a hug and press a kiss on his stubbly cheek. Brody let her, but it had been a long time since he’d touched another human being and it felt strange. He wasn’t sure it was an entirely pleasurable experience anymore, which seemed odd, seeing as he’d always considered himself a tactile sort of person.
Moji released him and for some reason, Brody thought of Anna, of what she’d said about her husband. She hadn’t got used to the lack of these basic human things yet, the way you do when you lose someone. That hunger for connection still burned inside of her. He suspected that was what had prompted her to call her husband’s number in the first place. It was probably why she kept calling Brody. It wasn’t him she wanted, really, just what he represented. A tenuous bond to what she’d lost.
He suddenly wished very hard that the hunger never left her. Not the tearing pain that came with it; one could always dispense with that. But it occurred to Brody that maybe the yearning was supposed to evolve into something more positive: passion, drive. Living. Not this awful blank numbness.
Lewis was looking up at Moji adoringly. She bent down to give him a tickle under the chin, then straightened with her usual self-contained grace and looked at Brody expectantly. He realized he hadn’t answered her question as to why he’d knocked on the door instead of leaving the box as he usually did. He shrugged. “Seemed ages since I’ve seen you.”
And it had been ages. Maybe six months. He only made these trips every five or six weeks and had got into the habit of sneaking in and out of town before anyone would be about.
“Let me make you a cup of tea,” she said.
“Well, I . . .”
“Go on, now you’re here! Only a quick one.” She retreated inside before he had a chance to argue.
Brody swallowed, then followed her into the small shop, glancing nervously at the partially glazed front door. The sign hanging there read OPEN, meaning the opposite word was visible from the street. He was grateful for that.
There wasn’t room for both of them in her tiny kitchen, which he expected had once literally been a broom cupboard, so he waited in the shadows at the back of the shop while Moji made the drinks. When she was finished, she handed him a strong tea in a mug that said Booksellers Believe in Them Shelves. He couldn’t help smiling as he took it.
Moji settled herself onto one of two stools behind the counter and motioned for him to take the other one. “Those stacking rings have been selling like hotcakes,” she said. “And the pull-along trains too. Are there any more in that box?”
“Three of the rings, one train, but I can make more if you want.”
Moji took the train out of the box and handled it, running her fingers over the silky painted wood. “Such beautiful workmanship. You have a real gift.” She then glanced up to the shelf behind the till and Brody knew what was coming next. “I don’t suppose . . .”
He shook his head. Moji was talking about the unpainted, unvarnished figure of a willowy wood elf he’d done last summer, carving on a whim, letting his fingers create without thought. This is what he’d come up with. The delicate figure had flowing skirts and a faraway look in her eyes. She was completely different to anything else he’d ever made, and for some reason that had bothered him, but he’d known that Moji would like her, and for Moji’s friendship (and her lack of judgment about his peculiar ways) he’d made a gift of the elf to her.
“Lots of people come in wanting to buy her, but I just can’t bear to part with her. However, if you could make me another one . . . Or maybe even three?” she said, smiling widely with a naughty glint in her eyes.
Brody chuckled. One of the things he liked about Moji was her tenacity. “She’s one-of-a-kind,” he told her. “Like you.”
She punched him on the arm. “Oh, you old charmer,” she said, laughing.
But just then the shop door rattled. Brody stood up, almost sending his stool flying. A middle-aged woman with pasty skin and frizzy hair had her nose pressed up against the window, eyes shielded by her hand. She tried the locked door again.
“Some people!” Moji said, smiling good-naturedly all the same. She headed for the shop door. It was a journey of ten steps, maximum, even with Moji’s tiny legs.
“What are you doing?” Brody asked, gripping his mug tightly and taking a step back, closer to the wall.
“I’m going to let her in. It’s only Alison Shaw. She told me last week that she was expecting another grandchild imminently and he must have arrived.”
“But you’re not open yet.”
“It’s only another ten minutes and she’s one of my best customers.”
Brody put his mug of tea down on the desk, even though he’d only taken a couple of sips from it and it was still blissfully hot. Lewis, who’d been sitting patiently beside the kitchen-slash-cupboard in case biscuits might appear, cocked his head to one side and his tufty little eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I’ll be off then,” Brody said firmly. “I don’t want to get in the way of—”
“Nonsense! Alison would love to meet you. She nearly always buys those sorting cubes you make when each grandchild gets a little older, really raves about them . . .” Moji closed the distance to the door.
That was Brody’s cue. By the time she’d flipped the sign over so OPEN faced the street outside, he was in the backyard, a confused-looking and biscuit-deprived Lewis trailing dejectedly beside him.
But Brody didn’t hurry back to his car. He couldn’t. His lungs had given up completely now.
The yard around him became distant and rather fuzzy, as if he was viewing it through a dirty telescope from far away, and the sounds that had been so invasive when he’d first got out of his car were drowned out by the rushing noise in his ears.
Oh, God. This was it. The moment he was going to die. He reached out to the brick wall for support and dropped into a crouching position, head bent toward his knees.
Moji was only a short distance away inside the shop. He could hear her chatting to the woman about her daughter-in-law’s water birth and might have been able to call out to her, but the thought of opening his mouth and firing words from it only made his head spin faster and his heart pound harder.
He had to get up. He had to get to his car. He had to . . .
Something warm and rough touched him and he flinched before looking down to find Lewis sitting neatly beside him, quietly licking his hand.
It pulled him back into the moment. Something shifted inside him. The rushing in his ears remained, along with a vague sense of being off-balance—like one might experience on a cross-Channel ferry—as he tried to place one foot in front of the other, but he could move again. That was something.
It seemed to take hours instead of minutes to get back to the parking lot. A woman with a stroller scowled at him from the other side of the road, obviously thinking it was a little early for him to have staggered out of the pub.
When he got to his Land Rover, he climbed inside. The lack of power door locks meant he had to reach over to press the buttons down on the passenger side and both the back doors one by one. That done, he sat with his elbows on the steering wheel, rested his head in hands and tried to get the world to stop shaking.
Chapter Sixteen
Anna sat at one end of a long table in the upstairs room of a funky bar in Covent Garden. It was decked out like a nineteenth-century gentlemen’s club, complete with wood paneling, richly upholstered chaise longues and a stuffed stag’s head above the fireplace. On the table in front of her was a large balloon glass full of wonderfully aromatic alcohol, finished off with a giant ball of ice a
nd a sprig of rosemary. She was joined by eight other people, each with an identical glass, and the tenth seat, beside her, was empty.
As she listened to a smartly dressed man with a waxed moustache detail the history of gin, she surreptitiously checked her phone.
There was a text from Gabi. Be with you in 2 mins!
Gabi had messaged earlier to say she was going to miss the beginning of the gin-tasting class but that she would definitely make it before the end.
Anna sighed. This was yet another activity Gabi had talked Anna into not long after the New Year’s Eve debacle—just in case salsa had proved to be a flop—but there had been a three-month waiting list, and now the actual day had come, Gabi’s photo assignment for the day was running late, and Anna was sitting here on her own.
A short while later, a rather hot and flustered-looking Gabi slid onto the empty chair beside Anna. She leaned over and whispered, “I will tell you all about my nightmare photoshoot later . . . You won’t believe what the client . . .” She trailed off as she noticed the gin expert pause and glance disapprovingly in her direction.
Sorry! she mouthed back at him and mimed zipping her lips shut.
Tom Collins (not his real name, Anna suspected) gave Gabi a disapproving look then turned to the rest of the group and resumed his lecture. Anna dipped her head to hide a smile. The man obviously took his gin very seriously. Anna and Gabi sat and listened attentively while “Tom” explained the difference between London and New Western dry gins.
“When I booked this session, I thought we’d be doing a lot more tasting and a lot less listening,” Gabi muttered under her breath.
“Shh,” Anna replied, not taking her eyes off their instructor. “It’s educational.”